Ichabod was a fast learner. Not only in part to his eidetic memory, though he would give full credit if anyone deigned to inquire. The source of his quick adaptation to this world rested solely in the hands of his companion. What made it easy where some might find it difficult was that his de facto teacher to this modern world was herself a fascinating subject. As a member of the law, as well as a woman trying to move beyond her past, Miss Mills had built a wall around herself. The intonation of her voice, soft and at times impish in unguarded moments, would immediately take a hard edge with a heavy staccato that commanded attention to every word. It was a trick, he found, that she had only mastered with her voice. It was her eyes that generally held her true emotions. A gambling man would take full advantage of such tells, and Ichabod knew his way around a faro table. It was through her eyes that he quickly learned that she could read others as well as he could.
Though he had been warned by others that the Lieutenant was not one for words, that she grew impatient by innocuous queries, Abbie took sympathy that Ichabod knew absolutely nothing in this world. When he was first delivered to the motel room that would be his hopefully temporary place of residence, she allowed him to open the door for her. That earned him his first genuine smile from her as a result, as he found himself bemused by the slot above the doorknob. Surely one still needed a key to unlock doors, right? She was trying to mask a laugh at his expense, but it was absent the mockery of her peers.
His query did not get a chance to be raised aloud, as the Lieutenant held up the plastic card that the man at the check in desk handed her. One side had been littered with advertisements; he had dismissed the exchange as gratis for renting the room. She took the card and, after waiting to make sure that Ichabod followed her actions, inserted the card advertisements-side up into the slot. Pulling it out once, a latching sound could be heard on the door, and she turned the knob. Instead of opening the door and escorting him through, she stepped back from the door and handed the card to him. The smile returned again, as she nodded at him to open the door for himself. He expressed thanks before doing so, and the closed in expression she gave warned him not to do it again. Those were battles he was going to have to pick in the future, he gathered.
She was speaking now, in that authoritarian voice as she gave him a quick tour, though her eyes were not on him as she ambled in the room. As she maneuvered around the room, she scratched quickly on a small square pad of paper with a thick writing device. Also made of what appeared to be made of plastic. How much of this world was made of plastic? Ichabod was almost afraid to ask. She began to pull the notes off of the pad and would slap it onto objects around the room. Miraculously, they would stay where she placed them. When he experimented on one of the notes himself, not even bothering to read what was on them, she breezed by him to snatch it from his hand.
"It will lose its adhesive," she explained, her voice softening a hair as she pressed the note against his wool jacket. Sure enough, it floated down to the floor. Grinning up at him, she rewrote the message and pressed it at the base of his side lamp. Looking around him, he found the room littered with the square notes. "There are clothes in the duffel bag, the bath is right in that door way, and I'll see you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Miss Mills." This time, he wasn't thanking her for the quick instruction on the plastic key or the notes that stick, but for saving him from the asylum and for providing him with a place to rest. He was thankful that she believed him, though apparent that doubts still lingered in her mind. Ultimately, he was grateful that she decided not to run away from Sleepy Hollow, leaving him alone to grapple with this uncertain reality on his own. She was not ready to accept it as her fate just yet, but he believed her that instinctively she knew she needed to be here. For that, he would thank her many times over. Though he had to say it, at least once.
After a brief, steady look into his eyes, the smirk Abbie gave him was one with acceptance. "Good night, Crane."