#1

Abbie made Crane sit in her living room as she got ready for the police department holiday party. It had been the annual Christmas Party until a year or two ago when a few people complained about the lack of inclusiveness. Abbie couldn't blame them. Christmas held too much weight for her. Holiday party meant nothing specific. Nothing defined. Nothing to bring up memories.

She had picked up Crane from Corbin's cabin earlier that afternoon (although really, shouldn't she call it Crane's cabin now?). Since Crane was sort of part of the department now, she knew it would seem odd if he didn't attend. She didn't want to think it was because she liked his company.

"Miss Mills, I'm not entirely certain why you must take me to your home beforehand," Crane had complained as he bent his body into her car.

"Because this cabin is thirty minutes away from my apartment and I didn't want to drive all the way here and then all the way to the station when I was already so close now."

"I suppose that is logical."

Now Abbie wondered about that logic. She'd turned on Shark Week re-runs for Crane and made him promise to sit still, as he had a tendency to wander and explore and he'd already found too many things on previous occasions. Abbie never wanted to explain the concept of tampons to a grown-ass man ever again.

Lotioning up her legs after shaving, Abbie tried to perch on the toilet to paint her toenails, but the light sucked in her bathroom, and she was getting a cramp in her thigh. She always painted her toes in the living room, her foot pressed against the coffee table. But Crane was in there. Did she want to brave his questions? She screwed the top back on the polish, snagged her bag of mani/pedi tools and wandered out to the living room. She flipped on the overhead light before plopping down next to Crane.

He squinted at the light. He still wasn't used to the brightness of electricity, Abbie knew. He preferred to light a fire in the cabin and only used electric lights when he had to. "Must you turn on that ghastly lamp?"

Abbie stretched her leg out, her left foot on the edge of the coffee table. Untwisting the top of the bottle of polish—Chick Flick Cherry—she separated her big toe from the others. "I need the light to paint my toes," she replied, biting her lip in concentration as she began meticulously painting the nail. Abbie never painted her fingernails—the paint chipped within a day, and she didn't have the money or time to get a gel manicure—but she painted her toenails religiously. It was a girly thing she could still do as a cop without anyone actually knowing.

"'Paint your toes?'"

"Well, my toenails." Abbie glanced up with a small grin. "We're not so far gone in this century to start painting our actual toes."

"Is this a normal activity? Painting ones' toenails?"

Abbie shrugged, but that caused her to swipe the side of her big toe with red polish. She swore before reaching for a q-tip to wipe it off. "Fairly normal, I guess."

"Do men of this century paint themselves like this as well?"

Abbie laughed and missed her nail again. "Crane, dammit, you're making me screw up my nails. And no, men don't paint their nails." She thought a moment. "Well, none that I know, at least. Now shut it and let me paint."

Abbie usually found painting her nails rather soothing. This time, however, she found herself acutely aware of Crane sitting only a few feet from her, flexing his hands. She noticed that he tended to do this when he was agitated. She knew his agitation wasn't from the sharks on the TV, munching on unsuspecting prey. Only the sounds of the shark music punctuated the living room, making the scene seem rather dire. Note to self: don't let Crane hang out when I'm getting ready.

When she finished with her left foot, she glanced up Crane again. He was fiddling with his beard this time, his eyes following her movements.

"Just spit it out, Crane."

Crane glanced back at the TV. "I assume that is another lovely idiom of your time—"

Abbie rolled her eyes.

"—and I shall also assume it may be translated as 'please speak' so I shall speak." He turned his gaze back to her. Well, to her legs. And then he fell silent. And he turned red.

"Crane, I told you. You can ask me anything." This was a lie, but Abbie knew she was a sucker. A sucker and a soft-hearted fool.

"Your legs," Crane blurted. "They are hairless. Why? Do women in this century no longer have hair except on their heads?"

Abbie smiled and stretched her leg, her right foot now on the coffee table. She knew her smooth legs fascinated Crane. She couldn't help but preen a little, right? "We have hair on our legs," she said as she began painting her big toe. "We just shave it off. Or wax it. Or laser it." She frowned a little at the thought. "Actually, it's kind of messed up how much money women spend on removing body hair."

"Where else—"

"No way, I lied. No more questions. Maybe when I'm really drunk I'll tell you about Brazilians."

She could almost hear Crane fluttering his hands. "What does the removal of hair have to do with a Portuguese colony?"

Abbie just sighed.

When she finished with her toes, she turned off the light (to Crane's pleased exhalation) and wandered back into the bathroom. She rolled her hair into a neat French twist instead of leaving it down—one of the few things her mom had ever taught her how to do. She remembered her mom straightening her hair before brushing and twisting it atop her head, her hands gentle as she pinned it. Jenny had never sat still long enough for her mom to do her hair. Jenny was too much of a tomboy, Abbie remembered. Abbie's hair had always been neatly braided, sometimes straightened; Jenny's was a wild mass of curls.

Abbie shook off the memories. Hair done, she set to doing her makeup—nothing heavy, but a little more dramatic for nighttime. She swiped on eyeliner and mascara and some lipstick. Spritzing on some perfume, she wandered to her bedroom to get dressed. The sound of shark week music followed her.

The night was a little warmer than usual for early December, so Abbie didn't worry as much about being cold when she dressed in the crimson bandage dress she had purchased months earlier but hadn't had time or inclination to wear. She didn't dress-up often (she was a cop, when would she have time to dress-up?) but had a weakness for pretty things. Dresses, shoes, jewelry. She would resist their lure but sometimes succumbed, only to have the bits of glamour hidden away in her closet, never to be worn.

Putting on silver stilettos—4 inches, which made her at least of average height—and some earrings and she deemed herself ready to go.

"'Kay, I'm ready," she called to Crane as she walked to the coat closet. It was warm, but not that warm.

Crane turned off the TV (he had an eidetic memory, after all) and followed her. She reached inside for her coat only to have Crane cover her hands. "Allow me." He pulled the black pea coat off the hanger and walked behind her. Abbie felt his body heat as he helped her into her coat. She could've sworn his fingers brushed the back of her neck on purpose.

"Thank you," she murmured. She turned to face him. "Let's go."

Crane didn't move at first. She realized this was the first time he'd ever seen her in a dress. And she was wearing a tight dress. Nothing trashy, but probably shorter and more form-fitting than anything in his day. His gaze followed the line of her dress to her legs before landing on her toes. Her bright red toes. He coughed. "You look well," he intoned to her toes.

She wiggled them. "Thank you."

He coughed again, but wouldn't look up at her. "I shall meet you at your vehicle, yes?" And he left her before she could answer.

Buttoning up her coat and grabbing her purse, Abbie followed him. This was going to be a long night.

TBC. The show really needs a bit where Abbie dresses up just to see Crane spontaneously combust.