Ichabod develops a fondness for late night television. Meanwhile, Abbie doesn’t get the chance to sleep in on her day off.
Slowly, I’m working my way towards seriously shippy things. In the meantime, mildly shippy things will have to do. Technically set right after the pilot, but barring any major revelations about Abbie’s living situation, it should be able to just fit anywhere
The couch in Abbie’s living room is far too short for Ichabod to lie down comfortably on.
It’s wide enough for a person her size to sleep on — if they curl up into a ball — but for Ichabod’s lanky frame, he’d have to squeeze himself into a pretty uncomfortable position to do so.
So of course, once they’re both clean and full of good, greasy food from the diner down the street, Abbie suggests that Ichabod take the bed instead of trying to cram his tall body onto that tiny couch.
“I couldn’t oust you from your bed,” Ichabod breathes, eying Abbie with wide eyes. Shaking his head and sending damp, dark hair everywhere, Ichabod frowns at Abbie. “I will be fine out here. You have no need to worry —”
Abbie crosses her arms over her chest where the faded logo for the local high school basketball team stretches across the front of her too-large t-shirt. “I’m not worrying,” she says, sharper than she means to sound. “It’s just — I’ve slept on that couch before and if it wasn’t comfortable for me, it sure as hell won’t be comfortable for you.”
“I will be fine,” Ichabod says. “I’ve been dead for over two hundred years and before that, I slept mainly on bedrolls in the middle of forests.” Gesturing at the couch and the pile of bedding taking up one side of it, Ichabod offers Abbie a small smile.
“This will be better than I’ve had for a long time.”
Abbie bites at the inside of her bottom lip as she fights against the urge to simply shove Ichabod into her room and make him sleep on her bed. “If you’re sure…” Abbie trails off, looking at Ichabod as though expecting him to change his mind on the spot.
“I am certain.”
When Ichabod punctuates his sentence with a sharp nod of his head, several strands of his shower-damp hair swing forward, leaving a dark patch on the pale blue cotton shirt that Abbie had grabbed from one of the shelves in Target before rushing Ichabod through the store.
“Come on,” Abbie says, combing her fingers through her own hair. “Let me dry your hair and get you something to tie it back with. I’ll show you how to work the remote when we’re done.”
Despite thinking that she’d never fall asleep again after everything that had happened that day, Abbie passes out the second that her head hits the pillow. It’s such a sound sleep, that when the sound of laughter reaches her ears, Abbie simply filters it away as part of her dream.
At least, she does so until the sound reaches deafening new heights and jolts her out of sleep.
Bolting up out of bed with a curse on her lips and one hand reaching for the nearest weapon, Abbie has several seconds where her half-asleep mind honestly has her thinking that she’s under attack by some spooky demon or another. Abbie tries to take a step towards the door and then tumbles forward to land in a heap on the floor when her blankets tangle around her ankles.
The mild pain shocks Abbie the rest of the way awake and she gets to her feet gingerly, taking care not to look at the mirror hanging from a hook above her dresser. Abbie pushes one hand underneath the band of the satin cap that keeps her long brown hair from ending up all over the place in her sleep and then scratches at the nape of her neck.
Not bothering to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn as she moves around her bedroom, Abbie shoots a narrow-eyed glare in the direction of the living room and what has to be the source of that noise at god only knows what time in the morning.
Glancing over at the digital clock resting on one corner of her nightstand, Abbie squints at the glowing red digits and then swears quietly when she realizes how early it is.
“Four o’clock on my day off,” Abbie breathes. “This is so not happening…”
Abbie is a woman of simple pleasures. She likes things like good ice cream and giving kindergartners tours of the station, but above it all, Abbie likes to sleep in on her days off. That she’s up before dawn on one such day (after the hellish night she had before that) makes Abbie grit her teeth and frown.
Wrenching open her bedroom door makes the noise from the television get louder. Abbie winces, but walks down the short hallway separating her room from the living room. What she finds is… surprising.
Ichabod seems to have given up on trying to fit on the couch (and Abbie feels like saying “I told you so” at that thought) and instead has made a large nest of bedding on the floor that covers the entirety of the rug that stretches all the way to the television that’s currently playing reruns of some urban fantasy show that’s been popular since Abbie was first on the force.
As Abbie steps into the room properly, Ichabod doesn’t look away from the screen.
However, he does narrow his eyes when the characters onscreen are quickly killed by the show’s monster of the week.
“You damned fools,” Ichabod mutters as he scowls at the screen with one hand tapping at the side of the coffee table set off to one side. “Walking into danger like that and with no weapon —”
“You do know that they can’t hear you?”
Ichabod utters a very… horse-like snort and turns his face so that he can look up at Abbie from his position on the floor. One long fingered hand fumbles with the remote and finally, the volume of the television set drops to a reasonable volume.
“I figured that out after the first hour of shouting at them,” Ichabod says with a faint frown on his thin-lipped mouth that quickly melts away into an expression that Abbie recognizes as his way of showing embarrassment.
“Your neighbors on the other hand…” Ichabod mutters, eyeing the far wall of Abbie’s apartment askance. “They could hear me quite well. I expect that you’ll hear from them in the morning.”
Abbie reaches up to rub at her temples, feeling a headache start to come on. “Why are you awake?”
Ichabod shrugs, broad shoulders working underneath the thin material of his shirt. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Yeah?” Abbie asks, slipping onto the couch behind Ichabod. Curling her legs up underneath her body, Abbie snags one of the blankets that isn’t a part of Ichabod’s little mess. “I couldn’t either. You need to watch how loud the volume on that gets.”
Abbie stretches until her back cracks and then rests her head on the armrest of the couch.
“So what were you watching?”
“Hm?” When Ichabod turns to look at her, his ponytail swings about around in a way that would probably be less distracting if Abbie wasn’t still half asleep.
“The thing with the laughing,” Abbie says. “What was that?”
Ichabod’s eyes brighten with understanding. “I’m not quite sure,” he confesses. “It was about these women called Kardashians. They were quite entertaining even though they were hard to understand. What do they do?”
“Honestly,” Abbie says, shifting so that she can try to get comfortable on the couch. “I have no idea.”