"A Wendigo," she repeats in a tone of gravely disappointed disbelief. "Seriously?"

"I'd hardly jest about it," he says impatiently. Surely she knows this about him by now. "Yes. A Wendigo is the cause of - " he gestures expressively at the snow falling thick and fast around the cabin "- this."

Abbie sighs. "Alright," she says. "Sure. But aren't Wendigos supposed to be all about cannibalism?"

"The missing campers."

"Duh! I only meant, you know, snow? How?"

Ichabod casts his eyes to the heavens. How is he supposed to know? He's just as out of his depth as she is, he just happens to have an outside source.

After a moment of silence, she gets the picture. "Ah."

"Yes, ah."

"So, ok, at least we know what we're dealing with now. I guess that's a good thing? How do we get rid of it?"

Now it's Ichabod's turn to sigh. "We don't. Or at least, not yet. It's at its strongest right now, while the snow's falling. It's hunting."

"Hunting!" Abbie gasps. "Then we need to move fast before it eats someone else."

"There's no time. All we can do is wait out this storm, and track it after it's fed."

"No way," she says. "Nuh-uh, mister. We're going out there, right now, and we're taking it down."

"Abbie, we -"

"Shush! We're going, and that's final!"

Which is, of course, when she discovers that so much snow has fallen that the door won't open.

They're trapped inside this cabin on the outskirts of town, the cabin where the now tragically deceased campers had been staying, where they'd been searching for clues.

Abbie rams the door with her shoulder, but her immediate wince tells Ichabod all he needs to know.

"At least the campers' bodies have been moved," he says.

"At least," she agrees, rubbing her shoulder. "There's no signal here, but the captain will guess where we are in the morning."

"I suppose he will," Ichabod says. He's not sure why, but he doesn't quite trust the man. But surely Abbie's right, he's hardly going to abandon them to the threat he doesn't even know exists.

Abbie looks at him for a long moment, and he wonders if his opinions are all over his face, but then she looks away.

"We might as well get some sleep," is all she says. "It's cold and late, and we'll have a hell of a fight on our hands tomorrow."

"There's only one bed," he reminds her. They've already combed the small cabin for clues, none of which they'd actually found, but at least it means they know the layout.

"We can share," she says. Then she grins. "Or are you worried I'll jump you?"

Ichabod has no idea what "jumping" means in this context, but the sparkle in her eye implies...well. He looks away, pretending he can't feel the colour rise in his cheeks.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," he says stiffly, and Abbie's grin widens.

"Your virtue's safe with me," she says, nudging his elbow with her shoulder. "Come on."

Which is how Ichabod finds himself sharing a bed with the good lieutenant. She'd fallen asleep almost instantly, limbs askew, but although he's weary, he's still awake, body ramrod straight.

He's not entirely sure he wants to go to sleep. What if he dreams of Katrina, and she wants him to explain this impropriety? He can't. It's entirely platonic, he imagines saying. Of course I'm not disrespecting your memory. How could I ever? Not that he's even sure that she's actually dead.

At least she's staying to her own side of the bed, Ichabod thinks in relief. Which is, of course, the very moment Abbie rolls over in her sleep and slings a heavy arm over his chest, curling in towards him.

Ichabod goes even more stiff, if that's possible. He feels like an imitation of a plank of wood; a poor imitation, given that he can feel himself flushing again.

He very slowly and carefully tries to disentangle himself, which is when she manages to slide her other arm around him, now entirely curled around him.

Her warmth is - arresting. It's a cold night, thanks to the Wendigo, and the blanket is thin. He'd been a few degrees from shivering, but now -! He can feel the warmth from her body seeping into him, making their unacceptable position slightly more acceptable. Maybe Katrina would understand. Surely she must.

Still wracked with indecision, Ichabod sighs. Gives up. Wraps an arm about her shoulders and finally, thankfully, goes to sleep.