"This is truly a spectacle, Miss Mills," Crane says, his eyes wide as he gawks at the sights and sounds around him.
"Yeah, well, you're kind of a spectacle yourself, Crane," Abbie returns, grabbing his hand to keep him moving. She does not want to lose him because he's stopped to stare at a souvenir cart or a "super fan" who has painted himself completely blue.
"Sorry. I had thought the addition of this cap would help me blend in somewhat," he says, reaching up with his free hand to the brim of the new Mets cap.
She laughs, not having the heart to tell him it makes him look more conspicuous worn with his standard Colonial-era ensemble. "Come on," she says, tugging his hand. "Our seats are this way."
Once they are settled, Crane continues to gaze in wonder around the ball park. "The size alone is staggering," he quietly comments. "Entire battalions could fit on this field with room to spare."
"Well, men will still be doing battle down there, but no one's going to die," she answers. "Not usually anyway."
He looks down at her, alarmed, but relaxes when he sees her grinning mischievously at him. "I believe there was a promise of beer?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
She chuckles and looks around. "We'll wait for a vendor to come by. I don't want to go back out there and wait in line."
"Very well. We shall wait for a vendor."
Abbie smiles and pats his knee, leaning back in her seat as she looks around at the various food and drink vendors, trying to spot the Beer Guy. Ugh, he's way over there.
They stand for the national anthem, and Crane doesn't need to be told to remove his hat. He proudly joins in, having learned the song some months ago. Perhaps a little too proudly, given some of the questioning looks from those seated around them.
Abbie glares down a couple of the more avid gawkers until they look away. They don't get to judge her partner. They don't know what he's been through.
Crane doesn't seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn't care.
"Thank you for bringing me here, Miss Mills," he says after they are seated again. "I did so enjoy the game we watched together last year, and had hoped you would be able to make good on your offer. Though, I will admit, I didn't understand half of what you said at the time."
"I know, Crane," she says, laughing at the memory. "And, you're welcome. I'm glad we were able to squeeze this in after the trip to the museum for that codex Jenny found."
"Indeed," he agrees. "Oh! The ball is heading... ah, I see." He smiles and nods as the foul ball is caught by a young boy, who triumphantly holds his prize up for all to see. "I was going to inquire why some of the spectators brought their own gloves." He looks down at her. "Should we have brought a glove along?"
"Not in these seats," she answers. "We'd have better luck catching seagulls way up here."
He looks up, then shakes his head. "You're jesting again," he decides.
"Beer here!"
"Hey!" Abbie holds her hand up, waving the vendor over. "Two, please," she says.
"ID?" the man asks, squinting at the youthful face of the lieutenant. As she shows him her license, Crane begins to withdraw his ID as well. "Nah, you're good, Shakespeare," the man says. Crane mutters something under his breath that sounds something like "Grumble grumble Hawley grumble grumble."
"You realize that's discrimination and profiling, right?" Abbie asks, holding a $10 bill just out of the man's reach.
"What are you, a cop?" he sarcastically asks, digging two bottles out of his cooler.
Abbie flashes her badge at him, eyebrow raised.
"Yeah, yeah, okay, sorry. You should take it as a compliment, officer. You look young, all right?"
Abbie takes the beers and pays the man. "Just saying," she says with half a shrug, handing a bottle to her partner.
"Thank you," Crane says, taking a long drink from his bottle. "When can we get those overpriced hot dogs?"
Abbie laughs. "You really do remember everything," she says. "We'll get some food in a bit. Watch the game. Let me know if you have any questions."
He nods. He's seen some baseball, but his lifestyle and lack of interest in television has limited his exposure to most modern sports. He looks around at everything, taking it all in. He loves the big scoreboard with its large screen and helpful information. He loves the variety of people in the seats. Every age and race is represented, all gathered to watch "America's Pastime" of baseball. Most are cheering on the Mets, but here and there he spies a few fans of the opposing team, the Milwaukee Brewers.
"Brewers," Crane ponders, leaning down to talk to his partner. "Is Milwaukee a place known for brewing beer, or does the name refer to something else?"
"Yep, it's a beer town," she answers. "I've never been there, but I know that's what the name means."
"Hmm," he replies, pondering the possibility of a "beer town".
Abbie laughs, knowing Crane's affinity for the beverage. "Maybe one day, when all this mess is over, you can go check it out."
"Only if you accompany me, Miss Mills," he answers. "I fear, even after seven years, I will still require—what on earth is that?" He stops mid-sentence, pointing.
Abbie follows his long finger and sees him staring with interest at a young man carrying a large, flat piece of cardboard over his head, stuck through with clouds of pink and blue cotton candy on paper cones. She smiles and waves the boy over.
"Blue," she says, paying, then taking a cone and handing it to Crane.
"Thank you, but what is it?"
"It's called cotton candy," she says, plucking a small hunk off with her fingers and popping it into her mouth.
"I don't believe I've ever eaten anything this color before," he comments. Then, he pokes it. "Oh..."
"Just try some. I promise it's not like the energy drink," she says, laughing.
He reaches out and gingerly attempts to pull a small section from the puff of candy. A much larger section separates than he intended. "Oh, dear..."
Abbie laughs, thoroughly enjoying watching him. She reaches up and snags another piece for herself.
"Um... yes... all right," he mutters, then takes a bite out of his clump. His eyes widen as it basically dissolves in his mouth, shrinking into a liquefied mass of blue, crystalline goo. "Oh... oh, my... it's... very sweet..."
"I know, right? It's pretty much straight sugar," Abbie says.
He tries some more, then the rest of the section in his hand. "My fingers are sticky," he observes.
"Yeah, that's why you shouldn't hold on to it with your fingers for very long," she says. She watches as he takes another section, this time successful in acquiring the amount he wants. "You like it," she observes.
"I do," he admits. "It's fascinating. There is a flavor to it, but I cannot discern what it is supposed to be."
"It's blue flavored," Abbie simply says. Seeing her friend's quizzical frown, she continues. "Don't think too hard about it. It's just candy. It's not supposed to be deep or important. Part of its charm."
"Ah, I see," Crane replies, nodding decisively, his lips now bearing a bluish tint.
Abbie smiles at him, amused by this.
"What?" he asks, puzzled.
She laughs now, and sticks her tongue out in reply showing him her blue tongue. "Your lips are blue."
"Oh, dear..." He scrubs at his lips with a napkin to no avail.
"Don't worry about it, Crane. It's part of the fun. It'll wear off soon enough," she says, reaching for another hunk of the sweet treat.
They quietly watch the game for a while. The Mets score. The Brewers score. The Mets get a two-run homerun, and everyone stands and cheers.
They get more beers, for which Crane pays this time.
"What does the pink flavor taste like?" Crane asks, peering at the cotton candy vendor again.
Abbie laughs. "Let's get some hot dogs first. I need some real food, not just candy and beer. Well, real-ish anyway."
By the end of the game, they have had hot dogs, nachos, soft pretzels, a hot fudge sundae served in a tiny plastic batting helmet (which they shared), and pink cotton candy.
The Mets win.
Crane keeps the tiny souvenir helmet on the fireplace mantel in the cabin as a memento. Each time he passes it, a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he remembers the pleasant afternoon spent in the company of his dear friend and partner.
And, the first time he ate cotton candy.