Ichabod is picky and Abbie seriously starts to reconsider the wiseness behind a late night trip to Target.
much thanks to glompcat and flamesofatimelord who suggested alternatives for walmart in new york (because wow i missed the memo on that) and the original headcanon can be found in this post.
i feel like Ichabod has moments where he’s just a bit of a spoiled brat because he’s out of his element and he’s so used to specific things in specific ways so i sort of ran with that
The look on Ichabod’s face when Abbie shoves a pair of blue plaid pajama pants at him is priceless.
Ichabod takes the pants from Abbie, eyeing them as though he’s expecting the pair of pants to attack, and then rubs the pad of his thumb over the cloth. A sudden frown twists at his mouth and when he meets Abbie’s eyes, his own are filled with a fair amount of distaste.
“Do you expect me to wear these — these things?” Shaking the pants at Abbie, Ichabod frowns again and makes to hand the sweats back. “I can’t wear this. Does this establishment not have anything — anything better?”
Rolling her eyes, Abbie puts her hands on her hips and then scowls at Ichabod until he stops trying to make her take the pants out of his hands. “Well unless you want to wear my clothes, you need to pick something to sleep in. This is the third time you’ve shot down what I’ve picked out and it’s not like there’s many options for you.”
With a sullen twist to his mouth, Ichabod glances down at the pair of pants in his hands.
“Maybe if you had better taste –“
Abbie cuts her eyes at Ichabod and is pleased to watch the taller man actually flinch before he collects himself.
“Finish that thought and I’ll let you sleep in the bathroom,” she says sharply, feeling a now familiar throbbing take up behind her eyes.
It’s the start of yet another Ichabod-related headache, sister to the one that started several hours before when Ichabod made a mess of her phone on their way to Target. Abbie will be picking bits of plastic out of the carpet for weeks. Thankfully, she’s been up for an upgrade for months and her SIM card survived Ichabod’s forays into technology.
Otherwise, the headache would probably be worse and Ichabod would still be in the parking lot of that gas station.
“It’s ten at night. The store closes in half an hour and I still need to go grocery shopping so for the love of god, Ichabod, please pick something.” At the last word, Abbie’s voice comes out in a whine and she glares (at Ichabod, at the kid folding and refolding the same polo at the end of the aisle, at everyone) as though waiting for a muttered comment in reply.
Ichabod’s long-fingered hands flex over the much hated pajama pants, but instead of complaining about them, he nods his head.
“These will do,” Ichabod says, looking at Abbie with a faint twist to his mouth. The “for now” at the end of his sentence goes unsaid, but reading people has always been one of Abbie’s best skills. “But I would prefer –“
Abbie waves away Ichabod’s complaint. “You can prefer whatever you like,” she says in a waspish tone. “But there are limits to what I can afford right now and you’re just going to have to be patient.”
When Ichabod hangs his head so that his dark hair swings down in front of his eyes and makes a face that puts Abbie in mind of an injured animal, Abbie feels herself soften towards Ichabod.
“Come on,” Abbie says softly, “It’s been a long day and we’re both tired. I’ll let you pick out some ice cream and then we’ll try this again tomorrow.”