Asunder

by AFanWhoFeelsThings

Their fates are entwined. As Witnesses, they share a bond like no other. Now their bond is finally free to grow even stronger. So strong that Ichabod finds himself drowning in desire for the young Lieutenant. But every time they give in to their growing feelings for one another, they draw the ire of a restless spirit, hellbent on torturing Ichabod...and murdering Abbie.

1. be my desire

be my desire

i'm a frustrated man

-My Desire, Interpol

---

I

(Ichabod.)

For nearing six months, Ichabod Crane had done his best to memorize every expression on Lieutenant Abigail Mills' face.

If he were honest with himself, he would acknowledge that he'd been doing this for far longer than that. Perhaps at first, he simply hadn't been aware of it. But now...yes, he was becoming deeply, troublingly aware. He knew her face. Knew it well.

During the daylight hours when they worked together he would feel guilty and knavish for surreptitiously cataloging her every reaction. But at night, as he lay contemplating them alone in the dark...he simply didn't care. When he first met her, he found her expressions were rarely what he expected. Now that he'd spent nearly two years as her partner and friend, he knew that they were actually always utterly perfect.

Take this evening, for instance. In just the span of an hour, she'd already produced a dizzying array of intriguing facial expressions, including some of his favorites. Presently, she was watching him do his utmost to hold his own as he sang a particularly rowdy song with Frank Irving.

The former captain, the Lieutenant, Miss Jenny, and Ichabod were taking their leisure on karaoke night at their regular pub, Mabel's Tavern. It was Ichabod's favorite part of ending a particularly toilsome case, when he was afforded the opportunity to drink beer, rest his mind, learn to sing twenty-first century songs, and simply share in mirth with the Lieutenant. They had caught wind of, and thankfully thwarted, a plot to kidnap and sacrifice the mayor's daughter by a few tenacious servants of Henry's who believed they could raise Moloch again with such a gift.

In the six months since Katrina and Henry's deaths, the four of them had worked tirelessly to dismantle Henry's network of allies and servants. All of them, Ichabod most of all, devoted themselves to seeing it done. In the beginning weeks after the traumatic event, he succumbed to an uncharacteristically deep depression, and it was all poor Abbie could do to pull him out of it. It had been her idea, in a desperate attempt to reach him, to hunt down Henry's network and leave behind no trace of the evil he had conjured.

They had finally defeated the last of the allies' forces that they knew of, and the relief was palpable.

The song Irving had chosen for them was called "Prove It All Night" and it was performed by a man he referred to as The Boss. The former captain had explained his unbridled enthusiasm for this Bossman and his music during a stakeout for the case they had just closed. Irving knew an endless assortment of details of the man's life, virtually all of the songs in his collection, and had apparently gone to see him perform in concert a total of twenty times. Ichabod had graciously agreed to sing a duet in celebration of their success.

So, he and Irving swayed to the music and brandished their fists at the rafters, belting their lungs out. Buffoons, the pair of them.

"Baby, tie your hair back in a long white bow,

Meet me in the fields out behind the Dynamo!

You hear their voices telling you not to go,

They made their choices and they'll never know!

What it means to steal, to cheat, to lie!

What it's like to live and die!"

And the Lieutenant's current expressions...Ichabod could not help his eyes from drifting towards her face every few moments or so. He could not think of what he expected to see, but what he found in those eyes and on her glowing, heart-shaped face fascinated him enough to distract him from paying attention to the lyrics on the screen. And, even though he could not turn away from the scrolling lyrics too often, every time he looked at her (which was every chance he received) he found himself elated that she was still watching him.

Her head was tilted, her wavy dark tresses hanging loosely over her shoulder. Her large round eyes were vibrant...her curvaceous bottom lip was trapped between her teeth. She looked as if she was torn between being amused and being confounded. There was tenderness...and wonder...and a touch of light-hearted pity...under the dim pub lights, myriad reflections flickered at him from her sparkling eyes. He could not help grinning foolishly at her, and she smiled back, releasing her lip from her teeth as the smile crept to its completion. God's wounds...she is such a beauty.

He forced himself to focus on the song, singing with gusto to mask his mawkish behavior.

"Prove it all night! Prove it all night!

Girl there's nothing else that we can do!

So I'll prove it all night, prove it all night,

Girl I'll prove it all night for you!"

Irving hooked Ichabod by the neck with one muscular arm, shaking him good-naturedly as the song came to a dramatic crescendo, and the noise, mercifully, faded away. Ichabod could not help wiggling his index fingers inside each of his ears, attempting to rid them of the infernal ringing that always persisted when he was exposed to the glaring avalanche of sound twenty-first century folk called "rock music".

He remembered the heady days that preceded the war. How he loved the noise of a chamber full of some of the sharpest minds and greatest contributors to the birth of democracy; the forging of an independent nation. Scholars, politicians, and generals. Converted aristocrats and blowhard scientists...and, he would later learn...secret soldiers in the hidden war against the apocalypse. All those voices, boisterous and arrogant and passionate and full of hope for the future of what they would build...he drank it in, remembering every detail, from the pipe smoke to the heat of the oil lamps. He had, at the time, absolutely lived for it.

This noise however, bordered on torture. Despite the efforts of Irving and even the Lieutenant, Ichabod was very slowly, somewhat petulantly picking his way through modern rock music. He had some favorites, of course...he enjoyed The Beatles, and The Jackson Five was a winsome bunch. But this Bossman was rather intense.

Applause rang out from the pub at large as they finished.

Irving laughed and clapped Ichabod about the shoulders as he followed the taller man back to the booth. Miss Jenny stood up and clapped still more as they approached. "Bravo, boys..." she said with a crooked grin.

Ichabod gave a gracious bow before eagerly resuming his place at the Lieutenant's side.

Abbie leaned back and blinked at him appraisingly, giving Ichabod a slow clap. "Wow, Crane, that was…a hot mess."

It seemed amusement had won out as that same playful smile crept again across her lips. He looked down at her without turning his head, feigning aloofness as he took a hearty swig of his beer. Her scrutinizing expression broke and she chuckled, shaking her head at him as his swig grew double long. He held up a finger as he finished it off, and Abbie's laughter soared to a merry guffaw that sent a thrill through him. It gave him a feeling of immense pleasure to be the cause of such a carefree reaction in her, even at his expense, and especially after all that had transpired.

Ichabod gulped down the last of his beer, belched, and apologized hastily under his breath, licking the foam from the bristle on his chin.

"Someone's thirsty…" Jenny observed, raising her eyebrows.

"Let the man drink. We worked up a sweat out there." Irving replied, taking a sip of his own gin and tonic. "Besides, Abbie, before you start making fun of us, take a look at that…that is just sad." He gestured beyond their booth, where an unfortunate young woman was now mewling her way through a Madonna song.

'Like A Prayer', Ichabod recalled...it was a favorite of the Lieutenant's. She had told him while they listened to it in her 'SUV' less than a fortnight ago that it reminded her of the two of them, and their work as Witnesses. He had YouTubed it later that evening, watching the video more than a few times, examining the lyrics and committing them to memory. Contemplating it as he did most of the secrets she confessed to him. They didn't come often, so he didn't take them for granted.

"We were the best act all night." Irving continued. "We killed it, right Crane?"

Ichabod tapped his empty glass on the table surface, nodding in agreement.

"Here, here, Captain. We did indeed 'kill it'." He raised a slender finger. "And, if I might add, I believe we've proven ourselves to be in ample possession of 'swagger'."

All three of them launched into laughter, and Ichabod frowned at them before rolling his eyes. The days of impressing his friends with his steadily expanding twenty-first century vocabulary had long since digressed to unabashed amusement at his expense whenever he repeated one of those ridiculous utterances (he couldn't bear to call them words). But he was determined now more than ever to become much less of an odd thumb in Sleepy Hollow. He hoped to one day see much more of this modern world, beyond the boundaries of their small town (or more apt for the Witnesses: apocalyptic battleground).

So he pressed on. And they made sport of him every step of the way.

"Did you prove it all night, Crane?" Abbie spoke up, her cool voice drawing his attention to her again.

Irving and Jenny were practically undone with laughter, but Ichabod only found a beguiling twinkle in Abbie's eyes. Ah, but she loved to disguise her jests as serious asides. Something they had in common and constantly tried to catch each other off guard with.

"Mock if you will, Leftenant, but I stand by my performance, thank you." Ichabod raised an indignant eyebrow at her and she chuckled still more, her hair falling into her eyes.

"Okay, fair enough. I got the next round, Boss." Ichabod stood immediately when she indicated that she was leaving the booth to approach the bar. She gave him a wink as she passed, and he obliged her with a warm smile.

He couldn't help watching her retreating form, suddenly struck still by an acute feeling of…something he couldn't peg, admittedly. Curiosity? Fascination. Admiration? Tenderness. Or all.

"Yo, Crane." Jenny announced, clearing her throat loudly. "Incoming."

He was forced from his thoughts in time to see what Jenny was warning him about. Two women, both flushed with drink (and lots of it, telling by their awkward gait), were making their way toward him. They had rather determined looks on their faces. Before he could think of an excuse to escape, they were upon him, one actually touching his hair and stepping up to him boldly, her bosoms thrust upward towards his line of vision.

"Hey there, handsome," she purred, causing him to flush and avert his eyes from her bust. He focused on her face, masking his own with polite detachment. Her smooth, pale skin was adorned with entirely too much makeup, but there was a graceful shape to her face, enhanced by glittering blue eyes and shoulder-length, curly red hair. Red hair...he thought, pushing away a fleeting, sorrowful memory of Katrina.

"Good evening, miss. How may I be of-of service?" Ichabod stumbled, doing is best to ignore her gross breach of his personal space.

"Oh my god, that accent!" She giggled and turned to gush at her much taller, blonde friend. "I told you he was British!"

"That's hot." The blonde bit her lip, eyeing the length of his body and lingering in a particular place below his pelvis.

Ichabod took the opportunity to roll his eyes to the ceiling. He was standing right there. They may have been on the grog, but surely they were aware that he could see them fawning?

He turned to signal for help from Irving and Jenny, but they looked as if they had no intention of saving him. Oh, there would be hell to pay.

"We just had to come over here and tell you—you have an amazing voice. Are you a singer for real?"

Ichabod was torn between darting baleful looks at his two supposed friends and raising his eyebrows in befuddlement at the buxom woman oozing compliments at him. "I…well, I am not trained, per se..."

"You are just sooo cute!" The redhead purred, pushing herself even further into his space. He caught the somewhat overwhelming scent of her perfume. It was entirely too saccharine (and there was entirely too much of it) to be compelling.

"I am most flattered..."

"Some friends told us about you, we were hoping we'd catch you one of these nights!" The blonde piped up.

"You knew I would be here?" He was stunned.

They both trilled with laughter. "A hot, mysterious guy like you? Word gets around, honey!"

"You're practically a rock star in this place. All the girls have been talking about you."

"Have they indeed?" He couldn't help a bemused smirk.

"And you're much cuter in person, isn't he, Amy?"

Amy, the blonde, stepped up to him and offered her hand. "I'm Amy, this is Star."

"Ichabod Crane, at your service. As I said, I am most flattered by your compliments." Ichabod offered graciously. "Amy, Star," he couldn't help frowning slightly at such a name, "these are my friends, Frank Irving and Miss Jennifer Mills."

The blonde squinted at Irving with dim recognition. "Hey, you used to be a cop, right? Didn't you like...kill some people or escape from a mental institution or something?"

"Yikes…" Jenny coughed into her drink, her eyes glittering impishly.

Star interrupted before Irving could formulate any kind of answer however, as she was determined to continue flirting with Ichabod. "Nice to meet you. So, are you single, Handsome?"

Ichabod hesitated at Star's extremely forward manner. She had somehow closed the space between them even further during his introductions, and it seemed as if he had no escape from her breasts. She was determined to wield them at him like some sort of weapon.

Jenny snorted. "Do tell, Crane. Don't leave poor Star hanging." She eyed Ichabod expectantly. He would have words with her later, he determined to himself.

"Ah...Miss Star...I-I'm afraid…"

"Sorry to interrupt."

Blessedly, the Lieutenant had finally returned with their drinks. But her demeanor had changed from her relaxed posture of a few moments ago. She stood behind the two women, arms laden with drinks and held close to her chest, her expression now unreadable. She was wearing her mask of professionalism, the one she used as an officer of the law. Her guard was up. He found himself simultaneously glad for her interruption and wishing he'd been able to avoid this awkward exchange as he offered to help unburden her of some of her load. She held out his beer.

"Crane. Gonna introduce me to your new friends?"

"Yes, right. Miss Amy and Miss Star were just complimenting Captain Irving and myself on our karaoke skills." Ichabod gratefully stepped aside to let Abbie back into the booth. "Thank you very much, ladies. I shall not forget your kindness. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

The two of them stood there dumbfounded for a moment as Abbie passed out drinks and reclaimed her seat. When it was clear that Ichabod had ended the exchange, Star gave Abbie a once over and seemed to make up her mind about something. "Yeah, anytime. See you around, Handsome…" she muttered, smoothing her dress and flipping her curly hair as she retreated with her very intoxicated friend.

Abbie raised her beer to them and her eyes flickered in Ichabod's direction. He was feeling flushed, and avoided her gaze for a moment as he took a large swallow of his beer. They all stared at him, and finally he put his glass down.

"Go on...out with it."

They all laughed, yet again, at his expense.

"Wow, Crane, I thought eighteenth century dudes had a lot more game than that!" Irving shook his head. "Remind me never to ask you to be my wingman."

"That was kind of a train wreck, man." Jenny added.

"I could be an excellent 'wingman'!" Ichabod protested, even though he wasn't quite sure what that meant. "I may not be a total gal-sneaker, but I'll have you know that I am endowed with plenty of so-called 'game'. I was simply taken aback by-"

"Star's ample bosom?" Abbie offered coolly, taking a swig of beer.

"It was almost disturbing." Ichabod muttered, and this time they all chortled at poor Star's expense.

"Wait a minute, wasn't cleavage a thing back in the day?" Jenny asked, having some of the drink her sister had brought back to the table for her.

"Oh, well if you're referring to my day, Miss Jenny, then I'm sorry to disappoint, but it wasn't a 'thing'. Certainly not as big a thing as that." He gestured to Star and Amy, who'd both moved on to flirting with a rather enormous pair of chaps at the bar. "Perhaps women of ill repute flaunted their wares a bit, true. However, most women covered themselves a great deal more, and better, than you'll find in any 'reality TV' program or action picture in this age."

"I don't buy it." Jenny shook her head, refusing to give him the final word on the matter. "I saw that corset Katrina strutted around in. Maybe chicks in your time didn't have implants, but there was definitely cleavage going on."

Ichabod recalled when he had first laid eyes on Katrina Van Tassel. She had been, at the time, the most beautiful and fiery thing he'd ever seen. But now there was something to compare that memory to. Something perhaps to rival it...a young Lieutenant's deep, expressive eyes peering at him in wonder through steel bars.

"Hey." He came out of his thoughts at the sound of Abbie's voice. "You okay?"

This expression he was quite familiar with. She'd worn it many times over the last few months. Her eyes probed his. Her worry for his emotional wellbeing emanated from those commanding orbs of hers like a fierce caress. Even though he'd recovered from the dark business of mourning and had been in better spirits of late, she still took the time every now and then to make absolutely certain. It warmed his heart to know she cared for him so much. She wasn't just making sure he was feeling alright, or that memories of his late wife and son weren't too much for him, or watching for signs that he might retreat to that dark place again.

Where she had provided him food, clothing, and shelter before all of this, in the last six months she'd spent practically every waking hour outside of her duties as an officer providing him with her attention, her friendship, her energy...with caring and thoughtfulness that he didn't deserve.

He did everything he could to repay her, but those things weren't nearly enough, and she usually resisted his efforts unless he wore her down whilst she was too tired to refuse. Or he simply did things for her without her immediate knowledge.

She would come to him saying he needn't have gone to the trouble of mending the holes where her thumbs poked through her favorite shirt. She would come telling him to stop waiting up to run her a hot bath if she was sleeping at the cabin after she'd been on duty all night. She would chuckle to herself when he would never fail to save the raspberry-filled doughnut holes she liked because she was the only one who preferred them. She would complain vaguely and attempt to refuse his offers to massage her feet for her after a particularly grueling day. Well, she was usually much more amenable to this gesture than all the others. He knew she enjoyed it, perhaps even looked forward to it, and truthfully it was one of his favorite things to do for her. Mostly because he enjoyed the peaceful time to watch her as he pleased (even though he was supposed to be paying attention to the Netflix) and feel her warm, bare skin beneath his fingers, and listen to the sounds she made when something he did caused her even the slightest pleasure.

Small gestures. But gestures reserved only for Ichabod and Abbie, made special by their bond as friends and Witnesses. These were what filled their days, in the spaces left over from their mission; their tireless work. He cherished them.

He looked into her eyes now and nodded appreciatively. "Quite well, thank you, Leftenant."

"Sorry, Crane…" Jenny spoke up with chagrin. "Didn't mean to bring up a touchy subject."

"Everyone, please." Ichabod raised his hands to settle their minds. "There's no need to avoid mentioning Katrina in my presence. No matter how she met her end, she was still my wife...and once a brave, lovely, caring woman that I adored. I choose to remember her that way."

He wasn't being completely truthful, but then sometimes mourning was about setting everyone else's mind at ease, not your own. He did choose to remember Katrina in better days, but he would never forget how grief and darkness turned her against him and their cause. The cause she had sacrificed for. She had risked her soul (and his) and paid a dear price. He would always regret not being able to be the husband she needed him to be...not being able to somehow change her fate for the better.

But he would also never forget the hatred in her eyes when she was trying to murder Abbie. Nor the overwhelming panic and despair that rose up in him at that moment. The thought of losing Abbie was more than he could bear; it was more painful to think about than giving Katrina's tortured soul some peace. It was a tragic, terrible accident. But it was also a choice.

A choice he would make again if he had to.

"Good." Abbie gave his hand a squeeze. Then she gave him a playful punch on the arm. "Plus, Jenny's right."

Ichabod did a double take, scandalized.

Abbie laughed. "Hey, you should've seen the look on your face. You looked like a cat someone tossed in a tub of water."

"I most certainly did not-!"

"So your game's a bit rusty, man. Two hundred years'll do that to you." Irving shrugged. "But you don't want to waste it on girls from the strip club anyway. I'm with you. Brave and lovely is always the better way to go." The former captain's lingering glance at Jenny was not lost on Ichabod.

Ichabod politely overlooked the glance and nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Captain." Then he frowned. "The strip club?"

Jenny smirked. "Oh, those were totally strippers."

"If the implants didn't give it away, the fake tan should have." Irving added. "This is Sleepy Hollow, not Miami."

"Fake tan? Implants…?"

Abbie, mercifully, addressed Ichabod's confusion. "Ah, yeah. So fake tan is basically artificial sun exposure that darkens the skin. You lay in a box and they shine these UV lights on you, kinda like the ones we used to trap Headless …" She chuckled at his wide-eyed, horrified expression. "Eh, anyway those ladies of ill repute you mentioned before? Well...strippers are...sort of like a step up from that." She lay her head from side to side, blinking rapidly, attempting to find the right words to explain this to him. "What I mean is, they don't trade sex for money, but they do sell you a sex-themed show. They take off their clothes for tips."

"Ahhh. You mean burlesque!" He exclaimed with a flourish of his fingers, finally cottoning on.

"Sure…?"

"Well, that isn't so shocking. Burlesque was quite an artform in my day. Obviously you wouldn't court a wife among the women who practiced this art, but I'm hardly offended by such a...talent." He downed more of his beer. A hearty buzz was traveling through his body, making him feel languid and jaunty. "And these implants you spoke of, Miss Jenny?"

"Um...that's a little harder to explain." Jenny muttered, frowning.

They did explain it. Then they laughed at his horrified expression. He could not help stealing awestruck glances at Star, who was oblivious to his horror and ironically straightened her back to proffer her implants at him every time she caught his gaze. He just couldn't fathom: how could one live with their bust filled with...congealed salt water? And what's more...why would anyone want to? Because those of the modern ilk valued their physical appearance above their physical health, apparently.

Well, if our dearly departed Washington could abide a gob full of lead...what's a bosom full of useless jelly, he mused as he turned his attention back to his friends.

"The mindless narcissism of your generation is quite terrifying, Leftenant." He shook his head to rid it of the unpleasant image of what was lurking inside Star the burlesque dancer's bosoms and drank more beer.

"Here, here!" Irving mimicked Crane, tapping his glass on the table.

As they fell into lighthearted conversation, Ichabod could not help himself from comparing Abbie's figure to Star's. As if there were a comparison at all. He much preferred her petite shape that was enhanced by smooth curves.

She wore her clothing quite fitted, but there was a strength and a consistency to the way she dressed that impressed, and truth be told, appealed to him. He had lain thinking about it many nights, and he knew why she dressed the way she did. She was an officer and a woman who needed control to survive. She kept her wardrobe simple and functional because it was part of her work to be able to command authority in any situation she walked into. She moved inside them so well, as if they were a second skin.

Fitted jeans and boots, a cotton V-necked bodice, her weapon and badge secured to her hip. Her breasts were so perfectly shaped: full, round and pert, usually peaking at him from the shelter of a jacket (talk of cleavage, indeed). And her posterior was...quite impressive. He could only marvel at how she, being so petite, carried it around with such grace.

Ichabod's fingers curled and unfurled slowly in his lap, thinking about how fitted her trousers were, and how they enhanced the very round, firm shape of her rear. He had long since admitted to himself that he wanted to touch her there...test out the feel of that part of her in his grip. Ever since the evening he'd been forced (more like volunteered) to press his face against the side of it as an awkward result of hoisting her up. If even his face could appreciate the muscularity, shape, and sheer weight of it, he could just imagine what it would feel like in his hands. He'd been unable to keep his eyes from wandering down there for the next two days, to watch it move…stop it, you louse.

At any rate, her manner of dress made her light on her feet; her movements lithe and blessed with a feline grace that caught his notice more and more of late. He had been noticing it for nearly two years, of course. But he'd also been preoccupied with becoming acclimatized to his strange surroundings, grappling with Katrina's secrets, unraveling their perilous mission as Witnesses, and setting to the daunting task of catching up to two hundred and fifty years of history.

But since that black day that he lost his family irrevocably, and now that they were both far more settled into their roles as Witnesses, Ichabod found himself taking more liberty to notice these things about Grace Abigail Mills.

In fact, while he paid half a mind to their present conversation, the other half of his attention was focused on studying Abbie with her guard down finally after three weeks straight of being 'on the case', as she called it. Her smile appeared more easily, her posture was relaxed and open. His heart quickened when she leaned her head against him and laughed, or swatted at his arm for his teasing her. His name "Crane" fell from her lips softly and slowly, her speech unhurried as a result of the three ales (and counting) she'd had.

He watched her and her sister indulge in 'inside jokes' and embrace each other affectionately. He watched her play with her hair whilst he and Irving regaled them with the tale of how they 'tag-teamed' to take down three of Henry's followers the night they thwarted the kidnapping.

"What is this, the A-Team?" Jenny quipped, and Ichabod mentally added it along with 'wingman' to his running list of things to Internet later.

"We kinda are the A-Team, " Abbie mused.

"A for apocalypse?" Ichabod queried, raising a curious eyebrow and his beer to his lips simultaneously.

Abbie raised her beer too and they clinked. "Damn straight." He drank more. She laughed. He felt sure that he would never tire of hearing her do it, just that way.

For the first time in such a long time, Ichabod felt at peace. Settled. As settled as he could ever hope to be given the circumstances. But he was grateful for what he had. It was due in no small part to Abbie's unflinching friendship, and the support of their little 'A-Team'.

And certainly his 'beer buzz' helped matters. But mostly...it was being granted the pleasure of watching her this way, unbeknownst to her. When she didn't think he was looking, he caught such perfect expressions on her face. He catalogued each and every one of them. It had become something of a secret pastime for him. And while he usually tried not to stare for too long lest he skirt impropriety, he couldn't help indulging himself tonight.

In fact, earlier in the evening he had indulged himself quite a bit as he watched the Lieutenant join her angelic voice with her sister's to sing an entrancing (if also a hodgepodge of innuendo-laden gibberish) tune called 'What A Man', by a group called 'Salt N' Peppa'. He was engrossed, and though he tried to make light banter with Irving, he could not help his eyes from becoming glued to the small stage area at the front of the tavern where she stood with Jenny. He would trail off or stutter to watch Abbie's face as she closed her eyes and released such beautiful sounds. She was a siren, and when she 'broke it down' with her sister, moving her body to the steady bass rhythm, her voice soaring and her expression unguarded, he was struck with a thought: I would march through Hell and back to hear that voice moan my name. He took a shallow breath. Feel that body against my own…

He had felt a heated flash of intense longing that made him blink rapidly, but caught himself before such a thought could carry him into a fantasy that exposed his preoccupied state. Now, he forced himself to pay attention to the conversation. He could examine his memories again later; he knew he would in fact. Because he knew he could slip freely into fantasy then, alone in the dark.

"Well, you are pretty cute, Crane." Jenny observed. They'd somehow returned to the subject of 'game'. "You'll always have women falling all over you and you know it. 'Ooh, that accent!'" She mimicked Star's high-pitched trill and whistled low. He got the distinct impression she was mocking him.

Well there's quite enough of that, he thought, egged on by another swig of beer.

"Cute! Heh!" Ichabod scoffed loudly, putting his mug down. "Miss Jenny, in my era, men were not considered 'cute'." He scowled at such an ignominious word.

"Oh, come on, Crane." Abbie teased. "You're such a gentleman. The gentleman. Too polite to let me walk into a room without standing ramrod straight. Too polite to even let me hold my own damn umbrella. You're chivalrous, proper, kinda clueless, and yes, very cute when you get caught off guard by these thirsty chicks around here."

"Well however 'thirsty' some 'chicks' may be, I take offense to that description of my character. 'Cute' is a word reserved for boys, Leftenant. Infants. A litter of puppies, perhaps. Not grown men."

"The man has a point." Irving added. "You women decided that was a compliment, not us."

"Okay...I'll bite. So if cute isn't a compliment for a guy like you, then what is?" Abbie challenged, crossing her arms.

He regarded her seriously for a moment. And he was inexplicably overtaken with the urge to tell her the truth. Well, he also knew it was because he was sloshed, but in this very moment he didn't care.

"For all this talk of game, it utterly fails to capture what a 'guy like me' truly desires…"

"And what's that, Crane?" Abbie squirmed a bit under his gaze, her playful demeanor faltering. But her eyes grew large and expectant.

Ichabod found himself leaning a bit closer. The increasing proximity made him forget that Jenny and Irving were there. He found himself...thrilled...afraid...like the anxiety of leaning too close to a flame but being drawn to it nonetheless. Whenever she allowed him this near to her, he could feel the heat of her small frame pulling at him, coaxing him. It made him find any excuse to touch her. The small of her back. Her shoulder. Her fingertips as he handed her a coffee or showed her something in one of the ancient tomes they studied in the archives. Her bare feet. He held his hands behind his back or at his sides these days less out of personal habit and more out of the need to check himself before he touched her too freely.

In the moment, he kept himself from touching her but he couldn't stop a bit of the truth from betraying him.

"To give you pleasure, of course."

Her lips parted and her eyebrows rose. She was speechless, and he was pleased to find that he had her full attention. She seemed to be searching his eyes to figure out if he was being serious.

He lowered his tone so that she had to lean closer to hear him over the din.

"Men of my ilk, Leftenant, took our time courting women. We learnt to have patience. Self-control is key. Courting a woman should be...like unraveling a mystery. Something precious. We worked at it day-by-day, glance-by-glance, touch-by-touch. We studied how you moved, how you spoke, your every expression. We learnt what makes you laugh, what displeases you, what inspires you...and yes, what fills you with desire...before there could even be so much as a chaste kiss. All in a tireless effort to win your affections and eventually...be free to show you the depth of our devotion. Not to the game, but to you."

He found his fantasies of her suddenly dancing around in his mind's eye. The ones he hadn't dared allowed himself to think about in his waking hours. The ones of her naked, slick with arousal, soft and molten to the touch, writhing beneath him. He tried to keep the strain of such thoughts out of his voice as he continued.

"I can assure you, there is nothing 'cute' about it. Men are not bunnies to be cooed at."

Ichabod took yet another swig of beer, his heart pounding. Such brazen words, old boy! What would your father say? 'Bram would chortle at his friend's expense with a waggish twinkle in his eyes.

All Abbie did was push out a weak scoff and avoid Ichabod's gaze to take a drink from her own glass.

He could tell that he had shocked her. As he looked at her, he felt it prodding at him again. The thing he'd been feeling whenever he thought of Abigail Mills over the last six months. Desire. Pure and plain and heavy in his gut.

Perhaps it had always been there. For a long time he had ignored it, rationalized it, forced himself never to let it surface. He was separated from his beloved and their missions were perilous enough without such an impossible distraction. But it was free now, set loose from his iron grip somehow, and it was unruly. It blazed a trail from his gut to his groin and up again into his chest.

He paused, thinking that he should leave it at that. But the look in her eyes did something to him, emboldened him. He had to make sure she could at least understand where he was coming from, even if now was hardly the time or place to reveal much more than that.

"Let's just say, I take the game quite seriously. And any woman I played the game with would never once doubt my intentions. I may be a gentleman, but I am not cute. I'm a flesh-and-blood man."

He let his meaning hang in the air, and they stared into each other's eyes in silence. Jenny and Irving exchanged looks, no doubt wondering where this all came from. They'd never heard him speak so openly about such things. But Ichabod paid no notice or care. Abbie utterly captivated him. He found his gaze flickering from her full, pink lips to her immersive eyes and back again. She looked poised for flight but she was held fast by his body blocking her exit from the booth.

"Besides which…" he said softly, unable to help himself in his intoxicated state, his lips developing a lazy smirk. "You're one to talk, Leftenant."

She balked, blinking rapidly at him. "What the hell are you talkin' about, Crane?"

He watched her laugh uncomfortably, adjusting herself in her seat again. Ichabod adjusted himself as well, now looking down at her sideways, appraising her. He had been studying her for quite a long time now, and he had an inkling of some of the triggers that put her guard up. Men, and talk of romance, were two of them.

The drink spurred him on, he told himself. Suddenly he had an enormous bee in his bonnet, and he needed answers.

"You once told me that matters of the heart were of low priority to you. 'Since always', you put it." He paused, now turning his full gaze on her. "Is that still true?"

Abbie licked her bottom lip slowly, a sign that she wasn't comfortable with the subject in the least. My, how the tables have turned.

"Yeah. So."

"So...how is it that you can mock me for my alleged lack of game, when you yourself thumb your nose at it?"

"Here we go." Irving muttered.

"He does have a point, Abbie…" Abbie's gaze wheeled around to her sister.

If her eyes were daggers, poor Miss Jenny would be mortally wounded.

Jenny raised her hands with feigned innocence. "What? When's the last time you picked a guy up?"

"I don't pick guys up." Abbie gritted through clenched teeth.

"Ok, fine, but since Luke, you've-"

"I became a Witness since Luke, Jenny, and excuse me if I take my work as a soldier in the war against the apocalypse kinda seriously." Abbie took a rather aggressive drink from her beer, rolling her eyes.

"Look, all I'm saying is that you're always wound up so tight, so serious, all-business. If you keep going without some...I don't know, stupid hot, nasty, fun piece of ass to distract you, you'll implode. Trust me, I've been there."

Abbie made a disgusted face. "Ohhh yeaaah, great. Hot, nasty fun with some jackass, that's just what I need. Good lookin' out, sis."

Jenny looked to Irving for help. He shook his head. "My name is Bennett, and I'm not in it...you're on your own with this one, Mills. I don't poke a sleeping bear when I've been drinking."

Abby nodded and tipped her beer to him. "Somebody listen to the man." She spotted Ichabod still smirking and glared at him. "Something to add, Professor?"

He ignored the slight and shrugged, as he'd seen her do many times. "Well…I believe..." he paused.

"Ok, sure I'll bite. What exactly do you believe, Crane? I'm all ears." She sat back, sighing hard with forced patience. It was a challenge. To speak his mind, or no? Piss it. He'd already been more forward than he ever felt like he could be tonight, he may as well pull at another thread.

He decided to tell the truth, but only part of it. The din of inebriated karaoke singers filled the cool, dark room, and he had to raise his voice a bit to be heard. He leaned close to Abbie. Jennie leaned forward, too, blatantly eavesdropping while Irving was playing it cool, pretending not to be straining to hear every word.

"I believe that being a soldier comes naturally to you, but you balk at matters of the heart. Fighting in this war feels right; safe, even. You wear your role as a Witness almost as armor. It fits. But love? Courtship? Intimacy? You'd rather embrace the danger we face every moment of this war than open yourself-or your heart-to another."

Her eyes cut across to him as though he had threatened her bodily harm. He frowned at her reaction, leaning still more forward to reassure her with his body language that he meant no malice by his words.

They stared at each other once again. Jenny and Irving and the pub at large were mere echoes in the ether. He was right. He knew he was right. And for just a moment, he could see more deeply into Abigail Mills' soul than he ever expected to. He knew it was the slick hold of intoxication that exposed her to him thusly, however, and what he wouldn't give for this to be a more private moment. No. He needed to reign himself in, but he spent such a majority of his time holding himself in check around her...now he was finding it hard to put proper distance between himself and the woman he secretly desired. Adored. Would kill and die for.

There was a startling crash that woke him from his fixation on Abbie's face. They all turned to see that Star had fallen, sending several glasses of drink crashing to the floor from the bar. She lay sprawled on her bottom, laughing hysterically whilst Amy and the gentleman on whose lap she'd been attempting to perch tried to help her to her feet.

Ichabod felt a pang of chivalrous embarrassment for her, and was glad the chap at the bar was behaving like more of a gentleman than he looked.

"Well guys, I'm gonna take that as my cue."

Ichabod turned to find Abbie pushing her glass away, looking as though she tasted something unpleasant. She was also avoiding meeting is eye with hers. His heart gave a panicked thump in his chest. He'd been too forthright. He hadn't intended to make her so uncomfortable that she would flee. This was the problem with being such an enthusiastic drinker. As a man who prided himself on thinking before he spoke, drinking tended to unravel that stalwart code of conduct a bit.

You creten, you've pushed her back into her shell...

"Aw, come on, Abbie, don't get mad. We're just talking." Jenny protested. "It's not even ten o'clock!"

Abbie shook her head quickly. "I'm not mad." She said, and none of them believed her. "But I actually do have to report tomorrow, so I gotta cut the party short." She was standing, indicating to him that she wished to move out of the booth. Still not looking at him.

Ichabod stood and stepped aside for her, struggling to find a way to take back what he said. And not wanting to. He was at a loss for words or action for a moment as she shrugged herself into her jacket, her back to hm.

Jenny gave him a meaningful look, her eyes practically bulging as they darted from him to her sister. At last, he found his voice.

"Perhaps Miss Jenny could stay here with Captain Irving and I could...?" He ventured, but she was still ignoring him.

"I'll make sure Jenny gets home safe. You guys go get some sleep." Irving piped up, to Jenny's surprise.

He adjusted himself in his seat, very nonchalantly slouching closer to the younger Mills sister. Her expression relaxed into sly awareness. "Yeah, sure why not? A few more drinks won't kill us civilians. It's been a long, crazy ass month."

"Indeed it has." Ichabod was only half-listening. He was watching Abbie with her back to him. She was making deliberate and unnecessary adjustments to her jacket before pulling her hair out over the collar. "Leftenant, please, allow me to escort you-"

"I'll be fine, Crane. Stay here, have fun. Practice your game." She still would not look at him.

"Abbie…" He had recklessly offended her. Damn it.

"I said don't worry about it. Besides, you're drunk." Abbie called over her shoulder, seconds before she bumped into a table and almost lost her footing.

"You are not exactly the picture of sobriety, yourself." Ichabod sighed and helped her right herself. She stiffened at his touch, her eyes flickering towards his and away again. "I am taking you home."

He fixed her with a look that told her he would take no refusal.

"Okaaaay." She ran her hands through her wavy hair and muttered: "Fine. Let's go."

She walked past him and out of the establishment without a backward glance.

"Go after her, dude!" He heard Jenny hissing at his back. He turned to see her shooing him in Abbie's direction. Ichabod started and went after her at once.

"Leftenant, wait-!"

On his way out, he was unfortunate enough to run bodily into Star the burlesque dancer and her, God's wounds, absolutely adamantine breasts!

"Handsome!" She squealed, pressing herself into him. He winced. He wasn't sure if it was because of the pain of her voice or the iron spheres she'd thrust into him. "I saw you making eyes at me all night!"

"Oh, Miss, ah...Star..." She was stumbling, very intoxicated, leaning oppressively into him. She wasn't much larger in figure than Abbie, but she seemed to come at him from all sides. All hair, roaming hands, and bountiful breasts. He struggled to untangle himself from her, his eyes darting toward the door where Abbie had disappeared, but her hands continued taking liberties with their proximity. "I was just on my way out-"

"When are you gonna come down to Trixie's and lemme give you a lamb dance?" She giggled and hiccupped. "Ha! Did I say lamb? I meant lap. Lap dance. Want one now? On the house, Handsome." She wiggled her pelvis into his crotch and he exhaled in annoyance, taking her by the arms and forcing her body away from his.

"No! No, thank you, no."

His 'Smart Phone' went off. He held a finger up at Star when he saw that it was a text from Abbie.

'Are you coming or not, Crane?'

He winced again, urgently stepping away from the muddled woman.

"Oh my god, that chick has such a brick up her ass!" She said. She had rudely read his text. She rolled her eyes and took a large gulp of her drink. He clenched his jaw, biting back a scathing retort before making his escape, fingers flexing. He heard her calling after him. "When you're done with her, you just come on down to Trixie's any time, Handsome! Ask for Star! I'm the best you'll get, baby."

Ichabod closed his eyes in blessed relief as he exited the establishment. Abbie had hailed a taxi. He picked up his pace as she got inside and left the door open for him.

---

(Frank.)

"Okay, I got fifty bucks that says they go at it as soon as they hit the cabin door."

Irving chuckled at Jenny's quip. He shook his head. "I don't know, Mills. I'd be surprised if Crane even works up the nerve to try anything. He's probably gonna be a perfect gentleman and drop her off at her place and drag his pitiful self home all lanky and unsatisfied, like usual."

"Oh please." Jenny rolled her eyes. "A, give him more credit than that, didn't you hear that whole speech about his eighteenth century game? B, he's been making googly eyes at her since I met him. And with Katrina out of the picture?" She stole his drink and took a sip. "He's about to blow, and so is Abbie for that matter." He watched as she leaned forward, drumming her fingers on the tabletop, her eyes encouraging in the most mischievous way.

"Come on, what do ya say, Cap?"

"I'll say 'I told you so' tomorrow." They shook on it. "And you better believe I'm gonna collect."

Jenny scoffed and got up to get them another round of drinks. "Yeah, yeah…we'll see about that."

He watched her go.

Frank didn't really care. They were used to this. Especially when they were 'off duty' and there was beer anywhere near Crane. He started silently pining after Mills and didn't think anyone could tell. But they could all tell. Well, maybe not Mills. That girl had a real good set of blinders on when it came to anything that made her vulnerable or distracted her from being a protector, a fighter, a damn good partner, and now a damn good Witness. She didn't do messy and complicated in her personal life, she'd once said to him five beers in at the precinct Christmas party. She was a cop, she had a past, and she had a job to do. That was it. Fair enough.

Frank also didn't care because he had his own pining to do. Well, he didn't pine. But he did feel something for Jenny Mills, and right now it was manifesting itself hard. He played it cool, usually tried to keep it 'professional'. They were partners and good friends. He was technically still married and she was a nomad who, like her sister, didn't do complicated. Only in a different way. She had lovers, but she didn't tie herself down, and she made that clear from the jump. That was something that always gave him pause. He played it cool, but wasn't sure if he could play it that cool.

But he admired her. She was brave, and good, and fierce. She was a damn good fighter, and an excellent strategist. A passionate friend. She had gone to bat for him, and his family. And she was goddamned beautiful.

"Goddamned Mills sisters…" he muttered to himself. If he hadn't been strapped to his bed at Terrytown, he'd have thanked Mama Mills for raising two gorgeous, brave, badass women.

Jenny returned with their drinks and settled in next to him, staring at him as she ate the cherry from her cocktail. "So." She said.

He raised an eyebrow, swallowing some of his gin and tonic. The shine in her eyes made his jeans tighten uncomfortably. "So…" he said patiently, lowering his drink.

Jenny shrugged. "The way I figure it, Cap…you've been working your way up to making a move, yourself."

"Is that how you figure it?" Frank put his drink on the table, intrigued by her tone. Of course she wouldn't just let it be a normal 'guy approaches girl' thing. Of course she would make the first move, and of course it would be to challenge him to see her and raise her.

"You gonna deny it?"

"You make it hard for a man to argue, Mills."

"Blame it on my mama."

He laughed loudly but she only watched him, her eyes roaming freely over his chest and down below the table. Frank got serious. "I don't want this to be…" he couldn't think of how to explain himself.

"I'm not Abbie, Frank." Jenny cut him off. "And you're not a two hundred year old British guy. I don't bite. But I'll give you bonus points if you do."

Frank thought about what she was saying, and finished his drink. Then he nodded. "Okay. So what's my move?"

She smiled. "Call us a cab."

He took his phone out of his pocket without hesitation.

---

(Ichabod.)

She was angry.

He could feel the tension coating the air in the backseat of this entirely too small conveyance.

Ichabod stole a glance at Abbie's profile as they rode in silence. Her jaw was taught, her brow furrowed. She was glaring so forcefully at the passing scenery that he fancied she might be trying to set it aflame with the sheer power of her mind.

Right. She was very angry.

He raked his mind, trying to find the words that would ease her ire, but he could find none. And the more he thought, the more agitated he himself became. He looked over at her again, but she refused to turn his way.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"Just what. The hell. Was that?" Abbie wheeled around to face him, her eyes ablaze. He quite nearly withered under her blistering gaze, but remembered himself and straightened his posture. He knew her well enough not to interrupt until she'd unleashed her pent up verbal assault. He did not expect her to mimic his voice, however. "'I am not cute, Lef-tenant. I'm the dashing, handsome Ichabod Crane and I'm a flesh and blood maaahhn, and you're a bitter, shriveled up old battleax who hides behind the ahhmorr of being a Witness!'"

Nor did he expect her to actually pantomime his hand gestures.

He gaped at her, now quite nettled himself.

"Your mockery of me is hardly accurate, and your assessment of my statements is most unfair, especially after you fled the scene before I could explain myself." He ground out, his jaw tightening with annoyance. "I simply meant that-"

He noticed that the scenery behind her was going in the opposite direction of the route to her apartment.

"Are we heading back to the cabin?" He gritted, his eyes narrowed to slits.

She rolled her eyes and muttered: "I left some stuff at the cabin anyway, so I'm seeing you home first."

Naturally, she had turned the tables so that it was she who would be doing the escorting. "Must you challenge me on everything I-?"

"Oh, please, Crane!" She spat, crossing her arms moodily and turning to stare through the window again. That lasted mere seconds before she turned back to berate him further. "Challenge you on getting dry-humped by Tits McGee the stripper?" He raised his eyebrows, taken aback. She continued. "...or how about braggin' about your swagger right before you basically called me an old maid?" He had never seen her so angry with him. "Oh god, and then you got Jenny started! What all of you seem to forget is that I'm so busy worried about the charming eighteenth century dude I'm supposed to save the world with (and whose wife just died) that I wouldn't have time to date even if I wanted to! Ever think of that? Or, how about it's none of your business what I do with my sex life, Crane?"

"Do you believe I enjoy being a burden to you? Or have I somehow inconvenienced you when I stopped grieving?" He shouted, despite himself. "You act as if you know everything about my motivations, my mind, my heart! But you do not!"

The cabbie darted his eyes apprehensively at them through the rearview mirror but they ignored him. It was Ichabod's turn to face Abbie moodily. The cab bumped and lolled along as he gripped the seat in one hand and the window apparatus separating them from the cabbie in another.

They sat in tense silence for a few moments while he stared hard at her, trying to quell his frustration. She glared right back at him, her arms still crossed defiantly. He made his voice steady.

"You claim that you know me. You mocked me tonight in jest, but you gravely underestimate how much I care for..."

He shouldn't continue the way he wanted to. It wasn't the time or place. He knew that. But he had to make her see how her dismissal of him in that regard, time and again, as lighthearted as it seemed on the surface, actually scathed.

"...our bond." He finished, but moved on quickly. "You think I'm...I'm this...ancient, bumbling...fussbucket! You think I'm cute." He bit out the word fiercely, causing her to blink in surprise. "You mock my manner as though I'm some sort of curious foundling. Because I am-for now-dependent on you, should that rob me of my manhood? Am I always to be your ward? Hm? Your pet?"

Her jaw dropped. "You are not my-!"

"But you treat me as such!" She closed her eyes in frustration, attempting to turn away from him again, but he would not allow her. "Look at me, Abbie. See me."

Her eyes opened at the sound of her first name, and she looked hurt and confused. Ugh, she thought his use of her first name was somehow a punishment, but he wanted so badly to tell her that it was actually how he saw her...she was his Abbie. He wondered if he should continue, now, like this, in the back of this tiny conveyance, sloshed as he was, suddenly angry as he was...desperate as he was to...to…

He wanted to kiss her. Lord, what he wouldn't give to feel her lips on his, and taste her tongue in his mouth. To let his hands roam, caressing and gripping all the parts of her he'd been curious about for so long. Could she tell? Did it matter? He could not do that here. But her pursed lips beckoned to him, and for a moment his frustration melted to intense, almost overwhelming longing. Perhaps she could only see the anger on his face, but underneath he was desperate to pull her towards him.

The cab pulled up to the road leading to the cabin, breaking the spell.

"I see you, Crane…" she uttered softly, some of her anger fading away.

Now, she simply looked exhausted. He deflated, fearing he'd said too much, even as he held everything back. He could see her walls rising again as she paid for the cab and slid out of the door, walking into the darkness of the path that led up to the cabin.

"Wonderful." He sighed long and hard, running a hand over his face and through his hair before following her.

---

"Well, you've certainly outdone yourself, haven't you?" Ichabod grumbled under his breath, following after her in the dark, and actually feeling, quite infuriatingly, like a lost pet. "Destined to be the man enamored of stubborn, unattainable women."

He was still angry, but he also wanted to apologize profusely. And then still, he wanted to force her to admit that he was more to her than just Crane 'the charming eighteenth century dude'.

But he simply followed, watching her petite silhouette stalking through the darkness.

She left the cabin door open for him. He found her just over the threshold, her hands on her hips and her head down. When he saw her there, all of his anger left him at once. He didn't like it when she was upset with him; he certainly didn't like it when she refused to look at him. He could only stand it for so long, and he'd forgotten his ire just that quickly.

Just as he opened his mouth, she turned around, and they spoke over each other.

"Crane, look, I'm sorry-"

"Leftenant, please forgive me…"

They both paused, relieved smiles spreading across their faces. He inclined his head. "Permit me?"

Her smile remained as she crossed her arms and settled herself, leaning against the back of the couch. "Well, this oughta be good...do proceed, sir."

Ichabod closed the door behind him and stepped forward, flexing his fingers restlessly at his sides. He took a moment to calm himself, pushing down the intoxication swimming through his veins. He wanted to be closer to her, but he stood his ground.

Right now she needed her friend to apologize to her, not some drunken, lecherous blackguard accusing her of being a…'shriveled battleax'... all because he couldn't contain his desperate affection for her. It wasn't her fault that he chose to grapple with his feelings for her by surreptitiously stalking her every move and garnering secret pleasure in massaging her feet, for pity's sake.

"Crane?"

Her voice roused him from mentally raking himself over the coals. She raised her eyebrows at him when he came out of his dark thoughts.

"You were just apologizing?"

"Ah, right, yes." He cleared his throat. "It is I who've been unfair. I was behaving like an arse, and I cannot express in mere words how sorry I am to have offended you, truly."

"Good start. Go on…"

He looked at her, and her eyes gleamed. She was still 'buzzed', he could tell. Her smooth cheeks were somewhat flushed as well. Her usual officer's poise was relaxed and her smile was soft; patient. He felt desire thunder through him, but he returned her soft smile and pushed on. "My behavior was inexcusable. I was out of order and you were right to set me straight."

"You've been drinking, and you've been through a lot. It's okay." Abbie replied softly, shrugging with her arms still crossed. "I get it."

"No, Leftenant...Abbie. Please let me explain."

He sighed hard and this time could not stop himself from moving closer to her.

"I should not have lost my temper with you. I should not have...publicly exposed my twit-headed analysis of your personal affairs. You are no 'old maid', Leftenant. You are a woman who loves with everything she has in her..." He couldn't help the tenderness that seeped into his voice. "You're capable of more love than you can imagine.

"You are...my dearest friend. My partner. And a most remarkable woman. I cannot tell you how much your friendship has meant to me. Our bond has carried us through so much, and you've cared for me in every regard, every step of the way. Especially at my darkest hour."

He winced, thinking of how despondent he'd been in the aftermath of Katrina and Henry's deaths. Jeremy...his son's name was Jeremy. He pushed those thoughts away.

"I made a vow to put our bond before anything else. But you've carried the lion's share for six months now. Please permit me return the service. I wish to see you fulfilled beyond our victories in this war, beyond our doughnut holes and this cabin and my, truth be told, excellent singing voice..."

She burst into genuine laughter then, and it sent a thrill straight through him.

"I have become a local 'rock star' you know," he continued drolly as she laughed harder. "'Tits McGee' told me herself, hadn't you heard?"

Abbie stood up, waving her hands in surrender, her smile resplendent. "Okay, okay, that'll do, Crane. That'll do."

He watched her approach him, her small frame dwarfed by his much taller one. She stared at his collar for a moment as he waited with baited breath, holding his hands behind his back.

"Look, Crane...I, uh…" Finally, she looked up into his face. "I know how hard losing Katrina and Henry was for you. And I'm sorry if I made you feel like some pet project of mine. You gotta know that you're much more than that to me. I've been worried about you. I needed to make sure you were okay. That was me trying to be a friend, not me trying to control you."

Her eyes burrowed into his and he found himself riveted by her expression. She squeezed his arm tenderly.

"You're not a pet. You're not a fussbucket, whatever the hell that means..." she dipped her head from side to side, smiling wryly. "I mean you are a little particular, but-" She laughed when he grumbled and rolled his eyes. "But...I'm sorry I made fun of your...manhood, or whatever. I guess I just don't want to see you on the losing end of a rebound, you know?"

Ichabod frowned.

Abbie exhaled, scratching her forehead. "Um...rebound, it's when you get involved with someone to...ah...forget someone else."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I get it. You want...more...than this. And as long as we keep our eyes open and our feet on the ground in this war...I got your back while you figure yourself out. You can't be a recluse in this cabin forever."

Ichabod considered her for a moment. She was avoiding his gaze again. Talking about these matters did make her uneasy. He had a hypothesis, but he needed to work it out. She was like an extremely bewitching puzzle to him. If it were at all possible, he would spend all of his time trying to unravel it.

"I'm just saying: I'll never call you cute again, and you're right. You need to get out there and flex your independence. You need to be your own man-you are your own man. If you say you're ready, then you're ready. You and me are good. Go. Date. Do you. I won't stand in your way."

He gave a slight nod but remained silent for a moment, gripping his hands together behind his back. He was torn. He wanted to tell her that he did want more. But not from a date with a stranger. He wanted more with her.

"And what about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"Do you wish to 'flex your independence'?" He closed the space between them, his breath slowing to a crawl. "Do you wish to…'do you'? Date?"

Abbie looked up at him and was so silent for so long that he was afraid he might have overstepped her boundaries yet again. He was also, he realized, afraid of what she might say. But then she simply shook her head. "I'm fine, Crane. I'm a soldier, like you said. I like it that way."

He nodded and stepped back. Her walls were up again. 'Fine' was a word she used far too often. So often that he was beginning to suspect she used it as a shield to keep prying souls at bay. He was simultaneously relieved and dismayed that the moment had long since slipped away from him to make a serious confession to her. He had been at this for weeks, trying to think of a way to let her in, to tell her the whole truth. There never seemed to be an appropriate moment. And, he knew in his heart, it wouldn't be a subtle, easy shift in their relationship. It would be a massive disruption. One deserving of a great deal more consideration than blurting it out a sloppy confession in a drunken lapse of self-control.

Her phone buzzed, and she jumped, pulling it quickly out of her back jeans pocket. He watched her read a text message she'd received. She scoffed and put the phone to sleep, now blinking up at him. "So it looks like Frank is sleeping over at my place."

Ichabod smirked. Jenny had been temporarily living with Abbie in her single bedroom dwelling while they worked the kidnapping case, and there could be only one reason she thought to invite Captain Irving there. He had seen the two of them getting close to each other over the last few weeks.

"And Miss Jenny has tied the proverbial 'shoelace around the doorknob', has she?" He quipped, causing her to roll her eyes and ground out a hard sigh.

"Uh, yeah, looks that way." She squinted up at him. "Mind if I crash here tonight?"

Ichabod gave her an 'obviously not' look. "This is your home. I'm on borrowed land, please do whatever you like."

Abbie wagged a finger at him. "Corbin left it to me, and you've been taking care of it much better than I could. It's your place, Crane."

"For now, true," he countered. "I intend to return your inheritance to you in due time. But for now and always...do feel free to 'crash'. Any time you like."

She laughed, and he watched as her laughter turned to a yawn that she tried and failed to stifle. He could not help a wistful smile overcoming him. Here is when she would leave his company, and he would miss her the instant she was gone until he found something to occupy his mind (usually thoughts of her, and trying to puzzle her out...or trying to bring her to climax).

"The hour is late, Leftenant." He said, hoping she didn't catch the reluctance in his voice.

"Yep. I got the couch."

He proffered a finger at her. "Absolutely not. To the bedroom with you, I'll take the couch."

Instead of protesting, Abbie reached up and hugged him. "Hey. I'm glad we got that straightened out."

He was caught off guard, but he quickly returned her embrace. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her small body into his, gently lifting her to the tips of her toes. He turned his head to whisper in her ear through her wavy, spicy-sweet smelling locks.

"Don't worry about me, Abbie. I made my choice."

"I know, Crane…" she sighed into him. "We both did."

"Must you sleep? We could watch a Netflix? Your choice this time." He couldn't help himself. He wanted more time with her. He wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms.

Abbie laughed softly into his collar. "You're a trip." She sighed, stepping back from him. He reluctantly let her go, his hands sliding from her body. "As much as I would love to show you 'Coming to America' finally, Reyes wants to brief me on this big case first thing, and you know we can't afford to be on her bad side."

He nodded. "Point taken. Goodnight, then..."

Abbie yawned again and started towards the back bedroom. "Night, Crane."

---

"Crane?"

He was instantly roused from a half-sleep by the sound of her voice, and his name. Ichabod blinked away the darkness veiling his vision to discover her standing in shadow at the foot of the couch.

"Abbie…" he breathed, sitting up.

Her hair was loose, crowning her heart-shaped face. She was wearing her favorite 'Run DMC' t-shirt. It swallowed her practically whole, stopping just below the apex of her thighs. Her legs and feet were bare. All her edges had softened, the ones she wore as an officer and a Witness every day. Now she was diminutive; aglow in the pale moonlight, her eyes glinting. He swallowed down an instant swell of yearning.

"Are you alright?"

Abbie stepped into the moonlight. "Couldn't sleep."

She hesitated, looking like a goddess in the pale light, her eyes large and her lips pink.

She was absolutely drowning in the t-shirt. That was something that always fascinated him, ever since he'd first glimpsed her in one of her 'sleeping shirts' as she called them. Always old and frayed around the edges, always oversized, as if she couldn't bear to expose her petite figure to anyone free of her sleek, form-fitting work clothes. She looked more vulnerable somehow, swallowed by these garments. Her exposed legs gave away her true frame, and her silken brown skin.

Ichabod stood and made room for her to sit, never taking his eyes off of her as she slid onto the couch.

"What's troubling you?" he asked softly, sitting near her. He was bare-chested and his hair was disheveled. He ran a hand through it, attempting to tame it absentmindedly. His missing shirt he could do nothing about. He wasn't quite sure where it had gone, and all of his spares were in the bedroom.

Abbie chuckled halfheartedly. "Nothing. I just...couldn't sleep." She shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Too much on my mind."

He gestured to the room at large. "Well, I'm all ears."

Abbie stared at him for a long while. He sat still, watching her watch him. She looked...troubled. As if she'd been weighing something heavily in her mind and was afraid to speak on it. He was intrigued, and still a bit drunk, and incredibly attracted to her. His hands itched to touch her, his arms ached to hold her. He sat very still at first, but soon couldn't help reaching over to take her hand.

"Abbie, please know that you can confide in me. If you do not wish it, whatever's on your mind shall go no further than this moment between us."

She looked down at his hand holding hers, and slowly turned her palm upward, splaying her fingers so that he could slide his between them. He did so, locking their fingers together; his long, lean and strong; hers much smaller and softer. He looked up at her again, but she remained watching their hands. The moonlight shined through the kitchen windows, casting haunting shadows across her beautiful face.

"When I was trapped in 1781…" she began, still not looking at him, "I was so scared." She scoffed and raised her face to the ceiling, her eyes distant as she remembered her ordeal. "So many crazy ass things happened, but you know what? In the middle of all of it, the worst part was that you didn't know me."

She looked at him finally. He was taken aback by the expression on her face. She looked so vulnerable, and so absolutely stunning. Without thinking, he released her hand to reach over and pull her towards him.

Abbie was silent as Ichabod took her by the waist and pulled her closer to him. He secured her there with one arm, and reached up with his free hand to move a lock of her hair away from her eyes.

"But you convinced me...of course you convinced me, Leftenant." She crushed her eyes closed and made a happy noise when he called her 'Leftenant'. He grew serious, running his thumb across her cheek gently as he gathered his courage and whispered: "Whether in my time or yours, I know now that I would be lost without you. And because of you, I learnt it then."

She shook her head. "How can you be so sure? Being in your time, Crane…" Abbie exhaled slowly. "You looked at me and you...you didn't trust me at all. Now I think I really understand how you must've felt when we first met. I had no idea from one moment to the next whether you would arrest me, give me up to get carted off as a slave or have me committed. It fuckin' sucked."

"You. Convinced. Me. As only you could." He gave her waist a gentle squeeze, leaning his head towards hers. She was so small and warm and soft. "As only you were meant to..."

In an instant of intense need, Ichabod couldn't stop himself from gently nuzzling her hair with his nose and mouth.

He was becoming increasingly consumed with longing. It was filling him persistently, and he knew she would soon feel it as well. It was only a matter of precious little time before his body would give him away. She turned her head towards him now, her eyes beseeching.

"I was so scared you wouldn't believe me." She paused, and when she spoke next her voice was deeper, stronger. "I can take care of myself. But this is war, Crane. And it's a big, messy, scary one. I don't think I can do this without you…" Abbie trailed off, looking as though she wanted to say more. She didn't speak further however.

"You'll always have me." Ichabod replied firmly, staring at her lips. He wanted to act; he strained not to press himself into her. He waited and watched for her reaction.

"Promise me, Crane." Though she spoke, she wouldn't look at him.

"I promise you...you will always have me. Through this war, and the next, and as long as I draw breath. I will never, ever leave your side." He swallowed, his heart now thundering in his chest. He was dimly intoxicated, exhausted, and nursing a very intense attraction. He should not say what he was about to; he knew he risked causing her to flee from him and cast her walls up again-perhaps this time irrevocably. But another part of him poked and prodded and called him a coward for pretending for so long that he was anything other than utterly, heart-wrenchingly, foolishly, frustratingly in love with her. "Abbie...I absolutely adore you..."

"You-what?" Her eyes flew up to meet his, growing ever larger with astonishment as his words sunk in.

"You heard me."

Ichabod felt a slow burn roil through him, coming to rest in his groin. He was erect, now, and painfully aware that she would notice at any second. But he didn't care. She was here, in his arms, and he was not going to allow her to run away from him. She needed to know: she ruled his heart. He tightened his embrace of her next to him. He could feel the heat of her flesh in his hands through the fabric of her shirt. She was his. He felt desperately possessive just then, and as he stroked her side through her shirt he vowed to protect and care for her with all that he had in him.

"I love you." His voice grew deep and thick with the emotion of his confession. He held her small body in his hands, his fingers seeking out the smooth, warm planes of her skin. He pressed her still closer to him, his expression deadly serious. "You have my heart. You have always had it. You always shall."

Her lips parted, a small gasp escaped her, and Ichabod's honorable restraint finally broke. He had lain awake many nights wondering what in her endless arsenal of tempting qualities would do it, so naturally he hadn't expected it to be a simple, sweet exhalation. It would be such an insignificant gesture if given by anyone other than the bewitching woman sitting in his arms. But because it was his Abbie, it was his undoing.

He leaned forward with a long, slow, prowling push of air through his nostrils, capturing her lips fiercely with his own. Mmmm...but she was soft all over, including her sumptuous, velveteen lips.

His body instantly reacted to the feel of her lips against his, and he gripped her tighter as pure, carnal lust engulfed him. At first Abbie merely whimpered and braced herself against him, still stunned by his confession. But then Ichabod set about tasting her lips over and over again with increasing intensity, and she melted into him. Abbie raised her hands to his hair, sliding her fingers through his locks to hold onto his neck before finally kissing him back.

He parted her lips with his and kissed her more deeply, his hands now roaming across her back and over her exposed thighs. Ichabod groaned deep in his throat once her tongue met his and circled it slowly, expertly. He couldn't stop himself from taking hold of her and moving her from his side to his lap. Abbie unfurled herself against him, slowly straddling him, holding him by the neck as she kissed him tenderly. She sank her lithe body down onto his, her curves grinding into his lean frame as he ran his hands slowly up her thighs.

He came to the perfectly apple-shaped curves of her rear and indulged himself, gripping her there eagerly as he peppered her with kisses across her mouth, cheeks, and under her jaw line.

"Mmm...Crane?" he clutched at her again at the sound of her husky voice breathing out his name, gripping handfuls of her warm flesh with his limber fingers. Her voice was soft, deep, and coated with desire. "What are we doing?"

"What does it feel like we're doing, Leftenant?" he replied, his voice just as heavy with desire as hers was. He kissed a slow, exploratory trail from just below her ear down the length of her neck, finally coming to exhale his warm breath onto the two round peaks of her breasts through her t-shirt.

"Feels…" She gasped and moaned and, grinding herself steadily into him when he gently suckled her breast through the threadbare cotton of her shirt. "...damn good."

"Then hush." He commanded softly, and she obeyed.

The exquisite heat from between her thighs brushed against his rock hard erection and he feared he might lose every ounce of restraint that he still had left.

He wanted this shirt off of her. He paused and leaned back, staring up at her in the moonlight. Her lips were lightly swollen and her eyelids had dropped low across her sparkling eyes, her lashes like dark veils.

"I want to see you…" he breathed.

Abbie stared at him for a moment, but he didn't falter. He knew she felt him, long and hard, pressing persistently against her molten sex through their clothes. Her fingertips grazed his bare chest, ghosting over the large, jagged scar where the Horseman's broadax had ripped him open as she considered his request. He gazed up at her, letting her see the whole, unabashed truth in his eyes: Unless she told him to stop, he intended to make love to her tonight. And it would not be cute. Or polite. It was going to be every bit as intense and indulgent as his most haunting fantasies of her. But right now, he had to see her.

She took hold of her shirt and pulled it up, not taking her eyes off of his. He exhaled slowly, watching in complete captivation as her nearly naked body was finally revealed to him. She threw the shirt over his shoulder, behind the couch, and blinked rapidly at him, demuring somewhat. He wanted to smile tenderly but he didn't want her to shy from him.

Ichabod sat up straight, holding her by the hips, and caught her eyes with his. Hers were large and round and shining with anticipation, her lips parted. He slowly dragged his gaze from her face to her body. He was looking at her for the first time, fully exposed, and he wanted to memorize every curve for examination later.

She was perfect, of course. Her skin was smooth as silk, yet lush as velvet. Her small breasts were round and full; her nipples alert and springy and beckoning to him. Her petite waist sloped inward and then curved outward, forming the round shape of her lovely bottom. She was wearing small white panties...so small and sheer that even in the dim light, he could quite clearly see that she was wet, and...damn it all...he inhaled at the sight of her and caught her natural scent.

That was it. He had to have her. Now.

Ichabod grabbed hold of her and stood abruptly, lifting her from the couch. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, gripping his shoulders for balance as he determinedly carried her towards the bedroom.

He expected her to protest, but she didn't. She simply held onto him as they crossed into the dark room.

He sat her down and knelt immediately before her, his eyes burning into hers with the full seriousness of his intentions. She bit her lip as it dawned on her that he wasn't going to simply take her and be done with it. He may be ancient, but he was no prude. Ichabod enjoyed sex with the same voracity and devotion to perfection that he had for everything he did. Fuse that intense will with his heart, and make the subject of his focus the woman who ruled it with her every breath, her every gesture…

Ichabod dropped his eyes from hers and ran a hand through his hair, taking it out of his face. He heard Abbie sigh softly above him. He didn't want to look at her again, because he knew the look on her face would drive him mad. He wanted to focus. Give her glistening, swollen bud the reverent attention it deserved. He slowly parted her legs. Ah, she was so moist.

His cock twitched and tightened underneath his pajama trousers. He wanted to be slow, deliberate; but the sight of her, teasing him through the soaked fabric of her delicate underwear, made his restraint slip. He leaned forward suddenly, taking her by the thighs and tugging her possessively towards his face.

"Ugh, ohhh…!" Abbie grunted, then moaned when he hungrily drove his hot, wet tongue up the length of her and suckled her through the treacherously thin fabric of her panties.

He opened his mouth wider, moving her panties to the side with his finger and thrusting his tongue inside of her all in the next breath. "Fuck!" she gasped in surprise, her delivery conjuring up images for him of the tough little Abbie he loved to watch on the battlefield.

Her fingers found their way into his long hair, and she gasped again, thrusting her hips at his face as Ichabod growled and licked her up and down slowly.

"Ohh, Ichabod!"

He paused, his heart thumping in his chest. That didn't sound like her. That sounded like...she gripped him harder and he remembered that he had his Abbie in his arms, mmm...in his mouth. He had dreamed of this moment for so long, and she was wet and hot and her flesh felt exquisitely plump in his hands. Abbie, Abbie, Abbie...his Abbie was in his bed, he wanted to taste her until she came crashing down around him, and he would lap up every ounce of her precious juices.

"Mmm...Ichabod what's gotten into you tonight?" Katrina moaned, surprised that her usually gentle husband could be capable of such lecherous behavior. Well, he would show her. His passion for her would be well proven tonight.

But wait. That made no sense. Abbie. It was Abbie he was-

"Ichabod."

His heart stopped. The voice calling his name was not Abbie's. The skin he touched now was not warm. His stomach turned suddenly.

"Ichabod."

No. This cannot be. He could not look up. Suddenly, he could see nothing but pale, cold skin underneath his fingers. He could not look up. Nor could he breathe.

"Ichabod…" the voice teased, his name pronounced as only Katrina would. Except Katrina was no longer alive, and this voice had a hollow echo to it that sent a gargantuan chill down his spine. "Ichabod! Oh, Ichabod!" The echoing voice called cruelly, pretending to be his Abbie in the throes of pleasure.

Finally, he gathered his courage and slowly looked up, his head feeling like an iron anchor and his skin developing goose pimples. His eyes traveled the valley of naked, pale, nearly-translucent skin to the most frightening pair of deep green eyes he had ever seen. They were Katrina's, but they were evil in a way that he could taste in the back of his throat. Like death.

He felt broken, pressed into the floor as though the frigid air in the room was attempting to crush him with all its strength. Those dark, dead green eyes were set deep into an impossibly pale face, draped in shadow, crowned by floating, fiery red hair. It was indeed Katrina. And she stared him down, down, down into some unknown, murky depths. It was a terrifying and heart-wrenching sight.

Then she screamed: "ICHABOOOOD!"

Her voice was like a rotting death rattle projected through a thousand horns.

Ichabod felt as though his heart had ruptured before he woke up shouting "No!" drenched in an ice-cold sweat.

...to be continued.