Five Times Ichabod Was Appalled By Netflix (and one time Abbie got sick)
Title: Five Times Ichabod Was Appalled By Netflix (and one time Abbie got sick)
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Abbie Mills, Ichabod Crane
Genre: Humor
Warnings: None.
Summary:
Seventy-five thousand movies available by instant streaming; he can't get into that much trouble, right? (General domestic fluff. Post-Blood Moon.)
A/N: Blood Moon shows that Ichabod is not, in fact, living with Abbie. But he's got to leave the hotel eventually, so (for the purposes of the fic) he's started crashing at her place, or he comes and goes as he pleases. Let's face it: he'd do either.
Five Times Ichabod Was Appalled By Netflix
(and one time Abbie got sick)
Watch It Again: Quentin Tarantino's stylized crime caper weaves together stories featuring a burger-loving hit man, his philosophical partner, and a washed-up boxer.
Abbie's hands are full with grocery bags; she kicks the front door shut with her heel (it sticks in the frame, like always) and finds Crane on the couch, absorbed with the television. He doesn't bother to greet her. Not a surprise. "Hello to you too," she huffs, shifting the gallon of milk to hang from her left index finger, "and don't worry, I'm fine, no need to help or anything. What's on?"
"Honestly, I haven't the faintest notion." Crane leans forward to rest his elbows on his bony knees. Once he got past his alarm at the whole concept of a box that holds a theater but not really (okay, Abbie could have explained that better), Crane got really into the idea of TV. Rather than turn him loose on cable, Abbie showed him how to use Netflix and left him to roam at will; she can't keep baby-sit every second of every day (consultants don't have to file official paperwork, but she's not a consultant, and she can barely see her desk under all the manilla files) and he's got to catch up on pop culture somehow. "Earlier there was a tavern of some sort, but now two gentlemen are discussing hamburgers."
"Hamburgers?"
"Indeed." He smiles at her, looking all-out-of-proportion pleased with himself. "I understood that reference."
There are at least twenty jokes Abbie could make in response to that, and she deserves a damn medal for taking none of them. (Though it's not really out of consideration for his feelings. It's because he wouldn't get it.) She settles for rolling her eyes as she hauls the groceries to the kitchen. "Well, no burgers here tonight," she calls. "It's fish sticks or you're on your own."
"Since when do fish exist in stick form?"
"I dunno. The fifties, I think."
"Lieutenant, you do realize your lack of specificity renders that response useless, do you not? Are you referring to the the fifth decade of the nineteenth century, or of the twentieth?"
Abbie tosses a bag of frozen peas in the freezer and considers throwing them at Crane's head instead. "Shut up and watch your hamburger movie."
He does, though not without a bunch of indistinct grumbling. This is the last time she's feeding his ungrateful ass, it really is. (She says that after every meal.)
And all is well until Abbie's surround sound speakers (came free with the Samsung warranty, Black Friday deals are the best) ring out with the sound of gunfire. Punctuated by a horrified shout from Crane. "What the devil?"
Uh-oh. Abbie pokes her head out of the kitchen, carton of eggs in hand. "Problem?"
"English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?"
Crane turns to Abbie, eyes round as saucers. "This is considered entertainment?" he demands, voice an octave higher than usual.
"It's just a movie."
"A movie-- has some sort of mass bloodthirsty psychosis gripped the populace, that they would enjoy this sort of, of... My God, no wonder modern society is crumbling to dust beneath your feet!"
Abbie reminds herself not to let Crane watch the news; he'd give himself a pastry-tax-induced stroke. "Look, it won about a zillion awards--"
"Say 'What' again! C'mon, say 'What' again! I dare ya, I double dare ya motherfucker, say 'What' one more goddamn time!"
Crane mouths soundlessly, unable to do more than jab a finger at the screen in silent accusation.
And Abbie takes the remote. "Yeah," she says, "you are definitely not ready for Tarantino."
***
Romances: Sam is killed by a mugger, but his love for his girlfriend, Molly, endures beyond the grave as Sam's spirit tries to warn Molly that she is in danger.
Crane said facial expressions had changed little, if at all, over the centuries -- and he's not wrong. The Caught With Porn look is timeless.
Abbie raises her eyebrows as he flails, trying to block the TV from her view. "I warned you about the R ratings," she says, crossing her arms. "Let me guess: Barbarella? No, wait. Basic Instinct."
He stabs fruitlessly at the remote, but only succeeds in turning up the sound.
"Oh, my-y-y lo-o-ove, my dar-arling, I've hungered for your touch a long, lonely time..."
Righteous Brothers.
Abbie bursts out laughing. "Damn. Ghost? Really?"
"Lieutenant, kindly avert your eyes until I am able to remove this vulgarity from the screen."
"Please. I saw it at a sleepover when I was fourteen. Way overrated."
Crane stares at her like she's grown a second head as Patrick Swayze starts groping Demi Moore's ass. "That's-- but-- good Lord, who would allow it?"
"Excuse me, back up. 'Allow it'?"
He turns very slightly pink, but still wears that prim expression that always has Abbie repeating he doesn't know any better he doesn't know any better he doesn't know any better to keep herself from punching him in the face. "This is incredibly inappropriate material for a woman. Especially--" he coughs "--an unmarried one."
Abbie blinks.
"I ne-ee-ee-eed your love, I ne-ee-ee-eed your love..."
Oh.
Oh, for the love of--
Crane stares at her as she groans in disgust. "Wait," he says, the lightbulb going off over his head, "you've not--"
"We. Are."
"Surely you--"
"Not. Having."
"My God--"
"This. Discussion."
"Lieutenant!"
"Don't make me shoot you, Crane."
***
Witty British TV Comedies: Dave Lister wakes from suspended animation to discover everyone around him is dead -- and he's three million years into deep space.
"They keep referring to that gentleman as a cat."
"That's because he is a cat. Kind of. He evolved from a cat."
"Oh." A beat. "What do you mean by evolved?"
***
Miniseries: Ken Burns's documentary depicts the actions of famous Civil War battles, and relates the stories of soldiers, generals and a beleaguered president.
It's three-thirty (otherwise known as "asscrack early") when Abbie realizes there's still light flickering under her bedroom door. She's a light sleeper (for lots of reasons); once she's up she's up. And now, fuck it, she's up.
She throws on a robe and isn't remotely surprised to find Crane on the couch, in the dark, staring at the television. "There is a reason it's called the idiot box," she snaps at him. "And you're gonna give yourself eye strain if you keep this up."
The way it's supposed to work now is that she gets a snarky comeback, or a thinly-veiled insult, or some other damn thing where he acts like a snot and then reminds her that she's stuck with him because his dead wife and George Washington said their destinies are entwined. And then she'll let him off the hook because in spite of it all she actually likes the jackass. He's a mangy pretentious belligerent nutjob, but, by some fucked up twist of fate, he's her mangy pretentious belligerent nutjob.
(Also she'd worry about what he'd do if she wasn't there to keep an eye on him. Probably move into the woods to hunt for Excalibur and eat raw squirrels.)
But there's no retort. She glances at the TV.
"It was suicide. They came forward, one man said, as though they were breasting a storm of rain and sleet, faces and bodies turned to the storm, shoulders shrugged. The Irish brigade got within twenty-five paces of the wall; the men of the 24th Georgia who shot them down were Irish too. A Union officer watching from a church steeple saw brigade after brigade charge the stone wall. 'They seemed to melt,' he said, 'like snow coming down on warm ground.'"
Oh, hell. "Have you been watching all night?" asks Abbie cautiously.
Crane nods. "This..." He trails off, swallows, and tries again. "This is not fiction, like the others. This is history."
"Yeah."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "America... it was supposed to be the city upon the hill. It would stand for freedom, and justice, and liberty..." On screen the camera slowly focuses in on a grainy picture of bodies piled in a ditch. "This is not why we fought. This is not why I fought."
He really does believe it.
Abbie sighs. Luke used to get like this sometimes too. "I guess soldier every thinks their war will be the last one." He doesn't answer, and she reaches for the remote. "That's enough for tonight, Ichabod. Get some sleep."
She goes back to bed, and stares at the ceiling until light peeks over the curtains and she smells brewing coffee. They don't talk about Ken Burns again.
***
Family Feature Animation: Tired of scaring humans every October 31 with the same old bag of tricks, Jack Skellington, the spindly king of Halloween Town, kidnaps Santa Claus and plans to deliver shrunken heads and other ghoulish gifts to children on Christmas morning.
"There are children throwing snowballs here instead of throwing heads! They're busy building toys and absolutely no one's dead!"
Crane shakes his head slowly from side to side. "I... I cannot..."
Abbie pinches the bridge of her nose. It's been too long a day for this. "Where do you want to start?"
"This is... All Hallow's Eve?"
"Yes."
"And Christmas? As in... as in Christmas?"
"Yes."
"And that man is a skeleton?"
"Yes."
"And his dog is a spirit?"
"Yes."
"And this is a story intended for children?"
"Yes."
"...I don't understand."
"Sorry."
***
TV Documentaries: This fascinating series visits factories around the world to reveal how everyday items big and small -- from marbles to car engines -- are created.
"That is disgusting," says Abbie.
"That is ingenious," Crane corrects her, grinning broadly at the television and reaching for another handful of microwaved popcorn (spicy nacho flavor). "What an incredibly efficient use of otherwise wasted nutrients!"
"Wasted nutrients, my ass. I am never eating another hot dog as long as I live."
"Processed chicken trimmings are added to the ground meat."
Abbie claps a hand over her mouth. Crane just keeps eating. "Do you understand how monumental this would have been to have two hundred and fifty years ago? To have the means to pulverize vast quantities of bone and viscera into easily digestible--"
"Another machine then purees the meat batter into a fine emulsion and vacuums out any air."
As Abbie runs for the bathroom, she hears Crane call: "The next bit describes amphibious vehicles! Good Lord, there's two hundred and seventy-three episodes to go-- Lieutenant? Are you all right?"
She makes him clean the toilet.
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Abbie Mills, Ichabod Crane
Genre: Humor
Warnings: None.
Summary:
Seventy-five thousand movies available by instant streaming; he can't get into that much trouble, right? (General domestic fluff. Post-Blood Moon.)
A/N: Blood Moon shows that Ichabod is not, in fact, living with Abbie. But he's got to leave the hotel eventually, so (for the purposes of the fic) he's started crashing at her place, or he comes and goes as he pleases. Let's face it: he'd do either.
Five Times Ichabod Was Appalled By Netflix
(and one time Abbie got sick)
Watch It Again: Quentin Tarantino's stylized crime caper weaves together stories featuring a burger-loving hit man, his philosophical partner, and a washed-up boxer.
Abbie's hands are full with grocery bags; she kicks the front door shut with her heel (it sticks in the frame, like always) and finds Crane on the couch, absorbed with the television. He doesn't bother to greet her. Not a surprise. "Hello to you too," she huffs, shifting the gallon of milk to hang from her left index finger, "and don't worry, I'm fine, no need to help or anything. What's on?"
"Honestly, I haven't the faintest notion." Crane leans forward to rest his elbows on his bony knees. Once he got past his alarm at the whole concept of a box that holds a theater but not really (okay, Abbie could have explained that better), Crane got really into the idea of TV. Rather than turn him loose on cable, Abbie showed him how to use Netflix and left him to roam at will; she can't keep baby-sit every second of every day (consultants don't have to file official paperwork, but she's not a consultant, and she can barely see her desk under all the manilla files) and he's got to catch up on pop culture somehow. "Earlier there was a tavern of some sort, but now two gentlemen are discussing hamburgers."
"Hamburgers?"
"Indeed." He smiles at her, looking all-out-of-proportion pleased with himself. "I understood that reference."
There are at least twenty jokes Abbie could make in response to that, and she deserves a damn medal for taking none of them. (Though it's not really out of consideration for his feelings. It's because he wouldn't get it.) She settles for rolling her eyes as she hauls the groceries to the kitchen. "Well, no burgers here tonight," she calls. "It's fish sticks or you're on your own."
"Since when do fish exist in stick form?"
"I dunno. The fifties, I think."
"Lieutenant, you do realize your lack of specificity renders that response useless, do you not? Are you referring to the the fifth decade of the nineteenth century, or of the twentieth?"
Abbie tosses a bag of frozen peas in the freezer and considers throwing them at Crane's head instead. "Shut up and watch your hamburger movie."
He does, though not without a bunch of indistinct grumbling. This is the last time she's feeding his ungrateful ass, it really is. (She says that after every meal.)
And all is well until Abbie's surround sound speakers (came free with the Samsung warranty, Black Friday deals are the best) ring out with the sound of gunfire. Punctuated by a horrified shout from Crane. "What the devil?"
Uh-oh. Abbie pokes her head out of the kitchen, carton of eggs in hand. "Problem?"
"English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?"
Crane turns to Abbie, eyes round as saucers. "This is considered entertainment?" he demands, voice an octave higher than usual.
"It's just a movie."
"A movie-- has some sort of mass bloodthirsty psychosis gripped the populace, that they would enjoy this sort of, of... My God, no wonder modern society is crumbling to dust beneath your feet!"
Abbie reminds herself not to let Crane watch the news; he'd give himself a pastry-tax-induced stroke. "Look, it won about a zillion awards--"
"Say 'What' again! C'mon, say 'What' again! I dare ya, I double dare ya motherfucker, say 'What' one more goddamn time!"
Crane mouths soundlessly, unable to do more than jab a finger at the screen in silent accusation.
And Abbie takes the remote. "Yeah," she says, "you are definitely not ready for Tarantino."
***
Romances: Sam is killed by a mugger, but his love for his girlfriend, Molly, endures beyond the grave as Sam's spirit tries to warn Molly that she is in danger.
Crane said facial expressions had changed little, if at all, over the centuries -- and he's not wrong. The Caught With Porn look is timeless.
Abbie raises her eyebrows as he flails, trying to block the TV from her view. "I warned you about the R ratings," she says, crossing her arms. "Let me guess: Barbarella? No, wait. Basic Instinct."
He stabs fruitlessly at the remote, but only succeeds in turning up the sound.
"Oh, my-y-y lo-o-ove, my dar-arling, I've hungered for your touch a long, lonely time..."
Righteous Brothers.
Abbie bursts out laughing. "Damn. Ghost? Really?"
"Lieutenant, kindly avert your eyes until I am able to remove this vulgarity from the screen."
"Please. I saw it at a sleepover when I was fourteen. Way overrated."
Crane stares at her like she's grown a second head as Patrick Swayze starts groping Demi Moore's ass. "That's-- but-- good Lord, who would allow it?"
"Excuse me, back up. 'Allow it'?"
He turns very slightly pink, but still wears that prim expression that always has Abbie repeating he doesn't know any better he doesn't know any better he doesn't know any better to keep herself from punching him in the face. "This is incredibly inappropriate material for a woman. Especially--" he coughs "--an unmarried one."
Abbie blinks.
"I ne-ee-ee-eed your love, I ne-ee-ee-eed your love..."
Oh.
Oh, for the love of--
Crane stares at her as she groans in disgust. "Wait," he says, the lightbulb going off over his head, "you've not--"
"We. Are."
"Surely you--"
"Not. Having."
"My God--"
"This. Discussion."
"Lieutenant!"
"Don't make me shoot you, Crane."
***
Witty British TV Comedies: Dave Lister wakes from suspended animation to discover everyone around him is dead -- and he's three million years into deep space.
"They keep referring to that gentleman as a cat."
"That's because he is a cat. Kind of. He evolved from a cat."
"Oh." A beat. "What do you mean by evolved?"
***
Miniseries: Ken Burns's documentary depicts the actions of famous Civil War battles, and relates the stories of soldiers, generals and a beleaguered president.
It's three-thirty (otherwise known as "asscrack early") when Abbie realizes there's still light flickering under her bedroom door. She's a light sleeper (for lots of reasons); once she's up she's up. And now, fuck it, she's up.
She throws on a robe and isn't remotely surprised to find Crane on the couch, in the dark, staring at the television. "There is a reason it's called the idiot box," she snaps at him. "And you're gonna give yourself eye strain if you keep this up."
The way it's supposed to work now is that she gets a snarky comeback, or a thinly-veiled insult, or some other damn thing where he acts like a snot and then reminds her that she's stuck with him because his dead wife and George Washington said their destinies are entwined. And then she'll let him off the hook because in spite of it all she actually likes the jackass. He's a mangy pretentious belligerent nutjob, but, by some fucked up twist of fate, he's her mangy pretentious belligerent nutjob.
(Also she'd worry about what he'd do if she wasn't there to keep an eye on him. Probably move into the woods to hunt for Excalibur and eat raw squirrels.)
But there's no retort. She glances at the TV.
"It was suicide. They came forward, one man said, as though they were breasting a storm of rain and sleet, faces and bodies turned to the storm, shoulders shrugged. The Irish brigade got within twenty-five paces of the wall; the men of the 24th Georgia who shot them down were Irish too. A Union officer watching from a church steeple saw brigade after brigade charge the stone wall. 'They seemed to melt,' he said, 'like snow coming down on warm ground.'"
Oh, hell. "Have you been watching all night?" asks Abbie cautiously.
Crane nods. "This..." He trails off, swallows, and tries again. "This is not fiction, like the others. This is history."
"Yeah."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "America... it was supposed to be the city upon the hill. It would stand for freedom, and justice, and liberty..." On screen the camera slowly focuses in on a grainy picture of bodies piled in a ditch. "This is not why we fought. This is not why I fought."
He really does believe it.
Abbie sighs. Luke used to get like this sometimes too. "I guess soldier every thinks their war will be the last one." He doesn't answer, and she reaches for the remote. "That's enough for tonight, Ichabod. Get some sleep."
She goes back to bed, and stares at the ceiling until light peeks over the curtains and she smells brewing coffee. They don't talk about Ken Burns again.
***
Family Feature Animation: Tired of scaring humans every October 31 with the same old bag of tricks, Jack Skellington, the spindly king of Halloween Town, kidnaps Santa Claus and plans to deliver shrunken heads and other ghoulish gifts to children on Christmas morning.
"There are children throwing snowballs here instead of throwing heads! They're busy building toys and absolutely no one's dead!"
Crane shakes his head slowly from side to side. "I... I cannot..."
Abbie pinches the bridge of her nose. It's been too long a day for this. "Where do you want to start?"
"This is... All Hallow's Eve?"
"Yes."
"And Christmas? As in... as in Christmas?"
"Yes."
"And that man is a skeleton?"
"Yes."
"And his dog is a spirit?"
"Yes."
"And this is a story intended for children?"
"Yes."
"...I don't understand."
"Sorry."
***
TV Documentaries: This fascinating series visits factories around the world to reveal how everyday items big and small -- from marbles to car engines -- are created.
"That is disgusting," says Abbie.
"That is ingenious," Crane corrects her, grinning broadly at the television and reaching for another handful of microwaved popcorn (spicy nacho flavor). "What an incredibly efficient use of otherwise wasted nutrients!"
"Wasted nutrients, my ass. I am never eating another hot dog as long as I live."
"Processed chicken trimmings are added to the ground meat."
Abbie claps a hand over her mouth. Crane just keeps eating. "Do you understand how monumental this would have been to have two hundred and fifty years ago? To have the means to pulverize vast quantities of bone and viscera into easily digestible--"
"Another machine then purees the meat batter into a fine emulsion and vacuums out any air."
As Abbie runs for the bathroom, she hears Crane call: "The next bit describes amphibious vehicles! Good Lord, there's two hundred and seventy-three episodes to go-- Lieutenant? Are you all right?"
She makes him clean the toilet.