Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was awake. There was just this electricity around Crane, a sense that he was so overflowing with ideas and theories and stories that they leaked into the air around him even when he was silent. But right now, she wished that hum was gone, that he was still sleeping. Because now, she had to figure out what the hell she was gonna do next.
Abbie debated her options. She could play possum and fake sleep. Maybe eventually he'd get up and she could...what, duck out a window? No, she was going to have to face him. And she wanted to. After all, staying over had been her idea. They'd walked back to the cabin—it was closest—hand in hand, which was strange in the most familiar way. For once, they weren't holding each other for dear life; they were holding hands just because they liked each other. They'd shared a lousy frozen pizza in front of the fire, and talked about Plato, the best tools for exorcising demons, and Michael Jackson.
And she just hadn't wanted to leave. Because if she did, she might miss one of those wonderful somethings bursting from him. Or she might never have noticed the way his eyelashes faded to gold at the ends. Or found out that nipping at just the right spot on his neck made him gasp and melt against her.
So she'd stayed, and they'd slept, and that had been nice. Sleeping together—in the literal sense—was old hat to them. It was the waking up together part she wasn't so sure about. Was it gonna be weird? Abbie was pretty sure it was gonna be weird. Small talk and morning breath and the awkward "oh, you take the bathroom first," "no, you, I insist" song and dance. She hated all that, the minutiae of physically being with someone. But she guessed she was gonna have to figure it out. The quicker, the better.
She opened her eyes. He lay propped on his side, watching her through heavy lids. He was so relaxed, he seemed part liquid, for once still. But when he saw her, his face exploded into a smile.
"Hi," she said, pulling the scratchy plaid blanket up over her shoulder.
"It still seems a dream," he said. He brushed her cheek, quickly and delicately, like he was afraid she might crumble away at his touch. "But your presence makes even this newly fledged day among the finest I have ever known."
She nodded, because she didn't know what else to do. And she wasn't sure where to look, either: his eyes were right there, so close, staring right through her. She rolled over and buried her face against his linen-covered shoulder. Immediately, his arms twined around her—close enough to be comforting, but loose enough that she knew she could escape, if she needed to.
Maybe this wouldn't be so weird after all. They drowsed, his fingers drabbling lightly through her hair.
"While you slept, I have been occupied with matters of the gravest importance," Crane pronounced. Abbie vibrated with the low rumble of his voice.
"What's that?" she asked lazily.
"What I shall call you now. After all, while 'Miss Mills' or 'Lieutenant' still serve admirably when we are with company, it will hardly do when we are alone."
She stiffened, suddenly wide awake. She squirmed away from him a little, enough that she could see his face. "Abbie works. Abbie has always worked," she said.
"It feels...ill-fitting for common use." She had to admit, she kind of got what he meant. At this point, he'd made it such a thing that using it casually would be jarring. But did they have to make a big deal out of it? It was just a stupid fucking name. "And you once told Mr. Morales that you abhor the appellation 'Abigail' when he used it in jest, so we must resort to sweet words of endearment. Darling, perhaps. I have always been partial to dear heart. Sweetling does not seem to suit you, I fear. There is, however-"
"I'm gonna make some coffee." She ducked out of his arms and was gone before he even knew what happened. It just—Jesus. Pet names. She needed a minute, just a minute alone, a minute when he wasn't looking at her or touching her or even thinking about her. When she was just Abbie again. She threw grounds and water into the coffeemaker and stared as it wrung out life-giving caffeine drop by drop.
He didn't come for her right away. The pot was half-full before he emerged, dressed and fastening the cuffs on a fresh shirt. Good. That bought her another few seconds of invisibility while he fiddled with the buttons. She was fine. She was good. Everything was okay.
"Miss Mills," he started.
"So I was thinking, there's a battlefield in White Plains," she said. "Might be a place War would hang out. I'm not due in at work until noon, so we have time to read up on it, maybe even drive out there-"
"If I in any way caused you discomfort or alarm, please know you have my sincerest of apologies. It is, very simply, the last thing I should ever desire," he said quietly.
"You didn't," she said without thinking. Didn't matter if it was true or not, she wasn't going to tell him that her palms got sweaty at the thought of being someone's "dear heart." Even his. And even if he was so very dear to her own heart.
He stepped forward to pull two mugs down from the cabinet—one with WORLD'S BEST POLICE OFFICER written in huge block letters, the other covered in badly drawn Texas bluebells. Abbie filled them both, and Crane filled his with spoonfuls of sugar. He sat at the little table, while she leaned against the counter.
"Do you regret the events which transpired between us last evening?" he asked after a while.
"Jesus fuck, no," she said, surprising even herself with her vehemence.
"Impressively blasphemous," Crane said drily. She laughed in spite of herself, and the tension ebbed away from her like the tide. Everything was going to be okay; she'd push through this. She just needed to find the right words.
"I just...love is supposed to be all rainbows and fuzzy baby ducklings, but I feel like I almost don't belong to myself any more, you know? It's like you own a part of me, and even if I want you to have it, even if I know I have a piece of you, too, that part of me's still gone. Or changing, or something. " She sat abruptly and gulped down several mouthfuls of too-hot coffee. Her tongue burned. "That didn't make any sense, did it?"
He smiled and held out his hand. She didn't want to take it; not really. She wanted to cling to her coffee cup and try to steal little bits of herself back. But refusing would hurt him, and that would be even worse, so she took his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers. "I found it to be quite sensical indeed. And you are not wrong. To love means to give of oneself, of course. But just as importantly, it means to take the love offered you in return, to pull it into your being and, yes, to change. It can take time, and it can feel like the most exquisite terror." He pressed his lips against the back of her hand, and nothing had ever felt as exactly right as the feeling of his skin meeting hers. "What I call you does not matter. All that matters is that you are happy, and you know that you are adored."
Abbie's skin felt super-heated, like she'd sizzle in the rain. She leaned across the table and kissed him again and again. She kissed him hard and she kissed him soft; she kissed with lips and tongue and teeth. She kissed him the "thank yous" and the "I'm sorrys" and the "I'm trying my bests" she couldn't figure out how to say. And through it all, she hoped he was happy, and that he knew he was adored.
"There is not a single shred of evidence to suggest that the Second Horseman is at the site of the Battle of White Plains. He made it explicitly clear to me that 'War has come to Sleepy Hollow.' Why would he decamp to the site of an unimportant battle? General Washington spoke of it to me on only one occasion, and he said-"
"Stop. If you go off on what Georgie-boy told you, we'll be here all night," Abbie said. She braced herself against one of the archive tables and popped her back. They'd needed her on the streets all day today, and eight hours in a cruiser left her feeling like a pretzel. "So if it's not White Plains, where is he? You've been researching this all day."
He waved a hand at the stacks of books, parchments, even a few pages printed from the Internet. "Forgive me, but a single day's labor is not sufficient to sort through nigh upon three hundred years of martial history. It will take time to locate War."
"Then let's go looking for him. If he's in Sleepy Hollow proper, even better, town's not that big. But we can't fuck around. The Seven were enough for me—let's not give him time to drag something nastier out of hell." She jangled her keys. "I'll even let you drive. You could use the practice."
Crane flung a sheaf of papers to the floor, his lip curling as he geared up for a good rant. "Yes, by all means, let us blindly stumble into some sort of trap the Rider has prepared for us-"
"His name is Jeremy, Crane." Just like that, it was as if she'd sucked all the air out of the room. He froze, looking up at her with wide eyes. Oh, this was gonna suck. She slid into the chair opposite him. "Not the Rider. Not War. Not the Second Horseman. Jeremy."
"Thank you for the gentle reminder; his identity had quite slipped my mind. I had entirely forgotten that my own son betrayed us, buried me alive, and sold his mother into unholy matrimony," he sneered.
"None of that changes the fact that you love him." He wilted forward, hair falling in front of his face. "Let me do this for you. Let me take Jenny, and we'll finish this. You shouldn't have to be a part of it." The very thought of walking up to Henry, who loved puzzles and grandpa sweaters and plants, and straight up murdering him wasn't easy for Abbie. In a way, his life hadn't been so very different from her own: growing up with no parents, no direction, with a big supernatural secret to hide. But Henry had let the world break him. Abbie had come close—way too fucking close— to the same fate, but in the end, first Corbin and then Crane had saved her. She'd been lucky.
But even if his actions were understandable, it was still too late for Henry. You don't just get to be Team Good Guy again after you help start the apocalypse. There was only one way.
"With all of my heart, I wish this burden could be given to another. Coward that I am, I would gladly permit someone else to shoulder the load." He cleared his throat. "But as a Witness and as a father, we both know it must be me."
Abbie tucked his hair behind his ear and rested her hand against his cheek. "It's not fair. I'm sorry," she said.
He covered her hand with his own. "I will do this. No, we will do this. But I pray, grant me time. Let me ensure all is in order, that we are certain. Both for our safety, and to ensure that his end is merciful. He deserves that much." He laughed, though its sadness hurt her ears. "No, he deserves much, much more. But it is all I can give."
They both knew they didn't have much time. That Henry could be waiting in the parking lot. Hell, if he was smart, he'd just hunker down in some bushes with a sniper rifle; way more efficient than demons. But how the hell was she supposed to say no to him? "Yeah. Of course. We'll get this buttoned up tight. And I'll tell the deputies to be on the lookout for him. On the down low."
"Thank you." He shuffled papers, and Abbie gave him time. "Forgive my atrocious manners: How was your day? Did you subdue the criminal element lurking deep in the heart of Sleepy Hollow?"
She tugged over a heavy book of maps that smelled like old feet. "It was a bad day. Had a road rage case—dude beat the shit out of another dude with a tire iron for cutting him off. Then a bad domestic abuse scenario, not the first time I've been out there. And a bar fight at six o'clock, which is way too early for that to be going down. Everybody's telling me the same—major uptick in violent offenses."
Neither one of them had to say that it wasn't a coincidence. They knew what was causing it, and they knew how to stop it. "I see," Crane said.
They leaned over their crumbling old books and settled in for a long, long night together.