Somewhere along the way a pair of dainty shot glasses had replaced their clinking beer bottles, and the dining room table had been abandoned for the comfort of the overstuffed leather sofa in the living room, a late night horror flick replacing their stalemated game of chess.
"That's how I knew it wasn't really you."
Abbie had been quiet for a while, letting Ichabod's favorite spirits flow through her veins like a slow burning fire. And he let her be quiet, flicking through the channels until he'd settled on something so grotesque it was borderline hilarious, finding the comedy in corn-syrup blood.
Crane stopped his running commentary about the unrealistic nature of horror film gore, blinking rather dazedly in her direction. "What?" He flicked off the television, a look of wort creasing his brow at the tone of her voice. "Lieutenant?"
"I played hundreds and hundreds of chess matches in that hell. At first it was just to break up the monotony. I knew I was playing myself, but sometimes I would snap, and I could see you, hear you."
She reached for the whiskey bottle on the coffee table in front of them, this time completely forgoing the nicety of pouring it in the squat little glass. The liquid burned down the back of her throat, settling in the pool of her stomach with a pleasant glow. "But I knew it wasn't you, because they ended that way so many times." She pointed toward the dining room with her free hand. "In a stalemate."
He nodded, plucking the half empty bottle from her fingers and setting it on the end table. "I see. It is rather hard to outmaneuver one's own self."
Her eyes drifted shut, a forlorn sigh escaping her lips. "And then my heart would break, into a thousand painful shards, all lodging in my lungs. I couldn't breathe, because I knew."
"You knew what?"
"That this was eternity, that putting sooty hash marks on the wall and playing chess with myself wasn't going to change anything. That I was never getting back."
"Abbie-"
She smiled sadly at the sound of her name passing his lips, shaking her head to silence him. "I knew I was never going to see Jenny again, that she was always going to think it was her fault."
A tear slipped from beneath her eyelashes, rolling down her cheek and splashing against her collar. "And you-" Her voice broke in a quiet sob, one that she squelched almost immediately. "I'd never see you again, other than some haunting recollection that altered slightly with every passing day, until I forgot what you looked like, what you sounded like."
She felt that cushions shift as he moved closer to her, the graceful lines of his fingers tracing the tracks of tears on her face. When she opened her eyes he was staring straight at her, pain etched in his features. "I'm so sorry, Abbie. I didn't mean to take so long."
Her eyes were wide now. "No, Crane, don't be sorry. If it hadn't been for you… I would still be there, looking for ways to end the loneliness. I never would have lasted as long as I did."
She reached for his hand, tugging it away from her face so she could look at it, trace the lines of his palm with her fingertips. "Then when I came back, I felt it again, my heart shattering, because you were still stuck in some kind of limbo. I don't know how to describe it."
"I think I know. It's painful and numb all at the same time. You want to scream but suddenly you have no voice. How do you think I felt when I thought I'd lost you?"
"Yeah?"
"Of course!" He was indignant, pulling away from her, gripping her shoulders so could look her straight in the eye. "You have been my one constant in this mad world. The one person who understands and accepts me. For that reason alone I would have been devastated by your loss."
"There are other reasons?" She raised a surprised eyebrow, squinting in the darkness to see his features.
Suddenly he was rather sheepish, shoulders dropping down. "Perhaps I missed the sunshine in your voice, or the curve of your lips when you try to hide a smile. Maybe I thought the world was too quiet without your early morning renditions of Beyoncé." He pronounced the performer's name with a flourish, letting the alcohol in his veins push away any remaining bashfulness. "Or perchance I have pined over the lost scent of your perfume in the air. I so dearly missed that."
She was smiling, heat rising in her cheeks. She hadn't expected such declarations from him, but they were more than welcome. "Anything else?"
His hand dropped down to her hip, skimming tentatively over her thigh. "This new world has shown me the varied ways in which a woman can fill out a trouser, but none quite so pleasingly as you."
This time she laughed, letting the raucous sound wash over both of them. Crane's attempt to woo her was perhaps the most endearing thing anyone had ever said, but it was hard to reconcile the heat in his words with the staid gentleman she knew.
"Abigail…" Here he was again, yet another version of the man she'd always known, skin flushed with desire, voice husky with need.
The fingers at her hip became brave, stopping their lazy circles and slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. She slipped closer, wanting nothing more than to encourage his exploration. His touch was curious, not lingering in any particular spot too long. He soon made his way to the valley between her breasts, tracing along her sternum as he counted the beats of her fluttering heart.
She couldn't wait any longer, leaning forward to take his lips in a breathless kiss. He responded in kind, drawing her bottom lip into his mouth, his fingertips slipping inside the cup of her bra. When he found her sensitive nipple, she gasped from surprise, lips releasing his.
The sound was like an alarm. Ichabod pulled away from her, face full of apologies. "Lieutenant, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to take advantage."
Hands to himself once again, he rose to his feet, rather unsteadily, not sure what to do about the physical proof of his desire. He turned away from her, running his hands through his hair. He could still feel her.
"Crane-"
"No, there's no excuse for my behavior. To let physical desire outpace all good sense is inexcusable. You're vulnerable, understandably so, and under the influence of spirits."
"I didn't drink that bottle by myself."
He looked over his shoulder at her. She had tousled hair and glowing eyes, her lips still puffy from his passionate kisses. He wanted nothing more than to go back to her, to finish what he'd begun. Instead he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and rather awkwardly bowed to her. "I bid you goodnight, Lieutenant, and hope the morrow brings me some much needed clearheadedness."
His exit was marred by nearly tripping on the way out. He caught himself on the door jamb and straightened his jacket before slipping down the hall and into his bedroom.
Abbie sprawled out on the couch, unsure of whether or not she wanted to laugh or cry. Instead, she grabbed the last of the whiskey and the remote, flipping through the channels until she found a bodice ripping telenovela. It was perhaps an unfortunate selection, because it soon had her thinking of Crane, a man no doubt well acquainted with bodices, although she could never imagine him ripping one. She gave in to the laughter over the tears, promising herself that she wasn't going to let Crane forget about his amorous declarations.