Chapter Text

Archived

Chapter One

It’s hot. Summer’s proved stifling in these paper-laden archives, air redolent with dust that Abbie swears goes back to 1772. She can smell the inkwell Washington penned his missives from; smell the must of Franklin’s fractured leaflets that crinkle every time the fan catches them; and Crane. She can smell Crane.

The worst of the ancient relics knocking around the joint.

Worst because he’s a living, breathing archive; a repository of the fascinating and inane that trails her, regardless of her preference. Worst because he is intractably, inextricably shoved into that place within her she wishes was hers only to command. Worst because ever since she wrapped her arms around him in their Quantum Leap moment, she can’t get the memory of his scent out of her mind. Pine and soap and battlefield soot, and wool. Soft, clean wool of The Coat in its prime, nestled into her nostrils as she’d held him; terrified of what the next hours would bring.

It’s enough to make her crack her neck, as if she can shake him loose from her psyche; roll him out like a muscle kink.

Crane glances up, notes her shrug, and silently pushes the Advil bottle across the desk. She grins. It’s become their shared bottle – what he’s taken to calling “the Hallowed Dispensary” – and she’s refilled it more times than she can count.

Abbie slides it back, knowing full well that instinct will compel him to pry the top off with that thumb of his – the one that loads muskets and ghosts over Rune-engraved panels – in a way that focuses entirely too much of her attention. She wants the distraction, she admits; welcomes it after useless hours buried in yet another arcane text.

As if on cue, a curious, agile thumb skims the ridge of the cap, deftly lines the edges, and pops it open. Long, tapered fingers ensconce the contoured edge as the bottle's pushed back, sans cap, and Abbie watches as a fingerpad plays absentmindedly at the rim, circling slowly, methodically. Idly, she wonders if that's how he strokes himself; would stroke other areas of skin under his command. A long sturdy swipe over turgid skin; a prelude of pleasure to come.

Her nipples tighten beneath a V-neck that has no room to spare, so she turns, cracks her neck again, and tosses back two pills. She chases them with a large enough gulp of Red BulI to elicit a muted click of the teeth from Crane.

“I’ll take care of my neck when you do something ‘bout that knee,” she says pointedly.

The sass in her tone raises an eyebrow. “Noted. Though my knee does not inhibit daily function the way your misplaced vertebrae do.” To prove the point, he tosses her empty can towards the trash, and she reflexively whips her head to catch the shot, seizing in pain as she turns. Abbie curses as she rubs her neck, choosing to ignore Crane’s pointed look as she buries herself back in her work. She’s so intent on ignoring him that she doesn’t realize he’s behind her. Not until she feels a steady puff of air at her nape, and a large, warm palm rest on her neck.

She freezes. “Jesus Crane. Warn a woman.” It comes out breathier than she’d intended, so rather than belabor the point, she decides to shut her mouth and let him get on with it. It’s Crane after all; trying to deter him’s like trying to call off a dog from its hunt.

And Abbie’s got no complaints if eases her pain. Her neck’s been bothering her ever since being thrown back into that room on her reverse-time-warp trip. She'd landed hard on her shoulder, and it hadn’t been the same since. Still, it takes her a moment to process the added heat at her back; his tall, looming presence that protects even as it engulfs, and the realization that his thumb and those obscenely dexterous fingers are now making their way along her spine.

He’s methodical as he works, checking each disc like he’s Chiropractor Crane, board certified, stethoscope and all. Abbie can almost feel him frown, can picture his eyebrows draw together in displeasure as he niggles each delicate bone between long fingers. “As I thought,” he mutters, jostling one particularly painful spot. “Ever since that fall, your cervical discs have been woefully misaligned...”

Abbie closes her eyes. She doesn’t give a good goddamn what’s off. All she cares about is the way he’s soothing the pain, pressing hard enough to relieve the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in her body. A sigh escapes. Crane tells himself it is a perfectly normal response to his salutary care.

It takes her a while to muster words. “Find anything else?”

Soft as Damascene silk, he thinks. Fragile and strong, and impossibly warm. His thumb, which he’s already scolded, slips deceitfully across her neck, reveling in the exquisite feel of the meet between nape and hair. The stillness of the air and added heat force his senses to absorb all of her at once – every scent, every Lotion, every slip of air that rolls off of her small frame.

Without quite realizing, he’s leaned forward to drink in her scent like she’s the oasis and he’s the thirsty desert traveler; close enough so that when she sways back every so slightly, she finds herself flush against the tall lank of him.

This is the moment she jolts, smooths her hair down and politely excuses herself. This is the moment he steps away, clasps hands behind his back, and pronounces his medical diagnosis sound.

Instead, they remain fettered to one another, both his hands now at her nape, her head tucked against his neck, his nose nearly buried into her shoulder. His loosened hair brushes over an exposed clavicle. She shivers, and it thrums through him.

Against the delicious swell of her backside, he feels himself harden.

He swallows, abashed. Surely she must feel it. Surely, this is the time to shift. But before he can move a muscle, he feels her lithe fingers curl into the cotton of his pants, stilling his twitchy limbs. He presses forward – ever so slightly. Testing the new boundary. She presses back – ever so slightly. Confirming: yeah – this is real.

A sigh escapes him, half-relieved, half-penitent, as they sway against one another, following an unheard melody. His hands are at her hips now – not pushing, not pulling – merely resting, five fingers splayed over round, glorious thigh encased in those infernally tight trousers. The heat of each pad sinks into her as if he’s touching bare skin, and her breath hitches, sure that whatever move he’ll make, she will surely follow. It would only take a press – a slight force of his thumbs upon the bent of her hip, and she’d be leaning forward, spreading herself over the table in blatant offering.

He knows this, and she knows he knows this. The realization is enough to send a burst of heat between her thighs that adds to the discomfort of the slickness already there. She’s been wet since the moment he laid his hand on her, and her body cries out as she discreetly presses her thighs together, seeking a release it knows it won’t get.

Crane’s been trying to hold steady amid this unorthodox turn, but even a soldier’s will can’t rein in instinct when he feels her thighs squeeze, the tense of her muscles sending delicious shivers of frisson coursing through him. He knows of the pressure between her legs; knows she needs a sturdy hand and capable fingers to ease her burgeoning desire. He imagines sliding a palm into the front of her trousers, parting the slick heat to press at her swollen button and sink his fingers deep within. He knows instinctively she’s hot and tight, and so very eager. As if to confirm his debauched thoughts, a breathe of a whimper escapes her, and it’s all he can do to not bend her over the table and sink into her here and now.

His manhood swells larger, unrepentantly hard and insistent, forcing a surprised gasp from the diminutive Leftenant. “Jesus, Crane.” He hears the shake in her voice. “Warn a woman.” He rumbles something about her making up her mind. They both let out breathy laughs, and the tension momentarily eases.

His mouth finds her ear, hot breath rolling over the shell in precise words clipped by desire. “Never let it be said I do not follow where you lead.”

“I’m not the one leading this dance,” she breathes. Her hands grasp at one of his large ones, bringing it up and over to splay on her heart. “It’s this, Crane. This is what we gotta go by.”

He resists the urge to cup the delicate swell of her breast, instead allowing his hand to drift over its steady thrum. It’s a strong heart; generous and selfless; earnest in its quest and dedication. Yet not so easily opened; not readily trusting – if not of others, then most assuredly not of itself.

“And…” He falters, unable to glean her intention without seeing her face. “What does it say, precisely?”

“Precisely? Dunno. Generally? It’s got reservations. Lots.” He feels her breath hitch as she pauses, her mind caught on a memory. He knows the one, for it is the same that has plagued him: Katrina on the cold wood floor, her lifeless body crumbling beneath his fingertips.

But he had chosen, then. Would choose the same way again.

No, he knows that is not her reservation. Not of his commitment to her or their Mission; their bond solidified and consecrated in that church. He knows, rather, that her hesitation comes from the aftermath. Of the days he’s since spent in silence, lost in thought, trying to trace the roots of his wife’s deception. Of the muttered tirades she’s caught, listening mutely as he rails at how a mind so driven by logic could be utterly senseless when it mattered most. Of the mornings she’s walked into the archives to find him slumped at the desk, bottle of rum emptied, glassy eyes staring into nothingness.

When he finds his voice, it’s soft with guilt. “As well it should, Leftenant.”

“No,” she says, harsher than she means. “Not gonna play that game with you, Crane. The guilt card goes back in the pile. You need time. We both do.”

In response, Crane lifts her arm, pressing her small hand to his breast. Through his thin chemise, she can feel the dull rise of his scar, and beneath it, the steady rhythm that skips a beat at her touch. They stay that way a while; hands to hearts, back to front, acknowledging the losses, accepting the victories. Pondering the potentials.

At length, his stomach growls, and it’s enough to break the spell. They slide apart to gather themselves. She fusses with her hair. He straightens his collar. She ignores the sizable bulge in his pants; he pretends to not inhale the scent of her arousal.

Despite the heaviness in the air, he can’t resist throwing a barb as she ambles towards the exit, muttering something about needing air. “Is your neck improved, Leftenant?”

“Fuck you, Crane.”

He grins at her retreating frame. “Soon, Abbie,” he murmurs. “Soon.”