Chapter Text
If you want something done right, you get in there and do it your damn self. This has been the creed of Liutenant Grace Abigail Mills her entire life. As a little orphan girl in and out of the system, Abbie caught on pretty quickly that she was better off being self-possessed and self-reliant than expecting or wanting anything from anyone. This same sentiment has also catapulted her career in the Sleepy Hollow PD and as a result Abbie has worked her way into a position it takes most cops dozens of years to reach. She is the embodiment of leadership and fortitude and incidentally her aptitude for autonomy has led to her intense affection for arts and DIY crafts.
Abbie's private life is just that, private, and as a result few-nearly none- of her associates are aware that the discovery of Pinterest was basically a religious experience for Abbie and she has never been able to look at life - or Mason jars- the same way. Of course, when Ichabod Crane waltzes into her life all searing poppy eyes and weird preordained soul-connection, he deems fit to include himself in Abbie's private world of Hobby Lobby trips, repurposing and upcycling whenever they aren't fighting off The Headless Douchbag and company.
It is full four months into their quest before Ichabod discovers Abbie's secret. They've just vanquished a group of run of the mill gremlins that have been terrorizing the town all week and sealed them into some weird parallel dimension thingie at the bottom of an Olympic pool at the local rec center. It is January and she's freezing her ass off and her hair is coiling into a springy, curly mess by the millisecond. They've wrapped up the day fairly early but Abbie is tired and doesn't much feel like the drive up to Corbin's.
"You mind camping on my sofa bed tonight Crane," she questions as they slide into her jeep. "I'm beat, and we can order pizza."
On his part Crane looks rather worn as well, his forehead cupped into one of his large hands, elbow propped against the window. The first time she'd allowed him to stay the night Crane had been utterly scandalized but as he grows more accustomed to this era he seems less affected.
"Pizza sounds fanastic," he agrees and shifts to meet her gaze. "Your hair…" he trails off, uncertain of whether he should continue. He is still learning to navigate the mercurial waters of Abbie's personality. She is the most complex woman Ichabod has ever known, she drinks and belches in the company of men, is seen as an equal among her peers, but bring up her petite stature or personal life and Abbie turns cross quickly.
Her scowl in expected, "I know," her usual no nonsense tone has the edge of something that sounds eerily close to a whine. She huffs and shifts the gears before starting up the car. Ichabod is silent for the duration of the trip as Abbie places two phone calls. The first to place an order for their pizza (she remembers extra olives, which Ichabod finds positively delightful) and the second to a woman named Mona to set an appointment for something called a "blowout."
When they arrive at Abbie's small, but stylish home Abbie darts into the kitchen for several Mason jars before heading into her bathroom, Ichabod busies himself by pulling out the sofa bed and, when the delivery man arrives hands him his prepaid charge card that Sleepy Hollow PD bequeathed to him a few weeks ago. Ichbod knows he will forever be indebted to Abbie for her tireless efforts to acquaint him with the day-to-day ministrations of this century and slowly, but surely he is catching up.
"Your turn," he hears the Liutenant call from the hallway before the click of her closing her bedroom door. He tries not to think about her habit of darting from her showers to her bedroom in a tiny towel, fails spectacularly and heads into the bathroom hoping to wash his brain of this madness.
Meanwhile Abbie tasks herself finishing herself with deep conditioning her hair. She curses the fact that she was not blessed with Jenny's glossy, effortless curls as she smoothed coconut oil into her much more defiant ones. She palms her widetooth comb with one hand and begins working it through, silently thanking the gods of Pinterest for her new detangling concoction that has made this task much more manageable. In total the process takes a little over twenty minutes, a far removed number from the usual hour and she decides to pull the weight of her now tamed curls into a high ballerina bun.
When Abbie walks into the living room, pondering her strange lack of appetite, she finds that Crane has not been similarly affected and a third of the pizza has been demolished and left sitting on her coffee table. Ichabod is examining her succulent terrarium intently "what a marvelous display of horticulture! How on earth did they manage to fit a tiny garden into glass bowl?"
Abbie can't help but be a little smug. "Isn't it dope?" she grins. "It's called a succulent terrarium, took me like, three days to get all the pink moss arranged how I want." She flops herself into her LaZBoy and tucks her feet under her rump, reaching into her knitting basket for her latest project.
Ichabod has lifted the glass bowl into his hands to more closely examine the arrangement of pale green succulents, moss and seashells. "Yes , it is rather…dope." He does that thing where he tastes the colloquialism again. Still studying the inside of the bowl he adds; "you have quite the green thumb Miss Mills."
Abbie scoffs and pulls the half knitted Afgan she has been working on for the past few weeks in her downtime into her lap. She's hoping to get it done by the end of the week so she can move on to upcycling this antique bookcase she snagged at a neighbors yardsale a few days ago. "Not really," she protests as she begins to work the needles and colorful yarn into a rather complex design, "those things pretty much grow themselves, I just did the arrangement."
Ichabod nods and sets the terrarium back onto the vintage side table where it was originally placed. Shuffles the magazines placed there into a more uniform stack. When he notices what she's doing he tilts his head in that curious way of his that says he's going to ask a question he has already decided the answer to.
"I would have never taken you for a woman who enjoys embroidery," he comments, motioning to her work.
Abbie's quick moving needles slow, and she purses her lips at him in that way that lets him know he has said something that displeases her. Ichabod is unaffected, as "the look" as he has come to call it, has become commonplace in their interactions. He sidles next to her recliner to examine her work, brows furrowed. "What remarkable work", he regards, tone light with surprise and approval, "I've never seen stitching so."
"Thanks" she says brusquely, "it's called an alligator stitch, this is actually my first go at it."
Ichabod nods as if he knows what this means, a little entranced by Abbie's heady, sweet scent and watching her delicate fingers work the needles and loop yarn. He smiles after a moment in that slow, smirky way of his. "You seem to possess quite the creative streak Miss Mills."
Abbie's hands cease and she quirks an eyebrow at him, her posture suddenly a tad defensive. "Yeahhh," she says slowly, carefully. Is there anything in her life that is not bared to this man? "I like making shit, okay. It relaxes me, makes a productive use of my time."
"Indeed," he says, for once not bothering to chide her for her language and the smirky smile is wider and he has this knowing gleam in his eyes. "What other creative talents do you possess?"
Abbie sighs, and puts the Afgan down to reach for a slice of pizza. "They're not really talents," she says around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, "unless you count reading directions and instruction manuals as a skill."
Ichabod gives a slight nod, noticing for the first time her up do. It is utterly charming, piled high on her head in a slick bun, tendrils curling loosely around her cheekbones. Her wide eyes and pouty lips are even more prominent and Ichabod finds himself entranced as she munches on a second slice of pizza. He clears his throat suddenly, in hopes to clear his mind.
"What other objects have you fashioned yourself," he wants to know. One thing Crane has picked up on in this era is that, despite the tremendous technological strides, everyday ingenuity is rather depleted. Truthfully, it does not surprise him that Abbie goes against this norm, she is utterly unique.
Abbie gives him a long look before she stands to her feet. She motions to the wall on their far left to an arrangement of four black and white canvas paintings. "I did those last month," her wrist flick to just behind Ichabod's head "and I reupholstered that lamp shade."
"I must say, I am thoroughly intrigued, do you often endeavor feats of craftsmanship?"
For a moment, Abbe considers telling him it would all be too much to explain right now, and she's tired, and please stop looking at me with those puppy eyes, but she is struck suddenly by the fact that that bookcase isn't going to sand and refinish itself and Crane is endearingly helpful when he isn't being a prying bother…
And so thus begins the crafting quests of Ichabod Crane and Abigail Mills. She almost regrets her decision to let him in on her hobbies during their first trip to Hobby Lobby. Not because she doesn't enjoy his company it's just that his questions are so incessant and every answer she gives requires several cross references googled on her smartphone for the sake of accuracy. But damn it all, somewhere along the way Abbie begins to wonder how she ever crossed any projects off her to-do list without Crane's eye for detail and perfect recall for instruction.
They start off slow, Abbie shows Ichabod the basics of woodwork and how to operate a sanding machine, and when she no longer fears her life and is able to contain her giggles at the sight of Ichabod in hardware goggles they move onto bigger and better things. Their wine rack is the definition of vintage chic. And Ichabod is the definition of smug whenever he catches Abbie fawning over it.
They dig a firepit in the back of Corbin's cabin, and, unsurprisingly, smores go over extremely well with Ichabod. He is incredibly enthusiastic about their tasks and Abbie finds herself looking more and more forward to their time together. She tries to ignore the wash of feelings she has when, one day they're trying out a brown sugar face mask and Ichabod cheekily swipes a finger across her cheekbone and plops it into his mouth. Abbie knows she has created a monster when Ichabod begins to insist upon taking trips to Lowes to gather paint swatches and, one day, when they are sitting in the archives tired and ragged from yet another demon encounter he shows her plans he's sketched out in a notepad to remodel Corbin's kitchen.
Of course Abbie does nothing but support his madness, nonetheless. She has never endeavored a task as exciting as remodeling. ...