A/N: I just found this fic. I don't really remember writing it (according to the file date, it was written over 2 years ago), and I never posted it anywhere. Looks like it takes place in late season two.
Ichabod Crane is a liar.
He told Abbie he wasn't going back to yoga class, haughtily turning his nose up at the prospect, despite the fact that she earned some useful knowledge from the endeavor.
That was true.
The lie was that he didn't enjoy the class. He enjoyed it very much.
Too much, in fact.
He was one of only three men in the class. That honestly didn't trouble him. Even when one of the other men made romantic overtures towards him, he was untroubled. Took it as a compliment, in fact.
The instructor was knowledgeable, friendly, patient and helpful.
It was a good class.
The problem was not the class.
The problem was Abbie.
Abbie, in her snug-fitting yoga clothing.
Abbie, with her slender, compact body graced with toned muscles that do not detract from her femininity at all.
Abbie, with her glowing skin begging to be touched.
Stretching backwards.
Bending forwards.
Twisting her body in ways that call images from a purloined copy of the Kama Sutra he once glimpsed – for once was enough, for Ichabod Crane – to his mind with startling clarity.
The Sun Salutation was like poetry.
The Downward Facing Dog was like art.
And the Goddess Pose... was pure sin.
It was a battle the entire time. He thought of cold winters at Valley Forge, fighting to keep from losing his toes to frostbite. He thought of the seasickness he suffered on his ocean voyage from England.
He reminded himself of his marriage. A lifeless husk of a marriage, but a marriage nevertheless.
Anything to keep the blood from flowing there.
When the class mercifully ended, he nearly sprinted to the men's locker room, changed clothes (where the mere presence of a very casually nude octogenarian effectively erased the final vestiges of his arousal), and waited for the Lieutenant in her car.
He sent her a text telling her where he was.
He thought he was in the clear. He thought he had exorcised the erotic demons from his psyche.
Until he went to bed that night.
His back turned to Katrina, he lies awake in bed, eyes wide. If he closes his eyes, he is plagued by images of his partner, in various poses, each more enticing than the last.
Once he is certain his wife is asleep, he slips out of bed and creeps into the shower, where he takes himself into his hand and guiltily indulges his fantasies.
"Abbie..." His hoarse whisper is obscured by the sound of the rushing water as he spends himself down the drain.