A/N: "My Funny Valentine" belongs to the late Rodgers and Hart, or whoever is now in possession of their estates. "The Nearness of You," referenced in the previous chapter, belongs to the heirs of Hoagy Carmichael.

All right, gentle readers. I need a favor. I am thinking of submitting a slightly different and more original version of this story for consideration for a creative writing class. If someone wants to give me a really in-depth review of my diction, grammatical structures, basic plot, etc., I would be eternally grateful, though I am by no means pressuring you, as I want you to enjoy your reading above all things.

As always, I love you, each and every, my beloved readers and reviewers. I'm glad you keep coming back, and I'm always grateful for reviews of any kind. Happy weekend!

Chapter 7 – Dancing in the Dark

1947

Woody squirmed on the couch, eyes staring at the ceiling, intermittently illuminated by a flashing red light, unable to find a comfortable position for his too-large body, not to mention his already aching back. Of course, even if he could find a comfortable position, the thought of her sleeping not ten feet away from him, in his bed, wearing his shirt, was enough to keep him in a state of uncomfortable wakefulness. He was tempted to give up and crawl into bed with her, although he knew his chances for sleep then were less than they were now. On the other hand, not sleeping in bed with Jordan was definitely preferable to not sleeping on the couch without her.

He tried to think of something else, any subject that would have a marginally more soporific effect, but his thoughts kept returning to Jordan: finding her in his bed, arguing with her while she shivered before him in that wet slip, watching her curl up in his shirt, then stretching further back, remembering, as his mind finally began its descent into semi-consciousness, her first visit there.

1939

The day had not been one of his best. Since his relocation to Boston, Woody had taken full advantage of his anonymity and had managed to transform himself into the kind of guy whom everyone likes and no one really knows. Thanks to his innocuous persona, he had, for the most part, been able to avoid arguments and conflict during his time with the Boston Police Department. Today, however, had not been one of those days, and as he climbed the stairs to the tiny hole in the wall he called home, Eddie Winslow's words were still ringing in his ears.

"Trust me, Hoyt. You don't want to get involved with her. A guy like you wouldn't last two weeks with Jordan Cavanaugh, and that's if she lets you close enough to find out. Stay out of it."

Woody had felt both jealous of Eddie's implied intimacy with Jordan and offended by his offhand dismissal of himself. The fight had quickly escalated and Woody had left the precinct with few kind thoughts about his direct superior, as well as an increasing disappointment in himself for allowing Eddie's words to anger him. He had hoped that in leaving his home behind, he had also left behind the negative feelings that could cause him to react so strongly.

As opened his front door, loosening his tie and beginning to unbutton his jacket as he did so, he was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with a beer and a mindless radio broadcast. However, what he found upon entering was Jordan, sitting on his miniscule table, legs swinging back and forth with childlike energy.

"Jordan?" he asked, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting."

"How did you get in here?"

"I picked the lock," she answered, as if this were a completely normal behavior, although, he realized, for her it probably was.

"You do realize that I'm a cop, don't you?"

"Yes. I think we both know you're a cop. Why bring it up?"

"You're breaking and entering. I could arrest you," he answered, speaking as if to a particularly obtuse child.

Her eyes widened with fiendish glee.

"But, oh, officer," she exclaimed breathlessly, "I just came thank you for your admirable service to the…community. You wouldn't arrest me for that, would you?" She fluttered her lashes mockingly at him, and the stern expression he had been affecting dissolved, as it always did when faced with her peculiar brand of humor.

"Aren't you curious about why I came to visit?" she asked.

Bad mood forgotten, Woody could think of nothing he would like more than to humor her in whatever game she was playing.

"You're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"Probably."

"Then go ahead."

"Thanks. Well, I was walking through my father's office today, on a completely disinterested visit, when I saw this." She handed him a now-crumpled piece of paper. "As you see, Detective Hoyt, it seems that you've received a commendation and are eligible for promotion."

"Jordan, what are you doing with this?"

"Relax. It's just a carboy copy, and I doubt my father's going to be needing it again."

"You'll put it back tomorrow?" he asked pleadingly.

"All right, if you really want me to, but that's not the point. The point is: we need to celebrate."

"We?"

"Is there someone you'd rather be celebrating with?" she asked archly. When he didn't reply, she continued with a triumphant, "I thought not. Now, as you know, I don't cook, but I did manage to sweet-talk Anatole into packing up something for us, so just point me in the direction of your hot plate, and I can provide for you a fabulous gourmet meal, a prelude to our night of celebration. Better yet, you find your way to the hot plate, and I'll call Nigel. He's probably got a few dancing girls stashed somewhere that he could send up for your entertainment."

"You don't want to go anywhere?"

"You don't, and tonight's your party."

"True. But I think I can forego the dancing girls."

"Would you prefer mimes? Trapeze artists? What about a lady contortionist?"

"Just find some way to occupy yourself. Put a record on. I'll reheat."

"Ah, so you want to do the dancing yourself."

"Maybe."

Woody sauntered into the area generously known as the kitchen, the thrill of promotion and the always intoxicating presence of Jordan Cavanaugh combining to ease away the tension and anxiety he had expected to end his day with.

The meal had been delicious, the wine, also generously provided by Anatole, had been exceptional, and by the time Woody finished the last bite of a cake that had originally been decorated with the heavily flourished words "Congradulotions, Det. Hoyt" (spelling was not Anatole's strong point), he was well on his way to the blissful mental blankness that generally follows a pleasant culinary experience. However, Jordan, still sporting the same energy that had driven her to break into his apartment to show him a stolen slip of paper, had other ideas. Rather than sitting back to tranquilly digest, she rose, walking languorously over to his phonograph, carefully selecting a record and dropping down the needle. A slow, bittersweet tune emerged amidst the static and crackle of the recording, as Jordan beckoned him to her.

"I did promise you dancing," she said simply.

He gathered her carefully to him as they danced, moving slowly in time to the throaty ballad.

My funny Valentine, sweet, comic Valentine –

You make me smile with my heart.

Your looks are laughable, unphotographable,

Yet you're my favorite work of art.

Is your figure less than Greek?

Is your mouth a little weak?

When you open it to speak, are you smart?

But don't change a hair for me,

Not if you care for me –

Stay, little Valentine, stay!

Each day is Valentine's day.

When the music stopped, Jordan again surprised Woody by not moving immediately away from him. They stood, balanced on that single moment, staring contentedly at each other. Then, Jordan's eyes widened, as if she had just come to a realization. She smiled at him, reaching up slowly, painstakingly, to touch her lips to his. They kissed softly, with a tentativeness Woody didn't know Jordan possessed, and separated with equal softness, the cryptic smile returning to Jordan's face as she eased herself from his grasp.

She turned, wandering unhurriedly to his door. With one more enigmatic smile, she was gone, leaving Woody to smile bemusedly at the space where he had last seen her.