A/N: You know how you love your boyfriend but he does something vaguely narcissistic or perhaps makes a comment that is slightly too insulting to be taken as a jest? You're sort of pissed at him but really can't articulate why. So you walk around with a frown on your face and don't take his calls or just answer in curt text messages for a couple of days. Of course, he's totally oblivious because he's too busy standing in front of the open refrigerator in his underwear, scratching his ass and drinking from the milk carton.

That's how I'm feeling about our Ichabod right now.

Putting this here because, lazy.

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There were two sides to Ichabod Crane. There was Crane - the sober and courtly scholar - and there was Crane the Other - the man who dodged bullets on the battlefield with a mere raise of a brow or who would unflinchingly take your head, should the situation require it. Crane would not let go of his donut hole tax outrage. Crane the Other, armed with rage and an ax, entered the cellar of a haunted house, emerged painted with blood then calmly, politely asked to be taken home. Both Cranes were supercilious, entitled and vain, and despite a brilliant mind, frustratingly naive.

Neither of the two sides of Crane could be called dishonorable - but neither was above manipulating the truth.

Crane seemed unaware of the Other. He believed himself to be, in all things, if not moral, then rational and dispassionate, doing what might be unpleasant but what was definitely necessary. He apparently forgot that, before he was "Washington's Prized Soldier", he was a widely feared interrogator who sanctioned the torture and execution of apolitical colony farmers, whose only crime was fleeing their fields when the Regulars approached. He forgot that he persuaded a bored and indifferent Abraham to defect to the Americans with him then promptly relieved his purported best friend of his fiancée.

I did not fault Crane these things. My own life was shaped by darkness and denial and my personal arrogance. The views I held about loyalty and forgiveness were forever changed, due to a handful of sand tossed into my eyes by Ro'kenhronteys.

But I was still troubled by Crane's stubborn blindness when it came to Katrina. There was betrayal coming, as sure and as deadly as the Apocalypse. Henry Parrish pointed out that Jesus would've been branded a fool and laughed out of Jerusalem were it not for Judas.

I agreed with my sister, however. The Wizard of Oz was bullshit. There is no such thing as a good witch. Katrina's role would remain to be seen.

I sat in Corbin's huge rocking chair on the cabin's screened porch and watched Carne and Jenny play a game of one-on-one – or as Crane called it, "Basket Ball" – flailing their arms and committing egregious fouls against one another, doing more gleeful trash-talking than actually trying to put the ball through the hoop. Henry sat on the stump by the wood pile with his knees together and his toes turned inward. One of his socks had rouched lower than the other and I could see a pale, hairless band of skin below the neat cuff of his pants.

The breeze rattled the leaves in the trees and the sunlight scattered across the slight chop in the lake like bits of broken mirror. Jenny and Crane clomped around in the dirt – my sister in combat boots and Crane in his knee-highs – as Henry shyly refereed from his place on the stump. They'd soon come in to jostle around in the kitchen, arguing over which spice went best with what then finally settle down to eat, drink rum and trash-talk some more over a raucous game of dominoes, while Henry sat in a corner gazing wistfully at Jenny, his crossword puzzle book forgotten in his lap.

Corbin always assured me that I would have a family of my own someday. I had dismissed the thought with a roll of my eyes and a pang in my heart.

I leaned my head back and started the chair gently rocking. The worn leather padding still smelled faintly of my dear sheriff. I closed my eyes. I listened to the sounds of my family. I drifted into sleep.

Corbin laid a warm, callused hand on my cheek. "Hey, baby girl," he said, tugging gently on my earlobe. "Wake up."

I turned my lips into his palm. "I love you so much," I murmured.

"I love you, too but you gotta wake up, honey."

I opened my eyes and saw him kneeling on one knee before me. His thick hair was mussed and longer than he usually wore it. I reached out and ran a hand through the curls.

"You need a haircut, old man," I said.

"Nah. You just forgot how handsome I am," he said, grinning.

I slid out of the rocking chair into his arms. "Can I stay here with you?"

He hugged me tightly for a long moment then pulled back. He held my head between his big hands. His dark blue eyes roamed over my face and he stroked a thumb across my cheek. He glanced behind him then leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead.

"Not yet," he said, against my skin.

He snapped his fingers close to my ear with a sound like a muffled gunshot.

My eyes flew open. Henry stood in the spot where Corbin had been. His smile was soft and a little sad.

"Dinner's ready, Abigail," he said.

I stood and stretched, yawning and rolling the stiffness from my neck. Movement at the tree line caught my eye. Ro'kenhronteys stood between two trees, staring at me with his head cocked.

"God damn it," I said. "What is it now?"

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