Chapter Text
Abbie watched with mildly veiled trepidation as Ichabod chugged down an entire pint of Bud Light. He slammed the empty glass onto the bar and used the back of his hand to wipe off his mouth. It was the first time she’d ever seen him act less than his usual proper self. That should have been the first warning sign.
“A little too light-bodied for my tastes,” Crane said, signaling to the bartender. “Perhaps something a bit stronger, my good man.”
Abbie’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling. It was going to be a long night. Nevertheless, she slid her bartender her debit card. “Put anything he orders on my tab,” she told him, hoping she wouldn’t live to regret it later.
She gripped her own pint of the IPA she liked and turned to lean against the bar. Ichabod copied her movement, now sipping at a darker ale, and surveyed the dingy, low lit bar.
“I suppose this establishment is what passes for public drinking houses now?” he asked, cringing slightly as a loud rock song broadcasted over the sound system.
A bubble of laughter made it’s way out of her mouth. Ichabod looked garishly out of place with his 18th century attire and rigid posture. A stray strobe light flashed nearby, making him blink rapidly until he looked away. He happened upon a couple making out vigorously in a corner, and his eyes widened in shock.
“Or perhaps more like a house of ill repute!” he said in a scandalized whisper to her. “Miss Mills, I am afraid this place is unsuitable for our social gathering. We should leave at once.”
“Calm down, Crane,” Abbie said easily. “I don’t like PDA anymore than you, but they’re not doing anything wrong.”
“PDA?” Ichabod echoed.
“Public display of affection,” Abbie explained.
Ichabod sniffed and averted his gaze. “No wonder the End of Days is upon us, what with things like pre-marital relations and improper conduct between couples in public being seen as acceptable.”
Abbie shook her head in mild amusement before turning her attention to where the sheriff’s department had taken over a couple of high top tables. Nearby, Luke and his partner Jones had converged on one of the bar’s pool tables. As if sensing her stare, Luke looked up from where he was racking up the balls. A smile broke out across his face and he waved her over. Abbie took a bigger swig of her beer, steeling herself.
“I never would have mistook you for needing liquid courage, Lieutenant,” Crane said, arching a mischievous eyebrow at her.
“What can I say, we all have our flaws,” she said, and left her partner to his own devices.
“Abbie, I was afraid you wouldn’t show up,” Luke said when she walked up, and Abbie rolled her eyes as he pulled her into a hug. Her arms wrapped around him automatically and she breathed in the familiar scent of his favorite cologne. It was a quick hug; Abbie didn’t want him getting too comfortable.
“And miss the opportunity to kick your ass at pool?” Abbie asked, setting her drink down and grabbing a pool stick.
“Oh ho, is that how you feel?” Luke laughed, giving her a challenging look.
“Uh huh,” Abbie said, a genuine smile on her face. She’d been hanging out at bars like this since she’d been in her late teens and had hustled quite a few macho men whose egos needed to be taken down a peg.
“Well, let’s see then,” Luke said, looking around him. “How about Jones and I against you and the Professor here?”
Ichabod had come to stand at her side, another full pint of beer in his hand, Abbie noticed. He appeared startled when he realized they were referring to him.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” he insisted, eyeing the pool table with considerable uneasiness.
“Why not?” Luke asked, a hard smile on his face. “Afraid you’ll lose?”
Abbie cringed as Ichabod predictably rose to his taunt, his gaze suddenly fixated on Luke’s.
“Quite the contrary, Detective,” Ichabod said. “I simply would not wish to embarrass you in front of your colleagues.”
The two men engaged in a silent battle of wills, while Abbie, who was thoroughly regretting this outing with every passing minute, gulped down half of her beer.
“Sounds like game on, then,” Jones said, shoving a pool stick at Luke in order to break up the mens’ pissing contest.
Luke took the pool stick grudgingly and, with a last dark look at Ichabod, walked over to the head of the pool table. Ichabod switched his gaze to Abbie who gave him a pointed look. He responded by averting his eyes and bringing his glass up to his lips.
“You have no idea how to play this game, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
Abbie sighed. “Okay, pay attention,” she told him, directing him to where Luke was about to break. “Look at his stance, the way he’s holding the stick. Make use of that eidetic memory of yours.”
Luke shot a nice clean break, managing to get a solid in one of the corner pockets.
“All right, so, he and Jones are solids, and you and I are stripes,” she explained. “The goal of the game is to use the white ball, or the cue ball, to hit your assigned balls into the pockets.”
“Seems simple enough,” Ichabod said, watching intently as Luke sunk another ball. Luke moved to hit another one, and Ichabod cocked his head. “Why does he not try to hit that black ball in?”
“That’s another part of the game,” Abbie said. “You only want to sink the 8-ball in when you’ve sunk all your other ball. If either team hits it in before then, they lose.”
Ichabod nodded before draining the rest of his drink. “Shall I procure you another?” he asked, gesturing to her own empty glass.
“Uh, sure, procure away,” she said, and he flitted back to the bar, reappearing momentarily with two foaming pints. “Thanks.”
Luke missed the next shot, making it Abbie’s turn. “Watch the master work,” she said, tossing a playful look at Ichabod whose lips twisted into a smile.
She caught Luke watching their exchange with an irritated look on his face as she lined up her shot, but chose to ignore him and focus instead on putting the 11-ball in the side pocket. There was a sharp crack as the cue ball knocked into the red striped ball, and then the sound of it falling to the pocket. Abbie shot a smug smile Luke’s way and sidled around the table to look for next shot. This one would be a bit more difficult as she had to bank the cue ball off of one wall in order to hit the 13-ball in. She bent low over the table, squinting with her eyes, pushing the cue stick back and forth between her fingers, before enacting a quick thrust that sent one ball into the other and then into the pocket.
“Excellent shot, Miss Mills!” Ichabod said excitedly. “Exquisitely executed!”
Abbie felt her cheeks warm at his effusive praise. “Thanks, Crane,” she said, shifting around to make her next shot.
Unfortunately, the 8 ball blocked any plausible shot, so when none of their striped balls went in, she was forced to concede the table to Jones.
“Think you can pick it up?” Abbie asked, returning to Ichabod’s side.
“I shall do my very best,” he said, solemnly.
Jones was a pretty decent player and managed to sing three more solids, leaving only two of his and Luke’s balls left. Finally, it was Crane’s turn. Her fellow Witness stepped up to the table, took the offered pool stick, and surveyed his options, which, unfortunately, were few. He settled on the blue striped 12-ball, which was being blocked by several other balls but was closest to a pocket. Abbie showed him how to use the chalk on the pool stick before he moved to get into position.
“He’s never going to make that shot,” Luke muttered to Jones with a smirk.
Hearing his audible remark, Crane peered in his direction, cocking his head. “Care to make a little wager, sir?”
“Uh, Crane,” Abbie started. Crane didn’t have any money, where did he get off making a bet with hers? But Ichabod only gave her one of his intense looks that said, ‘Trust me.’ It didn’t escape her notice the slight sheen that had come over his eyes. She vaguely wondered when the last time he’d eaten was. Hopefully, he wasn’t a lightweight.
“If I make this shot, you will buy the next round of spirits for our party,” Crane said, gesturing to the four of them at the pool table. “If I happen to miss, I will be required to do so.”
“You’re on,” Luke said, smirk having long since faded away.
A part of her knew that she should have protested this. It was pretty high handed of Crane to put up her money without even asking her, especially without even asking her, especially when he hadn’t known what the game Pool was about twenty minutes prior, let alone how to play. She sigh, chugged down some of her beer, and prepared to put four more on her tab.
But then something rather remarkable happened. Crane bent over the table with perfect form and lined up his pool stick with the cue ball, hands and fingers placed precisely so, and the three of them watched in amazement as, with one sharp jab of the cue stick, the cue ball bounced off the three adjacent walls before cleanly knocking the 12-ball right into the pocket.
“Ho!” Jones called, slapping Luke good-naturedly on the back. His partner’s mouth was half open in shock.
“Woo!” Abbie let out, torn between awe and exasperation. Of course, Crane would be some sort of pool prodigy. She was beginning to realize that he was one of those people who was annoyingly good at everything they did.
Ichabod straightened up, his lips turned up in a satisfied smile. “I’ve become rather fond of this ale, Detective. I believe the barman called it Newcastle?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Luke grumbled, pushing past them on his way to the bar.
Abbie couldn’t help rolling her eyes at his immaturity. He was being an even sorer loser tonight than usual, and she knew exactly why.
“How did you do that?” Abbie asked Ichabod, coming next to him where he was looking for his next shot.
“It only took me a few minutes to understand that this is but a game of angles,” he said, his tone irritatingly superior-sounding. He was pleased with himself and doing a poor job of hiding it. “After that, it was only a matter of strategically choosing which balls to go for.”
He bent over the table again and within the span of time Luke was gone, managed to not only sink two more balls in, but effectively block any shot for their opponents.
“Not bad, Crane,” Abbie said, momentarily forgetting who she was dealing with and holding her hand up for a high five.
To his credit, Ichabod looked cross-eyed at her hand for only a moment, before taking it delicately in his own, turning it over, bowing at the waist, and kissing the back of it. She was so mesmerized by the foreignness of his lips on the back of her palm that she remained frozen in place even after he returned to being upright.
“Praise indeed coming from you, Miss Mills,” he said, seemingly oblivious to her shock.
Coughing uncomfortably, Abbie removed her hand from his grip, trying to ignore both the giddy school girl feeling his action had evoked inside her and the glowering look she could feel coming from what was surely Luke’s direction. Flustered, and trying to regain what dignity she could, she casually smoothed down her hair and took a sip of her drink.
“Remind me to show you what a high five is another day, Crane,” she said, looking anywhere but him.
Such was Ichabod’s smugness that he didn’t seem to hear her. “I believe it is your turn Detective,” he said, his hand cupping a full pint of beer. Was it just her or was there a slight slur to his words? How many beers had he had now?
All the good humor Luke had had at the beginning of the game seemed to have left him. He was playing to win, and they watched as he sank the last of his and Devon’s balls in rapid succession. Only the 8-ball was left now, and to top it all off, it was an easy straight on shot.
“You’ve got it, bro,” Jones encouraged.
“What was that you said before about kicking my ass, Abs?” Luke asked her, lining up his shot.
She made a face at him, but said nothing. The game was all but over. At least she and Crane had put up a good fight. Something completely unexpected happened then, however. Luke, overly confident about the easiness of his shot, hit the cue ball too hard, and when the 8-ball dropped into the pocket, the cue ball shortly followed.
“Shit!” Luke cursed, chucking his pool stick on the table. Behind him, his partner hung his head with a groan.
Abbie on the other hand cheered in victory, raising her arms above her head. Crane’s eyes darted around in alarm.
“What is it?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“Luke scratched,” she told him. “If you scratch while trying to hit the 8-ball in, you lose, so we won!”
“Oh, excellent,” Crane said, his expression clearing. He held up his glass to hers. “Cheers, Miss Mills.”
They clinked glasses, exchanging smiles, and were rudely interrupted by a disgruntled Luke.
“You guys only won by default,” he snarled. “I say rematch.”
“Dude, they won fair and square,” Jones said, trying to smooth things over.
“And there’s no way they’ll win a second time,” Luke said, glaring at Ichabod. “Come on, Crane, what’ve you got to lose?”
Ichabod opened his mouth to respond, but Abbie had had enough at this point. Luke was not a rude person by nature, and yet he’d been nothing but to Crane since he’d appeared in Sleepy Hollow. She had to figure out what was up with him.
“Luke, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked pointedly.
“Abbie--,”
“I’m not going to ask twice,” she said, giving him a no-nonsense look.
Ichabod hid a smile behind his glass as she passed by him on her way to the bar, Luke following reluctantly behind her. Setting her empty glass down once they got there, she whirled on him, prepared to give him a dressing down that would make his instructors at the police academy jealous.
“What is your problem?” she asked him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luke said, bringing his beer up to his mouth.
Abbie grabbed it out of his hand and set it on the bar. “Cut it out, Luke,” she said. “I’ve had just about enough of your attitude these last few weeks---Buh, buh, buh,” Abbie interrupted herself, seeing him about to protest. “I’m not talking about with me, I’m talking about with Crane. Just admit it. You’ve got a problem with him.”
Luke averted his gaze uneasily and adopted what Abbie deemed a pout on his lips. Aha! So, she had been reading him right all along. Normally, patience wasn’t her strongest suit, but she waited for him to say something and wasn’t disappointed.
“Just tell me you two aren’t together,” Luke said quietly.
To say that Abbie was taken aback was an understatement. She was so surprised that it completely slipped her mind to tell him to mind his own business, and instead she blurted out, “Me and Crane? No, no, no, no. No.”
She laughed out loud because the idea was absurd, wasn’t it? Yes, Crane was her partner and she liked him well enough, and sure, she’d shared things with him that she’d never told anyone else, not even Corbin, and, of course, there was no denying that Crane’s charm and wit was endearing or that there was undoubtedly some sort of connection between them, but that didn’t mean they were together or ever could be. They had a job to do. Plus there was another thing.
“Crane-Crane’s married. We’re just friends.”
Luke let out a sigh of relief and slumped onto one of the bar stools. “I’ve been going crazy, Abs,” he said, “Seeing you with him all the time. I mean, look at it from my point of view. We break up, he shows up out of nowhere two weeks later, you decide you’re not going to Quantico, you two spend almost every waking moment together; what’s a guy supposed to think? To top it all off you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t,” she lied. She couldn’t deny any of things he’d said, and hearing him describe her actions in the last month plainly like that made them seem, well, crazy.
“You have, Abbie,” Luke said gently. “I just wish I knew why.”
“Miss Mills! Miss Mills, look!”
Ichabod was making his way over to where they were sitting. He held a bottle of beer in his hand and swayed on the spot as he came to a halt in front of her. Abbie eyed him in alarm.
“This beer, the gentleman manning the bar called it Sam Adams,” Crane babbled. “Remarkable! The Adams family was indeed involved in the brewing of beer, that much your generation seems to have gotten correct. Not many were privy to the fact, however, that Samuel himself was more of a maltster than a brewer having--,”
“I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Crane,” Abbie interrupted, trying not to laugh over her partner’s rambling. She made a tiny gesture between her and Morales.
Crane looked glassy eyes from her to Luke. “Ah, my apologies, Miss Mills,” he said, bowing his head to both of them and in the process, tipping over some of the contents of the beer bottle he was clutching. He didn’t seem to notice as he made to leave. “As you were.”
He swaggered back towards the pool table, tripping over his own boots more than once, Abbie noticed. She shook her head with a smile, and turned to find Luke watching her with a soft look on his face. He brought his hand up suddenly and caressed her cheek with his fingers, and the lucidity of his eyes told her that maybe he wasn’t as drunk as she’d thought he’d been.
“I remember when I used to make you smile like that.”
His hand was warm and familiar cupping her face, and Abbie couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Maybe it was because she also remembered how easily he had been able to spark a smirk or a grin from her, how the laughter had bubbled freely from her mouth in his presence. Had it been only a few months ago that they’d been cooking together in her apartment and he’d somehow managed to set off her smoke detectors? She hadn’t been able to stop laughing and their friends at the fire department hadn’t let that one go for the whole summer. Their relationship had been one of fun nights drinking and dancing, intimate dinner dates out, and long, passionate nights in, and, just maybe, it had ended too soon.
“Luke…”
She hadn’t changed; she was still the same as she had ever been, and yet her world had been turned upside since Corbin’s death and Crane’s resurrection. She and Crane had been battling supernatural monsters and demons for only a month, and how many more did they have to go? Too many to count. She didn’t have time for a relationship, even a half-hearted one. And that was the last thing she wanted for Luke who deserved nothing but the best.
“I should probably get Crane home,” Abbie said, pulling away from him to survey the bar. Back at the pool table, Crane was sloppily attempting to hit the cue ball, but kept missing and hitting the other balls around him. A few of her fellow officers were trying and failing to hide their laughter as they watched him. Abbie pursed her lips. “He doesn’t seem to be holding his liquor very well.”
“Come on, Abs, don’t leave,” Luke pleaded, standing up. “Look, I still owe you a drink from before. Stay for one more.”
“Can’t, I’m driving,” she told him, with an apologetic shrug.
“What’re you, his personal chauffeur?” Luke asked sourly, slumping back onto his stool. “You’d think an Oxford professor would be a little less codependent.”
Abbie gave him an unamused look and turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Luke.”
“Abbie--,”
She left him there at the bar despite his plea for her to come back. She didn’t want to have to ice him out, but what else could she do? She had to keep him at arm’s length, if only for the reason that it would help him keep his head.