Bespoke
Summary: The saying goes that clothes maketh the man. Do his clothes maketh Ichabod Crane?
Part 1
232 years ago, Ichabod Crane had last mended the shirt he now held in his hands. He bent over the cloth, the needle slipping through the fabric like quicksilver. It was much thinner and shinier than the one he'd used so many years ago. He remembered the small rolled up sewing kit Katrina had given him when he went off to fight, a "housewife," the soldiers called them.
He sat, cross-legged by the fire, an Indian blanket covering his bare shoulders. How very like the last time. The sound of footsteps on the porch caught his attention and he lifted his gaze to spot Abbie Mills passing by the window.
"Crane," she called out.
"Come in," he replied. "The door is not locked." He felt a chill as the November wind followed her into the room.
"You never cease to amaze, Crane," Abbie said. "In addition to all your other talents, you can sew."
"In my day, Miss Mills, a soldier had to cook his food and wash his clothes as well as mend them. What brings you out here, bearing gifts?" he asked, nodding at the brown paper bag in her hand. With the last stitch done, he knotted the thread and expertly snapped it off.
"I want to take a look at those scratches, and I pretty much emptied Corbin's first-aid kit patching you up. I still think you should have gone to the hospital."
"Both in my time and yours, hospitals are best avoided."
He put the shirt aside and prepared to rise, but Abbie said, "Don't get up." She dropped the bag by his knee and retrieved the first-aid kit from the shelf it rested on. After washing her hands at the sink, she returned to the hearth.
"Those were some pretty deep scratches. A couple of them may have needed sutures. How do they feel?" Kneeling next to Crane, she lifted the blanket off his shoulders.
"Maddeningly itchy."
"You haven't been scratching them, have you?"
"After your stern and repeated admonitions not to? Of course not." At her raised eyebrow, he amended, "well, not very much."
Abbie peeled back the medical tape and gauze on his shoulder. "Sorry," she said, at his sharp breath when the gauze stuck. Her hands moved to his ribs as she removed the bandage there as well. "They look pretty good, as far as I can tell. The skin isn't red and they're healing up."
"An unpleasant visit to the hospital rendered unnecessary. Thank you for taking care of me."
She emptied the bag between them and set about re-bandaging the scratches. "You're putting a lot of confidence in my couple of first aid courses," she said as she finished taping fresh gauze over the wounds. "Okay, that should hold you for a while." Abbie sat back and stretched her legs out. Reaching over, she picked up his shirt and held it up to inspect it.
"The bloodstains came out," she said.
"Thanks to you and your...what did you call it?"
"Enzyme soak. It's the only way to get bloodstains out. Hey, you're pretty good with the needle, Crane. But really, this shirt is crying out to be put to rest. Anyone else would have demoted it to rag status and used it to polish the furniture."
"Things were not so disposable in my day," he said. "The shirt is fine." As if to prove his point, he stood and pulled the shirt on, trying to hide a wince as as the scratches stung. Looking down, he tied up the laces.
"We could get you some new clothes, Crane."
He looked down at his hands. His voice was soft when he spoke.
"Miss Mills, since my awakening, these clothes were all that tied me to the only life I've ever known. Every single thing I had ever owned, ever held as precious is gone. Quite literally, all I have are the clothes I stand up in."
"You're right. I'm sorry, Crane."
"I'm not unrealistic. I know there will come a time when I need to acquire new clothing. Certainly, if our work continues to be as...strenuous as it has been."
"This line of work is pretty rough on the wardrobe," she said with a smile. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."