Disclaimer: Yeah, so that whole 'auction of the rights' thing didn't go so well and there was something in the mail today about a restraining order… I kid, I kid. But, yeah, Crossing Jordan isn't mine folks.

Author's Note: I was reading over the prologue the other day after I posted and thought, "You know, this really could go somewhere great." So, I'm taking it vaguely AU, which is really not what I had intentionally planned, eons ago when I started it. It's going to be a bit darker and more angst filled than what I set out for, but I'm really digging the end result here. This chapter is pretty short and the following ones probably will be as well. I'm hoping to roll them out fast and possibly finish this off in about ten of them or so.

Thanks for all the feedback on the prologue (as always, feedback on your feedback is after the chapter) and enjoy the first chapter!

Chapter One: New York, New York

Though it wasn't far—the squiggly line that Jordan had drawn on the map starting at Boston and ending in New York somewhere after getting off of the Triboro Bridge looked, in fact, quite short—New York wasn't as cold as Boston. Not weather wise anyway. Jordan surmised it was because all the heat in the city that lay beneath the cool concrete sidewalks, where subway cars rumbled loudly. There were no pretty snowflakes to dance in, just a light breeze and darkened clouds that seemed they would rather rain than snow. She guessed that since she was here to stay, at least for awhile, that maybe she would see it snow and it might be just as wonderful as it was at home.

Or maybe she would turn her car around and speed down the highway right into his arms. Because it never took her long to forget the memories and even the not so pleasant ones didn't seem so bad when she touched him, when he touched her. And then there would be that click in her brain, as if it was pressing play on some imaginary tape recorder, before she could feel his breath float across her neck and those words would start once more. I don't love you. I don't love you. I don't love you. Sometimes it got stuck on repeat. That's when Jordan realized why she was here in the first place.

She pulled up to the first hotel that she saw and grabbed her bags from the back seat. Jordan figured that it would do before she could settle herself in. She smiled sweetly as she signed the credit card receipt and the young man insisted that he carry her things to her room. He thanked her for her generous tip and she mumbled something in return, still sweetly, and then closed the door.

Jordan didn't bother unpacking, the drive up had worn her out and right now the large queen-sized bed looked terribly inviting. She stripped herself of her clothing, grabbed a complimentary housecoat from the bathroom and went to turn up the heat. The thermostat was situated beside the window and Jordan couldn't resist pulling back the drapes to get a feel for what would be the new city she would call home.

New York, she felt, was the perfect combination of grunge and glamour. It was filled with tall, sleek skyscrapers and dingy, faded brick. She hadn't been to New York since junior high, when she had sat on a hot, sticky school bus with the twenty or so other members of St. Catherine's school choir. They had visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rockefeller Center, Times Square and every other cliché tourist attraction available. She remembered being overwhelmed by the enormous city with the towering buildings and the bustling crowds. And Jordan remembered how easy it was to get lost in the throngs of people. A thought that was more comforting now than it was then.

She grinned, not quite the fake grin she had flashed the desk clerk and not quite the saddened grin that had graced her face more often that she cared to think about, but somewhere in between the two. Jordan closed the drapes, flicked the switch on the thermostat and crawled under the blankets not bothering to put on pajamas or take off the housecoat. It wasn't Boston, but it would do. And he wasn't here, but that was want she wanted. And Jordan would try and convince herself of that tomorrow, but for now she fell into what she hoped would be a dreamless sleep.

It was dark, but not so dark that the shadows on the wall couldn't be seen stretching and writhing about. His lip curled, slightly, as he took a sharp breath. She had to squint to see his face, his chin tilted away from her, defiantly. Her fingers slid up under his neck, curling around his shoulder as she turned his body towards hers. He hadn't always been this broken shell of a man, of a person. Had he?

"Look at me," she coaxed softly. Her voice had turned quieter over the past few weeks, never rising above a whisper.

He did. Look at her. And he could see himself, his hard face, staring back at him in the pools of unshed tears in her eyes. He turned away again and the tears fell from her eyes, down her cheeks and onto the sheets.

Woody stood, his hands pressing down on the mattress, the motion making the old bed shake with age. The springs creaked when his body left but her own frame did nothing to jostle them. He silently, most things he did now were silent, opened the drawer to the small wooden nightstand and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. His fingers reflectively pushed up on the bottom of the carton and drew out a cigarette. Flinging the pack back into the drawer, Woody grabbed a lighter out of the pocket of his jeans and placed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His thumb flicked over the lighter and as he lit the cigarette, the orange flame washed over his face, revealing that, no he wasn't always that broken shell of a man, but she still wasn't sure who he was.

Jordan watched his slow, languished movements, fascinated that he had changed and she hadn't even noticed until now. Sure, she realized that he was different, but not once had she expected him to be there and entirely gone at the same time.

"I didn't know that you smoked," she remarked in the same low voice. It was a stupid thing to say, but really what else was she supposed to say?

"Yeah," he shrugged and sat back down, the springs once again squealing in approval. "Took it up in high school, don't know when I quit. I guess when my old man died."

"Oh," she nodded, her hand rising to her throat, trying to smooth out the lump that had suddenly appeared.

"It'll kill you, you know," he laughed ruefully and smiled before his face turned somber. "Slowly, but surely, it'll kill you."

He took a long drag and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. With the cigarette resting between his two fingers he lifted his hand towards her, offering her a pull. She shook her head. Jordan had kicked that habit long ago and now was probably the least appropriate time to pick it up.

"You called me," she told him, as if he might have forgotten that hers had been the number he dialed at three in the morning, crying and pleading for her to come over.

As she raced to his apartment Jordan wondered briefly if he had been drinking, but there wasn't a trace of alcohol on his lips. She would have tasted it when he crashed his mouth down onto hers the moment she walked through the door. Only moments later they sat in the dark on the bed, not a word spoken since the phone call.

"I did," he agreed, taking another exaggerated drag. Woody stubbed out the cigarette on the nightstand, grey ash and tiny sparks flying across the wood.

"Why?" she asked, a small quiver escaping from her lips.

"Because I knew that you'd come," he said, a hint of old Woody easing into his tone.

"What if I didn't?"

Woody let his hand cup her cheek, his thumb rubbing over her lips, his fingers tangled in her hair. He smiled again. Her eyes begged him to answer the question and his hand fell from her face as he stood, reaching for the Marlboros. The drawer was still open and after he took out a cigarette, pushing the pack back from where he grabbed it, Jordan could see the faint outline of his gun resting under the carton.

"Slowly, but surely," he repeated. Catching Jordan's gaze, he added, "But I guess if they don't something else will. Doesn't matter though, 'cause we're all going to die someday."

He slammed the drawer shut with a deafening bang.

Jordan awoke with the same deafening bang ringing in her ears, with it slowly fading into a muted sort of thud. Her breath was coming out in short, hurried gasps and she pressed both of her hands to her chest. She could feel her skin slick with sweat as her fingers slipped under the housecoat, against her rapidly beating heart. It took a moment for her to recall where she was and she was thankful that she had left on the lamp next to her bed. When her breathing returned to normal, she made her way to the bathroom and wet a washcloth. She placed it around the back of her neck and sighed as she leaned on the sink. It, of course, had been a dream, but any dream about him always had a more real quality than reality everdid.

Jordan walked back into the room and seated herself on the thick carpet next to her bags. She reached for the smaller, black one and pulled it onto her lap. Unzipping the front compartment, she dug around until her fingers grazed the delicate chain. Jordan removed it from the bag and let it lie in her palm for a moment, watching it glisten in the artificial light. She undid the clasp and slipped it around her neck, removing the damp cloth as she did so. The locket fell against her chest with a slight thump and only then did her heart begin to slow.

She didn't have to open it to know what was inside. All she had to do was run her fingers over the gold heart shape and she could see the faded picture, one of herself as a child, smiling at her happily. It was her mother who had put a picture of her only daughter in the locket and it was Jordan who had put in the one next to it. Staring back at the freckled faced picture of Jordan was one of him. Woody Hoyt at three years old, his chubby, dimpled cheeks stretched into a grin. His mother and father were still alive then and all he really needed to be happy was a cookie.

Jordan crawled back into the bed, her fingers still clutching the locket. This time she when she fell back asleep, she didn't dream.

Feedback for feedback!

FrenchKissingWoody: See, we both had the same thought! Hee.

Orlando-crazy- Thanks!

Bonnie Smith- I always wanted to do a 'Jordan runs' story, but never knew really what to do with it. So hopefully this'll turn out okay (and also angsty).

Kate- Thanks to you as well!

Veggie5- And again, many thanks!