XI The Roadside Fire
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
xXx
"Sometimes, I miss it." Crane pauses when he looks up and sees his partner's skeptical expression. "Often," he amends, dropping the brooch into the box with a clatter.
It was a cameo, a vaguely-Grecian face in profile. Carved ivory set atop an ebony background. It was Katrina's. One of the few things that was left of her.
Crane and Abbie were preparing a small box of what small number of effects they could scrape up of Katrina's, intending to bury it under her headstone.
The cameo brooch. The emerald necklace. A love letter, a lock of hair, and a pressed violet, all contained in a parchment envelope Crane had squirreled away in his coat.
This is all that remains of Katrina Crane. She died months ago. Crane has made his peace with her passing, and so it is time to finally put her memory to rest as well.
"Life was simpler. At least, it seemed so," Crane continues, clarifying his current nostalgic status. He looks up at Abbie, knowing she would argue that things are simpler now, with microwave ovens and the Internet. "Now, everything is so fast and... bewildering," he adds, flexing his fingers as they rest atop the edges of the open box.
"You're not all that bewildered anymore," Abbie points out, reaching over and giving his beloved smartphone a deliberate tap. "I've told you many times how impressed I am by how well you've adapted."
"I hide a lot of my confusion behind arrogance and bravado," he admits with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair. "I should like a small prayer book or Bible to put in the box," he absently adds, looking around the archives.
Abbie smiles. "It's not as well-hidden as you think, Crane," she says, rising. "You forget I can see right through your arrogance and bravado." She walks over to a bookcase, glancing over her shoulder to see her partner smiling to himself, knowing her words are true. Abbie turns and scans the case until she sees that for which she is looking several shelves up. She reaches up and can almost grab the book. She attempts to stretch further just as Crane materializes behind her and reaches the book effortlessly.
"The Book of Common Prayer," Crane reads, his long fingers tracing the faded gold leaf of the title. "This shall do nicely, thank you, Miss Mills." He looks down at her, standing trapped between his body and the bookshelf. He hadn't backed up much after retrieving the book, personal space never being an issue with the lieutenant.
Abbie smiles up at him, and in that moment, he remembers why it has been so easy for him to adapt to this era.
"I remembered seeing it the other day. I had a step stool then," she says, reaching up and lightly pushing him back to the table.
"Well, yes, of course. I daresay you should carry one with you always," he answers, dodging the light punch he knows is coming even though she is behind him.
"Back to short jokes, Old Man?" she asks, dropping into her chair.
It has been Standard Operating Procedure for two years now: short jokes and old jokes, volleyed back and forth like a tennis ball.
"As you have said, Miss Mills, 'The classics are always in style'," Crane quotes, removing the items from the box to place the book at the bottom. The yellowed envelope goes next, then the jewelry.
"When did I say that?" Abbie asks.
"Two weeks ago... Thursday. Though, I believe you were making light of my continued insistence on wearing my 'old clothes' instead of embracing modern finery," he informs.
"Right," she answers, watching him stare into the box. It's not a fancy box. It's polished wood, about the size of a shoebox. Abbie had a brass plate engraved with Katrina's name and set into the top.
He picks up the necklace, regards it with a somewhat-detached expression, and drops it back into the box.
"What do you miss most?" Abbie softly asks. She's not sure if she wants to know the answer, but Talking Crane is preferable to Silent Crane.
He ponders her question for a few moments. "There isn't one thing I miss above all," he finally says.
"So, just everything?"
He shakes his head. "It's more a feeling of... missing what my life could have been. Had I lived. Yes, yes, I know I did not actually die," he hastily adds, holding up his hand when he sees Abbie open her mouth, "but the Ichabod Crane who lived in the eighteenth century did, for all intents and purposes, die in 1781."
Abbie reaches across the table, and he places his hand in hers. It is a comforting gesture, one that comes as easily as breathing to them. He turns their joined hands so that hers is cradled in his, a more natural arrangement given the size difference.
"We had such plans," he says, looking at his partner's small hand resting in his, always marveling at how physically tiny she is in contrast to her bravery and personality. "A home. A garden."
Abbie closes her eyes, knowing what is coming next.
"A family," he whispers, the pain of everything to do with his son still sharp, even after they returned him to his grave.
Abbie squeezes his hand, understanding completely. She had plans of her own. None of them involved demons or the apocalypse or having a 200-some-year-old Revolutionary War soldier as her BFF. She says nothing, however. She doesn't need to.
This is not about her.
Anyway, Crane knows.
"I had dreams – during the brief moments of sleep afforded to me while I was in battle – of a lovely home with shutters and a fence... rose bushes... perhaps some fine hunting dogs." He sighs heavily, his thumb skating across her knuckles. "Children playing on the grass. I would have liked several. As many as she could bear me," he wistfully smiles and looks up at her.
Abbie smiles back at him, the image of Crane the Family Man a very easy one to conjure. She knows his brusque, studious, sometimes curmudgeonly exterior is just that – an exterior. She has no problem at all imagining him interacting, even playing, with children.
She doesn't tell him he still has time for happiness, for children, for a life. She doesn't say the words because she doesn't know if they are true. Even if Crane and she stop the world from ending, they may not survive it.
"It's getting late," Abbie says instead, glancing outside. "Do you want to...?" Her eyes drop to the wooden box between them.
"We shall do it tomorrow," Crane answers her partial question, closing the box with his free hand. "If we go skulking around the cemetery at dusk, it may look suspicious," he adds, cocking his eyebrow.
"Right, because nothing we ever do is suspicious at all," she responds, preparing to stand. She starts to withdraw her hand, but he holds it a moment longer.
"Abbie," he says, employing her rarely-used first name. She freezes and looks at him, waiting. "Thank you. I do not say it enough. If it weren't for your guidance, your presence in my life... I would be lost, indeed. You marvel at how I've adapted, but you fail to see that my acclimatization is largely due to your gentle and patient... no." He smiles. "Rarely gentle and often impatient, but always well-meaning tutelage." He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, his lips surprisingly soft within the prickle of his beard.
"You're welcome, Ichabod," she quietly answers. "Come on. We'll get some takeout and I'll drive you home," she says. He releases her hand and she rises.
"Will you stay and dine with me?" he asks, lifting the leather jacket from the back of her chair and holding it out.
"Only if you set a fire in the fireplace," she answers, slipping her arms into the garment.
"Of course," he nods, opening the door. "After you, Miss Mills."
She walks through the door and out into the chilly evening. Crane's hand softly lands on the small of her back, gently escorting her to the car, where he opens the door for her after she unlocks it.
"Shall we order pizza? I believe I would like pizza, if you are agreeable," he says, sliding into his seat. He pulls his phone out and gently waves it back and forth.
"You've got Mario's on speed dial there, don't you?" she answers, smirking. It's not really a question. He loves pizza, and has quickly become a connoisseur. "Yes, order us a pizza. We can pick it up on the way to the cabin."
As he waits for Mario's to answer, he mutters, "I will admit there are some things in this era that are far superior."
Abbie smiles, feeling him observe her out of the corner of his eye. She watches the road stretching before them, the glow of sunset burning like fire in the west.