Something for you. This story went way left. It was supposed to be really short, but…. Lol Anyway, I'm still working on that Ichabbie Halloween fic for Fruit Salad, though Halloween is over. I'll post it soon, but here is some fic for you. Miss you, Sleepyheads. :)
Abbie stood too close to a man she didn't know. She didn't have a choice. There weren't any seats on the subway train, so she held on to the strap above her. The man, hardly two feet away, grabbed one, too. He was tall. She liked his beard and the little dent in his forehead. She wondered how he got it.
He wasn't paying attention to her because his neck was bent into his cell phone. His thumb wouldn't stop moving. Perhaps he played Candy Crush. She could never get past level 150. The time limit on that one fucked her over every time.
The man wore a suite. Blue, it was. His white dress shirt was wrinkle-free. There was no tie around his neck. Maybe he didn't like them. Two of his buttons were undone. Chest hair poked out.
Corbin, her mentor, told her she'd get enough of staring at people when she was inspired. Painting portraits was a hobby of hers. If she stared, then she was interested. Really interested. People have asked her what the hell she was looking at. And she told them her intentions.
The man looked up from his phone. She liked his blue eyes. His eyesbrows lifted too far above his head when he saw her watching him. He cleared his throat.
"Do I have something on my face, ma'am?" he said.
She didn't expect the British accent. He was definitely interesting.
"I would like to paint you, if you don't mind," she said.
His eyebrows lifted again. "Pardon?"
"A portrait."
"Portrait?"
"I paint portraits. I want to paint you."
"I'm flattered, ma'—"
"Abbie. Call me Abbie."
"Very well, Miss Abbie. I am flattered and all, but I couldn't possibly permit you to paint me."
Corbin said she was pushy. She was, but she knew when to back off. Most people told her to fuck off anyway. He didn't do that. He was politely declining her offer.
"Why?"
"Forgive my bluntness, but we are not familiar with each other. We are two strangers."
She knew he'd say that. That's what people always said.
"You don't have a reason to trust me. We are strangers. So what? We're people, right? Looking to fulfill and be fulfilled."
"That's an interesting point. However, I do not think it wise to invite a stranger into your home in order to paint them, Abbie. You could put yourself in danger."
She chuckled. People always made that assumption. They thought her 5'1 self was weak, fragile. She was glad to set them straight.
"What if I told you I don't just paint? That I'm also a lieutenant for the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department? That I know self-defense? And who said we were going to my house?"
She painted on the weekends in a mini studio she rented every month. It was the only time she had freedom from the tragedies and accidents and murders and suicides she frequently dealt with during her job. It was how she coped with the stress, a release from the heavy.
"My apologies. It wasn't right of me to assume."
"It happens. I would like to paint you, Mr.….?
"Ichabod Crane."
His name sounded old-fashioned. Passed down. She liked it.
"Crane. Can I?"
She hoped he said yes, like she did with all the other people she asked. They had a something she wanted to uncover. She wasn't being nosy, and she knew there could be consequences, but she was curious. She wanted to see who people really were. How they still lived despite the shit they endured.
Abbie's seen a lot on the job. It was normally death and violation, victims who couldn't breathe because their life became twisted. So she painted. It was all Corbin's fault, really. She only painted as a child and only the people she knew. But he wanted her to find an outlet, so she picked up the brush again and enrolled in classes. Now, her she was, creeping people out by asking if she could paint them. Corbin probably didn't mean for her to ask strangers. The old man would probably shake his head, sigh, and say, "Use your head, kid."
She wouldn't know that for sure. Corbin was dead now.
This petite woman baffled and intrigued him. Crane had just come from lunch with his parents and did not expect to be asked such a question. He kindly tried to refuse her, but she was persistent. Should be really endeavor such a risk? His parents did just tell him he's been too stiff since his best friend Abraham died. They said he needed to loosen up from his 9-to-5 job. Breathe a cloud or two. Untangle. Their advice was supposed to lead him to a vacation, counseling even, not an unknown, possibly dangerous situation.
Yet curiosity wet his tongue. He's never heard of a cop who liked to paint. Why did she ask a stranger? Why not her family or her close friends or her lover? Luckily, he didn't have anywhere to be. He didn't have any children or a betrothed waiting. Or a pet for that matter. He sighed and smiled slightly, feeling foolish and impulsive. He supposed he'd breathe a cloud or two. Abraham always told him to squeeze life by the balls.
"Where is your stop, Abbie?"
She pulled the subway bell cord and smiled. "After you."