Work Text:
"I've got everything under control, Love," Ichabod shouts up the stairs.
Then, not two seconds after the reassurance leaves his lips, the smoke detector begins to beep and flash.
The giggling and shrieking behind him intensifies.
"Daddy! The smoke inspector, the smoke inspector!"
Ichabod grabs a nearby newspaper and waves it wildly under the offensive device, hoping to silence it. He does and quickly turns to the stove, grabbing a spatula to remove two very burnt pancakes from the frying pan.
"Splendid," he mutters just as his wife appears.
"I'm sorry, Treasure. You're so much better at this than I am," he says, looking at her sheepishly from beneath long lashes.
"You gave it the old college try," she replies, flashing him a brief, tired smile.
Abbie kisses Ichabod on the cheek, then immediately turns her attention to the two curly haired children squealing and running in circles around the kitchen table, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
"Hey, you two, knock it off," she says in a stern voice. They immediately freeze.
"Sorry, momma," the boy says quietly, casting his blue-green eyes to the ground. His younger sister follows suit and Ichabod smirks to himself.
His lieutenant has a way of making the children mind.
Breakfast preparation resumes. Ichabod cracks an egg on the side of a mixing bowl when suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder.
"Crane. Crane."
The hand is gently shaking him awake. Disoriented, he slowly opens his eyes and finds himself face to face with Miss Mills. She's leaning over him, looking concerned.
"Are you OK? she asks. "When you weren't waiting for me on the porch, I got worried."
Punctual is Ichabod's middle name.
"My apologies, Lieutenant. I failed to set my alarm, as I unexpectedly fell asleep here last night," he says, glancing down at the couch in the cabin's living room. The last thing he remembers is watching —and pointedly critiquing— "Turn: Washington's Spies."
"No worries." Abbie settles into the chair across from him.
"I'll wait here while you get ready," she says, picking up a book of crossword puzzles on the end table next to her. "Just another Saturday in the archives. No rush."
Ichabod stands, thankful that she isn't looking in his direction because the expression on his face would likely prompt more questions. His eyes narrow as his mind travels back to the dream he's just had.
It was vivid. Very vivid. The smell of the smoke, the sound of the children's —their children's— high-pitched voices. The way Abbie's lips felt against his skin.
His hand instinctively moves to his face and Abbie looks up at him curiously.
"Crane, are you sure you're feeling alright," she asks, cocking her head to side. His face flushes.
"Yes, yes, of course," he says, turning to fold the quilt on the couch– any excuse not to look at her. He drapes the blanket across the back and hurriedly makes his way to the bathroom for a quick shower. Being in such close proximity to Miss Mills is disconcerting at the moment.
***
As Ichabod steps under the spray he closes his eyes and, again, he is transported back to his unexpected dream.
Married to the lieutenant?
"Absurd," he mutters. She is his fellow Witness. And his dearest friend in the modern era— a platonic friend.
Not that he finds Abbie unappealing. Quite the opposite, in fact.
One would have to be blind not to appreciate her beauty. What with her doe eyes, full lips, and luminous smile.
Not to mention her ample bosom and perfectly round backside.
Ichabod had gotten an eyeful of both during their recent yoga session and it had taken every ounce of self control he possessed to keep his gaze above her shoulders.
"A perfectly reasonable response to a woman's feminine attributes," he'd reasoned.
As Ichabod towels off, a question presents itself: What would the lieutenant think about the prospect of being man and wife?
He tries to put the question out of his mind, but he can't help trying to guess her response. It preoccupies him during their commute, and by the time they pull into the police station parking lot, he's come to an unsettling realization: He would be hurt if she found the idea of marrying him unpleasant.
Which is silly. He and Grace Abigail Mills had been brought together to save the world from unprecedented evil, not to wed.
But their imaginary marriage had seemed absolutely real. Right.
"Marriage is difficult on the best day. Without trust, without honesty, how can a union between two people hope to survive?"
It feels as if a lifetime has passed since Ichabod pondered those words aloud.
"I trust the lieutenant with my life," he thinks to himself. "And she is unfailingly honest with me."
But it's more than that.
She makes him better.
More resolute. Stronger. Braver.
As Abbie puts the car in park, Ichabod looks over at her. His eyes are bright and a smile is playing on his lips.
Abbie doesn't know quite what to make of this.
"I thought I'd lost you. All you've done since we left the cabin is stare out the window. To be honest, it's kinda freaking me out," she says with a faint smile.
"Oh, I didn't mean to alarm you, Lieutenant. I've been contemplating—"
He pauses, trying to find the right word.
"Possibilities."