Chapter Text
Ichabod Crane sighs and falls back in his chair. The computer screen judges him for taking even that one second’s rest, and he finds himself hurrying to get back to work.
Life hadn’t turned out quite as he imagined as a fresh-faced twenty-two year old. Nights like these were more common than he’d like, nights where he spent hours reading and rereading documents and guarding against takeovers and corporate espionage. Very far from the sedate life he imagined he’d have as a history professor; home before 8 p.m., quiet nights spent reading by the fire before kissing his sleepy children goodnight and retiring with his loving wife.
Instead, he frequently stayed at the office until 10 p.m., sometimes 11 p.m., his wife had left him for some Turkish billionaire, and he barely saw his twins.
He feels a twinge of guilt as he thinks of them now, raised by a succession of nannies and never hearing from their mother.
Crane sighs again and checks his watch. If he could only finish amending this contract, he can perhaps make it in time to spend some time with his twins before they--
The shrill ring of the phone on his desk interrupts his musing. He frowns and stabs the blinking button impatiently.
“Yes?” he barks.
“Mr. Crane?”
The voice is timid and thready, and his frown deepens when he doesn’t recognize it.
“Who is this?”
“It’s, um, Zoe? Zoe Corinth, the new nanny?”
Crane’s heart thuds in fear.
“Is something amiss with the children? Are they all right?”
A slight pause from Zoe that does nothing to ease the tension slowly creeping through his body.
“Yes. I mean, I hope so.”
“What the devil do you mean you ‘hope so’? Where are the children? Let me speak to them. Now.”
The tremor in Zoe’s voice grows more noticeable.
“I assume they’re fine, it’s just--”
“You assume?”
“Well, Mr. Crane. The children. They’re missing.”
Abbie Mills sighs and sinks into the bath. Almost boiling, just like she likes it. She relaxes into the water, letting it soothe all the little aches that she somehow accumulated chasing around hordes of seven year olds all day.
She pointedly doesn’t think of the pile of bills on her kitchen table--especially the one with a big red stamp on it--though those also contributed to the tension that tended to permanently reside around her neck and shoulders.
But today. Today had been a good day. Her class had--with the help of her coworkers and their parents--given her a giant cupcake and sung her happy birthday. It was all she could do not to burst into happy tears, and her adorable kids had all received a hug and a kiss for their trouble.
August Crane, her favorite, along with his sister, Aurora, had even said that she was his favorite person in the whole world.
She smiles as she remembers the first time she met the Crane twins, both dressed up so formally and in the care of a dour woman with gray hair. Their faces were pale and the kids were obviously trying to hide their apprehension when she walked over to kneel in front of them after winking at the woman who made no sign she saw it.
“Hi, guys, I’m Miss Abbie Mills. What are your names?”
Her smile was so bright it seemed to ease the twins’ fear.
The little girl piped up with an adorable English accent that melted Abbie’s heart.
"I’m Aurora,” she said, before gesturing at her brother, “and this is August.”
Abbie’s smile widened.
“August, huh? That’s the name of a very good friend of mine. I’m taking this as a good omen.” Abbie held out her hands, wanting the children to come to her of their own accord, which they did, readily.
The woman--the nanny, she assumed--pursed her lips but said nothing.
"What’s a omen?” Aurora asked.
“ An omen is a sign. Like… if you find a four-leaf clover it’s an omen of good luck,” Abbie explained.
“It is?”
Abbie led the children to a table with two empty chairs and gently nudged the twins into them.
"Mm-hmm! And that means that you two will do just fine here in my class. Right?”
Aurora leaned over and hissed in her brother’s ear.
“You’re an omen!”
August’s slightly tan cheeks darkened and Abbie couldn’t resist chuckling and ruffling his curly hair.
“Don’t worry,” she promised, “I got you.”
In the months since then, the twins had cycled through three nannies. Abbie tries not to judge the parents of her kids, but it was obvious that the Cranes weren’t exactly the hands-on kind. She hadn’t even met them since they’d sent one of the ever-changing nannies in their place for Parent-Teacher Conferences.
How such darling children could be ignored by their parents is beyond her, and it breaks her heart.
Abbie sighs again then reluctantly moves to get out of the now lukewarm bath.
At least now that it's spring break, the children can go on the trip to Brighton they’d been looking forward to for so long.
“You’re not even supposed to have favorites, Mills,” she mutters to herself as she wraps herself in a soft cotton dressing gown and heads out to the kitchen.
She once again ignores the pile of bills on the table, promising herself she’d go through them when she isn’t quite so tired--or so broke--and has the mental capacity to freak out over possibly losing her home.
She knows she needs a miracle, but right now, all she needs is Godiva white chocolate raspberry ice cream and that’s exactly what she's going to get.
She'd just reached into the freezer to grab the container when a loud knock comes to the front door.
Frowning, she turns in its direction.
She isn’t expecting anyone. Danny and Andy were on some kind of boys’ retreat in Atlantic City and Sophie said she had a date tonight.
She tentatively moves toward the door, pulling the robe tighter.
Another loud knock, more insistent, comes.
“Ma’am, it’s Sleepy Hollow PD. Open up, please.”
Okay, what the fuck?
Cautiously, she looks through the peephole.
What she sees makes her open the door immediately, gasping in shock.
Standing on her porch is a blond policeman, blue eyes stern. It would make her apprehensive, but his mouth is full and generous, and is curved up in a slightly bemused smile that probably mirrors her own.
“Ma’am, did you lose something?” he asks with a hint of amusement.
Abbie’s eyes slide past his nametag--Officer Jones--to the two small figures standing in front of him.
Aurora’s curls are haphazardly pulled up into a ponytail, and both she and August carry backpacks that seem full to bursting. Both children are flushed, their normally olive skin flushed dark, and their eyes bright with triumph and mischief.
“We found them wandering around the neighborhood. They said they knew you, Miss…”
“Mills,” Abbie supplies absently. “Abbie Mills.”
What is even going on right now?
Her eyes move back up to the cop, who shrugs good-naturedly.
She crouches down.
“Children, what--?”
Suddenly, a suspiciously chipper little voice pipes up.
“Will you be our new mummy?” Aurora asks.
Crane doesn’t quite know what to expect when his regular driver, Katrina, pulls up in front of the house his children have apparently run off to, but when he sees the lovely colonial with a garden that looks well tended to, he finds the cocktail of emotions swirling in his stomach easing.
In fact, it reminds him of the home he one day thought he’d have when he and Jenny first moved to America.
“I shan’t be long,” he informs Katrina, who gives him an affable nod.
He exits the car and walks briskly up the porch steps, composing a stern lecture to his children in his head. How to scold them when he knew all too well the desire to just run away?
But he is no Jenny, he thinks bitterly.
He sighs, raising a fist to knock on the door when he hears a delighted squeal through an open window.
“Aurora?”
Crane pushes open the door, noting crossly that it was unlocked all along.
“Aurora? August?”
A sudden hush as if the children have been caught being naughty.
He hears a loud whisper of “it’s Daddy!” and then a clatter as small bodies attempt to get presentable.
When he finally crosses the threshold of the kitchen, where all the ruckus originates, he finds his children standing primly in front of a petite woman.
They have smudges of red...something on their cheeks and chins, and their clothes are disheveled.
What the--
He scowls and moves his gaze to the woman, startling slightly when he notices how lovely she is, with glowing brown skin flushed with exertion and a bright gaze made even brighter by her apologetic smile.
A miniature goddess.
His breath catches and he forgets what he meant to say.
“I tried to wrangle them for a quick wash up before you got here,” the woman says, “but they’re quick little scamps.”
She tickles the children, who both try and fail to hold in giggles.
Seeing their ease with this beautiful stranger sends a pang of guilt through him. They're always so formal with him, and he knows it is his own fault.
The thought makes his tone harsh when he finally addresses the woman.
“And you are?”
He almost winces at his curtness, but when all three drop their smiles and regard him soberly he knows--as Jenny would say--he fucked up.
“I’m the owner of this house that you’re standing in,” the woman says coldly, and now he does wince. “But if you were asking for my name, it’s Abbie Mills. I’m your children’s teacher. Or at least, I think I am. You’re not another nanny, are you?”
She doesn’t put any extra emphasis on “another nanny,” but the judgment in the question itself makes Crane straighten anyway.
“They are my children,” he grits out. “What, exactly, are they doing here?”
Her eyes narrow and an eyebrow rises as if to ask him just who the hell he thinks he is. God help him, she’s even more stunning when she’s angry.
“Apparently, they Googled me and took an Uber all the way to my neighborhood to ask if I could adopt them,” she says almost casually.
“They what?!”
“It seems as if,” she continues in the same tone, “their flake of a father cancelled their spring break and foisted them on yet another nanny, and they just… bounced.”
Crane opens and closes his mouth, too outraged to get any words out.
“Then they found a nice police officer who brought them where they asked to go, and asked me to be their new mummy. And you know, even after they did all that, I tried not to judge the person who disappointed them so badly, but now that you’re here, in my house, acting like (a) you have any right to use that tone with me, and like (b) I did something wrong by letting them stay here where it’s safe until you could send some minion to pick them up, I’m really fighting the urge to tell you to fu--buzz off and adopting them after all.”
Speechless.
Crane can think of nothing to say. The children and he stare at Abbie Mills, he in shock and growing indignation, and the children in awe and delight.
“She almost said a naughty word,” breathes August to his sister, who shushes him.
Finally, he can work up the wherewithal to bite out “you’re very familiar,” to which Miss Mills scoffs.
“And you’re not,” she retorts. “I’ve been your kids’ teacher for almost a year now and I’ve only just met you.”
Crane glares at her.
“That’s not--”
“Yeah, I know. My point stands.”
She then crouches down to address August and Aurora.
“Hey, guys,” she says in a gentle, warm tone that puts him in the uncomfortable position of envying his own children, “would y’all mind going out to the backyard to play for a bit while I speak to your father?”
“Will you make us go back with him?” Little Aurora asks Miss Mills in a stage whisper that he pretends not to hear.
Instead, he glances around the quaint kitchen, gaze skipping over an envelope with a large red Past Due stamp on its face.
Hm.
He glances back as his children, sufficiently reassured, scamper to the back door and out to a well-lit backyard, where a lone swing hangs from an impressive-looking red oak tree.
“So,” she sighs and gestures to a seat at the kitchen table, “we should talk.”
“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Crane says coldly, and Abbie bites her lip before saying something even worse that can piss him off enough to try to get her fired or something.
“Please,” she says instead, and heads to the kitchen table herself.
He relents--a bit stiffly--sitting across from her as if he were giving her an audience.
“Mr. Crane,” she begins, then pauses to try and find the best way to approach the subject.
“Ichabod,” he interjects.
“Pardon?”
“My name is Ichabod. Mr. Crane sounds like my father,” he clarifies and Abbie wrinkles her brow in confusion.
He’s still sitting as if he’s taking the time to indulge one of his peasant subjects, brow still furrowed in consternation at the admittedly ill-advised upbraiding she’d given him, but he wants her to use his first name?
“I...Okay, how about we compromise and I call you Crane? Ichabod sounds like some kind of stuffy literary character--no offense,” she hastens to add.
His lips twitch, and she tries not to imagine those same lips pressed against the pulse point on her neck.
Focus, Mills.
“I know these circumstances are… less than ideal,” she begins again, “but I actually have been meaning to speak to you for quite some time. I have...concerns.”
Crane scowls.
“Concerns? Are the children doing badly in their studies?”
“No, no,” Abbie hastens to explain, “they’re actually incredibly bright and at least a level or two above the other children. That’s not what worries me.”
“What other worries can there be if they’re doing well?”
He seems genuinely baffled, which is why Abbie bites her tongue and instead answers him calmly.
“Grades are not as important as their mental and emotional health, Miste--Crane. They excel at everything except making friends outside of each other. They’re isolated, and it breaks my heart because they’re such lovely and caring children--”
She breaks off when she notes that Crane’s fingers are flexing nervously.
“Crane? Are you okay?”
“Is ‘making friends’ a category on the children’s progress reports?” he grits out.
“Well, no, but it’s important that--”
“Have they demonstrated violent behavior?”
“They’re the sweetest kids I’ve ever--”
“And have they ever disrespected any of their classmates--or you, Miss Mills?”
“Never, but I don’t think--”
“Then, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, I find that this is a non-issue. I myself never had very many friends as a child.”
“Yeah, and look what a prince you turned out to be,” Abbie retorts, then claps her hands over her mouth.
Shit shit shit shit.
Crane glares at her as she slowly lowers her hands and takes a deep breath.
“I apologize, Mr. Crane. That was extremely inappropriate.”
He gives her a curt nod and she once again feels like a peasant petitioning a lord.
“I just want to impress upon you that I’m not impugning your parenting--”
He scoffs, and she barrels on.
“But it is imperative that the children develop interpersonal skills. I’m worried that the constant parade of nannies is preventing them from forming attachments and they’ll lack any kind of permanence in their lives. Not to mention your work schedule--”
“That is quite enough,” Crane says quietly.
Abbie stops abruptly, jaw snapping shut.
“I will collect the children and go. Thank you for taking care of them, Miss Mills. Good night.”
He then gets up and does exactly what he said, collecting a pouty August and Aurora, and leaving without another word.
Abbie sighs and falls back in her chair.
“That went well.”
“So let me get this straight,” Bram’s tone is entirely too amused for Crane’s comfort, but he knows that if he mentions it, Bram will become even more insufferable.
“You meet your children’s teacher, who’s gorgeous--”
“I believe I said ‘comely,’” Crane interrupts grumpily.
“--And you not only act like a complete boor in her house, where she’s been keeping your children happy, fed, and safe--”
“They were only there for a couple of hours.”
“--But you completely ignore her expert opinion on your children’s well-being even though she is thoroughly correct and you know it.”
Bram chortles.
Crane stiffens and reaches for his tumbler of scotch, glaring over it at his friend.
“I fail to see the humor in the situation.”
Bram only laughs harder.
“You wouldn’t! Ichabod, this is quite possibly the first woman since Jenny you’ve interacted with for more than ten minutes--who isn’t trying to sleep with you for your money and actually cares about something other than shopping--and you completely insult her.”
Crane scowls. He hates it when Bram’s right.
“I didn’t put my best foot forward,” he grudgingly admits. “I was worried about the children and I wasn’t expecting an upbraiding on my parenting methods.”
Bram snorts into his own tumbler.
“What parenting methods? You didn’t put your best foot forward, you went ahead and stuck the entire thing in your mouth, old man. You and I--and the delectable Miss Mills, apparently--both know that you have been running from your responsibility to those children.”
Crane sighs and runs a hand down his face, suddenly extremely tired. Bram is a lot less delicate than Miss Mills in his assessment, but it is no less true.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
“I love my children.”
“I know that, too.”
“But--Bram, I have no earthly idea what I’m doing.”
Bram casually puts down his tumbler and leans in to look earnestly at his friend.
“From what I understand, mate, no one ever does. But this--”
He gestures at the study they’re sitting in, clearly alluding to more.
“This house, the nannies… It’s the bare minimum, Ichabod. Children need more.”
Crane sighs again.
“When the bloody hell did you get so wise, anyway?” he grumbles and Bram chuckles.
“I’ve always been brilliant.”
He straightens up at Crane’s disbelieving snort.
“Oi!”
Crane smiles at Bram’s feigned indignation, then sobers.
“I don’t even know where to start, Bram.”
Bram nods seriously, thinking it over. Then, he snaps his fingers, an idea having come to him.
“Why not ask the comely teacher?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.