A/N: My thanks again for the incredible reviews! They continue to inspire me to continue writing.
Chapter 4
Abbie was at work long hours over the next two days, for while Granger was gone, the criminals didn't observe a proper mourning, and Abbie had to help pick up the slack until a replacement was sent from Washington, DC. The crime ring investigation was put temporarily on hold, but Abbie had volunteered to sort through Granger's paperwork, finish a few reports for cases she had worked closely with him.
It was a good excuse not to be at home and face Crane.
She knew he was generally in his bedroom reading by nine o'clock each night, so she slipped into the house carefully at 9:05. The second night of this, however, and Crane came out of his room in his pajamas and robe (dressing gown, as he called it) to greet her warmly, looking tousled and boyishly handsome. Well, a boy with a sexy beard that drew attention to his beautiful mouth, she thought, then felt her face grow hot at her wayward thoughts.
"We've been ships passing in the night recently," he was saying, smiling as he prepared them both some chamomile tea without her asking. "I didn't want to rise, to find once again only the foamy wake leading to your bedchamber."
She had to smile—his wittiness had been one of the things she'd always lov—admired about him.
"Sorry. Work's been crazy. And the funeral is tomorrow, so there's also been a strange pall over everything."
"Yes, I would imagine so. I take it Agent Granger was well-admired?"
Abbie shrugged, dunking her teabag. "He was respected."
"Aw. I've often wondered which I would rather be—admired or respected."
"I'll take respect any day," she said, sipping her tea. "As a woman in a mostly male-dominated profession, that's the greatest compliment I could get."
"I have no doubt, Lieutenant, that you are both, in equal measures."
She snorted softly, but she couldn't help glowing inside at his obvious sincerity.
"I'm the new kid on the block; jury's still out on that."
He didn't argue with her, but one eyebrow shot up skeptically. He sipped his own tea, and she felt his blue eyes upon her, considering. It made her fidget uncomfortably, but the feeling wasn't exactly unpleasant. She was finding that she liked him to look at her, and that was actually more disconcerting. Either way, he was confusing the hell out of her.
"Might I go with you tomorrow, to the funeral?" He asked suddenly.
She gave him a look of surprise. "You didn't even know the guy."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "True, but I'd like to attend with you, for moral support."
"Sure. I guess. It's at two at the Presbyterian Church."
He nodded. "I shall be there."
They finished their tea, both of them unusually tongue-tied. She took a final sip and took her cup and saucer to the sink.
"Thanks for the tea, Crane, good—"
She found her upper arm suddenly encased by his warm, strong fingers. She was startled into meeting his eyes
"Abbie," he said. "I have the distinct impression you've been avoiding me since our talk the other night."
"Work's been—"
"Crazy," he finished. "So you mentioned." He cleared his throat, and she saw, to her amazement, that he seemed just as nervous as she was. "I didn't mean to alarm you, to frighten you by my confession."
"Confession?" Had he confessed something she'd missed?
"Of my deep, abiding regard for you."
She was relieved. "Of course not. I was flattered."
"Flattered?" he said, his tone almost horrified.
"Well, yeah. A girl always likes to hear that she's appreciated, that she was missed."
He was nonplussed. "I think you have misunderstood me entirely. But that is my fault, of course. We come from different eras. In my time, such words from a gentleman would mean-"
Her hand came up to cover his on her arm.
"Crane," she said sternly, stopping him now, genuinely afraid he might make what would amount to an unmistakable confession, even in the twenty-first century.
"Please—don't say something that you can't take back."
His eyes searched hers, and she saw the hurt there, at the same time she wondered if he could see the fear in hers. But by the way his hand dropped in disappointment, she knew he'd reached a sad conclusion. He thought she was not interested in what he was offering. This wasn't true at all, but she let him think so anyway.
It was easier this way.
He grew painfully formal.
"I am sorry, madam, for misinterpreting your returned interest. I won't trouble you again on this matter. And now, I shall bid you good night." He inclined his head coolly, and left her alone in the kitchen. She watched him until he disappeared down the hallway, a lump arising in her throat.
She wanted with every fiber of her being to call him back, but she hadn't been able to muster the words. She was an FBI agent, for God's sake. Where was her courage?
Now, maybe things would go back to normal, she thought, trying to comfort herself. Crane was home, they still lived in Sleepy Hollow, where evil was bound to rear its ugly head very soon, and they would have to come together as witnesses to fight it.
She felt guilty for thinking this way, wishing for something bad to emerge, but Abbie was also a person who panicked when things became less predictable, less manageable in her life. As a child, she had felt completely out of control of her own destiny. Now that she was an adult, and knew her place in the world, she had a difficult time when things didn't go as planned. It took her awhile to adapt to change.
The feelings that Crane was stirring within her made her feel a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. The things around her looked familiar, but there was a cockeyed texture to them, and she couldn't escape the vertigo of it all. So it was better, safer, not to obey the signs, not to risk what could happen to her if she tasted the sweetness he offered her.
Wasn't it?
Yes, she thought, pushing her doubts aside. She wanted normal. Needed normal. She didn't need the handsome Englishman's heartfelt words.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
After a fruitless half-hour, Crane tossed down the book he'd tried to read in his room. Normally, Secrets of Necromancy would have been a fascinating read, but tonight, there was no way in hell he could focus on anything but the memory of Abbie's face when she'd rejected him.
He imagined himself getting out of bed, walking down the hall to her room, knocking on the door. She would answer, probably in a bathrobe, her hair wet from her shower. He wouldn't allow her to speak beyond his name, for he would take her mouth, and her full lips would fit perfectly to his. He closed his eyes, feeling his body quicken in reaction to the fantasy, his hands gliding over his own chest as he thought about touching hers through her robe, and he could almost feel her naked leg bending, as she raised it to knee him hard in the twiddle-diddles.
His eyes flew open as the likely ending to his romantic scenario played out painfully in his mind. He shuddered and pounded his innocent pillow in frustration.
Nothing was going as planned at all, he thought, so why in the world would a seduction plan work either? Crane turned off the light and lay in bed, reveling in a rare moment of self pity.
He tried to console himself with the thought that at the very least, Pandora and the Hidden One were no longer an issue, and he supposed that whatever his personal desires, he might have saved the world. But somehow, that was cold comfort, and he hated himself for feeling so selfish.
He had certainly been in much worse straits before, he thought, trying to see the bright side. In his first life, he'd become a traitor to his native country, then nearly frozen and starved at Valley Forge. He'd had close calls in battle, and had actually died at the hand of his best friend, but he'd come back from that. Not to mention what had transpired after he'd been reborn in this century, the trials he'd faced with two Horseman, the impending apocalypse, the loss of his wife and son. Zounds, he'd even travelled back in time and destroyed two gods! Given all that, how could he possibly give up now?
He bolted upright in his bed, turned on the light again, and took out the notebook and fountain pen he kept on his bedside table for such nighttime epiphanies. He began passionately to scribble out a plan, the words coming to mind much faster than his pen could write.
"No, Lieutenant Mills," he muttered as he wrote, "your polite disregard of my feelings will not dissuade me. I am Ichabod Crane, master of Time, slayer of demons, conqueror of the Apocalypse, pre-ordained witness of the Last Days. Prepare to face an onslaught that would put Mollock's wrath to shame!"
These kinds of self pep talks always gave Crane a necessary boost of confidence.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sleepy Hollow Presbyterian Church was suitably filled for a man of Special Agent Mick Granger's stature and reputation. Abbie hadn't known her supervisor for long, but she had respected him, was sorry for his family, sorry for the Bureau. She found a pew toward the middle of the chapel, nodding to a few other agents, straightening her black skirt as she settled in for the service. A few moments later, and Crane joined her, her heart skipping a beat as he smiled gently at her before sliding next to her on the bench seat.
She'd wondered if he'd come, given their conversation the night before. She had barely slept for thinking about it, wondering if she'd made a mistake, if it was too late to take back her rejection. His seeming good humor confused her.
"How are you?" he asked softly.
"I'm fine," she said cautiously.
"I'm glad of it."
The minister began the service and Abbie found it very touching and dignified. Crane seemed to feel the same, and when his leg pressed into hers on the cramped bench, she felt a thrill rush through her at his nearness. His hand rested atop hers on the bench, and she didn't move it—didn't want to.
While the choir sang, he bent his again to whisper in her ear, his warm breath stirring her hair. She shivered involuntarily.
"After the service, allow me to buy you a cup of coffee at that café that charges usurious rates."
She grinned. "Starbucks?"
"Precisely."
She found herself agreeing, and the idea of simply sharing a cappuccino with him seemed so…normal. They could get past this. Absence had merely made their hearts grow fonder. Once things settled down, once they'd become used to one another again, all would be as it was before.
"Okay," she whispered back.
She didn't notice Crane's wide smile—completely inappropriate under the circumstances.
xxxxxxxxxxx
After the funeral, the attendees milled around outside the church, subdued, though anxious to talk as people are wont to do on such somber occasions. Crane was contemplating the plan he had decided upon the night before. The only thing he could come up with to ease the tension between them was to kiss her and be done with it. But it would have to be at the perfect time, the perfect kiss. Abbie must be completely at ease, and it should happen so naturally that she would wonder later why they hadn't kissed long ago. He would kiss her sweetly, gently. He'd be tentative, allowing her to decide how intense it should become, leaving room for her to advance or retreat as she desired.
He would start by taking her somewhere as innocuous as a coffee shop, where they would talk of pleasant, unimportant things. Maybe he would casually suggest dinner. Pizza. She loved pizza. From there, they might go for a stroll in the park and—
"Danny."
Crane groaned internally, for of course, Daniel Reynolds had made his appearance, as if on cue. The tall, broad-shouldered man walked toward them, and Crane could see plain as day the pleasure on his face at the sight of Abbie.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, smiling that bright smile Crane had always thought was reserved only for him.
"You hadn't heard? I'm your new boss."
Her smile dimmed slightly, but Crane fancied he was the only one who noticed. She was none too pleased that her former classmate from Quantico had already surpassed her.
"Oh, well congratulations," she said graciously. "You've got pretty big shoes to fill with Granger, though."
"So I've heard. This all happened pretty quickly. I just got into town an hour ago, made it here for the tail-end of the funeral. I'm still trying to get my bearings."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Special Agent in Charge already," she mused. "Who would have thought?"
Crane watched as they smiled into each other's eyes, felt the slight hum of the chemistry between them. This time, however, he wasn't going to stand idly by and allow anything to rekindle between them. He cleared his throat meaningfully.
"Oh, sorry. Ichabod Crane, meet Daniel Reynolds. We were at Quantico together."
It was as if Reynolds just noticed Crane, and he surreptitiously eyed him, looking a little befuddled at his eighteenth century garb. Reynolds did have to look up a bit at Crane, who barely resisted puffing out his chest and holding his head higher in what he knew would be an immature attempt at showing himself the dominant male. Then again, Crane recognized that Reynolds's biceps were twice the size of Crane's. And when they shook hands, Crane's hand completely disappeared inside the big man's paw.
"Crane is my—" Abbie continued, hesitating slightly.
"Partner," Crane finished for her. "And very close friend."
Abbie caught Crane's eye and frowned, but he pretended to ignore her.
"Partner?" asked Reynolds, trying hard to hide his concern with that moniker.
"Yeah. Crane is an independent uh, historical consultant. We used him a lot when I was with the sheriff's department."
"Oh. I see. Interesting."
"And I humbly offer my services to your Bureau, should you ever require them."
"I'll keep that in mind," said Reynolds, politely dismissive. He turned his attention back to Abbie. "Hey, since I'm new in town, I'd appreciate a tour when you get the time. I haven't had the chance to familiarize myself with the place, and right now I'm in a hotel room until I can find an apartment or something nearby. I'd appreciate your suggestions on the best places to start looking."
"Sure," she said.
What a lame attempt at courting, Crane said to himself. How painfully obvious of him.
"Hey, we were just about to go get some coffee. Would you like to join us?" asked Abbie.
Bloody hell.
"I'm sure Agent Reynolds would like to go back to his inn and relax," suggested Crane helpfully. "I understand through recent experience that jet lag can be very trying."
"I drove," said Reynolds, and he smiled, but directed the brunt of it toward Abbie. "And a latte sounds really good right now."
"Still drinking that sissy drink, are you?" teased Abbie.
They began walking toward the church parking lot, and Crane found himself trailing awkwardly behind them.
"Yeah, yeah," said Reynolds. "I know you like yours black…"
They both burst out laughing at the inside joke that Crane was obviously not privy to.
"Did I mention Abbie and I are housemates?" said Crane, hoping he didn't sound too desperate.
They'd arrived at Abbie's SUV, and the trio stopped. Reynolds failed to hide his jealousy at Crane's sudden announcement.
"Oh, really?" he asked tightly.
"Yeah, Crane recently came back from England to find his former place occupied. I offered him one of my spare rooms"—she gave Crane a warning glance—"for now."
"Yes, Abbie is very generous with her closest companions," Crane said, and he put an arm about her slim shoulders, surprising her with his boldness. It would have seemed the height of rudeness if she shrugged him off, so she didn't, but he felt her stiffen unhappily beneath his arm. He wondered if he'd gone too far.
"Well, uh, since you don't know your way around, you want to ride with us?" Abbie offered, with that aforementioned generosity. Sometimes her kindness was rather infuriating, thought Crane.
"Sure," said Reynolds. "That'd be great."
"I'll drive," said Crane, dropping his arm reluctantly from her shoulders and moving toward the driver's side of the SUV.
Abbie rolled her eyes at him, but tossed Crane the keys. He caught them handily and walked round to the driver's side. To his consternation, the remaining pair got into the back seat together, leaving Crane to act awkwardly as chauffer. He'd thought Abbie would have taken the front passenger's seat, but she had purposefully foiled his plan. He met her eyes in the rearview mirror, and had they been alone, Crane had the distinct impression she would have stuck her tongue out at him. He supposed it served him right, acting like the jealous fool as he had. He felt suitably humbled.
"So," Crane began good-naturedly, "shall we advance to the Starbucks on 9th Street, or the one on Main?"
She nodded in approval at his change of tone. "Main," she said.
Perhaps all was not lost, thought Crane hopefully as he started the engine. Reynolds might be interloping on their trip to the coffee shop, but Crane would be the one going home with Abbie later.
Score one for the Englishman, he thought in satisfaction.
A/N: I know some of you expressed your dismay at having Reynolds make his appearance in this fic. But I'm sure you've watched enough TV to know that sometimes a love triangle is the best way to bring out a character's true feelings, though I plan not to take the serious, painful route in getting there. Besides, I like the idea of a jealous Crane. Also, this might be the time to tell you that I always give my stories happy endings, so fear not on that count, all you Ichabbie shippers!
More on the way. Thanks again for reading.
