Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan. The song Creep belongs to Radiohead.

Note: So, this one is back from "hiatus." And I lied (though not intentionally) - I won't be posting all remaining chapters at once (I don't even have the next one written).

Thanks to Mexwojo, lbcjfan and BugFan4Ever! :)

Blissful numbness simply didn't want to claim her exhausted body, much less her troubled mind. It didn't matter whether she would close her eyes or stare into the darkness surrounding her – he was always there. She felt his touch; she felt him in her skin, in her blood. She felt humiliation in her core. He had been doing nothing but insult her, and after one – and forced – kiss she had been ready to have sex with him, and in her office, for crying out loud. All those years of their dance… For what? For a quickie on her desk? Or a night in her bed.

It had always been about sex. She should have known. After all, hadn't she been referring to their relationship as a "mating dance"? Why was sex all they had ever wanted from her? With Tom, with Myers, with Tyler, with others, there had always been one constant – great sex. With Tom, with Myers, even with Tyler, she had been left to cry. The same had happened with Woody, but with only a couple of breathtaking kisses in a Californian desert and fantastic foreplay in her office. She guessed that deep inside she had known the history would repeat itself. That had been the reason behind resisting so many of his puppy-dog looks, behind smothering the feelings that undoubtedly had been there, were still there.

What feelings? All that… All that was purely physical. There was no such a thing as love. Love wasn't just overrated. Love didn't exist. How did psychologists call that? Sublimation? Yeah, that was the word. Unready to admit that we were indeed not much more than animals, driven by instincts, we had made love up. What's love, anyway? Nothing really, only a big word. But what was this then? Why the only thing she wanted now was him, holding her tight, telling her that it had all been one big fat nightmare, that he would never leave. Why would a chaste kiss, a tender look, a warm embrace, a few whispered words suffice for her?

No, no, no, it was all physical, completely physical. Physical was good. Physical was safe. Physical was good. Physical was great. After all, hadn't she always wanted physical? She could try and blame everything on Tom, on Jay, on Tyler, on others, some of whose names she didn't even remember, on Woody. However, the truth was that physical had always been her conscious choice. She had never wanted love, whatever that was. Maybe she wasn't made to be loved. Maybe she wasn't made to love. Hell, she certainly wasn't made to love anybody. It ran in the family. She was made to have sex, lots of mind-blowing sex. Maybe she was a whore. She had been sleeping with a married man… She was just like her mother – Max, Malden, that guy with a Yankees' cap, God knew who else… Her poor dad…

The mere thought of her father was so freaking painful. He had left her, too. There had to be something terribly wrong with her. Her own father had left her, for crying out loud. She knew she shouldn't be thinking in that way, somewhere deep down she was aware that that frame of mind was a warped one. But she simply couldn't help it. After all, who did love her? Her friends? They didn't know just how messed up she was. If they knew… Well, if they knew, they would abandon her – just like her dad… just like Woody.

Woody… They had blown all their chances. It was all over now... Woody… She closed her eyes and memories flooded her…"I'm willing to take that risk." Oh God, why now? Why did she have to remember that one now? He had just been playing her. He had. "I'm not. You've got to let me go." Great. That sentence could be the leitmotif of the three and a half years of their one step forwards – two step backwards little game. She had been the one to always pull away. She had been the one to run to the hills each time she would think they were getting too close. She had never been the one to take risks. And look how well that had turned out! In the end, he had told her that she had to let him go. And it was her fault. As she'd told Lily, she had been sitting on the fence for too long and she pushed him away. Even if he had wanted more than a cheap fuck, all that was left in him now was residual lust.

In the end, was it really important whose fault it was? Anyway you sliced it, she was suffering. And he would find somebody else tonight, somebody with whom he would finish what he had started with her in the morgue... She felt his body next to hers again, and she wanted nothing more but for that not to be a trick her mind was playing on her.

Jumping out of bed, she glanced at the clock. It was only ten thirty. There was still plenty of time for her to find somebody that night. In a frenzy, she quickly got dressed, ignoring the voice of reason which was shouting at her that what she was doing was self-destruction. She grabbed the keys and slammed the apartment door behind her. She was going to find someone to cover his kisses with his own, to make her forget the warmth of his fingertips, to erase his scent from her senses and his face from her mind.

His hand reached for the bottle and he frowned upon realizing that there was no liquor left. Damn, he could use a drink or two. Finally, he took a beer from the fridge and flopped onto the couch.

He wasn't getting it. Why was he so upset? Okay, things had gotten out of control a little, but it always took two to tango. She had wanted it, too. Why would it have been so wrong if he and Jordan… what? Had sex? Made love?... Jordan… No, he didn't love her. He didn't love her, but she was so sweet-smelling, so intoxicating, so tasty. He couldn't stop thinking about her. But it was entirely physical. Entirely physical. After all, she was the best damn woman he had ever seen. Or in the top three, at least. Any red-blooded man would feel the same when she was so near. At the thought, he gripped a cushion and then snorted at the action. Desire, that was all that there was. And jealousy certainly had nothing to do with anything but that alpha male crap. And why was the freaking bottle empty?

He sighed, looking around, hoping that something, anything, would distract him. But she was everywhere he would look. How many times had she actually been at his place? Once? Twice? However, she was all around the tiny apartment. All those innumerous days and nights of imagining her there were now taking their toll. She was sprawled on that very same couch, reading the paper or watching TV. She was in the kitchenette, smiling at the marinara simmering on the stove. He was cooking, of course – Jordan and kitchen didn't really go well together. She was in the bedroom, fast asleep, peaceful, gorgeous… No, no, no and no, he did not love her. He did not.

Yeah? And why, then, he still so longed to hear those words? To be able to snicker, to make her pay some imaginary dues by telling her he was sorry, but he had no feelings for her? No… He wanted to hear them to be able to tell her how his life was a living hell ever since he had been shot, to tell her he needed her to hold him a little tighter, that they could still try and make each other's demons run and maybe… just maybe… What? Be happy? Live happily ever after? He snorted again. Jordan sure as hell wasn't that type. And he wasn't, either. He knew that now.

He knew he had changed since Riggs. He also knew that everybody had noticed the change and been casting strange looks his way. However, he didn't mind it. He had changed for better. Of that he was sure. He was tougher now, in every sense, a better cop, too. And if some didn't like that, well, that was their problem, not his. Screw them.

Having reached that conclusion, he allowed himself to close his eyes and try to relax. As soon as his eyelids closed, though, Jordan appeared on them. He sighed, frustrated, and got up to turn on the stereo and take another beer. With a Guinness in his hand, he shuffled back to the couch. Damn, even the beer had to be Irish. Hey, maybe the song on the radio was When Irish Eyes are Smiling; that would add the final touch to that crappy day. It wasn't. Thom Yorke's voice was coming through the speakers.

… You're just like an angel,

Your skin makes me cry.

And I want you to notice

When I'm not around.

I wish I was special.

You're so fuckin' special.

But I'm a creep,

I'm a weirdo;

What the hell am I doing here?

I don't belong here…

He was pissed off. Getting him angry wasn't a difficult task these days anyway, and Radiohead had done a great job. He didn't know why he was furious, though. How could a freaking song push his buttons like that? Yeah, ok, she was beautiful, more than beautiful – she was stunning. One look at her and you wanted to touch her, kiss her, feel her, never let her go. And, yeah, you could say she was special – she was brilliant, compassionate, always in pursuit of justice, feisty… Hell, she was complicated. But she was special, so fuckin' special indeed. He had never met a woman like her and he doubted he ever would. Not that he wanted to.

What did he want? Well, he did want to finish off this beer, to catch the murderer of Jacob Reilly and all other bad guys he could, to get a raise, to make Jordan realize he wasn't her puppet… Yes, to make Jordan notice when he wasn't around. He wanted her to realize that she needed him, that she could have had him, but she had let him go. She should suffer, just like he had when he used to love her. It was all her fault – his messed up life, the fact that he was all alone, the fact that he'd been shot… It was all her fault and she should pay. She should…

She shouldn't. It was all his fault. He buried his head in his hands as Farm Boy was trying to chase Tin Man away. It was all his fault. His and Riggs's. The fault of the piece of trash that had killed his father. Maybe even the fault of his father, always so distant, unable to take responsibility for his sons, and probably feeling guilty for not taking care of them like his wife would like him to. But it wasn't Jordan's fault. It had never been her fault. Her life most definitely hadn't been a bed of roses, either. She had been afraid of loving him. And she had been right. He was messed up, too. It would never work out. Wouldn't it? He certainly wanted to think so. If he kept telling himself that, he would maybe be able to forget that she had practically admitted she loved him, and that he had blown everything.

Jordan… He didn't deserve her. How he wanted to tell her he was sorry and get another chance to hear her utter those sweet words. But it was difficult to apologize. How to apologize to someone you had shooed from your hospital room? It was so difficult to apologize, especially after what had happened in her office. God… What had possessed him?... No, nothing had possessed him. That was who he was, what he had become. He was a creep indeed. Maybe he needed to take a break. Maybe he needed to relocate, to leave Boston. Boston wasn't home any more without his friends… without Jordan… He had pushed them all away. Jordan… No, he couldn't leave. He couldn't stand the thought of not seeing her. Those two months after she had left his hospital room… No, if he left Boston, that would mean all was over for good. He couldn't leave. But wasn't it over? It was. It was…No, it wasn't. It couldn't be. But what to do? What could he do?

That question didn't want to leave him alone. He couldn't think about anything else. Yet, he wasn't able to answer it. Finally, he realized there was one thing he could do. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he knew it was the only possibility. He glanced at the clock. Almost ten thirty. Maybe it was too late? It probably was, but he didn't want to, he didn't dare procrastinate. Sighing and then taking a deep breath, he headed for the telephone.

Jordan was sitting on a bar stool in the place that used to be the Pogue. The bar hadn't changed much, even the old jukebox was there.

"I really am a masochist," she muttered under her breath before taking care of her third shot of bourbon.

"Let me," a male voice addressed her when she raised her hand to draw the barman's attention.

Under normal circumstances, she would tell him to take a hike (probably using a more colorful vocabulary). As the circumstances were everything but normal, however, she only smiled at him and nodded slightly.

"You come here often?" The stranger initiated a conversation.

"Gosh," she thought, "is there a cheesier line?" Nevertheless, she smiled again. "Not really. You?"

It was his turn to smile, showing her perfect pearly white teeth. "Me neither." He leaned a bit towards her. "I'm Pete."

She scanned him. He was kind of cute. And, thank God, he didn't have blue eyes. After a short pause, she answered, "Lily."

It all happened fast. When she didn't remove his hand from her knee, Pete casually mentioned he lived only a block from there. Now they were walking to his building. As they were taking a shortcut through a dimly lit alley, her mind was telling her she should turn on her heel and leave. Immediately. For God's sake, she had been picked up in a bar! She was an adult, she was better than that. But that dark part of her wanted to suffer, to rush headlong into something, to hurt herself. After all, as an adult, she was entitled to casual sex, wasn't she? To prove herself that she wanted to do that, that she could do that, she stopped in a shadow, knowing that he would turn around to see what was happening. When he did turn, with a smile that seemed faked on his lips, she threw her arms around his neck and started kissing him. She didn't like the feeling. His wet, whisky-smelling kiss only made her long for Woody and his lips on hers. She pulled away, but Pete was obviously not getting the message.

"You can't wait, can you?" he hissed huskily, shoving her into a wall. "Fine by me," he added before giving her another of his french kisses which made her want to gag.

As his hand reached for her jeans, she managed to break the "kiss" and gasp out, "No… Stop… I-"

Tears of horror and of rage filled her eyes when he slapped her across the face. Her hand flew to the sore spot and his covered her mouth.

"You were asking for it," he growled. Then an ugly grin transfigured his handsome features, "You know you want it, bitch."

She was paralyzed, sick with fear. She felt the urge to vomit when he nibbled her ear before whispering, "Ooh, you're gonna have a real good time, honey." His other hand moved towards her jeans again. "You're gonna beg for more," he purred.

By that time, her blood had been circulating again and her brain had started functioning. She was completely sober. She waited for him to move in front of her again, knowing that that was her best shot. It didn't take long. Just as his sweaty fingers made their way to the bare skin under her tank top, she stroke back, knocking his testicles around, just like Bernie's a few years ago. While he was in agony on the concrete, whimpering and cursing simultaneously, she ran as fast as she could. She ran, stumbling over her own feet, unaware of passers-by and their shocked looks.

After a time, she didn't know how much, she stopped to catch her breath. Only then did she notice she had been crying. Realizing she was near Boston Common, she decided to enter and sit there for a while. She needed to regain her composure. Feeling too dirty to sit on a bench, she plopped onto the grass. She wanted to go home and wash away all the filth. She wanted to stand in the shower for hours. Then she wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep until she forgot what had happened. She wanted to go home so much. The problem was that she couldn't remember how to get there.

She buried her wet face in her hands and stayed like that for a while. Should she go to the police? No, no, no, no… No! No police. She couldn't let anybody know about that. She couldn't let Woody find out about that. Pete had been right; she had been asking for it. Just like she had been asking for that in her office. Woody already hated her. He must never ever find about what had happened in that alley. She would never be able to look him in the eyes again. She knew what his thoughts would be. He would think she had been asking for it. And he would be disgusted.

P.S. If you think the rating should go up, please let me know.

I know there wasn't a thing about the case here, but the chapter is already 3,000+ words, so... next time :)