Soulless
Chapter Two: I'll Give You a Pretty Present
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Word Count: 1,502
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.
Summary: A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan
Author's Note: While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past. Little quickie update this time... I'm feeling the need to rewrite the next section, so...that may be a while. Appreciate the reviews very much, as always. :)

Ah, yes... almost forgot... no beta, all mistakes mine... anyone interested in being a sounding board?

I'll Give You a Pretty Present

"A basement?" Woody asked, running his hand over his face. "That's the best you can give me? Just... a basement? All these technological devices that usually tell you the impossible, and the only thing you can tell me is what is painfully obvious?"

Jordan touched Nigel's shoulder, knowing that he was bristling at Woody's tone, the words he spoke out of exhaustion.

"Let's not forget that my technological magic and my vastly superior intellect solved that nasty locked room puzzle," Nigel began irritably. "You'd never even heard of Empress Eugenie."

Woody rubbed his back. Jordan winced, knowing that his old wound was acting up on him. He was working too hard--everyone was--but the pressure wasn't on everyone like it was on him. He was the cop who'd drawn the case that uncovered a serial killer. The deaths had happened over the last four years, in areas around Boston, but not in it, not until Gerald Brown.

After Nigel had discovered how Brown died, he had linked the case to nine other murders, and Woody was under pressure to solve all the murders, fast.

It didn't help that Brown was followed by Richard Martin, only days later. Or that they had nothing. The dust and mold from the trace on Brown and Martin screamed basement, but there were too many possibilities. Every one of Nigel's tricks had only narrowed it down to ten blocks worth of Boston. Even with the press the case was starting to generate--talk of a task force--there was no way a judge would give the police warrants to search ten blocks of buildings.

Jordan decided it was time to intervene. "Woody, honestly, when was the last time you slept?"

"I caught a couple of hours before Walcott called me in," he muttered.

Jordan exchanged a look with Nigel. "Woody, that was yesterday."

He winced. She had a feeling he hadn't eaten in a while, either. He coughed and cleared his throat, sounding like a man with a cold on top of all his other problems. She wrapped an arm around his, sneaking a hand into his pocket and swiping his keys. "Come on, let's get you a nice full stomach and some uninterrupted sleep."

"Jordan, I can't. I have to--"

"I can make it worth your while," she cajoled, pulling on his already loose tie. His lips were next to hers, barely starting to touch when his phone rang, making them both jump. "Hoyt. What? No, I'm at the morgue. I'll bring one with me. Ten minutes."

He closed the phone. Jordan looked at him. "Not...another one?"

"I don't understand. It was a year between the first two victims. Six months between each of the next five, and now three in the same month? Why?" Woody asked rhetorically as he dug for his keys. She immediately palmed them. He looked at her. "Do I have to remind you that you are officially off this case?"

"Breakfasts together and occasional lunches do not a conflict of interest make," Jordan insisted, only to realize too late that her words were the wrong ones to use.

"Why do we always come to the same place? You hate this place. And why do you always have to make the same stupid joke every time we come?" Woody demanded, drained from the fruitless search for Brown's killer.

Jordan smiled. "It's funny."

"It's ridiculous," he muttered, but she knew that he was glad they were there. Together. "Do you have anything for me? New information on the case?"

"Uh, actually, I wanted to talk about us."

"Us? Jordan, there really isn't an 'us.' We're friends. We eat breakfast together. And that's how you wanted it," Woody said bitterly. She winced. He really was in a bad mood. Maybe this was a bad time... But she didn't want to let anything get in the way of this. It was important--they--were important.

"Yes, but if you--"

He held up a hand. "We've been over this. If I wasn't an idiot, we'd be more

than friends. I know. I really don't need this right now. I've--"

"I think we should eat lunch together, too." It came out in a rush, like she was embarrassed by it. She felt her cheeks burning, and she didn't know why. It wasn't like she'd asked him to sleep with her, and she wasn't that inhibited about asking, either.

"Lunch, huh? Well, that's big," he muttered.

"Don't be so difficult, Woody. Please. We promised to take it slow this time."

"Which is why we're moving up to lunch together after only one week of eating breakfasts together."

His tone was snide. Okay, so she'd picked a bad time for this. "You don't want to eat lunch with me?"

"It's not that I don't want to eat lunch with you, Jordan. I do. I'd eat every meal with you, spend every second of the day with you if that was possible," his words were quiet and fervent, no longer mocking or frustrated. "I just thought...I though I had to give you more time, jump through a dozen more hoops..."

"Woody, I'm not trying to put you through hoops. This isn't a game. We've hurt each other before. It's been six years. Breakfast is not enough. Lunch may not be, either," she explained.

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Jordan. I don't really want to fight with you. It's just this case..."

That had been right before Nigel called them with his breakthrough, before he solved the locked room part of the puzzle and found the other cases. In short, right before hell broke loose.

And now, to Woody's frazzled mind, she'd just said their shared meals didn't mean a damn thing.

His look had been murderous. He didn't even try for his keys before he stalked out of the room.

Woody was being mocked. Mocked. Tormented. Humiliated. That was all he could think. It was right there, taunting him, as the others had. He'd known better than to ignore them, but he'd just wanted to pretend they didn't exist. Now he'd made the killer mad. The game had stepped up another notch. He had an urge to vomit that was not particularly pleasant on his empty stomach.

"That's sick," Garret muttered, standing next to Woody. At first, he thought the ME meant the body, but he was staring at the same knife plunged into a heart-shaped box, blood red, filled with chocolates. A Valentine's present gone twisted and wrong. Not that this was from a lover. But it was for him. For Detective Hoyt. Your ownbleeding heart.

"Garret...Doctor Macy," Woody seemed to find the words hard to form. "It's not the first."

The older man's head snapped towards him, almost accusing him. "What do you mean, it's not the first?"

Woody closed his eyes, the sleeplessness of the past few days catching up to him. He should have listened to Jordan and ignored his phone. Of course, that probably meant he'd find another damn box of chocolates at his apartment or something.

"I got one the day I picked up the case," he whispered weakly. "And another the day Richard Martin died. I didn't think they meant anything. They weren't stabbed. They weren't signed, either... It was before they called this the 'bleeding heart murderer...'"

He saw the knife again and stumbled away, barely making it out of the crime scene before he lost the nothing that was in his stomach. Macy reached him and touched his back. "Go home, Woody. You're no use to anyone."

"Dr. M--"

"As a doctor and a friend, Woody, I'm telling you—Get your ass out of here. Go home, eat something, and get some sleep. There's nothing more you can do. I'll handle the notification, and you'll get a report, but only if you really do what I tell you to. Now."

Woody looked at him, feeling as lost as he had his first day in Boston. "Dr. Macy... I don't know where my car is."

"Hey, you," Macy called to the nearest uniformed officer. "Take Detective Hoyt home. Doctor's orders."

They helped Woody over to the squad car. He wasn't sure he would have made it without their help. He felt lost and sick as hell. He heard a vague buzzing as the press crowded in on them, trying to get a statement from him, and Dr. Macy kept shouting, "No comment." He looked ready to shove the mics and cameras down their throats.

Woody half-fell into the passenger seat, and Macy started to close the door. "You know we'll get him. We'll find something for you to nail him with."

Woody shook his head. "No, she's too smart for that."