Murmurs, murmurs, drew near, scattered to the corners of the room.
He couldn't create words from the sounds, and the aching, aching of his back wouldn't quiet. The ochre hand of pestilence had lain upon him and in this new land he would be lost, he was sure.
He trapped his breath in his lungs, and in the silence he heard the snow whipping through the trees surrounding the cabin, the sighing creek of the windows bearing the brunt of icy gusts, and finally, finally a faint exhale, short and laden.
Ichabod's fingers uncurled from his palms, and he pushed his thumb into the corner of his eye in relief. The myriad linens and quilts on the bed concealed her from his view, and the shard of disquietude born of his previous life in an era of constant loss and virulent disease refused to ease its pointed weight until he could prove beyond all doubt that she hadn't stilled or vanished.
Gently, he lowered his hand to the mountain of covers, resting it on the scratchy wool and waited long seconds. He let the upward, downward movement of the mass pacify his wild imaginings before returning to the parchment-cluttered table. Witnesses, it seemed, were spared no moments for despair or self-indulgence.
She'd insisted she would recover in less than a week. "It's fine, Crane. It's probably just bronchitis. A few aspirin, water, rest – I'll be good as new."
But two days later, her fever continued to rage, and deciphering faded, broken sermo vulgaris had transformed from a tedious task to one so outrightly insignificant it seemed cruel. In a burst of frustration, he sent a heavy tome crashing to the floor.
"Crane?"
He snapped his head to Abbie who stood, swaying noticeably, across the room. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"I just," she swallowed a heavy, painful swallow, moving her hand to the corner of the sofa blindly. "I was cold."
He was already in front of her, grasping at a knit throw he had tossed carelessly aside the night before. "You are not well, lieutenant. You mustn't –"
Her face was ashen, but she set her jaw tightly, "Crane, I am fine. I can take care of myself."
"Abbie." The air that rushed from him was all affection, concern and irritation, a triad he had come to fully comprehend only in recent months. "I know you can. Your self-sufficiency has not ever been counted amongst my doubts," he handed her the blanket. "Please, this is a request I make for myself."
The corner of her mouth made a feeble attempt to lift, but instead Ichabod watched as she dropped the blanket, grasping the couch as her knees surrendered to disuse and vertigo.
She was in is arms before he realized he had moved. "Steady," he brushed against her burning cheek.
"I'm –"
"Yes, yes, you're fine," he assured wryly, bending to fetch the blanket and place his forearms behind her knees and around her shoulders in one continuous movement. "I can see that quite clearly."
"I don't need your snark right now, Crane," she mumbled dejectedly against his chest.
A smile ghosted across his face, but his hands hummed where they touched the bare skin of her legs and neck.
He settled her gently onto the bed, blanket after blanket, and again she had vanished. He placed the final throw on top, stilling at the side of her bed.
"What are you doing?" Her question hoarse, muffled.
It was a question he felt gravely underprepared to answer. An innocent query unintentionally encumbered with meaning. "I –" her eyes, underscored by dark rings, appeared from under the hillock. "I am not accustomed to taking illness in so light a manner."
The crown of her head disappeared, before the blankets lifted. She patted the vacant space beside her on the mattress, and turned onto her side, her back meeting his hesitant gaze. "Come on, you're probably going to get sick anyway."
He watched as his boots and socks made sharp contact with the wooden floor, as if removed by someone other than himself. Outside, it was white and barren and stark.
When he finally folded himself along Abbie's side, he breathed her, let her heartbeat echo through his bones.
The cabin was silent.
Long kept remembrances wove their way from within, spilling whispered and uneven into the quiet of the room. "When I first arrived at the colonies, I succumbed to yellow fever. Many soldiers died that year," his nose skimmed her shoulder. "Many of my friends died."
She turned, and when she twined her legs with his, he felt something sharp within him lessen. "I'm sorry," her hand smoothed across his brow, and she brought her lips, still blistering, to his forehead. Each word pressed and permanent: "I'm not going anywhere, Ichabod."
When the sun glinted off the snow the next morning, blinding him awake, her steady breathing was the only sound he could hear.