A/N: Written for the fuckyeahsleepyhollow drabble competition. My apologies to Avenue Q.

The Internet Is For...

It takes a week to get WiFi set up at Corbin's cabin. If this place is going to be their out-of-office base of operations, Abbie refuses to forgo online access.

This leads to a long overdue crash course for Crane on the basics of computer usage and web surfing, which (like with most things, when he's willing to confess ignorance instead of clinging to his English manpride and breaking the iPod again) he picks up relatively quickly. A mouse isn't a rodent, a page isn't on paper, the web doesn't have spiders. Painful hunt-and-peck typing aside, it only takes an hour before he's no further behind than your average two hundred and fifty-year-old.

Still, Abbie probably shouldn't have left him alone with her laptop while she went shopping. But (as he's pointed out eight or nine thousand times) Crane is a grown man of considerable intelligence who does not need to be hand-held, so she may as well take off the water wings and let him paddle around in the big kids' pool.

She's back an hour later, and he doesn't look up from the screen when she opens the front door. Curious, Abbie peers over his shoulder to see what's got him so engrossed.

Well.

Apparently the big kids' pool includes triple-D blondes with nipple clamps and landing strips.

"They're faking it," she observes blandly.

Crane jumps, squeaks — actually squeaks — and slams the laptop shut so fast Abbie hears something rattle in the casing. "Lieutenant! That was— I didn't— I was attempting research and this sate—

"Site."

"—site appeared and began to—"

"Uh-huh." Abbie reaches over the back of the couch and pries the laptop from his clutching fingers, and — because she is a nice person — pointedly ignores how Crane pulls a throw pillow over his lap. "If you got any malware in my system I will fuck your shit up."

Crane shoots her a wide-eyed, hunted look. "I most thoroughly pray that is not a euphemism."

"It's not." She pauses, waits… and raises an eyebrow. "What? Nothing to say about morals and hedonism and the decline of civilization?"

"No," says Crane. That pasty skin of his has turned an almost scary shade of red. "May we discuss something else? Anything else? Or stop speaking entirely?"

Abbie tucks the laptop under her arm. "Whatever you want," she says solemnly. "Just know that it's perfectly natural to have questions, and if you find you don't understand a part of what you've seen, I hope we can maintain an open dialogue—"

"Are you enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, I'm glad to have provided you with such profound entertainment." And he jumps off the couch — still keeping his body angled away from her — and stalks to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

"So you'll be in your bunk, then?" Abbie calls.

"Shut up, Lieutenant."