Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow belongs to Washington Irving and Fox
Chapter 1 - Ichabod's POV
Ichabod Crane has never met a woman like Lieutenant Abigail Mills and he finds that fact amusing and perplexing at equal turns. She is unlike anything that could have existed in his era: a warrior, yet a woman; an equal among her peers despite the color of her skin. She is headstrong, but compassionate; strong-willed, but feminine. She is intrigue and irritability all wrapped up in a small package that barely reaches his chin. And she is the closest thing to a friend that Ichabod has in this new and confusing era he's woken up in.
Fate has thrown them together – they are the Two Witnesses to the End Times, after all – but there is something more than that fact, and the fact that Miss Mills is his guide to the early 21st century, that has him valuing their time together, whether in the old Armory that serves as their base of operations or on the road in that metal box she insists on calling a "car".
At first, Ichabod thinks it simple fascination. Miss Mills is so different from any person, man or woman, that he knows or has known, that he can't help but want to catalogue every one of her quirks and foibles. This is what he tells himself as he finds himself unable to look away from the beguiling grin that crosses her face when she teases him for his anachronistic ways or when he has to hold himself back from reaching for her when it is as plain as day that she is in emotional distress only contained by the sheer power of her determination.
It takes 6 months before Ichabod figures out what is happening to him.
It is the middle of February. Weak sunlight filters in through the windows of the police station and the skies outside are gray with cold. He sits with Miss Mills at her desk, sorting through a horrendous backlog of paperwork that has piled up over a particularly busy two weeks of averting the Apocalypse. Ichabod is used to the routine by now: he puts the papers into some semblance of order while Miss Mills enters the information on her computer.
Ichabod looks up from the sheaf of papers in his hand in time to see Miss Mills close her eyes and tilt her head to one side to stretch out the stiffness in her neck. Ichabod finds himself in a moment frozen in time. His gaze follows the soft curve of her cheek; the fullness of her lips that begs to be traced by a man's thumb; and as he drops his eyes to the enticing length of her neck, exposed by the V-neck sweater she wears, Ichabod imagines planting a trail of kisses from ear to shoulder.
The moment is brief, no more than half a second, but it hits him with a rush: he is attracted to Abigail Mills. Guilt and shame war with the desire that courses through him and Ichabod hurries to look away. He is a married man, for God's sake! And still very much in love with his wife, his beloved Katrina.
But it has been so long since he has seen her, truly seen her, outside of the dreams where she comes to him with dire warnings, where he wakes and cannot recall her face. And Miss Abigail Mills is very much real and present in his daily life in a way Katrina never was, not even in the nascent days of their marriage.
Ichabod stifles the groan that builds up in his throat. He feels almost sick with betrayal. What is he going to do?
Something in his demeanor must have given hint to his distress, for Miss Mills looks in his direction. "Alright over there, Crane?"
Ichabod feels the heat rise to his cheeks as he meets her worried gaze, dark eyes concerned beneath furrowed brows. "Fine, fine, perfectly fine," he says in an awkward rush. "Shall I go and get us a coffee?" He gets up before he can hear her answer. It's all he can do to get away from her. He is too exposed, his realization too new to hide from Miss Mills' penetrating gaze. He has the presence of mind to grab the two mugs from Miss Mills' desk and tries not to slosh the cold remnants of their earlier cups over his wrists.
When the distance from the desk to the break room is safely between him and Miss Mills, Ichabod has a chance to breathe, to process what's just happened to him. How could he have not seen this coming? All the signs were there and he stumbled past them like a buffoon. His fascination with her, how he cannot stop staring, the way he anticipates their time spent together, even in the direst of situations – he has been blind to the sum of their parts. But, now the whole picture has been uncovered and Ichabod is left scrambling for solid ground.
He takes a deep breath and forces the tightness of his rib cage to loosen. It would not do to sound out of breath in Miss Mills' presence. That would raise her suspicion, he's sure. She need never know, he thinks as he prepares her coffee – a splash of cream, no sugar – no doubt she thinks of him as no more than a friend.
The thought of his unreturned affection is the only thing strong enough to tamp down the heat that races through him. He wishes the thought didn't fill him with hollow sadness, but it is enough for him to start building a barrier to protect his new revelation from prying eyes.
He realizes he has lingered too long in the break room and picks up the mugs by the handles to start his way back to the desk, only to freeze once more at the entrance to the bullpen.
Miss Mills stands by her desk with the receiver to the telephone pressed to her ear. Ichabod wonders why she is standing, but he's too caught up in the vision of her to give it much thought. She faces away from him, hand not holding the receiver gripping the edge of her desk. Her weight rests on one foot, causing her hip to jut out beneath tight trousers. Ichabod's mouth goes dry at the exaggerated curve that extends from inward dip of her waist to the tapering of her upper thigh and he grits his teeth to make sure his jaw isn't hanging open like a simpleton.
He desires to plant his hands around her waist and trace the curves so deliciously displayed in front of him. How do men in this era get anything done, with so many enticing sights around them? It's amazing he hasn't consciously noted Miss Mills' stunning attractiveness before.
Ichabod realizes he is openly staring and stands straighter in chastisement. You are a married man and you will comport yourself as a gentleman, he tells himself. He may have begun adapting to his new era, what with the modern trousers with strange fastenings and short boots that he wears to mimic his previous styling (the coat and the hair stay, no matter how many exasperated sighs Miss Mills gives him), but he will be damned if he compromises on his principles.
Ichabod resumes his walk back to the desk. "Here you are, Lieutenant," he says in announcement.
Miss Mills turns at the sound of his voice and the smile she gives him as she takes the mug he holds out for her makes his heart skip a beat. She mouths her thanks and takes a sip. Ichabod takes a drink of his own coffee to mask the groan that bubbles up at the way she licks her lips at the droplets of coffee that get left behind and finds himself wishing for a shot of sorely needed whisky to pour into his mug.
Averting the Apocalypse just became a lot more difficult.