A/N: Hey guys, first of all, I just want to say a huge THANK YOU to all of you lovely folks who reviewed, faved and followed this story. I hope I can justify your faith in this story. I've actually had a few new ideas for this fic, so I'm looking forward to playing them out for you. And thank you to marshmallow deviant for letting me know where Ichabod lives – this chapter is for you. ;) I'm saving up going back and watching the first couple of episodes, so I can spoil myself on a weekend I'm not working.

Okay, enough from me, let's get on with the show and see where all of this might be going. I'm dropping a couple of cookies in this chapter to give you a hint of some upcoming drama. See what you can find…

Oh, and I hope everyone is reading the word 'lieutenant' as 'leftenant' in their heads with this story, which is the proper British way of saying that word. I'm Australian, so we swap between the two pronunciations pretty routinely over here, so it's not a stretch for me. :)

CHAPTER TWO

Abbie turned off the ignition of her car but didn't immediately get out. She leaned across to the glove box and pulled out a carefully folded up piece of paper. Unfolding the paper, she looked at the engraved writing declaring a charity gala for tomorrow night but it was the handwritten note at the bottom which really held her attention.

'Would love to catch up. Think about it?'

And Abbie had been thinking about it, practically non-stop ever since she'd seen Edward's handwriting. Which was stupid because she had a lot going on in her life these days and an old, messy relationship shouldn't be one of them. She blew out a noisy huff, annoyed at herself for being so distracted when there were so many more pressing concerns to be getting on with. Abbie blamed her current feeling of exhaustion for making her vacillate over something she should be over and done with. She seemed to always be waking up more tired than when she went to bed lately. It was starting to wear her down. Abbie shoved the invitation back into the glove box and climbed out the car. She thrust her hands in her coat pocket and walked up to Ichabod's cabin. The sound of wood being chopped could be heard as she drew closer so Abbie didn't bother going inside, but rather, walked around to the back of the cabin. There was Ichabod, expertly splitting wood with an axe. "You know the house has electricity, right?"

Ichabod stopped in his endeavors and turned around to look at her.

"You don't need to chop wood, you can just flick a switch if you want heat or light."

"I find the chopping of wood to be rather cathartic in nature," answered Ichabod as he wiped his sweaty brow with the inside sleeve of his shirt.

Abbie arched an eyebrow. "Really?" She shrugged. "I guess. I mean, I like to run."

Ichabod frowned. "Run?"

"Yes, go jogging, run."

"Where are you running to?" asked Ichabod in confusion.

"Nowhere, I'm usually on a tread mill." She could see he didn't understand. "It's like this motorized track that you run on and you don't go anywhere."

Ichabod blinked. "What is the point of running if it doesn't take you anywhere?"

"It's good cardio." She tapped her chest. "You know, good for your heart."

He tilted his head at her, the way he always did when he was trying to understand something she was saying. "Why not simply run in nature?"

"Because the treadmill is more convenient."

"In what way is a mechanized devise I assume you have to purchase, assemble and provide some kind of power source to, more convenient than simply opening ones' door and stepping out into the world?" asked a bewildered Ichabod.

Abbie wrinkled her nose. "It's too early for one of these conversations, Crane. I just can't, at least not without a cup of coffee in me."

"Then fortune smiles sweetly upon you, Lieutenant," said Ichabod as he swung his axe down into the stump he'd been splitting blocks of wood on, leaving it embedded there. He smiled down at her. "I have just such a beverage warming on my stove."

"Thank heavens," Abbie groaned. "I've run out and haven't made it to the store to buy more." She walked over and picked up an armful of the split wood, just as Ichabod was doing, to help him carry it all back into the cabin. Abbie followed Ichabod into the cabin and watched him neatly stack his armful of wood before turning around to take hers.

He frowned as he took the wood from her arms, searching her face. "You look tired."

Abbie scowled. "Boy, thanks," she said sardonically, "take me now, big boy."

Ichabod hesitated, looking uncertain.

"You don't tell a woman she looks tired," said Abbie irritably. "That's not what we want to hear."

"But you do look tired," protested Ichabod. His voice lowered in concern. "Are you not sleeping well?" His frowned deepened. "Are you having nightmares?"

These days nightmares and visions were par for the course, so Abbie understood why Ichabod was asking her that. "No, no nightmares, no dreams, nothing. I'm just a bit tired." She shrugged. "I think I need a new bed, is all. I've had this one for nearly ten years. It might be a time for an upgrade."

"As long as you are sure there is nothing wrong," said Ichabod earnestly.

"Well, I was lured into this cabin with promises of coffee," said Abbie, straight-faced. She waggled her empty hands in front of him. "And yet, look at this, no coffee."

"Your wish is my command."

"Dang," said Abbie, pulling out a chair and sitting down, "in that case I should have asked for a pony." She paused. "A pony pulling a whole cartload of coffee."

Ichabod poured out some of the dark brew into a mug and handed it to Abbie. "Perhaps if we just start with one cup and see where that takes us, eh?"

Abbie looked down at the coffee between her hands and breathed deeply, her sleep deprived body screaming out for the rush that she knew the first mouthful would bring. "I love you and want to have your babies," she said with the utmost sincerity to her coffee, knowing this caffeinated beverage was most likely going to be only way she was going to make it through today. There was a clatter of crockery behind her and Abbie twisted in her seat to see a suddenly nervous looking Ichabod. "You alright?"

"Did you say something, Lieutenant?" he asked unevenly.

"I was just talking to my coffee." Abbie saw the way Ichabod was now looking at her for that admission. She hugged her mug closer to her chest. "What, that's a thing. People talk to inanimate objects all the time."

"Perhaps, but I'm uncertain how many of their number would offer to bear their offspring." Ichabod frowned. "Which doesn't even make any kind of sense."

"That's why you shouldn't listen to private conversations," said Abbie defensively.

Ichabod walked around to sit down across from her. "And by that, you mean private conversations between you and ground coffee beans reconstituted with hot water?"

Abbie pouted at him. "Don't you be getting all up in my coffee addiction, Crane. A girl has to be allowed the occasional vice or two."

"Are you saying you have more than one vice, Lieutenant?" He smiled at her over the top of his own cup of coffee. "How very intriguing. I wonder what the others could be?"

Abbie smiled sweetly. "I've been known to kick smug British guys under the table for thinking they're funny when they're not."

Ichabod gave a little laugh. "I wouldn't call that vice, so much as poor impulse control – ow!" He reached under the table and rubbed his wounded knee, the one Abbie had just kicked for his teasing of her.

"Oh yeah," said Abbie innocently, "I guess you're right. Definitely poor impulse control. But what's a girl gonna do, right?"

"She could wear less unyielding shoes, for one thing," Ichabod, feigning irritation.

Abbie just smirked. "Toughen up, princess."

"Excuse me?" gasped Ichabod.

"You heard me," said Abbie impishly, taking another large mouthful of her coffee and feeling the caffeine start to buzz through her system. She sighed happily. "I needed that."

"The beverage or the physical assault?" asked Ichabod wryly.

"It's a tossup." Abbie took another mouthful of coffee and let it warm her from the inside out as her gaze wandered around the cabin. "You have a message."

Ichabod looked at her blankly. "Do I?"

"On your answering machine."

"My what?"

Abbie pointed to the black box with the blinking red light on a side table by the door, next to the phone she knew Ichabod never used. "Someone has rung this cabin and left a phone message." She stood up and walked over to it and pressed the flashing light.

"Corbin, it's me. I finally got a lead on that guy you were trying to track down. The word is he always goes to this club on the outskirts of town on a Thursday night, the Bump N Grind. He's going by the name of Max Duncan these days. He should know where you can get that book you're so eager to get your hands on. And by the way, you owe me – buy me a beer the next time you see me."

The phone clicked as the man hung up.

Ichabod was by her side now, expression intent. "Do you know of this Max Duncan that Captain Corbin was so interested in?"

"No," said Abbie quietly.

Ichabod looked at her. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "It's just, I don't know, hearing someone talk about August as though he's still here." Abbie looked away. "It just makes it harder to believe that he's not."

"I am very sorry for the loss of your friend, Lieutenant," said Ichabod softly. "He did not deserve to die."

Abbie's lips tightened. "A lot of people haven't deserved to die since all this started but there is nothing we can do about that." She pinned Ichabod with a determined look. "What we can do is try and stop any more people from falling victim to all of this crazy. If Corbin was looking for this Duncan guy in regards to some book, you can bet it wasn't about an overdue library book. I think it's worthwhile tracking this guy down and seeing what he knows."

"I agree," said Ichabod quickly. "Corbin seemed to be expecting a lot of the things we find happening around us. To follow a lead he has laid down for us, even from the afterlife, seems like a very prudent step." He pursed his lips. "This Bump N Grind establishment, do you know of it?"

"Oh yeah," said Abbie dryly, "I know it."

"Is it some kind of coffee house? Where they grind their own beans perhaps?"

"It's more that they grind other people's beans." Abbie's lips twitched as she held back a smile.

Ichabod pulled a face. "You're looking amused. I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Abbie laughed. "Let's just say it might be an education."

"One I'm most likely going to regret, I suspect."

#

Ichabod moved a little restlessly in the car, his legs needing to be stretched. They'd been sitting outside this establishment since seven o'clock that evening and it was now close to midnight. He glanced again at the picture on the dashboard of Max Duncan and his many aliases. The Lieutenant had been easily able to find the man in what she called 'the system'. The interweb still unnerved Ichabod somewhat and he remained loathe to truly make an attempt to understand it, instead deferring to let Miss Mills' expertise in this area. Once finding a picture of the man they were looking for, he and the Lieutenant had opted for a low key approach to singling him out. As neither one of them had the slightest idea as to where this might lead, it was decided that advertising their presence and interest in the man might not be to their advantage. Instead, they'd sat outside this obvious den of iniquity as men had walked in and out all night. "You know, this plot of land used to be owned by John Mills," he announced suddenly.

Abbie was slouched down in her chair, head propped up with one hand, eyes half-open but never leaving the entrance of the Bump N Grind. "You don't say?" she asked with evident disinterest.

"Yes, he had quite a severe stutter, it made him very self-conscious to speak."

"I guess it would," said Abbie absently.

"He was a furrier by trade," continued on Ichabod, hoping that some light conversation might pass the dragging time away. "He used to trap beavers and make most excellent coats and blankets out of their pelts."

"So, as business go, things haven't changed too much then," observed Abbie wryly. "It's still all about beavers."

Ichabod turned his head and looked at her blankly. "Are you saying that this establishment, along with offering gratuitous titillation to men of a certain ilk, also supplies beaver-related wares?" He scratched his cheek. "Most interesting. You know, there is nothing warmer than a blanket made of stitched beaver pelts. I might be interested in acquiring such an article, if possible." Ichabod suddenly noticed the way the Lieutenant was staring at him. "Have I misspoken? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Abbie opened her mouth and then closed it again, as though deciding against her original reply. She looked him over. "I don't have the strength right now, Crane. Let's save that conversation for when I've lost the will to live."

Ichabod was confused but as that was how he seemed to find himself after at least half of the conversations he had with people in this new world, he was starting to get used to it. "He had a wife you know."

Abbie blinked. "Who?"

"John Mills, he had a wife, Elizabeth. She was a very skilled in the art of apothecary."

"You mean she was like a pharmacist?"

"I don't know the meaning of that word but she would make potions and tinctures to cure the local townsfolk of their ailments."

"Pharmacist," concluded Abbie.

"Elizabeth Mills would use the castoreum she milked from the castor glands of the beavers her husband trapped and use it to help with such maladies as headaches, fever and hysteria. They were a most efficient partnership."

"What are castor glands?"

"They are located near the anal glands of the beaver," said Ichabod conversationally. "They use them to mark their territory, along with their urine, of course."

Abbie's mouth dropped open. "She used to give beaver butt juice to people?"

"It was highly effective from all accounts."

Abbie wrinkled her nose. "Do me a favour, Crane, it I'm ever hysterical, just leave me be. I don't want to be cured."

"Duly noted, Lieutenant." He looked back at the gaudily lit club, noting the patrons were starting to thin out. "Perhaps we have missed our man? Perhaps he has decided against requiring either bumping or grinding tonight?"

Abbie grunted. "Maybe, but seeing as we have to wait another whole week to try and track him down again, I say we give it another half hour or so."

"Very well."

"You know, I thought you'd be more appalled by a house of sin like this," observed Abbie casually.

"Licentiousness is hardly an invention of this century, Lieutenant," said Ichabod wryly. "It gives me no pride to say this, but certain people of my time could more than hold their own in the area of debauchery."

Abbie looked suddenly curious. "Did you ever go to one of these places, back in the day?"

"When I was in the military, it wasn't uncommon for men to frequent such places. Indeed, it was expected."

"Huh," mused Abbie, "you're a dark horse."

"I did not find such places to be a source of titillation, Lieutenant." Memories swirled through his mind as he remembered those smoke-filled rooms with drunken men spilling drinks and enjoying the company of women. Anything to take your mind off the horrors which would be waiting for them when a new dawn broke and they were called to arms once again. "They were sad places full of lost souls."

"They still are but don't ask me to feel sorry for any of those guys. At least they have a choice. Most of those women don't."

"It is indeed a great sadness that a woman's body is always something certain men would wish to reduce to a commodity to be bought and sold rather than to protect it as the treasure it truly is," said Ichabod seriously.

Abbie was looking at him again, head propped up by her hand with her elbow wedged against the window. "That's a really sweet thing to say, Crane." She sighed. "I guess it's true what they say – they don't make 'em like they used to."

"Who says that?"

Abbie waved a vague hand at him. "You know, they, them."

Ichabod didn't know but he let the matter go. He turned back in his seat and went back to watching the club. The minutes ticked by in a comfortable silence for a little while until Ichabod watched a man stagger out of the club and promptly throw up onto the sidewalk before collapsing face down into his own splattered vomit. "I wonder if Frederick Philipse could have envisaged such goings on in the town he founded?" mused Ichabod. "Most likely if he knew of the state of many things in Sleepy Hollow he would be spinning in his grave." He watched the man struggle to stand up and promptly start vomiting again. "Still, I don't suppose any of us can know what is to become of our legacy. Once we pass from this world, our legacy, whatever it might be, is bequeathed to those who remain behind and we have no control over such things." Ichabod pulled a face. "Unless you're me, of course and happen to wake up two hundred and fifty years later. Then I suppose you get another bite of the apple… even if there is the occasional worm in it. And by worm, I mean supernatural beings intent on destroying me and indeed the entire world. What do you think, Lieutenant?" When Abbie didn't answer, Ichabod turned his head to see she was fast asleep. He glanced at the clock and saw it was now half past midnight and he didn't blame her for being overcome. But sleeping slouched over in this mechanical beast was not a proper way to find any real rest. Ichabod lent over, his face near hers. "Lieutenant," he said softly, not wanting to wake her too violently. "Wake up. I think that our endeavors tonight are not destined to yield us any fruit." Abbie didn't respond, her breathing slow and shallow. Ichabod leaned in a little closer. "Lieutenant."

Abbie's head lolled towards his, her eyes opening ever so slightly. "Ichabod," she breathed and then she was closing the small distance between them, her lips suddenly on his.

Ichabod froze at the first touch of her lips on his, stunned by this turn of events. Abbie's lips moved back and forth on his in a languorous caress. Ichabod gasped when he felt the hot warmth of her tongue against his lips and that was all Abbie needed to be granted access. The taste of her exploded in Ichabod's mouth, making his head spin and heart pound painfully in his chest. The sensations were so extraordinary that he pulled back, overcome and shaken. Abbie's eyes slid shut again and she continued to just lie back against her seat, not moving. Ichabod stared at her in distress for a long moment, trying to work out what had just happened. The quiet of the night was consumed in the roaring in his ears as he ran a shaking hand through his hair. When Abbie continued to just lie there peacefully, Ichabod couldn't take it anymore. He scrambled out of the car, welcoming the bracing coldness of the late night air as he leaned heavily against the car door. "Oh," he finally managed to push out through lips which were still tingling from that kiss.

And he thought Headless Horsemen were the only thing he had to worry about…

A/N: Okay, I know I said I wasn't going to jump into any kind of romance in my opening remarks of this story and I meant it… so just bear with me, okay? I have a cunning plan to have all of this not come out as OOC, trust me – I'm a doctor. Well, I'm not a doctor, I'm a medical scientist, but you should still trust me. LOL