The door to the musty archives gave under Abbie's weight with a reluctant groan, and she shouldered her way through the narrow doorframe into the pitch black space. She had to blink rapidly to try and focus her eyes on anything in the darkness. By the slivers of December moonlight leaking through the fog clouds that hovered just beyond the room's several Dutch windows, she could faintly make out the bulky shapes of scattered books and overturned files sprinkled across the long oak table that stretched across almost half the space. She couldn't see farther into the room than their soft shadows, but she knew that beyond that solemn conference was a row of bookshelves, as well as an ancient wooden podium. The vaulted ceiling meant a strong draft coming in this late at night, but the large fireplace in one corner of the room could quickly remedy the chill. Soft chairs lined the space at different intervals; each a different style from a different era, but all welcoming to her at the moment. She was bone-weary, not to mention emotionally exhausted from spending a hellacious day trapped – yes, trapped – in a damn colonial haunted house. Her eyes felt sore from staying open so long, and her throat dry from yelling. Physically, she felt ready to drop. But she couldn't succumb to her weariness just yet – there were bigger problems in the room than hers at the moment. After fumbling for a lamp in the dark and managing to click it on, she cast a glance over her shoulder, to double-check that said problems were still behind her where she'd left them. With relief, she saw that Ichabod had followed her lead to the archives, without her needing to grab his hand and drag him along. For a moment she'd thought she would have to, considering how unresponsive he'd been on the drive over to the precinct.

Captain Irving had been all too willing to let Crane sit in the car so as not to terrify the civilians moving in and out of the precinct, even at this time of night. That was without even mentioning the on-duty cops working at their desks inside. It would be all too easy, with the sheer amount of blood decorating every inch of his apparel, to label Crane as a serial killer that, having just finished his bloodiest spree, had come to either turn himself in or blow up the police station – you know, "go out with a bang" and all that. She wouldn't have blamed anyone for screaming after one look at him.

She certainly wanted to scream at him. But not in fear. Oh, no. Among the many strong emotions bubbling away inside her tired skull, Abbie was straight-up pissed. Not an uncommon occurrence for her when dealing with Crane, but this was different than any fleeting irritation she'd ever experienced towards him before. She wanted to yell at him for doing something so stupid – taking on a dangerous and powerful 300-plus-year-old demon alone. It peeved her to no end how he had all but shoved her to the sidelines while he risked his life in one of Moloch's metaphorical (or literal) snake pits. The only thing that had kept her from following him into that house again was his astonishing conviction when he'd urged her to stay outside, alone.

Damn. She swore internally just thinking about his expression when he'd all but growled at her, "Heed my words: Do not follow me." The expression on his face had been more than anger, though he'd had a right to be livid. It had been pain itself – a hurt so deep, and also so familiar to her. The demon, Moloch, and his scarecrow pawn had destroyed yet another aspect of Ichabod's life tonight. They had stolen away his opportunity to be a father to he and Katrina's only son, as well as anything else that his life could have been in the 1700s, before he'd been killed by Moloch's horseman of death. Now that he'd been (ironically) resurrected along with the horseman, it seemed to her that he had only suffered blows of grief and regret from his former life. This news of a son topped all other wounds suffered so far. And that was where Abbie's anger could reach no farther. She could not look this man in the eye and stay mad at him for risking his life, albeit stupidly – not when he had lost so much, all in a few short hours.

She knew how it felt to be lost; alone. To feel like one small, microscopic incident had sucked away everything that you'd known to be good and right in your life. She'd managed to overcome the demons of her past, with Crane and Sheriff Corbin's invaluable help. It surprised her, now, how helpless she felt to help Crane overcome his own sorrows.

After Crane had finally emerged from the dilapidated manor soaked in blood and reeking of plant mold, it had been a tense drive back to base. He'd uttered one sentence, only one, since leaving. "I would like to go home now." He'd said that before folding himself into her Jeep, next to an already-terrified Lena Gilbert. The poor girl must have been frightened within an inch of her life just looking at Crane, but Abbie hadn't had the heart to ask him to move to the front seat or cover himself with the emergency blanket that she'd stored in the trunk. She would have given it to Lena, already, had the billionaire not commandeered Crane's coat. It had taken some not-so-gentle urging on Abbie's part to get the clinging woman to surrender that stinking wool talisman before she had handed her over to Luke for debriefing and follow-ups. But she'd known that Crane would feel even more lost without his ratty security blanket draped firmly over his own shoulders, just as it was now – exactly where she'd placed it moments before.

Crane and his coat stood behind her, just over the threshold to their unofficial base of operations, looking very lost and alone. His typically critical, sometimes perplexed, and always direct gaze had settled listlessly upon the long shadow he cast on the cherry wood floor, like a dust mote that had floated down, down, down into oblivion. Abbie wasn't sure whether she'd ever be able to bring him back to the surface of those transcendent blue eyes. But she'd be damned if she wasn't going to at least try.

Step one was easy: she needed to get him cleaned up, pronto.

I would like to go home now, he had said. Well alrighty, then. Abbie took a cleansing breath and squared her shoulders. She did an about-face, clicked off the lamp, and marched back out the archive door into the still December night, shooing Crane ahead of her as she went.

"Changed my mind – we're gonna do this somewhere else." She muttered as she clicked her Jeep unlocked. The car beeped in response, and Abbie watched Crane out of the corner of her eye as she walked around to the driver's side.

"This?" he asked hollowly, not dead enough to the world to miss the key word in the sentence.

"You'll see." Abbie kept her response vague. She didn't want him objecting – or bolting on her – before he was in the car.

Maybe it was the cold, or the blood decorating his shirt like macabre confetti streams, but Crane's face stood out as starkly pale to her tonight; the circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced, as well. It was altogether difficult to tell, however, considering most of his face and hair were still matted with blood. Crap…I should have wiped that off before it dried. Abbie griped internally. Good thing that there was a sink and a washing machine where they were headed.

Crane watched numbly as she climbed into the driver's seat, before stiffly opening his door and climbing in himself. The biting cold had seeped into the vehicle already, though they'd only been gone a couple minutes at most. Teeth chattering, Abbie started the engine and cranked up the heater to its highest setting before strapping on her seatbelt. Just before pulling away from the curb, some instinct made her look over at Crane. His head was bowed, eyes downcast. The picture of Sir Johnny Raincloud, sitting in her front seat. Sitting without a seat belt. Abbie gave him a withering look, which went unacknowledged, before reaching across him to grab his seatbelt. Ichabod raised his eyes immediately, surprised to see her arm cross inches from his face, but he didn't comment on it.

"Remember, you always got to buckle up." Abbie said, using her soft voice, as she held out the belt to him. She hadn't thought it possible in his present state, but the look he slid her held some of the old 18th century testiness that he was always lathering on liberally - in his responses to her and to the modern world in general. It gave her a welcome glimmer of hope - that maybe he would come out of this alright. He was a strong man, after all. There was a chance that, despite her clumsy attempts at reassurance, he might actually feel better after a little recovery time.

She could see him mentally decide whether it was worth it to debate the need for the seatbelt, then eventually decide that no, it wasn't. With a heavy sigh, he grasped the belt with his thumb and index finger and primly inserted it into the buckle. He then returned his eyes to their downcast, aimless stare.

Abbie waited until she was safely pulled away from the sidewalk and heading in the right direction before breaking the thick silence again.

"You gonna give me the silent treatment all night?" She tried, half-teasing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shiver. Shit. He may be going into shock. If that was the case, she needed to get him home and in bed soon. Some food in him wouldn't hurt either. He shook again, more violently this time. Abbie divided her attention as best she could between him and the road.

"Talk to me, Crane."

It felt like years before he finally answered.

"There's…nothing to talk about, Lieutenant." His throat sounded dry; parched, and she could hear every shiver in his voice. Still, his breathing looked steady, and she was sure that if she took his pulse, it would be, too.

"Isn't there?" She glanced at him as she pulled into the driveway of a compact parking lot abutting a squat, 3-story building. The outside of the building was painted a neutral doeskin beige, and a path of freshly-laid red bricks lead up to both of its main entrances. A far too touristy-looking wooden sign swung on a pole at the head of the parking lot. It read Sleepy Hill Apartments in flourishing cursive letters. Just below that sign, a more dispensable plastic sign had been erected stating NOW LEASING ONE- AND TWO-BEDROOM APARTMENTS. APPLY ONLINE at _.org. Ichabod glanced around in confusion - the first time he'd seemed interested in his surroundings since their return to the precinct.

"Where are we?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Abbie dared to smile drily.

"Oh, you'll see."

She parked and hopped out of the car, nearly jogging around the hood in her haste to get Crane out of the car and somewhere warm. Of course he was already getting out by the time she reached his side. She watched his face carefully as he stood and closed the door behind him. He looked white as a sheet, and was visibly trembling, and he pulled his coat more closely around his shoulders as he stared up at the quaint little rows of apartments in uncertainty.

"Come on." She urged him forward, keeping careful pace at his elbow. If he keeled over, she wanted to be in the right position to catch 'His Royal Tallness' before he hurt himself. That is, hurt himself more, she thought with a wry twist of her lips. Luckily, the lobby would be unmanned at this hour of the night. She might be able to slip him past without anyone noticing; bloodstains and all.

Abbie briefly grasped Crane's forearm as she directed him through the glass double-doors at the front of the building. His skin was like ice, and she couldn't help glancing up worriedly after she'd released him. He noticed, and a paltry eyebrow rose, despite himself.

"Is something wrong, Miss Mills? You are studying me as if I've acquired lapine ears and am preparing, at any moment, to commence a jig."

"Believe me, Crane, I'd be looking much more terrified if I thought you were about to start dancing."

Abbie momentarily stopped short, looking between the elevator and the stairs for an immeasurable time. Crane stopped, too, though he didn't look at her in curiosity, as he normally would. He just glanced at the wall. Under the crappy fluorescent lights he looked like a very weary, albeit extremely attractive, serial killer. Or serial killer's ghost, more likely.

Finally, Abbie decided that he probably wasn't physically up for any new experiences today. And she wasn't up for explaining how elevators worked, in detail. She wasn't sure she even really knew how an elevator worked, in detail, but that was a conversation for another time. She quickened her pace as she led him to the stairs.

"Your skin is freezing." She continued the conversation as they rounded the first floor stairwell. "You're probably in shock."

"I beg your pardon? Wouldn't I be the only person with the authority to confirm that diagnosis?"

"Well your opinion wouldn't be much help if you actually were in shock." She returned. He bristled and pulled his coat more tightly around him. Thank god I'm on the second floor. Abbie pulled open the stairwell door. Crane passed through without complaint, which was a testament in itself that something was not right. He never let others hold doors for him; it went against his polite, English breeding. And to be honest, the opening-doors treatment tended to make her feel pretty special – not to mention ladylike.

She briskly marched up to the door marked 206, Crane in tow, and fumbled her key into the lock.

"Is this where you live?" Crane asked, glancing cursorily up and down the short and narrow hallway.

"Not just me…" Abbie muttered as she shoved the stiff door open. She felt Crane follow her silently inside, and she waved him aside so that she could shut the door behind them both and slide the dead bolt home.

For a moment it was just her and Crane in the darkness, their combined breathing the only sounds in the apartment. Abbie stepped around him, feeling for the kitchen light switch. She'd just found it when the lamp in the front room switched on with a small 'click'. The more ominous click of a handgun followed immediately. Abbie spun at the sound, hand on her holster, only to find herself staring down the barrel of Jenny's Glock 23. Crane, who'd been all but a zombie moments before, had moved in a second to half-shield Abbie with his body and had wrapped his right arm protectively across her torso to hold her behind him. Abbie could feel every muscle in his body tensed like a spring. Lucky for them, the only enemy in the room was Jenny's hyperactive trigger finger.

"Jesus, Abbie!" Jenny gasped. From around Crane's broad back, Abbie saw her sister immediately disable the firearm and click the safety on. She hastily laid it on the front room table, then thought better of it and picked it up again, shoving it under her belt. Abbie had never actually seen Jenny flustered before, but this came pretty close.

"I, uh…I thought that you were…um…" Jenny trailed off and her eyes grew huge as she got an eyeful of Crane, in all his bloody glory.

"Whoa." She remarked, impressed. Her eyes immediately slid to Abbie, silently demanding an explanation.

"It is a long story." Abbie interjected.

"Miss Jenny." Crane let out a breath that Abbie hadn't noticed he'd been holding. "You are..." he looked down at Abbie, then back at Jenny, "…sharing quarters with your sister, in light of your recent release from the sanatorium? Or is this simply a social call that I've intruded upon?"

Jenny wryly made a gun with her index finger and thumb, and made a clicking sound-effect with her tongue as she pointed it at Crane. "The first one. Though if she didn't pick up my tofurkey slices today," she took a few steps forward as she spoke, "then we will be having a serious sister-to-sister chat about my new living arrangements." She winked at Abbie, who grunted unappreciatively at the sarcasm.

Abbie noticed (and hoped Jenny didn't) that Crane's stance hadn't changed from puppy-guarding her. Of course Jenny immediately noticed. Her eyebrows hit the ceiling.

"Easy, brit – I'm not gonna bite her. She is my only sister after all."

Abbie took the moment to begin shoving her way out from under Crane's surprisingly strong arm, before her sister's imagination could get any more out of hand.

"Look, sorry about the mess." She threw a pointed look at Crane and then back at her sister. "We were just, ah…" She shoved harder against Crane's arm. He seemed to suddenly notice what she was doing and relaxed his tense posture…only to sway dangerously to the right. Woah. Abbie pressed herself firmly up against his side in what she hoped was a nonchalant way, in an effort to keep him upright. Her left arm cinched around his waist. "…ah, going to use the washer and dryer real quick." She snagged Crane's right arm and looped it over her shoulders, just to be safe. He seemed…pretty unfazed by the fact that she was helping him stand up. That was not like him, and it worried her. Maybe he's just tired, she rationalized as her sister eyed them both skeptically.

"Uh-huh…I'm really convinced." With an eye-roll for Abbie's benefit, Jenny immediately skirted to Crane's other side.

"Give me your arm." She commanded with her hand out. Her tone brooked no argument. Abbie was impressed when Crane, without protest, allowed Jenny to drape his right arm over her shoulders.

"What the hell happened, anyways?" she asked Abbie as they half-led, half-dragged Ichabod to the fold-out couch nearby.

"Well…"

"A scarecrow-like creature…demon…a servant of Moloch. He attacked…my wife. And…my…" It sounded like each word was being ripped from Crane's gut. Abbie couldn't take the agony in his voice.

"Shhh." She shushed him as they lowered him to the couch. "Don't waste energy talking."

"But…miss Jenny is entitled to the knowledge…"

"Miss Jenny can hear all about it later." Abbie interrupted him. "For now, just shut up." He looked even paler than before, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"So help me, Crane, if you faint on me I am not catching you." She muttered, almost to herself, as she lifted his coat off his shoulders.

"T'would be very ambitious of you to even attempt such a maneuver, considering your size and stature compared to mine." Crane commented drily.

"Don't go insulting my height, either. I still have a gun." She warned him. She won a weak smile and a reluctant chuckle for that one.

"I'll go get some water." Jenny interrupted, loudly, before walking down the hall to the bathroom.

Abbie deftly replaced Ichabod's coat with the warm fleece throw that lay over the sofa back. For shock victims, staying warm meant a quicker recovery.

"You're worried."

Abbie looked up to find blue eyes focused on her face. She shrugged under the scrutiny.

"No more than usual."

"'Usual' being your worry over the imminent return of Moloch along with the four –"

"Hold still."

He stopped short when Abbie grabbed his head with both hands to hold it still while she looked at him more closely.

She let go just long enough to shuck her leather jacket on the armchair nearby and push up her sleeves.

Sitting on the couch, Crane was easily a good two feet shorter than Abbie, and she took full advantage of the fact. She briskly felt through his tangled hair, searching for any glass shards or debris that may have caught. She was definitely not indulging her secret fantasy of running her hands through his dark-brown curls. The strands were surprisingly soft to her touch, despite being matted with blood in some areas.

"What could you possibly be doing?" Crane asked as if he wasn't really expecting an answer. Well he's gonna get one.

"Checking for glass and lacerations." She replied, brushing his bangs out of his face as she searched his brow for any cuts.

"…Oh."

He sounded genuinely surprised at her sound reasoning. Abbie tried not to let that miff her. She was enjoying herself, after all. If that didn't stink of ulterior motives, she wasn't sure what did.

After lingering for as long as thoroughness could excuse, she moved her hands to his chin. She carefully moved his face from side to side, looking past the blood spatter for any deep cuts and doing an impressive job of not making eye contact with the patient.

"Is this truly necess–"

"Yes." She answered, all-business. She continued her inspection, trying to avoid lingering on the high slope of his cheekbones, the straight bridge of his nose, his perfectly-shaped eyebrows, his eyes… Her own eyes kept stubbornly straying to his lips, mere inches from her own.

"I bet you didn't give Florence Nightingale such a fuss." She muttered to distract herself.

"I'm sorry, who?"

Oops. Revolutionary War, Mills, not the Civil War. "Sorry – forgot that she was after your time." There was an awkward pause, during which she reluctantly dropped her hands. "Did the Revolutionary War have any famous nurses?"

"We had Martha Washington…" he said finally, "And of course the hundreds of young women who volunteered of their own volition to assist in the care of wounded militia. For most it was for the sake of the cause. That was just as true in Katrina's case…" He trailed off, eyes sad again.

Abbie sniffed and looked down. She cleared her throat and scratched a nonexistent itch on her nose. "Shit."

She looked back at him, hoping that her expression was as apologetic as she felt. Crane, however, was looking away from her; something across the room had apparently become very interesting to him.

Abbie exhaled wearily and straightened. She undid her gun belt, laying it and her smart phone on the table near the lamp

"Here." Jenny returned with a bowl of water, a rag, and a folded stack of clothes. Abbie looked up questioningly. Jenny shrugged. "He'll need something to wear while he's waiting for the washing machine." Abbie looked away to hide her blush. She felt a little stupid for not immediately realizing that obvious fact.

Jenny looked down at Ichabod before pulling Abbie a little ways away from the couch.

"He's not seriously hurt, right?" She whispered low in her ear. "I mean, I'm all for ghetto surgery on the kitchen table, but I couldn't even find the scissors in this madhouse –"

"No." Abbie held up a hand to stop that sentence. "He's not hurt." she whispered. She glanced at a shivering Crane, then amended, "Not physically, at least. He might be in sh–"

Her sister's loud, over-exaggerated yawn cut her off and ended the conversation. Abbie stepped away in surprise, wondering what Jenny's game was now.

"Welp," Jenny smirked, "I'dbetter be heading off to bed, then. I'm trying to get a tight twelve hours in, roomie!"

Abbie glared. So transparent. Jenny winked before turning to Crane. "Feel better, Icky." All she got for a reply was a martyred sigh. She snickered and sauntered off down the hall.

"Goodniiiiiight!" Jenny called in a sing-song voice before slamming her door.

With her scheming, double-crossing queen-of-the-awkward matchmakers sister out of the room, the apartment was once again thick with silence. Wasting no time, Abbie pulled her white pleather ottoman up to the couch. Using that as a seat, she placed the bowl of water and rag in her lap and scooted as close to Ichabod as she dared. His eyes were trained on the floor, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion and sadness. He was drowning again. It was an ache in her chest that she couldn't seem to keep him from his sadness for very long – mere seconds at a time. She wrung out the rag and began gently dabbing his face, starting at his forehead.

Startled, he pulled away from her.

"Miss Mills, you needn't –"

"I'm just trying to get the worst of this blood off." She held up both hands – one holding the wet rag – in a surrender position. "After I get the worst of these stains off of your face, this will be completely your problem. I promise." There was a moment of tense quiet. Then Crane looked up through his lashes with a beleaguered expression.

"You really needn't bother." He said the words quietly, but they held such sincerity that Abbie felt a suspicious pricking at the back of her eyes. She blinked a few times. When she looked back up a single, solitary tear has streaked its way down Crane's cheek. It was only one, but it left a scar-like trail through the blood splattered on his face. She saw him visibly swallow all of his other tears, and her heart broke for him. She scooted closer, and slowly reached up to wipe the blood, as well as the tear mark, from his cheek.

"And why not?" she asked as she sponged at the red.

He straightened and cleared his throat, pulling the fleece blanket around himself.

"It was never your duty as a fellow witness to take care of me. I am adequately acclimated to this century as to sufficiently handle myself and my needs."

"I never said you weren't!" Abbie quipped gently, a hint of scolding in her voice. Crane looked at her then, straight-on. His light blue eyes seared, like he was seeing her in a new light and debating what to make of it.

It felt to Abbie like if she made one wrong move, this fragile moment would shatter into a thousand pieces. So she continued with caution.

"I let you take care of me once." She reminded him quietly. That damned ornery eyebrow rose in reply.

"You know it's true!" she chided, tapping him lightly on the arm. He raised both eyebrows then, still unconvinced. However, he humbly dropped his eyes. It was an easy tell; he knew what she was talking about.

Abbie smiled and looked down in contemplation, remembering that day – weeks ago – when Crane had plunged into Ro'kenhronteys' dream world with her, intent of saving her life. At the time, she'd been little more than a stranger to him – which had made the sacrifice all the more incredible. It was a debt she hadn't yet been able to repay.

"You were strong when I needed someone strong to lean on." She dipped the rag back into the bowl and watched the crimson tendrils spiral and sink in the water. "You didn't let me down."

Old shames had her ducking her head. "Now, I know…that…my track record for being someone that people can depend on when times get rough is not…exactly stellar. But," she forced herself to raise her head, though her eyes stayed down, "for once…"

Crane moved to speak and she held up a hand to stop him,

"for once, Crane. Let me at least tryto be there for you."

She wrung out the rag and swiped determinedly at the space above his right eye; speech over.

"It is impossible to try at something that has long been a mastered skill."

Abbie scoffed. "Please." She swabbed his other cheek, and pulled back to take a look at his hair. Eck.

"You know…" she wheedled, "I think I gonna let you take care of all…this." She made a broad gesture to the top of his head. Crane, looking offended, raised his hand up to feel the loose strands.

"But for now, you got to let me wash those clothes." As she spoke she turned and grabbed the pile Jenny had left. Heat rushed to her face when she realized that the black sweatpants and long-sleeved, gray army shirt belonged to one of her exes, Brian. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years, and had been sure that nothing in her apartment belonged to him or any of her other exes (there weren't many).

But two weeks living here and her sister had already found some of his old sweats. Dammit, Jenny…where the hell did you find these? Abbie made a mental note to burn the items after Crane was done with them.

"Here, go to the bathroom and put these on." She turned and tossed them to him and pointed down the hallway. "Last door on the right. If you take a shower, make sure the water's hot, okay? There's shampoo and soap and everything if you want to use them."

"Right…thank you." Crane stood slowly, immediately dwarfing Abbie. She'd almost forgotten their height difference while he'd been sitting on her couch. He gave a short bow before heading down the hall.

"Hold up." Abbie's voice grabbed him before he reached the end of the hallway. He turned politely at her request. Yet Abbie could see him beginning to crumble again – all the horrible images of tonight being splashed across his eyes like a never-ending film reel.

"You can leave your boots by the bathroom door." was all she said. She saw him nod before she turned and headed to the kitchen.