Ichabod Crane has never been predisposed to chatter, but in the days following Katrina's self-sacrifice, he was more taciturn than usual.
Abbie expected this, but instead of tiptoeing around him, she endeavored to retain whatever sense of normalcy they had achieved prior to Halloween.
At the station, Crane tended to stay down in the archives, reading, poring over ancient volumes and Corbin's notes. Abbie spends time with him there when she can, but can't neglect her "normal" police work entirely. She abuses Captain Irving's good nature enough already. As she watches him devour tome after tome, she wonders how much his amazing brain can actually hold.
A great deal, as it turns out. He's quickly becoming a walking encyclopedia of the occult and the apocalypse.
At home, he spends most of his time with Abbie's iPad, reading American history, catching up on the 232 years he missed while buried in that cave.
Abbie, however, notices small changes in him no one else would see. He stands closer to her when they are standing or walking, often tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow or gently escorting her with a light hand on the small of her back. When he says "Miss Mills" or "Lieutenant," the timbre of his voice seems softer. More tender.
And he's even more protective of her than before. She can see the worry behind his eyes when she goes out on a call, even if it is for something she could handle in her sleep.
He's afraid he's going to lose me, too, she realizes. The thought is sobering, but she finds a strange sort of comfort in it as well.
He holds her as close as ever at night in their bed, their sanctuary from the world.
At least that's how it feels to Abbie. Some nights she cannot wait until it's late enough to go to bed, just to lie in his embrace and hide from the world. She wonders if – hopes that – Crane feels the same way.
Crane has thrown himself into study as a way to escape, a way to cope. Facts are stalwart, grounding him in this strange new world into which he's been thrown. History is a comfort. He can trust books.
He can trust Abbie.
He knows he's withdrawn somewhat from her since Katrina gave her life for theirs. Even so, he cannot help but admire her fortitude, her determination to keep going. Deep down, he knows she does it for him.
The fact that she doesn't coddle him in his mourning is surprisingly helpful. Reassuring, in a sense.
Crane is not one who wallows; he is one who thinks. And lately his thoughts have been on Miss Mills. And Katrina. And Miss Mills. And Katrina's final words to him. Final words he's fairly certain are about Miss Mills.
Some nights in bed it is she who holds him. One night he quietly cried into her shoulder, gradually soaking her t-shirt (the nights had grown colder and she'd switched from tank tops to t-shirts) until he fell asleep, his head on her shoulder and her fingers in his hair.
The next morning she made no mention of what had transpired, greeting him with a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast when he had emerged from the shower. In that moment, he knew she understood him.
xXx
The Saturday before Thanksgiving, Abbie finds Crane sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating a square of lace folded in front of him.
"Are you hungry?" she asks, her hand resting on his shoulder briefly as she passes.
"Mmm," he grunts noncommittally.
"That's a yes," she says. "I'll make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You like those."
He nods slightly, still looking at the lace, which Abbie now sees is a handkerchief.
She makes his sandwich, Colby-Jack cheese with a slice of tomato, the way he likes it. She places it next to his hand on the table along with a glass of apple juice (another favorite) and a bowl of grapes.
She brings her own plate to the table and sits across from him.
"Was that Katrina's?" she asks softly as he slides it to the side and pulls his plate in front of him.
"Yes. It is the only thing I have left of her," he says.
Abbie is a little surprised he is so forthcoming. Of course, he's never kept anything from me before. "It's beautiful," she says, admiring it from her place at the table. She does not touch it.
"She gave it to me when I went into battle," he explains between bites of his sandwich. "A Lady granting her favor, as it were," he adds, smiling a little.
It is a practice as old as time, Abbie knows this. She's always thought it rather sweet, in fact. She does wonder if Katrina somehow enchanted it to keep him safe, but doesn't ask.
"Perhaps a talisman," Crane says, almost under his breath, as if he is reading Abbie's thoughts.
"It was in your old clothes?" Abbie asks, then notices he's actually wearing his old clothes. He does that when he's feeling particularly homesick. Mindful of this tendency, she takes special care with these clothes so that they are clean and available should he want them, always washing them on the gentle cycle so they won't fall apart.
He nods, finishing his sandwich.
"Would you like another?" she asks.
"Do not go to any trouble," he says.
"That's another yes," she answers, standing and going to the stove again. "And it's no trouble."
"You are too good to me, Miss Mills," he says.
Her stomach wobbles a little when he says her name. It happens frequently now. She pretends to ignore it, putting his second sandwich in the frying pan.
"I'm just making your lunch," she answers softly, downplaying his sentiment.
"You know that is not what I meant."
Abbie doesn't know what to say to that. She meets his steady gaze for a moment, forgetting to breathe, then looks down and turns her attention to the stove, concentrating on making his sandwich.
She hears him shift in his chair behind her.
"I should like to place this in Katrina's grave," he says after she sets his second sandwich in front of him.
"You don't want to keep it?" Abbie asks.
"Her grave is empty. She has no remains, and…" he pauses, sighing, "…she would not want me to hold onto the past. I've already disobeyed her wishes by mourning her…"
"Mourning her was unavoidable, Crane," Abbie says. "She was your wife. Of course you're going to mourn her."
"I know," he says, closing his eyes a minute. "Nevertheless, I cannot help but think that this is the right thing to do."
Abbie has finished eating and takes her plate to the sink. Then she heads to her bedroom closet and pulls out a box. It's shiny red flecked with gold, about four inches square, two inches high, and empty. She received a Christmas gift in it from Sheriff Corbin last year, but kept the box because it was too beautiful to toss. It's only thick cardboard, but it will suffice. She hopes.
She sets it on the table next to Crane. He's done eating, just setting his empty glass on the table.
"What is this?" he asks.
"A box," she simply says, taking his plate and glass and sets them in the sink with her plate.
"It's lovely," he says, sliding it towards himself. He lifts the lid. "Is this for…?"
"Yes. Sheriff Corbin gave me a gift in this box last Christmas. A monogrammed handkerchief, coincidentally. I kept the box to reuse one day because it was too pretty to throw away. I… would be honored if you'll use it for this," she says, biting her lip.
"Thank you," he answers softly, looking up at her, his eyes sad but grateful. He lifts the lace handkerchief and places it in the box.
Abbie drops him off at the church where Katrina's gravestone sits above a patch of nothing more than dirt.
"I'll come back in a bit," she says, knowing he needs to be alone. She decides to go to Starbuck's and get some coffee. It's cold out today, he'll like something warm.
Crane takes the garden spade (less conspicuous than a shovel) and the red box containing the handkerchief. Abbie found a gold ribbon and he had tied that around it as well. He walks to the headstone and stands, box in one hand, spade in the other.
After a minute, once he's certain that he is quite alone, he kneels down onto the soft, cold ground. It still looks a bit disturbed from when he dug out the Horseman's head two months ago. As a result, he finds the digging quite easy.
Once he's dug deep enough to prevent the box from being accidentally uncovered, he lifts it to his lips, kisses it once, and places it in the ground. Then he piles the dirt over it, filling the hole he's made, and replacing the sod as best he can.
He stands and brushes his hands together, trying to get them clean. I'll wash up properly when I get home.
Abbie, after stopping at the gas station and Starbuck's, pulls her car into the parking lot beside the church. The graveyard is in the back, so she gets out and walks around the building, leaving the coffees in the car so they stay warm.
"…I never got a chance to say goodbye, Katrina…"
Abbie hears Crane before she sees him. She slowly rounds the corner and sees him standing, hands clasped behind his back. I'm too early. She silently watches him, moved by the sadness emanating from him as he bends his head, talking to Katrina's spirit.
Her presence catches his periphery and he looks up sharply, making her jump just a little, startled out of the study she was making of him. Gathering her wits, Abbie gestures that she'll be in the car, and starts to turn.
"Stay," his voice is quiet, but rings clear as a bell through the cold, still autumn air.
She hovers, not sure if he wants her close or far. She decides to remain where she is.
"You bid me farewell, but I said nothing, and for that I most humbly apologize," Crane continues, his attention back on Katrina's grave. "You told me you would be at peace, and I believe you. I can neither imagine nor endure the thought of the torment you must have suffered when Moloch held you in Purgatory. You found your way out, and for that I should be thankful. You loved me in our time, and for that I am thankful."
Abbie tries not to listen, but can't help it. There's no other sound. And he told you to stay here. He doesn't mind if you hear him. His openness with her continues to be a source of wonder for her, someone who has made a habit of keeping herself closed off to others. Sometimes, she wishes she could allow herself the same freedom.
"I will follow my heart, as you have bidden me. I know now that you are correct. I know it will not lead me astray. Like always, you knew before I did," he says, smiling slightly because he now knows why that was.
"Be at peace, Katrina. I will miss you, miss seeing you in my dreams. But I must learn to live in this fascinating time. I must move forward with what is now my life. Farewell, Wife."
He kisses his fingers, presses them to her name on the stone, and whispers something Abbie cannot hear. He wipes the tears from his face, takes a deep breath, and walks towards Abbie.
"Lieutenant," he greets her, smiling a very small smile. "Shall we go home?"
"I've got coffee in the car," she says, falling into step beside him, taking nearly two steps to every one of his long strides.
"You are a lifesaver," he says.
Abbie feels his hand on the small of her back as they walk to the car. She resists the urge to lean into him. He just said his final goodbye to his dead wife, for crying out loud.
He opens her car door for her and she climbs in. He enters the car and she presents him with his latte with hazelnut and a bag of doughnut holes from the gas station.
"Thank you, Miss Mills," he says, setting the spade on the floor at his feet.
He eats a doughnut hole and makes that groaning noise.
It's like porn, that sound.
Stop it. Drive.
"What would you like for dinner?" she asks, scrambling for conversation.
"I have no preference," he says, drinking his coffee. "You remembered," he says, smiling.
"Your reaction to the hazelnut was pretty unforgettable," she says. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"
"Out?"
"To a restaurant. I have a hankering for some Chinese food."
"I can only assume that 'hankering' translates into something akin to 'desire,'" he says, arching an eyebrow at her.
I think he's back.
Ignore the way the word 'desire' sounds when he says it.
"You'll love it. It's good stuff," she says. "But it's a bit early, so I think we'll go home first."
"Mmm," he mumbles, his mouth full of doughnut hole. Stopped at a traffic light, she looks over at him. He has crumbs in his beard and a smudge of dirt on his cheek where he wiped his face with his dirty hand.
Before she realizes what she's doing, Abbie reaches up with her thumb and wipes the dirt from his cheek.
"Dirt," she whispers, dropping her hand as they stare at each other.
The light changes.
"I believe the light is green, Miss Mills," he says quietly, his eyes flicking briefly to the traffic signal.
"Oh," she says, pressing the accelerator, thankful that her police cruiser likely stopped the person in the car behind them from honking his horn.
What the hell is your problem, Girl?
A/N: Shameless self-promotion time! If you enjoy my writing, I have an original novel available for purchase on Amazon for Kindle and Kindle apps. The link is on my profile page, and it's not expensive, I promise.
