Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for my reviews go out to Nikala, Ad Hominem Argument and my mystery guest for their reviews.

THE LEADER OF MEN

The third time it happens, Ichabod has no idea what Abbie's upset about.

After all, he's trying to protect her. To keep her safe. To lighten her load. It's been a year since she discovered she was a Witness, and three- apparently sleepless- months since Lieutenant Morales' death: She needs him to watch over her.

Seemingly however, going to Irving and asking him to cut back on her cases breaks some sort of law enforcement tenet of which he was resolutely unaware.

In fact, it's such a faux pas that the good Captain whistles, gives him the same look Washington used to give troops he knew were not coming back from the battle-field and tells Ichabod that, "I'm not touching that with a ten foot pole, Crane. And neither should you. Now get out of here."

Ichabod opens his mouth to retort, annoyed at being dismissed, and as he does so Abbie walks into the office to speak to her superior, showing the sort of terrible timing which would bar her from the stage, should she be so inclined.

She takes one look at Ichabod, one look at Irving, and her face shutters closed, arms crossing over her chest.

It's one of her more irritating traits, that ability to take one look at her partner and immediately ascertain that he's done something less than above-board.

"Alright Crane," she drawls, "what' going on here?"

"Nothing." Inwardly, Ichabod winces. A small child could tell that he's lying.

"Uh-huh." She looks past him to Irving, eyebrows raised. "Anything you want to tell me, Captain?"

Ichabod can feel the other man's eyes on him. The tension in the room is almost painful. "Mr. Crane here was just suggesting you need some time off, Lieutenant," Irving says evenly.

If possible, Abbie's razor-straight posture grows even more rigid.

"I, however, was assuring him that if you needed to do so, you'd come to me without expecting your partner to do it for you." He stares very hard at her. "After all, keeping your head on straight is part of your duties. It's right up there with don't get shot and stop the Apocalypse and keep the crazy English guy away from the Police Commissioner, isn't it?"

Ichabod is tempted to smile at this but one look at Abbie puts paid to that.

He has seen her upset, he has seen her angry; He has never, however, seen her livid before.

Abbie snaps to. "Damn straight, sir," she says tightly. Ichabod has learned to be suspicious of that conversational, of-course-I'll-do-as-you-say tone. "And I'm fine, just a little tired. But then, there's plenty of that going around the department, Sir." She nods to Irving, turns on her heel as smartly as any soldier. Her fingers are squeezed together so tightly her knuckle bones are visible beneath the skin. "Don't worry, I'll keep what you've said in mind," she says as she leaves. "Oh, and Crane?"At the sound of his name Ichabod has to fight the strong desire to wince. She sounds absolutely furious. "Soon as you're done here, you'n me are gonna have a conversation you will not enjoy. You got that?"

And with that she's gone, so angry that Ichabod can see her physically restrain herself from slamming the door behind her.

Crane turns to look at the Captain, opens his mouth to ask but words fail him.

He is never, he has a terrible feeling, going to hear the end of this.

Summoning whatever of his dignity he can though, he straightens up and moves to follow. Well, not follow exactly, because he likes his head and shoulders in their current, usual configuration, and he suspects speaking to Abbie now would put that configuration in severe jeopardy. But he does know that he can't continue standing in Irving's office, feeling like an idiot and looking like a fool. So he gives the police Captain a curt nod and opens the door, the better to make his escape-

He hears Irving give a pained, martyred sigh and clear his throat.

"Crane," he says quietly.

Ichabod turns to look back at him, surprised that he has stopped him when he felt annoyed enough at his actions to turn witness on him to Miss Abigail.

"Yes?" he inquires, summoning every ounce of archness he can muster. It's a lot of archness.

Irving stares at him over his desk. His expression is unreadable. For a moment neither men speak and then- "98," Irving says.

Ichabod raises his eyebrows. "I beg pardon, Captain?"

Irving has turned his attention back to the report he was writing when he walked in. The rest of his words are directed to it. "98% is what Abbie scored on her tests to get into Quantico. She has some of the highest levels of accuracy on the shooting range, and even before she ran into your scrawny self she had one of the highest closing rates of any officer in the department. She's the best we've got."

Ichabod draws himself up in affront. "She is the best of us, Sir. I need no percentiles to tell me that-"

Irving shakes his head. "That's not what I'm suggesting."

"Then what are you suggesting?"

"That coming in here and tattling on her was out of line."

Irving doesn't look up from his reports as he says the next. His voice is calm, but like Abbie's, Ichabod suspects there is fire beneath it.

"She's a beautiful, brilliant young woman in a man's job, Crane," the Captain says tightly. "She had a mentor who was an older man, and man but the rumour mill made hay with that fact. She now has a weird, English guy as her partner, a guy who isn't the cop and ex-boyfriend who died trying to save her, and boy but the rumour mill loves that too. She's a woman, and she's African American, which means that she's probably run into more bullshit about whether she can do the job than either of us can imagine- And yet here she is, closing cases. Getting it done. Not complaining, though I know plenty of guys who would."

Irving looks up from his papers.

Ichabod is surprised by what he sees in the other man's eyes.

"She doesn't need you coming in here and telling me what to do for her, Crane," Irving says quietly. "She doesn't need anyone treating her like she's made of glass or she doesn't know her own mind, she gets enough of people assuming with her already. She's tough Crane, because she has to be. Because she's needed to be-"

He closes the report folder with one precise, controlled movement.

Ichabod can't help but feel that this is a dismissal.

"Now go out there and listen to what she says she needs, rather than thinking you already know."

Katrina used to say that Ichabod's main fault was not obstinacy (a trait she herself knew more than enough about) but a tendency to assume he knew everything. And since she alone knew everything, this was not to be endured. Ichabod thinks about this as he walks slowly down the corridor to Abbie's office. He thinks about it some more as she snaps and snarls at him about how she knows when to call for backup and ask for help and when to stand her ground. The fight is short and to the point and she uses some rather colourful language; Ichabod stands and listens and when she's yelled herself out he apologises very softly, tries to make her see that what he did was born of worry and nothing more.

But that night, when she says she's fine, he doesn't secretly purse his lips and think about how he knows just what will cure her.

Instead he sits with her and he works into the night.

And three weeks later, she finally admits that she misses Morales so much she wants to cry, he is the one on whose shoulder she lays her head.

He may not always understand her, he thinks, but he'd rather not understand than risk losing this.