Crane quietly slips into the house. It is not terribly late, but late enough that he knows Miss Mills likely has retired for the evening.

Unless she's chosen to wait up for me. He hopes she has, but at the same time, hopes she has not. He wants to see her – he always does – but he doesn't want to see her. Not after returning home this late after his second date with Miss Corinth.

Abbie has thoughtfully left a few lights on for him, but the living room is empty. He hangs up his coat and removes his boots, then listens. The house is quiet.

He sighs, then pads to his room. He notices a sliver of soft light glowing at the bottom of the door to Miss Mills' bedroom. She is awake, but ensconced in her room. He enters his room across the hall, closing the door behind him.

As he changes into his sleepwear ("jammie pants", as Miss Mills insists on calling them, paired with one of the t-shirts Miss Jenny keeps picking up for him, thinking they are hilarious. Tonight he chooses one that bears an image of the Boston Tea Party with the caption Party Like It's 1773), he thinks about his evening. It was pleasant enough, but he does not feel the certainty with Miss Corinth he felt with Katrina. Or with Miss Mills.

The surprising thought stops him cold, his socks hanging from his hand, suspended over his hamper. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, wondering how long he'll be able to keep his feelings hidden.

Tea. He needs some herbal tea to settle his somewhat disorderly mind, and heads back out to the kitchen on silent bare feet to quietly prepare himself a cup of Sleepytime, determined not to disturb the Lieutenant in her seclusion.

Crane switches on the small light over the sink instead of the overhead light, neither needing nor wishing for its glaring brightness. He reaches for the kettle on the stovetop, then turns towards the sink.

"Oh. I thought I heard you come in." Abbie's voice behind him slightly startles him, and he turns.

"I do hope I did not disturb you, Lieutenant. I was trying to be as quiet as possible," he replies. "Would you care for some tea? I was just filling the kettle."

She steps closer and shows him the recently-emptied mug in her hands, smiling.

"Ah," he responds with a nod. As she comes closer, he notices what she is wearing: a t-shirt, emblazoned with Fisk University across the front in faded blue letters. He knows she did not attend that university, and his brow furrows in confusion.

"Sorry, I know you don't like seeing me in my sleepwear," she apologizes, remembering how uncomfortable he looks when he sees her bare legs. She moves closer, leading with her cup, and he steps aside to allow her to put it in the sink and rinse it out.

"I am… growing accustomed to it," he replies, suddenly feeling very unsteady in her presence, almost like he is growing drunk on her very proximity. He gathers his wits. "I was… simply puzzling over your garment." He sets the kettle on the stove but does not turn on the burner. The shirt is much too large, hanging halfway down her thighs, and he knows she is likely wearing nothing else beneath it, save maybe some sort of undergarment. "I happen to know you attended Empire State University, not Fisk."

"Oh. Um. Yeah," Abbie answers, looking a bit rattled. She picks up the mug in the sink and decides to wash it instead of leaving it. She mutters something as she scrubs, but the words are obscured by the running water.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," Crane presses, wondering – dreading – why she is being so evasive. Perhaps this is one of those "good fences" moments she so likes to invoke.

She very decisively turns the water off. "It's Danny's, okay?" she repeats. "You've been wondering all this time, and now you know. We had a… a thing when we were both at Quantico."

His eyes widen and he swears his heart has stopped beating. "Is… is Agent Reynolds here?" he quickly asks, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

"No," she answers, unable to read his expression. Is he upset? Uncomfortable?

Jealous?

Crane simply nods and avoids her gaze. "It would not bother me if he were," he answers, knowing he is lying and knowing she will see it.

"Look, it's just a shirt," she says with a sigh, a little annoyed that he is clearly not being honest with her. Then she realizes she's not being completely honest with him, either. She reaches past him and grabs the dishtowel from where it is hanging on the oven door handle. "I kept it because it's comfortable to sleep in. That's it."

"Forgive me," he replies, raising his hands. "I did not mean to accuse or imply. I simply…" he sighs, dropping his hands. "I do not know what I meant," he sighs.

"I'm not sleeping with Danny. And I broke up with him before we graduated," she says, just to make things totally clear. She tosses the towel to him and he catches it against his chest, nodding as he neatly places it where it belongs. "I wouldn't sleep – or have any sort of romantic entanglement – with my boss any more than I would have with a married man," she adds, turning away, hoping he won't read too much into the statement. Shit, why did you say that?

"Abbie?" he asks, reaching a hand out to her. His fingers just brush her shoulder, then he drops them.

"How was your date with Zoe?" she asks, redirecting. She doesn't turn around.

"You are deflecting, but I will answer your question because it does relate to the topic suddenly at hand," he says. His voice is soft and measured, and her words about not pursuing romance with a married man are still ringing fresh in his ears. He steps closer and places his hand on her shoulder. She is soft but unyielding, warm but still, and so close. "My date with Zoe was pleasant enough. She is a very sweet young woman and I am grateful for her help."

"That sounds very… nice?" she responds, somehow making the word sound rather bland.

"That is a word for it," he agrees. "Another might be 'dull'." He gently squeezes her shoulder. "I appreciate all she has done for me and consider her a dear friend, but…"

"But?" she whispers, suddenly very afraid of where he is going with his halting words. Afraid because she already knows.

"But she is not you." The words are whispered close behind her ear. She can feel the warmth from his body behind her. "I do not know why you were pushing me towards her, Miss Mills, but I now know I should thank you for it."

"What?" she asks, thrown. He is too close, damn near nuzzling through her hair. She feels his other hand on her other shoulder before he speaks again.

"Your pressing me to pursue Miss Corinth led me to fully realize the depth of my feelings for you, Abbie," he explains, his voice continuing like soft velvet in her ear. "Everything she said, everything she did… I found myself comparing to your words, your actions. She is a lovely woman and will be a loving, attentive wife." He somehow manages to move closer to Abbie, one hand trailing down her arm. "To someone who is not me," he finishes, his voice low.

Abbie's knees wobble and she notices she is slightly trembling. His arm snakes around her waist, holding her up.

Holding her close.

Overwhelmed, Abbie's leaden feet suddenly find the will to move, and she steps away from him, looking down. "Crane, I…" she starts, still facing away. She puts her hand on the counter to steady herself.

"I found myself talking about you to Miss Corinth," he continues. "Incessantly." He moves closer to her again, but does not touch. "It was 'Miss Mills and I…' and 'Miss Mills said…' and 'Miss Mills likes…' all evening."

"Poor girl," Abbie says, her voice just a breath.

"I am a terrible person," Crane agrees, but he does not sound very regretful. "When I dropped her off, she squeezed my hand, thanked me for the meal, and told me I am a good friend."

"Friend," she repeats.

"Quite emphatically," he explains. "I think she could already see what I have only just discovered."

"You're lucky she handled it that well," she replies, trying to hold on to some sanity, but it is becoming increasingly difficult, what with her partner standing behind her making veiled declarations of love.

He is silent a moment."Please look at me, Abbie," he asks, his voice a whisper.

She turns, not wanting to hurt him any more than she has to. "Crane, I..."

"I know you are hesitant, Lieutenant," he says. The nickname to which he has held on has never sounded more like an endearment. "And I know why," he adds, his fingers flexing at his sides, a habit that has all but disappeared. "If you tell me you feel nothing beyond friendship for me, we will end this conversation and you may walk away, secure in the knowledge that I will never broach this subject again."

Abbie says nothing. She looks straight ahead, at his upper chest, her eyes blankly staring at the image on his shirt. She notices his Adam's apple bob once. She swallows, unsure what to say. She wants to be brave, but more of her wants to hide, to retreat into safe ground and tell him she only thinks of him as a friend.

Lie.

Crane sighs and straightens his posture, clasping his hands behind his back. "Your silence speaks volumes," he says, chin held high.

To his surprise though, she doesn't move. She doesn't walk away.

"It's not that I don't… feel… something," Abbie quietly, hesitantly starts, still staring at his chest instead of his face, "but I… I can't."

He wishes he was surprised by her resistance, but he isn't. He can only nod once. Her previous actions tonight contradict her current demeanor, but he will take her at her word, even if he knows her word to be false. He knows exactly how far he will get if he attempts to push Abbie Mills.

Finally, she looks at him. "I'm… I'm not ready for this, Ichabod. I'm sorry."

He gives her a small, sad smile. "I know I must regain your trust," he says after a moment. "I know my disappearance last year was an unforgivable blow that—"

"I have forgiven you," she interrupts. "I forgave you almost immediately, but…"

"But you still worry that I'll do it again. That I will leave you the way so many others have," he quietly says.

Abbie closes her eyes and turns slightly away, not facing him but not putting her back to him either. He can see right into her very soul, cutting straight to her heart, and is not afraid to call her out on it. She loves that about him. She hates that about him.

"You know I cannot make that promise any more than you can promise me the same," he continues. "For we face peril every day. I can only promise you that if I ever part from your company, it will not be by my choice." His voice is low and fervent, impassioned but soft, and she knows these are not just empty words. "It would absolutely destroy me to lose you, Abbie. After all that has happened this year, I know this. Therefore… if I may only enjoy your company as a dear friend and nothing more, so be it." He leans down and angles his head to look into her eyes. "But… if there is a chance for… more, then I will wait. I will wait until you are ready. Come what may, I will wait."

Abbie blinks and looks down, and a tear slips from the corner of her eye. Crane hesitantly reaches up and gently swipes it away with his finger.

Then he is gone.

The filled kettle on the stove remains unheated.

xXx

Just over a week later, Abbie returns home from work to an empty house. "Crane?" she calls, wondering where he is. Mild panic seizes her and she makes a beeline for his bedroom. She breathes again when she sees his customary disarray has not been cleared out.

"Stupid," she mutters to herself. "He's not going to bail again." She stomps to her room, and her anger with herself grows when she remembers he told her he was going to be in the archives until early evening and that she should not wait dinner for him. "I'm losing my damn mind… and apparently I've started talking to myself."

She stops in her tracks when she steps into her room. On her bed is his Boston Tea Party t-shirt, folded with military precision on the corner of her bed, perfectly aligned with the corner of the mattress. On top of it is a note.

She reaches down and picks it up.

Dearest Abigail,

Please consider this garment as an alternative to the one formerly owned by Agent Reynolds. I would ask that you wear it only when you are ready to do so.

Affectionately, I.

P.S. If my timing is correct, your dinner will be ready presently. I hope you enjoy it.

Abbie reads the letter three times before she hears the ding of the timer. As she walks to the kitchen, she wonders how she didn't smell the food cooking before. She opens the oven door to find a small baking sheet bearing two ramekins containing individual-sized pot pies.

They're so cute. "He made me a tiny pot pie?" she asks aloud, pulling it from the oven, assuming the second one is for him to eat later. She sets it on the stove top to cool for a few minutes while she gets a drink. When she retrieves some ice, she finds two more uncooked small pies in the freezer, and for some reason that makes her smile. He's planning ahead. She tries not to think too much about it as she sits down and sinks her fork into the homemade crust. It's delicious.

She does think about the letter and his careful wording. I would ask that you wear it only when you are ready to do so.