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Crane wasn't afraid to admit it: he cried.
As soon as he found himself alone, away from prying eyes and Miss Mills, a sudden sob burst out of him. He cupped his mouth, and tried his best to muffle the noise. Tears ran down his face as utter happiness and relief exploded inside of him.
Home. He was home.
He knew there was going to be quite a few things he was going to miss from the twenty-first century. Hot showers, donut holes, iced coffee, just to name a few. But he was more than willing to give it all up just to get back to 1776. Get back to the place where he knew how the world worked, where he wasn't... a freak.
He quickly sobered, brushing away the tears quickly. Now wasn't the time for such sentiments. There was so much to do, so much to say and report back.
There was also the issue with Miss Mills.
Crane readjusted his coat, brushed back his hair and took a few breaths to even out his beating heart. He turned to leave his room (his room. Made out of wood and nails and not plaster or wall paper. His room with candle-lit lamps, a basin for washing, and utter complete silence from passing traffic.) He walked across the hall to where Miss Mills was and politely knocked on her door. "Lieu- Miss Mills? Are you dressed?"
There was no answer. Crane knocked again, louder this time. "Miss Mills?"
When the silence reigned on, a deep fear rooted into Crane's chest. He gripped the door handle. "I'm coming in," he gave as warning. He opened the door, expecting the worst.
Abigail Mills was standing in front of the full length mirror, staring at herself. She touched the bonnet on her head, idly played with the fabric of her dress. She shifted her shoulders, readjusting things that didn't need readjusting.
"Miss Mills," Crane said softly. "Are you alright?"
"Mmm' fine," she said. "Just... fine."
Crane closed the door behind him. A part of him knew this was a bad idea. If anybody saw him, they would think he was going to... take advantage, but their conversation needed privacy. "Does the dress not fit?"
"It fits."
Her tone was flat and uninspired. She kept staring at herself, then her eyes would travel to the bed, where her other clothes- her trousers, leather jacket, cotton shirt- sat folded neatly.
"I know you're afraid," Crane told her softly. "I know I was. But I can promise you, I will not let any harm come to you."
Miss Mills suddenly laughed, loud and bitter. She finally turned to face him, the laughter gone, and utter disgust over her face. "You promise? Promise? You have no idea, do you?"
"Miss-"
"Crane, I am a Black woman in 1776. If those two simple words don't scare you, then you seriously need to rethink your position. We are in a time where somebody with my skin color can be sold like cattle. Where women are owned by their fathers and husbands. There's no such thing as vaccines, penicillin, or aspirin. I'm wearing a dress, for God's sake, because a woman wearing trousers is considered deviant! My chances of getting raped and sold into slavery just bumped up to nearly a hundred percent! You promise no harm will come to me? The moment you turn your back, I will be gone and it won't be because I chose to leave."
Horror overtook her face. Miss Mills cupped her mouth and turned away, struggling to keep the tears in. "Fuck... sorry, sorry, I know this isn't your fault..."
"I..." Crane swallowed. Good Lord, what was wrong with him? "No, you have every right to be angry. But I do have pull in this century. I have power, I have money, I have influence. I promise to you, under God, I will find a way to get you back home."
Miss Mills wiped her cheeks. "Alright," she said, turning to him and nodding. "Alright."
"But I have to say," Crane said, risking a smile. "I do like seeing you in a dress. I think you look beautiful."
Abbie smiled back. It was weak, her eyes wet, but she was indeed beautiful. Crane reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.