A/N: I know I shouldn't, I have stuff to do, but I could not resist. I love this show too much, warts and all.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
"Le Miserable"
Ichabod should have known that it would not have worked out. Like ill-fated Eurydice, and less poor, stolen Persephone, his fair Katrina's time in the Underworld had sealed her fate. Even in the legend that had spawned in the aftermath of his death, he had not won the girl, but lost her to "Brom Bones". He chuckled bitterly at the thought and took another swig of rum. Losing her to Brom would have been a kindness to them both, at least she would not be dead by his own hand.
It was late out and this tavern—bar, he mentally corrected, then chuckled again at the correction—was nearly empty. The only ones out this late were the long haul truck drivers, hapless alcoholics, harlots resting between customers, the disinterested owner and the single serving wench—waitress, another mental correction, another chuckle—and he. In his day—and did that not bring to mind another legend, of Rip Van Winkle—this was the time that the tavern would be at his liveliest. The rum would be flowing to the tune of bawdy sea shanties or the inspired performances of their most gifted, or not, customers. The air would be filled with music and laughter, the smell of unwashed bodies and stale food and shit, in quiet corners men would lose six months' wages at card games or trade secrets that fuelled revolution or concealed great evil…how he missed it.
The waitress returned, her fifth such trek in the last half-hour, to inquire if he required anything, a stout, rum, anything at all. He dismissed her with a smile and a tap of his long finger on the tip of his bottle. No, he was fine. He had everything he needed right here but if he wanted another he would be sure to call her. She gave him a wide smile that bordered slightly on the manic and walked away.
Well, that was one thing that had not changed. Women still flocked to him. In his travels thus far he had turned the eye of many a maid and matron, though he turned down all. A vision formed behind his eyes of bright green eyes and dark red hair, red like ceremonial wine, like blood spilling over his hands. He took another drink to dispel the image and contemplated the amber liquid in the glass. Another image, another woman, with eyes that shone with gold when the light touched her face at just the right angle. He took a breath, another drink and threw his head back. He did not want to think about either, and, not for the first time, cursed his memory for refusing to forget them.
A crash jerked him out of his musing and he sat up to see that one of the drunks in the corner had collapsed, knocking over his table and drink. A tragedy, if Ichabod had guessed the bottle right it was a waste of very good rum. He had never had any trouble holding his liquor. It was yet another source of pride for Ichabod to the great consternation of his companions. Many a night it had won him coin, information and good friends. He doubted he would have such success here. It still unnerved him sometimes the way some of the people of the America he had given his life for had turned inward and unaccommodating, even from their fellow men.
He chuckled out loud this time. He had pictured Abbie giving him a look that said, "Oh, you've just noticed that now?"
The drunk on the floor grunted. The waitress attempting to oust him from the establishment turned to give Ichabod with brow furrowed. He tipped his bottle to her and settled back into his seat. He had forgotten himself. There was no one around to laugh. Just empty chairs at empty tables, all his friends dead and gone…
Honestly, this new world confounded and terrified Ichabod as much as it fascinated him. There was so much to learn, so many new and wonderful things to discover. Ichabod had started keeping a journal to record it all, imagining himself an adventurer of old, and approached each day as a personal challenge towards self-improvement. But he came away from it each night feeling increasingly exhausted and alone. There was no more purpose to his life now, not with the Horseman and his master vanquished, and Katrina and Jeremy dead. What good was it to know all the things that he now did with no one to share it? Really, it was too cruel that he had been reunited with Katrina. For far too brief a period he had had someone with whom he could share the experience of living out of time. Worse yet, unlike what had happened with the lieutenant, there was no hope of return to his old world, no familiar person to anchor him in this reality.
Ichabod took a long drink this time. Oh but it was good that he was alone tonight. He would be poor company with his melancholia. It was not Ichabod's fault, of course, but Brom's. He had not noticed the date until he went for his morning paper and realised that it was Brom's birthday. Ichabod still remembered the last one they had celebrated together. Katrina had been there, a vision of loveliness in pale green silk with a bright red belt, as Brom's betrothed, and Ichabod as his friend. It had been a happy, though somewhat awkward night, as Ichabod tried to be happy for his friend while knowing that one day in the near future he was going to break his heart.
Another swig. Thoughts of Brom also inevitably reminded Ichabod of the others he missed. Fellow soldiers, the General, colleagues at Oxford, his father…. Some days Ichabod wished that Katrina had let him die. Of course, that would presumably have left the lieutenant in an awkward situation. But then the Horseman had awoken with Ichabod so maybe that would have worked out for the better. Certainly the lieutenant's friend and mentor, Sheriff Corbin, would be alive, and Abbie Mills would be a fully-fledged agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And her sister, Miss Jenny would still be a patient of Tarrytown Psychiatric and Jeremy would have been biding his time, waiting for his master to lay siege to Sleepy Hollow and the world…ah, Ichabod knew no good came of his dwelling on this.
A last swig that nearly drained the bottle. There was only a little left, enough for a libation. Ichabod stood up and pulled on his great coat. It settled over him like an embrace, the last link left to the world he had left behind, and it was beginning to get rather threadbare. If he was not careful, the next time he saw them, the sisters Mills would undoubtedly find means of disposing it. He smiled at that thought. Not all of his friends were gone.
The waitress appeared then, smiling as well, to ask if he needed anything. He shook his head, bid her farewell and turned to take his leave, tucking the bottle into his coat. She offered a warning about the police, which he acknowledged with a wave before he stepped out into the night. After everything, there were few things that scared him now, though there had been very little before.
The streets of the small town were mostly deserted at this hour. He poured his offering to Brom's and their friends' spirits into the grass at a nearby park before depositing the bottle in the trash. He knew that it was not much but he hoped that it was enough to appease them for the hour, then he turned and started off for the motel he would call home for the night, head down, and collar up against the chill. His ghosts trailed silently behind him.