Author's Note: As always, thank you dearly to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I really am blown away by the positive feedback this story has gotten, but I appreciate it immensely! I hope you all like this installation :)

ALSO: I meant to post it earlier, but the site is being crazy! I had to do some weird URL hack to update :(

"Those lavatories were an infernal affront to human dignity," Ichabod criticized as they stepped off of the plane at the Heathrow airport. "And don't even get me started on that 'food,' if one could even have the audacity to refer to it as such… Truthfully, I would gladly trade this mode of transportation for a week-long voyage by ship, so long as the accommodations and cuisine were at the very least fit for civilized folk…"

"Alright, Crane," Abbie soothed, a weary smile playing at her lips. She hadn't the faintest clue how he could be so energetic after having just endured five hours of what he apparently professed to be a hardship just short of torture. "What about seasickness?" she couldn't stop herself from baiting. From what she recalled from watching pre-Industrial Revolution era movies, spending the duration of a journey with your head hung over the side of the ship was a bit of a downer.

"Well, I would have thought your 'modern technology' has found a way to remedy that particular inconvenience."

"Nope," she retorted, popping the 'p.'

"Still," he insisted, "these 'aeroplanes' could do with a vast deal of improvement."

"It's 'airplane,' Crane. Just 'airplane.'"

He pointed to a nearby flyer, which she struggled to read through the ruckus around them. "Then how do you explain that?" Lo and behold, the word 'aeroplane' was written in bold, crimson lettering on the poster.

"That's the British spelling," she grumbled. "We went over this once – Brits and Americans spell certain words differently."

"Yes, which is altogether one of the most arbitrary linguistic distinctions that I have ever had the displeasure of encountering," he started.

"Yeah, it's stupid," she agreed.

"It's the Americans' fault," he continued, "for so needlessly bastardizing their mother tongue."

She cast him a wry, sidelong glance, but said nothing.

As they finally and miraculously made it out of the airport without any major 'incidents,' as Abbie had mentally begun to refer to them, she asked, "Did you grow up in London?"

"I did not," he enunciated, "I grew up in the countryside, but I did travel here innumerable times, and we had a townhouse in the heart of the city… I wonder if it still stands…" he trailed off, before asking, "Have you ever been to London?"

"Once, on a school trip. We were only here for a couple of days, though. Mostly just did sightseeing."

Crane nodded pensively. "Had we the luxury of leisure time, I should very much like to show you around."

Abbie looked at him, disappointment glimmering in her deep brown eyes. "But we don't," she reminded him.

"Alas, we do not," he echoed, not breaking her gaze.

"And it's probably changed quite a bit," she added.

"Yes…" he murmured. His eyes scanned the horizon, but couldn't perceive anything familiar.

"We're gonna have to take a taxi to the hotel. You'll probably recognize more stuff once we get into the city," she informed him as though she could read his thoughts.

And indeed, he did. The skyline was different, to be sure – but certain landmarks stood just as they had in his time. The streets, wider and paved with smooth concrete, were also very different – but they ran the same way they always had and retained the same names. In many ways, London was far more modern than Sleepy Hollow – but in equally many ways, it was far more ancient. He was struck profoundly by the juxtaposition of the old and new.

He was rendered speechless as he peered out the cab window, until he noted softly, "The streets run in the opposite direction."

"Y'all right there, mate?" the driver asked in a thick cockney accent. "First time in London?" He met his eyes through the rear view mirror.

Crane spared him a withering smile. "No, but I have not returned in many years," he allowed.

Upon hearing his perfect and antiquated diction, the graying cabbie raised his scruffy eyebrows, no doubt thinking him a bit of a snob. Abbie looked at him through the corner of her eye; surely he'd had many servants whilst living in England – maybe he was starting to feel truly at home if he was compelled to use such snark.

Soon enough, they arrived at the hotel they were staying at, which was located near Oxford Circus. Upon exiting the taxi, Crane was so enthralled with the scenery that he nearly forgot his haste in helping Miss Mills unload their luggage. He quickly remembered his decorum, though, and heaved all of their bags save one out of the trunk unassisted. Their suitcases were then entrusted with a young, ruddy-complexioned bellhop.

Ichabod looked as if he was ready to take off then and there, but, after paying the cab driver, Abbie said, "Hold your horses. We have to check in first."

"Check in?"

All his inquiries were soon answered. Abbie made the arrangements, luckily for him, and as always he started to feel a bit superfluous. He kept these troublesome thoughts at bay by examining the décor of the hotel lobby; it was so very English, if not obnoxiously so. His eyes settled on a painting of a hunting scene. Clearly the establishment catered to tourists. At least his powers of observation had not been condemned to uselessness by time.

"We specifically requested a room with two twin beds," he heard Abbie explain rather heatedly to the blonde desk clerk.

"Yes ma'am, but there seems to have been a mix-up in your online reservation. We are horribly sorry, but the only rooms we have available have a single king bed – this is a very busy season for us, as I'm sure you can imagine…"

"What seems to be the issue" – his gaze flitted to her nametag – "Karen?" interjected Crane. Abbie could tell from his tone that his charm meter was switched all the way to Tall, Dark & British.

"As I was just telling the madam," said the woman, flustered, "the only vacant rooms we have contain only one bed…"

Abbie didn't dare look at Ichabod for fear of blushing, but she could feel his eyes on her. She brought her hand to rest, like a visor, wearily at her brow. "I see," he said slowly.

"We could upgrade you to a suite for the same price," she said apologetically, "but there would still only be one bed… There is a small sofa, though…"

"That will be sufficient," he stated. Now it was his turn to evade Abbie.

The blonde punched something into her keyboard. "Alright," she affirmed, handing them two keys. "Again, we are deeply sorry. I'll have your luggage sent up straight away."

As the pair entered the elevator together, neither said a word; they stood rigid in silence, their bodies a safe few inches apart. They made it all the way to the room without uttering even one sentence.

When Abbie saw the couch, though, she couldn't help but burst into laughter – it was more of a loveseat than anything, and it was unlikely to fit even one of Ichabod's long legs. Other than that, the room was a typical hotel suite, decorated in pastel hues.

"There's no way you're sleeping on that sofa, Crane," she informed him.

He shot the piece of furniture a disquieted glare, but said, "I shall make do."

"You're like six feet and change – there's no way you're fitting on that thing." She was about to suggest that they both sleep in the same bed – it was enormous, after all – but quickly thought better of it. "I'll sleep on the sofa," she offered instead. "I'm small. It won't be bad at all."

He looked positively affronted. "I could never allow you to do such a thing," said Crane, fingers twitching.

"It's not logical for you to sleep on that tiny little thing while I hog that huge bed. Anyway, I'm not about to fight about this right now – I just want to brush my teeth, then let's head out."

"Very well."

. . .

Their business in London took them near St. James's Park, which was apparently quite near to where Ichabod had once lived when he was in London. In fact, they had passed his former home – it was still standing, to his delight, and he'd stared at it wistfully for a long while until a woman with a small terrier exited the front door and shot him a suspicious glare.

They then made their way to the park.

"I used to play here as a boy," he explained on their way back from fetching the amulet that they had flown across the Atlantic Ocean to retrieve.

Abbie couldn't help but think that it was very lovely, especially when the reached a glistening pond. They sat for a moment on a nearby bench, taking a well-deserved respite from their holy mission. She found herself comparing everything in the city to New York City, but she knew she really shouldn't. They were both quite different, each beautiful in its own way.

"Did you miss England after you moved to the US?" she asked suddenly, disrupting the comfortable hush that had befallen them.

"At times," he admitted. "But that seems more than two lifetimes ago. I led a very different life here than I did in the colonies." He threw a glance to Westminster Palace and murmured, "Very different indeed."

He started talking again several after several more moments of silence, his voice taking on a more optimistic tone. "I find myself quite fortunate, in a way."

Abbie looked at him incredulously. "And why is that?"

"I've been given the privilege to live three discrete lives – the first was as an aristocrat in England, the second was as a soldier in the Americas, and this one… Well, I'm not entirely sure what I am in this one."

"You're a Witness," she teased, inclining her chin upwards to peer up at him. "Along with me."

"Yes, along with you…" He looked down at her and smiled, lips pulled taut. His expression held an odd mixture of melancholy and reverence.

If either of them noticed the heart-framed inscription carved into the tree behind them – "IC + AM" –, they made no mention of it. Surely it was nothing but pure coincidence. Even destiny – even their destiny – could not be so cheeky.

. . .

When they arrived back at the hotel that night, they were confronted with the obtrusive problem they had chosen to set aside earlier. Both were exhausted as a result of the toxic combination of jetlag and the day's supernatural trials, but the two were equally stubborn in their refusal to occupy that large, exquisite-looking bed.

"I really must insist," said Crane obstinately, gesturing to the bed with a lethargic flourish. To further push his agenda, he pulled his boots off, tossed them carelessly to the side, and lay down on the sofa. He could fit only if he hugged his knees to his chest in the fetal position, and even then it was a tight squeeze. If she allowed him to stay there, he would surely wake up with some serious kinks in his neck and spine.

"Ichabod," she sighed, rubbing her eyes, "you are seriously going to be in pain tomorrow if you stay there. I'm not kidding – take the bed. I'm not going to sleep until you do."

It was rare that she used his Christian name, but still he was not swayed. Although he did have to admit that the word elicited a surprising tug in his heart. "Come morning, then, I am afraid you shall be in far worse condition than I."

She let them fall into a thick silence for several moments, before finally murmuring, "We… We could… We could both use the bed…" She was tired beyond belief. No, it was more than that – she was delirious. But still the words had been uttered, and they hung heavy in the air.

Ichabod's body went rigid in its deplorable position and his eyes widened. He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her, aghast. "What did you say, Miss Mills?" Surely he had not heard her correctly. He could not have possibly heard her correctly. For some unknown reason, his pulse pounded in his ears.

"You heard me," mumbled Abbie, suddenly very intent on studying the pattern of the floorboards.

"Truly, I did not."

She released an exasperated sigh, arms swinging by her side. She redirected her gaze to the ceiling. "I said we could share the bed – look, it's huge. It could easily fit like four people. We wouldn't even be touching. We could put a barrier of pillows in between us. I promise you that nothing unseemly will transpire." At this last part, she seemed to be mocking him.

He blinked several times, no doubt struggling to process the magnitude of this scandalous proposition.

"Alright," he eventually replied, voice very low. There was something almost gruff about the way he spoke.

Now it was Abbie's turn to be flabbergasted. "What'd you say?" she echoed, staring him square in the eyes.

"Alright," he repeated, sitting up. "You've convinced me."

She stood entirely still, stunned. She had not expected him to be so complacent, to say the least. In her shock, he walked past her – brushing her shoulder almost teasingly with his – and began unceremoniously compiling a dam of pillows in the center of the bed. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he laid down gracefully. Not knowing what else to do, Abbie followed suit without a word. She wondered offhandedly if he was doing this to mess with her brain.

As they dozed off to sleep, each was firmly rooted on one end of the bed.

Inevitably, though, they awoke panicked and in each other's arms. Fate was stronger than their will.

Author's Note: I know this is such a trope, but I couldn't resist. Let me know what you think! From my minimal knowledge of 18th century British customs, I don't think Ichabod would have actually lived lived in London. I think most aristocrats lived in the countryside and then would come to live in apartments in London during particular times of the year, like for balls and such. Correct me if I'm wrong. And I once traveled to London for a few weeks several years ago, but my memory of the trip is a little rusty - please forgive me if there are any mistakes. As always, pretty please review! Let me know what you'd like to see and I'll try to make it happen!