The first time Ichabod Crane noticed Lieutenant Abigail Mills' legs was the day he met her. The moment he laid eyes on her, in fact.

That woman is wearing trousers!

That was the third thought he had, actually.

That officer is a woman!

That woman is free woman of color!

That woman is wearing trousers!

Later, he even asked her about it.

"When did it become acceptable for women to wear trousers?" he had asked her, baffled by this new era into which he'd been so rudely awakened.

He wonders if she knows the reason why it was scandalous for a woman to wear trousers. He wonders if she even cares.

Everyone can see your legs, Lieutenant Mills. Only your husband should have that honor.

Only your husband should have that pleasure.

He catches himself staring at them from time to time. He tells himself it is the novelty of seeing a woman in trousers that keeps grabbing his attention.

He tells himself that it is definitely not the way her trousers, often snug, outline her slender legs and her nicely rounded…

He reminds himself that he is a married man.

He reminds himself of Katrina's long, shapely legs, the color of cream. He smiles at the memory of the one time she'd teasingly slipped on his tunic and trousers after making love – after they were well and truly wed, of course – and how the sleeves hung from her hands and how she had to hold the waist of the trousers to keep them from falling down as she marched around, stepping on the hems with her bare feet.

He wonders what Miss Mills' legs look like beneath her trousers.

He wonders this, awash with guilt.

xXx

The next time he saw her legs was completely unavoidable. She was injured. Her car crashed avoiding the Demon of the Week, and her leg was caught, trapping her in the car.

Crane, only mildly bruised, was able to wrest her free, but her trouser leg tore in the process, revealing her knee and a good portion of shin.

She had cursed in a most unladylike fashion when she saw the tear, muttering something about her "favorite jeans."

Then the car exploded and lamenting the favorite jeans was forgotten. She jumped in surprise, her hands clutching Crane's lapels as he instinctively moved to shield her from the blast.

"Thank you," she had breathed, wide-eyed,

He had administered first aid to the long cut she had received, his keen blue eyes assessing the severity of the injury before withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket and binding it tightly around the wound.

It was then he noticed something.

He stared a little bit too long.

"Crane?" she asks, her finger hovering over the keypad of her cell phone. "Is something wrong?"

"Miss Mills, your leg…"

"Is it bad? Do I need stitches?"

"No, it's not bad… forgive me, but why is there no hair on your leg?"

Abbie laughs with relief. "Crane, women shave their legs now. Most women do, anyway. Underarms, too," she explains.

"Why ever for?" he asks, helping her to her feet.

She looks up at him, placing all her weight on her uninjured leg. "You know, I don't know. I guess someone, somewhere, decided it was nicer that way and it caught on. We don't even question it now," she shrugs.

"I see…" he says, his tone suggesting he does not, in fact, "see" at all.

She finally calls the station to report the accident and have someone come and get them. "You don't need to understand, don't worry," she says, touching his arm. He places his hand over hers, keeping her hand there, indicating that she should use him for support. "Mills here. Yeah, we've had a crash…"

xXx

Summer arrived, and with it, very small clothing. Just a simple walk down the street was a very trying experience for Crane.

Sundresses. Tank tops. And shorts. Some of them very short. Crane endeavored to keep his eyes forward, concentrating on his destination. He was scheduled to meet Lieutenant Mills at her residence and then proceed to the market. He was in need of supplies.

He turns the corner, and as he approaches her building, he sees a young woman jogging, heading in his direction. She is wearing a tank top and rather short shorts.

Oh, dear God, that's Lieutenant Mills.

He keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, hovering a foot over her head.

"Hey," she says, pulling her earbuds from her ears as she meets him at the door.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. I fear I am early," he says, looking at her forehead, at the little droplets of perspiration glistening against her smooth skin.

"A little," she says, her breathing gradually slowing. "Come on, you can wait inside while I shower."

"Are you sure that's appropriate?" he asks, following her inside anyway.

She turns and smirks at him over her shoulder. "I'll lock the bathroom door, okay?"

"Very well," he answers, following her up the three flights of stairs to her apartment.

He doesn't like elevators. She knows this. She prefers the stairs anyway, as it seems silly to take the elevator when one has just been out jogging.

Without realizing he's doing it, Crane watches Miss Mills' legs as he follows her up the stairs.

Strong and slender yet undeniably feminine. Longer than her small stature should allow. Skin smooth and flawless save the faint scar from the automobile accident. The color of coffee with a touch of cream.

His fingers itch, and he realizes it is because they want to touch.

While Abbie is in the shower, Crane sits in a chair, staring at a program about crocodiles, willing the adulterous thoughts from his mind.

Reassured by the click of the bathroom door lock.

Becoming more certain that Katrina is lost to him forever as the months pass and her appearances to him become fewer and farther between.

xXx

Winter. Cold and snow and everything is white and grey. The roads have become impassible due to an unnaturally (or, in this case, supernaturally) large storm, and Abbie is unable to get Crane back to his cabin.

They were forced to spend the previous night in the archives because they were completely snowed in. Today, they are able to get to Abbie's apartment in town, so she suggests he come home with her.

"Come on; you're not going to sleep down here another night. It's cold down here, and don't think I didn't notice you didn't sleep much last night," she says.

"I cannot spend the night in your home, Lieutenant. You are a single woman and I am – was – a married man…" he trails off.

It is easier to talk about now. Katrina. Independence Day. The Horseman. The truth, the betrayal, and her final demise.

It is easier, but it still stings a bit.

"Think of it as my providing sanctuary, then," she says, soldiering on as she always does when he starts to falter. Bolstering him when he wavers, just as he does for her. "You're no good to anyone when you're overtired," she continues, gentler now. "Or do I need to remind you about Halloween?" She quirks an eyebrow at him.

"That will not be necessary, Miss Mills," he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "I will accept the offer of your sofa-bed, thank you," he says.

She chuckles at his tendency to over-pronounce unfamiliar words and phrases. Sofa-bed. Plastic. Internet. And, her personal favorite, chimichanga.

She still giggles over that one. He loved it, though. She makes a mental note to take him out for Mexican food again soon.

The evening passes quietly and uneventfully, and they are both grateful. He falls asleep almost instantly on the thin mattress of the sofa-bed.

Crane wakes suddenly, blinking in the unfamiliarity of his surroundings until he gets his bearings. Miss Mills' apartment. He rises and puts on his clothes, noting gratefully that Miss Mills cleaned them while he slept, and walks to the bathroom.

The door is open, and he steps in.

Then he stops cold.

"Oh! I beg your pardon…" he blusters, turning around immediately.

But not soon enough.

"Crane, it's fine. I'm covered," Abbie says. "I'm just putting lotion on my legs."

The image is indelibly printed in his perfect (and permanent) memory: Miss Mills, in a light blue bathrobe, seated on the toilet lid, one small foot perched on the edge of the tub, her hands rubbing – massaging, caressing – moisturizing cream into one perfect leg, her skin glowing. Her slender ankle curving up to her rounded calf, the smooth bend of her knee, the long, firm muscles of her thigh.

"I'll come back later," he says, striding quickly away. He decides to busy himself by folding the bed back into the sofa, which he manages quite adeptly.

"Crane, um, bathroom's free," she softly says from the edge of the living room. He's just putting the last sofa cushion back.

He turns and looks at her. She's still in the robe, which he now sees falls past her knees. Her hair is damp and she seems to be nervously holding the neck of her robe closed, despite the securely-tied belt.

"I've taken a spare towel out for you if you want to shower," she adds. "Just… help yourself to anything."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he answers, his voice just as soft as hers. She smiles a little and then scurries away to her room.

He hears the click of her bedroom door locking.

The image of Miss Mills and her leg haunts Crane throughout the day. It is one of a handful of times in his life where he wishes he had a normal brain, a normal memory. A memory that can forget.

But then again, perhaps not. He's not sure he wants to forget that image. Because he doesn't know when he'll get to see it again.

If he'll get to see it again.

xXx

"Ichabod…" Abbie moans, squirming on the bed.

He's kissing a path that started at her toes, her small, delicious toes that were each lovingly tended before he worked his way up to her ankle. He slides his hands up to her knee, chasing them with his lips, planting soft kisses as he goes, occasionally opening his mouth and sucking or licking or biting a particularly sensitive spot. A particularly sensitive spot that Abbie didn't even realize she had.

The base of her calf. The back of her knee.

Her entire inner thigh.

"Patience, my love," he murmurs against her skin, marveling at its silken texture, its salty-sweet flavor, its intoxicating scent.

"No…" she whimpers. He chuckles.

A year has passed. Three months ago, things came to a head when Abbie almost died. Crane became unraveled, unable to fathom two concepts:

1. Fighting the apocalypse without Lieutenant Mills at his side.

2. Living without his Miss Mills. Abbie.

He confessed his feelings, finally, her hand clutched in his, his head bowed at her hospital bedside, thinking her unconscious, thinking she could not hear him.

"I love you, too, Crane." Her hoarse, whispered answer nearly knocked him out of his chair.

She had heard. She had heard and it roused her enough to reply. She had heard, it roused her enough to reply, and she reciprocated his feelings.

"Ichabod…" Her moan is more fervent now, almost a whine, as his lips have moved from the very top of her left thigh, just there, just where she wanted him to go, to the toes of her right foot.

"You would be scandalized if you knew how long I've wanted to do this," he rumbles. "Do indulge me, please." He kisses the sole of her foot, then slides the tip of his tongue up her calf. "Your patience will be rewarded." He gently nips the sensitive skin behind her knee. "I promise."

"Oh, my God…" she groans, giving up. She's already on sensory overload and all he's done is undress her – slowly, painstakingly, savoring every moment, every inch of her skin – and kiss her legs.

She doesn't completely understand his fixation, but she doesn't much care right now. All she knows is it's finally happening.

It had been a long road here, even after they admitted their feelings. Recovery. Demon. Hesitation. Demon. A marriage proposal. Demon. Reassurances.

Right now, Abbie feels ready to combust into a pile of ash.

However, Crane is quite content to show her exactly how much he loves her and is fully prepared to take all night if necessary.

Crane again reaches the apex of her thighs, this time staying, hooking her legs up over his shoulders as he tastes her.

Abbie cries out at the first touch of his tongue, the surprisingly soft texture of his beard adding an unexpectedly pleasurable layer of sensation. His hands hold her thighs, fingers splayed, occasionally caressing them as he sends her over the edge with his tongue, driving her until she is screaming his name.

He continues to kiss his way up her body, worshiping her, leaving no inch of skin unattended. Stomach, breasts, neck, ears, lips. But his hands always find their way back to her legs. Sometimes one, sometimes both. Touching, sliding, tickling, gripping.

Wrapping them around his narrow waist as he enters her, slowly, sinking deep, relishing every second.

"Oh…" Abbie moans, throwing her head back, arching her small body upwards, searching for more.

"Abbie," he whispers her name, dropping down to catch her lips in a deep, ardent kiss.

He moves over her, loving her, one hand locked on her thigh while the other wanders, caressing her breasts, her neck, her cheek. At one point she nabs his finger with her teeth and sucks it into her mouth, drawing first a sound of surprise and then a deep groan from his throat.

Her short fingernails bite into his chest, the small pricks nothing in comparison to the joy he feels at having her legs wrapped around him.

Too soon yet not soon enough they are both falling, crying out their release, almost simultaneously, hot and bright and wonderful. He wraps his arms around her slender shoulders and pulls her up to him, holding her close, whispering words of love and devotion into her hair.

"I love you, my heart. I will never leave your side. You are everything to me."

She kisses his neck. "I love you so much," she whispers back, and slowly they untangle from one another and move so they are lying together in the bed, Abbie tucked into his side, her head on his shoulder.

Crane reaches down and pulls one of her legs across his, trailing his fingers.

"Never figured you for a leg man, Crane," Abbie says, rubbing her foot against his leg.

"A 'leg man?'" he asks, slightly puzzled. He has an idea about what she means, but sometimes he just likes to hear her explanations.

"You know, your favorite part of a woman is her legs?" she says, waving her hand in the air before dropping it back down onto his chest. "Some guys are breast men, some butt men… you must be a leg man. Fixated on legs."

"Just your legs, my dear Lieutenant, just yours. And everything to which they are attached."