One Fine Day
Summary: She promised him that she'd take him to a major league ball game. In between apocalypses, they find the time to make it happen. Fluffy Ichabbie friendship or more.
A/N: So, Sleepy Hollow is my favorite new show. I'm really quite excited by where it's gone and where it has room to go. This fic is something we will never see on the series, if only because when would our heroes find the time? They're too busy preventing the end of the world. I just wanted to use the idea because it's fun and Abbie's love of baseball just demanded it. Also, for the purposes of this fic, Ichabod and Katrina's relationship is in an ambiguous state, though likely marred by betrayal or tragedy (I assume this is how it will go in the future when the writers inevitably make room for Ichabbie).
It's one of the good days, when the trials are behind them and there seems to be no demons to slay, whether it be his own metaphorical ones or the very real and dangerous kind that tend to haunt them. No, today he is not wrapped in thoughts of Katrina and his son and the ache of being a man out of time.
Because today it is just him and her.
She once promised she'd take him to a major league baseball game sometime, and by promised he means she promised that she'd force him to go with her. He doesn't really mind. Because it's him and her and an adventure beyond Sleepy Hollow, and he can't help but think that sounds lovely.
It's a two hour drive to Yankee stadium and the air has the welcome warmth of early summer. She keeps the car windows rolled down and he complains about how it makes his hair fly around his face. For some reason, this makes her laugh.
"Maybe you should get a haircut, Crane," she grins, and he gives her a flat stare.
"I believe we have discussed my unwillingness to conform to the-"
"Yeah yeah," she interrupts, "I know. At least you can pull it off."
"My hair?" he questions, taken aback, and she laughs again.
"Pull it off – it means you can manage something and make it work. Some guys would look silly with long hair. You don't."
He smiles, more to himself than to her. She thinks he can pull it off. Then she turns up the radio. The music she listens to is too fast, too loud, and a little too crude but he leans coolly back in his seat and pretends like he belongs to this world, this time.
The drive seems to take no time at all.
When they arrive, she parks the car in a nearby parking garage and leads the way to the ticketing area like she's been here a thousand times. He has never once minded her leading his way, and this is no exception.
People surround them in excess, packed together in herds and in long lines. He thinks he's never seen so many people altogether at once save for war, but this is no war zone, unless you count the endless sea of vendors pushing merchandise towards fans. They sell an abundance of items with the team logo, like shirts and hats and what they call 'bobble-heads.'
"Programs here, get yer programs here!" yells the vendor nearest them, and he pushes one eagerly towards Ichabod who reaches for it almost as a reflex. The lieutenant, however, reaches out and blocks him from taking it.
"Programs are worthless." she says. "They don't tell you anything really. I'll have more commentary than it does. But we'll get you something you really need."
"I don't need any-"
But she's already pulling some currency from her pocket and handing it to another vendor before he can protest. She takes an odd, dark blue object from the vendor and hands it to Ichabod.
He has no idea what it is, and she notices."It's a foam finger, Crane. You put it on your hand and use it to cheer."
He slips his hand into it like a glove and stares. "It's...ludicrous."
She laughs. Today, unlike so many days before, she is full of laughter. "You're welcome," she says, and he tucks the foam finger under his arm for safe keeping.
They have tickets she printed off the Internet already, so they skip right to the line at the entrance, which moves surprisingly fast. The gentlemen in security scan her bag and then they're inside the stadium, with small restaurants lining the walls on one side and entrances towards the field on the other. She leads the way again, this time a little less certain and stopping to read the section numbers as they walk around.
"B 120 through 124," she says. "This is us. And we're in foul ball territory, so keep your eyes open unless you want a ball to the cranium. Get it? Crane-ium?"
He rolls his eyes only to realize he must have picked up that habit from her.
The inner stadium is unlike anything he's seen before. Bright lights and perfectly maintained grass, a large screen displaying graphics and ads of all kinds, and announcers' voices permeating the atmosphere. All the people, crowding in and finding seats and making noise, shades of the home team colors overtaking most of the stands - it is quite something to behold, even if it does seem silly that all this to-do is for a sports game.
"Impressive, huh?" she asks him as they take their seats.
"Indeed."
Even though the game doesn't start for a half of an hour more, there's still a lot to look upon. Lieutenant Mills tells him to watch the "Jumbo-tron" and he does. It shows some graphics – three hats and one ball hidden underneath one of them, and it mixes them up and asks the audience to guess where the ball is now.
"The left of course," he says, but then the hats lift away to reveal the ball hidden beneath the middle one. He doesn't believe it. "I think the screen cheats."
"Sure it does, Crane. Sure. Oh look, now the weenie race is about to begin..."
"Excuse me?" he coughs, and she points towards the field.
He looks down towards home plate to see what he assumes are three adults dressed as hotdog mascots. One has a stripe of red, one has green, and one has yellow. "Ketchup, Relish, Mustard," she tells him. "Always bet on Relish."
He has no idea what that means, but then an umpire shoots off a starter's pistol and they're off.
The 'weenies' start to run around the bases, and the race is shown on the jumbo-tron as well. Ketchup leads the way for most of the race but gets tripped up rounding second base. Mustard and Relish are neck and neck coming from third, and Ichabod can't help but think how odd a sentence that is. But Lieutenant Mills is right and Relish wins.
Needless to say, he finds the performance of the national anthem a little more suitable as entertainment.
The actual game starts shortly after that and his mind wanders a bit. The game is slow and he's once again not entirely sure what she sees in it. That is, until the second inning when there are two runners on for the Phillies and no outs and his companion is yelling for strikes. There's anticipation in the crowd that he can feel. And then a hit that looks good to him but is stopped by a quick snatch by the Yankee shortstop. He throws to second and the second baseman throws to first and it must be a mere second between the time the ball is caught and the runner's foot hits the base. A double play is confirmed and the crowd erupts and suddenly he gets it. Swiftness and teamwork and coordination and grace. There's a type of poetry to it.
He joins in with the yelling and even shoves the silly foam finger onto his fist. He hoists it to the air and shouts "YEAH!" with the rest of them. For the first time in a long time, he feels connected to the world.
Upon returning to bat, the home team seems uplifted by the nice save. The first batter hits a solid single towards center field and a home run comes directly after that and now they're both yelling in unison and fist-bumping. There's a wildness to their celebration, unmarred by worries about their future and their role in the world. Just him and her, enjoying the moment.
That's the last bit of excitement they have until the fifth inning. Around that time, the lieutenant excuses herself to go to the bathroom but returns a few minutes later with two hotdogs and beers held precariously in her hands. He reaches for a beer and hotdog to relieve her of them. "I do hope you didn't find these in the lavatory."
"Yeah, Crane, I found them in the lavatory. Don't you still want it?" she smirks.
He refrains from rolling his eyes this time, and he is hungry. He takes a bite and knows without a doubt that this is incredibly unhealthy and absolutely delicious. He devours it and swigs the beer and turns his eyes back to the game, but the players aren't ready yet. A new pitcher is warming up.
He glances at the Jumbotron to find it showcasing various fans around the stadium. He reads the words beside it aloud. "What exactly is the ki-"
Before he can finish, he sees himself before his own eyes on the large screen. A childish giddiness erupts inside of him. "Lieutenant, look! We're on the Jumbo-tron."
She turns her face to look and her eyes widen slightly.
"But why are we on screen?" he asks. "What's the kiss cam? Surely it doesn't mean-"
Then quite suddenly, she leans over, places a hand to his cheek that sparks his skin and presses her lips against his. The kiss is absolutely short and chaste and yet he's overwhelmed by it. Surprise and contentment flood his veins and last even after she pulls away.
His face must show his shock, because she smirks at him as if it were no big deal, what just happened in front of a stadium full of people. "It's the kiss cam, Crane." she says, as though that makes it all obvious, and he supposes it does.
"So that's what that means."
She doesn't reply, but when she turns slightly away from him to look back at the field, he could swear he sees her smile to herself.
The rest of the game consists of her commentary and the seventh inning stretch and something called the wave. A collective groan occurs when the Phillies finally score their first run, but another cheer goes up an inning later when the Yankees regain the two point lead.
Now it's the top of the ninth and they're three outs away from a win. He finds himself wishing that the other team might tie it up because the lieutenant tells him that the game goes on indefinitely until one team has more points. If there were ever a day he'd like to stay in, he thinks it would be this one. He tries not to think about what that might mean.
But the game ends in a quick three outs and after a bit of cheering, most people around them start to get up and jostle each other to leave. He moves to do the same, but the lieutenant holds out her hand to stop him. "There's a fireworks show for the win," she says, "Plus we can let some of the traffic clear out before we go."
The fireworks display starts ten minutes later after a good portion of the crowd has found its way to the exit. The first few go off and it's astounding, but he thinks the fireworks look even better reflected in her eyes.
"Brilliant," he says quietly.
"My thought exactly, Crane."
The ride home is quiet, but in a comfortable way. She plays softer music now that fits with the night air breezing through the windows. As they arrive at his place, she says, "We need to find a way to get you a driver's license so I don't always have to cart your ass around like a chauffeur." But she is smiling so he knows she doesn't mean it, and when he says, "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you," he doesn't mean it either.
"Don't forget this," she says, reaching behind the divider to retrieve his foam finger and passing it to him. He takes it and chuckles.
"Thank you for this," he says, gesturing to it but allowing it to stand in for everything else. He will always be grateful for everything she has done for him.
"Anytime, Crane. We'll make a baseball fan out of you yet," she says and he smiles. He gets out of the car and bids her goodnight, then watches her drive away until she turns the corner out of view.
He clutches the foam a little tighter and recognizes that it is one of two souvenirs from the day. The first being the ludicrous foam, the second being the residual tingling of his lips after a kiss from one Lieutenant Abbie Mills.
What a fine day indeed.