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DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. No profit is being made. It's all for fun.
A/N: Started when summary for "Loves me Not" was posted, but real life insanity has kept me from finishing it until two hours before airtime (here).
Laid to Rest
"What are you doing?" Woody's voice was almost shrill.
Jordan glanced over her shoulder. "Going to sleep."
"But – But, Jordan! How can you sleep?"
"I'm tired." She spoke slowly, as if maybe this was the first time he'd heard this sort of thing. "It's what tired people do."
"How can you sleep at a time like this? In a place like this!"
She sighed and pushed herself up on her elbows, facing him now. "Woody, there is no such thing as a ghost, although I agree, one – or more, maybe all - of the guests here is a lunatic. We have locked the door, barred it as much as we could with that hideous chair and you have your gun. Now, maybe you're planning on staying up all night, but I'm not." With a huff of air, she rolled back over onto her side, facing away from him once more. "Oh, and if you are planning on staying up all night, please at least put your gun on the night stand."
"Why?" Now he was pouting.
She sighed. "Because I'd hate for you to fall asleep holding it and have it go off accidentally."
"That would never happen! I've never fired my gun accidentally!"
"I'm just saying…."
"I'm in total control of my gun."
Jordan grinned to herself. "Well, that always does reassure a girl."
Woody caught himself before responding. "Are we still talking about my gun?"
"What else would we be talking about?" Her innocent tone made him blush at the way he'd misread her reply.
"Um – Uh – Nothing. Nothing at all."
Jordan rolled her eyes. With an overly dramatic sigh, she punched her pillow into a shape less like a crepe and closed her eyes. "Good night, Woody."
He did his best imitation of Grumpy the Dwarf. "Night, Jordan."
For several minutes, he tossed and turned next to her, trying to find a comfortable position. It proved difficult, mostly due to the fact that Jordan was right next to him. In the same bed, his mind mentioned. Wearing not a whole lot, his libido chimed in. He smothered a groan and tugged the blanket up higher even though he was already rather toasty.
Still facing away from him, Jordan could not help but grin in the dark. Maybe she'd waited too long for the whole romance thing, but at least she and Woody were back to being friends. And she did love to upset his equilibrium. Softly, she made a low, moaning sound. "Whooooooooo," she breathed out and surreptitiously scratched the wooden night table with one nail.
"Quit it, Jordan." His voice was surly.
"Quit playing your little game trying to freak me out."
"I'm not doing anything."
She bit her lip to keep back the chuckle. She kept her voice light. "Night again, Woody."
"Good night, Jordan."
My, my, someone was not amused. That someone was not Jordan. She gave it another five or ten minutes and then repeated her earlier performance. Woody's reaction was much the same, although she detected the faintest hint of doubt in his voice this time around.
The third time she didn't wait as long.
Woody's reaction was decidedly more alarmed. His "good night" carried a note of genuine panic. Jordan decided Catholic school had been good for one thing – she'd learned to keep a straight face and not giggle at the wrong time. Gently, she reminded Woody there was no such thing as a ghost.
On his side of the bed, Woody smiled to himself. He was determined to win this game. She thought she had him fooled. He gave her almost a quarter of an hour. Her breathing was beginning to even out. He tossed and turned a few times and she gave no sign of noticing. He pretended to snore and got a slurred, "You're snoring."
He reached out and tickled her waist, his fingers encountering bare flesh where her top had hitched up – that hadn't been part of the plan. Despite the tingling shock her skin sent through him, he still hissed "Boo!" in her ear.
She leapt as though she'd been stung – or seen a ghost. Woody gave her credit – she didn't shriek. Not very loudly anyway. But she did sit up in the bed, her face flushed, her pulse hammering in her throat.
His blue eyes twinkled. "What's the matter, Jordan? Ghost in the room?" He sat up, smiling. "There aren't any ghosts, remember?"
"You…." Apparently she decided why use an insult when a good thump to his chest would substitute nicely.
"Hey! You started it."
"I didn't try to scare you, just have a little fun."
He jabbed a finger in her direction. "Aha! You admit it."
She scowled and looked for a way out of what she'd just said. "I – Uh – I was trying to be funny."
"So was I."
"By scaring me?"
He flashed her a big grin that set his blue eyes sparkling. "By making you laugh."
"I don't seem to be laughing here, Woods."
"Not yet." He reached out and tickled her just below the ribs.
Giggling, she slapped his hand. "Don't even think about doing that again."
"I know where you're ticklish too, you know," she threatened.
The sparkle in his eyes shifted from one of pure fun to one mingled with something else, something old and familiar and so long unfulfilled. "I can think of worse things than being tickled by you, Jordan."
Grinning wickedly, she said, "Let's find out."
It was a game Woody was tempted to let her win. She did happen to know where he was ticklish, but the light scrape of her nails sent entirely different sensations through him at first. Then her hands shifted, running across his abdomen, which was perhaps his most ticklish spot. Without thinking, he reached for her hands and, catching them both in one of his, flipped her onto her back and straddled her, letting his free hand roam below her rib cage. Her breathless laughter and half-hearted struggles encouraged him to continue his onslaught. Only her astonished gasp when his fingers trailed further down her belly than he had intended brought him up short.
He stopped, and she stilled beneath him, her eyes full and round in the dimness, their brown depths smoky. His gaze flicked away. "I'm sorry, Jordan." He released the hand he still held.
She didn't move. "For what?" Her voice was tight, as though squeezed from her throat by force.
"I – Uh – I didn't mean to…." He blushed faintly.
"Didn't want to or didn't mean to?" She challenged him with her usual candor and, at the same time, hoped he would hear the undertone in her voice, the one pleading with him to say the right thing, to put her world back in order.
He looked down at her in confusion. "Didn't mean to." He moved a lock of her hair out of her face. "I've never stopped wanting to."
He shook his head.
"You did a pretty good imitation of it."
"I know. I'm sorry. I was – really mixed up."
Everything teetered in the balance. So close. "You're not anymore?"
"Maybe still some," he admitted. "But not about – not about most things."
She nodded slowly.
"Does it matter?"
"What do you mean?"
"My timing." He raised an eyebrow. "Pollack."
Funny, Jordan thought, I haven't really thought of him since… since I knew we were trapped here. She shook her head. "He's – It's… done."
Woody breathed out. "Really?"
Solemnly, Jordan nodded.
Woody released her, but didn't move. Her body was still pinned temptingly beneath his and she did nothing to free herself. For long moments, neither of them spoke; they stared at each other, pulses hammering in near unison, wonder, fear and desire threading their every breath. Who moved first was as unimportant as it was impossible to determine. Jordan's head arched off the pillow as Woody's mouth sought and found hers. Her lips opened easily to him, her tongue matching his own gentle darting and teasing. She shifted beneath him, until she could wriggle free and join him sitting up, on equal terms. His hand cradled her head, keeping her mouth close for unending, demanding kisses, and his other hand roamed up and down her back. Her own hands were not inactive, as they found their way beneath the t-shirt he was wearing and explored the topography of his well-sculpted chest.
He was the first to pull away, gasping for air, every nerve ending in his body tingling from their kisses, from the feel of her dark hair cascading over his fingers and from her touch against his flesh. "Jordan," he whispered, part praise, part plea for surrender – his or hers, he couldn't have said.
She looked at him for a moment, before a languorous smile spread across her flushed face. She rested her forehead against his and murmured, "What?"
"Do you like breakfast in bed?" His voice was soft in the dark, but something in his tone was quite earnest.
Her laughter fluttered past his ear as she leaned closer. "You'll find out in the morning, won't you, Farm Boy?"