Home

In the end, they fight for the ones they love and the ones they've lost. They tear victory from the hands of those they once trusted.

In the end, it all comes down to Abbie and Ichabod.

Abbie climbs behind the wheel. Her shoulders are concrete, her lungs ache. She drops her blood-smeared hands into her lap, too stunned to move, let alone turn the car on.

Crane slides in next to her. He hunches forward in his seat, sucking in a deep breath.

She wonders how she's going to clean all of this blood out of the upholstery. She wonders if it really is over.

"Are you too weary to drive? May I assist?" Crane asks without lifting his head.

She wonders why they haven't invented beaming yet. She's pretty sure Star Trek was onto something.

"Nah, I'm okay." Her keys are slick with demon blood. Maybe her blood too, a little. She turns the key in the ignition. "You hurt?"

Crane leans slowly back into the bucket seat with a heavy sigh. "I believe I emerged unscathed."

"On the outside."

"Quite so."

She steals a glance at him. One cheek bears the bloody outline of clutching fingers. His coat is drenched with blackening red. His shirt and trousers are splattered with gore. And over everything is a caking veil of soot from the fire.

Ichabod kept his exhaustion at bay over the long months of fighting Katrina, Henry, and Irving, so as to be the effective, supportive partner the lieutenant deserved. He mustered strength to fight them and their demonic minions when dusk fell and for the interminable hours that followed. Now, ocean-deep weariness has overtaken them both with a vengeance.

She drives the familiar back roads to Corbin's forest retreat, what became their headquarters after a bomb – they suspect planted by Irving – destroyed the archive. Their considerably smaller collection of books and maps crowd the kitchen and sitting room. Miss Mills sometimes falls asleep in the armchair, a heavy book in her lap, when their planning sessions stretch into the wee hours, just as slumber often crept upon him in their subterranean haven.

She pulls up beside the cottage and swings the driver's side door wide, but emerges slowly. Ichabod peers into the woods that surround the cottage before he unlocks the door, wary even now.

"Nobody left to jump us," she reminds him, then asks, "you want the shower first?" She grabs her satchel of clean clothes but waits outside the bathroom.

"Be my guest," Ichabod offers, bowing his head.

He has come to cherish the sounds of her presence here: the squeak of the knob that turns the shower on, the squeal of the metal curtain rings against the bar when she whisks it aside, then again when she draws it closed. The clink of glasses, plates in the kitchen. Her footfall, her laugh, her tuneful hum. She fills the place with life.

He folds his coat over the back of a kitchen chair. It is no more than a blood-soaked woolen sponge now, nearly beyond saving.

Glimpses of the final battle flash across his mind. Slicing his heavy axe through demon after demon. Irving's face as the lieutenant's bullet pierced his back and the bloody rose bloomed on his chest. His face unrecognizable, a mask of rage and hate. And the lieutenant's regret, a dozen yards behind him, as she lowered her discharged pistol.

Tea. He will make her a soothing cup of tea.

Abbie turns the water as hot as it will go and lets it run over her skin. She sends up a little prayer of thanks to Corbin for putting in this torture device of a shower nozzle. The scalding spray could peel paint, sure, but it melts the tension in her shoulders and washes away the blood clots and fluid, dried to the consistency of snot. The last remnants of the dead.

Even after hard scrubbing, some things will stay. This cut across her chest, just under her collarbone, deeper than she realized it was and still leaking blood, isn't going anywhere. And no matter how hot the water is, how much soap she lathers, she doubts she'll ever wash away the sight of Irving falling to his knees from her gunshot. It can't remove the memory of blood boiling in her veins when she repeated the words from Grace's journal, the roar in her ears when her incantation filled Katrina's magic shield with fire.

Still she rubs the soapy washcloth over her skin again and again, squeezing it out and reloading it with fresh suds, until the water runs off her clear. Her towel hangs beside Crane's – her towel, because yeah, she's been here frequently enough and for long enough at a stretch to bring some of her things, to use the shower. True, it's their base of operations. But how long has it been since they've made the cottage a home?

Has she ever been this tired before? She'll stay the night, couldn't drive if she wanted to, so she takes her time. She blots the wound on her chest with toilet paper, spreads moisturizer over her legs and arms, works conditioner through her hair. She puts on the last clean clothes in her bag: a stretchy yoga camisole, a hoodie, a pair of sweats that once were Jenny's. There's a plastic bag under the sink; she wads her battle clothes into a heap and stuffs them into it.

When she opens the door, Crane holds a mug out to her. "Chamomile tea. Spoonful of honey."

His hands are freshly washed, but the rest of him is just as filthy as it was when they walked in. He didn't even stop to change, just got to work making her feel better. "Smells good, thank you. And look at you, still in your… Go get clean."

It strikes him again how kind she is, even now, weary to her bones. Not that anyone else could see her exhaustion. She may glow fresh and bright from her bath but around her eyes he can see the slump in her shoulders, the ache she is too fatigued to hide. The wound –

"You're hurt!"

"It's fine."

"Let me dress it. I insist."

"Yeah, I'm going to let you near me covered in demon guts and forest rot. How about you take a shower first?"

She is right, of course. He has come to realize how rarely she is wrong. "Of course," he agrees, offering her the heavy flagon of tea she prefers to the delicate demitasse and saucer he chooses for himself.

The bathroom is still humid from Abbie's shower, the mirror still opaque with steam. The scent of her skin cream, lavender with an undertone of amber, fills the small space. He has grown accustomed to the way it settles him.

Abbie's soiled clothes peek out of an open plastic garbage sack in the corner. Waiting, he assumed, for his to join them. He bristles at the thought that he might discard a perfectly good, if soiled, shirt and trousers. Even if his coat is irretrievably ruined, surely he can salvage some scrap of fabric from the evening's carnage. No, dedicated laundering is all his garments require, as do Abbie's shirt and jeans. He stuffs his clothes into the bag and deposits the whole gruesome collection in the bottom of the linen closet. When he has a spare moment. Tomorrow, perhaps.

The shower is hot and strong. He lets the water run over him, scalding his skin.

It is over. He whispers it to himself as if to test the words' credibility. It is over.

He lathers soap around his neck, over his face, scrubbing leaves and small twigs out of his hair and beard. He scrapes at dried mud and blood with his fingernails. He scrapes harder when the memories throb at him of Katrina's face, wide eyes glaring, as their flame ignited the edge of her protective cupola, a magical shield she powered by will and a steady drip of her blood. He can still see Henry burning beside inside a dome of fire, burning like paper in flames until all that remained were cinders and soot. The very soot now rinsing from his skin, pooling with dirt and grime and sweat at his feet.

They were intractably villainous, Katrina and Henry. Immune to redemption. Eager for power, for evil, for mindless soldiers like the witnesses' erstwhile ally Irving. It was, in the end, their duty to prevent this march of destruction. Still, their victory has left a dull ache in his heart he suspects may never cease.

Crane comes out of the bathroom in a loose gray cotton t-shirt and plaid fleece pajama bottoms, both presents from Jenny. Abbie gets such a kick out of seeing him in them, so uncharacteristically relaxed. She can't get over how he pets the fleece when he thinks.

He's holding the first aid kit she bought after they discovered Corbin wasn't much for stocking supplies.

"Better, right?" she asks, and takes a swig from a bottle of porter left over from last night's strategy session.

"Considerably."

"Thanks. For the tea. I just needed something stronger."

He raises an eyebrow. "Please tell me there are more where that came from."

Abbie nods at the counter, where the last bottle from the six pack is opened and waiting for him.

"To vanquishing our enemies," he toasts, then drinks like a man in the desert, as if he hasn't seen water in days. The bottle is nearly empty when he puts it back down.

"Yup. Nobody wants to kill us."

"Not that we know of." Crane drains the rest of his porter, closing his eyes to savor it the way he always does, the way that just kills her. He sets the empty bottle on the counter and then kneels in front of her. Sitting back on his haunches, he lays out gauze, tape, scissors, and a half-gone tube of Neosporin. His movements are as precise as a surgeon. Abbie stifles a grin.

"This may smart a bit," he warns, ripping open what looks like a wet wipe.

She blinks slowly in response. She can't help but remember cleaning his gash, not six feet from where she sits, That Night. It seems like decades ago.

He opens her hoodie wider over her chest, lifting the fabric with tender precision, and hisses at the extent of the cut.

"Looks worse than it is," Abbie reassures him.

They aren't wet wipes, they're alcohol wipes, and they sting like a motherfucker. She catches the apologetic grimace that comes over him when she can't help but cringe.

She has to admit, she lucked out. Of the people in this world, she gets Crane on her team.

Ichabod. She gets Ichabod, a man with a heart the size of a small country, fiercely protective of her but always, always respectful of her skill. A real partner. Sure, there have been ups and downs. Tension. Push and pull. But he is intelligent and moral and kind. And patient – with the long fight they've waged. And patient with her.

He carefully smears Neosporin, his go-to favorite modern medical invention, over her broken skin, smoothing together the torn edges as if the ointment itself could join them again. When he's built up a layer of the sticky goop, he covers it with a rectangle of gauze and tapes it down. He traces the outline with tensed fingers to secure the dressing, softening the corners. Once more, then again for good measure. Reverent. That's how he is with her.

"Thank you," she tells him, almost in a whisper, "Ichabod."

His eyes flicker to hers, crinkling toward a smile, and just as quickly dart away. His breath stops, and then his fingers drift from the safe island of tape and gauze. They brush her collarbone. His thumb feathers over the pulse point at the base of her neck and he exhales a fluttering breath.

He touches her like she's made of the thinnest glass. It breaks her heart. She's held back with him, closed herself off from him, but she doesn't have to anymore. She doesn't want to anymore. She covers his right hand with her left, holding it there against her skin. With her other hand, she brushes his wet hair from his forehead, threading it behind his ear, and lays her palm on his neck, just under his ear. He looks in her eyes and she opens her legs, drawing him just a bit closer, easing him up to his full kneeling height, taller than she is seated in her chair. Her eyes follow his lips.

"Are you certain this is what you want?" he asks her in a breathy rush. His other hand hovers, trembling, over her thigh. "This must surely be a point of no return for us."

She breathes a laugh. "I think we passed that a long time ago."

Ichabod's head swims to be so close to her, here between her thighs, on the precipice of her kiss. To know that her desire for him still burns. To watch her lips curl into a wise smile, lips he has dreamed of in countless fantastical dreams.

The breathless moment seems to loom in the distance until suddenly she closes the space between them, pressing her lips to his for a trembling, desperate second before she pulls away. It is over almost before it began.

"You okay?" Abbie whispers, her eyes bright.

He seizes her lips by way of answer, crushing her against him with a hungry groan. A taste is nothing like enough. No, he licks her lips open, sucks at her upper lip, skates his tongue over the ridge of her teeth as they discover the ways their mouths fit together. And she winds her arms around his waist, under the hem of his shirt. Her hands, cool from the bottle and the chilly air, open out over his skin, fingertips pressing him back against her.

She's not careful with him, can't be after wanting him for so long. When his hands cup her face and he kisses her like he's drinking from a goblet, thirstily drinking her kisses down, she opens her legs wider. She slides her hands down inside his loose waistband, over his ass, bowing his hips into her, clutching him against her with a breathy moan.

She needs more skin, his and hers, so she pulls up on the hem of his shirt, tugs it past his shoulders, over the back of his head and off in a heap. His body is feverishly warm and she wants all of it, needs it to warm her own, to vibrate with hers, real and hungry. As if he hears the thought aloud, he's easing her hoodie off her shoulders, over her arms, forgotten behind her on the chair and he pulls her against him again, skating his palms, his long fingers over her back.

There is not nearly enough exposed skin, but what there is is getting cold out here without a fire to keep them warm.

Abbie squeezes his hand. "Blankets in there," she suggests, nodding toward the bedroom.

Ichabod whines in quiet protest at the loss of her lips. "Blankets, indeed." He stands, pulling Abbie to her feet. "After you."

She leads him into the bedroom. There's a flutter of anxiety in her chest; she hasn't been in here since the last time. First and last. She couldn't: it was The Room, then Their Room, then His Room. They had loads of work to do anyway and she had no reason to be in here. But now, now she does, hard as it is to believe. He lays his hands on her shoulders and slides them down over her arms until he holds her hands, dipping his head to the crook of her neck, to the spot he must have committed to memory. She shivers as he presses a lingering peck there, pulling away the elastic straps of her camisole. She lets go of as much anxiety as she can with a deep breath.

She wasn't sure this would ever happen, wasn't sure it should. Couldn't be certain they'd both survive long enough, or ever be ready at the same time. He kisses up her neck now, lips open. The tip of his tongue tastes her skin and at that her knees melt and she swoons back against him. It's real. It's real and right and no one is coming for them.

"Come 'ere," she mumbles, twisting in his arms, reaching on her tiptoes for a kiss.

She means it to be sweet, more playful than anything, but it couldn't be anything but urgent, not with them, not right now. He sucks at her mouth, clutching her against him, curling down to her as she strains to reach him, threads her fingers in his hair and holds him closer, she would climb him if she could and why is she wearing clothes? Why is he?

He sits on the edge of the bed and she's on his lap in a heartbeat, straddling his hips while he pulls her shirt up over her belly, up over her breasts and she laughs when he keeps pulling, when he doesn't seem to notice that her arms in the way until she lifts them so he can get the damn thing off.

Her beauty is a revelation. Ichabod bends to open his lips over a taut nipple. He can feel her sigh deep in her chest, feel her body relax and sink back into his embrace. He traces a circle with his tongue and is rewarded with gooseflesh as a shiver ripples through her.

He laves up her neck to her jaw, nips her earlobe but suddenly impatient Abbie takes his face in her hands and pulls it up for a kiss. He opens for her, follows her lead so that when she presses against him, when her breasts yield against his hard chest, a new strain of desire rises in him. It is exquisite, she is exquisite when she tips forward, laying him back on the mattress. His fingers glide over her back, over the delicious curve of her hips and they both moan to feel them there. He gives a quietly insistent tug on the waistband of her sweats, just an inch, a suggestion and waits for her to tell him no, to tell him she can't, she won't, this is a mistake, because certainly that reaction is more likely than his dream that she finally intends to give herself to him. But she does, it seems, as her hands find his in an instant and, twisting to his side for a moment, she helps him slide the rest of her clothes over her lithe legs.

Their hands, all four, are on his waistband almost before her sweats hit the floor, and his fleece is discarded beside them. Entirely bare now, they lay back side by side, all four hands on a mission to feel, to sensitize, even to claim. Abbie's small hand slides up the side of Ichabod's leg, tracing tendons and bones, while his large hand plays over the back of Abbie's leg, charting curves and muscles, savoring the landscape of knee and thigh.

With a groan, Ichabod cups the swell of Abbie's ass and pulls her close. His hips roll against her, slicking a patch of her belly. The part of her that can't believe this is happening is quieter now, and quiets even further when she hooks her leg over his hip. He sucks the tip of her tongue as his fingers caress the line of her thigh to her ticklish hollow of her knee, then back, feathering over warmer and warmer skin to where she is swollen and slick. His fingers are light, delicate and her whole body stills as he traces her slit, as he presses a fingertip inside her.

"Abbie," he whispers, throaty and raw, against her ear.

Is that hesitation she hears in his voice? She curls her hips to encourage him and his breath comes faster as he obliges her, spiraling his long finger deeper. And she slides her arm between their bodies in answer, between their hips, and squeezes her fingers around him. She feels as much as hears his low whine, deep in his chest, and Abbie smiles into his kiss and presses her thumb in a slow stroke up along his cock, hard and straining.

"You ready for this?" Abbie rasps at his lips.

He whimpers a chuckle, thrusting almost helplessly into Abbie's tight fist.

"I'll take that as a yes," she simmers, rolling him onto his back, straddling his hips.

"Yes," he gasps, heavy lids barely open.

That word dissipates the last of her fear. They want this, both of them, and she doesn't have to stop herself now. So she braces one hand on his chest, brushing a nipple, and guides him inside her, just the head, just barely. He gazes at her, mouth gaping and swollen from their kisses, panting in the hush. Abbie's breath is slow and heavy as she looks into his eyes.

Almost a sigh, he says it again, "yes," and she sinks down with a groan. "Yes," his voice comes softer, thicker now, his body arches into her as she sinks lower still. "Yes," and she thrusts slow, deep, taking him inside to the very hilt.

His palms rest on the swell of her hips where they spread over his in a devastating dance of abundance and grace. Ichabod worships her, watches her works herself around him with the hint of a circle. He trusts her in everything, follows her tantalizing lead in this too, helpless in his desire, thrusting into her, enveloped by her, beyond thought. They rock in shared rhythm, anchored body to body. But he yearns for her mouth, as much as he could never tire of watching her face awash in bliss, and so he pushes himself up, clutching her there on his lap again so he can give her his mouth, too. She rides him desperately, kneeling over him, snapping her hips against him harder and harder and drawing his coiling desire further, tighter until he spills with a surprised moan. Shame flushes his cheeks at the thought that he has ended her pleasure before its bloom, but a moment later he feels her close around him in tight, frantic pulses, hears her low, trembling sigh, and knows she was not left behind.

Abbie wakes before dawn, tucked against Ichabod's chest. His arm is wrapped loosely around her, his hand limp over her shoulder. She watches his chest rise and fall with his breath, feels his heartbeat against her cheek. Her hand is curled in a loose fist over his sternum; she opens her fingers, letting them play lightly in his chest hair. She presses a feather of a kiss to his shoulder.

She stretches a little, not enough to wake him. But it pulls at the wound on her chest, at the tape and the cut. And it reminds her that they are lying naked, pressed together. She shifts closer and her eyes drift closed again at the warmth of his body against hers.

Ichabod lies content in the darkness, eyes closed, listening to the comfortingly regular rhythm of Abbie's breath, surprisingly slow for such a small body. He thinks of the hummingbird, the mouse, but she is nothing like those fragile creatures. Her knee bends just over his thigh, her breasts swell against his side. His shoulder cradles her warm cheek and the thought of it, finally, of their union after so much longing nearly bursts his heart.

He lifts his head off the pillow to press a light kiss to her head. He brushes his fingertips over her arm in a small arc, lightly enough that it won't wake her but only reassure her in her sleep. Her breath is heavier for a moment, then soft again.

The birds wake with the dawn, and the sheer curtains do nothing to prevent the first blush of sunlight from finding the two of them. Ichabod awakens to find Abbie rolling away from him in a leonine stretch, arms overhead and a yawn on her lips. Her chest arches up, breasts gloriously offered. Perhaps someday he will have the strength simply to watch her this way, but not today. His arms wrap around her waist and he pulls her, still enjoying the last moments of her morning stretch, beneath him.

She exhales a long, stunningly happy sigh. "Good morning, you."

He buries his mouth in the hollow of her neck, sucking and nipping at her tender, sensitive skin. Her hands come down over his head as he kisses lower, skirting the dressing of her wound to find her breasts, tonguing a swirl around a nipple once and again until it peaks. He presses deep kisses down the center line of her belly until his head is lost under the blanket. And still further, his hands resting on her hips, kneeling between her thighs as he kisses her thatch of curls with a deep breath, filling his mind with her rich musk. He licks lower, takes an almost timid taste. Her legs fall open further with a sigh. She threads her fingers through his hair again. He answers with another lick, opening her, lapping up that delicious musk before he returns to her button, asleep beneath its hood. He wakes it slowly, gently, with teasing swirls and increasing pressure. When her hips begin to rock he fills her with a long, curling finger.

He takes his time, savoring her, savoring this. The urgency of the previous evening has faded to luxurious ease. He curls his finger into her and her sigh is louder, lower now. He sucks at her button and her hips rise. He would sink into her this second but he denies himself. He wants to give her this. There is time, there is plenty of time for everything and this heady worship is a privilege he cannot squander. He slides a second finger inside her, scissoring them wide, and her sigh becomes a hungry whine. He swirls his tongue in small circles and her hips rock in a gathering rhythm.

Abbie senses that he's in no hurry. She can tell that he would be happy to make her come just like this, slow and generous, if she would let him, but what she wants even more is to have him inside her again. She takes his face in her hands, welcomes his musky lips on her mouth and then, with a blissful groan, guides him inside. He murmurs something that might be her name when she wraps her legs around his thighs, clutching him to her, binding them together.

It is sweeter than Ichabod ever imagined, to be enveloped in her as her eyelids drift closed, the first pink light of day kissing her skin.

Abbie's hair takes a while to reclaim after sleeping on it wet. But she hasn't slept that well in ages, maybe ever, so it's worth the time.

When she comes out of the bathroom, she finds Ichabod at the table, several old tomes and maps laid out in front of him, sipping the coffee he has come to enjoy in the mornings since she's been waking up here.

Her favorite mug is waiting for her at the empty seat beside him. "You didn't have to -" she begins.

But Ichabod shakes his head. "A simple token of my esteem."

She smiles into the cup and takes a testing sip. It's hot but not too hot. Perfect. "Oh, your esteem? That's what we're calling it?"

"My love," he corrects himself, his voice soft as satin.

She keeps smiling, beaming at her coffee.

"And my joy."

"Yeah," she says, taking his hand. "Me too."

With his free hand, he pivots the book he was perusing so she can read it. "If I am right, and I pray I am not, this horned creature may provide our next series of tribulations."

"Ugly." She squeezes his hand. "We got this."

I raise my glass (of wine, not beer) to every one of you, readers. Your enthusiasm fueled my (porny, angsty) imagination and provided much-needed inspiration during the very dark months of this wretched second season. Thank you.

This arc is over. I hope there are more to come. I hope the show is renewed, and that the third season lives up to its first season promise. I hope the undeniable chemistry of our beloved duo is nurtured and fostered. If it is, how could I stay away?