#ichabbie fan fic

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Out of the Grave - Chapter 4: The Rest of All Time (Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here, Chapter 3 here)

A/N: Final chapter. I’d love to know what you think of this happy little fic! :D

Ichabod slowly came awake, his mind taking its time to acquaint itself with reality. He stretched languidly, feeling pleasantly rested for the first time in days. And then he remembered last night. His eyes flew open to find the space beside him empty, and his heart plummeted into his stomach. Had it all been a dream? An alcohol-induced fantasy? But no...the pillow beside him still held the faint dip of having been slept on and the bedroom door stood wide open. The deep scent of coffee and the tantalizing smell of bacon reached him, and he knew he hadn't imagined Abbie's return. With eager purpose, he hopped out of bed, making a pit stop before padding a tad anxiously down the hall to the kitchen. The Lieutenant stood at the island, flipping pancakes on the hot griddle in front of her. Her eyes darted up as he moved into the room. "G'morning, sleepyhead," she greeted with a smile. "Good morning, Lieutenant." He stood watching her, her ease in the kitchen (so unlike him), her small hands deftly pouring batter and flipping hot cakes. "I wanted to run to the bakery and get you some donut holes, surprise you, but I didn't want you to wake up while I was gone and think..." She fluttered the spatula in the air, glancing up at him. He nodded in appreciation. "Thank you," he murmured. "So instead," she moved on brightly, "I'm making some of my blueberry chocolate chip pancakes. And maybe a little candied bacon...?" "Ohh, you do know how to spoil me, Lieutenant," he stated eagerly. "I shall prepare our coffee." "Sounds good 'cause everything's just about done." Ichabod poured two cups of coffee, making them perfectly to their preferences, and set them at the breakfast bar. He retrieved plates and utensils, butter and syrup, as Abbie finished cooking. She set a plate piled high with pancakes and another full of candied bacon on the bar, and together they sat down to eat. "How'd you sleep, Lieutenant?" he asked after praising her for blessing him with such delectable sweets. "Well," she acknowledged with a nod. "You? You seem rested..." "Yes. My sleep was most peaceful." He filled his mouth with another bite of pancakes before he let it spill that she was the reason for his respite. Though he suspected she knew that after exhibiting how vulnerable he'd felt last night. They passed into comfortable silence, and Ichabod reveled in this simplest of pleasures, one he thought he'd never experience again. Abbie made his world, this world, come alive in a way he desperately feared losing. And while he'd never alter the way they fought monsters and demons and solved crimes and queries together, he'd take these moments—sitting in the early morning quiet, enjoying good food and better company, watching the morning sunlight play off her flawless skin, knowing he could just be when he was with her—over all the adventures in the world.

Abbie pushed her plate away as he took his last bite, and they both sat nursing their coffee. "What time are we expecting Miss Jenny this morning?" he asked after a few more moments of bliss. "Mm, I had a text from her when I woke up. She'll be here in a few hours. Seems she got to bed late." She turned her head slightly to look at him. "And I suspect she wanted to give us some time to catch up." "Mmm," he hummed, his face resolute as he nodded in agreement. He saw her waiting for him to speak, but he didn't know where to begin. He'd spilled enough last evening to quell the overflowing tide of emotion he'd been drowning in for days, but so much more remained. Not to mention he longed, if apprehensively, to hear her thoughts on all he'd conveyed. His expression must've revealed his pensiveness because the Lieutenant leaned forward slightly to catch his eye. "Crane?" He looked at her and nodded to let her know his willingness to talk. "I shall just refill my cuppa. Would you like more as well?" She gave him a look that told him she believed he was stalling—and maybe he was—but she replied anyway. "Water for me, thanks." Abbie set their plates and silverware in the sink and put everything else away as he prepared their drinks, and when they were done, he followed her into the living room. She sat at one end of the couch, and he chose a spot near her, leaving a bit of space between them. He glanced at her, and their arrangement struck a memory from not long ago, after she'd revealed her connection to the then-unknown emblem of Thura by nearly letting him expire. As much as that had frightened him, it paled in comparison to losing her, to watching her vanish before his eyes. "Crane...tell me what happened after I... disappeared into the box." She asked gently, softly, and though it still made his heart ache—even as she sat next to him—he couldn't refuse her. He took a brave breath and spoke. "I was so sure we'd defeat them. I thought it was an inevitability; we've faced so many things before. But I looked up, and you were just...gone. I'd never felt as empty as I did in that moment." He paused, trying to think past the second she'd dissolved into that mythical box, but the visual played in his cursed eidetic mind once more. He felt Abbie grip his hand, and he squeezed hers once in gratitude for the tether to the present, even as he relived the past. "You are not an easy person to lose, Lieutenant." He swallowed hard. "With the Hidden One weakened, Miss Jenny shot him. And Pandora, endowed with her husband's power and longing to rule in his stead, betrayed us. She and her box disappeared. Miss Jenny and I devised a plan and, using the map, tracked her to the cemetery above the tunnels. I...called forth the headless horseman to fight against her." He paused to gauge her expression, but she still listened intently without judgement, eyes wide. "When his broadax stuck in a tree and she began pulling him into her box, I knew she would defeat him without assistance. So I retrieved his ax and threw it to him just as he reached her. He cut her down where she stood." Abbie nodded slowly, taking it in, and he could see she regretted not being there to help him finish their job. "She was defeated," he assured her. "They both were in the end. I demanded she release you before she expired, and it was then she confirmed your...demise. When she breathed her last, the box began to glow, so I grabbed it and ran for the tunnels. I secured it in the Masonic cell, and as I started to retreat, it blew up. The force pushed me through the tunnels, and it knocked me out. You came to me then. At least I thought it was you." He looked at her questioningly. "Did you come to me? From wherever you were?" She shook her head, sadness and empathy written on her face. He nodded, then turned back to stare straight ahead, into the recent past. "I dreamed of you then. Just like it happened the first time we met when I was imprisoned in that infernal cell and you came to me. This time you told me I had to say goodbye. Then, in the way that dreams do, we were suddenly in the Archives....you told me your job was done...your soul was free. You took me by the hand and...led me home. We sat on the porch and you...you consoled me while I...." "While you what, Crane?" Her whispered voice came to him, floated through him as he remembered his words to her. "What is there for me in a world without you?" he repeated the sentiment that’d haunted him since she’d disappeared into that box. His eyes met hers. "It's what I said to you. What I should've said." He shook his head, closing his eyes momentarily in frustration. "What I'm saying now. Because I should've said it before." He saw her expression soften, her expectant look filling him with hope. "These last few days, all I could think of was how I told you...the dream you...that I'd miss you. How I kissed your hand and bowed low and when I looked up, you were just...gone again. How I didn't tell you while you were here all the ways you've changed my life. I couldn't have found a better guide through this modern world if I'd stumbled upon the Pope himself. You mean everything to me, and everyone saw it but I didn't say anything." He balled his hand into a fist as he bit off the last few words. One of her hands covered his fist, the other coming up and cupping his jaw, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "You're saying it now. And I hear every word." Her thumb traced over his lips, and he closed his eyes, the frustration evaporating, his heart floating into his throat. He kissed her thumb, captivated by her closeness, her sweet acceptance of all that he'd said. And still...he longed to know her thoughts. He grasped her hand and brought it to his lips for another kiss, and this time when he opened his eyes she still sat before him. "There are some things I need you to hear, too," she admitted quietly, her expression tentative and vulnerable. "Things I haven't told you." He nodded once and took a deep breath, mind racing at what she might reveal, heart thundering with worry that she would reject him gently but definitively and he'd be destroyed all over again. "When we were in that boat crossing the Delaware and I told you how rare it is for someone to have the kind of unwavering faith that you do, I meant it. Your kind of devotion is nearly unheard of, but what makes it more...intense is that that faith is in me. And I've been...afraid for a long time." He didn't follow her logic just yet, and he knew confusion had crept onto his face, but he waited for her to speak her mind. "Afraid I'm some kind of curse, that the people I care about always leave or die because of me. My father, my mother, then Jenny. Corbin, Frank, and now Joe." She veiled her expression in that way she did when things hurt too much but she had to press on. Ichabod longed to comfort her but made himself stay frozen in place to hear the rest of what she'd say. "I hate what happened to all of them, fates that I couldn't prevent, and I never wanted you to be on that list. Despite that concern, you're my closest friend. My fellow Witness. And that makes the threats against you that much more dangerous and palpable." He saw her steel herself. "But that's not the only thing I've been afraid of." "What is it, Abbie?" he wondered with a whisper when she didn't continue, brows drawn in concentration. "I've been afraid..." She sucked in a deep breath. "That all the things I've been feeling for so long now were unrequited. There've been others in both of our lives that've made me... question, but regardless of who's come and gone, my feelings for you haven't changed. Have only continued to grow, no matter how hard I tried to deny them. I've been afraid of them because...I didn't want you to leave too. You did, and when you came back, I wasn't sure how you felt about me. Then we were in that boat, about to head straight into the catacombs, and with that same rare, unwavering faith, you told me that when it came to you and me, you had no greater certainty." He nodded, affirming his sentiment once again as he stared intently at her. His chest felt tight, as though someone had his cinched it in a vice, and he waited anxiously for her next words. "In that moment, I saw it in your eyes. Felt it in my soul, like a puzzle piece locking into place. And when I heard what Betsy said to you, I didn't want to pretend what I felt wasn't real anymore." "You heard what Betsy said?" he queried a bit shyly. She nodded. "I heard how you didn't deny it, and I knew I wanted to tell you too. I just didn't get the chance until now." Her eyes held his, soft and open, looking at him as if she could see right into his soul. "I've wanted to tell you since I came back from the catacombs, but everything felt so raw and abrasive when I returned. Now...now everything feels fresh and new." Her body turned to face him more fully. "And I need you to know now...I love you. Your friendship, our partnership, is and has been the most important thing in my life, and I couldn't have faced the evils of this world without you. I never want to. I always want to be with you." Ichabod felt a flush race over his skin, his mind reeling from her admission, his pulse racing. He cupped her face with one hand, staring blissfully into her eyes. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone as he marveled at this most perfect of dreams coming true. "Abbie," he murmured in wonder, half statement, half question. "Shhh," she whispered softly, staring at him dreamily, her gaze darting to his mouth and back to his eyes. "Enough talk for now. Let's just...be." He moved to kiss her then, soft, languid, lingering kisses that deliciously teased and tortured him with their sweetness, her perfect lips responding to his better than every fantasy he'd ever conjured. He trailed kisses to her cheek, her cheekbone, her eyelid, before finally easing away from her. Abbie's eyes slowly fluttered open, and a pleased smile teased her lips as he drew his arm around her and she settled into his side. They sat in silence for some time, his fingers trailing up and down her arm. He'd never thought it possible to find himself here: content, fulfilled, free to hold Abbie in his arms, to kiss her. To hear her readily admit she loved him. To unabashedly speak of his love for her. God's wounds, only yesterday she'd been forever lost to him. Someday, when the biblical prophecy came true and he and Abbie met their demise, he'd spend an eternity thanking God for his Lieutenant, his better half, and the rest of all time loving her all over again. But for now, he held her in his arms.

[iammisstt]

Untold Love Stories: Our Destiny

Untold Loves Stories Update for Ichabbie Spring Enjoy!

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4249143/chapters/23525280

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* Abbie Mills In Wedding Dress by YouWereNeverMine @ http://youwerenevermine.tumblr.com/

[like-bunnies]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ichabod Crane/Abbie Mills Characters: Abbie Mills (Sleepy Hollow), Ichabod Crane Additional Tags: Fluff and Smut, Ficlet, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Post-Canon Fix-It, Nothing will ever fix it, but here i am, ichabbie - Freeform, Moon, One Shot Summary:

Ichabod Crane and Abbie Mills have been living together for a while. Are they ready to take a giant leap forward with their relationship?

[lilaviolet]

I was tagged by the lovely

@madoddthings

1. Name: Leslie

2. Gender: A Woman

3. Star sign: Aquarius sun and moon!

4. Height: Five one and a half

5. Time: right now? 1:37

6. Birthday: February 12th sometime in the 80s

7. Favorite band: Pearl Jam I can go years without listening to them but nothing hits me like they do. Seeing them live is the best feeling in the world.

8. Favorite Artist: I dunno I guess Marina?

9. Song stuck in my head currently: Misery Business there was a post and it just came on spotify

10. Last movie you watched: No idea! I used to be a movie bitch but now I’m a TV bitch who has no attention span to actually watch TV                         Maybe Booksmart?

11. Last Series: BRIDGERTON 

12: Blog age: I lurked for a few years just looking at the pretty gifs but in July 2013 something compelled me to actually create an account so I could leave little hearts. Four months later I re-blogged my first Sleep Hollow/Ichabbie gifset and the rest is me being fandom trash history.                                        so 7 and a half years old

13. Content: I have no idea. This is just me being my most authentic self. Mostly re-blogs of thinks I like, love or am obsessed with. Plus a bit of politics and news. If you can’t stand my faves I don’t know how you could survive following me.

14: Last google: My hairdresser’s phone number

15. Side blogs: Yep! I finally gave in to my greatest desire and started a blog for all the Sami Zayn/Kevin Owens / El Generico/Kevin Steen content @thesamiandkevinshow I know it seems impossible but I was really restraining myself on here even though you guys probably couldn’t tell. My mutual was giving away the username and I just had to have it :)

16. Do you get asks: not really if I re-blog a list of questions a mutual will usually send one :)

17. URL Meaning: It was my livejournal username Lila (a name I liked better than mine at the time also the name of a character on General Hospital and Violet is a great song from my second favorite band Hole

18. Following:  228 I’m really picky if I follow you I think you’re a chill person I’d be friends with and/or your content is too good to miss.

19. Followers: 520 which is completely insane! I don’t know which of my many varied interests made you click that follow button but I hope my nonsense isn’t too annoying :) I’m ruthless about blocking bots I don’t know why. I worry I’ve blocked real people by accident tbh.

20. Average sleep hours: Sleep? I don’t know her! 4 hours is my usual but then I gotta take a long ass nap. I live on coffee.

21: Lucky number: I don’t really have any... maybe 7,8 and 21

22: Instruments: I have no talent I begged my parents for a bass guitar when I was 10 because it seemed like every band I was listening to had an awesome female bass player and I wanted to be one too! I have a medical condition with my hands that really should have stopped me or at least my parents from spending all that money :(

23. Clothes: Comfy and cozy. If I can get away with pajamas while lounging at home I do. I have a weird obsession with gray my friends have to physically stop me when we’re out shopping because I’m just drawn to it. There’s so many shades! It goes with everything. I don’t love black or white so gray is my neutral. I like solids and stripes. I own too may fandom shirts but I bagged my old wrestling tees and put them away, I only have like 7 currently in my rotation not counting my over sized Sami shirts I sleep in.

24. Dream job: Wrestling valet. I wanted to be (and kind of still do) Miss Elizabeth but with a big dash of Sensational Sherri. Like Miss Elizabeth just stood around but Sherri got physical with the guys and took bumps when the story called for it and I liked that. I wouldn’t want to be a full time wrestler because I’m not about pain, but bitch let me manage somebody male or female. Now it’s such an unpopular opinion everyone wants every girl to wrestle and I’m like bring back managers, valets, wives and girlfriends. Not very woman is so dedicated that she’s willing to break her neck or get that banged up. I can’t be the only one with this opinion lol.

25. Dream Trip: That’ll actually happen San Miguel’s Portugal. Dream that’ll never happen South Korea, Taiwan and Japan no one would go with me, but I‘ve dreamed of it since 2007.

26. Favorite Food: Junk food. Anything cooked in garlic. If I go out to eat Shrimp Mozambique I’ll settle for chicken Mozambique but it’s not the same. So spicy and flavorful great now I want to go eat some I don’t think anyone delivers it :(

27. Nationality?: I consider myself 100% American I was born here, as fucked up as this country is it’s my home. But if the Fascists take over I‘m praying Portugal will take pity on me. I’m eligible for citizenship I should have applied during The Bush Administration like my little cousin did but I was an optimist... I’m a dumb bitch.

28. Favorite Song: This Week? Don’t Go Away by Oasis

29. Last book: That I read ? I was going to be like it’s all fan fic for this bitch but I read the latest Amanda Quick novel and am patiently waiting for the next one!

I’d love everyone who sees this to do it. I’m shy with tagging people but for real if you follow me and want to do this tag me I’d love to see your answers!

[olderthannetfic]

It does work... eventually

riotbrrrd

reblogged your post

“wishforsomewherenew reblogged your post “A New History of Fandom Purges” ”#fandom#i feel like i need to start adding...”

#fandom#good points of reflexion although I wonder#if a story places a black character in a position usually filled by a white character#will the audience react to it the same way?#I fear racism would stick us into a corner where people would suddenly find flaws to the archetypes they usually like#because we know people tend to be less indulgent with poc in general#so the snarky geek would suddenly be read as pedant and annoying#and the dashing thief would be read as a thief#which isn't to say we shouldn't try to give these roles to poc#we need poc in more diverse roles!#just saying I'm not sure white fandom would just naturally follow#there is work that needs to be done directly with the audience#but it's certain that this work needs to be larger and more thought out than deleting entire popular ships

In practice, it’s a mix. The canons where the dashing thief, woobie, or geek is black are sometimes less popular overall than a similar canon where that character is white. On the other hand, part of the issue is that fandom size is roughly correlated to canon viewership, and it’s rare for a massive, massive franchise to cast a black lead in installment 1.

Fandom trends tend to get set very early in a canon’s history, and expanding the cast later doesn’t always change them. Black Panther was never going to derail the Stucky train or any of the other big established patterns of MCU fandom. Neither was introducing Sam, though Sam/Steve did get pretty popular. New Star Wars is a rare case where there was a black lead from the beginning in a super mega franchise, and Finn/Poe was the biggest ship by far right at the beginning of that fandom. It dropped behind Kylux and Reylo later, but it’s obvious that people did like Finn. That kind of casting and role does work. If people did more of it, it would work better.

The trouble is that the vast majority of fandom meta acts like an average fandom should look like MCU or Harry Potter. In reality, those are extreme outliers that are completely irrelevant to how most fandoms operate. Most genre media with black leads is material with a much smaller viewership than a MCU movie. Those media have smaller fandoms, but the black lead is usually pretty popular relative to the overall fandom size if they are indeed a trope fandom likes for white characters.

The three examples I chose weren’t random. They were from the three shows I mentioned: Hustle, Leverage, and Almost Human.

Hustle is a small fandom, at least for fic, and a moderately popular TV series overall. The original team leader, suave con artist Mickey Bricks (played by Adrian Lester) was one of the more popular characters. Mickey/Danny tends to be one of the biggest ships, and Mickey/Danny/Stacy is reasonably popular too.

Leverage is quite a popular fandom, and Hardison, the geek, is a fandom fave The big ship is the OT3 of Parker, Hardison, and Eliot. The component ships are also popular, especially the canon one of Parker and Hardison.

Almost Human was a bit of a trianwreck, but the entire fandom is basically shippers of the woobie android Dorian (played by Michael Ealy) and grumpy android-hating cop John Kennex.

Yeah, fandom can be pretty racist, but give us a Caves of Steel ripoff, and we will always go for the ship of the woobie bot and the human bot-hater who learns to be a better man--and probably gives gratuitous speeches about it in the process. It doesn’t matter if it’s DRN or RK800 or R. Daneel Olivaw: this trope is fannish catnip.

In fact, DBH and Almost Human are an excellent case study of this: They’re remarkably similar, right down to Minka Kelly being wasted in a trite love interest role. Both have a black android, but in AH, he’s one half of the iddy buddy cop duo (and popular for shipping), while in DBH, the equivalent character is white (and similarly popular). The black android in DBH gets saddled with some pretty dire civil rights allegories as he leads the android revolution. He has more foils with less iddy ship fodder for each, and his canon het ship is not very popular. People do talk about the character positively, but they don’t write all that much fic about him.

Characters of color do get held to a higher standard, but a lot of the problems are often coming directly from canon, even if they’re sometimes subtle. The rare canons that do a better job produce fandoms that appreciate the characters of color.

It helps to have ridiculous episodes involving bets, rivalry, and public nudity...

Or hurt/comfort...

Or Leverage’s... everything.

The main issue is that we need 100x the amount of media with a black character in a lead or main ensemble role that is specifically the Fandom Fave role. We need that media to be big budget and omnipresent, and we need that to be the status quo for a decade. That wouldn’t magically erase racism, but it would have a dramatic effect on what fic gets written.

Look at Sleepy Hollow! That show jumped the shark like whoa, but no matter how much people complain about the evil fans who liked the canon ship, 99% of that fandom is actually Ichabbie shippers. Even on AO3, bastion of inexplicable white man slash, most of it is still Ichabod/Abbie or Ichabod & Abbie.

Right now, the status quo is that these sources are rare, and fandom theorizing tends to ignore them in favor of a tiny handful of the biggest fandoms in fandom history. We’ll get another Almost Human long, long before we’ll get a superhero franchise where something like Black Panther is the first movie out of the gate. (Though, to be honest, Black Panther has like 3x the fic of most of my fandoms, and most of it is about T’Challa, so it’s doing pretty well.)

I’ll be interested to see what happens with the Rivers of London TV adaptation. I suspect that will provide both the next big fandom fave who is black and a breeding ground for toxic wank so horrendous it drives half the fandom away--Because whatever standard fans hold characters of color to in canon, it’s a thousand times worse in fic.

[yespolkadotkitty]

Siren

This little drabble is a gift to @nathyfaith as she made me a gorgeous cover for my Ichabbie fic, Paperback Hero.

****

Of all the brainless, charmless activities I could be engaging in today.. Advertising was not what I suspected I would be doing.

Ichabod Crane rubbed a hand over his tired eyes as he waited at the massive tent that had been erected half a mile from the shore of Llyn y Fan Fach, the Welsh lake. Said to be the home of the mythical Lady of the Lake, it was perfect.

For dreams. For storytellers. For thinkers and artists.

Not for perfume adverts.

Ichabod cursed the bottle of beautiful Welsh whiskey that had led him to this beautiful lake. The scenery was magnificent, but he didn’t look forward to his friends and peers laughing it up at him portraying a sailor lured to his potential death by a mermaid - nay, a siren. Yes, that’s what the perfume house had named its concoction of cedar, birch and lemon.

He shook his head. He was a Royal Shakespeare Company actor, not some sort of…. model. But he’d made the bet. And he had lost.

Whiskey was a cruel, faithless mistress.

“Mr Crane?” A skinny twenty-something holding a clipboard rushed over and offered him a cup of coffee. “Got you coffee, black.”

“May angels kiss your feet.” Ichabod accepted it gratefully.

The intern eyed him. “Whatever, dude. Costume trailer’s that way.”

Ichabod sipped the coffee - thick, dark, just as he liked it - and followed the intern’s gesturing hand. His boots crunched on the litter of tiny rock and fossil fragments blanketing the shore of the huge lake.

It was a warm day, but despite that, clouds gathered, their moody grey a perfect reflection of Ichabod’s mood.

He was halfway through a second internal monologue, now caffeine fueled, about what a crock of horse excrement this filming would be, when the door of the trailer he mooched towards opened.

And every single thought dropped out of his head.

He’d never seen a mermaid before - no one had, of course, they were a product of myth.

But standing on the Welsh beach, miles from civilisation, he looked into the stranger’s eyes, and for a moment he believed that he was just a humble sailor who longed to kneel at the feet of a water goddess.

Iridescent scales had been brushed on to her dark skin, the odd peek of sunlight catching on specks of gold. A crown of corals threaded through her obsidian hair, curls of which wove around her heart shaped face like ivy.

The magnificent tail had that been created for her hid her legs as she descended the steps of the trailer, and her gait made even the too-modern, hulking vehicle take on a sort of otherworldly magic.

This was the model he’d be working with on the advert?

Ichabod suddenly no longer regretted the drinking or the fact he’d lost a bet. That he got to be in this siren’s orbit was worth a thousand hangovers.

He crossed the ground towards her and extended his hand to the siren who had unwittingly sunk the ship of his heart.

[thewokewordsmith]

You can lead a fan to fanfiction but you can’t make them review

So I’ve been trying to encourage fanfic readers to review/comment more by reviewing and sharing  fanfics (Richonne, Zutara, Ichabbie, Sasil, Georglina, Tokka,) and it sadly it’s not working. Perhaps I’m being a bit too impatient, but I just don’t have the time or energy  to keep doing something no one seems interested in.

So I will finish reviewing/comment on the fanfics people already sent me, but after that I won’t be taking any more fic recs. I’m sorry.  I hate to do this because I really LOVED reading all of your fics, and knowing that I was possibly making someones day by commenting on their fics, but this project seems to me taking up too much of my time when no one else seems interested in participating.

I’m still encouraging people to comment on a ficfic if you like it. It only takes a few seconds to let a fanfic author know how much you like their story and appreciated all of their hard work. Fanfic authors don’t ask for money just a few words to let your writer know that you are enjoying  their writing.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Out of the Grave - Chapter 1: The Void

A/N: An alt ending/fix-it fic. Because we and they deserved better--so I made it happen.

83 hours and 37 minutes. Not that he'd kept a count exactly. Just that his eidetic mind knew the exact moment Abbie had left this world, taking his heart with her and leaving him hollow, and his quick thoughts often calculated the duration he'd kept breathing without her. He'd spent the first 6 hours and 24 minutes working with Miss Jenny and Master Mills—and ultimately, ironically, his old pal the Horseman—to try to defeat Pandora and force her to release his Lieutenant, only to learn she'd actually expired. The dreams he'd had, sweet and aching moments with Abbie reflecting on their meet cute, time in the Archives, relaxing on their front porch where she'd tried to explain why he should let her go, would never suffice. He hadn't said the things he'd wanted—needed—to, hadn't explained how she'd helped save him: from roaming lost in this world, from imprisonment and institutionalization, from his son and the myriad monsters they'd encountered, from a wife who'd never truly been honest with him. And yes more important matters: from going mad, drowning in loneliness, feeling isolated, floating adrift in a world that still confounded him sometimes. And at times even saving him from himself. No, he hadn't said any of those things. And now he never could. Which is why he'd spent the next 49 hours and 52 minutes drowning his sorrows, his hollowed out chest, and his overactive mind in rivers of alcohol. He hadn't gotten smashed or wallowed in oblivion. No, he'd needed it to last, so he'd drunk just enough as the hours passed to keep the clawing ache in his empty ribcage from swallowing him whole. Miss Jenny had come by sometime around hour 32, banging on the door so hard he thought the roof would cave in. If he'd cared at all, he might feel concerned about her waking the neighbors in the dead of night, but he couldn't muster enough decency to. He'd ignored her at first, thinking she'd take a hint, or at least think him not home, but her insistent knocking continued. "I know you're in there, Crane." More banging. "Let me in there, or get out of my sister's house." It was a low blow, but one he deserved, for Miss Jenny had lost just as much as he had. If anyone had earned the right to drown her demons with liquor right next to him, it was her.

He'd stumbled to the door—okay, maybe he had gotten smashed, for he felt her knocking vibrate through his brain—bottle in hand, and unlocked it, turning the knob and walking away before he'd even seen her face. The slam of the door rattled the house but not him, and he shuffled back to his couch cushion, dropping down onto it, sipping from the bottle, and staring into the fireplace embers. Jenny said not a word, simply restarted the fire and plopped down on the other end of the couch, gazing at the vibrant blaze as it danced shadows around the room. After a few minutes, he threw out his arm towards her, bottle in hand, and she took it from him, downing a few gulps to try to silence the ache. She tried to return it to him, but he waved her off, waiting another 30 minutes before slowly rising—why did simply existing hurt so much?—and  retrieving a few more bottles, which he'd purchased on his way home from that graveyard, from the stash in the kitchen. He placed them on the cushion between them, an open bar for them to sink into. Another few hours dragged by, and he felt more than heard Jenny crying at some point, the room changing from desperation, anger, and pain to grief and mourning, and he joined her, tears cascading down his face unabashedly. Their silence made their shared sorrow all the more palpable, exchanging emotions they couldn't speak aloud, the shroud around them sucking the whimpering breaths out of them as easily as it'd done to their partners. How could he have kept silent all this time, holding in and swallowing down the words that'd desperately begged for release? He'd tried to ignore them, the burgeoning affection, passion—now that it mattered no longer, he could admit it, cowardly fiend that he was—and love he'd harbored for Abbie since long before proprietary permitted it. He'd killed his wife for her, for Heaven's sake! And while he pretended mere friendship, ignored everything that screamed at him to make his feelings known, he hadn't hidden a damn thing. Miss Corinth, Betsy, even Pandora had seen his love for her. What an abominable fool he'd been. And now the one person who needed to know, who should've heard it from his own lips a thousand times over, never would. He let the tears burn down his face, though they washed none of his self-recriminations away. He deserved every horrid thought he had about himself. They ripped through his mind, scathing him, leaving him more raw and aching than he could ever remember feeling before. His entire body ached, joints, marrow, muscles, head, chest. And still he sipped on, needing the numb, refusing the full onslaught of trauma a clear mind would force him to face. He'd lost before, lost battles and comrades and his dignity. Lost loves and his homeland and best friend and life. His world and his wife and his son and the dreams he'd had and held and hoped for. Hell, he'd even lost Abbie a few times. But never where he couldn't get her back. Never where he couldn't find a way to follow, to find, to free her. And Master Corbin too. To lose both within hours of each other...they could shrivel into oblivion right now and it'd feel better than this. Master Joe had become his compatriot, his comrade in arms against the monsters and the daily dose of estrogen floating around the Archives—not that he'd trade the Mills sister or Agent Foster for ten regiments of men—not to mention a brother and friend. And Abbie...the ache in his chest seized him anew, and his shoulders hunched in against the black hole of despair threatening his breath. He couldn't begin to enumerate all the things she'd become to him. Partner, secret-keeper, fellow Witness, best friend, confidant, companion, roommate, voice of reason, inspiration, keeper of his heart. He thought he'd been in love once, had been in fact, but losing her had felt nothing like this. He'd sat in pain, suffered with the guilt that he'd not devoted enough to her, hadn't held tightly enough to a union that hadn't been what he'd agreed to, despaired that she'd died by his own hand in an effort to save Abbie. He'd had to—it hadn't even been a choice by then. Now, though, without Abbie...he didn't know how to keep breathing, wasn't sure he wanted to. Couldn't see beyond the bottom of the bottle. How could he walk through the world, the Archives, the town, this house, with memories of her around every corner, breathing down his neck, invading his mind, shredding the broken pieces of his heart into shavings? How could he solve the mysteries of the supernatural without her intellect, expertise, and help? What was one Witness to do without his other half, the best part of him, his anchor to this era? He couldn't sit still with himself and his maudlin ruminations another second. Without thinking, Ichabod hefted himself off the couch and shuffled down the hallway, making a pit stop before grabbing a box of tissues from the hall closet. He set them down on the cushion between them and took his seat again. Jenny had stayed until the sun was well into the sky, barely any words spoken but sharing the pain of their losses just the same. She'd stretched her hand out towards him, bridging the empty spaces around them with a simple reach of her arm across the cushion. He looked at her hand, open and alone in the expanse between them, and he slid his hand into hers, both of them holding on and squeezing tightly, attempting to convey all the things they couldn't speak with words. A moment later, she slipped quietly out of the house, the finality of the door clicking closed somehow louder than the slam she'd entered it with, sealing him into a solitude he'd never comprehend. More hours passed as he'd slept off the nasty hangover he wouldn't admit he had, as he sat in the bathtub letting the hot water steam over him until it cooled off and had him shivering, as he roamed aimlessly from room to room, gazing longingly at all the remnants of Agent Lieutenant Grace Abigail Mills: her hairbrush, those heeled boots that still left her a foot shorter than him, the cappuccino she'd just started drinking again at his behest, her pea coat with the faux-fur hood that made her look adoringly like a diminutive Eskimo. Now, just over 84 hours had passed, and he still didn't have a sweet clue as to how to get through the next one, still sat in this one corner of the couch, only this time without a drink in his hand. Without so many things... Without a case to work, without his partner in crime and, he'd begun to hope, in life from here until the end, without a purpose, he might as well lay back down in that cave he'd emerged from and sleep for a few more centuries. "Crane." Her voice, soft and lilting and perfect, floated to him, a haunting sound he both craved and feared. He'd thought he might have imagined her during his indulgent consumption of alcohol, but no...it was here in his lucid moments that he'd conjured the sound of her, the voice he'd long to hear until the day he drew his last breath. "Crane." She sounded hesitantly happy, guardedly optimistic, a smile coming through her tone. Exactly how he heard her in his mind, same as he'd done when she'd been lost in the catacombs. He shook his head slightly to escape from her, not ready for conversations with her yet, everything about him still too raw to face all of the things he needed to apologize for, all of the things he'd never had the audacity to tell her when she'd stood by him, encouraged him, spurred him on. "Ichabod." She accompanied her insistent tone and the rare use of his first name with a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, scrambling up from the couch to face whatever ghoul had come to destroy his feeble, battered mind. And his jaw dropped. There she stood...Abbie. In one piece, small in stature but large in presence, beautiful and strong and...breathing. How could this be? "Abbie...?" His whispered question sounded more like a squeak, but he didn't dare try again, wasn't sure what devilry was at work here, arriving to destroy him when he was at his lowest, his most vulnerable. She looked at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and apology, a small smile of hesitation and hope playing on her face. "Hi."

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Out of the Grave - Chapter 3: The Aftermath (Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here)

It took 10 minutes and lots of questioning and cajoling to get Jenny to calm down enough to listen to anything Abbie said. She maintained an air of defensiveness, shoulders squared, muscles rigid, face a drawn mask of doubt. Even now, sitting across the table from Abbie while he sat between them at the head of the table, he saw the tension in her, unsure and unwilling to believe, even as her defenses began to crumble. "Tell me again," she demanded. Abbie sighed patiently in resolution and explained everything in detail: how she'd emerged from the lake, the knowledge she suddenly had that felt like a light coming on in her brain, missing three and half days and the significance of that, the questioning Ichabod had done. He noted she conveniently forgot to tell Miss Jenny of their...ardor, for which he was most grateful. Somehow he knew she'd be excited and tease them incessantly, if not this night then starting with their next encounter. As it stood now, he felt like the flayed end of a raw nerve and didn't think he could handle much more of anything, let alone good-natured ribbing of something so momentous and incredible. Once he noted that Miss Jenny had calmed—indeed, even showed relief and elation—he silently excused himself, pussyfooting to the kitchen to make some tea and heat up some of the lemon loaf that Abbie favored. At the sight of it, his stomach grumbled, and he realized he couldn't remember the last meal he'd had. With the hum of the Mills sisters' voices as background accompaniment, he set about making himself a PB&J. His eyes burned like fire with every blink, but he couldn't possibly head to bed right now, not even sure sleep would find him, no matter how desperately he needed it, for fear Abbie would disappear while he slumbered. She had to be here to stay, didn't she? He couldn't consider otherwise. Besides, she'd returned with a deeper understanding of their mission. They were destined to this life, called to something greater. He nearly chortled out loud at the absurdity of his own thoughts—he sounded nigh like one of those blasted Hallmark movies Abbie indulged in during certain times of the month. Destiny, fate, meant to be... Perhaps he was delusional. But the Bible foretold of them as an unbroken pair, and Abbie had confirmed their entwined fates upon her return. And her return had certainly entwined them more than they'd ever been before. A flush rushed through him at the memory of kissing her, touching her, of her in his lap, closer than he'd ever thought possible. She'd floated in like a dream and started to fulfill his in brilliant Technicolor.

The kettle began whistling, and he shook off his wayward musings for a moment to remove the pot from the burner. He poured for the sisters, and while the tea steeped he ate his sandwich, nearly inhaling it to quell the growling monster in his belly. He heard sniffling from the other room, the sound drawing him back to the tunnels after Pandora's wretched box had exploded, blowing his last hope of finding Abbie to Hades. The dreams—or had they been visions? He'd have to ask the Lieutenant if she remembered coming to him telepathically, spiritually, or by some other supernatural medium—haunted his waking hours, and if he'd slept the past few days he knew he'd find them there too. Her seemingly contented goodbye, acceptance of him moving on without her, the way that, even in that netherworld, they danced so smoothly around the way they truly felt. He hoped...Heavens, how he'd hoped she'd felt the depth of passion for him that she inspired in him. At times he could barely refrain from spelling it out, touching her simply to feel the softness of her skin, holding her close because she was there.

Now he knew a touch of her fervor and he longed to burn in it, wholly consumed and happily so. Let it consume him the way his grief had, a pleasant and pleasurable replacement that'd taken her dying to bring about. What a fool he'd acted, skirting the issue this past year. After everything that'd happened to him, all the things he'd lost, he should've known better. Tears pricked his eyes. The places she'd gone to for him, for them, for the world...Purgatory, the catacombs, death. He had so much to make up for. Lost time, chances, moments, and words. He'd only begun to speak the avalanche of emotions held in his heart. The timer beeped loudly, signaling the tea had finished steeping, and he moved before he fell asleep on his feet right there in the kitchen. Extracting the tea strainers, he set the mugs and cake slices on a serving tray and put the sandwich fixings away. Every move felt like swimming through molasses, but he forged ahead, delivering the tray to the dining room. The Mills sisters stood in a tearful embrace, neither facing his direction, and he quietly slid the tray onto the table and made a silent escape. Hell's bells, but he needed rest. He didn't know how long the sisters would spend reuniting and discussing what's transpired the past few days, and he didn't want to interrupt, so he slipped down the hallway and into the bathroom. He took a quick, hot shower, scrubbing the strain of desperate wallowing from himself and washing his floppy hair into some semblance of normal. Drying off, he slipped on his robe and brushed his teeth, freshening his body the way he'd started to clean his spirit by speaking what he'd so long cherished in his heart. He took a long look in the mirror, barely recognizing the gaunt face staring back at him. Dark circles framed his tired eyes, his cheeks seemed to have sunk into his face, and his beard looked slightly untamed. He fixed the latter with haste, knowing the rest would improve with sleep and proper hydration and nutrition, which he'd sorely lacked as of late. He shuffled to his room and stopped short. A whirlwind had blown through it: clothes and books lay scattered and strewn about, the desk chair lay on its side, and the covers of his bed had been thrown off. Confusion briefly set in until a quick flash of a memory surfaced. In a grief-blind rage, he'd swept his arm across the bookshelves, sending his favorite tomes flying. Grabbing at the clothes hanging in his open closet seemed the next destructive step, and he'd made quick work of it. Throwing the bedspread, shoving at the chair, kicking at the items already littering the floor gave him minute catharsis. Then he'd crashed down, both emotionally and physically, sliding onto the floor in a devastated mess. Ichabod took a deep breath and, after exchanging the robe for a dark grey t-shirt and black yoga pants (he'd never trade in his now-antiquated attire, but he found the current leisure styles most comforting while at home), began tidying the room, switching the overhead light for the bedside lamp. The room took slightly longer to clean up than it had to deconstruct it, but he set about it quickly, ashamed of his childish outburst but feeling it necessary all the same. He'd believed the prophecies: the Bible, the tablet, the enemies' words that they were the Two Witnesses. He hadn't understood how he could've set his whole modern life, indeed, his heart, on that belief, only to have it crumble in the space of a heartbeat with the loss of his partner. His Lieutenant. (He hadn't the right to think of her as such, but it hadn't prevented him from doing so.) He righted the desk chair and picked up some of the remaining scattered books, still marveling that she'd walked back into their home, whole, healed, and heralding promises of their future together. The Two of them promised to Witness until the end. He had to be dreaming. Something quietly sounded behind him, and he turned to see the subject of his thoughts and affections leaning against the door frame, watching him. She'd changed into a pair of pink and black plaid pajama pants and a matching light pink shirt. It, coupled with the low lighting of his room, cast her face in a bewitchingly warm glow. He watched her eyes scan the room, some of the books still lying strewn about, then flash back to him. Sorrow etched her face. "It's been a hard few days," he murmured unnecessarily as an explanation before turning from her to stack the books in his hands onto the desk. He set them down, one hand resting on the top cover as he took a moment to gather himself. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to ravish her. He wanted to simply stare at her until he'd had his fill of all her beauty. He needed to speak of the days without her, to purge the ache that only she—living, breathing—could ease. She moved into his peripheral and, slightly startled, he turned to her. She held out the last of the books that'd littered his floor, and he took them from her, his eyes never leaving her face, her gaze intently holding his. Even after his earlier revelation, there were still so many things to say...where could he start? He cleared his throat, his brain finally catching on to the fact that he hadn't heard the other Mills sister in the past several minutes. "Miss Jenny?" he nearly croaked, his voice quiet. "She went home. Said she needed rest and a little bit of time," she explained softly. "And that she'll stop by tomorrow."

He nodded in understanding, feeling the same oppressive, cloying need for space to process her return in conjunction with the desire to never let her out of his sight. It all felt so overwhelming. Suddenly he moved away from her gaze, her proximity, and rounded the bed, sitting on its edge before he collapsed under the dueling weights of grief and elation. He didn't want to send her away and couldn't ask her to remain here, but strewth, he was wrung dry. He could hardly keep his eyes open, his head up. Gratitude filled him as Abbie remained where he'd left her for several moments, giving him time, space. Neither felt as good as she had in his arms, but he needed them just as badly. "In either of my lives, I've never felt as scarred as I have following your disappearance into that box." The words, spoken softly on a broken whisper, surprised even him since he hadn't planned on speaking them—hadn’t even known his brain was forming them—and the gravity of his admission sat heavy in the room. His entire 18th century existence, the loss of his parents, his best friend, his wife and son, his homeland. He'd felt those things as surely now as he ever did. But Abbie...losing her had felt different. Weightier. Like a millstone around his neck drowning him even as he still breathed. Mayhap because of their bond as witnesses. Or because she'd somehow become the glue that'd held his two worlds together, the only person who'd believed him, helped him, trusted him. Made him feel real. He stared straight ahead, the closet before him yawning open like the space between them. Perhaps he'd said too much. His heart beat wildly waiting for her response. It didn't take long. He heard her bare feet padding in his direction, and she appeared before him, petite, radiant, and stunning. He couldn't meet her eyes, afraid of what he'd see in them, but her hands sluiced through the hair at his temples, the heels of her hands resting on them as she leaned closer. He felt her lips press sweetly against his forehead, and his eyes dropped closed at the sensation. On sensory overload, he felt barely able to function, yet somehow his hands found her hips, resting lightly on the flare of them as if he'd done this a thousand times before. He felt the bones beneath her toned skin, the slimness of her figure, and his heart nearly exploded with the feelings he had for her. But Abbie chose that moment to retreat, though just enough to see him, her hands still deliciously tangled in his hair as her fingers absently massaged his scalp. He was going to crawl out of his skin if she didn't stop torturing him. Her touch both invigorated and drugged him, powerful in its simplicity, soothing in its method. She moved her hands down to his cheeks, and her thumbs arched along his eyebrows. He fluttered his tired eyes open to stare at her, finding her watching him with a sympathetic, loving gaze. Her thumbs brushed against his cheekbones, her touch sending warmth coursing through his body. The realization that she felt comfortable enough to freely caress him made him shiver all over. "You should rest now," she soothed. "We can talk more in the morning." He could imagine how wretched he looked right now, how she must see him. Gaunt and pale, red-rimmed eyes and dark hues beneath them. A sight bedraggled enough to make her eyes sore. Bringing his hand up to grip her wrist, he turned his head slightly to the right, kissing her palm reverently. She ran the fingers of her other hand through his hair again as he did so. God's wounds, he'd better not be dreaming all of this up. He wasn't sure how much more heartache he could survive. He didn't want to let her go, but his bed called to him like a siren. Reluctantly releasing her, he stood up and turned down the bedspread and sheets, then plopped listlessly down again. He eased down onto his side as Abbie stood by smiling sweetly at him. She watched him so attentively he thought she might just stay until he'd fallen asleep. Which wouldn't take all that long, to be sure. But then she softly bid him a goodnight as she turned to leave. "Please," he breathed in desperation, again speaking without forethought. "Stay with me." A few seconds later, he realized his words sounded like a paltry invitation. "I don't mean anything untowards," he rushed to assure her. "Just...please don't go. Don't leave." He swallowed hard, waiting for her response. Surely she wouldn't think him a scoundrel for requesting such a thing after she'd just returned from the beyond. Would she? Through his bleary eyes he saw her lips upturn in a small smile. She tucked one leg beneath her and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised him. Ichabod's heart pounded wildly in his chest as he scooted to the other side of the bed. Abbie slid into bed—the sight left him again wondering if he might be hallucinating—reaching up to turn off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, but he felt her every movement: fluffing the pillow, pulling the blankets up, settling comfortably into the mattress. He, conversely, didn't move, could barely breathe. And when he did, the scent of Abbie's shampoo filled his senses. She lay so close he could he could reach out and touch her, wrap his arm around her, hold her close to him, to feel her breathing. To prove to himself she was real and living and here and...dear heavens, he didn't dare do such a thing. It was enough she'd agreed to stay with him this night. He'd thought he'd fall to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but he hadn't anticipated sleeping next to Abbie. Was he too close? Had he given her enough space? Should he move to the edge of his side of the bed? Was she comfortable? Maybe he'd compromised the covers, not leaving enough for her to stay warm with. "You're thinking too much, Crane," she murmured. Something about her tone, that reprimanding but teasing duo she had, made him huff a relieved sigh, and most of his tension evaporated. A moment later, she reached her hand back and grabbed his, pulling it over her side and draping his arm around her waist. Instinctively he moved forward as she settled back against him, and he noted how easily they fell into this most intimate of reposes. She felt real enough, had matched him in fervor and passion. She'd returned with all the grace and grit and poise of the woman who'd fearlessly and faithfully fought by his side since the moment he'd met her. And now he held her in his arms. His Lieutenant... He needn't have wondered if he'd ever get to sleep with Abbie in his bed; before he could even marvel at how wonderful she felt tucked against him, he'd fallen asleep.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Out of the Grave - Chapter 2: The Confession (Chapter 1 here)

Ichabod couldn't move, couldn't take his eyes off of the mirage before him, could barely breathe. How could she be standing here, days after she'd disintegrated into that confounded box that'd then combusted into nothing, looking none the worse for wear? Looking as gorgeous as the day he'd met her. Looking as real as the heartache clawing at his insides felt.

It had to be some monster's trick, a devil's devious ploy to destroy him. He raised his arm, his forefinger pointing to the sky. "Who are you?" he managed to demand harshly, though he felt none of the power the words conveyed. The creases of her smile deepened, her beautiful brown eyes sparkling at his confusion indulgently. "Crane." He longed to close his eyes and revel in her presence, let her voice wash over him and sluice the grief away, soothe the hurt in his heart like a healing balm. She hadn't answered his question, instead speaking his name as a statement, and he nearly gave in to his desire to accept this fake as the genuine article. He opened his mouth to speak, but she began before he could formulate any words. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions....and I'll do my best to answer them. I can't imagine what the past few days have been like for you," she lamented, her voice and expression dripping with sympathy. "And before you ask, it's really me." He squinted his eyes at her, doubtful and hesitant and simultaneously so damn afraid and desperate to believe her. "Prove it," he challenged. One side of her mouth quirked up as if she expected nothing less from him, and she held her fist out towards him. He eyed her hand skeptically, unable to reach out and touch her, even with a simple fist bump, until he knew for sure it was her. She waited a handful of seconds, but when he didn't reciprocate, she slowly dropped her hand. "I know this can't be easy. I know it doesn't make sense, not yet. I can't quite believe it myself. But it's me," she entreated him to believe her. "Prove it," he repeated, more heatedly this time. She thought for a moment, the intense look on her face willing him to trust her. "We were in Pandora’s lair, and the last thing I said to you was to never give up. The last thing I heard from you was...you calling my name." He nodded, the moment indelibly imprinted in his memory, a cursed experience his eidetic mind had relived a thousand times already in the past few days. "Before that, we sailed to the entrance to the catacombs. Found Betsy Ross in the hidden chamber inside the temple just before the essence of Pandora's box wrapped its ugly black tentacles around me. You carried me out, had..." she paused momentarily before continuing, "words with Betsy, and then she left. We followed not long after." The more she spoke the harder his heart beat against his ribs, the more heat flooded his body, returning warmth to him and the empty house he'd inhabited for over three days. "Abbie...?" he dared to believe. She smiled fully at him, and his heart broke itself back into place. "Oh, Abbie," he breathed in a broken whisper of relief, and she easily launched herself towards him as he moved to embrace her. 

They covered the several feet between them in a single heartbeat, and he snaked his arms around her, holding her fast, his knees nearly giving out at the feel of her alive, warm, breathing, the smell of her fragrant and clean, her arms cinched around him, a welcoming comfort he'd expected never to  experience again. "Abbie," he murmured again, nearly gasping out her name on a heaving cry, his eyes dropping closed. He knew it bordered on inappropriate to hold her so long, but he couldn't make himself let go for fear she'd fade away before his eyes again. He cupped her head, holding her against him, though by how tightly she held him she had no intention of letting him go either. He breathed her in, grateful for and reveling in every movement she made, inhaling, exhaling, her body pressed against him, her presence more powerful than any drug. Reining his emotions in, he slowly released her from his embrace, gripping her shoulders and peering at her like a vision from heaven. She still smiled gently at him, not overwhelmed or fearful of his desperation in the slightest. "Abbie, how...? It's been three and a half days. How are you here?" he marveled. "Miss Jenny and I searched for a way... Miss Jenny," he interrupted himself. "We must tell her! She needs to know." He patted his pockets searching for his phone but stopped when she pointed to it lying on the coffee table. He grabbed it up and scrolled through his recent calls. "Don't tell her over the phone; it’d be too cruel. Please, just ask her to come here. I want to tell her, show her in person." He nodded, sure Miss Jenny would think him drunk again anyhow if he told her Abbie had walked through the door and hugged him. He clicked on her name and stared at Abbie as the phone rang, unable to let her out of his sight for even a moment. Voicemail picked up after a handful of rings. "Miss Jenny, it's me, Ichabod. Please come by the house as soon as you're available. There's... something we must discuss. It's of the utmost importance, and I beg of you not to delay. I eagerly await your visit. Respectfully, Ichabod Crane." Abbie nearly smirked at him, and he wanted to query her about it, but he refrained, needing so much more than her wit and banter about his entirely too prim and proper voicemails. Without thinking, he sank to his seat, still staring at her in awe. "How is this possible?" "I don't exactly know," she admitted, moving the box of tissues from the couch to the coffee table, dropping to the cushion and angling towards him. "I emerged from the lake, much like I did—like we did—when we returned from the Catacombs. It's just down the way from the river cave where you were buried. All I can figure is that that body of water or that acreage of land is somehow linked to...whatever realms exist beyond." His brow furrowed in consternation, and she continued. "Anyway, I came out of the water a bit ago, without memory of where I've been or what happened after I felt myself slipping into the box. But I had this..." She fluttered her hand in a circle, trying to find the right word. "...this knowledge, like it'd been downloaded into my brain." "What knowledge?" he questioned warily. "You said it's been three and a half days?" He nodded, wondering what this count of 84 hours and—he looked at the clock—34 minutes had anything to do with anything other than being the exact count, nearly down to the minute, of how long he'd suffered in anguish without her. Her smile surprised him, and he waited, quite impatiently, for the punch line. "We've called ourselves Witnesses. Others, our enemies, have called us Witnesses. But we've never paid attention to the passage from Revelation that speaks of us. I woke up with this knowledge, this…unmarred understanding of our role, our destiny. And not even Pandora, her box, the Hidden One, or death can thwart that. As eternal souls, we’ve been given power against the antagonistic forces of evil. And this job of making things right, of justification, is never brought about by a single witness. There's always got to be two.”

He stared intently at her, in awe of both her and the information she relayed. Indeed, they’d never read much from the Scriptures about their role, instead merely settled in to their roles as warriors. This knowledge she now had seemed to grant her a lighter countenance, a more secure understanding of their place in this world. And it’d brought her back to him. He waited for her to continue. "See, Revelation chapter 11 describes the death of the two witnesses only after the testimony—our role to fight against evil—is done. We're only to die at the end of all trials, after all of the tribulation. And we're only to die together." "But you did die...didn't you?" "I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, visibly confounded. “All I know is Pandora, while she may have held more power than anyone we'd ever faced before, is no match for the biblical prophecy. You said it yourself once: the Bible foretells two witnesses. You and I must remain together if there is any hope of victory." He hung on to every word, trying to comprehend all she detailed, not to mention her presence here once again. "You’re saying...we're invincible?" "No, not as I understand it. We've been endowed with... fortitude and strength to fight these battles, the demons, the witches, the monsters, the ungodly. We can still die. And will. But not until our appointed time, and no one other than big-G God determines that. And even then, it's only for three and a half days." "Three and a half days," he muttered, the wheels in his brain trying to keep up with her revelation of their part in the cosmic war they fought. 84 hours. All this time he'd been calculating not how long she'd been gone but how long before she'd return. The notion filled him with a heavy dose of incredulity, and not a little fear.

Something tickled his brain, a conversation from long ago, and his fingers twitched as his tired mind drew up the memory. “Not long after we met, you told me about your encounter in the woods. You said you’d been missing for four days.”

“Four days,” she repeated quietly as her eyes went wide. “Closer to three and a half, if we’re being specific.”

“And Miss Jenny was spared too. Perhaps because of her relation to you. Or her proximity at the time.”

Eyebrows raised with uncertainty, Abbie nodded.

“You’re right,” he claimed in surprise. “Moloch couldn’t defeat you then, and Pandora and her hellish box couldn’t conquer you now. Three and a half days, and you’re revived.”

“Just as the prophecy says: we’re given power, able to overcome our enemies. And at the end…‘But after three and a half days a breath of life from God entered them, and they stood on their feet,' Revelation 11:11," she quoted. "That's why you're here," he marveled. "The prophecy isn't complete, and He...He sent you back." She nodded resolutely. "We still have work to do." He couldn't respond, trying to take in all that she'd relayed, the weight of their destiny, the fact that she sat before him in perfect form, speaking to him of their future after he'd mourned the unspeakable loss of her for over three days. His heart's undulation from sorrow and despair to relief, wonder, awe, and astonishment left him reeling and emotionally spent, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught. "Crane?" The concern in her voice made his heart ache anew, and her hands settled on him like cool silk, one gripping his arm, the other clasping his fist.

God's wounds, how he'd missed her! Missed her quirks and foibles, her goodness and passion, her fierce spirit, persistence, and kindness. Her contagious laugh and beautiful smile, expressive brown eyes and teasing nature, the way she explained things when he felt confused and teased him when he became too academic. How she cared about people, held herself to the highest degree of integrity, defended him against any naysayers, made him feel valued in this time he was only beginning to truly settle in to. He missed hearing her putter around the house after he'd gone to bed, playing chess with her, discussing and solving cases with her, listening to her sharp mind delve into fine details, her surprises of confections or ethnic foods he'd never had the joy of experiencing before. Missed seeing her first thing in the mornings, bleary-eyed and coffee-deficient, bedhead hair wild and sexy, so excruciatingly adorable sometimes she stole the breath right out of his lungs. Missed the sound of her voice, her big brown-eyed stare, her petite frame next to him, how she'd always protected his back. Missed her flirtations and irritabilities, her soft touches and fierce hugs. Missed every single detail about her, flaws, favors, and features all. "Crane..." "Yes, I...I merely need a moment," he nearly begged. She started to pull her hands away, but he grasped them, gently but firmly. "Please," he murmured so softly he barely heard his own voice. "Don't go." She squeezed his hand in response, trying to comfort him, and the silence of the room filled with the knowledge of her presence. "I'm sorry. Crane, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice full of sympathy. "You shouldn't be. You quite literally saved the world, Lieutenant." She turned her hands over in his until their palms met, and she clasped at him. "I mean... I'm sorry for the loss that you and Jenny have endured the last few days. Losing Joe and then...."

"And then you," he finished for her when she'd gone silent. "It must feel like whiplash, having me here." She almost sounded regretful, though he knew she merely sympathized with their suffering. He stared at her intensely. "Yes," he admitted honestly. "But I wouldn't trade you for a hundred battalions of soldiers to fight this war with me." A shy, appreciative smile eased over her face, and she looked down at their joined hands. His eyes followed, and he stared at the ying and yang of them, her hands so small and dark in contrast to his large, pale ones. Complete opposites in nearly every way, and perfectly complimentary because of it. The memories of all the things he'd wanted to say floated through his mind, the reasons he'd spent days mentally flagellating himself, how he thought he'd never have the chance to make up for all the times he'd swallowed down his affection for her, of the words of all those who'd seen that he loved her before he'd faced the realization, and too late it'd seemed.

Master Corbin knowingly prompting him to ‘talk to her.’ Miss Corinth blatantly denying his words. “I think you are ready for someone. I just don’t think it’s me.”

Master Mills’ words upon their first meeting. “Take good care of my daughter.” Betsy had spent less than an hour in their presence. "Only one truth matters: your heart belongs to Abigail Mills," she’d declared. “You love her, don’t you?” Pandora had stated. “She is your hope, your everything. I took her from you.” His mind flashed in picture-perfect fashion to his desperation for her, his need to rescue her from Purgatory and the utter desolation he'd felt at having left her there; the absolute despair that'd come over him when she'd become lost in the Catacombs, the numbness he'd forced upon himself to secret his emotions away in order to focus on finding her. The way he'd fluttered around her when she'd returned, ensuring she ate, making her laugh, keeping her company, wooing her with full candlelit dinners and rousing late-night games of chess. He had so much to make up for—he’d caused her such pain over the years when he'd only ever wanted her safe and cared for. He needed to tell her—now—what she'd come to mean to him. He watched his thumbs rub over her soft skin, the feel of her warm hands pouring liquid heat back into his frozen veins. "Having you back, I cannot begin to express my elation." He lifted his eyes to hers. "But I shall try." She lifted her eyebrows in innocent wonder. "Abbie, when I awoke in that cave four years nigh, I never could have comprehended this world and what my life would become. I felt lost. Defeated, and alone. And then you walked into the room. Despite our initial and mutual misgivings regarding one another, your compassion and integrity drove you. Your tenacity for the truth and your strength of character made me believe I could trust you. And I've never stopped. I know I've done things that've hurt you, things I regret and I'd go back to erase if I held that power. Please," he asked sincerely when she started shaking her head against his words. "Please, hear me out.” She nodded once, and he took a fortifying breath before continuing.

“So much of our time together has been me chasing an old life, one that’d become lost to me before I ever even crawled out of the ground. I tried to cleave to it…” He balled his hand tightly into a fist. “And the harder I held on, the further it slipped away from me.” He slowly opened his fist. “And through it all, there you were. You helped keep me grounded as everything I’d ever known and relied upon disintegrated. You spent more time trying to fix…the Crane family problems than you did grieving all you’d lost because I appeared in your life. And never did you complain. You’ve been the epitome of kindness, patience, virtue, and strength. And it’s more than I deserve.”

He threw a finger up in the air to halt her protests. “I’ve made some grave mistakes, the greatest of these being...  You’ll have to forgive me. In my day we weren’t quite so free with our sentiments. We were more…”

“Puritan?” she offered.

He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Indeed. Though I am striving to become a 21st century gentleman.” His expression turned serious again. “I’ve missed you gravely these past few days, Abbie. You’ve come to mean so much to me over the years, and when I thought you were gone before I ever took the chance to tell you how much I care, I…”

His trailed off, staring into her wide, trusting eyes. His heart beat wildly at this step he was about to take. He swallowed hard and plunged forward, her expectant look filling him with hope.

“You have been the greatest surprise and the most valuable treasure of my life. I love you, Abbie. I have for longer than what’s appropriate and more and more so every day. And I regretted it profoundly when I thought I’d never get the chance to tell you so. I love you. And there’s nothing in this world I desire less than to be without you. I want you with me always. That is...if you..." His words faded away, uncertainty replacing his resolve. She could reject him—dear God, he hoped not, but she could—and still he wouldn't regret letting her know she was loved. Not after the abject self-loathing of the past few days. In one smooth move, she tucked her legs beneath her, kneeling next to him on the couch, sitting back on her haunches. She reached for him then, one hand lacing through his hair and resting at his neck, the fingertips of the other settling against his scruffy jaw. She gazed at him from eye-level, tears flooding her eyes but not falling. He didn't know what they meant, but she'd moved so close, invaded his space in a way she'd never dared to before. He could only peer at her helplessly, not comprehending how he'd arrived at this moment after losing her. How her warm hands could be touching him, her ears hearing the words he thought he'd choke on for the rest of his lonely life, her eyes staring into his soul like the sun blazing onto the frozen tundra. She mesmerized him, his mind simultaneously reeling from and numbed by her presence. The trauma of the past few days and lack of sleep had him spent; he had nothing left to give at this moment and everything to lose. "Ichabod." She breathed his name, and his heart clenched in his chest, recalling the only other time she'd done so. Then, too, she'd left him speechless, though he should've spoken up; he couldn't now even if he wanted to. Her knees pressed against his thigh, and he felt the soft puffs of her exhales ghosting over his skin. Her fingers absently teased along his neck, and he felt tingles race down his body. It'd been so long since anyone had touched him so intimately, caused such sensations to course through him, and he stayed frozen in place, nearly overcome by sensory overload. He watched her, helpless, wondering what came next. Her eyes, filled with desire, flicked between his gaze and his mouth as she inched towards him. Strewth, he must be dreaming! Passed out on the couch after drinking heavily to try to numb the pain and grief. Hell of a job he'd done too, to conjure such a perfectly sensual fantasy. He let her close the distance between them, unable to think straight, unable to move, but prepared for the feel of her lips, the taste of her kiss, the heat from her flowing into his frozen limbs. Her expression, so soft and vulnerable, made his heart ache fiercely, the cavern inside his chest closing with each inch she moved closer. All he could do was watch her. Time had slowed, frozen just like he had, as if the heavens had pressed a pause button, and his blood pounded loudly in his ears. Then, without warning, it seemed to scramble forward, and he watched as her eyes dropped close. His did the same as her lips pressed against his. He was not prepared. Whether the torrential cocktail of the past days' emotions or the reality that his fantasy had come true deserved blame, he couldn't say, but he sat completely at her mercy. She moved slow, patiently, her kiss soft, tantalizing, hot, and he moaned out a soft breath in disbelief and wonder. She started to ease away from him, but he chased her lips, not ready to wake from this searing dream, and she easily fell into him, her arms looping around his neck as she pressed herself against him. He came alive then, blossoming under the scorch of her ministrations, and he turned towards her, one hand cupping her head gently, the other roaming her back, pulling her more urgently against him. "Abbie," he murmured heatedly against her lips, but she silenced him easily, her tongue teasing his, her mouth drawing another moan from him, even as she matched it with her own. She moved to straddle him, and he helped her, his hands steadying her hips as she slid one leg over his lap. His large hands nearly spanned her small waist, and he moved them over her petite frame, from her lower back to the curve of her...buns (that word didn't seem so offensive at the moment), up the line of her spine to her shoulders, then down again to her hips and up her sides until he felt her rib cage beneath his hands, his thumbs just below her breasts. He wanted so much more, but even as she allowed—encouraged—his handsy exploration of her and continued doing marvelous things with her mouth and tongue, his mind screamed at him to cease, the impropriety of their situation a haunting specter he couldn't shake. Before he could muster up the willpower to pause their fervor, his phone both vibrated and rang, and he reluctantly, regretfully eased away from her. He touched his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, self-conscious about his shortness of breath—though he immediately noted that Abbie suffered from the same affliction. His phone continued warbling loudly and sputtering across the coffee table, infernal thing it was, fraying his sensitive nerves. Clearing her throat, Abbie slid off of his lap and grabbed for the phone. He watched her, cheeks tinged pink, lips rosy from his kisses, contented look on her face, and wanted to pull her right back to the place she'd vacated. Instead, she glanced at the phone, then held it out to him. "It's Jenny," she intoned softly. He nodded, still not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming, drunk or not, and took the phone from her. He swallowed hard before answering with a meek hello. "Crane, are you alright? I got your message." He peered at the petite woman in front of him, overwhelmed and grateful, exhausted and thrilled beyond reason she hadn't disappeared like a desert mirage, and wanted to weep at the realization that she was real. She stared back at him as if he'd hung the moon, eyes dilated, corners of her mouth upturned in a perpetually pleased smirk. His heart nearly gave out knowing he was the cause of such a wondrous look. "I am...alive." Miss Jenny wouldn't understand his dual meaning. Yes, his heart still beat, but more than that his body zinged with fervor, full of passion and longing, his lips hot from Abbie's kiss, his mind reeling with all the possibilities that lay before them. "Stay that way. Be there in five." And she hung up. Ichabod cupped the phone in both hands, drumming his fingertips on its back, trying to think of something to say, something to do that wouldn't find them back in a compromising position, especially with Miss Jenny on her way. He began twirling the phone in the palm of one hand, the fingertips of the other tapping out a beat against his knee. "Would you like to sit back down?" Abbie's eyebrows shot up, an amused smirk on her face, and he realized the unintended innuendo in his words. "Oh no, not... Of course, I didn't mean to imply... I meant..." His hand fluttered in a circle in the air, his tongue tripping over his words. God's wounds, he felt depleted. He needed sleep. But not just sleep. Rest. Still, he couldn't help thinking if he fell asleep he'd wake up to find this was an exquisite dream he'd never get back.

Focus, you imbecile. "I just thought you might want to sit a spell," he managed to explain, his hand indicating the other end of the couch, the large comfy chair. "Miss Jenny will be here soon and..." And he didn't know what. He could barely keep his thoughts in order after the past 20 minutes, let alone the past three and a half days. The look on Abbie's face turned to concern. "Jenny's not going to take this well," she surmised, beginning to pace. “Not at first.” He'd laid his heart out, spilled the words he'd thought would plague him to eternity, played all of his cards. And while she'd seared him with her passion, she was already moving on, unaffected. His heart sank, broken all over again for different reasons. What came next for them? For him? How could she feel so indifferent after branding his lips with hers? "We don't have nearly enough time for me to say all the things I want to say to you before she arrives."

He hadn't realized until this how many ways a heart could be devastated. Hearing her now... Wait, had she just...? He watched her pace in frustration for a moment, her words sinking in to his daft, sleep-deprived brain. His heart, lying in the pit of his stomach, fluttered to life, making him queasy and anxious to hear what came next.

"Abbie...?"

She stopped moving and faced him, the coffee table standing between them. Her hair, full around her face, sat perfectly, her wondrously pouty and kissable lips called to him, her eyes filled with compassion and—dare he think it?—love. He couldn’t stop staring at her.

"There's so much more I want to tell you, so many things we have to talk about." Her eyes pleaded with him. "This isn't over, Crane. Promise me this isn't over."

The desperation in her tone simultaneously ignited concern and anticipation. "It's not over, Lieutenant. It's only just beginning," he promised fervently, resolutely.

She opened her mouth to respond but was silenced by an urgent knock at the door.

Jenny had arrived.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Nightmares

A/N: Takes place after 2x01, after Ichabbie return from purgatory. Be forewarned: it’s sangsty (soft and angsty)! 

Abbie ran, as hard and as fast as she ever had before. Breath hitching, legs pumping, feet barely finding purchase on the ground before propelling her on, she willed herself to keep moving, to put as much distance between them as possible. She clung to the shadows, avoiding the light she didn't understand, the way it came from nowhere but lit up just enough of Purgatory to make Moloch's pursuit of her more dangerous than any foe she’d escaped from before. Branches struck at her as she flew through the woods, slicing her arms and her cheek, leaving lashes worth taking if it meant her escape. "Lieutenant.... Lieutenant?" Crane's voice came to her on the wind, and she ached to follow it, but this place breathed treachery, and she knew better than to succumb now. She'd lasted this long here only by keeping her wits—what little she had left—about her, and allowing Moloch or one of his minions to trap her using Crane as a disguise seemed the easiest way to go. Still, him calling her name felt like cool water in the desert: refreshing, life-saving, necessary. And a veritable mirage. No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them take her down now. And most especially not by using Crane’s likeness as bait.

“Lieutenant.”

Breathing burned her lungs, but she drove herself forward, away from his approaching voice. She knew he couldn’t be right behind her. He’s not here, she screamed to herself when everything in her demanded she stop and look at him, let down the walls of fear and self-preservation for just a moment while she made sure he was real, that he’d returned for her and would help her fight this demon that’d hunted her since childhood. She could use a boon right now, and having Crane here would certainly lift her spirits—and her chance of survival.

“Lieutenant!”

The urgency in his voice increased, and she screamed when his hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her back, causing her to trip. Her hands and knees landed hard on the ground, and her instincts and sheriff’s training had her rolling onto her back to see her attacker, to face him with even a chance to fight back. But no one was there and she suddenly felt woozy, the inky blackness and the unnatural light swirling together, creating a maelstrom of dizzying effects and causing sparks to flash in her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tumult as a whirring sound filled her ears, building up until it was nearly unbearable.

And then it suddenly stopped.

For a second, Abbie wondered if she’d gone deaf, but then Crane’s voice came again, soft and tender and full of fear.

“Lieutenant?”

She slowly eased her eyes open, afraid of what she might see, where she might be, as she tried to slow her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, she commanded herself.

The low lighting inside Corbin’s cabin came from the fireplace before her and the small lamp beside her, both of them chasing shadows into the corners of the room. The couch beneath her felt tangible, the heat from the hearth flushed warmly against her skin, and the man standing next to her appeared solid and real. And definitely concerned.

“Are you alright?” Crane asked quietly, worry written on his face as he sat down next to her, angling himself towards her, placing a steaming cup of warmth on the coffee table before them.

Abbie sat forward, gripping the edge of the couch cushion with both hands. She didn’t answer him, couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure how. Was she alright? After a dream like that? Not out of Purgatory for more than two hours and already haunted and tortured by her time there? The sound of Crane-but-not-Crane chasing her? She’d already had to kill him once. The trauma of that…of the way that monster had hugged her, held her, knew exactly the right words to say to make her believe him. How he’d fulfilled his promise to her. How gentle and caring and concerned he’d seemed. And nearly at the cost of her life.

As both her strength and her weakness, Crane was a danger to her. And their enemies knew it.

Her stomach roiled with sickness, and she gripped the couch harder, trying to anchor herself to reality. To face the man next to her who only wanted to help her but couldn’t possibly understand what beheading him-but-not-him had felt like.

“I…”

She tried to assure him, but the words wouldn’t come, and she continued staring at the fire before her, trying to gather her thoughts, to eradicate the fear coursing through her body from the frantic nightmare.

Crane leaned forward a bit, trying to see her, and though she didn’t turn away, she wasn’t ready for his keen eyes to read what she knew must be present on her face. He seemed to sense her reticence and pulled back to sit up straight, returning to his military posture as his fingers absently drummed against his knees.

“Ah, I made you a cup of tea. I thought it might soothe you after…” He trailed off, unsure how to continue, even as he picked up the steaming cup and handed it to her.

Abbie accepted it, though the thought of drinking it made her stomach ill again. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye to find him surreptitiously watching her, his expression soft and apprehensive.

“Thank you,” she said, holding up the cup for a moment, wanting, without conversation, to let him know she was okay.

“You’re most welcome, Abigail.”

His voice, smooth like honey and gentle in that way he had when they were alone, washed over her, but it was his use of her name that had her freeze with the cup at her lips.

Abigail? she thought, her heart burning in her chest. He’d called her Lieutenant, Miss Mills, Abbie, even using her full name of Grace Abigail Mills once or twice. But Abigail? He’d never…

Blood pounding, the fear in her rising, she moved the cup away from her mouth without taking a sip, slow and easy, trying not to startle.

A disconcerted look stole over his face. “Is something wrong?”

Abbie swallowed hard. “No. It’s just too hot to drink,” she explained, her eyes darting around, looking for anything out of place.

There. Her jacket lay on the seat of the chair in a crumpled pile, not at all how she took care of such an expensive item, gifted to her by Corbin a few Christmases ago. She always hung it up when she took it off. And there, the door, always locked whether they were here or not, wasn’t bolted, a security measure she knew they wouldn’t have foregone after their return from Purgatory.

Abbie felt on edge, the hairs on her arms standing up as her brain scrambled to reason away her worries, her bone-deep fears that this moment, this place, wasn’t real.

Crane’s expression changed to frustration. “You really should drink up,” he scolded, and Abbie’s heartrate kicked up instantly, ice flooding her veins at his tone.

He’d never…  This isn’t real. Dear God, this isn’t real.

Her insides melted in defeat, even as adrenaline flooded her system. She tried to give him a small smile, though it came out more like a grimace, and moved away from him on the couch under the guise of getting more comfortable.

Crane—faux Crane, she reminded herself—leaned towards her as she retreated. “Abigail,” he sneered, his tone a warning she more than heeded.

Without thought, she jerked her hand in his direction, flinging the hot cup of tea into his face. Not-Crane roared in agony, and as Abbie grabbed the knife at her hip—a knife? she wondered. She’d never carried a knife. But it didn’t matter; she’d use it.—his mouth opened wide and snarled at her, a repeat of her last encounter with Not-Crane, and his appearance became distorted, jaw distended, eyes black, face red.

Abbie stabbed the butcher-sized utility knife into his chest multiple times, and the creature bellowed wildly, anguished and distressed. With her last stab, she left the knife burrowed deep in its chest, and as it grabbed at its wounds, she ran for the door. The screams behind her, still in Crane’s rich, full voice, followed her, and she felt sure she had time to escape before Not-Crane or some other demon could catch her.

She was wrong.

Her hand grabbed the doorknob, and she felt tension and dread swirling around her—she only needed a few more seconds to get outside, find the shadows, and run. Again.—when hands clapped on her shoulders, pulling her back.

“Nooo!” she screamed.

“Lieutenant!”

His voice came again, insistent and worried and sounding so real she could cry. And God, did she want to. To just break down and give in and let go and be done. Done with all of it. But it just wasn’t in her. She didn’t know how to give up.

“Let me go!” she hollered, flailing at the hands grabbing at her.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant, wake up!”

Crane’s hands, firm but gentle, held her shoulders as she came awake, his tall, wide frame filling her vision. She flung his hands away, instinctively shoving him back from her, and scrambled to the opposite end of the couch, as far away from him as possible.

His face went through a whole range of emotions within a few seconds: shock, worry, fear, hurt, confusion, uncertainty. And Abbie had to make herself not care.

How many times could this happen? How many times would she feel safe, let down her guard, have a moment to take a breath, believe she’d returned relatively safely to the world of the living, to Corbin’s cabin, only to have to kill a Not-Crane? It didn’t matter that it only happened now in her mind’s eye, not when she woke up in her dreams only to realize she was still trapped in her nightmare. She felt both kills in her soul, hated watching Crane’s handsome face morph into a monster, feared she might hurt the real him if she didn’t figure out a way to determine reality from dreams. Even now…was he real? Or was she still locked in that realm, tortured and haunted? Had he really returned for her, found her? Had they opened the portal and come back, or had that been a cruel demon’s trick of her mind, as well?

Crane flipped the edges of his coat away from him in that wonderfully distracting way he had and slowly eased himself down onto the other end of the couch, eyes full of concern never leaving her. “Lieutenant…?” he began. “I most graciously apologize for any offense; I merely meant to awaken you from your nightmare. Are you alright?”

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real,” she murmured the mantra to herself quietly, keeping her eyes open, mind aware, heart aching with the realization she was going to have to live this scenario over and over and over again, facing and killing Not-Crane each and every time.

“Lieutenant, please.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid her, and her heart spiraled into her stomach, the roiling sensation returning yet again.

Then she saw the steaming mug on the coffee table, the fire blazing in the fireplace, the cabin scene set up again. Did they think her mad already, that she’d fall for this once more?

“You’re not real!” she stated emphatically, eyes boring into the man she longed to cling to. She tucked herself further into the couch corner, even as she kept her legs free to sprint away when necessary.

Confusion clouded his face for a moment before realization dawned. “Your nightmare was of Purgatory, wasn’t it? Lieutenant, I can assure you with full authority you’re very much here, this realm is real, and I’m the genuine article.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said without guile. She held his gaze for a few moments, waiting for his face to transform into the demonic now that she’d confronted him outright, but he merely stared back at her, sympathy and pain etched on his face.

She couldn’t watch his emotional countenance, couldn’t bear to see the face that used to grace the sweetest of her dreams on a monster hell-bent on destroying her for one more second. Her eyes drifted around the room, the firelight flickering shadows into the corners, and she looked at the chair. Her jacket was missing this time. No, not missing…it hung on the coat stand by the door, just where she would’ve left it. She glanced at the door. Locked.

“Abbie…look at me. Please,” he pleaded tenderly, desperately.

They’d fixed their mistakes: the use of her name, the small details that meant nothing to them and meant all the world to her. Damn, they learn fast, she thought, wondering what other horrors awaited her.

“Don’t,” she warned, staring into the fire, at the mug on the table, at the floor. Anywhere but at the Not-Crane pulling her heartstrings with his desperation and fear. “Come on, Abbie…think!” she scolded herself quietly.

“Lieutenant, you’re here, in Master Corbin’s cabin. Miss Jenny took her leave less than an hour ago, and I left you here on the couch to rest whilst I made you dinner. I heard your distress—”

“Wait…you went to make dinner?” she wondered with sarcastic disbelief.

His head swooped a little to the left in that disconcerted way he had before meeting her ironic laughter. “I realize I’m no chef, but we have frozen pizza, and with your ordeal in Purgatory, I thought it best for you to rest.”

“No doubt. Please continue your charade,” she conceded with a flourish of one hand, seemingly amused.

“Lieutenant, I implore you, hear what I’m saying. I heard your distress and came to ensure your safety.”

“And the tea?” she queried, eyeing the mug cooling on the table between them.

“I’ve learned you enjoy your peppermint tea in the evenings to relax, and I thought perhaps you—”

“Stop it!” she cut him off loudly, all trace of irony gone. “You’re not real, none of this is.” She swept her arm around, indicating the room, the cabin, him. “And I’m sick of this game. Sick of it!”

Crane extended his hand towards her, his finger pointing up as it did when he sensed something amiss. “Abbie—”

“No! No more!” She knew she was losing her cool and her temper and likely her mind, but running through the woods and killing the Non-Cranes hadn’t worked so far. Maybe direct confrontation would save her some of the trouble.

“Look,” he entreated, stretching his arm out, fist facing towards her. “Fist bump.”

She laughed at him, the pain and terror and anguish bubbling up anew. “You think that’s gonna work this time?”

“What will? Tell me what I can do to assure you you’re here,” he implored, scooting closer to her.

She held her hand up in warning, all laughter leaving her face. “Stay there.”

“Abbie…”

He sounded so heartbroken, so sad, she almost let down her guard. Almost. But she’d been here before, right here, and he’d become a monster she’d had to kill.

“I made you a promise: I’d come back for you. And I did, do you remember? Granted, there was a…another me, but you beheaded him. Quite admirably, I might add…as disconcerting as that may be.” She remained silent, her expression blank and uncaring as she stared at him, unmoving, and he continued. “Miss Jenny was waiting for us on this side and brought us here a few hours ago.”

Abbie remembered the events but couldn’t be sure they’d been real, not after the repetitive dreams she was having. Couldn’t it all have been a dream? Nightmare, she corrected herself.  

His expression changed from pleading to resolute. He needed to make her believe his words—she saw it written on his face.

That damn finger came up again. So much like Crane. So familiar and irritating and wonderful. But no….

“Just after we met, you told me about your sister, how you elected to keep your encounter in the woods a secret, even if it meant alienating yourself from Miss Jenny. You’d never spoken of it to anyone, not a priest, a therapist, or Master Corbin. But you shared it with me.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. He’d have to give her more than that, more than words he’d whispered to her in Purgatory or something anyone could’ve found out by now. Something Henry or Moloch or Katrina or Andy or anything else that watched them couldn’t know.

“Abbie, please…what can I do?”

She concentrated on him, studying his every move and gesture, watching the pain in his eyes, expecting it to turn to deceit, trying to find a flaw that would reveal the creature’s true nature. So far, this was the best Crane they’d put forth, and she longed to accept his words, ached to ease up the fight for even a few minutes of respite. But not yet. She needed more assurances, to be absolutely sure before letting down her guard.

She swallowed hard, keeping her expression blank. “Where'd you find the password to Paul Revere's cipher, explaining the Horseman's weakness?”

He gave her a hopeful look, not quite smiling but some of the pain eased away from his striking features. “In the Horseman's skull, on the back of his teeth,” he answered quickly, proudly. “What was it?” “Cicero.”

Abbie eyed him curiously, feeling giant cracks snake up the façade of strength she’d erected as he answered her questions correctly. No one in Purgatory could know these things. Despite the fear that this could all be a sham, she felt the tension in her muscles begin to ease. “The first morning after you awakened, what’d I bring you for breakfast?” One side of his mouth quirked up. "Donut holes. Now my favorite," he added with an easy, conspiratorial smile. She wanted to believe him. And more than that…she started to. "Most hated item when I bought you modern clothes?" "Skinny jeans," he groaned with disdain, and she couldn’t keep the wall up any longer. She let the tears pierce her eyes, stinging like nettles after what seemed like years of holding them back. They blurred her vision, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. "Crane...it's really you?" Her voice broke on the last word, and she saw him slowly move towards her. "Yes, Lieutenant, you're here. This is all real."

He reached for her then, slowly, and she inched her hand up to meet his, tentative and fearful as their fingers grasped at one another. His touch, warm and comforting and familiar, sent a shiver up her spine and gooseflesh racing down her arms. "'I'm real," he assured her, nearly whispering. He eased towards her as she clutched at his hand, and he enveloped hers in his much larger one. His eyes never left her face, and he saw the moment she let her guard down, the second belief flooded her eyes. Her face broke in agony as a single tear slipped down one cheek. He feared startling her, scaring her into retreating again, but she launched herself at him and he was only too happy to catch her in his arms.

The dam broke, and Abbie didn’t try to stop it this time. Crane had actually found a way to break her out of Purgatory. He’d come back for her like he’d promised, they’d escaped, and she’d reunited with Jenny, returned to the cabin, and fallen asleep. The dreams tortured her, but here with Crane—the real one—here in his arms, she could finally, freely release some of her anguish.

One of his hands cupped her head, and her heart constricted in her chest at his gentle touch, at the tenderness with which he held her. So familiar and comforting and safe. The other wrapped protectively around her back as she clung to the front of his shirt with both hands, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry, Abbie. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his heart shattering at the effects his actions had caused her to suffer. Even safe now, she still suffered.

Her head shook against his chest. “I made my choice.”

Her whispered voice hitched, and he closed his eyes at her words, at the strength and bravery she possessed, even in the face of horrors he couldn’t possibly understand. He didn’t agree with her statement—he could have, should have fought harder against the choice she and Katrina had made to leave her in Purgatory—but a discussion over his failings could come later. Right now she needed him, not his apologies.

She trembled in his arms, and he inched closer, wrapping her tightly against him.

“Alright,” he breathed on a whisper, dropping a kiss into her hair. “You’re alright now. I’ve got you. No matter what, I’ve got you…”

Abbie stayed curled up against him until her tears dried up, her desperate gasps for air slowly transforming into small hiccupped breaths, the raging squall within her finally calming into a gentle storm. She came to herself, feeling washed up and spent and more exhausted than she could ever remember. Not to mention a little embarrassed to have fallen apart in Crane’s arms. She noticed he hadn’t removed himself though, even now that she’d calmed. And she couldn’t make herself retreat either. The safety of his embrace felt entirely too soothing, deliciously warm, and altogether like home after repeatedly fighting a monster wearing his face. His hand ran light circles across her back, a consoling massage like she hadn’t felt in ages, his touch gentle and unassuming, requiring nothing of her but to simply enjoy and be comforted by it. She could hear his heartbeat, feel it beneath where her head lay against his chest, a steady rhythm lulling her into contentment. And making her realize how easy it would be to stay like this forever.

After a while, she forced herself to move, pulling herself up to a seated position, though neither of them broke their connection, Crane’s hands never leaving her as she resettled into his side. His arm stayed around her, his other hand holding onto her arm, absentmindedly caressing her wrist and hand.

With her free hand, she wiped her cheeks clean of tears, closing her eyes against the burn that followed her spent tears.

Ichabod hesitated to break the silence, simply wanting peace for her, even if it came at the end of a breakdown. At least she’d let out some of her torment. Still, he couldn’t resist being attentive, needing to know if he could help her in any way, though he loathed the risk of her leaving his arms. “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?” He kept his voice quiet, soft, hardly above a whisper.

He felt her shake her head, then her voice came, shaky and wrung out. “I just wanna stay right here.”

Her words constricted his chest as his heart bloomed, and he nuzzled against her, gently tightening his arm around her. “I want that too.”

His voice came so softly Abbie wondered if she’d really heard him or only imagined it because it’s what she’d want him to say. Regardless, his warmth surrounded her, his presence a comfort she sorely needed, craved if she were honest with herself. He, her other Witness, was the only one who understood the forces they fought, the trauma and aftermath of their battles, the courage, strength, and determination it took to face the next relentless horror standing on tired feet and bearing an emotional exhaustion that never went away. Tonight, all of it seemed too much to handle alone.

Minutes passed, and Abbie counted them by his heartbeats, by his fingers tracing fire trails along her skin, by his breaths feathering into her hair. And by the questions he chose not to ask, no matter how badly she sensed he wanted to. She needed to purge them though, the nightmares she faced once, twice, and likely would again in the future. How would she know she was really awake, that he was really him? They’d have to figure out a code.

“I was back there again,” she began without preamble a few minutes later. “They were chasing me, and no matter how fast I ran, I could hear them closing in on me.” She paused, feeling the fear again, the pounding of her feet and her pulse, the desire to give in to his voice, only to escape and have to fight her way out all over again.  

“You don’t have to,” he assured her quietly, his tone imbued with sympathy and compassion, his words telling her he would listen to her nightmare or her silence—the choice was hers.

She continued, wanting to purge the terror. “I tried to stay in the dark, but the light there…it was strange…like it was searching for me; it wouldn’t let me stay hidden from the demons. And…” She hesitated, knowing he’d feel wracked with guilt at what came next. “You were calling me, chasing after me, too.” Her voice went softer, both at the memory and at how difficult she found it to recap the visions. “I knew it wasn’t real so I kept running, but you caught up to me, grabbed my shoulder, and I tripped. When I landed, I woke up here. At least I thought it was here. You were shaking me awake from that nightmare. The fire was going, you’d turned the lamp on, brought me tea.” She pointed listlessly as she detailed the ways the nightmare mimicked reality. “I thought I’d really woken up, but…the name thing again. You called me ‘Abigail,’ and I knew it wasn’t you. You got angry when I wouldn’t drink the tea and…like before, you…changed, became evil. I had to…” She swallowed hard against the thought, wanting to push the words back into her stomach instead of retching them up, but her body refused. “…I stabbed you. Over and over again. I had to. And then here you were again, shaking me awake in front of the fire, brewing a cup of tea, asking me to trust you again.”

His chest ached as she detailed the dreams, how the demons still plagued her, even in sleep, how frightened she sounded—and had been when she’d awakened.

“Oh, Abbie,” he breathed in a devastated tone, sorrow stealing over his face.  “I’m so sorry. I can’t express my regret at leaving you behind or the pain it’s caused you. I’d trade places with you a thousand times over if I could relive that moment and let you return here instead.”

“Crane,” she stopped him softly. “I decided to stay. I chose to stay and face him. I…couldn’t have known how difficult it’d turn out to be, but I chose.”

“But you didn’t choose this: the nightmares, the…demonic versions of me plaguing you.” He realized he sounded angry, and justifiably so at the methods of the enemy, but she didn’t need his rage right now.

He took a calming breath, focusing on the woman curled into his side and how she trusted him even now after her ordeal. By rights she should be casting him away, needing distance from him, breaking down in front of someone else or, worse yet, while alone. That she’d become vulnerable in his arms only emphasized the strength of mind and character she possessed.

The thought nearly stole his breath, and he dared to press another kiss onto the crown of her head.

“No, but it’s what I’ve been dealt.” She sighed heavily. “And so I’ll deal.”

“I’m here. We can deal with it together, if you’ll grant it.”

She turned her head to peer up at him, her big brown eyes soft and damp as tears flooded them but didn’t fall, the tip of her nose pink, her lips full and slightly swollen from crying, her expression vulnerable and somehow hopeful. He stared at her a few beats too long, and his heart started pounding harder in his chest as the room suddenly became warmer.

He couldn’t feel this way. Not now. Not ever, he reminded himself.

“Together?” he breathed, trying to stay focused on their conversation and not how soft she felt, how easily she fit into his side, how tenderly she stared at him, how kissable her lips seemed. How he never wanted to let her go.

She nodded her head once resolutely. “Together,” she promised. Then she nuzzled back into his side, her head upon his heart.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

Ichabbie Vignettes

TITLE: Firsts (But Not Last) - Part 2: Cotton Candy

A/N: The 2nd in a series of vignettes that feature Ichabbie firsts (but not lasts, obviously). Also on AO3.

The first time he saw cotton candy his mouth opened into a little ‘o’ and Abbie chuckled.

“Come on, I’ll buy you some,” she enthused, looping her arm with his and pulling him towards the stand. She bought a blue, pink, and purple swirled wand of confection as he watched the carnie spin the fine yarns of sugar.

“What is this fairy confectionary called?” he asked as he inspected the treat she’d just handed him.

“Cotton candy.” She claimed a picnic bench, and he sat next to her, removing the wrapping from this new sugary sweet.

“Ommm,” he hummed, his eyes going wide when the sugar touched his tongue. A mere second later, his brows drew together. “It…it’s gone!? What devilry…?” He peered suspiciously at the wand of sugar.

Abbie couldn’t help smiling at him and his childlike wonder. “Here, come here.” She reached up to pluck away a wayward strand of sugar that’d stuck in his beard. “It’s magic,” she answered him, a sweet smile on her face.

One eyebrow arched up in disdain and disbelief.

And then, her hand still on his face, she drew him to her and kissed the sweetness from his lips.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

Ichabbie Vignettes

TITLE: Firsts (But Not Last) - Part 1: Mistletoe

A/N: This is the first in a series of vignettes that feature Ichabbie firsts (but not lasts, obviously). Also on AO3.

The first time he kissed her under the mistletoe came as a startling surprise. Ichabod and Abbie stood in the doorway waving goodbye to Jenny and Joe as they drove away after their night of Christmas fun—baking sugar cookies, watching a movie, and sipping on wine. They moved back into the house together, their hands joined, and Ichabod closed the door, locking the cold night air outside. Abbie moved towards the kitchen, but he tugged her back towards him, and she gasped an “oh!” as she ended up in his arms. She wondered at the smirk on his face until he rolled his eyes up, pointing to something above them. As she looked up to find a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, Ichabod swooped in, his lips settling warmly against her throat. “Mmm,” she hummed low as he kissed his way up the side of her neck. Quick pecks along her jaw, and then he kissed her fully.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Merry Distractions

A/N: Just a bit of Ichabbie Christmas reading for you. You’ll find lots of longing with a sweet and happy ending and a smidge of Joe, Jenny, and Irving thrown in for good measure.

He'd watched her all night as she'd played hostess, flitting around filling glasses and snack bowls, changing the music when an unloved song sounded through the speakers, ensuring everyone had enough to eat, and making merry with the whole lot of them. Her festive attire, a silken, emerald green dress with gold flecks in it, lent her skin a rosy hue, and she'd pulled her crown of ringlets into a golden clasp at the back of her head, leaving her neck and dangly, Christmas light earrings exposed. The dress's short sleeves showed off her muscular arms, and the square neckline cut low but not so low it distracted him—or anyone else, he was happy to note. Not that it made much of a difference for him though: the woman was a walking distraction as far as he was concerned. Her large, expressive brown eyes twinkled at him in every one of his daydreams. Her hair, so versatile and stylish, begged him to brush it away from her beautiful face. And those full, Christmas-red lips she smiled with now would pleasantly haunt his dreams for weeks to come. Oh yes, most certainly a distraction, but tonight he almost felt safe with it. The handful of people roaming throughout the house gave him a buffer he didn't often have while working alone with her in the Archives or in the field or riding next to her in the car. As such, he freely 'checked her out,' a phrase Miss Jenny had used once that he'd mentally squirreled away. Much to his chagrin, he'd checked her out a bit too much this evening, and it’d left him feeling out of sorts. The new lieutenant on the force made her laugh easily, that wonderful smile of hers breaking across her face at something Mr. Muscular and New had said. The man's eyes twinkled at her, and a white-hot pearl of jealousy burned in Ichabod's chest, blooming large and ugly as Abbie’s new colleague gazed appreciatively at her, pleased and proud at the response his words had elicited from her. Not much of what he and the Lieutenant did as their day job made for amusement, but Ichabod felt ripples of pleasure when he could draw a laugh from her, loved watching the worries ease away from her beautiful face, that gorgeous, full-fledged smile and tinkling laugh filling his heart with gladness and his eyes with nearly more beauty than he could stand. None of her sheriff's department colleagues had acted so freely with her before—and she'd never responded so openly. Until this man. And it concerned him, more than he cared to admit. Seeing Abbie and Mr. Muscular standing next to one another, her hand landing lightly on the man's forearm as she laughed at his joke, raised his hackles. Not because he thought the man ill-willed or a foe to their cause, but precisely because he didn’t think those things. In fact, he couldn’t find a flaw in the man at all. The truth of the matter was...they made a striking pair: Abbie petite, stylish, stunning, and effervescent, and Mr. Muscular broad, powerful, and clearly amusing enough to hold the Lieutenant's unbridled attention. Further, Mr. Muscular exhibited everything he, Ichabod, did not: power, raw strength, position, and a gregarious personality. Gainful employment, modern style, shorn hair, and a tailor-cut suit. Together, the two of them looked like they'd stepped right out of the television box and into one of those yuletide films the Lieutenant indulged in on weekends. He, on the other hand, often drew strange stares and chuckles from strangers and acquaintances alike. He'd thought himself rather dashing this evening though, having traded his normal attire for a dark green shirt in his usual front-laced style with black breeches, his boots, and a fitted black tailcoat. This last piece had caused the Lieutenant to do a double take, and when he'd questioned her about it, she'd nodded with an appreciative eye and mentioned that it looked like a tux jacket. (He'd surreptitiously done an online search before the guests arrived to find out what a tux was and felt satisfied with his choice of finery, if only because Abbie seemed to like it on him.) But now, standing across the room from Mr. Muscular and Abbie, he questioned it all: how he could ever compare with a modern man who didn't need to be assisted with the mundanity of today's world, how he could have begun to think he was fitting in to the here and now, what he'd do without the Lieutenant by his side should she ever pair up with another man, how he'd thought he could have a chance with the beautiful, independent, strong, and wonderful woman who'd wrapped herself so intricately around his heart he'd have to surgically remove her should that pairing occur.

Tamping down his vexation, Ichabod kept a neutral look on his face, though he doubted anyone noticed his clandestine surveillance. He hadn't much cared what people thought of him, of his strange (in this era) manner of speaking and colonial attire and his 'hippie hair-do' (another of Miss Jenny's colloquialisms). From early on but more and more now, he'd hoped someday the two of them might become something more than just 'the two witnesses.' Watching Abbie so carefree with another man, and one that clearly had his sights set on her, made him question whether that had ever or could ever be a possibility. After all, he would always be a man out of time, and the Lieutenant deserved more than he could ever possibly provide for her. No, he seemed a far cry from a good match for her, and the sudden realization soured his mood. The music ringing from the wireless Bose speakers (he hadn’t bothered to ask what that particular moniker meant) certainly didn't help his mood. In his day, Christmas music spoke of the birth of the Christ-child, the peace that accompanied his glorious arrival, and the hope of the world fulfilled. Now, much of the festive music focused on missing one's 'true love,' as every voice ringing around the room seemed to long for a lost or distant lover, crave the attention or presence of 'the one,' or be begging Saint Nicolas for a partner. He simultaneously cringed at the desperate, needy lyrics and felt them resonating in his heart as he watched the Lieutenant and Mr. Muscular continue to chat. Ichabod felt like a giant flaw in the evening’s festivities, suddenly overcome by feelings of inadequacy as the weight of his imperfections wrapped their maudlin tendrils throughout his mind. His reticence to assimilate more bothered him in a way it never had. Not when he'd first ran though the dark streets of Sleepy Hollow just having woken from a centuries’ long sleep, not when the Lieutenant and Captain Irving and Miss Jenny had harangued him about the past, and not even when Abbie had purchased modern day attire for him to wear and he'd handily refused. He believed now that'd been a mistake. He could never compete with the likes of today's men such as he was. A Captain from the Revolution with odd speech, hair, and mannerisms, and a significant (though improving) lack of knowledge of modern phrases, places, and ways? No wonder she laughed with Mr. Muscular: he was nothing less than perfectly suited for her. The melancholy of the moment settled over him, and Ichabod turned away from the happy couple across the room and made his way to the drink table. He downed a few shots of rum—the Lieutenant had bought his favored brand, he noted with a twinge of pain—and let them burn through him before he rejoined the festivities, actively avoiding the Lieutenant and her new friend. He did his best to forget the vision of her—and she was a vision—and Mr. Muscular, instead choosing to make merry with the Captain for a while, then with Miss Jenny and Master Corbin. Though he easily feigned happiness, his insides ached at the sense of loss that had solidified into his heart. Despite his realization that someone else likely held the Lieutenant’s affections, the party had gone well. Lots of laughter and some drinks, talk of family traditions and something called a white elephant gift exchange. (He hadn't had a clue what that was, let alone what to buy, so Abbie, ever his patient guide, had rescued him, purchasing his party gift for him.) He'd walked away from the game with a gift card to a local spa. There'd been jokes about him finally getting a proper haircut or soaking in a sauna, trying a steam room or getting a body wrap, which, to hide his already miserable thoughts about himself, had set him off explaining how his Native American friends, well versed in natural healing properties of steam and mud, had taught him the finer points of self-care. He'd meant it in all solemnity, but it'd left everyone laughing, much to his chagrin. Now, as people began to leave and amidst saying his goodbyes, he downed another shot of rum and slowly started cleaning up, putting the leftover food into smaller containers and throwing away garbage. "Crane." He turned at the sound of Captain Irving's voice to find him and the Lieutenant standing by the front door. Regardless of how he felt after this evening's revelation, his eyes were drawn to her—always. How could he continue to live here, under the same roof as her, and maintain a friendship that he'd hoped would become more, knowing it'd never progress beyond what they had now? How long could he keep pretending he was unaffected by her, knowing his heart nearly beat out of his chest when she stood near him, fell asleep against him while lounging on the couch, lingered in mundane conversations with him over their morning coffee? How could he watch her be with someone else? Abbie's eyes went wide, pulling him into the present as she pointed at the Captain, indicating he should say a proper farewell. Irving lifted a hand in a goodbye wave, and Ichabod swallowed down his heartache, wiped his hands dry on a kitchen towel, and rushed to see the man off. He avoided looking at the Lieutenant as he approached them but put on a smile. "Good night, Captain. I quite hope you enjoyed yourself this evening." Abbie smiled indulgently as Irving glanced at her, the Captain never quite comfortable with his formality but appreciating the man's earnestness all the same. Irving opened the front door. "I did, thanks. You two have a great Christmas." Ichabod dipped his head in military affirmation, the idea of spending the blessed holiday alone with the Lieutenant, mere hours ago an exciting prospect, now beginning to turn his stomach sour. "Merry Christmas, sir," Abbie called out as he headed down the porch steps. A loud whistle rang out as she closed and locked the door, and they turned in tandem to see Joe and Jenny, their last remaining guests, smiling broadly at them. Confused, Ichabod glanced down at Abbie, who returned his questioning look, and they turned back to the duo. "What?" Jenny's smile widened, and she pointed above them. "You're standing under the mistletoe," she sing-songed in response. Abbie peered heavenward as Ichabod's eyebrow arched up. God’s wounds, of all nights… He could’ve wished this a thousand times over, anytime, day or night. Except tonight. How had no one else gotten caught under the vine? He briefly wondered if the duo had set them up. "Go on," Joe encouraged enthusiastically. "It's tradition." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abbie angle towards him, her expression wondering and... hopeful? Must be the rum, he thought, sure she couldn't be all that interested in dallying with him under the mistletoe. Besides, he'd tried this scheme once before and she'd handily brushed him aside. He didn't think he could handle her rejection tonight. Miss Jenny's eyes bugged wide as she nodded towards Abbie, and Master Joe, still smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, egged him on with a happily condescending "Don't be shy." Ichabod longed to return to the confidence he felt mere hours ago, before he realized the Lieutenant's interest might reside in another. Instead, he felt unsure and afraid of her dismissal, even as he knew he'd be more than willing to fulfill tradition's demand if she were amenable, despite the fact that they had an amused audience. He swallowed hard, steeling himself, and turned to face her. Her eyes danced merrily at him, the fun of the party not yet worn off, and the look on her face nearly took his breath away. She stared at him hopefully, lips parted slightly, the corners of her mouth lifted up in the early stages of one of those smiles that froze him in place. What he wouldn't give... His heart beat wildly, even as it ached and screamed at him to flee. But she looked so pleased at the prospect before them, so beautiful in the soft glow from the lit candles and Christmas lights adorning the room that he could hardly resist. The setting seemed perfect: warm from the rum, frosted lighting setting the mood, the Lieutenant staring at him expectantly and eager and so beautiful it made his heart ache. Why then did he hesitate so? How had witnessing one encounter of her with another man send him into fits of self-doubt? He really would need to revisit that later. At the moment, his Lieutenant stared up at him, and if he didn't know any better, he'd call that longing in her eyes. "Lieutenant?" He asked her permission on a soft exhale, needing her approval before he'd ever make so intimate a move. It didn't matter that he'd dreamed of this moment for years now, that he'd envisioned myriad ways this momentous event would occur. He would never step over boundaries she felt uncomfortable crossing; he loved and respected her too much. "If you're going to kiss me, you might as well call me Abbie," she commanded softly, that playful smile still tugging at her lips. Those lips that'd teased and taunted him nearly every day for years without ceasing looked luscious and full and as red as the blood pounding furiously through his veins. She was stunning, all smooth dark skin, feminine features, sultry gaze, and quiet confidence, anticipating his next move. He absently drummed the fingers of one hand against his thigh, overcome by her proximity, her encouragement, her downright anticipation. Was this actually happening? That after worrying half the night about not living up to what she deserved, he—not some other suitor of hers—stood next to her under the mistletoe with their closest friends encouraging them to lock lips? And she appeared excited about it? He made himself move before the moment passed, doubt and affection warring within him, creating a maelstrom of wanton confusion, even as she gazed at him longingly. "Abbie," he whispered obediently, his gaze flicking down to her perfect lips as he slowly leaned in, his eyes dropping closed as his mouth finally, wonderfully, touched hers. He kissed her tentatively, softly, gentle in his respectful way, and he reveled in the feel of her plump lips against his, the realization of a million dreams sending his mind reeling, his heart free-floating into oblivion. She felt like fire, his lips burning deliciously where they met hers, liquid heat running through his veins as shivers tingled down his spine. Somewhere beyond them he heard a door slam shut, but he couldn't be bothered by it with Abbie's mouth attached to his. He didn't plan on moving for a while, maybe ever. She shuffled closer to him, her hands landing against his ribs and sliding achingly slow up his chest as her mouth pressed more firmly against his. She moved against him, the intensity, her urgency leaving his body thrumming and aflame, and he sunk into the moment, drowning in her. Her tongue slipped between his lips, and he heard a moan escape, though he couldn't be sure if it came from her or himself. Sensations swirled around and inside of him, more than he'd felt in centuries, and he put his hands on Abbie's hips, inviting her closer to him as he settled into the rhythm they'd found. She waited until she was starving for air before slowly easing away from him, her eyelids fluttering open to see him frozen in place, eyes still closed, a look of wonder on his handsome face. "Abbie," he whispered again before slowly opening his eyes to peer down at her in wonder. A satisfied smile graced her face. "I was wondering if you were ever going to do that." "Mmm," he hummed absently, still trying to restart his brain. She'd done a factory reset on him with her lips and tongue. His eyes went wide as her words finally found traction. "You were?" he heard himself murmur breathily above the sound of blood thrumming through his ears. She nodded, the pleased smile on her just-kissed lips nearly making his knees weak. "Wondering...and hoping," she admitted. "But I thought..." He'd started talking before he realized what he was about to say and forced himself into silence before he made a village idiot of himself, sans village. She tilted her head questioningly. "You thought what?" With his head still swimming, he couldn't decipher a way out of the corner he'd walked himself into, so he forged ahead with the God's honest truth. "I thought you might prefer...a more modern gentleman." Her quizzical—and if he wasn't mistaken, curiously amused—look remained, and she stayed silent, waiting for him to continue. He forged again, sure if he’d had all his wits about him this conversation would not be taking place. "You know, more like your friend, the new lieutenant?" He attempted nonchalance but failed, and she smiled knowingly. "Ah, you mean Mark." Though the warmth from her kiss still burned his lips, her use of the man’s given name irked him. "Yes," he agreed with a clipped tone. "Mr. Mu—Mr. Mark." She inhaled a breath. "He does have the modern thing going for him,” she admitted, nodding thoughtfully. “And he’s easy on the eyes. Though I doubt his wife would be too happy if we started something up.”

“His wife,” he murmured in confusion, the notion of Mr. Muscular having a wife never having crossed his mind.

“Not to mention…I don’t make it a habit of dating married men.”

She looked at him pointedly, and the realization that she’d pined for him as long as he’d desired her washed over him like an overwhelming, cleansing tide. At times he’d wondered, hoped that what she’d just admitted could be true, but they hadn’t looked back after he’d returned from Scotland, and so had never spoken of their long-standing feelings towards one another. Though never in her presence, Master Corbin and Miss Jenny often teased him about the Lieutenant and…and where had those two gotten off to anyway?

He looked to where they’d last stood, but he saw no sign of them.

“Do you think they planned this?” he asked distractedly, realizing it was a clumsy attempt to change the subject.

“If they did, we should be thanking them, but nevermind them. If you’re going to get distracted, it should be like this.”

And with that, she took hold of his lapels and pulled him down to kiss her again.

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Sleepy Holloween

A/N: This Ichabbie Halloween fic is pure fluff and cuteness. No plot to be found here, just flirts and enjoyment.

“I’m sorry, Emily. I had to wait 300 years for a virgin to light a candle.”

An orchestra played an epic few bars of music, a drumroll sounded, and Abbie turned the TV off as the credits started to roll.

“Well, Crane, what’d you think?”

He turned to Jenny, who was cuddled up with Joe on the opposite end of the couch. “It was…palatable.”

Jenny gave him her blank stare of disbelief, and Joe smiled knowingly, but it was Abbie, who’d stayed tucked into his side for the duration of the movie, who prompted, “Come on, tell us what you really think.”

He glanced down at her, noting her sincere, if amused, look. “Is this, in all honesty, a children’s film?” he asked, genuinely perturbed.

“Well…not small children,” Joe supplied.

“And what is considered ‘small,’ Master Joe? I dare to presume there are parents who’d rather not expose young minds to witchcraft and the occult. It’s difficult enough for the four of us to manage it—but to appropriate it for entertainment on our youth…”

“You mean to tell me children in your day didn’t watch real life horrors worse than a little Halloween fantasy?” Jenny countered, forceful but kind. “That they weren’t exposed to hangings and gunfights and war? Not to mention the treatment of slaves.”

Crane looked duly reprimanded. "I suppose I can see where…times have altered enough that All Hallow’s Eve fantasy films are less traumatic than real life has been known to be.”

“And that’s your only comment on the film?” Abbie asked.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Certainly not. The inaccuracies in this movie are quite numerous.”

“Here we go,” Joe murmured good-naturedly, eliciting knowing smirks from the Mills sisters and a slightly offended look from Crane.

“To begin with, most cabins in the 17th century would be much smaller than the one Binx and Emily shared, and they likely would have slept in the same room as their parents, perhaps even in the same bed, depending on their economic status.”

“Oh! We’re starting at the beginning,” Jenny teased, extracting herself from Joe and stretching.

Crane tilted his head at her in disdain but continued as Joe and Jenny rose to take their leave. “By dawn, the entire town would have been roused and already about their day. The witch Sarah would not have had the opportunity to lure young Emily to her demise at daybreak.”

“Speaking of a break, we need to head out,” Joe explained, waving at them as they headed for the door.

“Good luck, Abbie,” Jenny threw over her shoulder, smirking as they exited the house.

Abbie smiled and waved, content to stay securely tucked into Ichabod’s side for a few more minutes, even if she had to listen to another historical inaccuracy rant in order to do so.

“You get three,” she stated.

He peered down at her questioningly. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell me three issues you had with the movie. Only,” she held up her hand against his coming dispute, “three.”

“Very well. One: If the witches had spent 300 years in eternal damnation, should they not have recognized that ridiculous man dressed as the devil wasn’t him? We’re supposed to believe they think Lucifer takes on human form, has also left the depths of Hades—the place they’ve just escaped from—and lives in a modern home with a wife and a dog?”

“Everyone’s gotta live somewhere,” Abbie teased, earning her a classic Ichabod glare.

“Two: When the sisters are chasing those poor children, Witch Winnifred mocks young Max’s words, ‘it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus.’” His professor’s finger came up, and Abbie did her best to refrain from smiling at him. “Regardless of the fact that ‘hocus pocus’ is a sham-Latin phrase that jugglers employed in the 17th century—not to mention a common stage name both they and magicians used—how would she have known he said such phrase since he hadn’t yet lit the black flame candle, and therefore she wasn’t in this realm?”

Abbie nodded, considering his point, but refrained from answering, instead holding up three fingers to remind him he was about to round home.

“And three: Since the sisters only returned for one All Hallow’s Eve and they spent it chasing those children around all of Salem, how in Heaven’s name did Witch Winnifred know what a driver’s permit is? It took me months to get mine, and that only after you spent every waking hour explaining the 21st century and all of its advancements and gadgets to me and teaching me how to master the iron horse.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded, mildly entertained by his nitpicking, though she couldn’t help adding, “It is a fantasy film, though.”

Ichabod looked pleased she agreed with him and nodded. “I do admit, it was a bit of fantastical fun though,” he allowed, his voice calmer now that he’d aired some of his grievances. “Quite comforting to know others fight the tyranny of evil, even if it is merely make-believe. Will we watch this every year?”

“It’s a requirement in this house. And since you live here too now…”

“Indeed I do.” He lifted an eyebrow, a flirty smile teasing his lips as he kissed her.

“Come on.” Abbie patted his thigh as she pulled away from him. “It’s time to get ready. The kids’ll be here soon.”

*****

“Abbie…are you coming down?” Ichabod called up the staircase.

“On my way. You dressed?”

She heard him mumble something about ‘infernal style,’ but then his voice carried up to her. “Yes, and most anxious to see your costume.”

Abbie didn’t know what to prepare for, either in terms of what costume he’d chosen or what he’d think of hers. She couldn’t help hoping he’d appreciate her outfit choice even more than he had her Beyonce get-up from last year—which he’d enjoyed just fine. She recalled how his appreciative gaze roamed from her full head of faux curls, across her face where she’d applied a classic but simple make-up style, lingered a few seconds too long on her lips before dropping down to her neck where her ‘Queen’ necklace caused him to smirk approvingly at the statement before sliding down to her unusually low-cut shirt, which provided a rare and revealing view of her cleavage. His eyes lingered again, then traveled down the length of her body to stare at her shorts with the bling on the pockets and her bare legs. After a few moments, he suddenly seemed to remember himself, and his eyes snapped up to her face where her knowing smile made him a bit embarrassed to have gawked at her so.

This outfit didn’t reveal her attributes in the same way, but she’d bet money it’d please him all the same.

She smoothed down the sides of her costume, then started down the stairs. Ichabod came into sight, standing tall, proud, regal, and ramrod straight, and she nearly tripped over her own feet. His hair had disappeared beneath a white sailor’s cap with a black bill and gold trim. The white jacket with epaulets on the shoulders and gold buttons running down the middle made his blue eyes shine even brighter than usual as he heatedly watched her descend the stairs. A single, thin, gold ribbon encircled the jacket’s wrists and striped down the sides of the white pants he wore, the entire uniform making him appear nobler and even taller than his 6 foot-plus frame.

She’d never expected to see him in a contemporary costume, having long since given up trying to get him to wear anything modern, and she had no clue what had possessed him to go military for Halloween. But he certainly didn’t disappoint, and she suddenly wished she had one of those old handheld folding fans ladies used to carry around to cool herself off with.  

Ichabod watched Abbie float down the stairs, mesmerized by her costume. She’d pinned all of her hair up, leaving a single, thick curl falling over her shoulder. Her dress, a deep green that complimented her beautifully flushed brown skin, had long sleeves that ended with a frill of off-white lace at her forearms. The court neckline, cut down nearly to her armpits, highlighted the length of her neck, her collarbones, the glow of her skin, and her bust. The dress’s bodice, an inset corset also in off-white, contrasted beautifully against the dark green of the rest of the dress and emphasized her petite frame and small waist. From her hips, the dress flared out and down to the floor, her tiny feet hidden beneath its layers.

She looked stunning, as though she’d stepped out of the Revolutionary War era with him. He knew his gaze lingered in awe, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d admit he loved seeing Abbie wear her modern-day clothes—blue jeans, form-fitting shirts, a silk robe, a tank top and short shorts to bed—though Heaven knew they all left little to the imagination, which he was both forever grateful for and infernally distracted by. But seeing her like this, resplendent in Colonial couture, left him speechless and mesmerized as she came to stand in front of him.

Abbie recovered first. “Hello there, sailor,” she cooed, a full smile gracing her face.

Ichabod mentally shook himself out of his stupor and swallowed hard. “Ah-ah, it’s Captain,” he corrected, pointing to one of the stripes gracing the left side of his chest.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, impressed. “O Captain, my Captain.”

“And no other’s,” he assured her, his voice dropping low. “Abbie….you look…” While his words trailed off, his hand started at her wrist and slid up her arm, over her shoulder, across her bare collarbone.

“Colonial?” she supplied, delighted her endeavor to please and surprise him had elicited this effect.

“Well, yes, but I was going to say 'magnificent,’” he explained as he tipped her chin up and kissed her, his other hand finding her waist.

He felt her smile against his lips, and he pulled away, then changed his mind and gave her another peck before taking her hands in his and a step back to drink in the sight of her once more.

“You seem very pleased, love.”

“I am,” she confirmed, smiling, watching his eyes roam over her again. “I wanted to surprise you with a little something from your…previous life.”

“Mission well accomplished,” he affirmed, tugging her towards him with their still-clasped hands. He leaned in close to kiss her neck. “Though I can’t wait to take this off of you,” he whispered against her skin.

“Ah,” she gasped, simultaneously easing away from him and pushing him away, though her hands remained on his chest. “Don’t start; it’s much too early for that. Besides…” Her eyes roamed heatedly over him again. “I need some time to enjoy you fully embracing the military style of today.”

“Mm,” he hummed, taking a step back from her and holding his arms out wide for her perusal. “So this suits you?”

“It suits you,” she returned cheekily. “It pleases me.”

He arched one brow. “How much, we shall find out later.”

“Indeed,” she agreed in a teasing tone, mocking his go-to affirmative.

One side of his mouth turned up, amused. “Shall we get on with the festivities, Mistress Abbie?” he asked, changing the subject before things got too out of hand. Heaven knew he’d need to try to keep things neutral in order to make it through the rest of the evening without ravishing her.

“Mistress? You know…that designation doesn’t mean the same thing now as it did before,” she informed him as she headed towards the kitchen.

“No? What, pray tell, does it mean now?”

She reached into the cabinets for the bags of candy she’d bought, handing them to him. “It usually refers to a woman in a relationship with a married man.”

“Has this generation found no end to the butchering of the English language? In my day, a mistress was the head of her home, holding a position of control and authority; it was a title of respect. It boggles the mind how a term of female empowerment has been subverted such that it now refers to something…tawdry.”

“Agreed; your definition is much better,” Abbie stated, pulling the large orange bowl with black bats all over it from another cabinet, setting it on the island between them. “You can call me Mistress, if you feel the need, with the understanding that you’re referencing the original meaning. How’s that sound?”

“But you are my Mistress,” he said matter of factly.

Abbie splayed her arms wide, gripping the countertop, and stared at him questioningly, waiting for him to explain himself.

“You’re the head of the household. And respected, of course. But you’re also a woman in a relationship with me, a married man.”

“But you’re married to me. That’s not…tawdry,” she mocked his phrasing again.

With a glint in his eye, one side of his mouth quirked up. “Not yet…but the night’s still young, my mistress Abbie.”

She shook her head, amused and not a little warmed by his flirtations, the smooth way he breathed her name sending heat dancing up her spine. “You’re incorrigible. And if you don’t stop, this will be the last time you see me wearing this costume.”

“That is the idea.”

Needing levity, she pointed to the bags of candy in front of him. “Will you open those and pour them in this bowl while I go turn on the porch light? Light on means free candy. Light off, kids skip the house.”

Ichabod tipped his sailor’s hat at her. “Your wish is my command, Mistress.”

“Mmhmm.” Though her heart thrummed wildly, she threw him a disbelieving look as she headed to the entryway, her dress swooshing around her as she moved.

She chosen her costume to surprise her dashing husband, but truthfully she enjoyed the dress herself. It made her feel feminine and stately. Not that she’d want to wear the layers and corset-style bodice every day—thank God she’d been born in the 20th century—but it was a nice change. Her childhood and her profession hadn’t allowed for many of life’s pleasures so she’d always made a point to have fun on Halloween as an adult. Choosing a costume each year—the range varying from Wonder Woman and a mermaid to a Greek goddess and Beyonce—gave her the opportunity to pretend she was someone else, imagine all the fantastical lives she could live if given the chance. It’d become one of her favorite holidays, and she hoped Ichabod would come to love it and all the ways to celebrate it too.

He’d certainly taken to it more this year than last. He’d huffed and chuffed as they’d searched the Spirit Halloween store the previous year, becoming more horrified by the evil nature of most costumes and more offended by the lack of creativity of women’s outfits with each passing aisle. After perusing the entire store, he’d resolutely decided on a colonial figure, which really hadn’t required a costume at all, and wouldn’t budge. This year he’d suggested they choose costumes separately. She’d thought he’d just rather avoid the pretense of shopping for an acceptable get-up when he knew one couldn’t be found to appease his colonial sensibilities, but he’d deliberately surprised her, just as she’d done for him.

“Why are these called 'fun size’?” he called out to her.

She saw him warily eyeing the miniature Snickers bar he held and smiled, making her way back to the kitchen. “Because they’re smaller than average.”

“Hmm,” he rumbled with uncertainty, tossing the candy back into the bowl before he realized he had an audience. His eyes landed on her again, taking in the exquisite dress and the beloved woman wearing it, and his expression changed. “I’m most certainly of the opinion that smaller than average is 'fun size,'” he teased, dropping a kiss onto her temple as he grabbed the candy-filled bowl and made his way into the living room.

Another 15 minutes passed before the doorbell rang with the first trick-or-treaters seeking candy, and the two jawed on about their day: the pumpkin carving fun they’d had with Joe and Jenny before they’d watched Hocus Pocus, how they’d each selected their costumes with one another in mind, how they’d spend the upcoming holiday season, and what they’d do with any candy left over if they didn’t give it all away tonight.

Sitting closer to the front door, Abbie got up to answer it, and Ichabod sprang up to accompany her. She unlocked the deadbolt and reached for the doorknob when she felt his hand upon her arm, restraining her.

“Hold on a moment, Fun Size,” Ichabod’s voice rumbled from behind her as he curled himself around her and slid his hand down her arm to cover hers. “A captain must ensure his mistress is safe at all times.”

She smiled at his flirtation as he peered through the window at the top of the door, a full head above her own height. “Such chivalry,” she preened.

“Tis my duty,” he corrected.

“And your pleasure.”

“You’ve no idea,” he informed her, leaning down to kiss her bare neck. But before he could, Abbie ducked beneath his arm and out of his embrace.

“Not as of yet,” she taunted, throwing him a brazen smile and opening the door with one hand, grabbing the candy bowl off the entryway table with the other.

A small princess, Thor, and a clown stood on the porch, candy baskets held aloft as they all chimed ‘Trick or Treat!’ together.

Abbie grinned at the excitement on their faces and graciously dropped candy into each of their bags, waving as they skipped away to the next house.

“My, I do see the joy of celebrating All Hallow’s Eve in this fashion.”

His voice came from behind her, and she turned a bit to see him watching the children roam around on their street in a myriad of costumes: dragons, superheroes, monsters, pumpkins, fairies, and Disney characters.

“No wonder children enjoy it so immensely.”

“And you, Captain Crane?” she wondered, happy seeing the delight on his handsome face. “Are you enjoying it?”

He peered down at her and smiled contentedly. “Yes,” he affirmed, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned back into him as they stood in the doorway waiting for their next visitors, and he dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, causing them both to smile. “Yes, I most certainly am.”

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: On the Precipice

A/N: I just had to write Ichabod’s POV during that scene in s1e13 ‘Bad Blood.’ 

She'd called him by name. Not ‘Crane’ or the myriad of other nicknames and teasing monikers she'd dubbed him with since they'd met, but ‘Ichabod.’ She’d said his name before, introducing him to others, teasing him about the number of potential offspring he had in his lineage, but it’d never sounded like this.

He felt it in every fiber of his being. He saw now the effectiveness of his own trickery, how not long ago he'd allowed himself to beg her—Abbie—to let him self-sacrifice to protect the world, before the Sin Eater had entered the room. It was only then, with the declarative use of her Christian name, that she'd quieted, adhered to his pleadings, and agreed to his suicidal plan. And he quietly hated himself for it if she'd felt anything like he did at this moment. Yet here they stood again, on another precipice, attempting to avert the impending apocalypse, but this time she was choosing to jump—and he abhorred it. He felt ripped into three: wanting to return—with her—to a world he didn't realize he missed, needing to save his wife as fidelity dictated and he'd sworn he'd do, and desperate to protect Abbie beyond all reason. And now this. His name on her lips shaking the foundations of his soul.

His eyes flashed between the women standing beside him. Both were flawed—the human condition saw to it that they all were—but of the two, some dark corner of his brain taunted, Katrina deserved purgatory in a way Abbie did not. For Katrina had chosen witchcraft, the occult, and an alliance with dark forces, not to mention lying to him since their initial meeting two centuries ago, as a way of life. (Since learning of her devotion to the dark arts, he'd often wondered if she'd used her witchcraft on him, finagled her way into his life because of his role as a Witness, perhaps cast a spell to wile her way into his affections, if it’d ever truly been him who'd fallen in love with her so long ago.) Abbie, on the other hand, had been tortured and hunted by evil as a young child, traumatized by the events and happenings all around her, and had still chosen to fight them head-on her entire life. As she was choosing now. Despite her choice fulfilling evil’s prophecy and in spite of his promise that he’d never turn her over to this hellscape and its master, she demanded he let her do this. Her words said she wanted to face Moloch, that she'd stay behind while he went back to save himself, humanity, the world. That she didn't want to run anymore. That it wasn't his choice.

How grateful he was for that, coward that he was. He didn’t wish to make the choice placed before them, for in it lay betrayal. He’d either disavow the woman he’d once pledged his life to, the only one who knew and understood the life from whence he’d came—the only hold he had to a past he knew, a life he’d built, a time that made sense to him—or the one he’d come to love without pretense, who’d rescued him, claimed fealty to him, honored her word, promised to fight alongside him, regardless of any consequence. She was selfless and brave and good, this diminutive woman who'd somehow come to mean more to him than he'd ever let on. And while he believed she believed her words, he knew what it cost her to speak them, with every molecule fighting against that choice, even as she put on a brave face. Knew, too, she did this for him and Katrina because regardless of the way he felt about his Lieutenant, his words and actions of late had focused solely on the rescue of his wife.

He’d acted a fool, and a blind one to boot, he saw that now. Rescuing Katrina, for all that he hated the idea of her sufferings here, was for him. (And had she suffered? he’d wondered as he’d traipsed through this maze of hell. After two and half centuries, she’d not become one of the numerous monsters he’d witnessed outside. Still had her wits about her, could summon him or Abbie at her whim or call on them in dreams, daily visit a church—a church?! The irony blasted through him at the realization of such a sacred place here, where all others had diminished.—and light a candle for their son, the one she’d never told him about. Suffering seemed relative here, and she appeared no worse the wear for it.) Her secrets, her privilege in this place, they remained a mystery to him.

And all the while, he’d gripped tightly to the vestiges of the Before, when he knew what the world held (or at least thought he had), believed he and Katrina would make a life, a home, a family together after the war. Heavens, look at how he clung to his centuries’ old style, never truly accepting that he’d awoken in an era he couldn’t have imagined in his wildest daydreams. A fool through and through, he realized now, seeing these two women, each of whom played a part in the cleaved eras of his life, stand before him.

In all honesty, though he desired to free Katrina from purgatory, he felt much more beholden to the idealized version of her he'd had before realizing her alliance with the occult and more compelled by the honor-bound responsibility he had as her husband to protect and honor her. Even if that meant rescuing her from her own mistakes.

He stood between the two women: his past and his future.

His future. The thought nearly gutted him. He loved them both, vastly different, confusingly mired, devastatingly torn. One a first love from a time which he belonged to no longer, the other a love that spurred him on with her constant presence and a scorching bond even the fates had deemed impenetrable.

How could he choose anything but himself to leave behind? Then suddenly, without his permission or askance, they made the choice for him, leaving him reeling. Dear God, not Abbie… "You will come back for me. That I know," she claimed, strong as ever, fierce as a lioness. One hundred percent believing in him, even as he failed her with his acceptance of this choice they’d made. Stupid woman. Stupid to have trusted him, to have placed such faith and fealty in an old relic long past his prime. Stupidly brave as she held her composure, lying to his face. As he'd done to her all this time. He couldn't bear the thought of her in this place, of Moloch having unrestrained access to her and her mind, to the horrors she'd face alone. The monster had tracked her for years, biding his time, waiting to slaughter her. She wouldn’t receive the graces Katrina did, likely wouldn’t escape unscathed.

And wouldn’t remain here one second longer than necessary for Katrina to stop War. He swore it on his own life. He saw Katrina watching their exchange out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t muster a thought to her sensibilities at this moment. He drew Abbie into his arms, closing his eyes against the roiling emotions threatening his insides. He cupped her head, holding her against him, praying beyond all reason that she'd hold on long enough for them to stop the second horseman and return for her. "Remember our bond," he implored, hoping to bolster her even the slightest bit. Their connection had saved them thus far; he prayed the tether, if by his sheer will and dedication to her alone, would keep her safe. She trembled in his arms, and his heart shattered within his chest. "I'll come back for you," he whispered the promise. She withdrew, and he gripped her arms, imbuing his touch, his expression, his words with all the strength and hope he could deliver to her. "Faith," he fiercely entreated.

Abbie nodded, and then the monster growled at the window, she demanded he go, and he listened—just as he’d promised her—looking back once, twice, before something thrust him out of the same realm as her and she vanished from his sight, leaving his heart broken and bereft.