He arrives promptly at 8 o'clock, wearing his usual clothes and looking windswept. She isn't surprised because she's been listening to the wind whipping past her windows for about an hour now; she is surprised by what he brings.

"You bought me chocolates?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

"I heard from Miss Jenny that you'd prefer them to flowers, both of which are custom to this day?" he asks, and she sighs in response. Of course Jenny put him up to it.

"Custom for people in relationships," she says, standing aside to let him into her apartment.

"A friendship is a relationship," he says stoutly, and she knows he knows what she meant, but is determined to play innocent nonetheless. "If you don't want them..." he says, and his reluctant, almost hurt expression is enough to break her. Even though she's ninety percent sure it's for show.

"Of course I do," she says. "Thanks, Crane."

"So, ah, movies, yes?"

She nods and he follows her to the couch, settling himself on one side. It had seemed like a good, fun idea at the time to invite Crane over for the evening of Valentine's Day. Not romantic, of course, but mostly to mock the commercialism and celebrate being alone together. When she had put it that way, he had asked her if the definition of 'alone' had changed since his time, as her statement would otherwise seem an oxymoron. "No, Crane," she had said and explained no further, and so he seemed to chalk it up to her own 'particular wry humor' and the 'new age's fondness for irony.'

Her desire for company today was one born out of Corbin's loss. They too had shared Valentine's traditions when neither of them had significant others(which was more often than not): they'd exchange those meaningless little Valentines cards meant for children's classroom parties, share beer and apple pie and play poker while some cheesy movie played in the background. It had been easy and simple, a time to bond. But Crane was not Corbin, and Corbin had never bought her chocolates. Corbin held a place as a father figure, and Crane was something else entirely. Crane was a question she was afraid to answer, a complication, someone she really shouldn't have invited over on a day with such romantic significance.

But Crane doesn't seem to notice her newfound reluctance, and so she tells herself to get a grip. It's just Crane, and he's just relaxing on her couch waiting for her to get the movie ready like any friend might. "So what are we watching?" he asks with a pleasant smile, and she grabs the nearby DVD box and tosses it to him. She watches him examine the cover and read the words on the back.

"The best romantic comedy of the year," he reads, and glances up at her.

"It's actually supposed to be terrible," she says with a smile. "I picked it more to make fun of it than anything."

His brow crinkles slightly. "It never ceases to amaze how things in this time which are so obviously lacking in value are still inexplicably well-received."

"Agree with you there," she says, and settles on her side of the couch, leaving plenty of space between them. As friends should.

She starts the movie with the remote, and they watch with a wry commentary here and there.

"That's rather crude," he says when the movie introduces the male lead, mid-bang of some chick that is not the love interest that will change his playboy ways. Abbie avoids catching Crane's eye during the scene. She's embarrassed, for some reason she can't explain to herself.

Twenty minutes in and the doorbell rings. He looks at her with questioning eyes. "Pizza guy," she answers, and stands up to get the door. She pays for the food quickly and returns to the couch with the box, which she sets on the coffee table. They don't bother with plates, they just grab slices and munch while they watch.

"You know," says Crane conversationally, "the dialogue in this film is an absolute travesty. I could write it better."

She laughs at that, suddenly feeling more relaxed than she has all night. "Fancy yourself a screenwriter, Crane?" she teases. "Is that what you hope to do when we're done with the whole Apocalypse business?"

He grimaces. "No, but I could do it better than this."

"And what would your romantic comedy be about, huh? A time-traveling revolutionary war hero who says things like 'hasten' and 'fortnight' to win over his modern day love?"

"He'd have more eloquence than that," he muses, and she laughs again.

They open the box of chocolates not long after that and pick their way through them together; he prefers the dark chocolate and she prefers the milk chocolate, so it works out rather well. As the night wears on, a chill seeps through the apartment, undoubtedly due to the less-than-stellar insulation of the walls and the roaring wind outside. She even hears it start to rain after awhile. She turns up the small space heater she has set before them but, still finding it lacking, she grabs a blanket from her closet and brings it back to the couch.

She tucks it in around herself on her side of the sofa, and he notices with a smile that speaks of mischief and makes her heart squeeze strangely in her chest. "Not going to share?" he questions.

Words catch in her throat, but she works them out. "It's not big enough to reach across the couch." she says.

"So why not sit closer?"

If his voice sounds husky and daring, it must be her imagination. He must not know that even in this time there is something intimate about sitting close to one another and sharing a blanket. He must not be aware of how the smile on his lips could be mistaken for flirtatious. She should tell him so - she doesn't want him to inadvertently lose his 'sense of propriety,' but she doesn't know how to relay that to him without stumbling over the words.

So she says nothing but scoots closer all the same, and he tugs the blanket over himself and now they're sharing its heat as well as each other's. She's incredibly aware of every movement he makes beneath the blanket, and she feels impossibly like a school girl sitting next to a crush. Except she doesn't feel that way about Crane. He's just...just...

She doesn't know what he is to her; she doesn't know what he could be to her that would cause her heart to pound in her chest just with his proximity.

She is a bundle of nerves and anxiety next to him, and he seems quite unperturbed, and she hates him for it. He should be ultra-aware of her too. He should notice that his hand keeps brushing hers when he readjusts himself and avoid it at all costs. If anything, though, he seems to lean in closer against her, resting his weight more on his left side than his right.

Like he wants this.

It seems impossible that she should be able to fall asleep when her mind and body are humming with the closeness of him, but the next thing she knows an hour has passed and she awakes, disoriented. It takes a moment to realize that her head is on his lap, and that the he to which she's mentally referring is Ichabod Crane.

Crane.

She jolts up suddenly as though scorched, and his head turns in his direction. His eyes catch hers.

"Have I been sleeping this whole time? Why didn't you wake me?" she demands.

"I dozed off for a bit too. Missed the end of the movie by the looks of it," he says, gesturing to the television where the DVD menu has come up automatically. "But I awoke perhaps ten minutes ago and you seemed...comfortable. I thought it rude to wake you."

He looks almost guilty, and she wonders if he is now aware that the intimacy of the situation has pole-vaulted past mere friends and strayed dangerously close to something else.

"I should go," he says, but she can hear the storm outside and she shakes her head and holds up a hand to stop him.

"No, it's late and it's all wet and dangerous out there. You should just stay, take the couch and we'll get you home tomorrow."

"I—okay," he agrees as a nasty clap of thunder booms around them.

She brings him a pillow and lets him keep the blanket on the couch. She glances at him as he settles himself on the pillow before she turns out the last lamp in the living room. "Goodnight, Crane."

"Goodnight, Abbie," he says with a sigh that sounds like contentment. Perhaps it is his tiredness that caused him to forego the usual 'Miss Mills' or 'Leftenant,' but the soft sound of her name on his lips causes a swoop in her stomach that she must try to ignore.

She heads to her room and as Abbie settles into bed, she thinks how often they've been toeing the line as of late. She wonders if it might be better for them both if one of them could just leap across it and see what landing on the other side might bring.