[Fanfiction] Don't Take It Out On The Door, by callieach
Title: Don't Take It Out On The Door
Author: callieach
Fandom: Crossing Jordan
Character(s)/Pairing: Jordan, Woody
Rating: PG
Words: 703
Disclaimer: Even though this show is abandoned and unloved, by The Powers That Be, it's still not mine.
Authors Notes: For
lastficstanding[Round 1, Challenge 1: 'Red']
Summary: "Are you throwing footwear at me now, Jordan?"
She stands there fuming as he casually grabs his coat and heads for the door. He’s got his hand on the handle when she bends over and unzips her left boot. He swings the door open as she yanks her boot off her foot. An instant after it clicks shut behind him, the boot hit’s the door with a dull thud. Another thud sounds as it hits the floor.
There’s a few long seconds of silence, long enough for Jordan to wonder why the hell she just chucked her favourite high heeled boot across the room. And then the door opens again, not all the way, just wide enough for Woody to stick his head in. He looks down at the boot, then at the eye level gouge in the paint. The plain, unstained wood sticks out like a sore thumb against the red paint covering the rest of the door. Finally, he looks at her, shining blue eyes wide and round.
“Are you throwing footwear at me now, Jordan?”
She blinks, breathes, blinks again. Is she? “I didn’t even come close to hitting you. What are you complaining about?” Shakily, Jordan sinks down to put her left foot on the floor. She feels both ridiculous and ridiculously lopsided.
Woody steps back inside and closes the door gently behind him. “You only missed because you were a few seconds late.” He glances sideways at the gouge, as if to prove his point. If it had hit him, it would’ve been bruising already.
“I still missed.”
He stoops to pick up the boot, never taking his eyes off of her. “Is there any particular reason you felt compelled to throw your boot?”
“Yes - no - Yes. We were having an argument and you walked away.”
“First of all, we were having a discussion. Second, since when are projectiles the punishment for walking away?”
“When you suggest that someone’s screwed up because they’re masochistic and won’t let anybody in and keep doing it to themselves, you’re pretty much asking for a fight.” She sits down on the couch harder than she should (she hears it creak a bit), tugs down the zipper on her right boot, and kicks it off.
“Not going to throw that one at me, too, are you?”
She can’t keep the scowl on her face when she sees his grin; it’s that perfect mixture of innocent, playful and apologetic that she’s come to expect from her Farm Boy. This is the man she would invite over for drinks after dinner, not the one she’d throw her boot at, not that much later.
“Look, Jordan, I’m sorry for what I said.” He starts walking toward her, still holding her boot in both hands. “You’re not a masochist. Screwed up? Yea. Have a hard time letting people in? Most definitely.” He sits down beside her. “But I know you don’t do it on purpose. I’m sorry,” he says again, “I just worry about you sometimes.”
She reaches for his hand, realize they’re both full, so puts her hand down on his arm instead. “Don’t worry about it, Woods. And don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.”
“Yadda, yadda, you’re a big girl, you can take care of yourself. I’ve heard it before. Even the door’s noticed,” Woody teases, setting the boot in his hands on the floor next to its partner.
“Jeez, I almost feel like I should apologize to it,” Jordan says, looking at her front door woefully. She can even see the gouge from here. It makes her want to cringe.
“It’s looking pretty dull anyway. How about I stop by the hardware store tomorrow and help you put a fresh coat on, if we don’t get called into work, that is?”
Now she can take his hand, and she does, giving it a squeeze. “I think that’s exactly why I’m friends with you.”
“My amazing door-painting talent?”
“No, -” She laughs. “- because I can throw a shoe at you and you still stick around.”
He tilts his head when he looks at her. “I thought you weren’t throwing it at me.”
“Just because I didn’t try very hard doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to hit you.”
Author: callieach
Fandom: Crossing Jordan
Character(s)/Pairing: Jordan, Woody
Rating: PG
Words: 703
Disclaimer: Even though this show is abandoned and unloved, by The Powers That Be, it's still not mine.
Authors Notes: For
lastficstanding[Round 1, Challenge 1: 'Red']
Summary: "Are you throwing footwear at me now, Jordan?"
She stands there fuming as he casually grabs his coat and heads for the door. He’s got his hand on the handle when she bends over and unzips her left boot. He swings the door open as she yanks her boot off her foot. An instant after it clicks shut behind him, the boot hit’s the door with a dull thud. Another thud sounds as it hits the floor.
There’s a few long seconds of silence, long enough for Jordan to wonder why the hell she just chucked her favourite high heeled boot across the room. And then the door opens again, not all the way, just wide enough for Woody to stick his head in. He looks down at the boot, then at the eye level gouge in the paint. The plain, unstained wood sticks out like a sore thumb against the red paint covering the rest of the door. Finally, he looks at her, shining blue eyes wide and round.
“Are you throwing footwear at me now, Jordan?”
She blinks, breathes, blinks again. Is she? “I didn’t even come close to hitting you. What are you complaining about?” Shakily, Jordan sinks down to put her left foot on the floor. She feels both ridiculous and ridiculously lopsided.
Woody steps back inside and closes the door gently behind him. “You only missed because you were a few seconds late.” He glances sideways at the gouge, as if to prove his point. If it had hit him, it would’ve been bruising already.
“I still missed.”
He stoops to pick up the boot, never taking his eyes off of her. “Is there any particular reason you felt compelled to throw your boot?”
“Yes - no - Yes. We were having an argument and you walked away.”
“First of all, we were having a discussion. Second, since when are projectiles the punishment for walking away?”
“When you suggest that someone’s screwed up because they’re masochistic and won’t let anybody in and keep doing it to themselves, you’re pretty much asking for a fight.” She sits down on the couch harder than she should (she hears it creak a bit), tugs down the zipper on her right boot, and kicks it off.
“Not going to throw that one at me, too, are you?”
She can’t keep the scowl on her face when she sees his grin; it’s that perfect mixture of innocent, playful and apologetic that she’s come to expect from her Farm Boy. This is the man she would invite over for drinks after dinner, not the one she’d throw her boot at, not that much later.
“Look, Jordan, I’m sorry for what I said.” He starts walking toward her, still holding her boot in both hands. “You’re not a masochist. Screwed up? Yea. Have a hard time letting people in? Most definitely.” He sits down beside her. “But I know you don’t do it on purpose. I’m sorry,” he says again, “I just worry about you sometimes.”
She reaches for his hand, realize they’re both full, so puts her hand down on his arm instead. “Don’t worry about it, Woods. And don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.”
“Yadda, yadda, you’re a big girl, you can take care of yourself. I’ve heard it before. Even the door’s noticed,” Woody teases, setting the boot in his hands on the floor next to its partner.
“Jeez, I almost feel like I should apologize to it,” Jordan says, looking at her front door woefully. She can even see the gouge from here. It makes her want to cringe.
“It’s looking pretty dull anyway. How about I stop by the hardware store tomorrow and help you put a fresh coat on, if we don’t get called into work, that is?”
Now she can take his hand, and she does, giving it a squeeze. “I think that’s exactly why I’m friends with you.”
“My amazing door-painting talent?”
“No, -” She laughs. “- because I can throw a shoe at you and you still stick around.”
He tilts his head when he looks at her. “I thought you weren’t throwing it at me.”
“Just because I didn’t try very hard doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to hit you.”