XIV Bright is the ring of words
Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said –
On wings they are carried –
After the singer is dead
And the maker buried.
Low as the singer lies
In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring
The swains together.
And when the west is red
With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings,
And the maid remembers.
xXx
If she is completely honest, Abbie wasn't terribly surprised when Crane kissed her.
They arrived back at the cabin just before the skies opened up. Crane took a quick look up, grabbed Abbie's hand, and ran the short distance from the car to the porch, pulling his partner behind him to ensure she made it in time.
A second later, rain poured down as if the clouds were plastic bags, heavy with water, and a giant hand had come along and cut a slit in the bottom. It was sudden, heavy, and cold. In less than one second, the world had become completely drenched.
"I think I'll wait it out," Abbie had said, breathing heavily, as they stood outside and watched the rain.
"I believe that is a wise decision," Crane agreed. He was still holding her hand.
It was a relatively quiet day, if dealing with the still not dead Andy Brooks could be considered "quiet". Three years and he's still lingering, looking more unnatural every time they encounter him.
Katrina managed to escape Abraham's and Moloch's clutches, but she had to (permanently) die to do so. Andy, however, lingers. He, a conflicted minion of the demon, a zombie creature hiding from light and life, lingers.
He had another, predictable message for them. Thankfully, after the ordeal in Washington's tomb two years ago, he stopped trying to curry Abbie's favor, but he continues to gaze at the lieutenant in a way that always makes Crane position himself between the two of them.
"You got any food?" Abbie asks, looking up at him. Distant thunder rumbles ominously.
"Some," he says, releasing her hand to turn and unlock the door. "I am overdue for a trip to the market, unfortunately," he adds, stepping aside, thus encouraging her to enter first.
"Yeah, I know, I am, too. Sorry," Abbie answers, allowing Crane to lift her coat from her shoulders. He has learned how to drive for practicality's sake ("Crane, what happens if I can't drive, hmm?"), but Abbie still does most of the driving and he doesn't have enough money (or a credit record) to buy a car. "Maybe we can try tomorrow. Pretty sure my milk has turned into some kind of..." she pauses, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside, "evil cottage cheese by now. Ah." She pulls out some takeout boxes from a couple ofdays ago and goes about reheating them while he hangs up their coats.
"This is quite a storm," Crane comments, looking outside. He stands in front of the window, his long, lean form silhouetted against the gray light outside. "I can scarcely see the lake."
"Wow," Abbie comments, pulling out two plates and two forks. "I always... oh." She turns and sees Crane has disappeared. The bathroom door is closed, so she shrugs and returns to the microwave, singing softly to herself.
Through the bathroom door, Crane faintly hears her singing as he washes his hands. He angles his head, listening. When he turns the water off, he can make out the words.
He's heard his partner sing or hum on many occasions, and has always found her voice to be lovely and tuneful, even if he doesn't always enjoy the content. Modern music still sounds like baffling noise to his ears, and he avoids most of it the way he avoids modern clothing.
Divested of his boots, Crane silently walks back to the kitchen, listening to Abbie's singing. He's never heard this song.
Outside, there is a flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder. The cabin creaks slightly as the wind picks up.
"Fish in the sea, you know how I feel. River runnin' free, you know how I feel. Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me, and I'm feelin'—"Abbie turns and suddenly stops, mid hip-swing, and almost drops the plates.
"Please, do not stop on my account," he quietly says, a half-smile playing about his face, left eyebrow predictably cocked.
"Um, food's ready," Abbie answers, handing him the plates and avoiding his gaze. It holds an intensity she is not sure is actually there.
"You have a beautiful singing voice, Miss Mills," he says, putting the plates on the table. "I do enjoy listening to it."
She looks back at him and, though he is beside the table, he is still studying her, and the expression in his eyes is making her a little warmer than it should. That intensity is definitely there. She blinks and continues. "I thought you found modern music to be... what did you say? 'A cacophonous barrage of immorality'?" she asks.
He smiles and walks towards her, into the kitchen. "Not all modern music," he says, retrieving two bottles of water from the refrigerator.
"Just most modern music," she replies, lightly brushing past him with the reheated takeout containers in her hands, which she brings to the table.
He waits until she is seated before he sits.
"I should like to hear more of that song," Crane says. "It was most intriguing."
"I'll pull it up on my iPod after dinner," Abbie answers, looking at her food.
"Will you not sing the rest?"
"I don't know all the words. Most, but not all."
"I do not mind. I daresay I would not know the difference," he says, smiling.
"I do and I would," she counters, finally looking up at him. She returns his smile and softly sighs, realizing he's not trying to tease or embarrass her; he's merely curious.
There is another flash of lightning, another crack of ear-splitting thunder, and the power goes out.
"At least I got the food heated up," Abbie says after a moment.
"I have candles," Crane says, standing. He navigates the cabin flawlessly in the pitch darkness, the layout indelibly imprinted on his brain. He returns a moment later with two candles, holders, and a box of matches. He quickly lights them, then returns to his meal as though there was no interruption.
They eat quietly, listening to the sound of the rain and wind as it batters the cabin, to the thunder as it rumbles with increasing frequency.
"What kind of songs did you sing back in the day?" Abbie suddenly asks, setting her fork down. "'Yankee Doodle'?"
"Yes, it was on every Revolutionary War soldier's iPod," Crane answers, rolling his eyes. Abbie snorts a small laugh, leaning back in her chair and wrapping her arms around herself, beginning to feel a slight chill. "You would likely be surprised at the amount of what would be considered 'popular music' back in 'the day', as you insist upon calling my former time period."
"Really? I thought it was mainly church music," she says, starting to clear the dishes now that Crane has finished. He stands and moves to the living room.
"Well, of course, but there were other songs as well," he calls over his shoulder, hunched in front of the fireplace where he is stacking kindling, setting a fire for light as well as warmth.
"Yes, like I said: 'Yankee Doodle'."
Crane humphs and sets a few larger logs on the fire. He grabs a blanket and moves to the couch. "Leave the dishes, Lieutenant," he calls. "Come warm yourself."
"It's only two plates and two forks, Crane, and they're done," she says, yanking her boots off and setting them by the door beside his much larger ones before retrieving the candles from the table. Her steps falter when she sees him waiting for her on the couch, covered by half a blanket. The other half is folded back, waiting for her to climb in beside him.
"You are already catching a chill, Abbie. I could see it while we dined," he softly says. She sets the candles on the coffee table, sits on the couch, and allows him to cover her with the blanket.
It's very warm. Cozy.
Lightning. Thunder.
"There were many songs," Crane continues, "on many subjects. We would teach each other the songs we knew from our various homes. There were songs of religion, yes. Love, of course. Love lost, love found. War, death, children. Much like popular songs today, though much more subtle and much less... jarring."
Abbie nods, finding herself leaning against him, the soft timbre of his voice combined with the warmth of his body drawing her closer, making her want to cuddle against him. She tucks her feet up at her side, warming them beneath the blanket.
"Subtle," she chuckles. "Ain't much subtle in music these days."
"Indeed not," he agrees. He lifts his arm and wraps it around her shoulder, and she shifts closer, leans against him more. He's surprisingly comfortable for someone so thin.
A particularly loud boom of thunder catches Abbie off guard and she jumps, startled. Crane's arm instinctively tightens around her.
"Just surprised me, that's all," she mutters, staring into the fire.
He murmurs a wordless acknowledgment. A moment later, he begins to sing.
"Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair. Her lips are like a rose so fair. And the prettiest face and the neatest hands. I love the grass whereon she stands, she with the wondrous hair."
Abbie is struck dumb by several things. His singing voice, which she has never heard before this very moment. It's a soft baritone, as rich and resonant as his speaking voice. The words of the song. Finally, the gentle press of what can only be a kiss on the crown of her head.
Is he just singing a sample song, or is he... telling me something?
"That's..." her voice disappears, not finding the words.
Crane continues with the next verse. "Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair. Her face is something truly rare. Oh, I do love my love and so well she knows. I love the ground whereon she goes. She with the wondrous hair."
She looks up at him now, her brown eyes wide, and as she looks at him, she knows he did not choose this song at random.
He brushes his lips against her forehead. Beneath the blanket, his hand finds hers and he twines their fingers together.
"Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair. Alone, my life would be so bare. I would sigh, I would weep, I would never fall asleep. My love is 'way beyond compare. She with the wondrous hair. Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair."
So, no, Abbie Mills is not surprised when Ichabod Crane kisses her.
She is, however, surprised by the skill with which he kisses. She's never felt such ardor from a kiss, especially considering his mouth remained closed.
He pulls back too soon, his eyes wide and dazed, pupils large as he stares down at her upturned face. Lightning briefly illuminates the cabin, followed very closely by the accompanying thunder. "Abbie," he hoarsely murmurs her name.
"Ichabod," she responds. Clamoring for her wits, she blinks a few times. "You... didn't pick that song by chance, did you?" she asks, her voice a whisper. Somewhere, her brain registers his arms are completely around her and she is half on his lap. Her hands are resting on his chest, and she has no recollection of moving them there.
"No, I chose it very specifically," Crane answers, brushing his lips against her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed at their touch. "And, though I did not pen the lyrics," he pauses, kissing her forehead, nose, and finally, lips again, "I meant each word I sang." He kisses her yet again, and she melts against him. "Though, I am well aware your hair is, in fact, very dark brown."
Abbie smiles. "Close enough," she whispers, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Her fingertips rest on bare skin; her thumb rubs lightly across his beard. "I've never been serenaded before."
"Truly a pity," he answers, leaning into her touch. "I have loved you for many months, Abbie," he admits. "Perhaps longer, though I cannot say for certain."
She moves her thumb, tracing his lower lip with it, and his eyes close at the caress. "I love you, too, Ichabod. I don't even know for how long, because it feels like I always have."
Crane opens his eyes and smiles at her. "I am so glad you requite my feelings," he says, sounding more relieved than Abbie would have thought.
I suppose I do play things pretty close to the vest. She lifts her chin and kisses him, her actions emphasizing her words. He starts to draw back, but she moves her hand into his hair, telling him she's not done kissing him yet. Prompting him for more.
He makes a soft groaning noise and his tongue slips forward, asking for entry into her mouth. She immediately parts her lips for him, meeting his tongue with a boldness to which he is unaccustomed, but finds he loves.
He tightens his arms around her and pulls her fully onto his lap, his lips never leaving hers. The blanket falls to the floor. Lightning strikes again, its accompanying thunder almost immediate.
"Abbie..." Crane gasps, moving his lips to her jaw, then venturing lower. Abbie drops her head back and he kisses a hot trail down the length of her neck. He is murmuring what sounds like her name and words of endearment the entire time, and she feels the vibrations of his words against her skin.
Whatever they are. She can't even tell anymore.
"Ichabod... oh..."
He lifts his head, thinking he's gone too far. His right hand slowly, almost sheepishly releases the back of her shirt, which he had somehow bunched in his fist, untucking it.
"Don't stop," Abbie says, looking down at him from her position on his lap.
"Oh... I thought I'd..."
"You haven't gone too far, trust me," she says, kissing him hungrily. When she reaches into his hair and tugs free the band holding his ponytail, he groans, but gently pulls away. Again.
He blinks. "I fear if I told you what I wanted, you would be scandalized," he quietly says.
"Try me," she challenges, raising an eyebrow.
He levels his gaze at her, looking directly into her deep brown eyes. "I want to take you to bed."
This time, it is Abbie's eyes that widen. Not at hearing his words, but that he said them at all. And so plainly.
Still, she gathers her resolve, sponges up the puddle she's become, and smirks impishly at him. "Oh, is that all?" she saucily returns.
His eyebrow raises just as more lightning strikes outside, giving him a very brief otherworldly appearance. Without a word, he rises, lifting her with him as though she weighed nothing, and carries her to his bed. He gently sets her upon it, kisses her deeply for a moment, then disappears, heading back to the living room to retrieve the candles.
"You look so beautiful in the candlelight, Miss Mills," Crane states, setting the candles on the bedside table. "I would hate to miss out on the glorious opportunity to see all of you bathed in this soft, golden glow." He drops onto the bed beside her, his rangy body spanning the length of it. He leans over and languidly kisses her lips, his hand sliding across her flat stomach. "However, seeing your face illuminated by the flash of lightning, producing a perfect, split-second image has proven quite enticing as well. I am thankful for my memory, as it allows me to recall at will those briefest of moments with perfect clarity," he continues, skimming his lips down the side of her neck while his hand on her stomach continues its earlier work of untucking her shirt.
"Oh, God, you do have some serious game," Abbie softly answers, her voice slightly breathy. He got Katrina and he wasn't even trying, she realizes. Abraham never stood a chance.
She feels his chuckle against her neck as he recalls the conversation that now seems so long ago, though only two years have passed. She also feels his hand on her bare skin, his long fingers spanning her stomach, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.
"Abbie," he says, lifting his head. He kisses her lips once more. "Are you certain you wish to proceed? All you need to say is—"
"Yes," she answers before he finishes. "Yes, please proceed, Crane. Ichabod." She lifts her lips to his, flicking his upper lip with her tongue.
He eases her up into a sitting position and she pulls her shirt off over her head. Then, she deliberately tugs at his. He understands her meaning and quickly removes his as well, tossing it to the floor atop hers. Then, he stands and removes his trousers and socks.
Abbie allows her eyes to rove his body as he returns to the bed, watching him unashamedly; pleased she can finally allow herself to freely look at his body without feeling guilty about it. "Damn," she mutters her appreciation.
Crane smirks a moment, then returns his lips to her skin. "I love how you can convey so much with so few words," he purrs against her throat, bringing his tongue forward to lick the soft hollow between her collarbones.
"You could learn that skill," she answers, laughing as she runs her fingers through his hair. She gently pulls his head up to kiss him. "Maybe," she amends, remembering his recent praise.
He smiles and kisses her nose. "I do not know how to remove this garment," he quietly admits, running his finger along the top edge of her bra, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
She reaches around behind her, but he stops her before she can unclasp the suddenly too-restrictive garment.
"No. Show me, please. I would like to know," Crane says, dropping soft kisses on her shoulder.
Abbie smiles and turns her back to him. "There is a clasp in the center. A little hook and… oh. Well. There you go," she chuckles, Crane having opened it easily before she had finished giving instructions.
He leans forward and kisses each of her shoulder blades in turn, then nudges her hair, still restrained in a low ponytail, aside to trail a few kisses up her spine. "Your back is a work of art," he murmurs against her skin, which is soft and smooth and smells faintly of melons and cucumbers.
Her head drops forward, his every kiss and caress sending delicious chills through her. I never imagined my back was so sensitive. It could just be him though.
He kisses the side of her neck, then finally reaches up and slides the straps of her bra from her shoulders. She lets the garment fall down her arms until she catches it and tosses it aside. His hands snake around her and come up to cover the newly-exposed mounds, choosing to touch them before he sees them.
"Mmm," he hums appreciatively against her neck, his large hands gently caressing, learning the feel of her. His thumb skims a taut nipple, drawing a soft gasp from her, and he moves, laying her back down on the bed.
The lightning flashes as though Crane had bidden it to do so, and he smiles as he gazes down at Abbie. She returns his smile, takes his hands, and brings them to the button at the front of her jeans.
Crane needs no further instruction and soon, Abbie is assisting him in peeling the snug garment down her legs. He drinks in her lean, shapely limbs as they become exposed to his appreciative gaze. He's only seen them twice in three years, on the rare occasions Abbie has had to wear a skirt, and both times he tried not to stare at her well-formed, slender legs.
Jeans divested, he kisses his way up one leg, pauses thoughtfully at her sky blue lace panties, then continues up, placing wet kisses on her stomach and between her breasts on his way back to her lips. She writhes deliciously beneath him, her small body calling out to his.
Crane has been in this century long enough and knows enough about modern courtship rituals to not have any illusions about his partner's virginity. Thankfully, he realizes he doesn't care about her past. He knows he is not her first, but neither is she his (nor was Katrina, honestly). All that matters is the present and future. They love each other and she is here with him now. That is enough.
I may not be her first lover, but I will do everything in my power to ensure she will choose me as her last.
He spends a few decadent moments kissing her lips, his tongue snaking around hers, reveling in how she responds, meeting and matching every sweep of his tongue with one of her own.
"Abbie," Crane leans back just enough to see her lovely face, "I... I trust the taboos in place during my time are no longer of any concern?"
Abbie quirks her head at him. "I don't know exactly what was considered 'taboo' back then, but... no. These days, anything goes, as long as both parties consent."
A sly smile creeps across his face, and she feels a hot flush race across her body. "So..." he moves his right hand, sliding it down her body, "I may touch... anywhere? Even..." he skims his hand down her thigh and back up, stopping at the apex of her thighs, "...here?"
"Mmm, especially there," she says, angling her hips upward, pressing against his hand.
He makes a low growling noise that makes her heartbeat pick up. It also prompts her hand to do some wandering of its own, searching out the hard length she feels pressing against her thigh. She grasps him through the material of his boxers, and he inhales sharply.
His reaction almost makes her withdraw her hand, but she can't seem to let him go. "No one has ever touched you here before?" she whispers, lifting up to kiss him. She moves her hand, stroking him through the fabric.
"Oh... simply because it was 'not done'," he says, his voice slightly hoarse from her attention, "does not mean we did not do," he states with a sly lift of an eyebrow. "What transpired behind closed doors…" he finishes his sentence by pressing his fingers just hard enough to elicit a soft moan from Abbie. He moves his hand, slipping it into her panties.
"Ooo," she purrs, her hips rolling against his hand.
He slides his fingers gently into her moist warmth, moving just enough to make her crave more, then removes them, reaching for her waistband. She eagerly helps him divest her of her last remaining piece of clothing.
"Now, you," she says, returning her hands to his waist. He quickly yanks his boxers off, kicking them to the floor.
Completely naked, they take a moment to regard one another.
They are both struck by the level of comfort they feel lying together naked on his bed. There is no awkwardness or embarrassment. It could be a result of their bond as Witnesses. It could be the fact they've spent the last year dancing around each other, trying to deny their feelings for one another. It could simply be they've grown accustomed to always being so close, always together, that taking this step feels like the most natural thing in the word.
Perhaps it is all three.
"You are perfection. Petite, beautiful perfection," Crane quietly says, leaning down to kiss her.
Abbie reaches up and traces the large scar on his chest, then trails her fingers down to his stomach, loving how his muscles jump beneath her fingertips. "Wow," she sighs. "I wish I had the words."
He catches her wandering hand and kisses her fingertips. "You do not need words, my love. I can see it in your eyes, read it in your expression," he says. "And, I daresay, I have words enough for us both."
She smiles and pulls him over her, needing his lips, his kisses. "I love you, Ichabod," she whispers against his lips before hungrily claiming them.
He softly closes a hand over one of her breasts, thumb rubbing back and forth across her nipple, teasing it to a stiff nub. "You are my very heartbeat, Abbie," he whispers, leaving her lips to make his way to her breasts, kissing and nipping lightly as he goes until he reaches his target.
His tongue slips and slides around her nipple as he kisses and sucks, worshipping her with his mouth. His hand makes its way between her thighs and she parts them wider for him, her fingers in his hair, gently grazing his scalp.
Abbie moans softly and reaches down, searching for his manhood. He is so much taller, she can't reach him and she grips his shoulder instead. He delves two fingers inside her and she responds by lightly raking her nails down his back.
Crane groans, rumbling against her chest as he kisses his way to her other breast. His beard tickles, leaving her skin tingling and feeling slightly raw, but in a curiously good way.
"Ichabod..." she mews, moving her hips in time with his deft fingers as they caress her, circling and plunging until she is nothing but sensation.
"Abbie... my love... may I...?"
"God, yes," she answers his unasked question. In a moment of clarity, she pushes his shoulders and sits up, slinging her leg over him. At last, he understands her intent and rolls onto his back, pulling her with him, a question in his eyes.
"Abbie?"
"Easier this way. You're too tall," she says, leaning down to kiss him. "Or, I'm too short."
He smiles. "Perhaps it is some of both," he replies. "I must say I quite like this view."
She returns his smile and reaches back for him, stroking him softly a few times while she spends a few more moments kissing him. She slides down a bit, positioning herself. She kisses him again, sliding her tongue luxuriantly against his as she sinks down onto him.
"Oh..." Crane tears his lips away, overcome. "Good gracious," he gasps.
"Oh, yeah," Abbie agrees, rocking her hips as she begins to move, her small hands braced on his chest, fingers spread.
"More..." he prompts, his voice tinged with desperation as his hands grip her hips, encouraging her. His control is slipping away, his love and desire for her sprouting wings and flying straight from his heart into hers, tethering them together.
"More?" she gasps, leaning forward, downward, shifting her position a bit so she is laying more than sitting on him. She twines her legs with his for added leverage to give him more.
"Oh, Abbie... my love," he groans, his hands running up and down her back until they settle on her rear. "My every fantasy... most decadent dream... they are nothing... inadequate... compared to the... exceptional reality of your... lips... breasts... thighs..." his words fail, descending into garbled groans as he loses control, loses himself completely in her.
She leans up and kisses him, first sucking on his bottom lip, then thrusting her tongue into his mouth, whimpering against his lips.
Her breasts rub deliciously against his chest hair, and every place they touch makes her feel supercharged. "Oh, God..." Abbie moans, her peak rapidly approaching, "oh... ah... mmm..." Her fingers suddenly tighten, digging into his shoulders, and Crane opens his eyes in time to see her climax over him, accompanied by a very well-timed flash of lightning, capturing her lovely face with her head thrown back, mouth open in a wordless O. She feels like she is soaring, her heart full.
"Beautiful," he manages to croak out a hoarse whisper, her unraveling triggering his impending release. "Abbie, I must... I should..."
"It's okay," she tells him, her breathing still rapid and shallow, "stay where you are."
He doesn't stop to think or question her words. He trusts her, and if she says "stay", he will stay. He doesn't have time to think about it, because he is plummeting, flooding his release into her, wrapping his arms tightly around her as he growls her name, his nose in her hair.
Abbie relaxes over him and takes a long, slow breath, her head on his chest. "Oh, wow," she says at length.
"I wholeheartedly agree," Crane says, sighing contentedly, his arms still around her.
The thunder rumbles, but it continues to grow distant. The storm is passed; however, the rain still taps on the windows and roof.
From the kitchen, Abbie's phone rings.
"That's Jenny," she says, but doesn't move.
"She will be worried for your well-being, my love," he reminds her, but doesn't loosen his hold on her.
A minute later, Crane's phone rings, also in the kitchen.
"Probably Jenny," Abbie chuckles. "You don't have different ringtones for different people—"
"Pointless endeavor," he mutters.
She snorts. "But, I'm sure it's her."
"You should set her mind at ease," he says, dragging his fingers up Abbie's spine, sending a chill through her. She squirms, and he inhales sharply at the feel of her lithe body writhing atop his.
"Down, Boy," Abbie says, feeling his manhood twitch, still half-sheathed within her. She pushes herself up, kisses his lips, then gently rolls off of him. She goes into the bathroom for a minute or two, then out to the kitchen, wearing his bathrobe. The sleeves hang well past her hands.
Crane pulls the blanket over himself, listening to his love moving around his small house.
"Hey," he hears her voice, "yeah, um, we were both just in another room and too lazy to get to our phones… hmm? Nothing. Nothing."
The lights suddenly turn on, and he smiles as he sees the shaft of illumination from the kitchen switch off with a decisive click.
"No, we're fine… power went out. It's back on now." He hears her pick up the poker on the hearth and spread the remnants of their abandoned fire in the fireplace, then replace the poker into the holder. She appears a moment later and sits on the bed. He watches as her eyes widen. "Um, right. I'm not having this conversation. See you tomorrow."
As she pulls the phone away from her face to disconnect, Crane distinctly hears Jenny's voice triumphantly exclaim, "I knew—" before Abbie can press the button. She looks down at Crane and sighs.
"It seems our feelings for each other were obvious to everyone apart from ourselves," he drily states, trying unsuccessfully not to smile.
"Shut up," she says, laughing, and hits him with a pillow.
"Come here," Crane rumbles, tugging at the tie on her robe. Once opened, Abbie shrugs out of it and slips beneath the covers beside him, her body pressed to his side. She still has her phone in her hand, and starts poking around. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for that song," she says. "Honestly, three years and no Nina Simone? Shame on me for being so negligent. Here." She passes him the phone, it's a YouTube video of Nina Simone's version of "Feeling Good", the song Abbie had been singing earlier.
"Not much in the way of visuals, but the song is wonderful," Crane comments.
"Yeah, sometimes it's just pictures of the performer with the music playing. But, the music is the important part." She rests her head on his shoulder, watching the screen with him, her leg draped over his thighs.
"Thank you," he says when the song has finished. "Though, I still think I would prefer to hear your voice." He leans down and kisses her, softly and slowly.
"Your objectivity may be impaired right now," Abbie says, looking up at him. "But, it's very sweet of you to say." She takes her phone back. "Let's see if we can find your song…"
"I very much doubt it will still be around," he says, skeptical. "Given modern society's penchant for eschewing anything older than, oh, 50 years, as being—"
"Holy crap," Abbie says, interrupting. "Why have I never seen this?"
"What?" Crane asks, intrigued. She shows him.
"Not only is your song still around, we have Miss Nina singing your song." She pokes the screen and the video starts to play, a live performance.
"I stand happily corrected," Crane mutters. He is quickly entranced by the video, watching the small screen with rapt attention.
The song finishes, and he kisses her again. "Thank you again, dear Abbie, for sharing these with me. I enjoyed the new version of my old song very much."
"You're welcome, Ichabod. I'm glad you liked it," she says, reaching back to place her phone (which is now set to Vibrate) on the bedside table.
They lay entwined in each other's arms for a while, absorbing their newfound closeness, taking advantage of things they had denied themselves before now: little touches, small kisses. Crane tucks a lock of Abbie's hair behind her ear and kisses her temple, whispering, "I love you," against her skin. She squeezes him tightly, nuzzling his neck, answering him without words.
"Abbie?" he asks after some time.
"Hmm?"
"Are you not afraid of… becoming with child? I mean, someday I would be overjoyed if you… that is, if we…"
"Crane, I take medicine that keeps me from getting pregnant. It's a common thing now," she explains. She leans up and kisses him. "I was wondering when you were going to ask," she adds, smiling. She kisses him again. "But, yes, someday. After we stop the world from ending."
His eyes light up, he smiles more broadly than she's ever seen, and he hugs her tightly. "Now, it is I who is at a loss for words," he murmurs into her hair.
"We'll have to mark this occasion," she says, leaning up again to kiss him, shifting so she is lying on top of him again.
"I have one more question," Crane says, unexpectedly pulling away.
"Yes?" Abbie patiently replies.
"When you said, 'anything goes', did you truly mean anything?"
He's got a glint in his eye that makes Abbie's heart speed up a bit. "W-with consent, yes—Oh!"
In the blink of an eye, he's flipped them so she is on her back beneath him, and he is kissing his way down her body again, a man on a mission.
"Oh…" Abbie breathes, only half-wondering about the nature of his intent.
He nestles his head between her thighs, gives her a crafty look, then Abbie's body arches off the bed as his tongue finds its goal.
"Oh, God… oh, I consent…"
A/N: I do recommend hitting YouTube and looking up both "Feeling Good" and "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair" by Nina Simone. I'd link them, but this site doesn't like that. I'll have them on my Tumblr page, too.