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There is no context or precedent for Ichabod Crane making bacon that morning in Abbie's kitchen.
She does the zombie-walk out of her bedroom still in pajamas (why wouldn't she be in pajamas, it's her damn apartment) and registers too late the heavy smell of something sizzling as a thing that she should be really, really confused about. But for some reason, she's not actually, actively confused for long, even though Crane's hotel is on the other side of town; it is a pain in the ass to pick him up every morning. Now he's doing the picking-up. Kind of.
Abbie shuffles up to the stool at the counter, folds herself into it, her elbows on the countertop. He doesn't turn.
"Crane," her voice creaks, exasperated in advance of her line of questioning. But his head does turn then, unsurprised, as naturally as if he belongs right there, in front of her stove. Abbie's shoulders sag. "Hi," she says, instead of asking.
He smiles, almost beatific. "Good morning, Lieutenant Mills," he says, poking gamely at whatever's sizzling away in the pan. He knows how to use stoves now. He hasn't burned the building down, and does not comment on what she's wearing.
Abbie scrubs a hand over her face. "How'd you figure out the stove?"
"We did have stoves, Lieutenant," he says, gentle enough that she realizes he's missing out on a rare instance where he can look at her like she might be kidding.
She blinks at him, slow, trying to be under-impressed. "And you cooked a lot, in the 1700s, because guys did that," she says.
Crane smiles again, half-shrugs. "When one is a soldier one does cook, yes," he says. "Often not on stovetop, I'll admit. Or with fresh meat and eggs. Though I make a fine pound cake, if I do say so myself. One handful each of dates, candied orange, a few spoonfuls of brandy—"
There's the moment where he twigs on to her staring at him, and he glances down, even though he's not-not smiling. "I learnt from my mother," he adds, apparently unabashed. Is he cooking eggs? She doesn't see a second pan.
"Great." Abbie leans, chin perched on hand. "I'll put that in your online dating profile."
"My what?"
She sighs again. "Nothing, I was—being an ass—" And does he smile again? He definitely does. "What are you doing here, Crane? How did you even get here?"
"The bus," he says.
"The bus."
He inclines his head, mouth scrunching. "The bus."
Abbie pushes her hair back. "All right, we need to teach you how to drive, 'cause public transport in Sleepy Hollow is fun for nobody."
"I have requested access to a horse."
"I know," Abbie says, as the request had passed over her desk because for some reason he didn't want to bother her with it, and then she needed to repeat it to the guy who was actually in charge of their mounted division, to his great amusement. And then, back to the real point, "But why are you here? And how'd you get in? Did you put the key back?"
"If you'll forgive me for saying, Lieutenant, your third question indicates some understanding of your second." Crane opens the oven; Abbie has to squint to see that the oven light is, in fact, on. What is he making? Oh, god, it smells amazing. But she blinks, refocuses, glares.
"Just answer me."
"Well," he says, straightening to push the oven's door closed, "I know that the inn where I stay is very inconvenient to you and your station. And I am also aware that if I want more than gratis.... pastries—" She doesn't know why free motel breakfasts should confound him more than television, but okay— "That it is a singular waste of resources, which is to say, money."
"Also that diner right there is awful," she says, making a face.
"Indeed." He picks up the pan, dishes the bacon to a plate ready for it (how long had he been here?), so delicately that she realizes he must be avoiding grease and she should tell him about paper towels. Later.
"And, yes," he goes on, "I did put the key back under the mat."
She looks at him, and then, after a moment, she smiles, too. He pulls open the oven and slides out a what the hell—
"Shirred eggs," he announces, putting the dish in front of her with the pride of a new father, "en cocotte, that will be the French style, and bacon." He wipes his hands with the towel he had used to get the dish out of the oven, grinning at her.
The smile has eased from her face. He takes it in stride.
"Shall we eat?" He turns, not needing to be told where her dishes are. There's a lot of quibbling to be had here, like, Did I order room service, or When did you even see that key, or—Abbie ducks her head.
"Thank you, Ichabod," she says. She doesn't usually bother with breakfast that's not cereal.
He sets a plate and fork down in front of her, which he would have whether she had thanked him or not, still with an attendant grin. "You are quite welcome."