"Crane, will you marry me?"

Crane startled, the book he was paging through tumbling out of his hands, as he stood up and smoothed a hand down his coat. Abbie struggled to keep a straight face.

"Lieutenant - that is, Abbie - while I believe I have proven my affinity to you, both as a partner and, I dare say, as I friend, and though my relationship with Katrina ended over a year ago, the acrimonious way in which we parted has made me disinterested in the institution of marriage for the time being. Though I confess that if I was ready to once again pledge a lifelong commitment to anyone, it would be you, with whom I have shared so much. Your bravery, resilience and cleverness are all fine attributes that recommend you, as well as - ahem...you are, of course - if you'll permit my candor - extremely physically pleasing -"

"Ok!" Abbie said, throwing up her hands to stop Crane's stilted monologue before he could continue in further detail. She had expected some horrified sputtering on his part, not this earnest description of all her good qualities. The sincerity in his expression made her feel guilty even as she grew warm at his frank praise.

"Well, this is as funny as I thought it would be," Jenny said with a smirk from where she was leaning against a tall wooden bookcase.

Crane glanced back and forth between Abbie and her sister and rolled his eyes with a huff.

"Oh, I see. So this was another twenty-first century joke that I've failed to comprehend?" he asked as he sat back down.

Abbie cleared her throat. "No," she said, mentally shaking off her awkwardness. "Well, a little. We're going undercover."

"As a married couple," Crane surmised. "And what den of villainy are we meant to infiltrate with this ruse?"

Abbie slapped the flier in her hand down on the table in front of him. He picked it up and frowned. "'Randall's Bowling Alley and Arcade hosts an adult couples' bowling league every Tuesday, 7PM, spots available.'"

"Over the last three weeks, three people have been mysteriously attacked in the alley behind Randall's. All alive, but they can't remember a thing. Each of them was found unconscious in the alley, relatively unharmed, except for this." Abbie placed the police photo of the most recent victim on the table. It showed the man's chest, and the dark black and blue bruising over his heart. "They've all reported feeling sluggish for days afterward. And every attack happened…"

"On a Tuesday," Crane concluded. "This looks like it could be some sort of dark magic, draining a person's life force."

Jenny chimed in. "Yeah, and that kind of energy siphoning has serious long term consequences for the people affected. Depending on what was taken, we're talking potentially twenty or thirty years off of their lives."

"All three victims played in the couples' bowling league. Two men, one woman," Abbie added.

"And so for Tuesday, you become my betrothed, and we try to discover who may be doing this and why," Crane said.

"Already signed us up," Abbie said.

"And what about you, Miss Jenny? Will you be joining us as well?" he asked.

Jenny unzipped her jacket and pulled it open to reveal her Randall's t-shirt and name tag in the shape of a bowling pin. "My first shift starts in forty-five minutes."

"Ah, I see. Well then, Lieutenant, it looks as though you and I have become Mr. and Mrs. Ichabod and Abigail Cr - "

"Mills," Abbie finished with a grin.

"Wha - oh, as you wish," Crane said, then added sullenly, "Ichabod Mills is a ridiculous name."

"I agree, though not for the reasons you think," Abbie said. "That's why I'm Abbie and you're Jeffrey."

Crane sputtered. "Jeffrey! Of all the indignities…!"

"And I'm taking you clothes shopping," she added.

"No, absolutely not," Crane said, pushing himself back to his feet in obvious indignation. "On this matter, I'm putting my foot down. You and I have been down this path before, with terrible consequences."

"Oh really?" Jenny asked, sounding interested.

"Crane, I wouldn't call making you try on some skinny jeans a 'terrible consequence'," Abbie argued.

"Oh really," Jenny repeated with a tilt of her eyebrow and a suggestive onceover up and down the long length of Crane's body.

Crane folded his arms over his chest and glared. "If you'll excuse me, you weren't the one who had to experience the…confinement of certain areas, which I can assure you was nearly unbearable."

Abbie pulled her mind away from that image and steered the conversation back on track. "Look, Crane, last time was my mistake. I thought modern clothes would help you acclimate to this century, and I was wrong. Lesson learned, and I've long since accepted that I'd be spending most of my time with a guy who looks like an extra from The Patriot -"

"That infernal film and its inaccuracies," Crane muttered.

"-But," Abbie continued, ignoring him, "for this, you need to blend in and look like a normal guy, and you can't do that while wearing a…I don't even know, what is that thing called?" She gestured at the weird tie fastened around his throat.

"A neck stock."

"While wearing a neck stock."

Crane looked as though he planned to argue for a moment, before giving in with a long sigh. "I suppose that makes sense, though I insist on being allowed to pick my own clothing this time."

"Deal," Abbie said. She'd just veto anything that made him look crazy.

"Excellent," Crane said. "Now onto more important matters: what is this 'couples' bowling' exactly?"

"Speaking of indignities," Jenny said with relish, "wait until you see the shoes."

"I'm finding the abundance of choices overwhelming." Crane held up a pair of camouflage cargo pants. "Do people often need to conceal themselves in such a manner?"

"It's a style," Abbie responded. They'd been walking around the store for less than an hour, but she was already getting a headache.

"And what does one hold in pockets this deep?" he asked as he stuck his arm inside one experimentally. "The act of retrieval would be most inconvenient."

"Guys who wear those pants? Probably skin mags and beef jerky."

"I can tell by your tone that this particular style doesn't meet with your approval." He held them up a moment more and then put them back on the rack. "Nor mine, if I'm honest."

Abbie would have been more relieved if he hadn't already made the same declaration about corduroy pants, Hawaiian shirts, anything with a Nike logo, for some reason, bandannas, hockey jerseys and the color orange.

"The jeans are against the back wall, those are your best bet." When he shot her a dubious look, she added, "They don't have to be skinny jeans. There are other kinds."

"I suppose it's worth a try," he conceded. "It certainly couldn't be worse than this assault on the senses."

"Great, let's go," she said, gesturing towards the wall of jeans in the back corner.

"I'll remind you that this was your idea, Lieutenant," he responded crisply.

"I know, I know, just - let's get this show on the road already."

For an exhausting twenty minutes of her life that she would never get back, she watched as Crane inspected types and colors of jeans.

Finally, he held up a pair and said, "I believe that these 'dark wash, casual fit denims' appear to be the least offensive."

"Fantastic," Abbie said. "Grab a few different sizes and you can see which one fits." She made a turn and looked at the racks surrounding them before grabbing a charcoal grey v-neck henley and holding it up for him to see. "What about this shirt? It's simple enough."

Crane scrutinized it a moment before nodding. "It will do."

She gave him a nudge. "Changing rooms are that way."

Sitting on a bench outside of Crane's changing room, Abbie checked her phone and found a text message from Jenny waiting for her.

Jenny (2:17:56): How's the shopping trip?
You (2:46:32): Almost over, finally.

She thumbed off her phone and looked up at the closed door. "How's it going in there, Crane?"

"These are a significant improvement over skinny jeans."

She snorted to herself at the derision and distaste in his voice, remembering the awkward way he'd waddled around the one time she'd made him try them on. "Well, get out here then."

"Just another moment."

Her phone buzzed letting her know that Jenny had replied. She swiped across the screen to unlock it when the door opened.

Looking up, Abbie first saw his long legs in the jeans he'd chosen, fitted around the thighs, but nowhere near as tight as the dreaded skinny variety. The shirt, on the other hand, definitely was tight, clinching around his slim waist and chest. He'd already pushed the sleeves up past his forearms, and as her gaze moved higher, it locked on his throat and shoulders. The snug material emphasized the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the v-neck collar - while similar to the one on his tunic - was stretched wide enough to accentuate his firm pectoral muscles. Abbie suddenly regretted picking out that shirt.

She would have had to have been blind all these years not to notice that Crane was attractive. Even with his goofy clothes and weird way of speaking, he had something about him, a certain gallantry. Dashing she'd call it, if pressed, but in an unreal way, like the hero in a fairy tale or a romance novel. This version of Crane though? Standing before her in a casual shirt and jeans? This version was one damn fine looking man, as real as they came.

"Considering my other options, I don't find these items entirely - Lieutenant?"

Abbie jerked her gaze up to Crane's face, where he had one bemused eyebrow raised. Focusing her eyes on a point somewhere over his shoulder, Abbie felt a hot rush of embarrassment and a spike of completely inappropriate and inconvenient arousal pulse through her. Licking suddenly dry lips, she said, "Yeah, you look fine. Get those, or we could put them back and keep looking for something else."

He didn't reply, and after a moment, Abbie forced herself to look back at him. Crane was watching her closely, his head tilted at an inquisitive angle. She clenched her hands at her sides to prevent her arms from crossing and giving away her discomfort.

"No," Crane spoke slowly, eyes still slowly assessing her. "I think this will do well enough. Perhaps I should procure more of these shirts in differing colors in the event that we encounter a similar situation in the future."

"Whatever you want. I'm gonna wait for you out front."

"You ready for this, Crane?" Abbie asked. They were standing outside of the bowling alley. He was dressed in his new modern clothes and she was wearing jeans, a tank top and a cardigan sweater with the bottom three buttons done to conceal her shoulder holster.

"Lieutenant, I have fought in a war, done battle with the Horseman of Death himself, faced down innumerable demons and monsters. I think it stands to reason that I can handle this...bowling," Crane replied with a huff of annoyance.

"It's not the bowling I'm worried about," Abbie said. "It's you having to act like a normal person all night."

"Nonsense. After three years, I believe myself more than capable of passing as a contemporary of this time...dude."

Abbie looked up at the sky. "Lord help us."

Crane pulled opened the entrance door and gestured for her to walk through. "While I understand that the word 'dude' has a traditionally masculine connotation," he continued, "I was under the impression that it was a moniker that 'swung both ways', to use modern parlance."

"Oh yeah, this is going to go great," Abbie muttered. She took a deep breath and clapped a hand on his back. "Come on, Jeff, time to face the music."

"Speaking of music," Crane said with a wince as they were assaulted by the thumping bass of the latest Nicki Minaj song. "This is most unpleasant."

"We can agree on that," Abbie said as she scanned the area. For a Tuesday, it was pretty busy, and every few seconds the loud crash of a ball hitting pins could be heard, punctuated by whooping and laughter from the players. There was a bright colored sign directing the couples bowlers to the last four lanes. In the middle of the room was the check-in counter with Jenny behind it. They made eye contact for a second before Jenny turned away and said something to the teenager at the shoe rental. "There," Abbie said, pointing in that direction.

"Welcome to Randall's, how can I help you?" Jenny asked as they approached. She was chewing on a piece of gum and leaning against the counter, looking like the epitome of a disinterested employee.

"Yes, hello there…" Crane made a show of checking her name tag, "Jenny. I am Jeffrey and this is my lovely wife, Abbie, and we'd like to partake in your couples' bowling tonight."

"Forty dollars for the whole night, down in lanes eight and nine. Look for Tiffany, she's the coordinator." Jenny shot her a significant look at that, and Abbie made a note to pay a close eye on that woman.

"Thanks. Here." She passed Jenny her Visa card and Jenny processed the payment, returning Abbie's card, along with the slip for her to sign. "Shoe sizes?"

"Eight," Abbie answered. "And twelve for him."

"Mark," Jenny called. The teenage boy sprung forward, clearly waiting for the summons, until he was close enough that their shoulders brushed.

"Yeah?" he asked eagerly.

"Personal space, Mark," Jenny said with a pointed look. Abbie ducked her head to hide her grin as the boy took a stumbling step back.

"Sorry, sorry," he said. "What do you need?"

"Eight women's and twelve men's," Jenny answered.

The boy grabbed the two pairs of shoes and doused each one with the sanitizer spray. Beside her, Crane took a step back.

"No," he said.

"Yes," responded Abbie, scooping up the shoes in one arm and pulling Crane to a bench next to the counter with the other. She tossed his shoes into his lap and toed off her own boots.

"I refuse," Crane repeated mutinously, picking up a shoe and examining it with a look of distaste.

"You can't," Abbie said, "it's the rules of bowling. Look, everyone is wearing them." She gestured at the dozens of people milling around, all in the same ugly, brown shoes.

"To paraphrase a modern anecdote, if all of your acquaintances voluntarily plummeting off of a cliff, would you endeavor to join them?" Crane asked.

"For the love of...I thought you fought in a war?" Abbie asked, mocking his declaration from earlier. "Battled countless demons, faced the forces of darkness…"

"Yes, but I did all of that in my own footwear."

Abbie pasted on a fake smile and leaned in, saying through gritted teeth, "Just put on the damn shoes, Crane."

"You must be Abbie and Jeffrey!" said a woman who looked to be in her early forties. She had blonde hair held in a high ponytail and wore a purple custom bowling shirt, purple shoes and earrings in the shape of bowling pins. Her fingernails were painted a perfectly matching shade of purple.

Reaching out, she embraced Abbie in a tight hug before Abbie could think of any way to stop it.

"Ahhh, ok," Abbie muttered, awkwardly patting the stranger's back. "This is happening."

"I'm Tiffany!" the woman said into Abbie's ear. "It's so great to meet you!"

She let go of Abbie and moved onto Crane, giving him the same enthusiastic greeting.

"Hello. That is...it's a pleasure to, erm, make your acquaintance." Crane shot Abbie a panicked look over their new friend's head. Abbie returned it with one she hoped communicated that this woman was definitely some kind of demon.

"Oh, you're English!" Tiffany declared, sounding delighted. "I love it! I. Love. It." She turned to Abbie and fanned herself. "How'd you get so lucky?"

Before Abbie could think of anything to say, Crane spoke up beside her.

"On the contrary, it is I who was lucky enough to catch the attention of someone so lovely," he replied.

"Oh, stop it," Abbie said, making a show of playfully jabbing her elbow into his side.

Tiffany put a hand over her heart and said, "OK, you have got to meet my husband. Maybe you'll rub off on him. Cuyler! Get over here!" A tall, athletic looking man in a matching purple outfit turned to look at them from the bar. "Now, the important business. I don't know if you've heard about the recent...unpleasantness that has happened around here."

Abbie jumped at the opening. "Is it true that people have been attacked?"

"Three times in the last month, and all from our league. We've lost more than half of the couples who used to come because of it."

"Is there anyone you suspect of being the culprit?" Crane asked.

"From us?" Tiffany asked, sounding scandalized. "Of course not. My guess is that it's some homeless person. It always happens in the alley, so…"

"Why did those people end up in the alley in the first place?" Abbie asked. It was one of the questions she'd had about the whole thing.

"No one knows," Tiffany answered. "None of them could remember anything when they woke up. Total amnesia."

Roofies, maybe? Knock out drugs? Or something more sinister, like magic? No traces of drugs were found in any of the tox screens on the victims after the fact, but Abbie had seen enough in the last few years not to rule out anything, whether it be a newfangled date rape drug that can't tracked or a vicious hellbeast.

"That's scary," she said. "Are we safe?"

Tiffany waved her hands in front of her, as if pushing that idea away. "Just be careful outside. Stick together and don't go near the alley, and you'll be fine. Now…" She grabbed the arm of her husband and pulled him towards her with a grin, "this is my hubbie, Cuyler. Cuyler, these are our newest players, Abbie and Jeff. I hope you have a piece of paper and a pen, because you are going to need to take a lot of notes from Jeff tonight."

Happy hour at the in house bar ran from five to six, and so the first hour was spent mingling and drinking cheap pitchers of beer before the bowling began. Abbie and Crane used that time to feel out the other couples and see if anyone stuck out. Abbie had poured herself a pint of beer, but wasn't drinking out of it, in case her theory about the assailant drugging their victims turned out correct.

The league was made up of Tiffany and her husband, along with three other couples. There was Doug and Dana, a disgustingly doting couple in their early-thirties; Valerie and Michelle, a lesbian couple who arrived fifteen minutes late, but appeared to be favorites of everyone in the group, if their reception was anything to go by; and Sharon and Paul, in their mid-forties, who, well…

"Do we...swing?" Crane repeated in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't…"

"We do not," Abbie said firmly. She took Crane's hand and gave Sharon a pointed look before pulling him away.

"They're not swingers," Valerie whispered to Abbie, coming up beside her, "they're predators. Paul propositioned me and Chelle on our first day too. I don't think he understands what a lesbian is."

"Ah, a sexual advance!" Crane proclaimed, clearly happy to have figured it out. "If that's the case, I dare say he doesn't, as a lesbian is, of course, a woman who prefers only the company of the fairer sex."

Valerie choked a bit on the sip of her beer and then said, "Well, 'fair' ain't the first word I'd use to describe myself, but yeah, thanks for explaining the joke, Jeeves."

"Michelle, Michelle, Michelle," Doug said. He had his arm around Dana's shoulders and a half-empty glass of beer in his free hand. The liquid sloshed around as he gestured. "Be with me on this, come on: the new Star Wars trailer."

"Epic," Michelle replied with an excited grin. "I've already pre-ordered tickets for me and Val."

"Yay," Valerie said, sarcastically raising her glass.

Dana bent over the table towards Valerie. "I don't care either. Have you seen that new Jennifer Lawrence movie?"

"The one about the orphans? No, but I heard it's based on a true story."

Abbie leaned back in her chair, letting the conversation wash over her as she studied the members of the group. Her phone beeped, and she unlocked it to see that Jenny had texted her.

Jenny (5:43:59): Checked out the alley. All clear so far.
You (5:44:15): Ok

"I, too, recently viewed a shocking documentary about the cruel mistreatment of a young child," Crane was saying when she tucked her phone away. "An adolescent girl with the appalling name of Honey Boo-Boo. The documentary details how her tyrannical mother forces her to perform in a series of exploitative competitions in order for the horrid woman to live vicariously through her and claim all of the child's victories as her own. It is a truly frightening example of the worst of humanity."

Silence reigned for several seconds before Abbie asked, "How the hell did you start watching Honey Boo-Boo?"

"While you are off at work, Miss Jenny has been teaching me about Netflix and the joys of 'marathoning.' It's a most effective way to pass the time."

Abbie could do nothing but put her head in her hands and laugh.

"Well, I mean, he's not wrong," Valerie said.

"So how did you and Jeff meet?" Dana asked.

Abbie glanced over at Crane, who was carefully walking up to the lane for his turn. He'd managed to knock over a total of six pins in his three rounds, and his face was creased in determination as he swung his arm back.

The ball swerved right and nicked the pin on the end before slamming into the gutter. Crane whipped around with perfect military precision and headed back to the ball rack.

"How could anyone do this for relaxation? I find this game extremely irksome," he declared. Doug gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

"I'm a nurse, and he came into the hospital with a concussion," Abbie said. That was close enough anyway. He'd certainly seemed to be suffering from a head injury the first time they'd met.

"That's sweet!" Dana said. "And what does he do for a living?"

"History professor," Abbie replied. "That's why he's so out of touch with pop culture. His head is stuck in the past."

"I think it's cute the way he talks!" Dana argued. "Doug and I met through mutual friends at a party. Pretty boring." She played with the necklace around her neck unconsciously, dragging the knotted pendant back and forth along the chain. "He's a real estate agent and I work in sales. We met at my friend's sister's birthday party, and he was friends with the sister's boyfriend. We ended up talking all night, doing some tequila shots," she added with a conspiratorial wink, "and here we are four years later. We have a lot in common though. But you and Jeff? You guys seem really..." She trailed off awkwardly.

"Different?" Abbie finished. "We are. Complete opposites." Crane took his second turn, knocking down five more pins in the process and whipping around triumphantly. "But Jeff - he is a good man. A kind man. We've been through a lot together." Crane lifted an inquisitive eyebrow as he returned to his seat beside her. "He's my best friend," Abbie finished, refusing to feel awkward about admitting it.

"Abbie has deigned to grace me with her presence for these many years. Though I often don't know why she would 'put up with me', as the saying goes, I am eternally grateful that she does."

Crane wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Abbie froze for a moment before forcing herself to relax into the unfamiliar touch and shot him a wry look.

"You've always got to outdo me, don't you?" she asked.

"I have no idea to what you are referring," he answered, but the glimmer of humor in his expression gave him away.

"Yeah, I bet you don't," Abbie said.

Dana looked back and forth between them and took a sip from her vodka cranberry. "I can see it now."

As the game wore on, Crane kept his arm around her, and after few rounds, she reached a hand out and placed it on his thigh. It was almost comical how he jolted, the muscles in his leg jumping spastically beneath her touch. Abbie nearly pulled back, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, when he tightened his hold on her, pressing their sides together.

He cleared his throat and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Cuyler has been gone for upwards of fifteen minutes now. Tiffany appears displeased."

"He's been chugging beer like it's his job for the last two hours," Abbie responded. "Also, Sharon looks like she wants to eat you."

"Her regard is indeed rather disconcerting," Crane admitted, "though I find myself more agitated by the lascivious glances her husband has been sending you."

"Couple of creeps," Abbie agreed. She'd been trying to ignore the way that Paul had been undressing her with his eyes the whole night. Part of her wished he actually had the power to do it. Maybe the gun strapped to her side would dissuade him - or on second thought, maybe it wouldn't.

"Still, I think it prudent for me to check on Cuyler, if only to ascertain that that his absence is truly innocuous."

"That's probably - "

"Abbie, sweetie, it's your turn." Speaking of Sharon, she stood in front of them with her hands on her hips, her grin saccharine sweet.

"You take your turn," Crane said, untangling his arm from around her and standing up. "I will return in just a moment."

Abbie stood with him and her phone pinged again. She fished it out of her pocket and saw another text from Jenny.

Jenny: (6:32:10): You and Crane look cozy.

Abbie glared at her phone, feeling the back of her neck prickle in embarrassment. She typed back a simple, shut up and stuffed the phone in her pocket, pretending she couldn't see her sister laughing at her from across the room.

The ball she had chosen was dark green and ten pounds. She had grabbed it from the rack and fitted her fingers inside of it when Sharon made an appreciative sound next to her. Abbie followed her gaze to see Crane bending down to help a woman pick up things that had spilled from her purse.

"Oh my," Sharon said, eyes glued to his ass.

"Lady, could you not?" Abbie said, feeling herself finally snap. "That is my husband."

"I just wonder what do you have to do to keep a man like that happy, if you know what I mean?" Sharon asked.

"Yeah, everyone knows what you mean, and it's none of your business." OK, it was possible that Abbie was reacting more strongly than she should, and it was also possible that she was baiting some kind of witch of supernatural entity, but, well, it wouldn't be the first time for that. And the rude way this woman spoke about Crane, the most polite person she'd ever met, pissed her right the hell off.

Not that Crane couldn't gently let down his many lady suitors - often with such aplomb that they ended up still singing his praises - but they weren't usually so direct. Abbie was protective of her friends, and Crane in particular, who still missed a lot about modern human interaction.

Also, though it made her feel stupid admitting it, Crane was, for all this woman knew, her husband. Who talks that way about another woman's man, especially when they'd just met? Even for a potential evildoer, that was disrespectful.

"Sharon, come on," Valerie said, and Abbie was startled to realize that everyone was watching them, waiting for Abbie to bowl. "Leave her alone."

"Some people are so sensitive," Sharon sniffed, turning away.

"Oh please let it be you," Abbie muttered under her breath as she walked up to take her turn.

Crane returned from the bathroom to report that Cuyler was, in fact, in there, and that the extra time he was taking had to do with the line of cocaine he was snorting off of the sink instead of anything nefarious.

That explained his behavior after he returned, as well as Tiffany's suddenly angry disposition.

"Fuck the Yankees!" he yelled, attracting attention from the other bowlers. He slammed his glass on the table, sloshing beer over the lip. "Fuck them!"

"Cuyler!" Tiffany hissed. "Watch your language."

They had finished four games. Abbie's respectably high score of 210 made her look like a professional next to Crane's measly 62. The group had dispersed a bit, with some members heading to the bar for food and more drinks, while the rest crowded around the tables near their lanes.

"They're gonna win the conference," Doug said.

"Did you watch the game last night?" Michelle asked. "McCann was on fire."

"Fuck McCann," Cuyler said, his voice slurring.

"His home run in the fourth was the best I've seen all season," Doug said.

"Oh man, straight down the center. It was a thing of beauty," Michelle agreed.

Crane tipped his phone towards Abbie, showing her the time. It was after ten, and all of the attacks had taken place between ten and eleven at night. She pulled out her own phone and texted Jenny.

You: (10:10:27): How's it look out back?

The reply took a few minutes, but eventually her phone beeped with a response.

Jenny: (10:15:47): Don't know. Can't get away to check.

Abbie turned around to look at the desk and saw a line of people. She let Crane see the screen and then jerked her head at the exit sign in the back corner of the building, indicating that she would check.

You: (10:16:32): On it.

"I'll be back," she said to the group and stood up.

Crane squeezed her hand once and then said to the group, "Friends, would you be kind enough to explain to me the rules of baseball? I am particularly curious about this 'intentional walk' that has Cuyler so vexed."

Abbie went into the women's bathroom for the sake of appearance, washing her hands and briefly looking at her reflection, before slipping out. She walked under the exit sign and down a long, dimly lit corridor, at the end of which was the back door with a sign on it marking it as "employees only." She was about to push it open when someone grabbed her shoulder from behind.

Spinning around, her hand was halfway to her gun when she saw Paul. He pulled away and raised his arms, giving her a placating smile.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he said.

"What are you doing back here?" she demanded.

In response, Paul reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumbled and nearly empty pack of cigarettes, holding them out for her to see.

"Was gonna sneak out for a quick smoke. What about you?"

"Just getting some air," Abbie said.

"You should be careful," Paul said. "It's not safe out there."

"Couldn't the same be said for you?" Abbie asked. "It hasn't been only women attacked, has it?"

"Nah, they got Vincey too. Everyone thought it was a robbery gone wrong, you know? Like the guy got spooked by something and took off without stealing anything."

"What does everyone think now?" Abbie asked.

Paul shrugged and flicked his lighter on and off absently, sending quick, bright flares of light off in the darkened hallway.

"Maybe a sicko who gets off on hurting people? Sharon thinks it's some homeless guy that's territorial about his alley. Like a home invasion, you know? 'This cardboard box is my home, and I will defend it!'" He snickered at his own joke, and Abbie rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," she said.

"You and your husband been together long?" he asked, and Abbie was wary of the change in topic.

"About three years," she answered.

"Mmm…" Paul hummed. He leaned against the wall and looked at her. "Sharon and I, we've been together for almost twenty, and it's not bad. We've had our ups and downs, but we've figured out how to keep things interesting between us."

"I'm happy for you," Abbie said, hoping that would be the end of it.

"Mmm…" he agreed again, and then gave her a onceover that made her skin crawl. "You know, we've never been with a black girl before."

Abbie straightened her shoulders and summoned her most authoritative cop voice while pointing back down the hallway. "Go."

He did, moving gratifyingly fast, cigarettes forgotten.

"I do not have time for this," Abbie muttered. She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a thin flashlight. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and walked out into the alley.

It was dark and damp outside thanks to the summer showers that had been drowning the east coast for the past week. The scent of garbage clung in the air. Starting on her right, she began a slow survey of the area around her. It wasn't until she did a full one-eighty that she noticed the body huddled on the ground against the building.

"Hello?" she called out. In the pale, wavering light of her flashlight, it took a moment for her to recognize Dana's curly hair and blue sweater. "Dana!"

She ran, switching her flashlight to her left hand and grabbing her gun with her right. How long had Dana been out there? Was Abbie too late? Had Paul been trying to distract her? Dammit.

"Are you alright?" Abbie asked as she dropped to her knees beside Dana, ignoring the wetness seeping into her pants. She placed a comforting hand on the girl's shaking back and leaned in. "Dana?"

Several things happened at once. Dana turned her head, and locked her eyes, now jet black, on Abbie. Abbie, in her shock, lurched backwards, her ass landing on the wet ground. Then Dana took the knotted pendant into her tight fist and began chanting in a language that Abbie had never heard before. Whatever she was doing made Abbie's whole body limp, flashlight and gun slipping out of her lax hands.

Magical roofies then, Abbie had time to think before everything went fuzzy around the edges.

Someone was walking over to them. Doug, the real estate agent who loved Star Wars, and his eyes were the same unnatural, all-encompassing black as Dana's. It was him...wait, no, it wasn't, that was Crane, tall and safe and...Doug, Doug, that was...His face was flickering in and out, like a radio stuck between two channels. More magic, Abbie's brain supplied.

Her head was swimming, vision flickering like she was losing consciousness for stretches at a time. Her gun, her phone, her voice, she could scream, get attention. She opened her mouth, but couldn't push more than a weak grunt out.

"...not working on her as well as…"

"She must have experience with…"

"...has a gun, oh my, Abbie, you're keeping some secrets, aren't you?"

The buttons on her sweater were ripped off to reveal her tank top. Using all of the strength she could muster, she lifted her arm and batted away at the hand in front of her.

"Keep her still...we have to…"

"I'm trying…!"

Two hands cupped her face gently.

"Hey, hey. Look at me, Abbie."

Abbie forced her eyes open. There was Crane, crouching down in front of her and looking concerned.

"It's OK; you're fine. You need to calm down so I can help you. Can you do that?" It was Crane's voice, his eyes, comforting and familiar enough to cut through the haze her mind was in. She nodded but couldn't speak.

He grinned at her and rubbed his thumbs along her cheekbones. "I knew you could." Then he covered her mouth with his hand, pressing down and making it hard for her to breathe. "Shh...you need to stay quiet."

The neck of her tank top was dragged down, baring her breastbone, which he covered with his free hand. Abbie winced. Something...there was something she should...this wasn't…She moved on instinct, her body bowing away from Crane's hand on her chest.

"Abbie, Abbie, it's me," he said, scooting closer. "Abbie, it's Jeff."

And then she was struggling in earnest, feet skittering on the ground, trying to gain purchase, body twisting. She managed to shake off his hold on her mouth and sucked in a great gulp of air while wrapping both of her hands around his. Weak, she was so weak, but she dug her fingernails into the skin.

"What did you do wrong?"

"I don't know, it was working a second ago…!" A second voice, she'd almost forgotten someone else was there.

"Come on, Abbie, be a good girl. How can I drain your life if you won't let me into your heart?" Abbie's head lolled back and she looked up at a jeering grin, so alien and wrong on Crane's face. She closed her eyes to block out the sight of it. "See, what I did there? Let me into your heart?"

His moist, clammy lips touched her ear. "If you hold still, this will hurt less."

A scream pierced through her muddled brain, high and agonized, and her eyes flew open in time to see Doug - Doug, Doug, his name was Doug. What a stupid name for a demon. How could she have ever thought it was Crane? - clutching his arm, and Jenny above him holding a small, curved, dangerous-looking knife.

"Get the hell off of my sister."

Oh, thank god. Abbie should help, her little sister, she should…

When Abbie's eyelids fluttered open again, it could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours later, and Jenny was at her side.

"When you were ten years old, you wanted to marry Taylor Hanson," Jenny said.

Abbie frowned, her brain not moving quickly enough yet to follow that. "Wha…?"

"In case you wanted to make sure I was really me."

A memory surfaced of a man stealing Crane's face, and it was so much like her time in Purgatory that for a moment she felt sick. Taking a deep breath, she croaked out, "Thanks." Her throat was bone dry. "Then where…?"

In response, Jenny grinned, a sharp, brittle curve of her lips, and held up the knife. "Birthday gift from Hawley. Takes care of all kinds of supernatural creatures, but the best part is that it's self-cleaning. Leaves no trace behind."

A look around the empty alley proved there were no bodies in sight. "So they're gone?"

"Back to hell, or wherever things like them go to," Jenny confirmed.

"Not human?" Abbie asked.

"Not anymore. Shapeshifters. I've seen them before, with Corbin," Jenny explained. "Changing skin like that can keep you alive indefinitely, but it takes a lot of energy to maintain, which is why they had to steal from other people. It also comes with a heavy price: messing with that kind of magic burns the humanity right out of you."

Experimentally, Abbie lifted her arms and then bent her knees. She could feel herself regaining control of her body, could feel her mind sharpening. She cleared her throat and wiped the back of her hand over her dry lips.

"Seems like they were trying to subdue you with a spell," Jenny continued. "Guess that explains why no one could remember anything about the attack afterwards."

"Magical roofie," Abbie said and Jenny snorted.

"Basically, yeah, but it didn't work right on you. My guess is that because of the experience you've had with magic, your body is learning how to fight it off. In fact, they were so focused on getting it right, they didn't even hear me come out," said Jenny.

"Shapeshifting. Stealing years off of people's lives to live forever." Abbie tried to wrap her brain around it.

"Yup."

She turned so that she could look right at Jenny. "In order to play couples' bowling."

There was silence for a long beat, and then they both dissolved into laughter. Jenny rested her head on Abbie's shoulder as her whole body shook. Once they quieted, Abbie reached out and patted Jenny's thigh.

"Thanks for the rescue, sis."

"Any time."

Something occurred to Abbie and she glanced around. "Wait, where's Crane?"

"Getting your things and making your excuses. You overdid it on the beer and he has to drag your drunk ass home." She gave Abbie, still huddled against the building, a pointed look. "I doubt you'll have trouble playing the part."

As if on cue, the back door swung open and Crane strode through with Abbie's shoes in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Her stomach twisted at the sight of him, and it took her a moment to recognize the feeling for what it was - fear. She was afraid of him. Not really him, of course, the terrible doppelganger of him, but in her still-addled mind it was hard to differentiate between them.

"Lieutenant," he said, the relief evident in his voice. "I'm so glad to see that you've awakened."

He made his way over and dropped onto his knees in front of her, heedless of the damp pavement. The cap of the water bottle twisted off easily in his grip, and he handed it to her. The water was cool going down her throat and soothed the dryness there. She gulped greedily, finishing half of the bottle in two large sips.

When she put the bottle down on the ground, he reached out to move the strap of her shirt, and she remembered his hand pressing down over her heart, his taunting words in her ear, the feeling of being helpless…

She flinched away, unable to stop the instinctual reaction, and Crane snatched his hand back, looking stung.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Though Miss Jenny has assured me that you were unharmed by those vile creatures, I wanted to reassure myself. I should not have touched you in such an intimate manner," he said.

Abbie didn't respond. Her heart raced in her chest as if she had run a marathon. Her mind knew it was really him, but her body couldn't stop its panicked reaction.

Jenny answered for her when she remained silent. "It's not that. The shapeshifters, one of them disguised itself as you."

His eyes darkened as comprehension dawned. "Ah, I see."

"What's your name?" Abbie demanded.

"Sorry?"

"Your name," she repeated. "Tell me what it is."

"Ichabod Crane," he answered as he caught onto what Abbie needed. "And you are Lieutenant Abbie Mills of the Sleepy Hollow Police Department. We are both witnesses in the war between good and evil, and very dear friends besides. Together we have thwarted many an apocalypse."

She stared at him, suddenly missing his familiar coat and boots and that stupid neck stock - all the things that made him look like him and not some well-dressed imposter.

"I am so over this supernatural-creatures-pretending-to-be-you bullshit," she said.

"On that we can agree, Lieutenant."

"Get me off this damn ground, would you?"

Abbie was in no state to drive her car, so she sat in the passenger seat as Crane drove her home. Head lolled to the side, she watched him as he navigated them through the quiet, empty streets. Her eyes took in his beard, the lock of hair that had come out of his hair tie, the precise way his hands held the steering wheel. Crane, Crane, it was Crane.

Then the car passed under a tree, obscuring his face in shadow, and all her hard work came undone. She gripped the strap of her seat belt with both hands and willed herself to calm down.

Crane glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, catching her discomfort, and cleared his throat. "Upon my first viewing of a Harry Potter film, I believed that the story depicted was fact and not fiction."

Abbie barked out a startled laugh, her hands loosening. "You asked me if Katrina had gone to Hogwarts."

"To be fair, she was a witch."

Abbie tapped her foot on the floor of the car as she thought. "Where do we eat dinner on Thursdays?"

"Vincent's, despite my vehement objections," he answered promptly.

"They have good ravioli," she said.

"That is a matter of opinion," he replied archly, the argument a well-worn one.

"What's your son's name?"

"Jeremy - or Henry, depending on whom you ask."

"Your opinion of Benjamin Franklin?"

"A pompous and arrogant narcissist who unfortunately happened to be just as clever as he thought he was."

They pulled into Abbie's driveway. Crane nudged the gear shift into park and turned off the engine. Neither made any move to get out of the car. Abbie unlatched her seat belt and drummed her fingers against her thighs.

"It reminded me of Purgatory," she finally said.

"I had assumed as much."

"I thought I was over that. It's been years."

"I can't imagine that's an experience easily shaken," argued Crane.

"Look, I know - ugh." She scrubbed her fingers through her hair in frustration. "I know this is real. I do. It's just...I have to keep telling myself. But - it's you. You're you."

"Yes. And there is no one else like me, contrary to what the supernatural beings we encounter would have you believe."

"Now who's being narcissistic?" Abbie teased.

"Would you disagree?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Definitely not." She paused, and then asked, "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I miss your stupid outfit."

Crane's face broke into a grin. "Is that so? But in the store you seemed quite fond of this shirt."

"Oh, shut up," Abbie grumbled. Using the armrest as leverage, she pushed herself onto her knees and leaned closer to him. She touched the fingers of one hand to the soft, bristly hair of his beard. "This is you."

"Yes."

Both hands now, cupping his neck and tugging him willingly towards her. "This is you."

"Yes," he murmured again before their lips met and his hands went to her hips, steadying her and pulling her closer. "And this is most definitely us."