A/N: This is going to be a collection of one-shot non-consecutive mini-fics about Abbie and Ichabod's activities while not fighting the apocalypse. The little off-hours things we'd maybe like to see on the show but won't get. There will be some romantic Ichabbie scenes, and for those, it is to be assumed that Katrina is no longer around.
"Now, remember, this is not your first time flying," Abbie quietly says as they walk down the jetway to the plane.
"Yes, of course I remember," Crane replies, his tone clipped.
He's cranky. He's cranky because he's nervous.
"I'm sorry, but it's just not believable that this would be your first flight. No one, like, literally no one makes the journey from England to the U.S. by boat anymore unless they are piloting a cargo ship," she says. "Here. Seats 11 A and B. Are you sure you don't want the window?"
"Absolutely not. The idea of being able to—" he briefly shudders, then drops into his seat, "—see outside while we are suspended 30,000 feet in the air inside a giant tin..." he pauses, searching for a word, "…autobus with wings is not appealing to me in the slightest."
Abbie patiently stares at him through his diatribe. "You done?"
Crane's posture sags slightly. "Yes. For now."
"Good. I realize you need to let it out, but I'm afraid you'll start freaking out the squares."
"The what?"
"You know, the random people who aren't weirdo biblical Witnesses," she explains, smiling. "Don't forget to fasten your seat belt," she adds, gesturing towards his seat.
"Oh," he softly exclaims, looking down and reaching for the belt. "We're to be strapped in so we stay put should this contraption decide to plummet us to our deaths."
"Crane..."
"Right," he acquiesces, securing his seat belt with a click. He watches people file past, finding their seats and stowing their things. "How long will this take?"
"We should be in D.C. in just over an hour," she answers. "You should appreciate the expediency at the very least. A journey that length would have taken how long during your former time?"
"Several days," he says, reaching his long fingers into the pocket in front of him and withdrawing the airsickness bag.
Abbie watches his face with amused interest as he reads the words printed on the paper sack. "Let's hope you won't need that," she says, just as he is gingerly replacing it.
"Iron constitution," he proudly declares.
"You didn't get seasick on your journey over here?"
"Not one jot. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Abraham. Thankfully, we were not on the same ship," he chuckles.
Abbie laughs loudly, making heads turn. "The Horseman of Death… gets motion sickness?" she quietly asks through her giggles.
"Well, I seriously doubt he does now," Crane amends, his eyes twinkling with mirth as his lips curve up in one of his rare smiles.
"Yeah, I think you need a head to get motion sickness. The workings of the inner ear and all," she allows. "Too bad though. We may have been able to use that to our advantage somehow." She looks up at Crane, a crafty smile on her face. "It's a shame we can't just send him some food from Los Mariachis," she snorts, remembering their bout with mild food poisoning the previous winter.
"Oh, dear, I don't know if I would wish that on my worst enem— wait, yes. Yes, I would," he agrees.
"Can't eat without a head either," she muses. "Oh, well. We have other tools in our arsenal besides motion sickness and tainted burritos."
"Quite." He looks around. "When are we going to start moving? I cannot abide this infernal wait." His fingers twitch idly in his lap.
"Soon. I think they just closed the doors."
A few minutes later, the plane starts to move, slowly heading towards the runway.
"Miss Mills," Crane quietly says. His voice sounds different. Smaller. "Abbie."
His rare use of her first name garners him her full attention. "What's wrong, Crane?" she softly asks. She has a pretty good idea what is troubling him.
"I'm frightened," he admits.
"I know," she says. Then, she reaches over and takes his hand, holding it between them on the arm rest. "It'll be fine. I promise."
"First time flying?" the flight attendant pauses near their row, having noticed Crane's somewhat tense demeanor.
"I am afraid I do not enjoy air travel," he replies, answering her question without giving himself away.
"Well, it looks like you're in good hands," she cheerfully answers.
Abbie returns her smile and the flight attendant continues down the aisle.
"Crane, look. That plane is about to take off," Abbie says, pointing out her window. They've stopped moving, waiting their turn.
Inherently curious, Crane leans across his partner to peer out the small window. He watches, wide-eyed, as the impossibly large aircraft impossibly takes to the sky like it is the biggest bird ever.
"I do not know if that makes me feel better or worse," he says, turning to look at Abbie.
"I was hoping for better, obviously," she replies as he straightens up and leans back in his seat. Their plane begins to move again and he tightens his grip on her hand a little.
They taxi into position. The engines kick into high gear. The plane begins to move forward.
Crane clutches Abbie's hand. She looks over to see his eyes are closed as well.
They accelerate, then the thrust of the engines as it propels them skyward presses them back in their seats. His eyes open.
Ichabod Crane is airborne for the first time in his life.
His heart is racing, but he is no longer certain if it is fear, exhilaration, or a combination. Still gripping Abbie's hand, he looks over to see her smiling fondly up at him.
"Oh, my..." he half sighs, half groans. He looks over at her, his eyes now bright with excitement. "That was… something."
It's the motorcycle all over again. "Yeah, take-offs are kind of fun," she agrees. The plane banks slightly to turn, and the earth stretches below them, clearly visible through the window. "Look," she says.
He leans across her again, eagerly looking out the window this time. "Amazing," he whispers.
"Are you sure you don't want the window seat?" Abbie asks, noting Crane's torso is basically in her lap. He is so frequently in her personal space she no longer thinks anything of it. However, she doesn't exactly want to spend the entire flight this way.
"Oh." He sits up again. "No, this is fine. I do not need to spend the flight staring out the window and ignoring you. Plus, the aisle seat affords more leg room."
"Not a problem for me," she replies laughing. The plane levels off, and the flight attendants give the safety speech. Crane is the only passenger who pays attention.
He listens intently when the pilot's voice sounds over the intercom. He drinks ginger ale and eats his packet of pretzels (the flight attendants shamelessly fawn over him, too). He pretends not to be troubled by the few pockets of mild turbulence. He peruses the Sky Mall catalog, alternating between being intrigued and horrified, coveting items while simultaneously decrying their decadence and frivolity.
Crane periodically leans across Abbie to look out the window. At one point, she threatens to use his back as a table.
Eventually, she gives up. He won't switch seats but is fascinated by the view. She simply rests one hand on his back as he leans over her, smiling despite herself at his childlike enchantment. She is surprised to discover she has missed this aspect of his personality. He's been in this time for three years and has almost completely acclimated, so his moments of discovery have become increasingly fewer and farther between.
He glances over and catches her smiling at him. "I did it again," he murmurs, straightening up. "Forgive me."
"It's all right," she says. "I was simply smiling because it's been so long since I've seen you like this. All excited about something new. I… I've missed it," she admits.
His cheeks color slightly and he looks down for a moment, then back to her face. "Sometimes I wish I could take you back to my era – provided I could ensure your complete safety, of course – and return the favor. Show you my world. Watch your face light up with discovery." He smiles down at her for a moment, then adds, "Though, I do not know what I could show you that would be impressive to an independent woman of the 21st century."
"I'm sure you'd come up with something, Crane," she says, patting his hand. He turns it and takes hers in it again, not because he needs to, but because he wants to.
The pilot's voice comes over the intercom again, and soon, they are beginning their descent.
"Miss Mills, may I…?"
"Sure," she says, releasing his hand so he can lean across her to look out the window once more.
Crane stays pasted to the window until the drop in altitude allows them to feel the speed at which they are traveling. Then, he returns to his seat and clutches Abbie's hand once again.
He startles slightly when the wheels hit the ground, and she grins at him. "This is the man who didn't flinch when we tried to blow up the horseman's skull in the tunnels?"
"I was expecting the explosion," he answers, attempting to sound haughtier than he actually feels. "I was not expecting the landing of this aircraft to be so… jarring."
"I understand. To be honest, I kind of jumped, too," she admits, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Gravity is a cruel mistress indeed," she chuckles. "Though, as landings go, that was a pretty smooth one."
His eyes widen. "That was smooth?"