Big Bang: Reinvention Isn't Such a Bad Thing [Sleepy Hollow | PG-13 | Ichabod/Abbie]

[jedibuttercup]

Title: Reinvention Isn't Such a Bad Thing
Author: jedibuttercup
Fandom(s): Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Rating: PG-13; het
Warnings/Notes: Canon-divergent AU, from 2.12 "Paradise Lost." Titled from a quote from the episode. I've been promising this one for months; here it is! :)

Summary: It might not be the time to act on the realisations he'd lately made, but Ichabod would not pretend the emotions didn't exist; that was how he had ended up failing her before. And not a particle of his being wanted Abigail Mills to think she wasn't wanted. 21,400 words.

Acknowledgements: Written for the 2022 het_bigbang. Thanks to maevebran for the beta, and to MistressKat for the fantastic accompanying fanwork!

---

After much reflection, Ichabod Crane had come to the shameful conclusion that he had long been a man lacking in conviction. Not in the sense that he held no moral values or opinions; in point of fact, he suspected his partner might say that he was an absolute font of oft unasked-for opinions. But he was unfortunately deficient in the firmness required to carry those values from belief to being, absent the prompting force of another's will.

Without the urging of his long-time friend Abraham Van Brunt, the eighteenth-century nobleman's son as which he'd begun his life's journey would never have resigned from Oxford, taken a commission in the Regulars, and made the journey to America, despite his desire to stand as his own man apart from his father's wishes. And without the challenging words of Katrina Van Tassel, he would not have had the courage to defect from the British forces before his soul became irrevocably stained by the dark struggle underlying the growing war. Both Ichabod's conversion to the American cause and his perception of Katrina as the guardian of his soul could, with some confidence, be traced back to their confrontation over the fate of the captured revolutionary, Arthur Bernard. In retrospect, the demon in Colonel Tarleton's guise who had ordered him to torture and kill that man must have been as aware of Ichabod's hidden destiny as she; but it was at the feet of the beautiful and extremely self-possessed Quaker nurse that he had afterward fallen to his knees. And so his path had been set.

But Katrina was not the only woman at whose feet he had collapsed after an encounter that shook him deeply; to whom he had subsequently given a most profound vow. Some part of Ichabod must have perceived the similarity in that reaction even before the soul-searching required by the quest for the Sword of Methuselah; must have been conscious of the ever-deepening bond between himself and his fellow Witness, and what it heralded, even as that prior bond began turning from gold to brass in his grasp.

Abbie. He had seen how it pained her, the way he'd vacillated between their partnership and his resurrected wife's supplications in recent months. And yet, he had been unable to bring himself to the point. His connection with Grace Abigail Mills was no less genuine for the quickness of its forging or the shaping hand of destiny involved in its creation; he had meant every word of all his assertions of her importance to him. But set against the wishes of the woman Ichabod had loved and placed on a pedestal from their first meeting until his death upon the battlefield, who yet held a claim on his heart despite all the lies and manipulations that had been revealed since his awakening ... once again, he had found himself lacking in conviction. He had known on some level that he would not be able to walk both paths to their ending since the choice had first been offered to him in Purgatory; that eventually, there would be no more Gehenna keys or other escape clauses at hand to help him evade that resolution. The quest had finally forced him to admit as much – to himself, if to no other.

But events had moved on without pause, and before he had been able to fully process that truth, Katrina had taken offense to his finally expressed doubts and declared their marriage suspended. On the very eve of destruction, the woman who had for nearly a decade been his primary pillar of support had chosen to remove herself from that role rather than defend it, proclaiming herself merely a fellow soldier in the fight. How that could serve as a source of strength to her rather than yet another source of emotional pain and distraction, as it had him, he could not fathom. But what was certain was this: when the demon Moloch finally fell, largely in despite of rather than because of their efforts, releasing their small team of warriors to reach for one another in relieved survival ... Abbie was the one Ichabod turned to first.

It was not even a conscious decision. Prior to Henry's intervention and the resulting explosion of energy and light, they had been under direct threat from the demon of the Apocalypse, and some part of Ichabod could not quite believe they'd survived. As he struggled to sit up, casting off the remains of the vine that had bound him to one of the four formerly white trees, his gaze lit upon Lieutenant Mills, and before he could even register the whereabouts of either of their companions Ichabod found himself scrambling across charred roots and sulphurous leaf mould to gather his partner close.

Seeing Abbie sprawled upon the ground before him, once more cast to the earth at the scene of one of her earliest torments in the fight against evil, knowing she had already been injured before the final confrontation had even begun, the last shreds of reserve that might have kept that embrace at arm's length crumbled. Ichabod pulled her into his arms, thanking providence; felt her take a shaky, relieved breath as she clutched back, burying her face against the linen of his shirt; and only then, too late for caution, realized what a lily-livered fool he had been these many months.

For a brief, precious moment, an eternal breath of comfort offered and accepted, Abbie held him as he held her; then she pulled back, visibly piecing her resolve back together as she met his gaze. Her hands slid down his shoulders to rest upon his sleeves as the distance between them increased; Ichabod turned his own palms upright, turning the touch into a forearm clasp to satisfy the lingering urge for contact.

"What happened?" she asked.

Several overwrought metaphors involving falling, cliff's edges, and life-lines came to mind; but he knew what she meant, and the pre-eminence of duty was one thing they had always agreed upon. "Henry killed Moloch," he reminded her, still stunned at the unexpectedness of their escape, then cast a quick, evaluating glance into the dark forest around them. "And I see no signs of Purgatory. The immediate threat has been averted."

Relief softened the strain in her posture, and a soft smile curved Abbie's lips; then she stiffened again and began casting about for the others. "My sister. Is Jenny all right?"

The second Mills sister was just beginning to stir, sprawled near the foot of the tree that had been her own makeshift prison. Ichabod squeezed the lieutenant's hands, then reluctantly let her go, for of course they each had other responsibilities. He turned at last to the remaining tree, then finally realised with some alarm that his ... that their fourth was not where he had last observed her to be. "Katrina?" he called out.

A chill bolt of fear stabbed through him; had Henry taken her after striking Moloch down? The Horseman of War had said something to the effect that any god willing to sacrifice his child should die; but though that implied the demon of the apocalypse had betrayed him, thereby earning Henry's wrath, it did not necessarily follow that he now thought any better of the parents who had originally abandoned him to an unkind fate.

But no; she was there, on the opposite side of the small clearing wherein Moloch had been burnt to ash, looking about her in a daze. Ichabod moved to approach her, then paused, the remains of Moloch's skull lying like a charred barrier on the earth between them, as the incongruity of the situation abruptly struck him.

Henry was nowhere to be seen. Katrina alone among their party was not where she had been prior to Moloch's death. And at the very root of their recent conflict had been her willingness to lie, conceal, and engage in other chicanery behind his back in the service of her personal goals. Which while on their face were nobly phrased, were nevertheless often followed by unfortunate consequences.

"Are you well?" he asked cautiously, thoughts churning uncomfortably.

"Ichabod?" Awareness returned to Katrina's gaze as she focused on him. Her hair was like a brilliant flag against the dark sombre shades of the forest, the colour almost too vivid to be real. She also took a step in his direction, then hesitated, gaze caught by the sight of the blackened horns that were all that remained of her former captor. "Yes, I believe so ... but ... what of Henry? He risked everything to save me. Where is our son?"

Her eyes were wide, guileless, and pleading as she looked back up to meet his gaze. As so often they had been before, in moments of significance. But suspicion held him still in its unsettling grasp. Ichabod could not but wonder if perhaps Katrina had awakened before they did; if she might have already ushered Henry away from any possibility of confrontation and intended to cover for him now as earnestly as she had defended him before.

"Wherever he is, it is not here," he replied, shaking his head. "Which means we must yet remain on our guard."

Katrina's brow furrowed. "For what reason? He killed Moloch, Ichabod; the threat of apocalypse has been lifted. He has chosen us. Truly, my faith in him has been vindicated."

Ichabod had once been happy to follow Katrina's lead in every particular, but it was as if the notes of their harmony had been drifting out of tune since her emergence from Purgatory, only ever sounding in key when he made an effort to adjust himself to her new melody rather than the other way round. Perhaps it was churlish of him to resent her for it when she was freer to be her true self now than she ever had been, released from the secrets she had so long been forced to keep. And yet, if that meant he had married a phantasm, a construct that fractured further the harder he tried to hold on to it, how else should he be expected to react?

He could not comprehend how the woman who had championed him – and apparently fought herself as well – for so long in the war against evil could speak so, without any indication on Henry's part that his change of heart encompassed more positive emotions than mere betrayal and revenge. And yet, the declaration was completely of a piece with what he had come to know of her; what he had spent years admiring as her courageous, resilient heart without fully realising how divorced from his own perception of reality it could be. He was reminded now of their too-brief, happy interlude at Sherriff Corbin's cabin, when he had attempted to show her some of the modern world and they had watched an episode of The Bachelor. Their definitions of love had been proven equally dissimilar that day. A duty, formed by choice, commitment, and sacrifice, an edifice built by two pairs of hands – versus a gift, neither earned nor nurtured but simply bestowed upon them, incontestable.

Ichabod had decided that day that what mattered was that they did love and put the discrepancy from his mind. But he found he could not so easily dismiss their differences of opinion any longer. "I am not so certain of that," he said, casting a glance back over his shoulder toward where Abbie and her sister now clutched one another close. "Even if he did turn against Moloch, that is no guarantee that his motives are the same as our own, nor that those feelings extend to our compatriots. Nor would it be reasonable to expect of Lieutenant Mills and Miss Jenny the same optimism and forgiveness you seem so ready to give – and to expect of me."

"But how can you speak so?" Katrina followed his glance, then approached more closely, stretching her hands beseechingly toward him. "He has proven he is not truly our enemy. He deserves our trust."

Perhaps it was the two hundred years she had spent regretting the necessity of abandoning her child, or persistent denial that her good intentions had once again gone so spectacularly wrong. But just as she had been deaf to his concerns regarding their marriage, Katrina seemed equally determined to present her own perspective as the true one now. As if certain that, did she but argue long enough, he would naturally yield.

Ichabod took her hands carefully, resisting the urge to pull her close and validate that assumption. However uncomfortable it felt to break so strongly with her, he could not dismiss his doubts, and that feeling was solidly backed by the realisation that if ever there was a time to do his bond with Abbie justice, that time was before him. The fact that the lieutenant would not ask him to do so – that she would understand should he fail her yet again – lent that last degree of needed firmness to his resolve.

"Even if your spell of temporary stasis proves successful and the good captain survives to heal from his wounds, Henry has been a figure of horror and betrayal in their lives not only since his assumption of the Horseman's mantle, but thirteen years ago in the forest, and two centuries ago when he slew their ancestors as well. Tell me truly: if he was not your son, would you still speak of faith and vindication after your own treatment at his hands?"

"Our son," Katrina replied firmly, clenching her fingers more firmly about his. Her mouth was drawn in a taut line now, brandishing her own conviction as sword and shield. "He is our son, and that is the only thing that matters."

"But it is not, though it pains me to say so," Ichabod objected, shaking his head. "To use that possessive adjective would be to claim a status that I cannot own. You are his mother; the one who knew of his existence, who was forced to leave him behind, and who has hoped for his restoration ever since his identity was revealed to us. I understand your attachment to him, and to the idea of his innocence. But I was never given the chance to be his father, and he has made it very clear that he has chosen another, even unto the very moment of that relationship's destruction. How can I do otherwise than respect that choice – and accept its consequences?"

Katrina's brow furrowed, and she stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for something in his expression. Then she took a step backward, her hands dropping away from his. "You cannot mean that."

His heart ached at the betrayal in her tone. But he could easily envision what would happen were he to reverse course now, as though that fate unspooled before him like one of the modern era's moving pictures. Ichabod would pull his wife close and commiserate in her anxious grief, then stiffly propose to yield the cabin to her until the doubts and ruffled feelings between them were sufficiently smoothed over. Until that day, he would claim a cot somewhere else convenient – the Archives, perhaps? – where he would not be required to intrude upon anyone else's hospitality. He would of course be driven to reading half the shelves' contents and pursuing every slight hint of purpose that might cross his path within the week; and Abbie would no doubt purse her mouth and let him do it, wary of provoking Ichabod into further retreat as he repaired his marriage.

But at what cost? The incident with Mary had revealed that Katrina had known of Ichabod's destiny – and thus that he would one day have a partner in it – long before they were wed, and even claimed it as motivation for many of her decisions. Yet after Ichabod had left Abbie in Purgatory – for which he also bore some share of the blame; the liberated witch was not the only one at fault for that misstep – Katrina had oft devalued their partnership in favour of her own desires. As a result, the other Witness had begun to put distance between them that had not existed before, claiming that Purgatory had shown her 'my faith in you is my greatest weakness'. The very memory of those words was like ash on his tongue, and Ichabod knew that allowing past nostalgia to negate present loyalty once again would be no solution; it would only amplify his failures.

He grasped the slender threads of his new conviction tight, steeling his will, and inclined his head in regret. "I do. I am sorry, Katrina, but I fear you were right; we cannot fight two wars at once. And I know my duty."

Her gaze slipped past him to Abbie and Jenny once more; then something fraught passed over her features, and the blue of her eyes darkened. "Very well, then," she said tightly, a sharpness in her tone like the creak of a door closing. "I hope it may be a comfort to you in the absence of your family. Grant me some little time to remove my things from the cabin; I trust you will not object if I find space in the tunnels whilst I continue investigating Abraham's circumstances."

The distorted echo of his own musings mere moments before – separation, and sought purpose – lifted his brows as much as the nature of the purpose itself. "Katrina...."

She continued hurriedly before he could define his objection. "I dare not hope you would consider granting him mercy when you would deny it to your own child, but at least if I am able to separate him from the Horseman you will not have to worry about the threat he poses any longer."

Ichabod supposed they were lucky Katrina had at least conceded that Moloch was irredeemably evil, though the demon had used her own flesh and energy to bridge its emergence from Purgatory. At this point, it should not have surprised him that she would yet again place another man's potential redemption before the health of her own most intimate relationship. If, indeed, she had perceived their marriage in those terms. Some hope he had not yet been aware lingered within him shrivelled back, stung, as he finally acknowledged that she never would attempt to find a middle ground. Their marriage was truly over.

It did not make her perspective necessarily wrong, from her own point of view; but it was fundamentally incompatible with his own, and Ichabod could deceive himself on that point no longer.

He folded his hands behind his back, clenching them together as he tried to find a reply that would not sound unnecessarily harsh. Perhaps the matter of the cabin; it would be churlish of him indeed to expect her to stay in the same tunnels where the ashes of so many of her fellow witches had been interred ... and perhaps even her own remains, another possibility regarding which he had never quite summoned the courage to inquire. Katrina had not been buried beneath her headstone, and she could not have been transported to Purgatory alive, or she would have been able to escape with he and Abbie without the necessity for exchange.

"You may remain at the cabin; I will retrieve my belongings, then find alternate lodgings after the captain has been seen to. You said, at dawn...?"

Katrina nodded sharply, clasping her own hands before her. "Yes; the stasis spell will dissipate with the shift of natural energy when the sun's first rays illuminate the area. Then, where will you...?"

The stiffness of their postures must have finally drawn the attention of the others; Ichabod felt the lieutenant's approach even before she spoke into the brief pause in the conversation. "Hey, everything all right here?"

Some hint of tightening in Katrina's expression struck against Ichabod's own pained emotions and spurred him to be rather more frank in his reply than he might have been otherwise. "As much as possible under the circumstances, though it seems I am in need of alternate accommodations."

"Just for tonight, or...?" Abbie began, gaze sharpening warily as she glanced between them.

Katrina's silence was wooden behind him as he turned more fully to face his partner; from his past, to extend a metaphor, unto the personification of his future. "Indefinitely, I am afraid."

"Ah." Abbie refrained from raising her eyebrows as Miss Jenny had behind her, but her tone was equally eloquent. "Well, you're welcome to surf my couch until we can figure out a more permanent solution. In the meantime, though...."

Katrina's question had been answered along with his, but she seemed much more displeased than he to hear it. "I will just leave you to it, then," she interrupted, stiffly. "You will know where to find me, if you should have further need of me. I will let Mr. Hawley know his guardian services are no longer required."

She meant the Masonic Cell, of course, and its unholy inhabitant; perhaps one last attempt to goad him. Ichabod took a deep breath, then, for the first time since his advent in this new age, consciously let his wife go.

---

Mercifully, neither Abbie nor Miss Jenny pressed Ichabod with further questions as they returned to the abandoned church where Irving's ensorcelled form lay at rest upon a pew. The captain's stillness and stone-grey pallor brought the once-living statues they had encountered in the Gorgon's lair uncomfortably to mind, but he was still reassuringly warm to the touch as they bore him to Miss Jenny's vehicle. They could not actually summon any doctors before he drew breath once more, but they could not afford to wait with him at any great distance from aid, either. Mere minutes might make the difference in his survival.

Jenny had insisted on being the one to drive, as it was her mode of transport and she was the least injured. But once they had Irving settled within, she raised a halting hand and gave her sister and Ichabod a long look.

"Look. I know you want to be there for Frank. But let's be real, whoever brings him in is going to sound sketchy as hell. And you're under enough of a cloud with Sheriff Reyes as it is. Let me take him in and do the fast talking. You guys go get Ichabod's stuff, patch yourselves up, maybe catch a few zee's before you get the next call. Because whatever else happens, tomorrow's probably going to be at least as exhausting as today."

Abbie winced. "You're not wrong about that. Gonna be a lot of clean up just from the outages, and that rain of blood wasn't exactly subtle. If there weren't other attacks than just the one here, I'd be very surprised."

"Are you certain?" Ichabod had to offer. "Implications or no, my unofficial position would be less at risk than your sister's if you would prefer not to wait alone."

The weariness in Miss Jenny's expression briefly gave way to a wryly amused smile. "Yeah, no; I'm not going to give you an excuse to dodge all that whatever-that-was back there. You and Abbie go take care of business, Frank and I will be just fine."

Abbie rolled her eyes, but gingerly wrapped her arms around her sister once more in farewell. "You better be," she said. "We just survived the damn apocalypse; it would be really stupid to end up in the ditch or something after all that."

Miss Jenny made a scoffing noise, then released the hug and climbed into the vehicle. "Back at you. I'll give you a call when there's news, one way or another."

"I'll be waiting for it," Abbie said, then sighed, mood visibly falling as her sister departed.

Ichabod felt the same crash of emotion himself; though they had survived, the events of the evening did not precisely feel like 'a win'. "I am certain the good captain will be fine," he said gently, as much to reassure himself as his partner. "Whatever other differences may be between us at the moment, I do trust Katrina's assessment of her own abilities."

"It's not that. It's just ... after everything that happened this year. All the losses. The destiny thing. All the things I gained that I never saw coming." Abbie turned back toward him with a faint, weary smile. "It feels a little surreal to be on the other side of it. Like I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"A completely understandable emotion," he replied, wincing. "Particularly considering that my own errant metaphorical footwear has already made an appearance."

An amused, indelicate noise issued from the lieutenant's throat in response. "That's one way to put it, I suppose. Not gonna press – good fences make good neighbours, and all that – but I am a little surprised. You've been ride-or-die for getting her back since the first time you realised she wasn't completely gone."

"Except that I haven't, have I?" Ichabod shook his head. "The woman I thought I wed turns out to have been a mirage; the true Katrina is also an admirable woman, but differs in several key respects – just as I have become something more than the earnest young soldier with a sleeping destiny in the time since we were parted."

"Couldn't grow together, so you grew apart?" Abbie ventured, sympathy curling at the corner of her mouth. "In the modern era, we'd call that 'irreconcilable differences'."

"An understatement, I expect," he agreed, glancing back toward the charred remains of their chief adversary. "I know it may not appear at first glance that I have changed much in my brief time in this century, but in truth, I have clung to my archaic clothing and manner of speech as a form of anchor. Something to remind me of my origins whilst my conception of the world has undergone so many drastic revisions."

"Kinda suspected that," she admitted. "That's partly why I didn't push more about things like the skinny jeans and the yoga. But while you were busy adapting...."

"She spent more than two hundred years in Purgatory, clinging to the memories of what she had lost." Ichabod sighed. "I think the dissonance took us both by surprise, but now that we have acknowledged it, we cannot simply pretend it is not there. And without mutual trust and understanding, how can any relationship prosper?"

"Yeah, well." Abbie reached over to rest a commiserating hand on his forearm. "You never know, maybe things will look better after you both sleep on it."

Ichabod knew the words were offered out of compassion; that did not change the fact that she was the one he now looked to for comfort and strength, and it was a wonder that Katrina had not accused him of it long before he recognised the sea change in his own soul. His arm tingled where her fingers rested upon it, and he swallowed past the unaccustomed awareness. "Perhaps."

"Better get moving, then. You up for another motorcycle ride?" She quirked a smile at him.

Seated behind her, arms wrapped round her waist as they journeyed at a high rate of speed? All of the evening's other dramatic revelations aside, that one was indeed well worth experiencing again. Although for both of their sakes, a reverse of their positions might be preferable.

"That depends. Do I get to drive it this time?" he attempted to tease, arching an eyebrow at her.

"Remind me again which of us has a license?" she teased back, eyeing him with amused scepticism.

Ichabod lifted an elucidating finger, warmed by the familiar forms of their banter. If clothing and phrasing were his anchor to the past, then the interplay between himself and the lieutenant was most assuredly his anchor in the present. It was reassuring that this part of who they were to one another remained the same, independent of any other changes of circumstance. "Ah, but that is as much Mr. Hawley's fault as mine; when he procured modern identification for me, not only did he assign me British citizenship, he entirely failed to include any such licensing amongst the documents. I was accounted quite the driver in my own day, you know."

"Of carriages," Abbie grinned at him. "Somehow, I don't think it quite compares. You pass a modern driving test, I'll pay the fees for it myself. Until then, though? Sorry, you're at my mercy."

There was nothing Ichabod could say to that without revealing more than he feared was appropriate at this juncture – or that, he was certain, she would be ready to accept. He let his smile take on a crooked air and sought refuge in further banter instead. "Oh, dear. However shall I cope?"

She chuckled, then took her place behind the handlebars of the motorcycle and patted the back of the seat. "C'mon. Let's go."

Ichabod took a deep breath, metaphorically girding his loins, then wrapped his arms around Abbie once more.

---

It was impossible not to dwell further upon his own idiocy and all the ways in which he had repeatedly shot himself in the foot while holding his partner closer than he'd ever held anyone other than his wife. Fortunately, the speed of their passage – so much more immediate with the wind in his hair and the engine buzzing beneath his posterior than in a larger, enclosed vehicle – made for a potent distraction. There was a sense of freedom in it that he rarely felt in the more crowded, circumscribed environment of the modern era, one he would be eager to recapture the moment he had the means to do so.

The journey was both too long for comfort, and not long enough to fully enjoy; a fitting end to such a jumbled day. Ichabod borrowed a zippered bag the lieutenant referred to as a 'duffel' from the former Sheriff's wardrobe and made swift work of packing the necessities. Most of the books and other accoutrements he had found useful to their duties as Witnesses had been relocated from the cabin to the Archives some months since, leaving chiefly the articles of clothing he had commissioned in the colonial style from Miss Caroline and the modern toiletry items he had accumulated courtesy of the sisters Mills. The food items he left behind; the lieutenant would not let him starve, and it was the least he could do for Katrina.

There were precious few other ways he would be able to assist her in the coming days that she would accept, Ichabod suspected. The thought pained him, but that did not change the facts of the situation. He loved her still, but despite the enduring nature of the romantic aphorism, love did not actually, of itself, conquer all.

"You ready?" Abbie asked as he pulled the zipper closed, lengthening the strap of the bag so that it could reach diagonally across his chest when they resumed their journey.

"As much as I ever shall be," he replied, gazing one last time around the rustic living space that had seen him through the majority of his adjustment to the twenty-first century. From their discovery there of the sextant that led to the Lesser Key of Solomon, to the evenings he and Abbie had spent furthering their acquaintance in the early months, to the recent brief, blissful days he had been able to share its comforts with Katrina, it had become more than a mere barrack to Ichabod; it had been a home. But all good things must, as they say, come to an end.

"You sure you want to do this?" she asked at his hesitation, not unsympathetically.

"Quite certain," he replied with a sigh, then shouldered the strap and turned toward where she stood by the door. "Although I am perfectly prepared to set up a cot in the Archives if my staying will inconvenience you in any way. I did not mean to pressure you when I made my declaration."

"No, it didn't seem like you were the one applying pressure there," Abbie replied, dryly. "Don't worry. My apartment's not exactly huge – I was saving to put a down payment on a house after I came back from Quantico, which obviously never ended up happening – but it's not going to put me out to offer you the guest room. Especially if the alternative is to store you like a weapon in the old armoury building. The place makes a good war room, but it's a little light on creature comforts."

Ichabod suspected that his definition of creature comforts was rather different than the lieutenant's, though perhaps not as much as it would have been prior to his awakening in the twenty-first century. He would not like to say he had gone soft, but it had been some time since he had last made his abode somewhere without a private privy, freshly laundered shirts, and kitchen facilities at hand. The ability to tolerate battlefield conditions and the willingness to do so had decisively parted ways since his introduction to automated coffee appliances, domestic showers, toilet paper, and refrigeration units.

He didn't need to ask why Abbie hadn't offered to house him before; by the time he'd been more than an over-familiar stranger with an unbelievable tale, they'd already discovered the cabin. The points in its favour then were the same as his reasons for leaving it to Katrina now: though up to date in its amenities, in location and style it was more comfortable to a refugee from the late eighteenth century than any more modern alternative.

"If Miss Jenny does not need the space..." he ventured.

She rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "No. We might be on better terms now, but not that much better; she got her own place outside town as soon as she could. A trailer. Not sure if that's what she did with her share of the proceeds from Mom's estate, or if it was Sheriff Corbin's or what, but it's parked on a piece of land he owned, so. As long as she doesn't need my help, I figure the details aren't my business."

"Ah. Good fences," he said, remembering her earlier statement. "A sound policy."

"Which conveniently leaves me with an empty bedroom." She gestured in his direction. "So as long as you clean up after yourself and stay out of my underwear drawer, we won't have a problem."

He could feel his face heat at the implications; he had the distinct urge to look away and hastily change the subject, but he had just finished chiding himself at length about not being an idiot. It might not be the time to act on the realisations he'd lately made, but he would not pretend the emotions didn't exist; that was how he had ended up failing her before. And not a particle of his being wanted Abigail Mills to think she wasn't wanted.

"I shall endeavour to resist the temptation," he said, tone wry but entirely earnest.

She lifted her eyebrows, caught off guard by the reply, then shook her head as she rested a hand on the doorknob. "Yeah, okay. I think we're both a little punch drunk from surviving the apocalypse, and it's getting very late. Anything else you need here?"

"No; I think this will suffice," he said, hooking a thumb under the strap of the duffel. "It is not as though I'll be more than a few moments away should I have forgot something, but truly, I have yet to accumulate much in the way of luxuries. Provided you can supply bedding, coffee, and bath soap, I shall consider myself more than adequately equipped."

Something about that statement amused Abbie; an affectionate warmth crept into the curve of her mouth and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. The look aroused an answering warmth in his own chest, and he might have said something even more inadvisable had she not turned away to open the door. "As long as you like sweet cinnamon pumpkin, I think we're good," she cast over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the porch.

The food reference would have been incomprehensible, had he not had an immediate sense memory with which to associate it: the warm scent of her clasped close in his arms. Her bath soap.

"Am I a pie or a man?" he managed, feigning offence, and followed to the delightful sound of her laughter.

Temptation, indeed. Endeavouring not to dwell on the thought of how that enticing aroma had been applied made the ride to her apartment just as uncomfortable and exhilarating as the ride out to the cabin, and Ichabod once more had only himself to blame.

---

The first pale glimmer of pre-dawn light was limning the horizon as they pulled up at the lieutenant's apartment. Ichabod's blood cooled considerably at the sight; the confrontation with Moloch and its aftermath had taken up more of the night than he had realised. Abbie's expression was equally solemn as she parked the motorcycle and removed her helmet. "Not quite true dawn, but it'll be here before long."

It did not seem the time for empty platitudes or further flirtation. Ichabod dismounted and set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "The captain's wound was grievous, but modern medical care is miraculous, and he has much to live for. As, indeed, do you. Regardless of everything else – rejoice, Abbie, for the sun now rises on a world in which the tormentor that has haunted your family for so many decades is no more."

Her expression, when she turned from the distant skyline to meet his gaze, was startled and more unguarded than was her wont; he felt his breath catch at the deep emotion moving in her dark eyes.

"You know, I hadn't thought of it that way?" she said, wondering. "My mom. That first encounter with the four white trees. Ancitif. Even aside from everything with the Horsemen, that's ... God. So much of my life led up to that moment. Yours, too, really, even if you were buried in a cave for most of it. That can't be it, can it? I mean, the Tribulation's supposed to take seven years, right?"

"According to prophecy, yes. But prophetic interpretation has always been a rather muddled pursuit. I suppose only time will tell whether further enemies yet await," he admitted, then hastened to soothe what he hoped was her true concern. "But I hope you know – wherever that pursuit takes us, I intend to remain at your side."

Abbie swallowed and reached up to touch his hand where it still rested upon her shoulder, as if grasping at an anchor. "You'd better," she said. "Seeing as I can't do this without you. But if that's why, I hope you know that I never ... I mean, I knew you had other responsibilities...."

Hope was an excellent word for the tangled feeling that surged within him, then. Liberally mixed with guilt and exhaustion at the moment, but a blessing all the same.

"Say instead," Ichabod interrupted her attempts to dissemble, "that my other responsibilities apparently always knew that I would have another partner yet chose to tell me nothing until forced by circumstances to do so." He gave her a crooked smile. "It has been ... an adjustment, for all concerned. And one that, I admit, is not yet complete. I have made mistakes and caused pain where I did not mean to do so; and no doubt will again, however unintentionally. But I have learned my lesson in this at least: you and I are always stronger together than we are apart."

"Amen to that," Abbie said, squeezing his hand again. Then she seemed to collect herself and stepped away, turning toward the building. "I think separate showers are in order right now, though. Then breakfast, and a nap if we can, before Jenny calls. It shouldn't be long."

The diversion of her regard felt, in that moment, like the breath of chill air after stepping away from a bonfire. Ichabod recognised the symptom. He thought once more, regretfully, of Katrina; then folded the recollection of those former feelings, of the camaraderie and playful moments and devotion he'd thought he and his wife had shared, away amongst his cherished memories like heirloom linens stored with sachets of lavender. Making space for the new experiences yet to come.

"A most excellent plan," he replied lightly, approaching the door of his new abode at Abbie's side. "I did not like to say it, but after the soot, the blood rain, and the sap from those vines...."

She snorted in amusement, lifting both their spirits as they embarked upon the new day: a precedent he hoped very much would continue throughout the weeks and months to come.

---

Morning came, and with it both the expected disruptions to law and order and the hoped-for call from Miss Jenny indicating that Frank Irving was still amongst the living. The lieutenant provided Ichabod with the spare key to her apartment and a sum of petty cash with which to augment her food stores, then departed to uphold her duties with the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department, yawning over her coffee as she went.

A remarkably domestic beginning: he bid her farewell with a tired smile, imbibed his own serving of the revitalising beverage, and resolved to spend his day at the Archives. There was much to research regarding both the expected span of the Tribulation and the potential consequences of destroying a major demonic figure ... and in addition, it would put him in a position to immediately assist, should any of Abbie's tasks assume a more supernatural bent. Or should matters regarding the captive Horseman need to be brought to his attention.

He was rather torn on whether to hope that the events of the day would universally be of a mundane nature, or rather otherwise. He and Abbie had been brought together for the purpose of fighting evil; the entire foundation of their partnership was predicated upon it. Without the threat of apocalypse, her question the night before echoed in his own mind as well: that can't be it, can it? He thought the answer might look rather different had he still been attempting to set limitations upon their bond. But whether they spent time in company on any given day would not now be limited to whether he could coax her to hunt for signs of evil between her hours of employment and hours of rest; there would be time instead to breathe and adjust to whatever might be building between them.

He spent a few moments acquainting himself with the layout of the apartment before leaving; it was not much smaller than the cabin had been, comprising two bedrooms, each with its own closet (or so he assumed, he refrained from trespassing upon the lieutenant's privacy to check); two bathrooms; an alcove occupied by a pair of laundry machines; and a combined great room where couch and television were separated from the kitchen appliances by a wide expanse of countertop. All was clean, orderly, and well-kept, though not particularly luxurious, a cosy space that he would be pleased to call home, however temporarily. An eclectic selection of books and DVDs occupied a set of bookshelves along one wall of the guest room; most seemed dedicated to entertainment, but he recognised at least a few titles from the Archives. Something to explore another time.

Ichabod put away his spare clothes, neatened up the toiletries he'd strewn around the sink basin before collapsing the night before, then donned his jacket and headed out, nibbling at a breakfast pastry as he sought the nearest entrance to the munitions tunnels. He was on slightly better terms with Sheriff Reyes now than he had been at the beginning of their acquaintance, but he still felt it would be best not to tempt fate by entering county property for clandestine purposes in a more visible manner. And as for that which he would rather avoid: his route should not need to take him through the section of the tunnels leading to the Masonic cell.

He knew he would need to speak to Katrina again eventually; if nothing else, advice of a magical nature would likely be required at some point if their calling as Witnesses was not after all at an end. But despite Abbie's well-meaning encouragement, the situation did not, in fact, look better for having slept upon it. He was less angry, perhaps; certainly more ambivalent regarding his suspicions about Henry. But as he had told Abbie more than once, after struggling to accept the duplicitous actions of a woman who excused them by professing to have his best interests at heart, how could a union between two people survive without trust and honesty? Perhaps he was overly nice in his requirements; he knew that love meant many different things to different people, in both his own era and this new one, and that one's own perspective did not make a reliable yardstick for others' experiences. The key issue was that his definition and Katrina's no longer coincided, if they ever had.

And also that, all unwitting, he had already found another's that did. Wherein perhaps lay the greatest share of his guilt in the matter: it was not, after all, the first time he had developed tender feelings for a valiant female compatriot whilst romantically entangled with Katrina. For several months prior to the crossing of the Delaware in 1776, he and Betsy Ross, a young widow with an upholstery business who had become acquainted with General Washington through their mutual house of worship, had run several clandestine missions together on the general's behalf. Though not yet wed, he and Katrina had been betrothed since late 1774, after his return from errands on behalf of the First Continental Congress ... and Abraham's death. But Katrina had, he'd thought, been safe at home with her people, while he had shared repeated dangers with a dashing and capable woman with a witty tongue and a sparkling eye. It had not progressed to more than flirtation and a few stolen kisses, however, before Betsy had disappeared from his life and he had rededicated himself to Katrina.

Ichabod should have realised what was happening much sooner the second time. But perhaps, paradoxically, that was why he had resisted doing so for so long: remorse over that earlier near betrayal, and a determination not to reward Katrina's loyalty with a wandering heart. Duty and choice had required that he remain resolutely oblivious to any other possibility, though that had not stopped the rapid growth of his and Abbie's friendship. But now that the interfering commitment had been broken, and not solely by his hand, the desires trapped beneath it surged forth like a river from a broken dam. When that turbulence finally calmed ... when he could be more certain of Abbie's wishes as well as his own ... then, he hoped, would be the proper time to act.

His distracted musings had carried him deep into the brick-lined tunnels; he was nearly to the Archives' entrance when a subdued voice hailed him from a side tunnel.

"Hey, Crane."

Ichabod looked up to meet the troubled gaze of Nick Hawley. His opinion of the artefact dealer had improved considerably since their initial acquaintance, when the man's mercenary motivations – and, he now recognised, suppressed jealousy regarding his interactions with Abbie – had given Ichabod a distaste of him. Hawley had eventually proven himself a man of his word, capable of doing the right thing in a moment of extremity; there may or may not have even been an excruciating conversation with his partner about exploring social relationships with charming individuals that he was now very glad had produced no results. But the discovery that the legendary powers that made the artefacts Hawley sold so valuable were truly real had taken a visible toll on the other man of late. A concerned frown furrowed his brow, and he looked as worn as Ichabod felt.

"Master Hawley. I would offer you greetings on this fine and free morning, but I see that you have something more serious on your mind."

Hawley snorted, reluctant amusement dissipating some of the worry animating his expression. "You know, you've never actually come out and said it? And at first, I thought it was all some kind of act. The history drops, the cosplay, the lack of any presence in the system before I got you that ID. Except, weirdly enough, some backfilled records at Oxford; been meaning to ask who you got to do those. But every time you open your mouth, it gets more obvious that whatever century you were born in, it sure wasn't this one. Was that kind of thing," he gestured in the vague direction of the cell, "more common back when you were originally from?"

"Technically," Ichabod could not help but riposte with an equal amount of reluctant amusement, "you were not born in this century either, unless you are considerably younger than you appear. However," he held up a finger at the other man's exasperated expression, "to answer your question – apparently so, though I knew nothing of it at the time. I fell on a battlefield in 1781 and awoke from a magical form of stasis in 2013, much to my own surprise, and my existence has been filled with demons and spirits and deciphering historical clues to halt the apocalypse ever since. Eventually, one simply ... 'rolls with it.'" He made finger quotes around the phrase.

"You'd be surprised," Hawley retorted, dryly. "Wow. Two hundred years and change, huh. Wait, if you didn't know, then...." He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Masonic cell, then visibly reassessed the question and shook his head. "No, never mind; I don't think I want to know. It's just, learning all this shit is real, it really makes a guy wonder how many other people I trusted knew about it and never clued me in."

"Quite," Ichabod replied, tone equally arid, then furrowed his own brow. "Are you departing only now? When Katrina, ah, removed herself from our company last night, she indicated she would let you know that your guardian services were no longer required."

"Oh. No, actually," Hawley grimaced. "Mills called a little while ago to fill me in – Jenny, I mean – and once I was awake, the whole thing seemed more like a fever dream than anything that could have actually happened. Even after the succubus. I mean seriously, we're talking the Horseman of Death here. So I came back down to have a look. But no, there's an actual headless guy chained up in a cell designed by Thomas Jefferson, it really did rain blood last night, and I'm apparently talking to a time traveller. It's fucking surreal."

Ichabod gave him a wry smile. "You already know you have not lost your mind; you have resources beyond the clothing on your back; and you have compatriots who know the truth and will back you up should events require as much. You are already leagues ahead of where I was when I woke in a cave outside Sleepy Hollow."

"For real? All right, that does make me feel a little better," Hawley said, a genuine smile relaxing some of the tension in his frame. "Sucks to be you. Good thing you found the other Mills, huh. I guess I do have to ask then, though ... if she wasn't with you in that cave, then what's with the wife? 'Cause she's clearly not from around here either. And I kinda get the impression things are a little frosty between you."

"That's ... rather complicated," Ichabod temporised; the complete story would take rather more time than he desired to spend in the privateer's company, not to mention requiring even more suspension of disbelief than the mere fact of a colonial soldier's presence in the Year of Our Lord 2014. "Suffice to say that when I wed Katrina, I believed she was merely a Quaker nurse with patriotic sympathies; but as you have seen, she was secretly also a witch of potent ability and a capable spy. She was the one who saved me, though her own coven condemned her for the deed. Our path has been ... difficult ... since the lieutenant and I rescued her from Purgatory some months ago, but she remains a valuable member of our cause."

Hawley's eyebrows lifted at the explanation, and he opened his mouth as if to say something more; but then he checked himself again, shaking his head briskly. "Yeah, knew I shouldn't have asked. Just let me know if she needs ID too, all right? I'll cut you a reduced rate." Then he grinned as he regained some of his insouciant attitude. "Up to you whether that includes a marriage certificate or not."

"Ah, speaking of identification," Ichabod seized the opportunity to change the subject to something a little less fraught. "Whilst I greatly appreciate your earlier restitution for the Tyrian shekel, those documents establish me as a British citizen rather than an American one, a rather embarrassing – not to mention legally complicated – state of affairs for a man who fought to found this country and now finds himself without property, employment, or any other means of self-support on these shores."

Hawley shook his head again, expression bemused. "Huh. Can't blame me for making certain assumptions at the time, but yeah, I get that. Look – I'll see what I can do, if you'd be willing to do me a couple of favours in return? Nothing too sketchy; but I have a couple of hunts I've backburnered until I could do some intensive research that a guy with a spooky library and several extra languages in his head could really short-cut for me."

Ichabod narrowed his eyes at the other man; but he did seem earnest, and with Moloch out of the picture, there'd be little worry that whatever artefact he sought would turn up on the opposite side of their cause, as had occurred with the Piper's bone flute. "Provided that it is nothing you would not want Lieutenant Mills to be aware of, as I am residing under her roof for the foreseeable future."

"...Guessing that's going to be a no on the marriage certificate, then. Unless it's one you apply for yourself," Hawley replied, grin widening.

Ichabod could feel the heat rise in his face, but knew better than to respond. "Good day, Mr. Hawley."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll call Mills before I stop by," he chuckled. "Catch you later."

Ichabod watched him depart, then shook his head and resumed his journey to the Archives, mildly flustered but also strangely more settled, as though the ground had firmed slightly under his metaphorical feet. Hopefully, Abbie's day was unfolding in at least as productive a manner.

---

Little else of interest transpired before Abbie sent a message via smart phone to let Ichabod know she was done for the day. He had spent some hours in the Archives, wishing uselessly that any of the people in his life who had known of his destiny before he did had bothered to leave him any of their own source material; neither Washington's Bible nor the map to Purgatory counted as more than what Abbie termed a MacGuffin, in his opinion. Then he'd walked to the market to clear his mind and acquire ingredients for a modicum of culinary experimentation. Many there were discussing the prior evening's strange storm, but there did not seem to be any fresh evidence of demonic activity; it appeared as though, for nearly the first time since his rebirth in the modern world, he had no other purpose for the nonce than to keep his dearest friend company and simply be.

Abbie looked weary when she came in the door, but the smile she directed at Ichabod after seeing the meal he had prepared for her lit a warm glow in his heart, and the turbulence within him settled just a fraction more.

"Hey, Crane." The words may have been a repeat of Hawley's greeting, but the tone and the warm countenance of the one who offered them now were infinitely more appealing. "Been busy?"

"Not nearly as much as you have, I suspect," he said, returning her smile. "How was your day?"

"Full," she admitted, quickly divesting her uniform of its accessories and dropping into a chair at the small dining table. "Plenty of chaos last night, though thankfully Frank was the worst of the injured, and he's stable now. They'll probably return him to Tarrytown Psych when he's healed enough to move; the escape won't look great on his record, but Jenny spun a line of bullshit about the rash of suicides and the spirit he thought was causing them that reminded everyone why he was officially committed in the first place, so the loose ends are tied up on that front. And he's probably still safer there until we know what's up with Henry. Everything else was just ... one thing after another. I'm almost too tired to eat, though that does smell amazing."

He had been tempted to create a more elaborate meal, but in the end for the sake of both time and the lieutenant's pocketbook had settled on cream of chicken soup and fresh bread. He liked to think he had begun to master the modern availability of spices, however, and food made with fresh ingredients was always superior to anything jarred, tinned, or otherwise mass-produced, however modest the talent of the cook. "A small bowl, perhaps? Whatever remains will keep for tomorrow."

Two place settings had already been laid out; he quickly served them both, then sat down across from her and watched with pleasure as she cupped the bowl with both hands, inhaling deeply of the scent. "Mmm, okay, twist my arm why don't you," Abbie said, grinning at him before taking up her spoon. "How 'bout you? What'd you get up to today?"

"Quite a bit of reading in the Archives – and an accidental meeting with Mr. Hawley," Ichabod informed her. "Which led to a thought; while we are in this period of reprieve, whether it be temporary or otherwise ... perhaps it behoves me to begin to pay my own way. A 'nine to five' occupation might be beyond my capability at the moment, but making use of my knowledge and the resources available in the Archives as a consultant of sorts should both increase our funds and also grant us deeper access to related information networks."

The idea had occurred to him after making the bargain for his modified documentation. Sheriff Corbin and Reverend Knapp had left a local vacancy in the supernatural world that surely had not yet been entirely filled, and Miss Jenny would be able to advise him regarding with whom he might work and with whom he should not.

"I'm not really hurting for money yet, but if you think it'll work out, I won't turn down the help. You really think you'll have the time, though?"

From the sceptical tilt of her eyebrows and the pointed wave of her spoon, Ichabod gathered that she referred to more than merely the anticipated lull in their battle against the forces of apocalypse.

He sighed, lowering his own spoon, and met her gaze evenly. "I did not speak to Katrina today; but my decision has not changed for having 'rested on it', and she has made her position unequivocally clear. We have found ourselves at an insoluble impasse. I will wait a few days to let the matter rest, then confirm with her – but I suspect at this moment she considers us self-divorced, and unless Henry and Abraham were to somehow turn up miraculously redeemed tomorrow, I do not foresee an alteration in that status."

Ichabod knew that Abbie had lost many people over the course of their life; most by their own volition, a few by her own actions, others involuntarily. Only her sister – and very briefly, Joe Corbin – had ever returned to her. The pained resonance of that understanding was in her gaze as she replied. "You gonna be okay with that?"

"I shall have to be," he shrugged. "We are neither of us any longer what the other needs in a helpmeet, if in truth we ever were. We had so little time together as husband and wife amid the war, I suspect I clung all the harder to our dreams of the future for its lack. And I have twice already mourned her loss; first when I found her headstone and realised she had not long survived me, and then during the visions Henry inflicted on us in Purgatory. They may have only spanned moments in reality, but in emotional terms I had been widowed a year before I was torn from your side as well and forced to fight for my own survival. This final parting is not without its pain, but she is yet alive and free to seek her own happiness, as am I; and though I cannot afford to devote myself to the project, there is yet hope that she will make a difference for those others we have lost."

"There's telling yourself you're okay, and actually being okay, though," Abbie offered with a crooked smile. "It's okay if you're not. Hell, I know I'm not, and I don't have half the excuse you do."

"Alone, perhaps," he objected, extending a hand across the table. "But have we not said that we will be victorious or defeated together? I will bear half your burdens, if you will bear half of mine."

She set her hand in his grasp, her smaller, darker fingers mingling in amongst his; the paired calluses of lives spent attempting to give back to one's country sending a shiver through his nerves as they rasped against one another. "You do have a way with words, Crane," she said. "Take it one day at a time, then?"

"A most sensible plan," he replied, smiling back at her.

The moment stretched a few breaths longer; then she squeezed his hand and released it to return to her meal, emptying her bowl in warm, appreciative silence.

Their first day as Witnesses in a post-Moloch world had passed. He could not help but look forward to seeing what would transpire on the morrow.

---

That day set the pattern for the next few weeks: while the lieutenant performed her duties, Ichabod haunted the Archives either doing his own research or assisting Nicholas Hawley. It transpired that in addition to seeking and selling artefacts and weapons of mystical significance, his officially recognised occupation was that of a bounty hunter, a suitably flexible profession for a man who preferred to spend most of his time 'off the grid'.

Ichabod considered the many minions of Moloch they had faced over the last year, and the prospect of having been able to claim fees for their imprisonment rather than being forced to take more final measures – for many had surely had records of ill deeds done behind them – and made a note to discuss the matter with Abbie at some future point. But in the moment, the consulting rate Hawley had agreed to pay once Ichabod's updated documentation had been completed would be enough to keep him in historical clothing and organic produce as well as contributing to Abbie's expenses. It made him feel a little less like a parasite in her life, one more adaptation tying him to his new era.

If he had always been destined to be the partner of Grace Abigail Mills, then did that mean he was also always intended to be a denizen of the twenty-first century? It was a tempting thought, considering how much of an outlier he had always felt amongst his peers. But the sequence of events that had brought him to her side was so unlikely in aggregate, a simpler explanation seemed more likely. All the unusual people he had worked with during the war, serving as courier and spy; had Washington hoped that in so assigning him the other Witness would be revealed? Had there been another in his own time, undiscovered, who likewise never knew to miss his presence? What had those who had kept the secret thought when Ichabod had fallen before ever fully joining their fight? He would likely never know. But he would not be the pupil of Benjamin Franklin if he let a mere lack of knowledge defeat him; he would simply have to continue educating himself via more hands-on methods.

For the moment that was mostly theoretical, but he and Abbie did keep an eye out for signs of the supernatural throughout each day, then spent an hour or two every other evening exploring the woods and past sites of paranormal activity to make sure that matters remained quiet. They ate the evening meal together, watched various televised programmes – they might have faced more world-ending peril, but at least their lives were slightly less chaotic than that of the titular Grimm of the supernatural procedural set on the opposite coast – and slowly reknit their bond. Perhaps things weren't quite as free and easy as they had been those first few months of their partnership before Moloch and his own divided loyalties had driven the first wedge between them, but quite frankly he knew he deserved to have to work for it this time round, and in the meantime he took care to avoid any further misunderstandings.

Including with Abbie's sister. A couple of weeks after the cancelled apocalypse, after the captain's condition had finally been deemed acceptable enough for him to be released back to the psychiatric facility, the three of them celebrated with a visit to a pub for beer, fried food, and – on Miss Jenny's part – a flirtation with the bartender. She seized the opportunity, however, when Abbie temporarily left the table to attend to necessities, to lean across their table and address Ichabod in a fiercely intent tone.

"Don't you dare jerk her around again, Crane. I could write off all that nonsense with Katrina before as your idea of doing the right thing by her, however screwed up a position it put Abbie in, but now that you've cut that tie there's no excuse," she said through politely bared teeth.

"Pardon?" Ichabod lifted his eyebrows, caught off guard by the challenge. It was not a mystery what she was referring to; only a surprise that she had brought it up. Were his intentions that obvious? "What nonsense...?"

"Don't play dumb," Jenny scoffed, rolling her eyes at him. "The Abbie I know doesn't do faith. She learned the hard way not to. But I saw her open up for you last year, before you started stepping out of rhythm, and I see her starting to do it again now. And you're encouraging it. You might have been blind to the way things sounded when you were new around here, but it's been more than a minute, and you're not that naïve."

"I also require no threats to assert that whatever happens next, the last thing I desire is to cause your sister additional pain," he replied crisply. Perhaps he had not always lived up to that ideal, but he was capable of learning his lesson.

"Good. Because I wasn't trying to threaten you," Jenny continued firmly. "You're both grown-ass adults, and I'm not Abbie's mother. I just wanted to make sure you're aware how rare that is for her, so you don't suddenly decide she'd be better off without you and fuck off again or something. Because I promise you, she won't be."

There were certain subjects it would not be appropriate to discuss with anyone but Abbie before he'd had a chance to share them with her, and this was one of them. But Ichabod could not fault her sister for wishing to protect her. "I shall take that under advisement," he said stiffly.

"See that you do," she replied, expression softening around the edges as she sat back again.

"See that he does what?" Abbie asked, eyebrows raised, as she returned to the table.

"Pay for the next round," Jenny replied with a wry smile. "Now that he's officially got a job, it's his turn to start giving back, don't you think?"

Abbie gave her sister a deeply sceptical look. "Sure, let's go with that. Because you would never get all up in my personal business, no ma'am. And how are things going with Hawley, again?"

Jenny's smile slipped, and she scowled at Abbie. "Nothing's going on with Hawley. I told you that."

"Sure, and that's why he's been your go-to for months. All the contacts you made working with Corbin, and somehow he's the only one around who can help out now?" Amusement tugged at the corner of Abbie's mouth.

"Well, we'd already broken him in," Miss Jenny replied tartly, "why start over with someone we'd have to convince about all the bullshit from scratch?"

Watching Abbie tease her sister, dressed to emphasise her femininity rather than to reinforce her authority, glowing from within in a gentler way than she did during more strenuous circumstances, Ichabod was struck anew by Abbie's beauty. In the pursuit of an evildoer, whether supernatural or mundane, she was a lit flame, a Valkyrie, a warrior every bit his equal; but another kind of strength shone forth from her in more peaceful moments such as this, all the more precious for the rarity of its expression.

He had not meant to stare; but then Abbie's gaze drifted to meet his, dark eyes brimming with warmth, and he could not have broken away for a kingdom.

"Oh I don't know," Abbie replied, still staring at him as she replied to her sister, "sometimes starting over gives you the chance to build something better. Right?"

She was most likely referring to their partnership as Witnesses, or perhaps attempting to convey reassurance once again regarding his marriage, but Ichabod's heart could not help but wish for a more mutual option. And he could tell from Miss Jenny's expression that she knew very well what he had taken from Abbie's statement. Her dry tone and sardonic brow were also aimed his way as she replied to her sister.

"Yeah, and sometimes that bridge gets burned with napalm. Not much chance rebuilding from that."

"So there was something going on at some point," Abbie declared, attention returning to her sister as her eyes lit up with interest. "I thought so."

Miss Jenny spluttered some sort of indignant response, and the evening's light conversation continued, though Ichabod's heart was no longer entirely in it.

He was attempting to start over. He did intend to build something new with Abbie. But there was a conversation he had been delaying that really must be had before matters could proceed any further, and if he intended to live his life with conviction henceforth, then he could postpone it no longer.

He paused outside the door of the pub as the sisters Mills led the way toward their vehicles and set a tentative hand on Abbie's elbow.

"What's up, Crane? You forget something?" the lieutenant asked absently, looking up at him with a tired smile.

"In a manner of speaking," he replied apologetically. "There is a conversation that I have been avoiding."

Her gaze sharpened, and her body language went abruptly still, like the closing of a window. "Ah."

Ichabod winced. Given the earlier topic of conversation, he feared he knew what she was thinking. "I do not anticipate a lengthy interview," he hastened to say. The walk, certainly; it was a few miles up to the cabin, but that would likely be for the best. Any lingering influence of alcohol would be cleared by the time he arrived, and should tempers grow warm, the walk back would clear that from his blood as well. "It is simply time to make certain that a certain bridge has indeed been burned."

The tense lines of her face softened a little and she searched his face with her eyes. "With napalm, you think?" she asked, quietly. "Or something maybe a little easier to extinguish?"

"With Greek Fire," he assured her, firmly. "Mr. Hawley tells me he has seen Katrina in the Masonic cell each time he has detoured through the tunnels, though I have heard nothing from her directly. She has made her priorities clear. As, I suppose, have I. What I have to say may thus have little value to her, but it must be said nonetheless. One cannot step forward into the future while still looking over the shoulder towards one's past."

The last of the tension faded from her posture. "Don't I know it," she said, sympathetically. "All right. You do what you've got to do."

He pulled back and gave his most fulsome leave-taking bow, and was rewarded with a slight smile before she turned to follow her sister, whose faint voice carried back to him: "What the hell was that all about?"

---

Ichabod trudged away in the direction of the road up to the cabin; luckily, the streets of Sleepy Hollow were seldom thick with traffic at that time of night. Four miles was but an hour's journey at a brisk walking pace, even considering the uphill portions; not as swift as it could be travelled on the motorcycle since returned to the shop where Abbie's vehicle had been repaired, but as on that trip, both too short and too long a distance for comfort.

He could not help but review his every interaction with Katrina in the modern era as he walked, though many of them echoed very similar themes. An apology; a mention of destiny; a reference to Abraham, though at least at first she had not known the Horseman of Death was he; direction; and a plea for her own release.

I've been trying to lead you, she had said in the very first of those visions. And perhaps in truth, that was at the very root of their current disunity. Where once he had been content to be led, he had been forced by circumstance to learn what it was to walk side-by-side with a partner as an equal. And not only in romantic matters. It was through Abbie's eyes, as he had told her just before they uncovered the Sword of Methuselah, that he saw himself most clearly. He could only hope he offered the lieutenant similar value in return.

The windows of the cabin were still lit by the flickering glow of fireplace and candle when he arrived. As he had hoped, Katrina had not yet retired. She opened the door at his knock, then stood back to allow him entrance, expression closed and cool.

"Ichabod," she said, studying his face with wary eyes. The unadorned forename sounded strange to an ear more used to the address of my love ... or from another tongue, the technically more formal yet affectionately spoken Crane. "You have not come here, I think, with the intent to reconcile."

"No, I've not." The awkwardness of the encounter felt uncomfortably like reporting to a superior; he found himself falling into a more formal stance, clasping his hands behind his back as he continued. "I have spent much time in contemplation these last several days and have come to the conclusion that we are not the same individuals we once were. And what is more, we never did know one another as well as we might have thought. You have claimed that I do not have faith in you; and while it is true that recent revelations have damaged my certainty, it is equally true that you do not have faith in me."

"But that is not true," Katrina objected, brow furrowing in indignation. "From the first time I spoke to you from Purgatory, you have held my secrecy against me."

"Because that was when I began to discover how much you had concealed from me, without even the courtesy of letting me know that there were secrets to be told," Ichabod replied, stiffly. "But I did not come here to relitigate that which divided us. Katrina ... before I fell on that battlefield, I loved you with a young man's love: the kind that makes the mundane a marvel, that bewilders with its magnificence. But my time in this future has matured my perspective, as your time in Purgatory changed you. We cannot simply return to the relationship we had before; we no longer fit those roles. We could attempt to rebuild our marriage together, to complement who we have become. But without trust, and without the willingness to meet on middle ground, I fear that any such endeavour would be ruined by ... irreconcilable differences." He concluded with Abbie's fitting term.

"Our love is not enough?" she accused, voice pained. "Or ... is it more that you have already replaced mine with another's?"

Ichabod had hoped not to broach that topic, but of course it was pertinent, and he would not lie to her. "Lieutenant Mills is my partner, and destined to be so, as you knew long before I did," he reminded her. "We have learned much from each other and fought at one another's side. 'Twould be unnatural had I not begun to develop an attachment, even as you still care for what is left of Abraham within the Horseman of Death. But you know I believe that love is a choice one makes each day; it is not merely an emotion. By no word or deed did I knowingly indulge such feelings so long as our marriage remained intact. This I swear."

"Noble, responsible Ichabod." A sheen of dampness had formed in Katrina's eyes as even as the bitterness had faded from her tone. "I do not know which pains me more: that your concept of love is so circumscribed by limitations, or that I was foolish enough to hope that the bond between Witnesses would yield to my prior claim. And yet I am relying upon my own prior claim to attempt to restore Abraham from the depths to which our love drove him. You are right; our differences are indeed irreconcilable."

"Do not think me grateful for it; I have not ceased to care for you, despite all that has come between us. You set my feet upon the path I have walked to reach this day, and whatever may have happened since, I do not regret our marriage." However necessary the change, it was still a loss; one that he felt very deeply in that moment. "If there is any virtue left in Abraham, I hope you may be able to find it."

"I do not require your approval," she replied, "but if there still be purpose for me in this era, perhaps that is it. I shall miss you as well, Ichabod. Perhaps in time, I will even be able to be happy for you and Miss Mills."

"That would be more than I deserve," Ichabod ventured to say. "I have secured employment and proper identification apart from Abbie's assistance; anything you require that I can supply, you have but to call." He had taught her the use of the cabin's telephone and written down their numbers in case she should have need of them, though he knew she was still uncomfortable with the device.

"Of course," she replied, a faint smile curving her mouth. "We were friends before; and we still serve the same cause. If you have need of my skills, do not hesitate to ask. Or if you should hear aught of Henry...."

"Of course," he echoed her, then bowed deeply. "Then I will leave you to the remainder of your evening. I ... I am sorry, Katrina."

"As am I," she said, a note of finality in her voice, then shut the door behind him.

---

The evening was far advanced as Ichabod returned to the more populated parts of Sleepy Hollow; the light cloud that had earlier obscured the stars had drifted off to some other clime. This late in December, the moon showed a waning crescent just beginning to lift above the horizon, a fitting complement to his own phase of existence. Ten years ago – or two hundred forty-three, depending upon how one counted – he had believed he knew everything; but now he only knew how much he yet had to learn. Fortunately, he would not be required to do so alone.

Ichabod had begun to pick up his pace, moving briskly to ward off the night's deepening chill, when he caught sight of something unusual in one of the cleared fields abutting the road. The terrain ran upward from the pavement there at a slight slope, a close-cropped span of grass bordered on the near side by a mortised split rail fence and on the far side by a grove of trees crowning a small hill. A farm, perhaps; he had seen various livestock there before, though none so close to the road as the dark shape he espied by the fencing now. Whatever animal it might be lay unusually still in a strange attitude; he approached closer to the fence as he passed by, morbidly curious about the cause.

What he saw when at last he was close enough for a good look prompted him to immediately scan the landscape for unfriendly eyes, then hop over the fence and draw the smart phone Abbie had given him from his pocket. The beast was clearly deceased, and messily so, entrails drawn out in a manner that suggested more ritual than predator. And he did not believe that was wishful thinking at work. It had seemed as though the world had been holding its breath since Moloch's demise, but it now felt as if that silence had been broken.

He thumbed his way to the photo app, snapped several shots from various angles for Abbie's edification, then hurried to remove himself from the field before he could be discovered in the vicinity of the evidence. The last thing he needed was to give the sheriff's suspicious mind fresh ammunition against him. Undoubtedly some of her attitude was protectiveness; the history between the older woman and Abbie's family appeared to have given her some concern for the Mills sisters' fates. But she was wary in general of anything out of place, and she had seen his previous paperwork before Hawley's alterations; that could cause problems in any official encounter.

Ichabod was still pondering what he had seen, and how it might affect the current state of his partnership, when his footsteps finally led him back to the threshold of Abbie's apartment. He had texted her one of the photos as warning, but had received only an incomprehensible string of punctuation and emojis in response, followed by the pithily brief text: "Only you."

As at the cabin, light still shone within; when Ichabod let himself in with the key, he found his partner waiting on the couch, feet up and mug clasped between her hands while some programme of televised reality played at low volume. But unlike that previous encounter, a tingling warmth surged in his chest at the vision before him.

"This is a change," Abbie said, looking up as he closed the door behind himself. There was a teasing light in her eyes, but also, he thought, a sense of suspended anticipation to match his. "Waiting up for each other."

"I would not have asked it of you, but I do admit, it is pleasant to be greeted rather than return to a cold hearth," Ichabod replied warmly. He took a seat near her in the living room and sat down to remove his topboots, letting his gaze linger on her softly clad form. Yoga attire had always looked far more appealing on her than it did him. "I trust you were not unduly inconvenienced?"

Abbie rolled her eyes, favouring him with a wry smile. "Preoccupied a little, maybe. But I wouldn't have called it 'inconvenienced' until I got your text. How about you?"

"More ... uncomfortably obliged than inconvenienced, I would say," he decided. "Suffice to say, Katrina remains our ally, but at a remove. Death quite literally parted us, in more than once sense of the word; it merely took some time for us to recognise that truth."

She lifted her eyebrows in response. "I won't ask if you're sure. But I will say I'm sorry. Even if it was inevitable, after all that time trying to get back to each other, it can't feel good."

"Indeed," he admitted. "Particularly since she now intends to fully devote her energies to our Headless guest."

"The literal part of Death's involvement," Abbie replied dryly. "But why would she waste one iota of compassion on him? I mean, I get that Abraham was important to both of you, and she feels a little responsible for his fate, but after all he's done? He was the Horseman for seven years before you killed each other; whatever the impetus for his decision was, you were hardly the only ones he took it out on."

"But beneath the monster is still a man; I saw him in the Gorgon's cave," Ichabod sighed. "She has seen still more, and in conditions designed to encourage an empathic response, particularly now that our relationship has been severed. What is more, something he said then struck me as quite strange: 'I was supposed to be the hero of this story, not the villain.' I did not dare to ask, but I wondered if before my advent, Katrina might have thought Abraham had the potential to be a Witness and had spoken to him of the secret war. She and her compatriots were clearly expecting one to arrive, and when I told her what I had seen of Colonel Tarleton early in our acquaintance, she said, 'They were right, you are the one.' As if she had previously believed otherwise."

"You think he knew more than you, and expected to be part of the story?" Abbie shook her head. "Huh. Well, I get how that might have stung, but we have a phrase these days. Cool motive, still murder."

He nodded in acknowledgement. He did not disagree with her point; and after all, it was no longer his purview to support Katrina's decisions. "Well, that is a problem for another time, if she should succeed in her aims. At least in the meantime, he is not a threat. Whatever trespassed upon that farm, however...."

Her mouth fell into grimmer lines. "I was just beginning to wonder if we might have a chance at a life without evil after all, and what that might look like if we did. Saved by the bell, I guess. At the risk of playing devil's advocate, though: just because that doesn't look likely to be the work of a natural predator, doesn't mean it isn't some mundane would-be sociopath getting his kicks instead. Right now, it's just a data point."

"One to keep an eye on, however," Ichabod acknowledged. "One single point of data may mean nothing, but should there be more...."

He'd leaned forward almost unconsciously as he spoke; Abbie eyed his posture, then gave a very dry reply. "At the risk of implying things we should probably wait until we're a little more awake to discuss ... if you're looking to get me alone out there in the woods with you, maybe give it a day or two."

Ichabod felt his cheeks warm at the glint in her eye; turbulence, it seemed, came in many forms. "In order to better determine a likely search zone," he offered, with a near-audible ellipsis trailing off after the words. If she were implying what she seemed to be implying....

"That too." A delightful suggestion of dimples curved in at the corners of her mouth from the width of her smile. "For tonight, though?" She lifted a hand to her mouth as the smile turned into an apologetic yawn. "Now that you're back safe, I'd better turn in; going to be another early one."

"I will prepare the coffee in the morning; 'tis only fair," he said, nodding to her, and rose with boots in hand. "Sleep well. And ... thank you again. For waiting." It was a much more pleasant memory to take to his own rest than either the scene at the cabin or the discovery in the field.

"No problem," she said, lifting the remote device to quieten the TV. Then she stood, stretching lazily, and turned to pad toward the kitchen with her mug. "Sweet dreams."

Ichabod inclined his head, watching her go; then turned toward his bedroom, beginning to feel as if his world was approaching equilibrium, at last.

---

As always, the mundane concerns of occupation and – in his case – the absorptive quality of a new research project took priority over more personal matters over the next several days. The chief difference was that without the previous obligation to look away or change the subject when the conversation grew too warm for a merely platonic interaction, or to keep a certain amount of physical distance, nearly every moment he spent in Abbie's presence felt like an extended exercise in flirtation.

The delay felt more like a belated space for adjustment and appreciation, however, rather than a torture; in the lingering of fingers upon a sleeve, in the warmth of breath against a cheek as one leaned in to see what the other's gaze had fixed upon, in small caretaking actions such as the preparation of a warm beverage or the purchase of a favourite breakfast pastry. It was a form of courtship Ichabod had not been able to indulge in before, given the various social and physical distances present in his other relationships and the exigencies of war. It felt indulgent to him, as if they were taking the time to appreciate the initial courses of an elaborate meal with many other removes yet ahead of them. An experience not to be rushed.

In the meanwhile, a further data point or two developed for the new incident map he pinned up in the Archives. Careful inquiries in the neighbourhood revealed that other livestock had indeed disappeared or been killed in farms near the one where he had made his unpleasant discovery. And Abbie had reported that although the Sheriff's department was not aware of any other potentially related occurrences, there had been an odd noise complaint. A hunter had reported hearing 'inhuman voices' in a wooded area in the same vicinity.

He watched, still delighted by the novelty of allowing himself to consciously appreciate the curves of her form as she stretched up to place the pin for that report on the map, and refused to blush when she caught him looking and raised an amused eyebrow in his direction. "I don't suppose we have yet acquired enough data points for an initial effort?" he inquired, echoing the expression.

A series of expressions passed briefly over her captivating features; self-conscious, then reflective, then quietly determined, and throughout pleased. There had been times when Ichabod had felt as though Abbie had closed herself to him over the months succeeding their visit to Purgatory; realising she had taken down that wary guard was a moment of heady, stirring triumph. "It might still take a little time to find the right approach; but we do know where we're starting from now. You ready for this?"

"Very much so," he replied, allowing his voice to drop to a lower, warmer register. "Provided, of course, that you feel the same."

Abbie stepped closer to him then, stopping barely a hand's-breadth distant. There was a significant difference between their heights, though he only truly noticed when they stood so close; he would be dishonest if he said he hadn't spent much pleasant thought regarding the logistics of future kisses. Then she reached out, one of her hands crossing that last distance between them to rest over his heart.

"You know I do. Just giving us both space to be sure, given our whole, you know, everything." A quick, luminous smile briefly tucked in the corners of her mouth; then she stretched up on her toes to fulfil the first of those fantasies and fit her mouth against his.

The kiss was brief, only a quick press of her lips against his, all out of proportion to the wave of giddy heat that swept through him in its wake. Even the remaining shreds of self-restraint that kept him from immediately gathering her up in his arms and chasing the next osculation were not enough to stop the undignified noise that welled up in his throat at the touch. She looked distinctly satisfied, perhaps even smug, as she sank back down onto her heels, and he discovered to his wonder that he could indeed fall more deeply in love with this woman. In fact, that he was in danger of doing so every day for the rest of his life.

Of course, Ichabod had thought as much before and been proven wrong; there were no guarantees in life. But even the figurative alignment of the stars was on his and Abbie's side. And he knew now, on a level that he hadn't before, that love required work. He had been used on one level to being chased, and on the other to being a man of privilege raised with certain expectations; many assumptions had been made in his past relationships as a result. Abbie challenged every last one of those expectations and made him a better man for it. If some unforeseeable issue were ever to divide them, he knew he could trust her to confront the problem before such differences rose to the level of irreconcilability – if he had not done so first.

"Too much?" Abbie said, eyes sparkling up at him. "Or ... not enough?"

He considered that a moment, flexing his hands at his sides to reduce the temptation to avoid words altogether. "Just right. I find myself rather enjoying the pace we have set, Lieutenant."

Her dimples deepened. "Agreed," she said wonderingly. "You know, some days I'm still pinching myself. You get used to planning your life a certain way, and things just change out of nowhere, and you have to struggle to keep up. But this last year, you were the one thing that didn't. Until suddenly you did. And not that it's not been amazing, but I appreciate having the time to find my feet again."

In this, it seemed, they were as well matched as in all else, though their reasons might differ. "Well, then." Ichabod lifted one of her hands in his, pressing his lips to it in a supplicant's kiss. "Shall we traipse around in the woods? And perhaps indulge in a little more ... necking ... at the conclusion of our adventure?"

"Like a reward to ourselves for doing our job?" Abbie chuckled. "All right, I dig it. It might as well bring us some joy. Let's get going, then; we've got some acreage to cover."

"That sounds like a most excellent plan," he agreed.

The woods around Sleepy Hollow had slowly grown familiar to him over the last several months of explorations, in a way they'd never quite had the chance to become in his own time. It was fortunate, then, that he no longer had to pay quite so much attention to his surroundings in order not to get lost, because it was impossible not to devote a considerable percentage of it to his partner as they walked. That newness would become familiar in time as well, of course; but as they had just put their greatest foe to rest and as yet had no other vital deadline on their horizon, he felt no urge to hurry the process along.

Abbie ordinarily preferred dark clothes for exploring the forest: shades of navy, brown, black, and the occasional deep green. That evening, however, her shirt was a shade of lavender that contrasted pleasantly with her dark skin tone and jacket and faded into the night's shadows like a wisp of smoke. She moved with a wonderful economy of motion, her peace officer's training and natural grace rendering her nearly as at home out there as Ichabod. She was a joy to watch, for more than one reason. And fortunately, judging by the number of times their eyes met, seemed to take as much pleasure in looking at him as the reverse.

The woods were as quiet as they ever were in the modern era; no unnatural sound accompanied their steps, and they encountered no further slain livestock. But when they reached the area at the centre of the previous disturbances, they did find something that regrettably required turning the Witnesses' focus from each other to the task at hand: an orchard disfigured by blighted trees. It was possible, of course, that the disease was natural ... but as he had seen the same trees only days ago during his earlier neighbourhood inquiries and they had not been so affected at that time, it seemed rather suspicious.

The scent of sulphur, of course, was also a dead give-away. Ichabod plucked a blemished fruit from one of the trees, took a careful sniff, then offered it to his partner with a wrinkled nose. "Brimstone," he said, grimly.

Abbie drew her tactical knife, then grasped the fruit and sliced it neatly in half. Corruption spilled forth from its rotten centre, and she let the mess fall to the ground before wiping her palm on her trousers and returning the blade to its sheath. "Ugh. I knew this kind of thing happened, but is this the first time we've seen it without any clue to what was causing it?"

"It does seem to point to the workings of an unholy ceremony, but we are somewhat short on known dark magic practitioners at the moment," Ichabod agreed. "Unless 'tis Henry – but it does not seem to fit his previous patterns. Complex magical processes à la Rube Goldberg are more his style."

The reference surprised Abbie into an amused snort. "Well, you aren't wrong. When did you have time to catch up on historical newspaper cartoons?"

"It only seemed fitting to familiarise myself with developments in the genre, give that Franklin's 'Join or Die' turned out to have a secondary meaning," Ichabod replied, pleased that she had understood the reference – and that he had used it correctly. His past might be more of a foreign country than most, but the future was becoming less of a mystery every day. "It leaves us without any clues on this particular occasion, however."

"Got to be close by, though, whatever's causing it," Abbie observed, then opened the map application on her phone. "Looks like the nearest structure's that way, if the maps are up to date – a barn, maybe? Might as well check it out; if nothing's there, it's probably time to pull Jenny and Hawley in on it."

"Indeed," Ichabod agreed, then paused, struck, as something occurred to him. "Though I must note: if an artefact does exist that can enable one to precisely locate supernatural activity, I shall feel remarkably unintelligent for not having sought it out before."

"You won't be the only one," Abbie replied, shaking her head, then held a hand out toward him. "C'mon."

Unfortunately, the building – a tall, pale clapboard structure with a gambrel roof – proved empty of demonic presences, leaving their search to be pursued again on the morrow. Their personal quest, however, proceeded apace; the pleasant sensations of palm against palm were an enjoyable prelude to the reward they'd promised themselves for the evening's exploration.

"Hawley is bringing another text by the archives tomorrow," Ichabod offered, as they retraced their steps back toward Abbie's vehicle. "If you will ask Miss Jenny to meet with us after your shift, I will broach the topic with him during our consultation as well, and we can all gather to determine our next steps."

"Sounds like a plan," she agreed, then frowned slightly, shooting a sidewise glance at him. "Also, I hate to bring it up ... but should one of us reach out to Katrina? Not necessarily to ask for help, but it seems like dark magic in the neighbourhood is something she'd want to know about."

The thought of another conversation with his former wife was a sour weight on the back of his tongue, but Abbie was right, she had said she still served the same cause and would welcome contact if her skills were needed. But perhaps that purpose could be served in a less confrontational manner than another visit to the cabin. Little though Ichabod desired to see her in the Horseman's company, it would be far more convenient to approach her when she was already in town, especially should Abbie also be present to accompany him.

"As far as I am aware, her daily visitation to the Masonic cell has not ceased," he offered. "If you would be willing to accompany me after our meeting...?"

Abbie grimaced. "I guess I walked myself into that. But it's the responsible thing to do. If you're sure it won't be too awkward? I do still feel a little like the Other Woman, here."

"Oh, I'm certain it will be," he replied, ruefully. "Though I should think that if anyone is the Other Woman in this scenario, it is the one who admitted to knowing even before we wed that I was destined for another, yet chose to conceal the matter. Regardless, it would be less awkward than sending anyone other than myself alone; and I'm afraid my first instinct was to avoid such a scenario. I suppose that was selfish of me. If you would prefer...."

Her expression softened; she turned to rest both hands on the lapels of his coat, looking up into his face. "No. Far be it from me to discourage you from asking for backup, whatever the reason," she said. "Stronger together, remember? I just wanted to make sure you're sure. I guess that conversation has to happen sometime."

They were nearly back to the car, standing in the grassy verge of the two-lane road; the night was dark, and a twinkling net of stars spread across the heavens. Despite the knowledge that a bustling population existed just out of view, it felt as though they stood cupped in a pocket of peace, alone but for one another and the trees stood around them like watchful sentinels. "I do not deserve such consideration," he said, lifting one hand to tuck an errant lock of dark hair behind one ear, "but I am eternally grateful for it." Then, turning that palm to cup her cheek, he leaned down for a reverential kiss.

She inhaled deeply, then leaned up to meet him, bracing herself against his chest; one kiss chained into another, and there was no telling how long it might have lasted had not the sound of an engine and the spearing beam of another vehicle's headlamps disrupted their interlude. Abbie pulled back, one hand pressed over her swollen lips, eyes bright with amusement; Ichabod cleared his throat and pointedly linked his arms behind his back. "My apologies. I am afraid I somewhat anticipated the conclusion of the evening's adventure."

"I wasn't exactly complaining," she grinned at him, eyeing him up and down. "But all right. I suppose I could do with a nightcap."

"By all means," he replied, ruminating pleasantly on all the potential meanings of that phrase, and followed as she led the way to the car.

---

By Ichabod's understanding of modern relationship dynamics, they did not quite round 'second base' that evening. They did spend an undetermined, captivating amount of time together on the couch, growing more comfortable with their increased intimacy, but as with the deepening of their relationship in general, they were in no hurry to achieve physical union. There were, after all, plenty of delights to be savoured along the way.

Including shared laughter: Abbie had been very amused that he was the one needing to 'let his hair down' at the end of the day, and they had indulged in much teasing regarding one another's 'beauty maintenance rituals' whilst exploring the named features with interested fingertips. He felt like a cup brim-full of light, just on the edge of tipping over into painful arousal, but not quite crossing; it was a curiously blissful experience for him, after the high drama of his previous relationships. He had perhaps been more accurate than he knew in telling Katrina he had loved her with a young man's love; she had been all in all to him for near a decade, from grave lows to incandescent highs, but in retrospect, there had been surprisingly little room between them for navigating and equally celebrating the small-scale quirks and foibles endemic to all human beings.

He and Abbie parted the next morning with a farewell kiss ... or three; and Ichabod spent much of that day humming under his breath, overflowing with good cheer. He may not have noticed if not for Hawley's vocal bemusement, but not even the teasing he received was enough to check the impulse entirely. Luckily, the other man was easily derailed by a leading question about Miss Jenny; by his flustered mien, Ichabod was fairly certain that that particular bridge wasn't quite as burned as Abbie's sister had assumed. At least, if she preferred it to be otherwise; she had seemed rather flustered herself faced with Abbie's teasing at the bar.

But that was neither here nor there. They were, as Jenny had said herself, both 'grown-ass adults', and Ichabod had other matters to concern himself with at present.

The translation problem Hawley had brought him that day was a simple one, literally speaking; it was the references and allusions embedded within it that had complicated its interpretation. Fortunately, Ichabod was familiar enough with its culture of origin to restrict the meaning sufficiently for Hawley to narrow down his search. Less fortunately – at least for his peace of mind – when he afterward brought up the problem he and Abbie were facing, Hawley did in fact have an idea about an artefact that could assist in their search.

"And why did you not think to mention its existence before?" he could not help but ask.

"I don't know, maybe because you always seemed to already know where to look, and it didn't occur to me?" Hawley shrugged. "I've had the Egg of Asag for a while, but would you believe it, ugly Sumerian artefacts aren't that easy to unload. People tend to go for items from mythologies they've actually heard of. And remember, I didn't even think any of this was real until pretty recently. I have no idea how to use the thing. But if you guys can get it to work...." He shrugged. "Well, it would definitely boost the value. Might as well give it a try."

"Very well. If you would be willing to retrieve it and return here?" Ichabod relented. "The lieutenant will be joining me after her shift to resume the search."

"Sure, why not," Hawley agreed. "It's in one of my local storage lockers; I'll be back before you know it."

Absent the ability to manipulate time and space, that was of course an exaggeration; but Hawley did, in fact, prove as good as his word. Not fifteen minutes after Abbie's arrival with her sister in tow, the other man made his way back in through the tunnels with a weighted-down rucksack in hand. After a short snappish display of conversation between the two Witness-adjacent parties that reminded Ichabod of creatures circling one another to assess their mutual interest, Hawley produced the artefact, and they got down to the matter at hand.

The object was, as its name suggested, shaped like an egg made of stone. It was also inert to the touch, nothing about its form indicating the manner of its function. Fortunately, it did come with an instruction manual, if not one Hawley had been able to read; the surface had been carved with several cuneiform characters. Ichabod was not precisely fluent, but he recognised enough of the text to gain an idea of its meaning.

Jenny's eyebrows arched high as he pronounced as much, and she shook her head in disbelief. "Of course you can read Sumerian. I don't know why any of us even doubted it."

"Is there any language you can't read?" Hawley added, amused.

"Any that I have not found it necessary to research," Ichabod replied tartly, then paused as something occurred to him. "Although ... Washington himself quizzed me on my knowledge of cuneiform. I suppose I ought to take that as a sign. I wonder what Sumerian threat we have yet to uncover?"

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, Crane," Abbie reminded him, tone light with teasing as she tapped a finger on the artefact.

"Ah, quite," he said, giving her a rueful smile as he returned his attention to it. "In this case, the answer appears to lie within. The Egg, according to this text, contains the Eye of Asag, through which one may see the presence of that for which they search."

"So...." Jenny said, taking it from him and weighing it thoughtfully in her hand. "It basically says ... 'break in case of emergency'?"

"A succinct way of putting it, I suppose," Ichabod nodded.

"Well, that does make sense, considering Asag was supposed to keep his greatest treasures inside common clay pots so no one would guess their worth," Hawley interjected. "But ... hey! If anyone's going to do any breaking here, it's me. You know, the guy who actually paid good money for the thing." He scooped the Egg out of Miss Jenny's grasp as she began to lift it with intent, turning it over in his own hands as though steeling himself against its destruction. Then he swung it high overhead and dashed it sharply against the floor, aiming for a clear central area not particularly close to any of the group.

Had the artefact been as solid as it appeared, the strike would have done nothing; but it shattered as though it had been an actual egg, exploding into a mass of rough shards. Abbie's sister was closest; she jumped back out of the way with a caustic expletive, then sucked in a sharp breath as something shimmery and orblike rolled toward her feet from where the Egg had impacted.

Jenny crouched and swept the Eye of Asag into her hand before anyone else could react, then stared up into the middle distance, a shimmer to match the surface of the orb visibly appearing over her eyes. "Holy shit."

"Does it work?" Hawley asked urgently, stepping forward to lay a hand on her arm. "What are you seeing, Mills?

"Ugly bastards," Jenny replied, for once not raising her hackles at her former suitor's attentiveness. "I'm seeing ... bricks? A wall; no, a tunnel. Son of a bitch!" She jerked back, blinking as the Eye dropped from her hand and the coruscation over her vision cleared. "They're here! They're attacking the cell!"

She turned instantly toward the access point into the tunnels from the Archives, catching up a short sword left in an ornate umbrella stand as she went. Her sister was right on her heels, shooting a single fraught glance over her shoulder toward Ichabod as she drew her handgun. "Wait, Jenny. How many?"

"Shit!" Hawley paused just long enough to stretch one sleeve to cover a palm and scoop the dropped Eye up into a pocket as he followed, a weapon resembling a blowgun appearing in his other hand. "Wait up, Mills!"

"God's wounds," Ichabod swore as he abruptly found himself the last of the group. He quickly snatched up a crossbow and a handful of bolts off one of the countertops before pelting after them. No one had been expecting an immediate fight, but neither did they go anywhere without easy access to weaponry these days. And the situation must be urgent, for Miss Jenny to have bolted without further explanation.

They could hear the chanting before they drew near; three hooded figures stood with their arms outstretched toward the portal leading into the cell, which stood wide open. A brilliant symbol glittered in the air before them, like a rune inked in liquid light, barring their way; on the other side of the ward, Katrina stood in opposition, her features drawn in pain as she appeared to resist whatever they were doing. Scorchmarks littered the walls around the doorway, mute testament to the duration of the struggle.

The chanting resolved itself into words he could understand as one of them struck in Katrina's direction with a curved blade. It sparked as it made contact with the rune. Where is our Master? Your servants beseech you. Show us your glory!

"They're searching for someone!" Ichabod shouted, firing over his first bolt over his companions' shoulders as they charged toward the fray. The figure nearest him turned sharply as the arrow approached, striking it down with a blade of its own. Blue skin, red eyes, and twin horns on the figure's forehead clearly indicated its origins; the demon hissed and lunged toward Jenny as she led the way with her sword.

"They belonged to Moloch!" Katrina called back, hands still straining toward the runic ward. "I fear they have come for Abraham!" Whether to kill him for his failure or set him up as their new master she did not say; but it hardly mattered. If these demons meant to continue Moloch's crusade either way, they needed to be stopped.

In that moment of chaos, while they all were distracted, yet another figure appeared out of nowhere, seeming to fill the entire tunnel as he approached. He was short-haired, male, garbed in dark leather and mail, with a glowing circular blade in one hand ... and vast black wings spreading outward from his shoulders. The being seemed almost to float, gliding over the tunnel's floor without quite touching down, as he swept forward; he bowled directly into the pair of demons still facing off against Katrina and slashed viciously at one of them.

The stricken demon exploded into dust as the stranger's incandescent chakram sliced across its torso. Its companion tried to parry the next blow with its own knife, but the crooked blade was no match for the unusual weapon wielded by its foe. The knife broke, and a moment later the second demon fell to dust as well. Finally, the winged warrior turned toward the one approaching Jenny, teeth bared as he lifted the chakram once more. But a further attack proved unnecessary; the third demon had cast a distracted glance over its shoulder at the noise of fighting, hissed under its breath as it saw its fellows fall, then broke to one side and ran away.

None of the four of them were in a position to intercept it as it ran. But the intruder did not seem to think it worthy of chasing down; nor did his gaze linger on Ichabod and his companions. Instead he turned back to the open archway, staring at Katrina with glowing blade still clasped in hand.

"I'm Orion," he declared in ringing tones. "Are you friend or foe?"

Ichabod exchanged a wary look with Abbie, then moved slowly forward, Jenny and Hawley flanking them. Whether this Orion was what he appeared to be or not, Lucifer had also been an angel, and they could not leave Katrina undefended should this one also prove to be an adversary.

Katrina audibly caught her breath, returning Orion's stare. "You are the angel General Washington claimed he saw. But how are you here?"

"I faced a mighty foe on the field of battle, one that came at me with an axe that glowed with the fires of hell," Orion replied, voice rough as though long disused and not accustomed to challenge in any case. "He got the upper hand, and his master Moloch chained me in Purgatory. But I'm free again, and soon my enemy will taste the edge of my blade, whether you stand between us or no. I will not ask again, witch: are you friend or foe?"

"I am no friend to Moloch or his ilk; I too was held captive in purgatory for more than two centuries," Katrina answered carefully. "But with Moloch now dead, many of those influenced by the dark spirits he set upon them are now free to make other choices. I am no friend to any who would deny them that choice, either."

A frown darkened the angel's brow. "There is no room in this world for those that harbour evil. If you continue to bar my way, I will visit upon you the same judgment as the Horseman of the Apocalypse."

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on here?" Abbie chose that moment to interject, stepping forward. "Shouldn't we all be on the same side? We took the Horseman prisoner weeks ago, long before you – or those demons – came on the scene. You can inspect the security measures yourself, but he's not getting out of that cell. If there's some other kind of threat brewing, though, we'd sure like to know about it."

The angel's expression did not seem welcoming; Ichabod assumed from the way his grip tightened on his halo-like weapon that he was more the Wrath of God, Old Testament sort of angel than the Spread the Good Word, New Testament sort of angel, and braced himself accordingly as he stepped forward at his partner's side. "Did those demons escape Purgatory at the same time you did?"

"You are the Witnesses," Orion said, glancing between them with narrowed eyes. "I would commend you for redefining your role, if it had not led you to forget your place entirely. Clearly, mankind has only increased in wickedness during my time away. With the Horseman's power, I will lance this evil and cleanse humanity of its sins. Then, perhaps, I will be willing to answer your questions."

With that, he turned back to Katrina, brushing them off as if they were irrelevant. Then he lifted his blade and slashed it against the glowing rune still hanging in the open doorway. It shattered with a great tearing sound and a spray of sparks, and Katrina flew back into the cell as if thrown with a pained cry.

Ichabod swore, and his finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow. Beside him, Abbie lifted her own weapon, yelling at the angel to stand down. Orion's wings swept instantly outward to shield him, blocking their view of the Masonic cell entirely, and first the bolt and then Abbie's bullets bounced off the feathers as though striking armour. Then Orion moved, stepping in through the door.

"Shit," Jenny said, shakily. "That's a damn angel. We couldn't stop him even if we wanted to. Which ... why do we want to stop him again?"

"I don't know about you, but any guy with anger issues who thinks he's entitled to take the power of the Horseman of Death and use it for so-called 'cleansing'? Kinda think he ought to be stopped, just on principle." Hawley swallowed, looking pale. "Not that I have any idea how, I mean, we're talking an immortal being here who just returned from the afterlife...."

Abbie's breath suddenly caught, and she turned to her sister. "The chant. The one from Grace's journal, that we used to get rid of the ghost nurse. It should affect any deceitful being more anchored to spirit than flesh."

"You want to banish an angel?" Jenny hissed, staring back at her with eyes wide. "Are you crazy?"

"Sometimes crazy is the only thing that makes sense," Abbie insisted. "Unless you've got something else up your sleeve...."

Beyond them, in the cell, the distinctive shink of metal sinking into flesh was followed by an angry voice chanting in Romani Greek; the voice cut off again with a solid thud and a feminine groan, and Ichabod swallowed. "There is no time. Do it, or do not; but we must intervene now."

He charged for the door again, leaving Abbie behind, only mildly surprised this time to find Hawley running with him. "What?" the man said. "Not like I can help with the magic, and we don't leave anyone behind, right?"

Hawley had come quite some distance from his first knowing encounter with a supernatural foe; Ichabod gave him a brief nod of respect, and then they were through the door, facing the wrathful angel and his prey.

Orion had not bothered to free their prisoner before burying the chakram between his shoulder blades; the Horseman's spine was bowed backward as he thrashed against the chains, but his strength was clearly ebbing even as the weapon's glow brightened. Beyond the pair, Katrina lay sprawled on the floor, looking dazed as she tried to struggle back to a seated position; a livid bruise was already rising on her cheekbone, and she pressed a hand to her side as though cradling cracked ribs. She looked more desperate, and more furious, than Ichabod had ever seen her, gaze entirely fixed on the struggling figures.

Ichabod still did not believe Abraham deserved – or had ever deserved – that much consideration from his former wife, but it was her choice, and he would honour it so far as he was able. He fired another bolt, this time aimed at the chakram rather than the angel in an effort to dislodge it, but succeeded only in gaining the angel's snarling attention. Hawley tried a few darts from his breath weapon; they left strangely luminescent patches on the angel's outswept feathers but had no other visible effect.

The harmonised voices beginning to rise from the observation area overlooking the main cell, however, were another story. Orion stiffened as the sisters Mills began to call upon the spirit of Anansi, turning his burning gaze in their direction. Ichabod fired again, hoping to take advantage of the moment of distraction, but it had no more effect this time; the arrow rebounded as Orion yanked his weapon free from the Horseman's back and raised it as though intending to strike down Abbie next.

"How could you side with the enemy?" he said in ringing tones, fury written across his features. "His death will cauterise the festering wounds of this area and end the evil that escaped Purgatory!"

"Including you?" Ichabod interjected, tartly. "And how many innocents would also perish in that 'cauterisation'?"

"All wars have costs," Orion sneered. "This world will never be a paradise while such corruption lingers!"

"Yeah, well, then maybe we don't need one," Hawley replied.

In that moment, Katrina joined her voice to the fray once more, not harmonizing with the sisters but somehow complementing their intent despite the different languages and magical backgrounds. Orion cried out, every muscle straining as though he had been frozen in place ... and then all the chains rattled once more as the Horseman's posture echoed his, and a dark mist began to rise from them both.

Katrina's voice briefly faltered, then picked up again, as Abbie's and Jenny's chanting grew louder; all Ichabod and Hawley could do was stand and watch as the immortal pair twisted in the grip of the combined spells. All three women's features grew strained, sweat beginning to drip from their hairlines; from the corner of his eye, Ichabod could see the Mills sisters reach out to one another to link hands as their voices roughened.

Then at last the angel gave a great cry, and a wave of energy seemed to explode from his form, knocking everyone else to the ground. When Ichabod finally managed to sort himself out again enough to sit up, dizzily reminded of the last time an adversary had burst in similar fashion and all the changes that had rippled outward from that moment, he found the cell entirely empty of their foe. This time, not even a feather remained.

At his side, Hawley sat up likewise, groaning as he clutched at his head; then he looked over his shoulder toward the viewing area where Abbie and her sister had previously been standing and scrambled hastily to his feet. "Mills? Jenny? Are you guys all right?"

Ichabod's attention was inexorably drawn that direction as well; but as he turned to follow, the corner of his gaze caught upon something entirely unexpected, and he froze in shock. The figure in the redcoat uniform that had been secured in the centre of the cell was still there, slumped and hanging from the chains. But it was headless no longer. Blond hair, tied back in a queue, graced the back of a head now currently pressed against Katrina's shoulder; the witch was already back on her feet, clutching her original fiancé to her breast. The implications were ... monumental, but no more his business than Katrina's choices had been previously, especially as it seemed likely that Abraham's threat level was now drastically reduced.

She glanced up from her charge, briefly meeting Ichabod's gaze; her expression was determined, but also glowed from within in a way he had not seen on her in quite some time. He nodded to her, then turned and followed his own heart toward its partner, staggering to Abbie's side and assisting her to her feet before folding her into a reverent embrace.

---

Abbie spent most of the next three days asleep; updates from Hawley intermittently informed him that Jenny and Katrina had been similarly affected. Ichabod fed her simple foods in the brief intervals in which she woke, informed her superior that she had been stricken with a quite ordinary but enervating respiratory illness, and took the opportunity to at last make a few changes. When Abbie finally emerged from her bedroom on the third day, freshly showered and ready to face the world once more, she found him making sandwiches for lunch and stopped in her tracks, jaw gratifyingly agape.

"Crane?" she said, stunned.

"Ichabod," he replied, grinning at her. "It seemed to me that it was finally time to adopt a private persona once more, and save the other for more formal, on-the-job wear."

Her gaze dragged up and down the expanse of jeans – boot-cut, not the skinny variant, thank you – and navy-blue Henley he had managed to acquire via 'one-day shipping', using the new financial accounts Hawley had helped him set up. Then she whistled low under her breath. "I like it. Both for the view..." she gestured expressively toward his person, "....and the separation. Found a new anchor, huh?"

"You know I have," he replied, smile warming as he returned her appreciative gaze. She was clad in a comfortable shirt and the ubiquitous yoga pants, which were extremely flattering to her form.

Her smile brightened as she padded barefoot across the room, running her hands over the front of his new shirt. "Mmm. Think you can put off lunch for an hour or so, maybe?"

Ichabod's breath caught in his chest as emotion swelled within him; then he settled his hands at her waist, drawing their bodies more closely together. "Perhaps I should have changed my wardrobe from the beginning; we might have avoided a great deal of trouble."

"And found fresh new ways to complicate things, I'm sure," she replied, shaking her head. Then a brief frown creased her brow. "Speaking of, did I really see...."

Her voice trailed off, but Ichabod could easily guess to what she referred. "Whichever couple you are thinking of: the answer is yes, you did, and no, I did not ask. I'm certain we'll hear more than we want to know soon enough."

Abbie laughed, then shook her head at herself and stretched up on her toes, meeting his mouth in a hungry kiss.

After all his travails, Ichabod Crane had successfully reset his path, and found himself blessed beyond measure in his new incarnation. He linked his hand in his partner's and followed with jubilant heart as she drew him back the way she had come.

 
(or read at AO3)