I've decided that I'm going to write an AU fic about Ichabbie and their child's struggles as an interracial family in America, but also with good times. All the chapters won't be so heavy. This chapter was posted in Simply Ichabbie, but it can really work in its own story. Chloe, their daughter, is talked about in this chapter as well. I extended it to make sure she was mentioned here in this conversation. You'll also get to know her more in other chapters. Hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading. Feel free to pitch topics I can write about. I do want to have a chapter focused on colorism, so that will be more like a mother-daughter discussion. Your ideas are welcome.

"I can finish up," Abbie said.

She took up their plates, left them on the counter. She ran some water in the sink. Crane stood. She was in one of her moods where she wanted to be alone for a bit. Something must have happened at work. She was awfully quiet at dinner, but Crane wanted to be there for her.

"It's no problem, Leftenant."

"Crane." She looked at him.

"Very well." He kissed her forehead and exited the kitchen.

He spotted her on the couch when he came downstairs after his shower. She didn't join him this time. He would've given her a bath and washed her hair.

An opened Rice Krispy was in her hand. The square was bitten at a corner. Her day must've been something terrible if she ate one of those.

Abbie didn't face him. She didn't acknowledge him even when he sat by her. Her eyes stared down at her sticky treat. She messed with the wrapper.

"One of the white teachers at an elementary school shot four beautiful little black children in her classroom today. All because of the color of their skin and who she assumed them to be. We didn't get there in time to save them," she said.

She nibbled another bite. Crane never knew what to say when Abbie told him such horrifying stories about her job and how it affected her. He definitely didn't know what to say in this case. This was new. This hit home. He could empathize with her, but he could never fully understand its magnitude. He couldn't relate.

This especially hit home because they had a child of their own: a seven-year-old named Chloe. She wasn't with them as of now. Miss Jenny, Abbie's sister, wanted to keep her for the weekend. Abbie didn't mention Chloe. He knew she wasn't even ready to include her in this topic yet, so he wouldn't bring her up. He wasn't prepared himself and could only imagine what those parents felt. They'd just focus on whatever she wanted to for now.

He got on his knees in front of her. His hands sat on her thighs. He kissed her forehead. He had no idea what she felt.

She lets her tears drip down her neck. "It's 2016. This is still happening. We die all because we exist. Some people hate us, Crane. They were children. Babies."

He touched her cheek, wished he could have done something. Saved them.

"I think of us, history, everything in the past." She sniffs. "You would've owned me. I would've been your slave."

He couldn't breathe anymore. He shook his head and stood and paced. His fingers twitched. What could he say? That he wouldn't have done it? That her life and other African-American lives mattered? The idea of him or anyone else even owning Abbie and her family, treating them like animals and not humans of a free will...He balled his fists, bit the inside of his cheek.

"Please, don't say that, Abbie."

"Maybe you would've tied me to whipping post and beat me until sundown."

His rolled up his sleeves; his skin burned as he strode across the living room. "Stop."

"Or maybe you would've raped me. I would've bore your children." Her laugh was dry. "Children."

Why wouldn't she quite?

"Damn it, Abigail." He faced her.

"We can't ignore it, Ichabod."

"No, but...it's disgusting to even..." He sighed.

"Sit down, Crane." She put the Krispy bar on the arm of the sofa.

He bent in front of her again, grabbed her hands, and kissed them. She touched his cheek; he kissed her palm. She wanted them to have an honest conversation. He just had to admit that their race mattered, that it's always going to matter.

"We would've been about to do this. We were against the law," she said.

He doesn't like to think about her as a...slave or segregated from him or God forbid, lynched. That was not who she was or any other African-American. No one deserved that. No one should be treated like that. It's despicable and unimaginable. Yet, as a history professor, Crane knew this was American history. It was also a part of English history. He always felt a little uncomfortable discussing that dark period with his students. How do you speak about such a horrid time?

When Black History Month came, Abbie took him to a few museums, and they'd watch documentaries and films. Crane forced himself to endure to the end. It was hard, but it was important. Abbie asked him afterwards what he thought. Something along the lines of, "Thank God this isn't our era anymore." or "Thank you for sharing this with me." always escaped his mouth. He never went into detail. What could he say? If he were honest, it made him sick to know what his ancestors did to Abbie's. He hated it. Yes, they acknowledged history and their relationship in terms of race, but they never had an in-depth discussion.

He glanced away from her, played with her fingers. It saddened him. "We were."

"Maybe we would've been like the Lovings. Interracial marriage was outlawed in Virginia and other Southern states. They got married in Washington, but when they came back, they had to leave Virginia. Eventually, they went to court about it. The Supreme Court ruled they had a right to marry and that they could return to Virginia."

He touched her cheek, nodded. "We live in that world now, where we can freely marry one another. I am most grateful for it."

"Crane, talk to me."

He paid attention to their hands. "I am talking to you, Leftenant."

"Bullshit."

He sighed.

She got on the floor with him, crossed her legs, and patted the space in front of her.

"That isn't necessary."

"Crane."

He sat in front of her; she held out her hands. He took them.

"This isn't easy for me either, but we have to. You're angry. Me, too, but I need you to tell me. It's how we grow from the past, how we heal, if that's possible."

Where does he start?

He didn't look at her. "I note the stares we sometimes receive from others. We could be walking or dinning in, grocery shopping. I've seen them. I don't quite like it. It…I get so livid."

Some shook their heads, turned their backs, lifted their noses. Some scooted over or went the opposite direction. Some wouldn't even acknowledge Abbie's presence. Whenever they wouldn't, Abbie and Crane left the restaurant or store. Forehead kisses, a squeezed hand, a reassuring smile covered the sting. He never asked her how she felt; she never told him.

"I know the feeling." She played with his fingernail.

"Would you like to talk to me about it?"

She shook her head. He lifted her chin. "I thought we were talking."

She smiled small. "We are talking."

He chuckled. She bit her lip.

"At moments, it's like I don't matter when we're in public. Some people look at me like… like I'm a filthy nigger."

He clinched her hands, put them to his heart. Why would she ever refer to herself as such?

"Grace—"

"That's the truth."

He cleared his throat to keep his tears in check. This wasn't about him right now. She wouldn't let their eyes meet. Her throat swelled; she let the tears slip down her neck again, wiped her face with her sleeve.

"It angers me. It makes me feel like a dirty animal. As if we don't belong together or that I'm beneath you. Inferior. Less than."

Her tears slipped out the corner of her eyes as she slightly tilted her head back. She couldn't face him.

He took both of her cheeks. He kissed her forehead multiple times; he stared at her. His skin scalded again.

"No. Never, Abbie. You are my better half, my equal, my entirety, the muscle that makes my heart beat."

She kissed his lips. "You're mine, too."

"Are you ever angry at me?"

She nodded. "You don't defend me when it happens. You don't defend us. I get mad at myself, too. I don't stand up for myself or us either. We let them win. Everytime."

It hurt to hear. She was right though.

"I am so very sorry."

What else could he say? He was a coward. Why did he let them do that to her, to them?

"It's easy to ignore. We pretend it doesn't bother us and that we're strong enough to handle it when we aren't. It's going to always bother us whether we want it to or not."

"I will change that."

"It's something we both have to work on. I've done my fair share of not defending you and our relationship, too."

She'd tell him the comments people, even some of her co-workers, have made about them and how she wouldn't respond. "You're dating him? A white guy?" "You're his property, right?", and "What do you call him? Master?" These are some of the things she'd been told.

"Maybe we do it because we want them to change their minds about us. However, some of them will never see us for us: two people in love," he said.

"That's the thing. We aren't just two people. I'm a black woman in love with a white man. You're white man in love with a black woman. We can't help our skin color, and we can't change the past. We can't change the opinions of others either. All we can do is show them who we are as a black woman and a white man together."

"Our race will always matter, won't it?"

She nodded, and he leaned back against the sofa as she sat between his legs. He held her like he wanted to, kissed her neck. She fell back into his chest, then grabbed her Rice Krispy treat off the arm of the sofa. Split it in half. One piece was for her. She gave him the other. They chewed with one hand and watched their fingers twist and untie together on the other.

Crane pulled the covers back from their bed. He let Abbie settle in first before he got in. He left the lamp on as she cuddled up to him.

"Aren't you going to turn the lamp off?" Abbie said.

"In a moment." He sat up with her in his arms. "We have to finish talking."

She played with their comforter, wouldn't look at him. "Not tonight."

"Abbie." He lifted her chin again. "We need to."

Talking about Chloe was difficult for him as well. He didn't want to think about anyone coming into a school shooting their daughter simply because of her skin color. They had to discuss it. He didn't want to push her, but he had to.

"It's not the right time."

"There will never be a right time."

"I want to go to bed."

"You were worried about Chloe, weren't you?"

"Good night, Crane." She turned her back on him and lay down.

"You think someone may shoot her just as those other kids."

"I can't sleep if you're talking."

"You're afraid someone will hate her just as much as they do us." He paused. "A mulatto child. The nerve."

She sat up, stared at him. "Will you shut the hell up? I don't need you analyzing me. And don't fucking mention Chloe like that."

He expected this type of reaction. This is what happened when you pushed Grace Abigail Mills. She fought back. Eventually, she'll get tired of fighting. It's not like he enjoyed picking an argument with her or speaking such a horrid term in regards to his daughter.

"Isn't that what she would have been referred to in the past?"

"Now you're just being a smartass." She stared at the photo of them on the nightstand with the lamp. They were all smiles.

Crane picked it up. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"

Abbie was silent as she gazed at them. Her tears blurred the photo. "That could've been her today at that school."

He wiped the picture. "Thank God it was not."

He wouldn't know what to do if it was. How does a parent handle such devastation? For someone to demonstrate such hate toward their seven-year-old or even the idea of her teacher or anyone coming into her classroom to kill her was—there weren't enough words to describe the loss of a child, let alone the loss of a child at the hand of hatred. He dried his own tears from the photo and placed it back where it was.

"You think some people hate us because we're together?" She shook her head. "Just imagine the stares, comments, and treatment our daughter will receive because of us, because of her race. That will affect her for the rest of her life, Crane. How do we protect her from that?"

He pulled her to him, kissed her forehead. "We can't. I think we can only love her and remind her she is important despite what others may think. We can also pray that no harm will come to her."

"She's just so innocent. I just hate that she'll be subjected to someone's ass backward opinion of her. That's my fucking kid."

"Indeed. We'll have to explain to her how it won't always be easy for her. It's hard for us from time to time."

"You would think the world has changed."

"We still have a ways."

"I don't think some people in the world will ever accept interracial families. Not even when Jesus comes."

"It's a shame." He looked at her. "How do you feel?"

"I'm worried about her and how people will treat her. I'm always going to be mindful of that."

"As am I. That's why it is our responsibility to make sure she's secure in herself and prepare her as much as we can."

Abbie angled herself to him. "Can we say that prayer?"

He turned himself towards her, too, grasped her hands as they bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Abbie sighed.

"Dear God, please protect Chloe and all of the other children who may endure discrimination and hate because of their skin. Please be with the parents who lost their babies today." She paused, stole deep breathes, and let go of her hand to rub her face. Her fingers were wet when Crane held them again. "Protect every child from hate. Amen."

"Amen."

They opened their eyes. Crane kissed her. "She is sheltered by God and His angels."

She nodded. Crane knew that Abbie wouldn't believe it until she saw it. He understood her doubt. How could one really be sure when tragedy could hit at any moment?

"Just have faith?"

"What more can we do?"

They lay back and cuddled again; he switched off the lamp.