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The grassy path to Frederick's Manor stretched before them. Abbie looked down at the ground, trying to absorb each blade of grass; the dull grey of the sky that perfectly matched her mood. The fate of the world hung literally in the balance, and never had the weight of such things prevailed so heavy on her.
As she might have said to Crane in the future: "What a drag."
As it was, she said nothing, and he walked steadfastly beside her. She wanted to reach out to him - to touch him. His hand, his arm, anything. She missed their casual touching, their banter, their general closeness.
But this Crane wasn't the one she knew. He was sterner. His steel backbone and iron will had been forged, at essence he was still her partner; just with little, different nuances. He was more formal, for sure. Straighter back. Military through and through. But despite that, despite years and years of training screaming at him to just let her hang, he hadn't.
He hadn't.
Due to their unshakeable bond. He didn't feel it, not really, but belief had curled around him, into him, until he'd bowed to its huge pressure and relented.
Finally he broke the background noise of their even footsteps on the grass. "And... what else, pray tell, do you know about me, in this future?"
She felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth at his speech. Sometimes it annoyed her, his archaic turn of phrase. But now it comforted her. Same old Crane. "You can't get enough of our modern food. Donut holes, for example."
"What the Devil is a donut hole?"
She chuckled. "That's what you thought at first. Now you love 'em. You love our appliances, too..." At his arched brow, she added, "Washing machines. They clean your clothes for you. And dishwashers - they clean your dishes and your cutlery."
He cleared his throat. "You neglected to tell me that bone idleness prevails in the future."
"Oh believe me, you do not see it like that in 2015. And it's not laziness - it's science." That's what Ben Franklin would say, she almost added, and then recalled that Ben Franklin was currently dead in this reality. She swallowed the words.
"And what of.... courtship? And marriage? Is it still as now?"
"Hardly." She smiled at the memory of Crane and Katrina - before she took on the cloak of evil - watching reality matchmaking TV. "People go out on dates that is, pre-planned outings together, for meals, and.. moving pictures."
"Moving pictures of themselves?"
"No - of other people."
"How curious. Perhaps... like a moving picture of a play?"
"Exactly." She glanced at him, his brow furrowed under the wide brim of his hat. How familiar he was to her. So close, and yet, so far away. She almost lifted her hand to touch his, hanging by his side, and then snapped it back. If she had thought about stretching the boundaries of their friendship into something hotter, something fiery, in the future, then Katrina's presence had stopped her.
And it should stop her now. They were a million miles apart, mentally, physically, and in time-
Crane stopped and turned to face her. Surprised, she mirrored him.
"This is an impertinent question."
She waited, meeting his gaze, looking into those bottomless azure eyes, eyes she knew so very well.
"I.... I find I am curious about us." He looked embarrassed, awkward. "Such as we are. In the future. You said Katrina was a good woman - a woman I loved. And after that. After her. Are we..." His gaze dropped to her mouth, and then darted away.
Abbie got his meaning loud and clear. For a cruel moment she considered lying. Yes. We are. We're everything to each other. But she could not, in good conscience. She would not lie to this man, whichever version of him she encountered.
"We're friends."
"And never more?"
"No." She hesitated, and then did reach out, her fingers brushing the lapels of his smart military coat. "At least, not yet."
He said nothing for a long moment. Abbie waited for him to scoff. To laugh in her face. Or worse, to show no reaction, to turn from her and walk away briskly. She hated it when he turned his back to her; to everything they were to each other.
Instead, he said, so softly the wind almost carried the words to nothingness: "If, as you say, we will meet with Miss Dixon and reverse the spell, then perhaps you will permit me this.... insubordination."
A thrill shot through her like lightning. "Crane... whatever you do now, I'll probably remember."
A wicked slant arched his brow. "Excellent."
And then he cupped her face and kissed her.
She'd expected gentle; proper. In his time, touching was something done behind closed doors, never in public, lest scorn would be gained.
This was not gentle. He assaulted her mouth, taking no quarter; giving none. He smelled of gunpowder, clean soap and the wool of his coat, and it was a heady fragrance. Abbie drank it in gladly. He tasted slightly of whiskey, and she licked her tongue into his mouth, pressing closer, a moan escaping her when he dropped one hand from her face and wrapped it around her waist, yanking her into the hard line of his body. She eased a hand under his coat to touch the coarse material of his shirt, spreading her fingers over his heart, feeling the staccato beat under her palm, erratic. Her own heart beat a very close tattoo.
With her other hand she knocked his hat off, desperate for him to look the way she knew him, and pulled at his hair until it fell loose around them, a curtain to hide them from this strange world. She stroked her palm down his jaw and savoured the scratch of his beard against her skin. She wanted this, wanted him to brand her so she'd never forget this beautiful interlude.
When their lips finally parted, Crane looked at her askance. "Miss Mills, I... God's wounds."
She stared back. "You're telling me."
It was a very good thing, Abbie thought as they continued walking by silent agreement, that he'd never remember any of this in 2015.
It would be her private burden to bear.