Resonance

A/N: Hello, all! This is my first foray into Sleepy Hollow, and, with any luck, it won't be my last.

A few moments of transparency upfront: This will be a plot-centric, multi-chapter fic with the whole Scooby Gang. While I'll admit I don't care for Katrina's character, writing this fic is sort of my attempt to make her palatable or, at the very least, redeem her patently useless role. Sounds a bit harsh, but it's time to put that woman to work! No more damsel in distress here.

Quick timeline note – this is set before "Heartless," so Katrina is still living at the cabin. Also, apologies to any resident of Sleepy Hollow/Tarrytown in advance, as I am continuing with the show's topographical creative license. I know the Old Dutch Church in Sleepy Hollow isn't quite how they portrayed it in the show, but I'm going to stick with their canon. Enjoy!

Chapter One

Abbie sat in her car long enough to assess her appearance in her visor mirror. Eyes a bit puffy maybe, but then they usually were after a sleepless night. She could still see faint raccoon rings from her mascara—"Smudge proof, my ass"—but they weren't going anywhere without a good scrubbing, which she hadn't had time for during her hurried morning escape. She ran her hands over her hair to smooth a few errant strands and then blotted a fresh coat of neutral lipstick with a fingertip. It would have to do until she could get a proper shower. Maybe he wouldn't notice—but then again, who was she kidding? He noticed everything, especially the things she didn't wish him to see. With a light sigh, Abbie snapped the visor back into place and grabbed her things from the front seat.

Upon entering Corbin's cabin, she found Ichabod Crane alone in the kitchen washing a small stack of breakfast dishes. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and his damp forearms glistened even in the wan light slanting through the window. There was something mesmerizing about his rhythm: the sweep of his hands as they worked from the outer edges of the plate inward, the tight circles his shoulders made in perfect accompaniment, the soft swishing of domesticity. In stark contrast to pretty much every other man Abbie had ever known, Ichabod did dishes as a deliberately and diligently as he did just about any task. He was not one to do a slipshod job on anything. Hell, even his hem was already tucked uniformly into his breeches, and it was barely nine a.m.

"Morning," she said as she tossed her bag onto the sofa.

Ichabod stopped mid-chore to give the lady a proper greeting. As he faced her, he noticed immediately that she was wearing the same outfit, albeit far more wrinkled, that she had worn when she had left him last night for an unnamed date. His breakfast instantly soured in his stomach. "Good morning, lieutenant," he said carefully as he scrutinized the missing top button of her blouse.

Her tongue poked the inside of her cheek, and she immediately narrowed her eyes at him. "Got something on your mind, Crane?"

"No, nothing at all."

She raised her eyebrows. "Then why are you giving me that look?"

"I assure you I am giving you no look," he replied, but immediately cast his glance everywhere else that wasn't the powerful and strong-willed woman in the middle of the room.

"Uh-huh."

Unwilling to continue to face his partner as he interrogated her, he returned to the safety of manual labor. "I trust you had a pleasant evening last night."

Abbie puckered her lips as she reveled in her victory. She knew that judgmental eighteenth century prudish tone anywhere. "I did."

"You met your mysterious admirer for dinner?"

"Sure did."

"And afterward?" he said slowly.

"Had a few drinks at a bar, took a walk by the river."

Ichabod nodded once. "Did the gentleman escort you home safely?" The question was pregnant with implications, his yearning to know everything and nothing all at the same time.

"He did." Ichabod's sigh of relief was audible—and ultimately misplaced. "To his home," she finished.

The next few moments of silence were some of the longest Abbie could remember as he digested her meaning. Despite how miserably uncomfortable the Revolutionary War soldier was, she had to help herself to a small smirk. Boy, did she know how to ruffle that man's feathers, not that it was terribly difficult. Truth be told, it was even a little bit fun.

"I see," he said tightly. "And what time did you return to your home?"

"Haven't been there yet."

He cleared his throat. "So am I to understand—"

"It's just sex, Crane," Abbie blurted as she casually leaned onto the armrest of the couch.

"Just—" He stopped short before he could say the coarse word and whirled around to meet her head on. "You know, in my day, people were more than commodities that were traded on the open market. Most people did not spend their nights in dalliances with casual acquaintances. Relations between couples were sacred; they were carefully cultivated over time. They meant something outside of the obvious," he paused, looking distressed, "pleasure."

"If you liked it, then you should have put a ring on it."

He shrugged one shoulder, the reference completely going over his head. "Yes, I suppose, something like that. The moral and spiritual degradation of our society continues to amaze me."

She laughed. "You know, I'm starting to feel a little judged here."

"My apologies, Miss Mills, but you are a woman worth the wait."

There was no hesitance to his words, no ambiguity to his meaning; on the contrary, there was only complete and utter sincerity. It made the whole thing so much more… significant. Her eyes immediately flicked up to meet his, and she found that he was already awaiting her. They had held each other's gazes many times, but this moment felt different. It was hard to put a finger on—Abbie could always see his respect and admiration for her, but this time his affection was at the forefront. It was inexplicably intense, and Abbie didn't do intense, especially not at nine a.m.

She broke the stare with a crooked, chagrined smile. "Real smooth way to get yourself out of a pickle there. I imagine it's pretty hard for Katrina to put you in the doghouse."

"Yes, well, we didn't own any dogs, but I think I've divined your meaning." He returned to meticulously scrubbing the remnants of eggs from the last plate and studiously avoiding the lieutenant's face. "All I meant was that the world has become beleaguered with mindless hedonists, and, as a result, what this century terms as 'men' have all but lost the art of the pursuit."

Abbie took a seat at the table and propped her elbows on the edge. "What are you talking about?"

Caught up in his ardor, Ichabod faced her and placed both hands squarely on the table, leaning perhaps a bit too close to the lieutenant for such subject matter. "People have forgotten thrill of the courtship, the intense and forbidden stares across candlelit ballrooms; strolls through gardens, hands brushing accidentally on purpose and igniting a burning fire within your breast; stolen moments in hallways where you could look fervidly into your lover's eyes and convey, in just one glance, all you felt deep within your heart. Do people in this era even know what it feels like to lay bare before your beloved and simply appreciate the miracle that she loves and desires only you?"

When he finished, Abbie found, to her surprise, that she had been sucking on her bottom lip. Damn. Maybe later she could convince him to read Harlequin books on tape; they would make a killing, and they could finally fund their anti-Apocalypse army in earnest.

After a long and labored exhale, she managed, "Uh, yeah, you got us there."

"Tell me it's really not all about a 'quickie' in a closet these days."

"Okay, you two have really got to lay off the reality TV."

The door to the bedroom eased open, and Katrina found her husband and Abbie locked in a steady gaze, their eyes bright and private smiles shared between them. Neither acknowledged her entry, let alone seemed to notice it. Katrina took a few steps into the kitchen and said at last, "Good morning, Miss Mills. I trust you are well today."

Abbie's smile instantly vanished, replaced instead with tight lips and a polite nod. "I am, thank you. How are you?"

"Very well. At breakfast, Ichabod and I were discussing taking a walk this morning." Katrina paused for a brief moment, but it was telling, even for someone who wasn't a police officer. "Would you care to join us?"

Abbie shook her head as she stood up. "Thanks, but no. I've got a ton of research to do today and figured it was best to start early. I brought over some books about the Horsemen," she said as she hefted her backpack into the air and then spilled its weighty contents onto the table. "Since we seem to be in between schemes, I thought maybe it might be a good time to see if we can get ahead of their next plan or at least get some insight into their grand design." Katrina's eyes looked a little glazed at the thought of more research, so Abbie eased off the gas. "It can wait until you two get back though."

Katrina's expression turned to one of gratitude. "I appreciate it. All work and no play, you know."

"Yeah, we all need a little play from time to time," Abbie said wryly, and she noticed her allusion to last night had not gone unnoticed by Ichabod. Fish in a barrel.

She grabbed a random book from the haphazard pile and flopped back onto the couch, her feet on one of the armrests. "Well, I'm gonna dive in. Just pretend I'm not here until you get back."

Like usual, she added to herself a tad bitterly as the two disappeared through the door. She should have gone home for a shower after all.

Ichabod eased a shawl over his wife's shoulders as they emerged onto the front porch. The weather had recently begun its steady and unceasing march from summer to fall, and with it, the temperature had ticked down accordingly. It was a gray day, the sun sheltered behind a plush carpet of clouds, yet the yellows and reds of the turning leaves injected welcome color across the wooded landscape. The centuries had yet to eradicate the majesty of fall in New York, and it was part of the reason that Ichabod wanted to share a walk with Katrina, to give her some semblance of the world which they had once inhabited.

It was hard to mistake the flash of vibrant red in the corner of his eye. For years, the hue had been a boon to his heart, one that made him stand a little straighter and act a little prouder. With a woman like Katrina at his side, Ichabod had felt damn near invincible—and rightly so, considering he had escaped the icy clutches of Death itself thanks to her love.

But lately, when he was being honest with himself in the depths of the night, he had to concede that their relationship was no longer the stronghold it had once been. Katrina's lies had indeed come between them; however, like many marriages, both parties had to put in the work to overcome the obstacles placed in front of them. Granted, they had probably faced a few more than the average couple, but, in truth, they all boiled down to issues of shattered trust, shaken faith, and lost security. Still, Ichabod was nothing if not tenacious in the face of something worth fighting for.

Perhaps it was simply a matter of logistics. One was bound to grow across the breadth of 250 years and alternate planes of reality. Surprising even himself, Ichabod could not deny that he was, in many ways, becoming a 21st Century man while Katrina remained an 18th Century woman. He had had a head start and a wonderful mentor in Abbie, and this, in and of itself, must have been tiring, perhaps even intimidating, for his wife, who had to start as fresh as a newborn babe. There were even moments where Ichabod found his patience being tested in the face of Katrina's incessant questions and unending marveling, and yet he never forgot that Abbie had unflappably weathered his own fledgling understanding—still weathered it—so he said nothing on the matter.

In an effort to carve out their own space in this century, Ichabod devised a way for their past to meld with their future via a leisure walk through the town proper. It was his earnest hope that it would be the first step to the reconciliation of their hearts and minds.

Ichabod offered his arm to his wife, and together they stepped down onto a crunchy mat of leaves, making their way to the SUV in front of the cabin. Abbie had given Ichabod carte blanche to take her car—provided, of course, that they stayed within a few mile radius and obeyed every road sign (she trusted the man but not his driving skills apparently).

"Where are we headed, my love?" Katrina asked as she hoisted herself awkwardly into the vehicle. It was hard looking like a lady while wearing trousers and heaving oneself into a metal box. At least her husband didn't seem to mind.

"I thought we might make our own historical tour of downtown, if that is amenable to you."

"Yes, I should very much like to see what has become of our sleepy hollow."

Ichabod smiled at her briefly as the engine turned over, and they jettisoned down the road. Though their drive was a short one, they were silent for its entirety as Katrina fruitlessly tried to study the world whizzing outside her window.

"A bit faster than a carriage," Ichabod joked as he eased the car into a parking spot along North Broadway, the main thoroughfare of town.

"And a lot smoother. Although something within me still yearns for the monotony of a horse's hooves." He could not begrudge her that, though, admittedly, he didn't think he could trade four hundred horses for the one any longer.

After helping his wife out of the car, Ichabod led her down the sidewalk into the heart of town. Though it was no sprawling metropolis as his London had been (and presumably still was), Sleepy Hollow still managed a quaint charm in spite of the fracas of idling engines and braying horns in the street. There was a decent stretch of various merchants, yet very few craftsmen, as he would define them. They discovered an art gallery that Katrina fancied, and Ichabod wished he'd had the money to buy her favorite watercolor of the Hudson River. Further down, they chanced upon a candle shop, and much to their surprise, they learned that candles were now strictly recreational. What on earth was an orange dreamsicle, and why would he want his home to smell like one?

But their favorite store, for obvious reasons, was an antiques shop with a wonderful selection of 18th century furniture. Inside, Katrina ran her hands over the dusty pieces as reverently as she did her own husband. There were dining room sets, enormous mirrors that would have graced great halls, even utilitarian items like milking pails and scrub boards.

"Seven thousand dollars for a highboy," Katrina exclaimed, her hand over her heart. "Good lord! We could have owned half the Colonies for such a sum."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you what they charged for tax on top of that," Ichabod grumbled in return. He made a mental note to confront Abbie on the exorbitant inflation of her era—he did relish the look of her exasperated countenance as he lambasted the 21st Century.

As she meandered through the jam-packed interior, Katrina at last took a seat in a wing back chair very much like one they had once owned, and Ichabod's heart stopped at the sight of her. For one astonishing moment, they were home again, as though not one decade had elapsed, awaiting a kettle of stew for supper. If he had had the opportunity, he would have bought the lot and redecorated the cabin accordingly.

Leaving the antiques shop was a very difficult thing to do, and the pangs in their chests resounded between them as they walked farther down the road. As Katrina's arm threaded through his, they reminisced, and just as Ichabod had hoped, he felt more of a connection to his wife than he had since they'd rescued her from Purgatory.

"Do you recognize anything?" he asked as they came to the edge of the shopping district.

She sighed. "How could I? This doesn't feel like another time but another planet entirely."

"Perhaps if I gave you some markers. Over there," he gestured to a squat, ugly troll of a gas station, "would have been the farrier, Mr. Wright, and beside him, Mr. Elliot."

"The drayman?"

"The very same."

She examined the gas station and its neighboring office building, then shook her head. "Impossible. You're teasing me."

"I would do no such thing," he said, though his arched eyebrow suggested otherwise.

"Very well. And where would Monsieur Du Motier have been?

Ichabod smiled as he recalled the many times his wife had looked longingly into the milliner's shop. While she usually rebuked such earthly trifles, there really was nothing quite like a fine hat. Sometimes she would go inside just to rub the silken ribbons between her fingers and chat idly with the Frenchman. Though she insisted she was just being kind and dutiful to her community, her husband knew her well enough to know she was really angling for a deal down the road.

After Ichabod gently revealed that her beloved shop had been leveled for an unkempt parking lot, Katrina's expression turned dour. "I'm trying to remember what these places must have looked like, but to no avail."

Ichabod's mouth shrugged. "Forest, forest everywhere. I remember how the landscape seemed infinite, boundless even. Now superfluous signs delineate every nook and cranny, and there's very little left to the imagination."

Katrina tugged her shawl about herself as a stiff breeze picked up, skittering some errant maple leaves across the sidewalk. "With each growing day, I find it harder and harder to picture our old life."

"Then perhaps I should take you somewhere you may very well recognize."

Instantly, Katrina's demeanor galvanized with the blossoming of renewed hope. "You really are such a rotten tease."

A few blocks down the road, and they rounded a corner where they came upon a meticulously kept lawn leading toward two huge cedar doors. A soaring tower crowned with a half dozen spires punctured the gray heavens while a flurry of yellow leaves sailed down around the couple. The Old Dutch Church spread out before them, welcoming them home. Though it had been remodeled over the course of the passing centuries, Katrina would have known it anywhere. It had been her family's church, her church—she still considered it hers. "Oh, Ichabod," she sighed wistfully. "Could we go inside?"

"Not yet. There's something I'd like to show you first."

He took her hand and guided her across the church grounds, letting her drag her fingertips along the pitted brick edifice that had witnessed the triumphs of several wars, the despair of leaner times, and thousands of marriages like their own. Down a short flight of stairs and around the rear of the church was a shadowed graveyard with which he was entirely too acquainted. His eidetic mind led them easily through the maze of tombstones jutting like rotting 18th century teeth from the maw of the earth, until they stopped before a crumbling marker overrun with vines. Though many of the neighboring stones had lost their legibility after decades of exposure, the inscription on this tomb was as sharp as when the monument mason had brought his chisel to the stone.

"Here lieth the duft of Katrina Crane, burnt for witchcraft. Died 1782. Aged 32 years." Reading aloud her own epitaph conjured a roiling of nausea in Katrina's stomach. She could not clutch her shawl tight enough to fight back the savage claws that tore at her heart.

Ichabod wrapped her in an embrace that managed to steady her on her feet. He pressed his cheek against her hair and said, "You cannot imagine the depths of my despair as I read the words of your demise with such finality." He kissed her crown once and pulled back, his hands holding her face, his eyes holding her gaze. "And then my utter elation when I found it all to be a clever ruse to hide the Horseman's head."

"Dearest Ichabod, I am so sorry for—"

He smiled softly to silence her fears. "Let there be no more apologies between us. I showed you this only so that you might understand what I experienced upon my reanimation. We must remain united in the face of Moloch and his ilk. Everything has led us here, and this is where I must trust we were meant to be. However difficult things may become, let us remember that, confounding all probability, at least we are both still breathing."

Katrina held him fiercely in their unspoken agreement. When at last she could bear to separate from him, they returned to the church proper and made their way toward the entrance. Ichabod paused for a moment at a cornerstone of the building, his eyes focusing on a thin, smooth gash in the masonry.

"This is where the Abraham beheaded the Reverend Knapp."

"A descendent of my Alfred Knapp?" she asked incredulously, fondly recounting the beloved face of her fellow coven member.

Ichabod's only answer was a slow shake of his head as he held open one mammoth door for Katrina. She eased inside, finding the interior completely transmogrified. The warm wooden nave had been mostly plastered and modernized. There were subtle nods to her past—the choice of sconces, the sweeping archways, the original altar before which she had knelt countless times until she ultimately made the decision to join the Quakers—yet there just as many eradications of it. The original pews had been lost, and though she held no claim here anymore, she still named the second row back as the Van Tassel family pew.

Ichabod roused her from her reverie with a firm hand on her arm as he guided her to a line of photographs on the wall. Recognition, along with astonishment, flared within her eyes. It was indeed the very same Alfred she knew, the man she had trusted above anyone else in her coven.

"How is it possible he survived to this century?" she breathed at last, one finger tracing the cool plastic frame.

"I'm afraid that's a mystery we may never know. Whatever enchantment prolonged his life could not withstand the blade of a broadaxe."

Unbidden tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she blinked hard to fight them back. "Perhaps he had charged himself as the sentry of a great many of our secrets, at what personal cost, I can only imagine."

"To that end, he served admirably."

She spent a few moments longer staring at the familiar face trapped behind the glass, every hair and wrinkle precisely as she remembered it. Photography truly was akin to modern witchcraft. Alfred looked so real, so alive, that she wondered if she could divine a spell that would resurrect him from the paper.

Suddenly, Katrina turned to her husband, her eyes wide and her mouth agape as the spark of realization lit within her. If she was right, everything they knew of this war was about to change.