Ichabod Crane vs. the 21st Century
#1 – Crane vs. the Mall
Abbie takes Crane to the mall in December. The Christmas trees, the music, the lights, even the cotton fake snow in some windows all distract Crane: "Miss Mills, why are there so many pine trees in this establishment? Miss Mills, must we listen to this Jingle Bells for the one-hundredth time? Miss Mills, why are children sitting on that corpulent gentleman's lap?"
"Crane, shut it." Abbie takes him by the wrist and drags him into the Gap. He stumbles before righting himself, brushing at imaginary dust on his shirtfront. Abbie knows he does this when he's embarrassed.
"Miss Mills, you do not have to take hold of my person in such a way," Crane intones in his most condescending Oxford voice.
Abbie rolls her eyes and heads to the men's section of the store. Crane has been wearing his 18th century clothes for weeks now and she's tired of looking at them. Abbie knows people are staring at them. People are always staring at them. She resists the urge to flip them off for their gawking. Rummaging through the wall of jeans, Abbie starts pulling out various sizes, cuts, and lengths. "30 by 32? No way, you're probably a 25 by 45, you're so damn tall and skinny…"
"I take offense to such an assessment." Crane is standing right over her shoulder, and she jumps a little at his voice. The asshole walks as quietly as a cat. Abbie shoves jeans into his arms as she continues to collect more pairs before moving on to shirts.
When he begins to protest the mountain of clothing she hands him, Abbie shoos him to the back of the store. "You need to try them on. I just guessed your size."
"I am to undress in this establishment—"
"Yes, now go before I forcibly undress you in the middle of the store."
Crane huffs at her bad manners but refrains from answering similarly rudely. Abbie knows Crane abhors rudeness, so she makes a point to be as crass as possible just to ruffle his British feathers. She watches him walk to the dressing room. She doesn't admit that she's looking at his ass as he walks.
"Is he your boyfriend?" A teenage girl—Abbie imagines she's no more than fifteen or so—pops her gum. "He's hot."
Abbie glares at her, using her most intimidating cop stare. "Yes, now go away before I call your mom to tell her you're at the mall after curfew." The girl glares back at her before huffing off, her bracelets jangling and gum popping. Juicy is spelled across her butt in bright pink letters.
"Miss Mills, a word if you please." Crane has stuck his head out of one of the dressing rooms.
A male fitting room attendant flits around Crane. "Oh my, those jeans are so you," he exclaims. His hands seem like manic birds to Abbie.
She sees Crane about to remark on this odd specimen of male and speaks before he does. "What's up?"
"'What's up' is that these trousers are absurd." Abbie glances down and realizes Crane is wearing a pair of black skinny jeans. They aren't absurd on him, she admits—well, except for absurdly tight. He also wears one of the checked button-up shirts she'd thrown at him, and Abbie realizes he just needs a fedora and a scarf and he would make an exceptional hipster.
She steps back. Yes, Crane should wear skinny jeans all the time. "You look good as a hipster," she replies.
"Miss Mills, you cannot expect me to wear trousers that delineate every part of my anatomy—"
"Crane, calm down. Try on the ones called boot-cut."
The attendant is still fluttering. "Oh but sir, you do look divine in those jeans. Would you like for me to fetch another pair? We have some in gray, we may even have some white left over."
Crane frowns. "I assure you, my good man, I am not in need of any more of these—what did you call them?—skinny jeans."
"Let me find you some other pairs." The attendant flits off into the store, stars in his eyes.
"I think he likes you," Abbie jokes.
Crane opens and closes his mouth, frowns, furrows his eyebrows, opens his mouth to speak. "I will choose to ignore that remark," he says instead.
Abbie smiles. "No really. I think you found yourself a boyfriend. You should ask him out." Abbie watches as red slowly creeps up Crane's face. There's a special enjoyment in discomfiting this man, she thinks. Then she realizes she just thought the word "discomfiting" and knows it's from Crane. "Crane, try on the rest of the jeans so I can go home."
Crane shuts the dressing room door more forcefully than he probably intended. Abbie listens to him mutter to himself, and then hears him try to peel the skinny jeans off his tall frame. She imagines peeling off those jeans herself. Now it's her face that's heating up.
"These damnable trousers! Bloody hell, this bloody century and their bloody customs…"
In the end, Abbie pays for three pairs of jeans and five shirts for Crane because he still has no money of his own. "You owe me," she tells him as they walk toward the exit. People gawk at the tall weirdo in 18th century clothes—he refused to wear the new clothes out of the store—pointing and giggling. Crane seems to have stopped noticing the attention. Or he thinks it's a weird 21st century custom to snap photos of strangers with your phone without asking permission.
He glances around at all of the Christmas decorations before replying. "I thank you for your generosity. Although I am partial to these clothes, I realize that I must seem an odd personage to most people. I shall repay you most promptly."
Abbie smiles. "You're welcome, Crane. And don't worry about the money. It's my gift."
Crane smiles at her and she has to look away. Oh, she's in deep and she knows it but for now she just won't think about it. Easier to just avoid the subject. She's good at avoiding.
It's not until they're driving away that Crane asks, confusion lacing his voice. "What, exactly, is a 'hipster'?"
A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing. Also, this was inspired by gingerhaze's adorable comics on Tumblr.