"Hey," Abbie's voice sounds from the doorway of Ichabod's bedroom.
He looks up and sees her standing, looking soft and sleep-rumpled, clad in a t-shirt of his that hangs nearly to her knees. She looks beautiful.
The previous night they finally addressed the elephant that had been plaguing them for months. Katrina has been gone well over a year now, and the past three months have been spent dancing around feelings growing inside both Witnesses.
They had always been more than friends. This was never a secret. It was an unavoidable feature of their unique association. Bound by a fate prophesied in the Bible, their association was one built on unwavering trust (after a few hiccups) and complete devotion to both their cause and one another over everything.
Soul mates.
But romance? Who has time for that? And do they even know their partner as a person, separate from the Battle? Is this love, or co-dependence?
These are all issues they had discussed and debated into the small hours, and finally, after much soul searching and even tears, they came to the conclusion that yes, they loved one another in every sense of the word.
Then they fell into an exhausted sleep, curled together in Ichabod's bed. Just sleep. That's all.
He rose first, dropping a kiss on her forehead and leaving her to sleep while he made coffee and foraged for breakfast.
Fifteen minutes later, her voice draws him from his perusal of the latest news headlines on the iPad. He is not yet dressed for the day, still clad in a t-shirt and soft pajama pants, worn only for propriety's sake. He explained that he normally sleeps in his "smallclothes", but will "don these garments and pray I do not get too warm." Abbie chuckled fondly at him, knowing that telling him she didn't care if he slept in his undies would fall on deaf ears. "Good morning, my love," he greets, smiling.
She stiffens. "Don't call me that," she says, her voice suddenly colder, her posture now closed.
He stands, a confused and crestfallen look on his face. "You... you've changed your mind then," he says, slightly bowing his head. It's the only thing that seems logical. "You've slept on it and have awoken to discover you do not—"
"I didn't say that," she interrupts, her voice softening. She sighs and walks into the living room to meet him. "I simply said not to call me... that."
He slowly closes his eyes as his mouth opens in a silent "oh" as understanding dawns. "That is what I called Katrina."
"All. The. Time." Abbie confirms. "That's what she called you, too. And even though you're saying it to me, I can only associate it with..."
"Her," Ichabod finishes, placing his hands on her shoulders. He nods once. "I understand. It... it just came out, like a reflex... for you are the one I love... but I assure you, she was the furthest thing from my mind." His voice is tight and clipped.
Abbie knows he is well over Katrina. He has been for some time. However, he still does not enjoy speaking of her or Henry. His son permanently became "Henry" on the night he died, when Ichabod finally confronted him in the street. It was at that moment Crane knew that "Jeremy", his son, was no more. If he ever had been.
"I know," Abbie gently says, placing her small hand on his chest. "I'm sorry I reacted that way. It just… the words kind of sent a chill through me when I heard them."
He pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. "Well then, I shall have to think of another endearment for you then, won't I?"
"You could call me 'Abbie', you know. It is my name," she recommends, pressing her cheek against his chest. He's so warm. She moves her feet, standing on top of his.
"Oh! Your feet are like ice!" he exclaims, chuckling. "And I am well aware I can use your given name... Darling." He pauses, testing it out. She shakes her head. "Perhaps not."
"You sound like someone's granny," she laughs, stepping away. "You know I like 'Lieutenant', too. Because you say it differently than anyone else."
"Yes," he allows, taking her hand and gently pulling her to the couch, "but using your rank as an endearment... it just will not do." They sit, and he tilts his head slightly. "I will continue to address you as such when we are out in public, if it pleases you."
She smiles. They had agreed to keep things on the down-low, at least for a while. She knows Jenny's going to figure it out immediately, and Frank probably won't be far behind. "It does," she says, tucking her bare feet under his thighs.
He grabs a blanket and places it over her legs, both for her warmth and his sanity. "I think... perhaps I should not think too hard on this matter. I must let it come… what is the 'trendy' word these days? Organically," he decides.
She laughs. "Right."
xXx
Ichabod experiments with different options throughout the day. Abbie fondly chuckles at his attempts, knowing that he's going to continue to try despite his decision to let it happen "organically".
"Shall we go, Dear?" he tries when they are preparing to leave the cabin to head to the Archives. It's Saturday, and Abbie is not on duty, but they have research piling up.
Abbie raises her eyebrow at him.
"I shall take that as a 'No' then..." he mutters, holding the door open for her.
Later: "Sweetheart, would you care for some coffee? I will fetch us some."
"No, and yes," she answers.
He has to stop and think a moment before he divines her meaning. "Ah. I shall return presently with coffee," he says, frowning slightly.
"Crane," she calls after him, and he stops. "Ichabod," she amends, her voice gentler. "I'm not trying to be difficult, I promise."
"I know," he responds. He quickly walks back to her, kisses her cheek, then heads out to retrieve coffee for both of them.
"Stop trying so hard," she calls after him. Smiling, she shakes her head and returns to her book.
He returns a half an hour later with two lattes and a bag from Starbucks. "I thought you might also require a small snack, Poppet. I recalled you rather enjoyed the lemon loa— oh, hello, Miss Jenny," Ichabod pulls up short at the sight of Jenny standing beside the seat where he had last seen his Lieutenant.
"'Poppet'?" Jenny asks, eyebrows raised.
Crane clears his throat, ignoring the burning sensation in his cheeks that tells him he is blushing furiously. "Yes, um, I—"
"Oh, hey, Jenny," Abbie returns. "What's up? I was in the bathroom and what is going on?" Her sentence changes boats mid-stream as she sees how her sister and partner are looking at each other. Jenny looks like she's caught Crane with his hand in a very large cookie jar.
Jenny turns to look at her sister. "You didn't!" she gasps.
"No, we didn't," Abbie answers, walking over to retrieve her coffee from the paralyzed Crane. "What's in the bag?" She takes it from his unresisting hand. "Ooo, lemon loaf. Is that for me?" He nods. "Good, 'cause you know I don't want that nasty scone." She plucks the cake out of the bag. "Snap out of it, man, you know she was going to be the first one to figure it out," she says, laughing.
"I... I assure you, Miss Jenny, I have, in no way, besmirched your good sister's reputation in any—"
"Crane, I'm cool, don't worry," Jenny cuts him off, raising her hand. "I just stopped in to drop off this box Big Ash just gave to me . He said you might find it useful." She pauses, then adds, "'Bout time, you two. I'm going to have to check the chart to see who won the pool. Probably Frank, the bastard."
"Pool?" Crane asks.
"I'll explain later," Abbie says.
"I know what she means," he counters, "I am simply flabbergasted that they made sport of our... association."
Jenny laughs. "People will bet on literally anything these days," she says, reaching over and plucking a small piece of lemon loaf from her sister.
"It is not only 'these days', I assure you." He looks up and addresses the ceiling. "I do not know why this generation insists they invented everything," he sighs.
"What, did you guys have bets on who could carry the most cannonballs or... shoot the most Redcoats or something?" Jenny asks.
"Naturally," he answers.
"Jenny," Abbie starts, but her sister, once again, holds up her hand.
"I won't say a word, I promise. There's no pool, honest." She glances at Crane, then adds, "It was more a friendly wager between me and Frank."
"We can trust the Captain," Crane comments.
Abbie nods. "I just don't need my business – our business – all over the station, that's all."
"Hey, who am I gonna tell?" Jenny innocently asks. She steals a sip of Abbie's latte ("Ugh, too sweet"), then heads for the door.
"Thanks, Jenny," Abbie calls.
"Yes, thank you, Miss Jenny."
"No problem, Abbie," Jenny answers. She pauses a beat, looks Crane right in the eye, and adds, "Poppet," before turning and heading into the tunnels.
"Poppet?" Abbie asks.
"No longer a possibility," Ichabod crisply answers, pulling his scone out as he plops down into his chair with rather less grace than usual. "And this scone is not 'nasty', thank you."
"It wouldn't be nasty if it didn't have those nasty cranberries in it," she argues. "Thank you for the cake though. It was a nice surprise," she adds, stepping over, tilting his chin upwards, and kissing him.
"You're welcome, Dear Heart." He looks up at her. "No, that's not right either."
"I told you, you're trying too hard," she says, returning to her own chair.
xXx
"Baby?" Crane randomly asks. They've been working in silence for over an hour.
Abbie looks up from the box Jenny brought to see him peeking expectantly at her. "Um, okay, you should only use that word when referring to an infant," she answers, a small, impish expression of amusement on her face.
"Right," he answers, nodding once before burying his face back into his book.
xXx
"Abbie, would you pass me that concordance?" Ichabod asks, rubbing his temples. It is late, and he is about ready to suggest they stop for the day and go get some dinner.
"Which one?" she asks. "I've got three of them over here."
"The oldest one. With the red leather cover," he says.
She picks it up and leans across the table, stretching across to pass it to him.
"Thank you, Treasure," he absently says.
"You're welcome," she responds, her eyes already returned to scanning the ancient Shawnee scroll that was inside the box.
Ten minutes pass, and Abbie suddenly leans back in her chair, groaning as she stretches. "You hungry?" she asks.
"Famished," he answers. "I would not be opposed to the Saturday fried chicken special at George's."
"Mmm, that sounds perfect," she says, carefully placing the scroll in the box. She closes it, ensures that it is locked, and places it in an empty spot on the bookshelf.
As they leave the archives, something connects in Abbie's brain. "Did you call me 'Treasure' before?"
Ichabod thinks a moment. "Yes, I believe I did."
"Okay," she answers, a small smile on her face.
Crane pulls the door tightly closed, then stands in front of her. He cups her face in his hands, then bends to kiss her, softly, slowly, and sweetly. "Okay, indeed," he agrees.