"'Cause I love you…" Abbie Mills' voice floats through the stillness of the archives. "Baby, baby, baby, I love you," she continues, singing the background part, then presses on, "There ain't no doubt about it, baby, I love you," singing absentmindedly as she slowly scans the shelves in front of her, searching for a particular volume.
Ichabod Crane looks up from the large sheaf of parchment over which he is standing. As Abbie sings and lightly sways to this song he knows to be by Miss Aretha Franklin, he realizes he's been watching and listening to her for the past several minutes instead of studying the ancient map in front of him.
He blinks, something niggling in the back of his brain, yet he continues to watch her rather than returning his attention to his task. He's definitely heard her sing before. Hundreds of times. He's even sung with her on numerous occasions: in the tavern with the karaoke machine, in the car, that one night where they had a little too much to drink and he taught her the shanty he sang at the first karaoke night.
She put me to shame that night with her superior singing, even inebriated as she was. As we both were. She began harmonizing. It was amazing. He knows the sound of her voice as well as his own; better, in fact, and thinks her singing is the sound of angels taking flight.
Honestly, Miss Mills is truly marvelous at everything she does. I have yet to witness a skill at which she does not excel. She is gifted musically. Not only is she remarkably intelligent, but is clever, witty, and has much more common sense than I. The patience of a saint, this I know from firsthand experience. An excellent cook.
He pauses again, thinking of the lasagna, fried chicken, pot roast, and mouth-watering steaks she has prepared for him, among other sumptuous dinners. Not to mention the confections. Oh! the desserts… how General Washington would have swooned. He smiles, remembering the notorious sweet tooth the general possessed. It was his biggest weakness and the main reason he needed his famous false teeth.
"If you feel you wanna kiss me, go right ahead, I don't mind. All you've got to do is snap your fingers and I'll come running, I ain't lying…"
He feels an ache in his chest at hearing her begin the second verse. He blinks again, even shaking his head slightly. It is simply the song that is "stuck in her head", as she says. But… why does it feel like an invitation? Why do I want it to be an invitation?
Just then, Abbie looks over her shoulder at him. "Okay there, Crane?" she asks, interrupting her song.
God's wounds, but she is beautiful. Why have I never taken the time to just… admire how exceedingly lovely she is? "Quite well, thank you, Lieutenant," he answers. A lie. He is flummoxed. He clears his throat. "Have you found the tome for which you are searching?"
"No."
"Perhaps it is on the next set of shelves. If I knew the volume for which you are searching, I would be able to assist you more ably," he suggests.
"That's just it. I don't remember which one it is, but I'll know it when I see it," she says, moving to the next large bookcase. After a few seconds, she starts humming. Then singing again. "'Cause I love you…"
He feels stricken, his stomach floating unsteadily as though he has just stepped off of a cliff.
By the time Abbie reaches the end of the chorus, Ichabod is walking towards her as though pulled. Suddenly, like a jolt, he knows.
"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, baby, I love you."
He quietly steps behind her, his heart pounding, his palms slightly sweaty. He wipes them on his trousers, then places his right hand on her waist.
To his surprise, she only slightly jumps. She stops singing. "What are you doing?" her voice is small, nearly a whisper, as she feels the warmth radiating off of his body seep into her back. Her stomach wobbles at how very close he is. The nature of their association often means they must be in close physical proximity, as they sometimes need to explore cramped quarters or narrow tunnels. Crane is fairly good at keeping his claustrophobia at bay, but Abbie is always keenly aware of his discomfort as evidenced by the occasional gripping of a hand or shoulder. Even above ground, in the open, they are generally connected at the hip, neither having any qualms about leaning in close over the other's shoulder to examine a computer screen or page. Even the time Abbie had to sit on Ichabod's lap while riding in Seamus Duncan's pickup truck with Big Ash was met with a casual shrug on both their parts.
But this. This is different.
"I am simply..." Ichabod whispers his answer, trailing his left hand up her back to her right shoulder, where he gently sweeps her hair aside and nuzzles the side of her neck, just beneath her jaw. The caress is soft, his breath warming the side of her neck.
"Oh…" she breathes, her body going limp and heavy, but she keeps her feet under her. "Wait…" she attempts to gather her wits, straightening her posture again. "What are you doing?" she repeats, her voice wavering.
Both his hands are on her waist now, firm but gentle, and he is struck by how his large hands nearly span her tiny torso. "I am showing you what I am not brave enough to say, Abbie," he murmurs, and she melts again as his lips softly graze her cheek. "Telling you my feelings for you run very deep…" he kisses the edge of her jaw, "…you are simply the most amazing person I have ever met…" he lightly nips the edge of her ear, causing her right side to erupt in gooseflesh, "…and it is my most fervent hope…" his lips brush her cheek again as he speaks, "…that you return my affection."
She moves her head just slightly and finds his lips with hers, telling him her answer without words. A second later, she is turning in his arms, her fingers diving into his hair, dislodging his neatly-done queue. She moans in the back of her throat and opens her mouth immediately when she feels the tip of his tongue against her lips. Her hands clutch his head, his shoulders, scrabbling for purchase as he presses her against the shelves. Beside them, a book tumbles to the floor.
His fingers splay wide on her back, one hand moving up to gently support her head, not wishing her any discomfort as her neck is bent so far back to reach him. She feels so good in his arms, like she belongs there. Her lips are like the sweetest honey and he feels drugged by her taste, her feel, her very essence.
Her leg hooks around his hip even as his hands slide down her petite body. Their lips part for just a moment as he reaches down and lifts her, his strength surprising given his slender form, and she wraps her legs around his waist.
"Abbie..." he grunts, then returns his lips to hers.
She finally closes her fingers around the band holding his hair back, gently tugs it free, tossing it to the floor, then slides her fingers into his unbound hair, the silken waves cool against her suddenly-hot skin.
Ichabod presses Abbie against the bookshelves, using the large item to help support her slight weight. He can feel the heat of her against his stomach, and he groans. His kisses are hungry, with a surprising fire, and he unconsciously rocks his hips forward, pressing against her, though she is sitting too high to feel how she is affecting him physically.
"Oh..." she gasps, pulling away for a second, then diving back in.
Her soft exclamation snaps him back into clarity. He gently eases back, softly pecks her lips, then rests his forehead against hers. "We must stop, dearest Abbie," he breathlessly says.
"We must?" she asks, but understands. He hasn't set her back down, so she wraps her arms around his neck.
"I... should not..." He sighs, exasperated. It is rare that he is at a loss for words. "I was not acting in a gentlemanly manner, and I apologize. I'm afraid I got, as they say, carried away."
She giggles, but not unkindly, then kisses him. "Good Sir, if your advances were unwelcome, you most certainly would know," she replies. "Remember, I took out Colonel Sutton..."
Ichabod remembers that particular part of the story. He was so proud of her. Another thing at which she excels. He chuckles, giving her a light squeeze. "Oh, beg pardon," he says, realizing exactly where he has just squeezed. His hands are still gripping her backside.
His apology only makes Abbie laugh harder. "You could put me down, you know."
He nods, then gently sets her on her feet. His hands immediately clasp in front of him, covering his groin, hoping to hide the fact that his body hasn't finished calming itself.
If Abbie notices this, she tactfully says nothing. She also frowns.
"Lieutenant?" Ichabod asks, fearing that now, out of the circle of his embrace, she has changed her mind.
"Why?" It is a small question that asks so much. Especially when she looks up at him with her large, brown eyes that see into his soul.
"Because, as I said, you are wonderful. Perfect." He pauses. "I am only sorry it took me this long to truly see it."
"I'm not perfect… I have… walls."
He nearly snorts a laugh, but, like her earlier giggle, it is not unkind or derisive. "I am well aware, and yet my opinion remains unchanged." He steps closer again. "For I am standing on the top of these walls, looking down into your heart, patiently awaiting an invitation to join you on the other side." He reaches up and caresses her cheek.
"Crane..." she breathes his name, her voice quiet. She leans back against the bookshelves and looks up at him. "Ichabod. You've been standing on the top of those walls for a long time," she admits. "Only now, you've got a ladder in your hand." She sighs. "Or a wrecking ball poised behind you, ready to strike."
He leans down and kisses her, sweetly this time. "You need only say the word, Miss Mills," he murmurs, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from hers.
She closes her eyes and nods, completely understanding his meaning.
A sound at the secret entrance breaks the spell. "Hey, guys, I found that... what's going on?" Jenny asks, stopping and staring at the scene in front of her. She's used to how close her sister and Crane are, but something seems different.
"I... I was just looking for a book. I mean, Crane was helping me find a book," Abbie quickly says as Ichabod straightens his posture and takes a step back.
"...Rrrright..." Jenny drawls, nodding slowly, her eyes skeptical. "Did you find this 'book'?"
The book that fell – that they caused to fall – catches Abbie's eye, and she bends to pick it up. "Huh. This is actually the one I'm looking for," she says, huffing a small laugh.