everything feels so different now
It happens gradually.
He sneaks up on her, never meaning to.
. .
There is the moment their hands are intertwined too long – a second so short not the bat of an eye could be squeezed into it. Innocent. Ichabod's long fingers enveloping her cold hand as he helps her out of the car. Nothing that he has not done before, always the gentleman he grew up to be, the manners that have been planted in his head now strong roots, unshakable by the storm of modern society.
Abbie cannot tell what is different this time. Nothing has changed but the way the shadows underneath his eyes have darkened even more, or the trembling of her own limbs as exhaustion pours through her veins like acid.
While nothing has significantly changed, she can sense the change lingering heavily in the wisp of space between their loosely joined hands.
A shiver. Goosebumps?
She is tired, utterly exhausted, and the biting cold of winter is fighting its way through the too-thin material of her stained jacket.
Two pairs of eyes falling upon tangled fingers. Breaths taken in silence as the early morning hours are drawn out into sunset. A slight shift in pressure on her palm that Abbie involuntarily responds to, leaning into the tender touch. Allowing Crane, for just a breath, to hold her up against the turmoil of pain and horror that has become both their lives. Intertwined as steadily, yet reliably as their hands.
. .
When Ichabod wraps her up in an embrace so tight her feet are lifting off the ground, it knocks the air straight out of her lungs.
The sickening, warm sheen of dark blood is still coating the small patches of exposed skin, and Abbie shivers in Ichabod's arms.
She knows he holds her this tightly because she has stared down death, a dark spiral of pain, echoes and unwanted memories. Still, there is too little ferocity, too much tenderness for this embrace too be evoked simply by relief.
The air that fills her lungs once more is inhaled slowly, in perfect rhythm with Ichabod as her cheek rests against his chest, large hands spreading across the expanse of her back, slowly setting her back onto her own feet.
She wants to pretend to stand strong, but if she is being honest with herself, she lingers within the embrace for a moment longer than needed to recover.
. .
They laugh.
Not merely a short-lived chuckle. No.
Genuine laughter so intense her diaphragm aches and tears trail down her cheeks, glowing in the flickering light of the illuminated room. They laugh so hard she feels she might suffocate, her throat locked with a key, no air escaping. Limbs twitching out of control, reaching out for the other.
Abbie's hand comes to rest on Ichabod's forearm, exposed now that he has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and she will not deny the side way glances she has been dropping all night. Innocent enough as her touch is, she feels him shiver in response, hears the hitch in his laughter.
She does not pull back. He never complains.
. .
Happy Birthday, Miss Mills.
Before Abbie can ask how he knows this, Ichabod has his fingers wrapped gently around her hand, lifts it up, gentle lips pressing into the skin on the back of it. He lingers long enough for his breath to escape, warm in the thin space between them.
There are flowers on her small kitchen table, usually covered with unopened letters, abandoned dishes and keys. Now it is clean, nothing but the brightly colored flowers in the glass vase – since when did she own a vase like that? - catching her eye.
May I prepare your breakfast?
There is less pride and more sincerity in Ichabod's eyes than she is used to when it comes to operating her kitchen, and she smiles when she realizes her hand still lingers beneath his lips.
. .
The first time Abbie thinks about kissing Ichabod is when he makes an awful attempt at baking. The flour that covers every imaginable surface of her kitchen is also sprinkled across his face, the mixer that she had only used once now lays on the floor.
She does not ask what has happened. Instead, she opens the cupboard under the sink, kneels down – she has flour all over her shoes now anyway, so why bother trying to keep it off her jeans? - and pulls out a cloth that she pushes into Ichabod's arms.
He looks a little lost, and there is a dust of flour right by the left corner of his mouth, and Abbie finds herself standing too close, eyes glued to the white spot too long before she swiftly steps back and disappears into the living room for the rest of the afternoon.
She takes him to the bakery down the road the next day.
. .
The first time Abbie actually kisses Ichabod, she knows he will pull back.
I can not, he whispers, their lips so close they might still be kissing when he speaks. Why he lingers so long, she does not know. For what seems like an eternity they stand strong, breathing into each other, before he steps away, no more words spoken.
. .
Her hand rests on his forearm, and she recalls how he has responded to such an innocent touch once before. Now, his own hands are cupping her face. Chastely, the touch not firm, fingers hovering above her skin, warmth radiating as she seems to draw him closer.
His lips are more determined. Abbie sighs, gripping his arm tighter, silently asking him to lose whatever doubt is left burning inside of him.
She has doubts, too many to name, too many to keep her away from him anymore.
It is Ichabod who pulls away once more, but this time his thumbs draw lines on her cheekbones and he looks so deeply into her eyes that she wonders if he can see her soul and all the darkness that lingers there.
. .
It is only when they are both chained to a mossy stone wall in a basement that reminds her of medieval dungeons that Abbie realizes what has changed.
The chains around her wrists have turn her skin raw and red, and in the darkness she can hardly make out Ichabod's frame a few feet away. His reassuring voice is what keeps them connected, over and over telling her that they will get out of this and that he will keep her safe.
Abbie knows he can not keep that promise, and that she is responsible for her own safety. But it is that thought which leads her mind down the path to an answer she has been seeking for so long now.
She loves him.
. .
Death. Famine. Conquest. War. The End.
It is all Abbie ever thinks about, it keeps her awake, it claws at her insides with all the cruelty and horror is possesses. Fear. Eating her up. Every waking hour, and all the dark hours in between.
She asks Ichabod once if he feels the same, and that night, he slips into her bed, no talk about decency and manners. His arms wrap her up, pull her into his side, warmth and shelter all in one.
Abbie feels vulnerable, open, raw, yet she moves closer, buries her fears and reaches for Ichabod's hand beneath the cover.
When he has fallen asleep, soft and breathing evenly - like a lullaby to her ears - she brushes her lips against his forehead, feels his heart beating in his chest, traces his knuckles with her thumb.
He is alive and real and he is holding her. Perhaps the world is not as dark as she fears.
. .
Abbie has been convinced it would take another near-death experience for Ichabod to look past his inhibitions and manners. As if there were not more than enough of them in their lives as it was.
In the end, it just...happens.
They have been sleeping in the same bed for months, keeping each others nightmares at bay. There is nothing different about this night.
Abbie is almost asleep when his hand slips beneath the thin fabric of her pajamas, delicate fingers drawing intricate lines across the small of her back. She shivers, keeps her eyes closed, waiting.
She does not tell him that she loves him when he kisses a soft trail from her collarbone to the hidden spot behind her ear where skin meets black hair. Nor when his hands cup her breasts, warm touch sending sparks throughout her body, coiling in her belly so tightly that she feels incapable of speaking.
Abbie wants to tell him that she loves him when he swallows her sigh with his lips, interlaces his fingers with hers, pushing them deeply into the mattress. And when her hand comes to rest against his cheek, deep eyes shining in the moonlit room.
She finds no words.
She finds no words when his feet shove her pajama bottoms deeply into the cover. Or when he comes to rest between her legs, his warm body covering hers entirely.
He is too tall, and her hands brush up and down his bare back as she buries her head in the crook of his neck. Loose strand of hair tickle her temple, and he shivers when her lips meet his skin.
She does not tell him that she loves him then. Nor when she determinedly pushes her palms into his chest to turn him onto his back. Nor when she leans down to rest her forehead against his as he slides into her.
When she takes the first breath, she has forgotten everything she wanted to say.
Their fingers remain interlaced, locked so tightly as if the key had been lost for centuries. Buried to keep safe what was so precious now.
He whispers her name in the darkness as she moves above him.
Abbie.
. .
Abbie has never told anyone. I love you.
And she never speaks the words out in front of Ichabod. But when she looks into his eyes, she can see that he knows. When she kisses him, she can feel that he knows.
It is when he leans down to steal a kiss, when he slips his hand into her own, when his fingers trail the skin where her thigh meets her stomach, when he smiles at her in the morning, that she knows he feels the same.
No monster can scare her enough to make her doubt that. No demon can conjure enough doubt. It is what keeps them moving forward. Towards the End.