Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine.
THE SISTER MOST DEAR
The second time it happens, he is not so surprised by it.
In fact, the second time it happens, he expects the rebuke before it even materialises.
Because this time the argument is not really about his manners or his actions but about Miss Abigail and Miss Jenny and the mess that has become of their relationship.
And having been witness to more than one sisterly spat in his own family, Ichabod is merely happy that he manages to escape this one with both life and limb intact.
It starts out once they've gotten back to Corbin- now Ichabod's- cabin in the woods after another painful demon hunt. Miss Abigail had managed to identify and find the creature, but it was Miss Jenny who took the honour of the kill and he should have known that that would be the makings of an argument as surely as he knew his own name. He watches as the two Mills sisters dart around his home, Abigail looking for food, Jenny looking to release some of the tension that always seems to coil within her. Ichabod wants to be helpful so he hands Abbie some plates- she has found a delicacy known as a "pop tart," which she wishes him to try- and while he does so he compliments Miss Jenny on her combat techniques, inquiring where she learned the skill.
"You liked that, did you?" Miss Jenny asks, and while he may be a man out of time and married to boot, he recognises the tone of flirtation in her question.
She ducks her head, bats her eyelashes playfully.
She really is very lovely, he has to admit.
When he doesn't answer she grins and makes a show of sidling up to him. "Well, English, you want me to tell you my dirty little secret or not?" she teases. She is standing quite unconscionably close to him. As she speaks he feels Abbie's grip on the plates tighten, so much he's surprised she doesn't drop one; He's been around his fellow Witness long enough that he identifies her stress without having to look straight at her and that is probably for the best.
Suddenly the room is thick with a tension even he, loquacious as he is, does not wish to name.
The silence stretches out and Jenny grins in barely-disguised glee.
"I merely wondered where such skill may be acquired, Miss Jenny," he says after a moment. He wishes to step away from her but does not want to appear insulting. "Perhaps I or Miss Mills could also be trained in it-"
He realises his mistake the moment the words leave his mouth.
But it's Miss Jenny's grin and Miss Abigail's growl as she pads away from him that really drive the point home for him.
Not for the first time in this strange new world he feels a twist of annoyance- And a strange wash of yearning for home.
Ichabod has- had- two sisters back in England. Twins, Lizzie and Jane, as unalike and yet as alike each other as only two siblings can be. As the eldest and only boy Ichabod had watched them, watched their rivalry in all things from sweethearts to accomplishments. They loved one another fiercely- Lord help the man who tried to test that- but in all other things they had been rivals through and through.
He recognises the same volatility in both the Mills women, recognises the desire for one-upmanship which Miss Abigail tries to ignore and Miss Jenny enjoys feeding into. That they can even irritate one another to the degree that they do so it proof enough of how much they care. But caring or not, Ichabod will not be a pawn in their games and he is determined to show it. He is not one of those poor, besotted, green boys that Jane and Lizzie used to pitch about as a cat might toy with a mouse.
So with a pointed look at Miss Jenny he gets up and follows Abbie into the pantry.
She's sorting pots and pans into different piles and he knows that such busy work cannot bode well.
Without even turning from her task she tells him, "Whatever you wanna talk to my sister about, you leave me out of it, Crane-"
And though he does not often do so, Ichabod walks over and firmly places a hand on hers, halting her movement.
"I do not truly believe I need to say this, Lieutenant," he says softly. "But I do not have any untoward designs upon your sister, or any on you. Lovely as she is- lovely as you both are- I am a married man and that will not cease to be the case." He says the next words to the tabletop. "Seven years is not a long time; I will join my Katrina soon enough."
Abbie halts at his words, mollified by his tone perhaps. She has her sister's temper, but she knows when to lay it to rest. What she says however surprises him more than anything Jenny might have come up with.
"Why do you call her by her name and me by my title?" she asks him quietly.
She's staring very hard at a blackened pot as she says it, her tone offhand though her body language belies that.
For a moment Ichabod's brows knit together. He is surprised at her question, surprised at her asking it. It hadn't occurred to him that terms of address for the elder and younger of siblings had fallen out of use.
"I call her Miss Jenny because that is her name," he says eventually. He clears his throat, says the next to the self-same pot on which her eyes now rest. "I call you Miss Mills because you are the eldest, and because I- Because I wish to show respect for you. To you."
He inclines his head slightly. He thinks he understands.
"Forgive me, I did not wish to imply a false intimacy by using your sister's given name. I will desist immediately."
She doesn't raise her eyes to his. "Could you not just call me Miss Abigail instead?"
And now Abbie looks up at him. Her dark eyes unreadable, something serious and fierce and… wanting? Underneath her skin.
She is lovely indeed, Ichabod thinks. But seven years is no time at all.
He cannot concentrate on that however. Instead Ichabod inclines his head again, letting a small smile play across his features. "Of course… Miss Abigail." His smile widens. "I am honoured by the use of your given name, and will try to be worthy of your trust."
And with that the mood, odd and fractious as it is, is broken. He and Abbie walk easily together back into the house, their usual ease once again to the fore.
He doesn't see Jenny watching them from the doorway. Doesn't realise what she heard him say to her sister.
But he does hear the younger Mills' murmured "You break her heart and I break your face, English," as he sits down, pop-tart bearing plate perched precariously on one knee.
He has no reason to doubt her word.
And he understands the sentiment well enough.