He was expecting her to be home. He was expecting… he doesn't know what he was expecting.

He was not expecting to be sitting on her porch swing, beverage resting on his knee, waiting for her to return.

He should have called. Should have at least texted. Should have…

Should have done a lot of things.

Should have given her more of an explanation for his departure beyond the hastily-scrawled note he left for her.

He looks down at his hands, thankful he no longer sees the blood on them. He knows he needed to get away from here; knows he did the right thing for himself.

He just isn't sure if it was the right thing for them. He should have told her he needed some time. Should have sought out her advice. Should have...

Deep down, he suspects she knows his reasons, but he should have at least given her the courtesy.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and looks at it, silent in his hand. He presses the button and the lock screen photo appears. It's of the two of them. He knows every pixel of the photo he has gazed upon it so often.

He thinks about how she could have cancelled his line. How she could have sold the cabin (she didn't; he was there earlier. It was cleaner than he'd left it, and Katrina's few belongings had been removed). How he could have done so much better for her. Should have done so much better for her.

His partner. The only person who truly understands him.

He hopes she still does. Hopes she will forgive him for everything.

Hopes she comes home soon.

He takes a sip of his drink, shifts his bottom on the seat. The swing creaks.

A car appears, and he realizes he has no idea what type of vehicle she is driving now. Her Jeep was surely beyond repair, and he hopes that the then-mysterious Insurance Company she mentioned was able to adequately compensate her for the loss.

The car keeps driving. This is a quiet street, so there isn't much traffic. He looks at his phone again, checking the time, thinking wistfully for a moment about his father's pocket watch and how it was supposed to become his.

An SUV rounds the corner. It appears to be a newer vehicle, and he thinks he can see a small, dark shape behind the wheel. His ramrod-straight back straightens further as his body tenses with anticipation. His heartbeat speeds up, he begins to feel a trifle sweaty, and suddenly feels the need to empty his bladder. He blinks, curious. In his time as a soldier, he's never truly experienced the "flight" side of the "fight-or-flight" reaction. He grips the seat of the swing with his free hand, willing himself to stay put and take whatever welcome she gives him.

He is prepared for anger. He even expects her to strike him, and will take such treatment without complaint.

What he fears is dismissal. If she tells him to go, he will be heartbroken.

If she ignores him entirely, he will be devastated beyond repair.

He doesn't know if she noticed him on her porch when she drove up or not. Her quick, efficient footsteps on the front walkway indicate that she has – he knows she would generally go in the side door otherwise.

"What. The hell?"

He sets his drink aside and stands, waiting. Her face – was she always so beautiful? – is a mask of hurt and anger with relief hiding in the background.

"Crane, what the hell?" she repeats, louder, stomping up the steps.

Her hair is shorter. She is dressed more formally, in a blazer and trousers instead of a leather jacket and jeans. He doesn't see her badge anywhere.

She marches up to him and throws her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

Now he is truly befuddled. He knows she is angry, but she is holding him so fiercely he can hardly breathe. So he does the only thing he can do: He returns her hug, wrapping his long arms around her back, bending down to lay his cheek on top of her head.

Her hair still smells the same. This is a comfort.

Then, just as suddenly as she grabbed him, she pulls back and punches him in the shoulder. Hard. "You can't just leave!" she yells. "You can't just run off like… like we don't have a world to save!" She stalks to the door, unlocks it, and opens it. "Inside," she orders. "I'm not done yelling at you, but I'm not going to do it out here where all the neighbors can see."

Without a word, he steps inside, leaving his drink out on the small table beside the swing.

He stands, waiting while she removes her blazer, takes off her shoes, and otherwise does those little end-of-day things one does. There is tension in her movements, an abruptness that was never there before, and he attributes it to her well-deserved anger at him.

"Sit down already," she snaps over her shoulder.

He sits, perching on the seat of her couch without reclining against it.

She strides back over, bottle of beer in one hand (she's too mad to offer him one), and plops down in the recliner. She takes a long pull from the bottle, and he watches her throat move as she swallows the cold beverage. "Your phone broken?"

Addressed with a direct question, he can only squeak, "No." He doesn't ask her why she didn't try contacting him. He knows why.

"I kept paying for your line in the hopes that you'd use it to contact me." She angles her head at him. "Remember me? Your partner?"

"Lieutenant, I…"

She holds up one finger, perfectly mimicking something she has seen him do countless times, and he closes his mouth. He is abundantly aware that her gesture is very calculated.

"You don't get to talk yet," she says, then takes another drink. "So. All that talk about 'tending our bond' and 'fighting together' and 'choosing to forge your fate with me' was, what? All bullshit then? More pretty words to make me trust you again?"

"I—"

"And then you LEAVE ME. LIKE EVERYONE ELSE I LET CLOSE TO ME!" She is shouting now. She slams the bottle on the table, stands, and turns away from him so he won't see the tears collecting in her eyes.

Crane hangs his head, looking at the little puddle of beer on the coffee table that jumped out of the bottle on impact. Absently, he wishes to reach out and wipe it up, knowing it will leave a mark, but he does nothing.

He knows she is crying. He's made her cry, and he will never forgive himself for that. Nor will he forgive himself for breaking his promises to her.

"Hmph. Partner," Abbie huffs, still facing away from him. He can see her reach up and wipe her cheek. "You don't. Leave. Your partner."

"I am sorry." It is all he can manage. His throat is tight, his eyes stinging. Words, ever his companions, never failing him, have fled.

"I once said my faith in you is my greatest weakness," she quietly comments, looking at a picture of Sheriff Corbin on a shelf. "I… I let you in… as close as I've let anyone. And you still left." She sighs and turns to face him again, no longer caring if he sees her tears. "I get it. I really do. I totally understand why you had to get the hell out of Dodge." She steps closer to him, and he stares, wide-eyed, unable to look away. "But you need to learn to think about someone other than your damn self, Crane! Your… arrogance, your selfishness has gotten you – gotten us – into so much trouble already! We have an apocalypse to stop!"

She is not telling him anything untrue. She is not telling him anything he hasn't figured out for himself while on this long journey. "I know. You are absolutely correct. As always."

"Damn skippy I am!" she says. "Jeez, how many times have I been right and you're just now figuring this out?"

He says nothing. Because what can he possibly say?

"So you left. Fine. Like I said, I get that. But you couldn't call? Or text? Just to let me know you were all right?" She stops herself, holding up her hands. "Okay, I know you weren't exactly all right. But just the knowledge that you were alive would have been good."

He nods, his head still bowed.

"And it never occurred to you to contact me to see how I was doing?" she asked. "Never thought, 'Gee I wonder how Miss Mills is faring in the wake of all that has happened'? Never even wondered what I was doing?"

"I am a coward," he mutters. "There is no excuse I can give that will explain my actions."

"Yeah, you've gone a bit far for that," she agrees. "It's been nearly a year, Crane! Do you know what can happen in that amount of time? I could have had a baby and you wouldn't have known." He looks up sharply, first at her face, then her stomach, then back to her face, his expression somewhat panic-stricken. "I didn't, but I could have." He drops his head again. She knows that particular example was a low blow, very low, but she needed to drive the point home.

"You know what the worst part was, Crane? Do you want to know what kept me awake almost every night, more than worrying about my training or Jenny or the apocalypse?"

He shakes his head once.

She sits on the couch beside him, and he turns to look at her. She stares directly into his eyes and says, "I didn't know if you were dead or alive." She leans closer. "You could have been dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse, almost dead, and there was no way I would know. I lived in fear that one day my phone would ring and it would be the police department from, oh, some rinky-dink town in northern Wisconsin, asking me if I knew an Ichabod Crane, telling me I was his 'In case of emergency' contact and I should get on the next flight to come and identify the body." Her voice is low and distant, almost cold.

That's how he knows how much his absence – not his absence, but his isolation – has upset her. She has retreated behind her formidable walls again and put on her mask of calm.

"I'm so sorry, Abbie," he whispers, his voice hitching on the words as he lets his own floodgates open, the gates holding back the guilt he's been keeping bottled up over these months. The guilt that constantly told him to call her, text her, send her a photo of where he was at the time. It pours out of him in a wave of remorse, and before he realizes what he's doing, he reaches for her, wrapping his arms around her once again, but this time tucking his face into her neck. "I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, but… but I hope… in time…"

Slowly, Abbie puts her hand on Crane's head, noticing for the first time that his hair is much shorter than it was when she last saw him. She makes a mental note to ask about it later – she has visions of him standing in front of a mirror in some dank gas station bathroom with the knife that killed Katrina in his hand, using it to angrily saw at his hair – but she'll find out for certain what the story is. Later.

"I just couldn't… I thought I needed to be alone… thought you needed a… a break from me as well…" His voice is muffled.

"You made that call on your own, did you?" she asks, her voice gentler now. Her other hand is holding his back now, and he is still clinging to her, his long back bent nearly in half as he hunches down to her shorter height.

She feels him nod against her shoulder. "I was wrong. I know this. I'm sorry… so sorry…" he answers, his words descending into semi-incoherent mumbled apologies.

She finds herself stroking his hair, and realizes – with some surprise – that she's already forgiven him. "Damn you," she whispers, knowing he'll misinterpret her meaning but not caring at the moment.

"I am damned," he agrees, finally releasing her. "That much is clear." He wipes his eyes and continues. "My life has been a series of misfortunes, all determined by fate, all outside of my control, except…" he bravely, carefully takes her hands, "except for you, Lieutenant. You are the one bright spot in this awful existence I have been leading. My guardian angel, or very nearly, and I… I almost threw it away." He lifts their joined hands and he kisses her knuckles while she stares on in mild shock.

She shakes her head, clearing it. "You're not going to make me feel sorry for you, Ichabod Crane. This isn't about you right now," she says. She wants to pull her hands away, but can't seem to find the will.

"I was not looking for your pity," he earnestly explains. "I was merely attempting to divulge some of the epiphanies I had while I was… away. Explaining my own stupidity in thinking being separated from you was the right thing to do." He looks at her, so forlorn, so lost. He doesn't beg for her forgiveness with words, but his eyes plead with her. "I cannot apologize enough for my childish behavior, Miss Mills..."

"All right, shut up, I forgive you already," she says, just now feeling the tears on her cheeks. She pulls her hands free to wipe her face. "However," she sternly adds, "Never. Do that. Again." She punctuates each word with a strong poke to his chest.

"Never," he echoes, looking her straight in the eye. He looks down. "What did you do while I was away?" he quietly asks. "I see you are dressed differently and you no longer wear your badge..."

"Now you want to know?"

"I wondered every day," he admits. "I thought of you… frequently." Constantly.

She takes a deep breath, almost not wanting to tell him, but decides that would be childish. "I went to Quantico. I'm an FBI agent now."

"That's… that's wonderful!" he softly exclaims. "That was your dream… the dream I stole from you with my arrival..."

"You didn't steal anything, Crane," Abbie sighs. "Greater good, yadda yadda yadda..." She waves her hand along with the words.

He nods. "You have always been better about that than I. You have always been able to put the needs of others before yourself. It is something at which I must learn to be better."

A year ago, Abbie would have assured him that he was doing fine. That his priorities were in pretty good shape. Now, she simply says, "Yep."

Her curt, bluntly honest response stings him, but he replies, "Thank you for your honesty."

She gives him a knowing stare and says, "You know I am the one person in your life who has always been honest with you, Crane."

"I do," he replies, looking down again.

"That's not going to change." She pokes his shoulder and he looks at her. "We need to be totally honest with each other. That includes withholding information."

"And disappearing, leaving nothing but a poorly-written note," he says, guilt washing over him again.

"Especially that." She takes a very deep breath and reaches across the table for her drink. "You're back then?"

He knows she means more than just his physical presence. She's making sure he is fully present, with her, and ready to fight the fight, committed to their cause. To them. He straightens his back and answers, "I am."

"No more running away."

"I promise."

She sets her bottle down and raises both eyebrows, her expression silently asking, "Really?"

"Lieu— Miss Mills… Abbie…" Crane starts, no longer sure what to call her. "I vow to you that I shall never—"

"Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh…" Abbie shushes him again, raising that blasted finger once more. He realizes how annoying it is to be on the receiving end of such a gesture and decides he must break himself of the habit forthwith. "Talk is cheap, Captain. You're going to have to prove it with actions now."

He nods once. "Understood. And I shall, I prom—" He stops his words when she raises her eyebrow at him. Talk is cheap. The words echo in his head.

"And you can still call me 'Lieutenant'," she adds, pronouncing it the way only he does. "I've missed it." She hesitates, then admits, "I've missed you, too, you big jerk."

He hugs her again, pulling her against his chest. "I missed you desperately, Lieutenant. More than I can express," he says. "And thank you. You have no idea how much it means to have your forgiveness." He leans down and kisses the top of her head.

"Don't get too elated there," she warns, leaning back so she can see him. "You still have to explain your actions to Jenny."

His eyes widen in genuine fear. "Oh, dear God…"