Thank you for reading. Your feedback is welcome. :) And Crane is a butt.


Abbie should be home with her five-year-old daughter, Melody, and her husband, Ichabod Crane. Today's Friday. It's Pizza Night, and they watch Disney movies. She's at her desk, stooped over an FBI case file, a mug of cold coffee, and a stale croissant she might've ate for lunch or breakfast. She can't remember which; it's been a long day. It's nine, going on midnight. Her cell phone rings beside the other classified files she hasn't gotten to yet. She sighs, answers.

"We were expecting you by five this evening, Abbie. It appears as though your work commitments have come before your family yet again."

"Do not get fucking haughty with me, Ichabod." She stands and stares out her window at the tiny cars and the tiny people. "I'm not in the mood."

She told them she'd be home by five, and then she called them again and said six. And she rang them twice more at seven and eight.

"What is it that you expect me to say? I waited for you to come home. Most importantly, our daughter waited. I kept telling her, 'Mum will be here.' Yet, you didn't show up for us."

"The FBI isn't damned Scooby-Doo and the gang. We don't solve cases within twenty-four hours. I'm doing the best I can."

"You're not doing enough. Do you know how hurt she was? How much she cried for you?"

Abbie blinks her watery eyes, clears her throat. She doesn't like making Mel sad.

"Put her on the phone."

"No. Sophie is putting her to bed, ensuring she's cared for and loved."

He knows how to cut her, what twists her into black anger. Sophie is Mel's in-home nurse. She helps Crane treat Melody's severe asthma. She was diagnosed at age three. Abbie likes Sophie, but she doesn't like when Crane indirectly asks Sophie to fill her place.

"Stop doing that shit, Ichabod. She's not her mama. I am."

"Why is it so hard to tell?"

"Fuck you." She hangs up and cries.

They're only five years into their marriage, and she's watching it collapse already. These problems didn't exist when she dated him. Her schedule conflicted with his, yes. Abbie toted a gun and badge around Sleepy Hollow as an FBI agent; Crane presented 90-minute history lectures as a professor at the town's university. Even with her demanding job, she dedicated herself to their relationship.

She visited him during his lunch hour, picking up overpriced flatbread sandwiches and fresh teas from the local deli shop. Sometimes she didn't eat food at all and let him stuff her with orgasms. When she could, she sent texts that made him smile and blush. She enjoyed weekends with him, and they planned trips to London, warm islands, and amusement parks.

Abbie married Crane at a small church in front of the few family and friends they had. Some weeks later, she was promoted to an FBI director and gladly accepted the position. Crane supported her, encouraged her. He understood her job. Then she discovered she was pregnant. He supported her then, too, even taught classes fully online to take care of Mel when her job kept her late most nights and occasionally required her to travel. Crane sent her videos and photos of Mel and himself, skyped her. They were a happy family, determined to stay that way.

When their daughter had her first asthma attack, that's when their spats started. Abbie couldn't be there for them, and eventually, Crane resented her for it. She is at a crossroads, not sure how she'll ever find the route back to him or if she even wants to.

Before she can think too much about her marriage, she hears a knock, quickly wipes her face, and turns around. Ash, or Big Ash, as the team around here calls him, stands in her doorway. He's the assistant director, her eyes and ears. Gives her an altered perspective when solving cases. He's the one who brought her the croissant and coffee. He has the worst timing, often catching her pissed or sad. The first time it happened, he didn't speak. He closed the door, fixed her a glass of rum, and handed it to her, which is what he does now. He knows where her stash is because she's offered him a celebratory drink or two after a few rescue missions.

She sips. "Thank you."

"How is she?"

"Fine. Thank God." She pauses. "I just had another fight with Crane."

She never goes into too much detail. He knows bits, not everything. He nods and grips her empty hand; she rests her head on what's supposed to be his shoulder but is part of his arm. He's a tall, muscly man. Abbie lets her tears out, drinks. Ash stares out the window at the tiny cars and the tiny people with her.


Crane paces, shakes his head, mumbles. Abbie wasn't present. She wasn't there when Mel blackened and blued due to lack of oxygen, when he drove 70 in a 45 to hurry her to the ER, when he cried and shook in the freezing waiting room alone. He called and called. Sent texts, left voicemails. She didn't respond to any of them and arrived at the hospital hours later, worried and panicked. He was livid, told her as much. It didn't matter that she was on a critical missing person's case and in the field all day without her phone. He needed her. Their daughter could've died; Abbie wouldn't have known. Crane held that day against her and every other day she wasn't present.

Mel was in and out of the hospital for a couple of months. He watched Melody struggle for breath in ICU. He listened to her endless cry for her mum because she was afraid of the nurses and the beeping machines. Mel didn't have her mother to hold her hand and kiss her forehead. Crane didn't have his partner to fall apart in front of. By the time Abbie was there, Mel was either being checked out of the hospital or stabilized with the right dosage of medicine. She was too late.

"She's asleep now," Sophie says.

He stops pacing. "Thank you, Miss Foster."

"Another fight?"

"Unfortunately."

She pats his chest in sympathy, puts the kettle on.

"You could use some tea."

"You have my gratitude once more."

In the quiet and dim light, they sit with their hot mugs.