#3

"Crane, what the hell, you scared me!"

Abbie closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, her exhalation forming a cloud in the cold air. She opened her eyes to see Crane standing within arm's reach. "Why aren't you inside with everyone?"

Crane raised an eyebrow. "I feel that it is I who should be asking you such a question."

Abbie wondered if she should confess her conversation with Luke. Her chest tightened and her stomach hurt and if she had to admit it, her heart hurt as well. She thought she'd moved on from Luke—from his shitty text message, from his sudden desire to rekindle their relationship—but apparently not. Her feelings jumbled together in a ratty mess, something she couldn't untangle even if she tried.

"I just needed some air, is all," she replied lamely.

Crane's brow remained raised, absurdly rakish despite the situation. "You ventured outside for fresh air but without a coat? That cannot be wise, Miss Mills. You'll catch a chill."

Abbie wanted to stomp her foot, although that would result in her pitching forward as her balance on her stilettos was precarious at best. She wanted to shove Crane away and demand he leave her the hell alone. His presence choked her. His presence overwhelmed her. His presence enveloped her.

"I'm fine." Abbie shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms in a pathetic attempt to stave off the jittering. Her anger had melted away to the point that she suddenly felt the temperature.

"You are cold." Crane took off his coat—his ratty, 18th century coat that he couldn't bear to part with—and pulled it around Abbie's shoulders, muttering, "How could you not be cold? Wearing so little in the way of clothing…" He wrapped Abbie in the wool fabric and brought it together under her chin, his long fingers keeping it closed. It was large enough that it fit more like a blanket than a coat on Abbie's small frame, the fabric reaching to Abbie's knees.

Crane didn't step away, and Abbie suddenly felt so warm that she had no interest in telling him to back away. Their cloudy breaths mingled in the winter air, the faint sounds of Christmas music and laughter filtering around them.

"Thank you," Abbie murmured.

"My pleasure, Miss Mills."

Abbie felt the heat of his hands under her chin, the smell of him—the body wash she'd bought for him and something that just smelled like Crane—and the way his lashes seemed absurdly long. He'd trimmed his beard, his hair in a neat queue, as he called it (he had been greatly offended when she'd called it a ponytail.).

"Why are you outside in the cold, Miss Mills?" Crane asked softly. His voice—deep yet lilting, his accent so proper and starchy yet oddly erotic—brushed against Abbie's nerves and set them alight. She wanted to confess all; she wanted to lean into his body, rest her head on his shoulder. She wanted to be weak, for once.

She remembered the Christmas when her mom had left two weeks previously, leaving Jenny and her to make Christmas dinner from canned vegetables leftover in the pantry—corn, kidney beans and green beans—with a piece of Wonder bread for each of them. They had drawn Christmas trees on notebook paper and hung them all over the bare apartment. That had been one of their better Christmases, before they were sent to their first foster home. And always, Abbie had taken care of herself and Jenny. Until the four trees in the woods.

Pulling away suddenly, Abbie said, "I'm fine." She handed back the coat to Crane, but he didn't take it. "Seriously, I'm fine. I can take care of myself." She shoved the coat into his hands and started back toward the precinct. If she let herself stay any longer, she'd say something she'd regret. She'd do something she'd regret.

"Miss Mills—" Abbie found her wrist captured in a long-fingered grip. She slowly pivoted to see Crane staring at her.

"Miss Mills," he said again. "Abbie." He pulled her closer, and Abbie let herself be drawn in. Crane wrapped her in his coat. "I have never doubted your ability to care for yourself," he said, his gaze intense, his voice low.

"Then what are you—"

"You are self-sufficient and independent and courageous." Crane reached out to brush a strand of hair that had fallen from her French twist, his fingers sweeping against her cheek. "But that does not mean you do not deserve care. You deserve to be cherished."

He said it so calmly yet so firmly, no sarcasm or laughter in his voice. Abbie clutched his coat closer around her body and began to tremble. From the cold, from his words—cherished—from everything.

"What happened, Abbie?"

Abbie felt tears threaten, hot and persistent behind her eyelids. Tears not just for Luke, but for Corbin, for Jenny, for herself. She never confessed. She never told Jenny when she was scared, or when she saw those trees in the woods, or when she wanted to scream and scream at Corbin's death, or when she woke up from nightmares of demons, alone in her apartment.

"It was Luke," she finally blurted. "He wanted to get back together."

"And you rejected his advances, I take it?"

Abbie laughed a little sob. She swiped at her eyes, hoping she hadn't totally ruined her makeup. "Something like that. You know that he broke up with me the day all this," she waved a hand, "happened. Said we should see other people."

Crane stepped closer. "And you were surprised by this announcement?"

"Surprised?" Abbie rolled her eyes. "Surprised, shocked, fucking pissed, yeah. But he's in a long list of people who've lied and fucked me over and didn't fight for me." Except for Corbin, but he was dead. Abbie wanted to sob.

Crane smiled sadly, and Abbie blushed at the realization. Jesus, Abbie, you're not the only one who's been fucked over.

"Look sorry, you don't need to listen to me bitch about this." Abbie squared her shoulders and smiled, maybe a little bitterly, if she had to admit it. "I'll survive."

Crane took her hands, enveloping her smaller ones in his larger ones. "Miss Mills, I am no stranger to—how do you say?—being 'fucked over.' And I am sorry your betrothal ended as it did." Crane's eyes were warm, serious, trying to convey what words couldn't. "Your detective was unworthy of you. But know this, Abigail: any decent man would have fought for you." Crane paused. "I would have fought for you."

Abbie couldn't speak. Her face heated, her body heated, her heart pounded and she forgot about Luke and her sore feet and the party inside. She forgot about demons and the apocalypse and the constant struggle to survive—survive her childhood and now her adulthood. All she felt was her body heating and her hands warm in Crane's. Ichabod's. So instead, she just laced her fingers with Crane's and gripped them tightly.

It was then that she noticed the snow falling, bits of it from the sky, melting on her hot cheeks like tears. She let herself lean forward into Crane's embrace and laid her head on his shoulder. He brought one arm around her and held her closely, an embrace and a promise.

"Merry Christmas, Ichabod," she murmured. It was all she could say.

Crane rested his chin on top of her head. "Merry Christmas, Abigail."

Sorry for the delay! This is why I normally do one-shots because I have the attention span of a squirrel.

Also, I don't think of Luke as a bad character, but I needed conflict, so Luke was sacrificed to the Conflict God. Sorry, Luke!