"This is definitely not normal," Abbie says, looking out of the window.
"What is going on now?" Crane asks, stepping over to join her. He stands close behind her, looking out over the top of her head, one hand casually landing on her shoulder.
"I mean, we've had occasional late snow before... but this... I would hardly call this a 'spring snow'," she says, gesturing to the blizzard conditions outside. She turns her head and looks up at him. "It's April 27, Crane. I have tulips coming up. It looks like January out there right now."
"Hmm." He frowns at the snow, almost as if he thinks he can glower it away. "How long have we been here?"
Abbie looks at her watch. "Two hours." She pats his chest and he steps aside, letting her pass. "God, I hate this place."
They were forced to return to Fredericks Manor to look for a hidden room that is reportedly holding some key information for them. So far, they've found little more than spider webs and what is left of Henry's creepy scale model of the town.
"Any fond memories I had of this once-great manor have been thoroughly sullied by the events of recent years," Ichabod observes, sweeping the beam of his flashlight through the room, hoping to spot something new. "Between that... tree beast and the fiasco with Henry and Katrina, I should like nothing more than to see this place set alight." His words are harsh, but there is no real fire behind them. Not anymore.
Abbie has heard him say as much on other occasions (and has agreed with him every time), so she isn't troubled hearing them now. Henry and Katrina died two years ago, and Crane has mourned, forgiven, and moved on. Beyond the occasional snide remark, usually brought on by some physical reminder of their existence, they are rarely mentioned.
"Wouldn't be a bad idea right now," she agrees, pulling the collar of her coat around her neck. It is growing colder and darker by the minute. "Why did you ask how long we've been here?"
"Because there is far too much snow outside for the amount of time it has been falling," he explains. "I fear you are correct, as usual. This is decidedly not normal."
Abbie looks out of the window again, and can barely see her truck. "Let's keep looking for as long as we can." She doesn't even want to entertain the thought of not being able to drive home in this.
Crane catches the unspoken concern in her statement, and materializes behind her again. "I have every confidence you will be able to navigate your vehicle through this storm, Lieutenant," he says, placing both hands on her shoulders and giving her a reassuring squeeze.
"I'm glad you do," she replies, leaning back against him for just a second.
"You are tired," he observes.
She sighs, turns, and looks up at him. "So are you. Neither of us got much sleep last night." She switches her flashlight on. "Let's get back to the search. This place have a basement?"
"I believe there is a root cellar," he says.
"And I'm sure it's a lovely space, complete with wall-to-wall dirt," she dryly comments. "Lead the way."
xXx
By the time they find the books, which were, of course, in a hidden room off the root cellar, it is nearly pitch black outside and the temperature has significantly dropped.
The root cellar itself proved a trial for Crane, and not just because of its low ceiling. His claustrophobia has only grown more acute as the years have gone on, and he spent most of his time in the small underground chamber hanging back on a set of stairs so steep they might be better described as a "ladder". When Abbie returned, needing his help opening the heavy stone door, he kept his bearing carefully stoic, but held tightly to her hand as they walked across the dark room.
Ichabod sets the heavy books on the table with a decisive thud. "I am sorry I was not more hel—"
Abbie's raised hand stops his apology. "Free pass, remember?" she says, walking over and pulling him into a brief, reassuring hug. There are two things that are off-limits for teasing, criticism, or blame: Crane's claustrophobia and Abbie's chiroptophobia. If there is a small space, Crane does not have to go in; if there are bats, Abbie can stay away. If it is unavoidable, they support their partner unquestioningly and without judgment.
He nods once, then gives her a small, weak smile. "I fear the snow has grown more perilous," he says, switching topics as he looks towards the window again.
"Great. Well, we have to try," she replies, reaching for the door. She turns the knob and pulls. Nothing. The door won't open. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Of course..." he sighs. "Shall I try?"
"Be my guest, but I doubt it'll work," she says, stepping aside.
He tries the door, pulling with all his might. The door sticks tight.
"All right. We are not going to freeze to death in this reject from The Amityville Horror," Abbie declares, pulling her phone out of her pocket. "No service. Perfect."
Truly a man of the 21st Century, Crane retrieves his phone and checks it as well, though his phone is on the same account as hers and would therefore have the exact same service. "Indeed," he agrees. "I assume 'Amityville' is another film I have yet to see?"
"Yeah, but you don't need to see that one. Gave me nightmares for weeks," she absently says, walking along the outside walls, hoping for even one bar. She curses under her breath and pockets her phone. "You don't suppose Henry left any blankets around here, do you?"
"If he did, I would not trust them to not transform into a writhing mass of vipers," he answers. "I think... our best bet is to try and stay warm and hope the door will open come morning."
"Or that Jenny comes looking for us," she says, nodding as she speaks. "Though with this weather, we may be stuck till morning anyway." She notices she can see their breath when they speak, and it causes her to wrap her arms around herself, trying to stay warm. "Do you think we can risk starting a fire?" she asks, glancing at the empty fireplace
His eyes scan the empty room. "If you can find something to use as fuel and something with which to ignite it..."
"Ugh, yeah, you're right." She sighs. "It's times like this I wish I hadn't given up smoking," she mutters under her breath.
"If I had some flint and steel, of course," he comments, slightly smiling.
"Oh, don't start in with that again," she says, actually chuckling. "Even though I wish you did have some. I wouldn't be above tearing up floorboards or that bannister."
"Nor I," Crane sighs, looking around again.
Abbie knows he is seeing this place as it once was, back in its former glory. She caught a glimpse of that herself, though she only really got to see the kitchens in back. "Hey," she quietly prompts, touching his arm. "Let's find a place to settle in and you can tell me what this room used to look like," she suggests.
"All right," he agrees.
They choose a spot against an interior wall, in sight of the front door so they can keep watch, hoping that the only being that crosses the threshold is Jenny. Crane sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, and Abbie slides down beside him.
"We will have to sit close together to conserve heat," he recommends, scooting closer to her at the same time she moves towards him.
"You're still pretty warm," she comments, resisting the sudden urge to crawl onto his lap and curl up against him.
"I generally am, yes," he agrees. He can feel her trying not to shiver beside him. "But you are nearly frozen already. Must be your small stature. Here." He begins taking his coat off.
"You need your coat," she protests, but falls silent again when he pulls her flush against his side, drapes the long garment over both of them, and wraps his arm around her. "Thank you," she quietly says. The ancient coat has survived as well as her partner has. It is a bit worn in several places, and he has mended it several times, but it has proven nearly bulletproof. Abbie has taken it to her dry cleaner a few times, where it has been given the due respect it deserves, thanks to her long-standing relationship with the family who runs the place. It smells good. It smells like him.
"Please, Abbie, do not be shy, as they say. I cannot have you catching a chill or worse," Ichabod says, tucking the coat around her and reaching for her hands beneath the coat, easily clasping both of hers in one of his.
She tucks her legs up and cuddles against him, trying to get closer. "Are you going to tell me about this place or what?" she asks. Her head falls against his shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind, so she leaves it there.
"I wish you could have seen it," he says. "It was... opulent. Mr. Fredericks had vast amounts of wealth, and while he spared no expense, he did not flaunt his largesse..."
He goes on to describe the house and its inhabitants with detail only someone with an eidetic memory can achieve, and Abbie closes her eyes, easily picturing it, letting the velvety timbre of her partner's voice wash over her while his warm hand absentmindedly rubs hers, keeping the blood flowing.
"And now... it is merely a shell. A tattered, rat-ridden, haunted shell of its former self. I am honestly surprised it has been allowed to remain standing in its current condition," Crane concludes.
"It's probably protected as a registered historical site," she muses, opening her eyes. "But everyone's afraid to go near this place, so it's fallen into disrepair."
"If we could exorcise the demons from this house... it could be restored. Or at least made habitable again," he says. Then he sighs. "Of course, that would require a fair amount of capital."
"Finding money to restore this place would be easier than trying to... de-haunt it," she says. As if on cue, the wind picks up, and the walls seem to groan in response. "Sorry," she calls, addressing the house. "Geez. Touchy."
Crane chuckles, then shifts slightly, trying to ease the ache growing in his backside. The floorboards beneath him are hard and unforgiving.
Abbie adjusts her position as well, stretching her legs out once again, and they fall into a companionable silence for some time. She checks the time on her phone. It's grown late, but she knows it is still going to be a very long night.
At length, she speaks again. "Would you go back? If you could, would you go back to 1781?"
He takes a second before answering. "Well, it's a complicated issue. Knowing what I know now, experiencing all the wonders this century has to offer... I don't think I would."
She had a feeling that would be his answer. She considers a follow-up, wondering if he would return if he could go back to before Abraham's turn and perhaps make different choices, but decides that is much too deep for this night. "Yeah, I think you belong here," she says instead. "Especially with all that has happened, with all the truth that you now know."
"Not only that, but I would miss you far too much," he replies. "You and Miss Jenny, of course," he quickly adds.
He falls silent for a long moment, but she can tell he is pondering something important. She can practically hear the wheels turning in his head; feel the weight of his thoughts on her shoulders.
"Abbie," he finally says, "you once said that a romantic relationship would be a complication you do not need."
"I did," she replies, slightly wary of where this train of thought will take them. Her instincts are telling her to get up and move away from him, to flee and avoid whatever he is about to say, but she stays, and not only because he is the only source of warmth in the room.
He hesitates before cautiously venturing, "Do you still feel this way?"
She nods, not meeting his gaze. Unable to look up at him, though she can feel his eyes on her. "It would just be... too difficult to keep those worlds separate," she answers, actually having given this subject a fair amount of thought. "Needing to keep secrets, hide things... straight-up lie. Not being able to fully share myself. It wouldn't be fair to him."
Ichabod knows this is only a half truth. He knows she has difficulty completely opening herself to other people. While he wears his heart on his sleeve, his partner is often a closed book. He considers himself fortunate that he knows her as well as he does, that she has allowed him in as far as she has. He clears his throat, almost afraid to ask his next question, but knowing he needs to get it out before he is crushed under the weight of not knowing. "What if... what if the person was already a part of that world?" he cautiously asks.
"What are you saying, Crane?" She finally looks up at him, and nearly gasps at the tenderness of his expression as he looks down at her. She's never seen him look at anyone that way, not even when he was reunited with Katrina.
"I am simply wondering if your opinion on the matter would differ if the person wishing to court you was already fully aware of all this, already knew all the secrets... someone from whom you do not need to keep anything hidden," he explains. His thumb caresses her hand, tenderly this time, helping to make his point.
Abbie would be lying to herself if she said she'd never considered the possibility. Heck, she's even given it serious thought on one or two occasions, usually late at night, when sleep was evading her. "I... guess that could work..." she allows, unable to come up with a valid argument against it other than "I'm scared shitless of losing you in any way."
He raises an eyebrow. "You 'guess'?" he asks. He is not offended by her vague reply. Knowing her cautious nature in this area, he expected it.
She sighs, looking down. "Sorry. I..." she stops and looks back up at him. "Just so we're clear, you're talking about yourself, right?"
He nods. "I have been giving the matter quite a lot of thought." Realizing how sterile that sounds, he quickly adds, "That is to say, you seem to be constantly in my thoughts, Abbie, and often in a rather... unprofessional way." Not much better. "My feelings for you have grown quite strong, and I wish to pursue a relationship with you beyond that of being friends and partners." He frowns. "This is not coming out as... romantically as I had envisioned."
Despite her thumping heart (Excitement? Panic?), Abbie laughs. It is a sweet, musical laugh, not mocking or unkind in any way. "I know what you're trying to say," she says, resting her head on his shoulder again. "You're... trying to let me know how you feel without scaring me away," she quietly says.
"Yes." He pauses a moment before asking, "Is it too much to hope for at this juncture to receive a more concrete answer than 'I guess that could work'?" When she hesitates, he presses on. "It is not my wish to push you into saying anything you do not want to say, I promise. I simply…" he exhales, looking down at the top of her head, "I have already become quite smitten with you, Abbie, and I feel I should confess my feelings because it will not be long before I am completely, irrevocably in love with you."
She looks up at him, eyes wide. "You are?"
"Of course I am. How could I not be, spending every waking moment in your presence? You are a wonder and a gift." He states these things as though they are the most obvious statements in the world.
"Ichabod, I…" she reaches up and touches his cheek, her fingers exploring the texture of his beard. Looking up into his blue eyes, she makes a decision. "We can try." He smiles, and she adds, "But we have to promise that if it doesn't work out for us that we won't let it get weird. There is simply too much at stake for us to wind up hating one another."
"I do not know why you think we could ever hate each other—"
"Just past experience, that's all," she explains with a slight frown.
"Abbie. I am not those other men." He says it with such confidence, such assurance, that she believes him. "We are friends now. We will always be friends, even if we are also romantically linked. And if we find we are not compatible as... lovers, we will continue to be friends. I do not believe God would select two people who hate one another to be His Witnesses."
She nods, dropping her eyes but not her hand. His beard is soft and strangely fascinating to touch. "I promise," she says, looking back up.
"I also promise," he replies. His eyebrow twitches. "Shall we seal this accord?" he asks, his voice a low rumble as his fingers touch her chin and tilt her face up to his.
"Somehow I don't think you mean to shake my hand," she says.
"No." His lips brush hers once, then connect more fully, but still softly, in a brief kiss.
"That was nice," Abbie admits.
"I am pleased you think so," Ichabod responds.
She snuggles in against him again, somehow more comfortable sharing space with him now. "I have thought about it," she says. "The possibility. Of us being... us."
"Have you now?" he asks, intrigued.
"I thought I should tell you. Since we aren't in the habit of keeping things from each other."
"I was keeping this from you for some time, and it very nearly killed me," he says with a small chuckle.
She laughs with him. "See, that's what you get."
"Indeed," he agrees. "I must say I am surprised you didn't suspect. I am generally not very good at concealing my emotions. As you are well aware."
She snorts another laugh. "Well, one often only sees what one wants to see," she says. "The signs were probably there, but I wasn't willing to notice them." She thinks back, even to earlier this evening. The way he was ever-mindful of her safety, always making certain he knew where she was. The way he kept calling her "Abbie". The way his hand casually rested on her shoulders at the window, even giving them a gentle squeeze. He's very tactile, but he doesn't generally touch other people. However, he doesn't have any issue touching me, even in the most casual ways.
"I'm certain they were," he says, nodding. He leans his head back against the wall.
"How were you a spy, exactly?" she asks. He laughs again.
"Things were different then."
"Different how?"
"You were not there."
xXx
The jarring sound of a door being kicked in jolts them from their slumber. Abbie lifts her head from Crane's chest and blinks at the bright sunlight coming through the door.
"What the hell?" Jenny asks, mindfully blocking the door open with a large boulder. "Why are you guys still here?" She looks across the large parlor and sees her sister and Crane huddled together under his coat. Looking very cozy.
"There was a blizzard. We were stuck," Abbie explains, standing. "Oh, ow," she groans.
Crane also stiffly makes his way to his feet. "Yes, we were trapped here by the sto... Abbie..." He points to the door, to the scene outside.
It is a beautiful, sunny spring day. No sign of snow in sight.
"Blizzard?" Jenny asks, looking back and forth between them. She took note of Crane calling her sister "Abbie", and it only adds to her confusion, having never heard him address her as such. She shakes her head. Think about that later. "It's already 60 degrees out." She sighs. "This house sucks."
"Well said, Miss Jenny," Crane agrees, bending to pick up his coat, which he drapes over his arm.
"At least we didn't freeze to death," Abbie says. "And we found the books."
"Good, because if you hadn't I was ready to put a torch to this place," Jenny says. Something happened between them last night, I know it. She finds herself scanning their clothing for any signs of dishevelment: missed buttons, zippers left down, shirts inside out. She is a little disappointed when she finds none.
Abbie and Crane share a knowing look for a moment before Abbie chuckles. "Let's get the hell out of here before it makes us see... you know, I'm not even going to suggest anything because I don't want to give this fool place any ideas."
"Wise choice," Crane agrees, lifting the books from the table.
"Choose and perish," Jenny says in a gravelly voice.
"Huh?" Abbie asks, absently looping her hand into the crook of her partner's elbow as they walk out of the house. "Oh," she laughs. "Choose the form of the Destructor," she says, using the same scratchy voice as her sister.
Jenny looks up as they approach the cars. "I don't see any giant marshmallow men, so I think we're good."
"Is this another movie I have yet to experience?" Crane asks, opening the door for Abbie.
She takes his offered hand and climbs in as Jenny looks on, growing more and more puzzled. I didn't see any tells, but... they are awfully... touchy-feely this morning. Did they...? Nah. No, they wouldn't. Would they? "Yeah. Ghostbusters. You'll love it," Jenny explains, heading to her own vehicle.
"You said that about The Patriot," he reminds her with a cocked eyebrow.
"Okay, maybe that wasn't the best idea," Jenny concedes. "But this one isn't supposed to be realistic. Have Abbie tell you about it in the car." She waves once, then climbs into her truck.
Just as Crane is sliding into the passenger seat, Abbie gets a text. What happened between the two of you in there? ;) She looks over at her younger sister, who is giving her a very pointed look from the driver's seat.
Nothing and everything. I'll tell you later.