Chapter Text
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It's the desolate look on his face that finally does it.
After five and a half hours of scouring stacks of manuscripts and religious texts for even the tiniest hint of information that might help them better understand what's coming for them, Abbie has had enough. She's slumped in the worn, leather cushion of an old armchair in their newly converted headquarters, eyelashes fluttering against her cheekbones as she battles exhaustion. Those energy drinks simply aren't cutting it tonight…and Crane has barely touched his. He's not letting on, but she can tell that it's hitting him, too. She has a sneaking suspicion that he does it on purpose, that he knows she won't head home until they've both given up for the night, that he doesn't want her to leave…because then he'll be left all alone.
Over the past couple of days, it had become evident that Crane had essentially begun living out of the old archives. She'd caught him sleeping in his armchair in the morning more than once, his tattered and dirt-embellished boots propped up on the table, exactly as she'd left him the night before. She'd supposed it made sense…here, he could work in private, think in silence, and he wouldn't be bothered with the long walk back to the hotel or its distressing customs (which was probably all for the best, both for Crane and the hotel staff.) Still, it must get lonely in there, come nighttime…all that silence…all those scattered, indistinct memories fighting their way back up to the surface. Two hundred and fifty years is a long time.
Pity and guilt manifest into a suffocating ball that sits at the back of her throat. Because she knows exactly what that feels like. Because that look he's giving her, even when he thinks he's being subtle, is all too familiar. As frightened and lost and confused as she is, she can't even begin to imagine what all of this must be like for him…to have woken up in a different era, where everyone you once knew and loved has been dead for centuries, where the customs, the clothing, the food, even the air, is completely different…it must be terrifying. In that moment, she realizes that she is all he has, that she is the only person he's willing to trust, to follow blindly into a demon's dream world and risk his own life to save hers.
It's the least she could do.
"Crane," she says, straightening up and hoisting herself from her chair into a standing position. Ichabod snaps out of his apparent reverie and fixes her with a frown.
"Lieutenant? You're leaving, I presume?" he asks, feigning indifference.
"Yeah, and you're coming home with me," she says, adjusting her gun in its holster as a means to avoid looking directly at him.
"Are you quite sure? I certainly don't want to be a burden," he says, fighting a smile.
"It's fine. You need a place to stay for a little while, and I've got a spare room."
The room was, of course, meant for Jenny, as was every spare room in every apartment Abbie had lived in over the past couple of years…but it was far too optimistic of her to assume that Jenny would be needing it any time soon.
"I would greatly appreciate it, Lieutenant. Thank you. I do not know how to repay you for this kindness," he says, his expression a mix of relief, elation, and fatigue.
"You took a scorpion sting for me. As far as I'm concerned, we're square," she laughs.
Abbie leads him across the parking lot to her car, twirls the radio dial to a soft lull, and watches him out of the corner of her eye. He has his hands pressed to the passenger's seat window, no doubt leaving oily fingerprints as he stares out into the night with childlike wonder, the rolling fields and valleys slinking past them in a series of silhouetted waves. In that moment, she realizes just how much she appreciates his company, his very existence.
She'll tell herself, over and over again like a mantra, that it's because she feels indebted to him, that she feels bad for him, that it'll make their casework much easier if she can keep a constant eye on him, that it's convenient. But really, it's because, in spite of everything, in spite of an impending apocalypse that only they, the unwilling witnesses, can prevent, he keeps her grounded, keeps her sane. For reasons she can't explain, she trusts him. She hasn't trusted anyone like this since Corbin…and now, Crane is all she has left. In his company, she feels secure. Protected. Cared for. They've only known each other for a short while, and yet…Crane's company feels like home.
Besides…how bad could living with a man from the 1700's truly be?
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