Broken Roots
Chapter One: Seeds of Discord
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,087
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. Okay, I can, but only season 1.
Summary: Sins of the father are passed onto the son. Sins of the mother to the daughter. And somewhere in the middle of all of that lies the truth. Third installment, following Lost Pretense and Tarnished Haven.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of... ok...eventually :) )
Author's Note: So I had grand plans. They didn't really work out. And I missed the Crossing Jordan world. I'm also insane, but that's not much of a surprise.
Seeds of Discord
She didn't always wake when he did. She could be a pretty heavy sleeper, and they didn't share a bed. Still, she knew when he'd woken in the middle of the night and when he didn't go to bed at all. This was one of those nights. He had migrated to her window again. The opaque texture didn't really leave much of a view, but it wasn't about that. He wasn't looking out the window. He was looking somewhere deep inside himself, and wherever that was, it was dark and full of pain.
Jordan slipped out of the bed and went to his side. "Woody?"
His eyes closed with a wince. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Maybe you should have," she told him, touching his arm. When he didn't pull away, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Nightmare?"
"That is too kind a word for it," he muttered. He did pull away then, leaving the room. She sighed and followed him. She had a feeling that they were going to fight again. She didn't want to, but almost anything that she did set him off these days. Things were tense since they'd come back from Haven. She knew that he'd agreed to come back with her, but she suspected that he had regretted it the moment that he did.
She cursed as she saw him at the counter, pouring himself a glass of scotch. She doubted it was his first for the night. He had been drinking heavily during the last three weeks. And it was getting worse.
"How many have you had tonight?" she asked. She knew that he'd be pissed, but she had to ask. She couldn't ignore it. It had gone on for too long already.
"Don't start, Jordan," he warned, tossing it back. He didn't even react to the burn, just poured another. Whatever was eating at him was bad. Really bad.
"Woody, please," she began, putting a hand on his arm before he could get another refill. He jerked away from her. She caught the look in his eyes and swallowed hard. He scared her when he was like this. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her. But he would hurt himself. He wanted to hurt himself.
"Stay away from me," he told her harshly. He was backing away from her like a caged animal. Damn it. If she pushed any further, he'd bolt.
"Fine," she said. She wouldn't let him keep doing this. She grabbed the bottle and took it into the bathroom. She dumped it out in the sink. She knew it wouldn't stop him for very long. If he wanted to continue destroying himself, he would.
She didn't know how to help him. Maybe no one could. He had been fighting this battle for so long, and he was losing it badly. What he needed was therapy, but he would never agree to it. She knew that he wouldn't. He didn't trust anyone, and without trust, no therapy would work, he would never get over this.
Somethings you don't get over, Lily had told her, not too long ago, when Jordan had gone to her, needing to vent her frustration to a friend. And you have to accept that. Woody will never completely let go of this. It defines him. It made him who he was, continues to make him who he is.
I just wish he'd talk to me, Jordan had finally admitted. She had started crying then, of all times, and Lily held her as she did. It had fortified her, for a while, but as time went on, and Woody continued his dangerous cycle, she was losing hope again.
She left the bathroom and went back into the kitchen. Woody had gone to the couch, sitting with his arms propped on his knees and his head on his arms. She sat down next to him. She made no move to touch him. He would not let her, and she knew it.
"I want to help, you know," she said softly.
"You think you're helping?" he demanded angrily. "You're not. Stay out of it, Jordan. I agreed to come back here. I didn't agree to anything else. I definitely didn't agree to you telling me what to do."
"Woody," she began, but he stood abruptly. Damn, he really was leaving. "Don't. Please."
He pulled on his coat. "Stop asking me to stay. It only makes me want to leave more."
"Ooh, I know that look," Nigel began as Jordan walked into the morgue. He winced in sympathy. "And that is not a good look."
She shook her head and dumped her stuff on her desk. He couldn't help but watch her. This was bad. It was more than the look, the lines under her eyes, and the slow movements laced with obvious fatigue. She was worn out, in body and soul. He had to wonder if it would have been better if they never found Woody again. Jordan would still have a gaping hole in her heart, but that seemed preferable to one that was constantly bleeding from each new abuse Woody dealt when he lashed out at her.
"What happened this time, love?" Nigel asked, leaning against the door frame. She collapsed into the chair and sighed loudly.
"He's not sleeping. He's drinking. A lot. And he's so damn touchy..."
Nigel digested this for a minute. It wasn't anything new, then. Woody had been like this since they returned from Haven. Jordan never should have asked him to come back. He wasn't ready. "Has he talked to Calvin?"
"No," Jordan rubbed her temples. "Cal may be in detox, but Woody's of the opinion that once an addict, always an addict. And Cal's done a lot to prove that to Woody. I don't think he will speak to Cal again if he can help it."
"That may be, love," Nigel agreed sadly. "But he's not going to do any better until he does."
"I've tried to tell him that. Cal tried to kill him, Nige. He's not going to talk to him," Jordan said. "Besides, I think that accusation really shook him."
"You mean the one where Woody supposedly killed his father?" Nigel shook his head. He didn't buy into that conspiracy theory. He was known to believe in the supernatural and the uncanny, had an affection for the unexplained, but not this. Woody had not orchestrated his father's murder, even if the man had abused him. What Woody's father had done was unforgivable, but Woody was not a murderer.
"Yeah, that," Jordan lowered her head onto the desk. She hit her keys and cursed. "I think that's why he can't sleep. It got to him. He has doubts."
"While I understand that there are still gaps in his memory that he may never recover, it is absurd to think that means he killed his father," Nigel protested. He crossed the room to her, rubbing her shoulder a bit. She was tense. Something had to be done. "Okay, love, here's a thought. The whole thing is a matter of public record, isn't it? Woody could get the files to satisfy his piece of mind. We can even have a Murder Night and solve the case for him, if we need to. No loose ends. No conspiracies."
"What conspiracy?" Dr. M demanded from the doorway. "Nigel, if this is about that body that they found in the Charles river and its possible Mafia connections, I advise you to forget it."
"Not that," Jordan said, blinking wearily after she lifted her head. "Cal accused Woody of killing their father, and I think Woody might be starting to believe it."
"Bull shit," Macy said firmly. He looked at Nigel and then back at Jordan. "You going to find a way to get it through that man's thick skull that everything is not his fault. He didn't do it, and we all know it."
"We were just discussing that, Dr. M," Nigel said. "I believe Woodrow should look into the case, prove to himself that it wasn't possible, and then—"
"Then maybe he'll get his head out of his ass, and we can move on with our lives," Macy agreed colorfully. "Do it. In the meantime, Nigel, I need you to work on the Horn case. Jordan, you've got a pick up. Your favorite kind."
"Oh, goodie," Jordan muttered, letting her head drop down onto the desk again.
He shouldn't let Jordan talk him into anything. Honestly, he'd thought he was over that. But not only had he let her talk him into coming back to Boston, he'd let her talk him into this. He supposed that it wasn't bad to have a place for himself, even if it was some rat hole the size of a closet. It was barely big enough for the desk and chairs, and it didn't have any sort of decoration. It was almost literally a hole in the wall.
But at least it was private.
Ironic, wasn't it? He was using his office, supposedly for his nonexistent business as an investigator, as his private sanctuary. It wasn't much of either, but he could live with that. It wasn't like he had wanted to become a private detective. That was Jordan's suggestion. She said he couldn't escape the cop in him, and she was right. But that didn't mean that he wanted to spend the rest of his life as some cliché from a bad film noir movie.
He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in the chair. It creaked. He opened the bottom drawer and cursed when he discovered that he'd emptied the bottle the last time he was here. He hadn't replaced it yet. Well, that gave him something to do.
He got to his feet and grabbed his coat, heading for the door when it opened. He blinked, and wondered if the lack of sleep was getting to him. It had to be a hallucination. Because Max Cavanaugh would not be standing across from him if he was perfectly sober and had actually been sleeping.
"It's been a long time, Woody. The years haven't been kind to either of us, have they?" Max asked.
Woody studied the man who looked like he'd aged ten years in the past three, and he shrugged. "I haven't looked at a mirror lately, and I don't want to. Why are you here, Max?"
"I heard you'd gone into the private sector," Max observed. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"Technically, you haven't," Woody muttered. He pulled the jacket on anyway. "Don't make me ask again, Max. Why are you here?"
"I have a case for you," Max answered. "You wanna have a seat, and I'll tell you about it?"
Woody looked at him. "No. And no again. I know you think you mean well, Max, but I'm not really a detective. I let Jordan talk me into getting the license, and she put up the money for this... place, but I'm not really doing it. I'm done."
"Where are you headed, Woody? To another bottle?" Max asked, folding his arms over his chest and blocking the door.
"Max, I don't have the patience or the inclination to deal with yet another person telling me what to do or how to do it. I do still have a license, and I still have a gun, and I really don't think you want to push this issue right now," Woody warned him darkly. He didn't have time for this. He was sick of Jordan and all of her friends trying to "fix" him.
"You don't frighten me, Hoyt. You're a good man, no matter what the drink says, and I know you better than that," Max insisted.
Woody couldn't help the laughter. "You don't know me, Max. No one does, not even me. So you can get out of my way, or you can find out just how little you know."
"I'm not above begging," Max said. "I need your help. I need it badly. And Jordan can't know about this. She just can't."
Woody looked at the other man for a long moment. The years hadn't been kind, that much was true, but even beyond that, Max was an old man. He was tired and alone, and he looked like he was at the end of his rope. Woody could almost sympathize, but then he was still trying not to care.
He shrugged. "Sure, why not? What's one more secret from Jordan?"