Captain Irving was actually kind enough to give Abbie the afternoon and evening off (barring any emergency demonic weirdness, in which case she is now the first person he calls) to get Ichabod moved and settled.
It's more time than they need, but she takes advantage of it. Once they get his little plastic bag of goodies unpacked at her house (took about ten seconds), Abbie realizes that while she wants to take him shopping, she has no idea what sizes he needs.
Tape measure. I have one here somewhere. She digs into her closet and finds her sewing kit. She's not much of a seamstress, but she can sew on a button or fix a blown hem. She finds the tape measure and brings it to the living room, where Ichabod is regarding an Entertainment Weekly magazine with a puzzled scowl.
"I need to measure you," she says, "so we know what size clothing to buy. There aren't tailors or anything at the stores we're going to."
"Oh. All right," he says, tossing the magazine back on the table and standing.
"We'll start here," she says, reaching up to measure his neck. "Um, can you…?"
Crane kneels down, smiling when he realizes that she's having difficulty because of the marked difference in their heights.
"Thank you," she says. Why is my voice so breathy? Why is it so warm in here?
Get a grip, Girl. His wife may or may not be dead, and she's a witch.
"Sixteen and a half," she declares. Then she measures the arm length. "Thirty-four. You can stand up."
He does, and she decides to measure his chest, in case they get him a sport jacket or something.
"Excuse me," she whispers, snaking her arms around his torso to take the measurement, holding her breath as she does so. "Fourty-four," she declares. "I should be writing these down…"
"I've got them, Miss Mills," he says. His voice sounds a bit too soft, a bit too breathy as well.
Of course he's got them. Eidetic memory, I think he said.
She wraps her arms around his body again to measure his waist.
He tries to remember to breathe.
"Thirty-four," she whispers. "Oh, dear," she says next.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"I need to measure your inseam… the inside of your leg for the pant – I mean, trouser length," she says, correcting herself so he understands that she's not talking about undergarments.
He's been teaching her a few words as well. "Pants" means "underwear" to him, and while he's trying to adapt, she's trying to be mindful as well to make things easier for him.
"Ah," is all he can think to say.
"Um, hold this, end," she says, handing him the end of the tape measure. "Put it… yes, there," she exhales, relieved that he knows where there is.
"Thirty-two," she says, gathering the tape measure up, nearly bolting away from him. "You, Mr. Crane, are what we call 'a tall drink of water,'" she adds, once there is distance enough to allow her to think clearly again.
"I've always been long and lean, even as a boy," he says, feeling a little less cloudy now as well.
"And I've always been short," she answers, smiling. "You hungry?"
"Famished," he says.
xXx
Over lunch at Subway (he's been obsessed since the first time Abbie brought him there. "All these choices! And how do they slice the meat so neatly and uniformly? I can really have all these things for no additional cost? This is the America I fought for!"), Abbie decides that perhaps dropping Yankee Doodle in the middle of Wal-mart straight out of the gate isn't the best idea. She should gradually work him up to the parade of humanity that is Wal-mart.
Talk about culture shock.
"I think… yes. I think we'll start at Kohl's, down in Yonkers, first," she says.
Crane looks up, disappointed. "Not Wal-mart?"
"We'll get there. Kohl's is better for clothing. And it's still reasonably priced, by today's standards. They always have good sales," she says. And I have a Kohl's charge card I can dump it all on and worry about later.
"You do not… bargain? Um, haggle over prices?"
"Not in these places," she says.
"Curious," he muses, crunching on a potato chip like it is ambrosia from the gods. "These… chips… I cannot seem to get enough of them," he adds absently. She had noticed that he snapped up the bag rather quickly, obviously remembering them from last time.
"Well, control yourself or you'll get fat," she says, laughing.
"Oh, dear…" he laments. "Is that always the way? The things that taste the best are the least nutritious? First it was the doughnut holes, then that… decadent confection in the orange wrapper…"
"Peanut butter cup," she supplies.
"Good heavens, yes," he groans. It sounds almost erotic.
I wonder if he sounds like that when… shut up, Abbie.
"And now this," he says, frowning at the yellow bag sadly.
"I didn't say you should never eat them, Crane," she laughs. "Just… use moderation."
"Ah, now that I can understand. And I should definitely consider using moderation next time we are here. I believe I chose poorly somewhere in here." He opens his sandwich and peers inside. "It feels like someone has set my tongue aflame," he mutters, looking for the culprit.
"It's probably the jalapeño peppers," she says. "Those. The round green ones."
He starts picking them out and placing them on the waxed paper sandwich wrapper. "Next time, I shall have to remember not to add those," he says. He cocks his head to the side. "Jalapeño," he repeats, the Mexican word sounding strange in his British mouth. "That's quite fun to say. Jalapeño."
Abbie laughs at him. "You'll learn what combinations you like."
Inside Kohl's, Abbie heads straight for the men's department. You do not need anything. Crane needs clothes more than you do. Abbie immediately starts looking at clothes while Ichabod stares around the store, marveling at everything, muttering under his breath occasionally.
"Ah, here we go," she says, rifling through the clearance rack, pulling out a pair of khakis his size. "Crane," she beckons him over. He's inspecting a mannequin, poking at it with his finger.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" he asks smoothly, stepping over.
"See this?" She points to the little 34x32 on the tag. "That's what you're looking for. See if you can find some things you like. I'm going to find you some jeans."
"Jeans?"
"Like these." She points to her jeans. "They're what most people wear for basic everyday clothes."
"Ah. I do like these," he holds up the khakis she'd found already. They're basic cargo khakis.
"Well, hold onto those, and see what else you can find," she says, suddenly realizing that with his slender yet muscular build and slightly above-average height, he's going to look good in anything.
Lucky shit.
Ichabod peruses the racks, wincing a little at the metallic scraping sound the hangers make on the metal bar. So many choices. How do they get all these wonderful colors? He chooses two more pairs, and walks over to where he can just make out the top of Abbie's head.
"Miss Mills, what letter am I?" he calls, passing a shirt he thinks he likes.
"Letter?" she calls back.
"Yes, this shirt has no numbers. Am I 'M,' 'L,' 'S,' or…"
"Um, try 'XL.' That means 'Extra Large.' You might be a 'Large,' but I think with your height, we'd better go XL." She pauses a moment. "What did you find?" she asks, walking over with three pairs of jeans in her arms. She realizes that she's curious about his taste.
"Just a shirt," he says, holding it up. It's a navy blue tone-on-tone striped button-down shirt, long-sleeved.
He has good taste. "Nice," she nods, quickly checking the price. Not too bad.
"Should I be checking the price labels as well?" he asks, noticing her actions.
"I always do," she says. She doesn't want to tell him that police officers are never paid what they deserve. No sense in making him feel guilty about all this. "Just to make sure I'm getting a good deal, you know. Unfortunately, you'll have to learn what a 'good deal' is in today's prices," she sighs. "Grab that blue shirt."
Truth be told, the blue shirt is a little more expensive than she would like, but she can already picture him in it, and… damn.
She gently guides him back to the clearance racks, this time for more shirts. He picks a few, she picks a few, and she leads him to the fitting rooms.
"What is this?" he asks.
"You can try the clothes on to make sure they fit to your liking before you buy them," she says.
"Wonderful! How clever and convenient," he declares.
Then realization hits Abbie square between the eyes. Shit. "Um, Crane, can I ask you a… delicate question?"
"Of course, Miss Mills. You may ask me anything, at any time," he smiles at her.
I've heard that one before. Only he actually means it. "Um, what do you have on beneath your trousers?"
"My undergarments," he says plainly.
"Oh, so you are covered, then," she says, relieved, but also realizing that he'll need some new ones. Definitely a Wal-mart purchase.
"Of course, why?"
"Well, I had no idea if you wore underwear back then. And you can't go trying on clothes in a store without something covering your business," she says, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of his groin. From a safe distance. "We'll get you some new ones, though. At Wal-mart, not here. Prices are better."
"Very well. I shall try these on, then," he says, seemingly nonplussed by the topic. He gathers all the items in his arms and marches into the changing room.
"I'll be right out here if you, um, need help," she says.
"Thank you," he answers.
"I really like these jeans," he says, striding out of the changing room wearing only the jeans. They are hanging far too attractively off of his hips. "Strong and durable, yet remarkably comfortable."
Sweet Jesus.
Stop staring. Eyes up.
"Miss Mills?" he prompts.
"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Try a shirt with them," she suggests.
"Yes, of course," he says, blinking a little at her strange reaction. "Do these not look good?"
"They look very good," she says. "But sometimes it works better to try things on together…" she adds, grasping for an excuse now.
He shows her everything he tries, and her prediction holds. He looks good in everything. There are one or two pieces he decides he doesn't like, though, and they put them aside.
Abbie looks at his booted feet when he emerges from the dressing room with the clothes they've chosen. "We need to get you some shoes. I mean, the boots are hot and all, but they're not going to work with your new clothes," she says, dropping the clothes in a cart she brought over when he was putting his old clothes back on.
"Hot? Yes, I suppose they do get a trifle warm from time to time," he says, looking down at his feet.
"Oh, um, hot means… attractive," she says.
"Ah. We did not measure my feet, Miss Mills."
"I know. Shoe sizes are different. We're going to have to guess until we find the right one, unless they have one of those foot-measuring things, which I doubt."
"Foot measuring things? Curious."