Finally I get an idea for a sleepy Hollow AU fic, I thought the day would never come, I hope this idea hasn't been done before and if so, not quite like this. In any case, I hope you enjoy it immensely.

Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow is not mine.

Sleepy Hollow, 1985

She doesn't want to go, if she had a choice she'd lock herself in her room for the next two years and educate herself. Jennie is thrilled, probably because she's never really cared about fitting in as much as being feared, and being one of only three black families in the whole town, not to mention all of the shit that made the local papers, what put them in this position in the first place, that shouldn't be much of a problem, at least not for Jennie. Unlike Abbie with her small stature and doe eyes, Jennie looks like she's thoroughly capable of putting someone in the hospital with her bare hands. Part of her respects her sister's bravado, not everyone has the kind of confidence to march through the doors of a new high school ready to pummel anyone who looks at them the wrong way and go on about her business.

But just because she respects it doesn't mean she has any desire to emulate it, getting through the school year alive is about her only goal this year, well, that and getting good enough grades to attend college in the city. She was always the smarter of the two, maybe the smartest in town, or at least that's what she's gathered from her limited experience with the rest of the community, so the college thing shouldn't be much of a problem. Of course she could always enroll in the police academy right off the bat, join the force and work her way up to detective, but she knows that if Poirot really existed he wouldn't approve, they didn't make them much smarter than Hercule Poirot.

"Jesus Abbie let's go," Jennie says, leaning into the bathroom door. "We're going to be late."

"We are not," Abbie protests, looking back into the mirror. She hopes she's picked the right outfit, the right hair style, the right everything that says 'I belong here.' The steel gray cardigan with the diamond shaped buttons has always been a favorite, it was probably the only Chanel anything available at the Sleepy Hollow Goodwill, 26 bucks well spent, and you could barely see the ink stain on the sleeve. The message Jennie was clearly trying to send with her ripped jeans and white t-shirt (no-bra of course) was 'I don't give a fuck and fuck you if you do.'

"You look great," Jennie says, a bit sarcastically. "You can barely tell the difference between you and all the other preppy bitches, you know, aside from the tan that is."

"Would you give it a rest?" Abbie says, annoyed. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to fit in."

"You won't fit in Abbie," Jennie protests. "You may as well embrace it. Come on babe, before I leave without you."

Abbie rolls her eyes a little before looking in the mirror once more and letting out a long sigh.

"Alright Abbie," she says to herself. "It's now or never."

Sleepy Hollow High isn't much to write home about, but she supposes Sleepy Hollow as a rule isn't much to write home about. The building is pretty enough she supposes, with the red brick walls and vines creeping up the building like spiderwebs, but there's nothing particularly exciting about it, if anything it's a little depressing, like a reminder of a time left behind too long ago.

"Remember babe," Jennie says as they ascend the stairs. "We're in this together, whether I like it or not."

"Thanks," Abbie says warmly, giving her sister a small smile as they enter the building.

She's never seen so many people her own age in one room before, and of course they're all as white as the day is long. Although she knows for a fact that Frankie Irving from her church goes here too, she doesn't see the boy right away. Jennie's right, the chances of fitting in seem pretty slim already, especially judging by the way they're all looking at her right now. It's not just the race thing, she and Jennie were bound to attract attention no matter what, the bombing wasn't that long ago, and according to the looks on their faces now, that's exactly what they're all whispering about. She tries to ignore it, looking down at her scedule instead, homeroom starts in five minutes and the last thing she wants is to be the last person there.

"Well, I guess I'll see you at lunch," Abbie says, turning to her sister.

"Not my fault we have no classes together little miss AP everything," Jennie says, giving her sister a tight hug. "See you at lunch."

As she enters she's relieved to see another person has taken their seat in homeroom already. She's never seen him before, but she supposes that's to be expected, even in a town as small as this the only people she really knows are the ones she saw at church every Sunday. He's doodling something on a sheet of paper, his head down as he waits for the teacher, but as she takes a seat a few desks away from him, his head jerks up at the sound of her chair squeaking a little. She looks away swiftly, turning her attention to her backpack. Still four minutes left until homeroom, ample time to at least get a few more paragraphs of "Murder on the Orient Express" under her belt.

"Psst." she ignores it at first, continuing to read, mostly because she's not sure if she's heard anything at all at first. "Psst." he repeats and at that she turns her head, meeting the boys eyes, his peircing blue eyes that are immediately the first thing she notices.

"Hey there," she says with a small smirk, her voice soft.

"I apologize," he says, and the second thing she notices is his voice. She's never met a Brit before, the only Brits she's ever known live in the pages of her books. "But I couldn't help but notice that you are a fan of the Hercule Poirot novels"

"You like Agatha Christie?" Abbie says, surprised.

"Well she's certainly no Arthur Conan Doyle, but I suppose I do, yes."

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes fan," she says with a bit of a scoff. "Such a guy."

"If you are implying that my preference for the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is predicated upon his gender than I am offended," he says darkly.

"I'm just teasing, relax," She replies and he nods in understanding.

"That's quite a good read," He continues.

"I know, I've read it three times," she explains, and she can't help but smile a little at this slightly odd stranger as he smiles back at her, and she realizes now that his eyes aren't the only thing striking about her classmate, she's never seen anyone dresed like him before, not even in her magazines. She supposes the black and white striped shirt and fitted jeans are normal enough, but the long, navy blue coat with the big, neatly lined buttons and his heavy black boots with the jeans tucked in look like something out of one of those paintings from the revolutionary war museum in the busier part of town.

"I'm Crane, ahem, Ichabod Crane," He says stammering a bit.

"Don't you mean Bond, James Bond?" she teases.

"Pardon?" he asks confusedly.

"Never mind," she says shaking her head a little. "Abbie Mills," She offers.

"May I call you Abigail?" He asks. "It's a lovely name."

"Sure, only if I can call you Crane."

"Everyone does, when they aren't calling me Faggot or bitch boy," He says, a hint of bitterness reaching his voice.

"Looky here, looks like bitch boy finally found a girlfriend," She raises her head at the sound of the voice, only now realizing that other people have joined them in the classroom. "Is she a freak like you?

"Do put a sock in it Moloch I am trying to have a conversation," Crane says confidently.

"Why? What does a fag like you need to have a conversation with a girl for anyway? What are you trading hair tips?" The boy, Moloch or whatever spits.

"What's your problem?" Abbie says, looking him up and down with spite.

"Bitch boy's my problem," Moloch responds.

"Why? What did he ever do to you?" Abbie responds, the first guy she meets and he's actually nice to her, not to mention kind of gorgeous, she can't just let some brute picking on him pass, even if he is a little weird, even if it does immediately break her rule about trying to fit in.

"He exists, that's bad enough," Moloch responds. "And if I were you I'd stay the fuck out of it before you become my problem, and don't think I don't know about your fucking freak mom-

"Okay children, p-pipe down, t-take your seats." Before Abbie can respond the teacher enters the room. He's a larger man, and old, at least sixty, with graying hair and thick glasses and a stammer that she'd know was there even if he never said a word. "My name is M-Mr. Parrish," he continues, writing his name on the board.

"Mm-my n-name -s M-mr. P-parrish," Moloch imitates under his breath, making the other kids snicker alongside him.

"D-don't think I c-can't hear you Mr. Moloch," Mr. Parrish says, not even taking a glance at the boy making fun of him, and at that the boy sinks a little in his seat.

"Is he always like that?" Abbie whispers over to her new friend, she supposes it's a little soon to refer to him as a friend, but he's certainly the closest thing she has so far.

"That's Bobby Moloch," Ichabod whispers over to her. "And yes."

Let's hope he's the only one, Abbie thinks to herself, but somehow she gets a sinking feeling he isn't.

"What is your next class?" Ichabod says as they exit Mr. Parrish's homeroom together. Upon standing she realizes this boy is tall, at least six feet, and skinny, but not in a bad way, in any case he's certainly handsome, if too weird to get a pass. Maybe it was the British thing, she wouldn't know.

"Um, AP History with Mr Washington."

"Small world, me too-

"Later faggot!" Moloch says, pushing Ichabod forcefully out of the way as he exits the class, knocking his book out of his hand before he can place it back into his backpack. And not quite knowing what's come over her she starts after him.

"Let it go Abigail," Ichabod says, grabbing her arm gently before she can get too far. "He's not worth the trouble."

"That guy's a jerk," Abbie says, bending to grab his book for him.

"Thank you, and yes, he is," Ichabod agrees. "Plenty more where that came fr...

as he trails off, Abbie looks in the direction that Ichabod is dreamily looking in all of a sudden. She's not hard to spot, the tall, pretty cheerleader with the long red hair pulled up into a bouncy ponytail.

"Someone special?" Abbie deduces, a slight smirk on her face.

"That's Katrina Von Tassel," Ichabod explains, his voice as faraway and dreamlike as his gaze. "I burn for her."

"Does she know?" Abbie asks.

"Of course she does, everyone worships Katrina, she'd have to be blind not to know, 'does she care?' is a whole other story."

"Well, you should ask her out," Abbie says. "The worst thing she could say is no."

"Which would be the worst thing period, I'm happy to suffer in silence if it means my heart remains in tact. Besides, she's dating Abe Van Brunt."

"Let me guess, captain of the football team?" Abbie asks.

"How did you know?"

"Sweet Valley High books mostly," she says, shrugging.

"You read that rubbish?" Ichabod says amusedly.

"Read, past tense," she explains. "And when you're a thirteen year old girl it's not exactly rubbish."

"I suppose... but still."

Before she can contribute anymore to the conversation she notices someone else in the hallway among the other students, she supposes she wouldn't have noticed at all if it weren't for the way he's staring at her almost angrily.

"You've got some nerve," the boy says, fire in his eyes. "Wearing that here," he says, grabbing the sleeve of her sweater.

"Let go of me!" Abbie says, pulling her arm away.

"Take it off, now," He says, getting right in her face.

"What is your quarrel with this lovely creature?" The strange, lanky boy says, getting between him and Abbie. "or her sweater for that matter, it's a fine garment."

"Fuck off retard," Is the bully's carefully thought out response as he pushes him hard out of the way. "I said give it back."

"Give what back? What are you even talking about?" Abbie says.

"That's my lady's sweater, I know you stole it," He says. "No way your kind can afford something this nice."

"I implore you to take that back Abraham," Ichabod says angrily.

"Yeah, I didn't steal anything, I bought it with my own hard earned money, now you better back of," Abbie says.

"Why? What are you going to do, nigger?" Abraham says spitefully.

At the word her blood instantly boils, she can tolerate a lot, but not that, never that, and before she knows what's happened, he's on the floor, and her knuckles are throbbing with the force of the blow to the boy's face, she guesses Jennie was bound to rub off on her one way or another. And immediately her sense of triumph is replaced by fear as he scrambles up, bloody murder in his gaze.

"You are not to lay a hand on her," Ichabod says forcefully, once again protectively stepping in front of Abbie.

"Get out of the way," Abe Roars. "This is between me and the freak."

"And judging by the state of your visage it is already a fight as unevenly matched as that between a foot and an insect, I would be positively delighted to see your attempt at taking on the both of us," He continues, raising his fists confidently.

"This isn't one of your fruity Revolutionary war reenactments buddy, I'll mess you up," Abe shoots back.

"Abe, what's going on here?" It's Katrina, the cheerleader that Ichabod 'burns for'

"This bitch stole from you and she won't admit it."

"What? That sweater?" Katrina says incredulously, "Abe I donated that to Goodwill four months ago, I got an ink stain on it. God Abe leave the girl alone."

"And perhaps you'd like to tell Katrina about the derogatory language you used against Abigail just now," Ichabod says, clearly still pissed.

"Abe, did you say something racist against this girl?" Katrina says, nervously saying the word 'racist' under her breath as if it too is a bad word.

"I didn't even mean it babe, you know I'm no racist," Abe says pathetically. "I just said it because I knew it would piss her off."

"God Abe you're such a jerk!" Katrina says, pushing him hard before stomping off.

"Good going retard you got me in trouble," Abe says frantically. "This isn't over," he continues before going after Katrina. "Babe, wait up!"

"Hmm," Abbie says, nudging her new friend with her elbow. "You might have a shot after all."

"If Abe doesn't kill me first," Ichabod says.

"I don't know," Abbie reassures him. "I have a feeling you're tougher than you look," she continues. "Thank you for standing up for me."

"It was my pleasure Abigail," He says, extending him arm for Abbie to take. "Shall we proceed to AP history with Mr. Washington?"

With that she smiles a little and links her arm with his, thinking perhaps today wouldn't be so bad after all.

Don't worry your pretty heads off about the Katrina stuff, this is very much an Ichabbie story, and just so you know, Ichabod is the only one here with an English accent, even the ones who are English on the show are American here, which I suppose they would be since America was still considered British territory in the time that Ichabod comes from. Also in case you were wondering, Ichabod is not from the past here, he speaks the way he does because he's supposed to be an outcast, partially why I set this in the 80's instead of today, because even with the odd manner of speaking there's no way a British guy who looked like teenaged Tom Mison couldn't get a girlfriend these days. Stay tuned folks!