The Things We Don't Discuss
Title: The Things We Don't Discuss
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Abbie Mills, Ichabod Crane (Ichabbie)
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Explicit sex.
Summary:
In which Abbie nearly lost her rug piece, and Ichabod tries to make amends. (Angst and smut. Post-Sin Eater.)
The Things We Don't Discuss
The Horseman will come. People will die. The world will end.
There is, therefore, really not enough time for Lieutenant Mills to shove Ichabod Crane onto the couch in Sheriff Corbin's (or is it his?) cabin and order him not to twitch a toe or she'll 'smack him upside the head.' Ichabod is still learning his modern colloquialisms, but the meaning of that statement comes across quite clearly, and so he sits meekly still as she starts rifling through the cabinets in search of whatever it is that matters so very much even in the face of the apocalypse.
Guilt aside, he is somewhat grateful for the opportunity to sit and rest. He did almost die this evening.
A crash sounds in the kitchen, and Miss Mills spouts something vulgar. The fox-hunting nobleman that still flutters through his blood disdains such unladylike behavior, but the Ichabod Crane of the here and now has to admit that his fellow Witness curses beautifully. She would have been a credit to the regiment; the soldiers would have followed her diminuitive-but-never-small self into war as she shouted down the enemy for failing to shoot their muskets across home plate at the correct height between the letters of the uniform and the knees of the trousers. The coldest Hessian would flee in the face of her wrath, but at what point would they be considered 'safe'? The logic of the game still eluded--
The slap takes him completely by surprise, and nearly knocks him to his side. He opens his eyes -- when did he close them? -- and blinks up at Miss Mills. For such a short woman, she's cultivated an immense talent for looming. "Don't you dare go to sleep," she says.
"I wasn't," he lies. Poorly.
She clenches and unclenches her fingers, as though longing to strike him again. "No sleeping," she tells him. "None. Not until I say you can. You don't even blink without my permission, got it?"
Ichabod tries to smile. "Will I be forced to consume more of that energy drink, Lieutenant?"
"I will shove an IV in your arm and pump you full of concentrated Red Bull if that's what it takes, Crane."
"I actually rather believe that a period of repose would be the most beneficial treatment for a near-death--"
"Near-suicide, you mean."
Ichabod frowns. Miss Mills is backlit by one of the electric lamps, which makes it impossible to read her expression. "You're angry with me."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You were not angry with me an hour ago."
"Yeah, well, I've decided to deal with this in stages. The last stage was the one where I was thrilled you weren't dead. This stage is the one where I decide whether to kill you myself."
"I see."
"Got a problem with that?"
"I do, yes."
"Tough."
Ichabod can see her trembling as she stands before him. Shock. She's in shock. He saw it enough on the battlefield. "Sit down," he suggests, scooting aside to make room.
"I don't want to sit down. I want to knock your teeth out with my nightstick."
"I would rather you not."
"I didn't plan on asking your permission first."
"Of course."
"You killed yourself, Crane."
"Yes."
"You swallowed poison."
"It was for the greater good."
That eminently reasonable statement earns him another smack on his cheek, harder this time; his teeth clack and he tastes blood on his tongue. "You don't get to talk to me about the greater good right now. I'm too fucking pissed off for that bullshit."
"Understood."
"No you don't understand!" she shrieks. "You're my rug piece and you were just going to off yourself! You don't get to do that, Crane! You don't!"
Rug piece?
Ichabod fervently wishes he knew the appropriate response to his partner's behavior; overwrought females (and how she would react to being called such) have never been his forte. Battle hysteria -- which this most closely resembles -- he could help with, but it's unlikely Miss Mills would appreciate being dunked in the lake at present.
So he says: "I apologize, Lieutenant." Then he thinks better of it, and corrects: "Abbie."
A censuring "You're out of coffee" is her only answer. As though this is as great a blemish on his soul as having nearly killed himself before her very eyes.
(He did tell her not to watch. She's the one who stayed to hold his hand. As though he wanted her to live through that. Except he did; he didn't want to be alone; he can be as selfish as anyone else.)
Even if it's only shock, even if the rationality that makes her so inestimable will return within the hour, Ichabod is about to offer anything she asks -- no matter how unreasonable -- if it will only repair their temporary rift.
But he does not get the chance, because before he can think -- before he can process, and he can process quickly -- she unzips the front of her trousers (jeans, they're called jeans) and pushes them down with a delicious little shimmy, revealing smooth dark skin that somehow manages to shine in the lamplight. In a heartbeat all that remains is a triangle of cloth that cannot be considered clothing by any civilized society. She is, for all intents and purposes, nude from the waist down.
"Ah," says Ichabod.
"Yep," says Abbie.
"This," says Ichabod, "is not precisely what I--"
"I know," says Abbie. "Too bad."
Then she kisses him. She kisses him with accusation. In retribution. And, oh, how Ichabod wishes the way he grabs her waist and pulls her down is a distant act, meant only to provide her with comfort and reassurance. Or even to provide himself with comfort and reassurance.
It is not.
"I am furious with you," she tells him. Sitting in this way -- strong thighs straddling his hips, knees sinking into the faded cushions of the poorly-constructed couch -- they are nearly the same height. "Don't think this means I'm not."
"The notion never occurred to me," Ichabod says honestly.
"Good." She pulls away slightly, and for a moment he thinks that is it (that is all) until her hands slide under his coat and her mouth comes to the crook of his neck with a purpose that cannot be mistaken, not even by someone who has not experienced carnal relations in literal centuries (and he is feeling every year of them).
He is married, he remembers; he is married, and oh, God, what would Katrina think of him now.
Still, he is only a man, and there is a warm, willing, determined woman settling her weight against his groin with a point and purpose. He finds his own hands pushing up the back of her chemise -- no, shirt, he reminds himself, they wear shirts and trousers, they wear and do as pleases them, wonderful and unsettling as that is -- and discovers bare skin hot and smooth to the touch of his fingertips, then his palms. She is Lieutenant Grace Abigail Mills, who ought not be rutted half-naked on a threadbare piece of furniture like some common doxy.
HIs hands slide down to the curve of her backside.
Abbie groans. "Crane," she says, fingers beginning to pluck at his belt, "I'm not going to fuck you while you're wearing that damn coat."
(That one's unmarried state no longer bears connection to a woman's virginity is one of the more difficult concepts to which Ichabod has had to acclimate, and certainly among the most awkward conversations he has had with his fellow Witness. He learned at once that his opinion on the matter was neither relevant nor welcomes, but he has been quite unable to stop himself from causing Detective Morales discomfort whenever it is within his power to do so.)
He struggles out of his coat. She pulls her shirt over her head in response, and though he has seen the dip of her navel and the swell of her breasts, it's a bit different when they're not about to be stung by scorpions. Unable to resist (unwilling to resist), he leans forward to bury his face in her soft flesh. "That's better," she moans as he begins to suckle through the thin cloth of her remaining garment.
Battle shock. "It occurs to me," he says against her skin (words slightly muffled), "that you may not be in the ideal frame of mind for this... activity."
"Did I ask you about my frame of mind, Crane?"
"I suppose not." As her deft hands return to his trousers, he manages to say: "We are past the point of formality, wouldn't you agree?"
"Huh?"
"You can call me Ichabod."
Abbie pauses. "No," she says after a moment, "I really don't think I can." The final button gives way, and Ichabod's head falls back as she palms his erection with unsettling skill. "Now shut up, because I don't want to listen to anything else you have to say."
It's a difficult order to obey. Ichabod prefers to have the last word. In everything.
Except her mouth meets his again and objections die.
Every last inch of Lieutenant Mills is hot, as though she burns with the life of someone twice her size. Sshe continues to work him with fervor, and then his hands are as busy as hers: seeking, stroking, soothing in their own way. She moans and sighs beneath his touch, and embarrassingly (it has been a long time, but he is not an untried youth, after all) he cannot stop himself from bucking into her hand.
He blushes. She smirks. This is the way of them.
But her eagerness matches his. He worries at the base of her throat, and is more than willing to give her the attention she deserves -- the attention any gentleman owes a lady during these moments -- but he is denied the opportunity when, nudging that little scrap of fabric to the side, she lowers herself onto him in the same firm, abrupt, no-nonsense way that she does everything in her life.
Ichabod's eidetic brain shuts down. War and monsters and poison and two hundred years in the cold earth, but he is still alive, still a man, and Warm. Soft. Wet.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," she says, leaning forward, breath hot against his throat. Her hips rock against his lap; he's so deep he swears he can feel her heartbeat against his member. "Not ever, do you understand?"
"I do," he murmurs, hands splayed against her back. Another sin to be eaten. "And I will not."
It is a lie, of course. But sometimes there is nothing to do but lie.
After, once they have pulled apart and straightened their clothing, there seems nothing to say. But silence is unacceptable (he has always found it to be so) and he begins: "Miss Mills, I am truly--"
"Don't," she says curtly. She has rearranged her slightly mussed hair in the mirror, and the flush that added a tinge of red to her cheekbones has faded. She is the same as ever. "You're you, I'm me, we have things to do. That about cover it?"
No. "Yes."
"Good. It's done now, so there's no reason to talk about it again. Right?"
No. "Right."
"Good. Are we done here?"
No. "Of course."
"Good. See you tomorrow." She leaves him without a backward glance, and Ichabod spends a sleepless night forgetting (or rather pretending he has not failed to do so) because his fellow Witness is right. As she so often is.
They have things to do.
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Abbie Mills, Ichabod Crane (Ichabbie)
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Explicit sex.
Summary:
In which Abbie nearly lost her rug piece, and Ichabod tries to make amends. (Angst and smut. Post-Sin Eater.)
The Things We Don't Discuss
The Horseman will come. People will die. The world will end.
There is, therefore, really not enough time for Lieutenant Mills to shove Ichabod Crane onto the couch in Sheriff Corbin's (or is it his?) cabin and order him not to twitch a toe or she'll 'smack him upside the head.' Ichabod is still learning his modern colloquialisms, but the meaning of that statement comes across quite clearly, and so he sits meekly still as she starts rifling through the cabinets in search of whatever it is that matters so very much even in the face of the apocalypse.
Guilt aside, he is somewhat grateful for the opportunity to sit and rest. He did almost die this evening.
A crash sounds in the kitchen, and Miss Mills spouts something vulgar. The fox-hunting nobleman that still flutters through his blood disdains such unladylike behavior, but the Ichabod Crane of the here and now has to admit that his fellow Witness curses beautifully. She would have been a credit to the regiment; the soldiers would have followed her diminuitive-but-never-small self into war as she shouted down the enemy for failing to shoot their muskets across home plate at the correct height between the letters of the uniform and the knees of the trousers. The coldest Hessian would flee in the face of her wrath, but at what point would they be considered 'safe'? The logic of the game still eluded--
The slap takes him completely by surprise, and nearly knocks him to his side. He opens his eyes -- when did he close them? -- and blinks up at Miss Mills. For such a short woman, she's cultivated an immense talent for looming. "Don't you dare go to sleep," she says.
"I wasn't," he lies. Poorly.
She clenches and unclenches her fingers, as though longing to strike him again. "No sleeping," she tells him. "None. Not until I say you can. You don't even blink without my permission, got it?"
Ichabod tries to smile. "Will I be forced to consume more of that energy drink, Lieutenant?"
"I will shove an IV in your arm and pump you full of concentrated Red Bull if that's what it takes, Crane."
"I actually rather believe that a period of repose would be the most beneficial treatment for a near-death--"
"Near-suicide, you mean."
Ichabod frowns. Miss Mills is backlit by one of the electric lamps, which makes it impossible to read her expression. "You're angry with me."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You were not angry with me an hour ago."
"Yeah, well, I've decided to deal with this in stages. The last stage was the one where I was thrilled you weren't dead. This stage is the one where I decide whether to kill you myself."
"I see."
"Got a problem with that?"
"I do, yes."
"Tough."
Ichabod can see her trembling as she stands before him. Shock. She's in shock. He saw it enough on the battlefield. "Sit down," he suggests, scooting aside to make room.
"I don't want to sit down. I want to knock your teeth out with my nightstick."
"I would rather you not."
"I didn't plan on asking your permission first."
"Of course."
"You killed yourself, Crane."
"Yes."
"You swallowed poison."
"It was for the greater good."
That eminently reasonable statement earns him another smack on his cheek, harder this time; his teeth clack and he tastes blood on his tongue. "You don't get to talk to me about the greater good right now. I'm too fucking pissed off for that bullshit."
"Understood."
"No you don't understand!" she shrieks. "You're my rug piece and you were just going to off yourself! You don't get to do that, Crane! You don't!"
Rug piece?
Ichabod fervently wishes he knew the appropriate response to his partner's behavior; overwrought females (and how she would react to being called such) have never been his forte. Battle hysteria -- which this most closely resembles -- he could help with, but it's unlikely Miss Mills would appreciate being dunked in the lake at present.
So he says: "I apologize, Lieutenant." Then he thinks better of it, and corrects: "Abbie."
A censuring "You're out of coffee" is her only answer. As though this is as great a blemish on his soul as having nearly killed himself before her very eyes.
(He did tell her not to watch. She's the one who stayed to hold his hand. As though he wanted her to live through that. Except he did; he didn't want to be alone; he can be as selfish as anyone else.)
Even if it's only shock, even if the rationality that makes her so inestimable will return within the hour, Ichabod is about to offer anything she asks -- no matter how unreasonable -- if it will only repair their temporary rift.
But he does not get the chance, because before he can think -- before he can process, and he can process quickly -- she unzips the front of her trousers (jeans, they're called jeans) and pushes them down with a delicious little shimmy, revealing smooth dark skin that somehow manages to shine in the lamplight. In a heartbeat all that remains is a triangle of cloth that cannot be considered clothing by any civilized society. She is, for all intents and purposes, nude from the waist down.
"Ah," says Ichabod.
"Yep," says Abbie.
"This," says Ichabod, "is not precisely what I--"
"I know," says Abbie. "Too bad."
Then she kisses him. She kisses him with accusation. In retribution. And, oh, how Ichabod wishes the way he grabs her waist and pulls her down is a distant act, meant only to provide her with comfort and reassurance. Or even to provide himself with comfort and reassurance.
It is not.
"I am furious with you," she tells him. Sitting in this way -- strong thighs straddling his hips, knees sinking into the faded cushions of the poorly-constructed couch -- they are nearly the same height. "Don't think this means I'm not."
"The notion never occurred to me," Ichabod says honestly.
"Good." She pulls away slightly, and for a moment he thinks that is it (that is all) until her hands slide under his coat and her mouth comes to the crook of his neck with a purpose that cannot be mistaken, not even by someone who has not experienced carnal relations in literal centuries (and he is feeling every year of them).
He is married, he remembers; he is married, and oh, God, what would Katrina think of him now.
Still, he is only a man, and there is a warm, willing, determined woman settling her weight against his groin with a point and purpose. He finds his own hands pushing up the back of her chemise -- no, shirt, he reminds himself, they wear shirts and trousers, they wear and do as pleases them, wonderful and unsettling as that is -- and discovers bare skin hot and smooth to the touch of his fingertips, then his palms. She is Lieutenant Grace Abigail Mills, who ought not be rutted half-naked on a threadbare piece of furniture like some common doxy.
HIs hands slide down to the curve of her backside.
Abbie groans. "Crane," she says, fingers beginning to pluck at his belt, "I'm not going to fuck you while you're wearing that damn coat."
(That one's unmarried state no longer bears connection to a woman's virginity is one of the more difficult concepts to which Ichabod has had to acclimate, and certainly among the most awkward conversations he has had with his fellow Witness. He learned at once that his opinion on the matter was neither relevant nor welcomes, but he has been quite unable to stop himself from causing Detective Morales discomfort whenever it is within his power to do so.)
He struggles out of his coat. She pulls her shirt over her head in response, and though he has seen the dip of her navel and the swell of her breasts, it's a bit different when they're not about to be stung by scorpions. Unable to resist (unwilling to resist), he leans forward to bury his face in her soft flesh. "That's better," she moans as he begins to suckle through the thin cloth of her remaining garment.
Battle shock. "It occurs to me," he says against her skin (words slightly muffled), "that you may not be in the ideal frame of mind for this... activity."
"Did I ask you about my frame of mind, Crane?"
"I suppose not." As her deft hands return to his trousers, he manages to say: "We are past the point of formality, wouldn't you agree?"
"Huh?"
"You can call me Ichabod."
Abbie pauses. "No," she says after a moment, "I really don't think I can." The final button gives way, and Ichabod's head falls back as she palms his erection with unsettling skill. "Now shut up, because I don't want to listen to anything else you have to say."
It's a difficult order to obey. Ichabod prefers to have the last word. In everything.
Except her mouth meets his again and objections die.
Every last inch of Lieutenant Mills is hot, as though she burns with the life of someone twice her size. Sshe continues to work him with fervor, and then his hands are as busy as hers: seeking, stroking, soothing in their own way. She moans and sighs beneath his touch, and embarrassingly (it has been a long time, but he is not an untried youth, after all) he cannot stop himself from bucking into her hand.
He blushes. She smirks. This is the way of them.
But her eagerness matches his. He worries at the base of her throat, and is more than willing to give her the attention she deserves -- the attention any gentleman owes a lady during these moments -- but he is denied the opportunity when, nudging that little scrap of fabric to the side, she lowers herself onto him in the same firm, abrupt, no-nonsense way that she does everything in her life.
Ichabod's eidetic brain shuts down. War and monsters and poison and two hundred years in the cold earth, but he is still alive, still a man, and Warm. Soft. Wet.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," she says, leaning forward, breath hot against his throat. Her hips rock against his lap; he's so deep he swears he can feel her heartbeat against his member. "Not ever, do you understand?"
"I do," he murmurs, hands splayed against her back. Another sin to be eaten. "And I will not."
It is a lie, of course. But sometimes there is nothing to do but lie.
After, once they have pulled apart and straightened their clothing, there seems nothing to say. But silence is unacceptable (he has always found it to be so) and he begins: "Miss Mills, I am truly--"
"Don't," she says curtly. She has rearranged her slightly mussed hair in the mirror, and the flush that added a tinge of red to her cheekbones has faded. She is the same as ever. "You're you, I'm me, we have things to do. That about cover it?"
No. "Yes."
"Good. It's done now, so there's no reason to talk about it again. Right?"
No. "Right."
"Good. Are we done here?"
No. "Of course."
"Good. See you tomorrow." She leaves him without a backward glance, and Ichabod spends a sleepless night forgetting (or rather pretending he has not failed to do so) because his fellow Witness is right. As she so often is.
They have things to do.