Real Men Take Responsibility
My apologies... New fandom, had intended to write a nice piece of romantic pre-het, or even some smut. Instead, Orlando Jones' preferred ship and his (tongue in cheek) description of the sort of fanfic he'd like to see written for his character just wouldn't stop going around my head. So I'm afraid I've just pitched straight in with the humour and parody. Pretty much his story prompt, Sleepy Hollow of course belongs to Fox, the rest of the insanity below is all mine. (BTW, Orlando Jones rocks for having the self-deprecating wit to come up with this idea). Oh, and spoilers for almost the whole of series 1 – but not the last episode, mwa ha ha.
It was a typical day in the squad room. Ichabod was standing at Lieutenant Mills' left shoulder, looking at the screen as she checked facts on the latest spawn of Satan they'd encountered. She sat, mainly intent on her computer, but occasionally casting sideways glances at Crane from under long, perfectly mascara-ed lashes, glances which could have been bromance or could have hinted at something more. She shifted in her chair, flexing the honed muscles that hid beneath her soft curves. A faint sound came to her ears. With a sigh, she tried her best to ignore the faint sound of fangirl squeeing and chants of more, more, more, coming through the fourth wall.
For his part, Crane appeared intent on the subject matter of their enquiries but nonetheless gave the odd lingering look from half hooded, piercingly blue eyes. In between lingering looks, he stood characteristically ramrod straight, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, feet in shiny cavalry boots topped by military breeches which he wore with a certain unmistakable flair, and which (though they were looser than skinny jeans) clung to his arse in a most becoming way. As was his wont, his left hand was tucked in the small of his back, right hand by his side, long, sensitive fingers straightening every so often in a strangely seductive way that seemed to send the imagination rioting at the mere thought of the possibilities inherent in their slender sensitivity. [Author's note: just off for a cold shower, back in a moment...] Occasionally, Mills would offer an observation on her researches, whereupon Crane would enlarge upon the subject under discussion, or offer an apposite anecdote indicating that he was personally acquainted with the historical persons mentioned.
Over the other side of the room, Morales sat fuming with jealousy. He hated that damn Brit. He really, really hated him, with his smarmy accent and "Leftenants". Not to mention all the infuriating phrases the man in the smelly coat dropped into casual conversation: "When I discussed this with George Washington/ John Adams/ Benjamin Franklin," or "I was so hard I nearly froze to death at Valley Forge," or even "I am so kick ass I beheaded one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse even after he'd dealt me a mortal wound". And Morales hated his tall, lean good looks, and the hipster beard. What the hell was with the hipster beard anyway? Since when did men in the eighteenth century have hipster beards?
Meanwhile, the other cops busied themselves with paperwork, trying to ignore not only the seething, bubbling sexual tension emanating from the two Witnesses, but also the horrible nagging suspicion that lurked at the heart of all bit players in this tale of ours, the suspicion that they might be next in line as dispensable extra, subject to demonic possession, neck snapping, hell fire and brimstone, or, worst of all, random decapitation.
As if on cue, the squad room doors flew open and in strode the imposing figure of the Headless Horseman, taller than most of the men in the room despite his (obviously) missing head. The space erupted into a frenzy.
Abbie reached for her gun, slung low on her curvaceous hip. Ichabod was torn between admiring said curvaceous hip (surreptitiously, because he was a married man after all) and reaching for his sword hilt. Morales gulped. He'd already done demonic possession a couple of episodes back – surely that was enough for one series. The rest of the cops were split fifty-fifty between freezing with terror and diving behind their desks.
Death turned slowly from one side to the other, as if looking round the room. It was always hard to tell with him, seeing as how he had no head. Then with what looked remarkably like a shrug, he laid his axe and sawn-off shotgun on the table, held up his hands as if to say, "Truce," then strode into Irving's office, shutting the door firmly behind him. They saw the brief flicker of shock on the Captain's face, before he moved to the windows and closed the blinds.
Everyone in the squad room stood with their jaws practically on the floor. The silence was so profound you could have heard a pin drop. Into this silence came the unmistakable sound of Irving's voice, muffled by the door, but still audible.
"I've told you not to come and see me at work, honey..."
The jaws sagged even further, if that were anatomically possible without demonic intervention.
"What?" the Captain continued. "No, no, it's not that I'm ashamed of you... Of course I'm not hiding our relationship from people at work... Look, honey, I even have your picture on the wall... What do you mean, yellow isn't your colour?"
Morales was stunned. He'd always thought Irving kept that broken-off bit of road sign because he appreciated the joke. But his musings didn't get a chance to get any further, because Irving continued after a pause.
"Again? This is like, number three! Babe, you said you were going to be careful..."
Ichabod and Abbie exchanged a puzzled glance.
"What do you mean, my fault?"
A second pause ensued. A long, embarrassing pause. Ichabod reflected that one might almost go so far as to describe it as...
"Honey, there is no way in Hell... okay, okay, bad choice of words... there is no way in whatever I'm getting the snip... I mean, I'm a man. A real, whole, entire man... You know, a whole lot of real, entire man... just the way you like it, honey..." Irving's voice dropped half an octave as he added, "I know you like it that way, honey..."
There was a shocked choking noise from most of the assembled audience. Abbie gave Crane another of her trademark smouldering glances up from beneath her lashes. She could've sworn she saw him mouth the words pregnant pause.
"No, no... look, it's cool, can't you get your... you know... whatever it is you have in there tied? What do you mean, you've had enough invasive procedures to last you a lifetime, I mean, an after-lifetime?"
Crane mimed sweeping off a head with a stroke of his sword and gave a smug grin. Morales shot him a look that said, One of these days I am so gonna wipe that smug grin off your smug Brit face, you smug asswipe.
"Babe, they can do it with keyhole surgery these days... I mean, things have moved on since 1781..."
Through the Witness bond they shared, Ichabod sensed the sudden stiffness in Miss Mills' posture. He thought he half heard her murmur, Real men take responsibility for contraception. Ichabod swallowed. Sheep gut condoms were damn uncomfortable, from what he remembered of his rakish youth, and one could hardly feel a thing through them. Not that he chose to remember that any more, of course, not now he was a respectably married man... A wave of Abbie's characteristic scent hit him, and he swallowed. He'd want to feel everything with her. No, no, no, he was a respectably married man. A respectably married man with unrespectably tight military breeches... Irving's voice interrupted his unrespectable musings.
"Of course I want you to keep it, honey... Hey, so long as it has my eyes... and the rest of my head... Besides, this is fanfic. Don't matter about Roe vs. Wade, our author can't risk alienating the more socially conservative part of the readership... Nope, you keep it babe..."
Ah, thought Crane with pleasure, The glory that was the Constitution, the separation of legislature and executive, the checks and balances embodied by the Supreme Court... Then another wave of Abbie's perfume hit him. His breeches got even tighter. Married, married, married... to a witch who'd died hundreds of years ago and was trapped in purgatory having first buried him so that he could be resurrected at a later date, a witch with sexy flaming red hair, who in turn was having a bit of a thing with his, Ichabod Crane's, former BFF, who was now the Horseman of Death, who was in turn pregnant by Captain Irving, boss of his own phenomenally sexy bit on the side... Suddenly an image came to Crane's eye. A very modern image. One he had happened upon while watching the television in the motel in his early days in the twenty-first century. One which had shocked him to the core. A form of entertainment for the masses, presided over by one Jeremy Kyle, Esquire... Funny the coincidence – his wife had called their only son Jeremy. Crane allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. At least there was no way his son would end up embroiled in the complicated, daytime TV web in which he found himself engulfed.
With thanks to Sian22 for casting an eye over this... all remaining mistakes are of course mine.