"Lieutenant!" Ichabod Crane's voice rings through the stillness of the forest. Stillness that only recently descended after the demonic, man-eating bear creature that had been pursuing him had been vanquished.

There was a crash as the creature fell, toppling awkwardly on its stiff legs, followed by the snick and thunk of Crane's crossbow bolt being released and hitting its mark. The Yakwawiak disintegrated, melting into a puddle of goo before evaporating into a mist that would have been greenish in better light.

Unfortunately, the Witnesses were separated in the melee, and Crane is no longer certain of his partner's whereabouts.

And she's not answering his calls. He distinctly recalls seeing the creature backhand (backpaw?) Miss Mills into a large willow. She had just shot it, but it moved at precisely the right moment, so her bullet hit its shoulder.

Which only made it angry.

"Lieutenant!" Crane yells louder, his voice edged with panic. He retraces their path, following the line of broken branches and fallen twigs, knowing his search will only end when he finds his partner. "Miss Mills! Where are you, Abbie?"

An owl hoots and he jumps, cursing the creature. He sweeps his flashlight right and left as he walks, looking for her small form. "Why must she always wear black and gray?" he mutters, the fingers of his free hand flexing almost painfully he is so agitated.

He spies the willow ahead and breaks into a run. When he sees a distinctly Abbie Mills-shaped heap in the grass he sprints to her, dropping to his knees at her side.

"Lieutenant," he gasps, gently turning her over, wondering if he needs to administer CPR. He drops his head low, close to her face, as Abbie showed him in a time that now seems so long ago. No. She is breathing. He checks her pulse, pressing his fingers to her neck. Steady, but a trifle weak. Quickly checking her for injuries, he finds a bump high on her forehead, near her hairline, but no blood. Her left shoulder might be dislocated, but he can't tell through her thick leather jacket.

"Lieutenant," he repeats, leaning over her. "Abbie. Abbie, wake up. Please, wake up," he begs, gently jostling her, not wanting to shake her too much. He lifts a trembling hand and hesitantly touches her cheek. "Miss Mills," he continues, patting her cheek lightly. "Abbie. Please." His voice breaks as he bargains with his unconscious partner to wake. He caresses her cheekbone with his thumb and brokenly whispers, "Abbie..."

"Mmm," Abbie stirs, groaning a little.

"Oh, thank God," he breathes, nearly crying with relief.

"Ow," she complains, starting to lift herself up onto her elbows. "Ah!" she exclaims as pain shoots through her shoulder and head simultaneously. She takes a few deep breaths as Crane gently lifts her, cradling her upper body with extreme care, resting her head in the crook of his elbow.

"Abbie..." he starts, not knowing what to say or do. In this moment, he is simply overcome with relief. He leans down, gently hugging her, careful of her shoulder. "I couldn't find you," he murmurs into her hair, and if his lips brush the top of her head, so be it. "I thought..." he continues as she tilts her head back, pivoting it against his arm, and he may have accidentally kissed her forehead. "You wouldn't wake..." His lips definitely feather against her cheek. "I..."

His lips somehow find hers before either of them fully realize what is happening.

The kiss is soft, sweet, and slightly salty from tears he didn't notice he was shedding.

"Oh..." he pulls away, wide-eyed and staring. He blinks twice, his eyes searching hers. "You may have a concussion," he says, his voice a low rumble.

She blinks, a rapid-fire series of motions, all long black lashes and big brown eyes. "Probably," she whispers.

His head lowers to hers again, and this time, she lifts her chin to meet him. A part of Crane's heart he was afraid had died a year ago roars to life. Walls Abbie had spent years carefully building crumble.

It is another soft kiss, slower and firmer than the first, but still gentle. Testing, but no longer tentative.

Just as she thinks about coaxing his lips apart, he withdraws.

Her eyes slowly flutter open, and she gazes up at him. "Did you get it?" she asks.

He almost laughs. Of course she would ask that before anything else. "Yes," he answers, smiling.

She reaches up with her right hand and wipes his still-damp cheeks. "You probably should take me to the hospital," she says. "I think my shoulder is dislocated, too."

He nods, caressing her face, this time noting the silken texture of her skin. He slowly, carefully helps her to her feet. "Can you walk? It would be no burden for me to carry you."

"My legs feel fine," she answers, taking a step. The world tilts. "Oh. My head, on the other hand..."

Standing on her right side, he bends down and hooks his right arm under her knees, his left arm gently cradling her torso, and lifts her into his arms. He kisses her once more before beginning to walk to the car.

"Are we going to talk about this?" she asks, her head on his shoulder.

"To what, specifically, are you referring?" he returns, though he has a pretty good idea.

"Us. The kissing."

He stops walking. Her SUV is within sight, and it feels like finding a life raft after the night they've had. "I do not think there is a need," he says after a thoughtful pause. He looks down at her, one eyebrow cocked.

She huffs a short laugh. "Hmm. There really isn't, is there?" she agrees, lifting her head to look up at him. "We know how we feel," she quietly adds, returning her head to his shoulder, quite secure in his strong, warm embrace.

"Indeed," he agrees with a chuckle as he continues his walk to the car. "I hope Miss Alyssa is working the admitting desk in the Emergency Room. She does not ask... probing questions," he says.

"Helps that I'm a cop," she replies. "But Dr. Wilson has learned not to ask either, I've noticed," she adds. "Ah, this sucks," she groans, gingerly climbing into the passenger seat. "Even so, which story should we go with if we need one? Fall down the stairs?"

"Wearing your coat?"

"Maybe I was going out."

Crane starts the car. "If memory serves, the taverns are closed by this hour. Where would you be going?"

"They're not going to ask that!" she protests, a little too vehemently. "Ow."

"Probably not," he agrees, driving into the night, heading for the hospital. Again.

They drive in silence for a time. The shift in their relationship is so subtle, so natural, that it is almost imperceptible. Like slipping into a favorite pair of pajamas.

"You... you know I love you, right?" Abbie asks, her voice so soft she isn't sure he'll hear it. She peeks up and over at him.

Crane's lips slowly curve into a smile. "Only if you know I also love you," he replies, looking back at her while stopped at a light. She returns his smile and his broadens along with hers until they are grinning at each other like a couple of lovesick fools.

The light turns green. He keeps looking over at her left hand, laying limp against her thigh, wishing he could take it in his own, lift it to his lips, and kiss each tiny finger. Instead, at the next stoplight, he reaches over and caresses her cheek once. "I have never felt as sure of anything as I feel about our love," he murmurs.

"I know," she agrees, turning her head and kissing his thumb before he returns his hand to the steering wheel. "Witness bond, maybe."

"Yes. However, it is important to note that it is our choice to finally acknowledge our deeper feelings for one another," he adds, turning into the hospital parking lot. "And our love can only make us stronger."

She nods. "Our already rock-solid bond as Witnesses will be unbreakable now."

He parks the car, then leans over and kisses her. "Such optimism, Lieutenant! You must have hit your head very hard, indeed," he lightly teases, kissing her once more. "Stay here. I will fetch a wheelchair."

"You could have dropped me off at the doors," she says, willing herself to keep her eyes open.

"I most definitely could not have done," he disagrees, reaching for the door handle. "I will be but a moment, my own. Mr. Jonathan is right inside the doors, so I know I will have no trouble procuring the chair." Then, he disappears.

For the first time, Abbie allows herself to watch Crane's long, lean form as he strides purposefully to the entrance, and she truly sees him as a man, probably for the first time. Not her partner, not the strange, Colonial era fish-out-of-water soldier, but a man. Alive, warm, attractive, trusting and trustworthy. And hers.