Day 12 . Timely Correspondence . Sleepy Hollow/MCU
Title: Timely Correspondence
Author: jedibuttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not
Rating: PG-13
Prompt/Prompter: maevebran, who asked for: "More Temporally Displaced Americans. Maybe Crane finally putting things together and reacting to Steve being Captain America. (Frank Irving called Crane "Captain America" sarcastically towards the end of the Pilot)."
Spoilers: Late Season 1 for Sleepy Hollow; MCU pre-"Captain America: Winter Soldier"
Notes: Steve is present more in spirit than person in this one; but rest assured, this won't be the last fic in this universe.
Summary: The letters arrived every week like clockwork: heavy, old-fashioned unruled paper tucked into number ten envelopes. Careful, legible handwriting covered the pages in modern ballpoint ink, addressed to 'Captain Ichabod Crane, c/o Abigail Mills'. 2000w.
The letters arrived every week like clockwork. Heavy, old-fashioned unruled paper tucked into number ten envelopes; careful, legible handwriting covered the pages in modern ballpoint ink. They were addressed to "Captain Ichabod Crane, c/o Abigail Mills", a combination of title and address that would have told Abbie who the sender was even without the name above the return lines.
She smiled as she walked into the Armory and pulled the latest envelope out of her pocket; it was good to see Crane making friends outside their little apocalypse-fighting band. "Crane. You got mail," she said, waggling her eyebrows.
Ichabod looked up from the book he'd been steadily flipping through, tracing his finger over the pages. Probably a tossup whether he was actively researching, or just taking mental snapshots for future reference. She didn't even want to think what having a memory like his must be like; useful, yes, but kind of terrifying when she thought about it. Not being able to ever forget anything? There were things in even her imperfect recall that she'd consign to oblivion if she could, starting with the look on her sister's face the day she'd refused to back up Jenny's story about the demon to the cops, and more recently the sight of Sheriff Corbin's body after his fatal encounter with the Headless Horseman. How much worse must it be for him?
It was kind of a miracle, really, how excited her temporally dislocated partner could still get about the little things. Abbie watched his eyes light up and an anticipatory grin spread over his face, and folded away that look like an ember in her heart, stored up against the darker times that had plagued them before and doubtless would again before the prophesized tribulations were over.
"Another missive from the good Captain?" he asked, eagerly taking the letter and turning it over to break the seal. A quick tug freed the pages from inside; just a couple this time, but enough to show it wasn't just a perfunctory duty on his correspondent's part, either. Another thing Abbie couldn't help but marvel over.
"Indeed," she replied teasingly, borrowing his favorite acknowledgement. "I know you were worried after the news report this weekend, but it looks like he came through the incident in one piece."
He gave her a warmly admonishing look, then turned back to the pages. "I was not worried. I might not have understood Captain Irving's sarcastic reference to the man during our first case, but I have had ample opportunity to learn since. Captain Rogers is very capable, in fact a soldier of such skill that I need not blush at the comparison, and despite the rancorous tenor of the journalistic coverage of the Avengers' activities his teammates likewise appear to be intelligent, competent individuals. However...."
"However, he's your friend, and you were worried," Abbie cut him off with a casual wave. "Worry on; I get the feeling he could use a few more people concerned with his welfare anyway."
She was spitballing on that, really; what did she know about Captain freaking America? But Ichabod had read quotes from his letters over the last few months, and she had her very own slept through a bunch of decades soldier on hand to extrapolate from, so she was pretty sure she was in the right ballpark.
Ichabod nodded, though his eyebrows were still eloquent in their commentary. "There is a difference between the reliance and trust of those who have been through battle together, and the connection of personal friendship, and you are correct that he has yet to cross that gap with most of his modern compatriots. He is a more private man than I, however. I have not yet decided whether that is ultimately to his benefit, or mine."
"Don't ask me." Abbie raised her hands, palm out. "You remember the personal space conversation. But I don't think I could do this Witnessing thing with you if we weren't also friends."
"I feel much the same, Miss Mills." Ichabod smiled again, mostly in the eyes, then dropped his gaze back to the letter.
One of these days, she would get him to call her Abbie when he wasn't on the verge of dying. She shook her head in fond amusement, then walked over to the lockbox that held Washington's Bible; there were some things she wanted to look up while they had a few minutes between cases. Whether the verses about the fates of the two witnesses, more than just their presence and the length of their tribulations, had been changed or expanded on in the Founding Father's version, for example. She wasn't all that keen about ending up martyred, even if the witnesses were supposed to be resurrected and yanked up to heaven afterward.
They had enough Terminator references in their lives already; why not one more? "No fate but what we make," she muttered to herself, flipping through the pages.
Ichabod looked up from his letter again at that, but didn't comment on it; instead, he made a considering noise, a line forming between his brows.
"Captain Rogers informs me that the cultural lesson of the week is 'grumpy cat', and he suggests that I apply to Captain Irving for an explanation." He glanced up at her, inquisitively. "The name bears a resemblance to the infuriated avians to which I was introduced by Miss Jenny; surely she would be a better source to approach?"
Just the thought of Ichabod approaching Frank Irving on the subject of Grumpy Cat-- as recommended by Captain America, who'd certainly seen the aggrieved side of the police captain's personality during the encounter between SHIELD, Sleepy Hollow's law enforcement, and the Headless Horseman a few months back-- surprised a snort out of Abbie. She clapped a hand over her mouth for a moment to shield her smirk, then made a valiant attempt to even out her voice as she replied.
Captain America: kind of a brat, who knew?
"Ah-- no. It's an Internet meme. Some guy posted a picture of his sister's cat to Reddit because it looked like it was frowning, the picture got made into an image macro with a bunch of grumpy captions, and... yeah, not enough 'no' in the world. I don't think either one would be amused by the comparison. I'll pull up the Wikipedia page for you later-- or maybe just the Instagram; it's pretty self-explanatory."
"I'd appreciate that, as I understood only about half of your attempt at an explanation, as per usual," Ichabod sighed, as ruffled as if he were Grumpy Cat himself.
Abbie valiantly held back a wave of giggles, then cleared her throat. "So what wonder of modern culture are you going to write back about this week?"
He adopted a wry expression at that. "I originally intended to declaim my astonishment at the invention of Liquid Paper; if it had been possible to so easily erase one's mistakes with ink without scraping the page thin back in my day, letter writing would have been a far less daunting prospect. But Miss Jenny informed me that such correction fluid is already passé, and that indeed, it might prompt a hair color joke."
Abbie blinked at that. "I thought the Wite Out joke was about blondes...?" she asked.
Ichabod's lips thinned. "And it still is, in part. For how does one know that a blond has been at the computer?"
Okay; whatever, she'd play along. "There's Wite Out on the screen."
"And how does one know that a brunet has been using the same machine?" he continued with a resigned air.
"I don't know, how?"
"There is writing over the Wite Out," Ichabod concluded, a biting note in his voice.
Abbie had to laugh at that. "All right, all right. Probably not the most appropriate joke for a technology challenged brunet to share with a blond. So what did you pick instead?"
"It is difficult to find technological advancements to which he has not already been introduced by his teammates," he lamented. "Though rest assured, I will find something by the deadline for today's mail; most of the letter is already written. I require only a moment's inspiration."
She could see that; several sheets of paper already covered in Ichabod's old-timey script lay on the corner of the table. She didn't make an effort to read it, but one place name stood out right near the top: Dobbs Ferry. "Reassuring him you're still in one piece? I'm guessing he's heard about our latest adventure by now."
Ichabod made a disgruntled face. "Very likely. I'm still not certain how I feel about the notion of a manmade being perusing my every move from the ether and reporting it, however friendly said being and said recipient might be. The invasion of privacy alone is alarming, never mind the potential for abuse and the theological implications."
"Shades of Skynet," Abbie said, shuddering. Then, off his querying look, she added, "Cultural reference again. We should definitely add the Terminator movies to your watch list, by the way. At least the first two; the message gets a little mixed after that. Even Christian Bale couldn't save the fourth one."
"I'll take your word for it," he said, skeptically. "Far be it from me to dispute the value of an actor's attractiveness in elevating a muddled plot to something worth the time it takes to view."
"What? Don't tell me you haven't watched your new friend's old propaganda movies yet. Because let me tell you, there is only one reason to watch those things now, and the historical value isn't it."
"I'll have to take your word for that as well; he has most earnestly dissuaded me from looking them up on the You Tube."
Ichabod pronounced the website as though its name were two words, and still prefaced most internet references with an article, though Abbie knew damn well he knew better. But she humored his disapproving verbal tics just like she did his daily attempts to get in a quota of conversational sparring; it would be a little hypocritical of her to call him on it too often.
"All the more reason to do it," she grinned.
"Yes, well. Perhaps." He grinned back at her, then changed the subject, nodding to the file folder she'd brought. "So. What brings you to the Armory this early in the day? Another unusual investigation for the Sleepy Hollow police?"
"No flashburned corpses, creepy houses, or beheadings yet today," Abbie assured him. "I was looking into the Biblical verses about the Witnesses, actually. There's some interesting insertions in Washington's version. Here, take a look...."
Ichabod Crane may have dragged her neatly planned life royally off course-- but he'd also saved her, in more ways than one, since they'd become partners. She was glad she'd taken a chance on him.
She wondered if there was anyone else out there who'd say the same for Ichabod's new friend. She hoped so; the world could be a pretty lonely place when you had no one to talk to about the things that mattered most.
Or even just the things that made you smile.
Two mornings later, a jogger in Washington DC stopped at his mailbox.
"...We of course observed the practice of posting broadsides outside public establishments in my day advertising all manner of things, but nothing like these 'bill boards'. Their sheer size and ubiquity, never mind the breadth of subject matter, frequently astonishes me. I encountered one this week, for example, inviting passersby to a salon established for the sole purpose of something called 'eyebrow threading'. Miss Mills assures me that this is a legitimate and historically established grooming technique, particularly favored by ladies of Eastern heritage, but I would not have guessed without her explanation. The vagaries of modern toilette seem to be unending, as does the time and expense required to so indulge...."
Steve grinned, then picked up a pen to reply before his morning meeting at SHIELD HQ.
-x-
Author: jedibuttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not
Rating: PG-13
Prompt/Prompter: maevebran, who asked for: "More Temporally Displaced Americans. Maybe Crane finally putting things together and reacting to Steve being Captain America. (Frank Irving called Crane "Captain America" sarcastically towards the end of the Pilot)."
Spoilers: Late Season 1 for Sleepy Hollow; MCU pre-"Captain America: Winter Soldier"
Notes: Steve is present more in spirit than person in this one; but rest assured, this won't be the last fic in this universe.
Summary: The letters arrived every week like clockwork: heavy, old-fashioned unruled paper tucked into number ten envelopes. Careful, legible handwriting covered the pages in modern ballpoint ink, addressed to 'Captain Ichabod Crane, c/o Abigail Mills'. 2000w.
The letters arrived every week like clockwork. Heavy, old-fashioned unruled paper tucked into number ten envelopes; careful, legible handwriting covered the pages in modern ballpoint ink. They were addressed to "Captain Ichabod Crane, c/o Abigail Mills", a combination of title and address that would have told Abbie who the sender was even without the name above the return lines.
She smiled as she walked into the Armory and pulled the latest envelope out of her pocket; it was good to see Crane making friends outside their little apocalypse-fighting band. "Crane. You got mail," she said, waggling her eyebrows.
Ichabod looked up from the book he'd been steadily flipping through, tracing his finger over the pages. Probably a tossup whether he was actively researching, or just taking mental snapshots for future reference. She didn't even want to think what having a memory like his must be like; useful, yes, but kind of terrifying when she thought about it. Not being able to ever forget anything? There were things in even her imperfect recall that she'd consign to oblivion if she could, starting with the look on her sister's face the day she'd refused to back up Jenny's story about the demon to the cops, and more recently the sight of Sheriff Corbin's body after his fatal encounter with the Headless Horseman. How much worse must it be for him?
It was kind of a miracle, really, how excited her temporally dislocated partner could still get about the little things. Abbie watched his eyes light up and an anticipatory grin spread over his face, and folded away that look like an ember in her heart, stored up against the darker times that had plagued them before and doubtless would again before the prophesized tribulations were over.
"Another missive from the good Captain?" he asked, eagerly taking the letter and turning it over to break the seal. A quick tug freed the pages from inside; just a couple this time, but enough to show it wasn't just a perfunctory duty on his correspondent's part, either. Another thing Abbie couldn't help but marvel over.
"Indeed," she replied teasingly, borrowing his favorite acknowledgement. "I know you were worried after the news report this weekend, but it looks like he came through the incident in one piece."
He gave her a warmly admonishing look, then turned back to the pages. "I was not worried. I might not have understood Captain Irving's sarcastic reference to the man during our first case, but I have had ample opportunity to learn since. Captain Rogers is very capable, in fact a soldier of such skill that I need not blush at the comparison, and despite the rancorous tenor of the journalistic coverage of the Avengers' activities his teammates likewise appear to be intelligent, competent individuals. However...."
"However, he's your friend, and you were worried," Abbie cut him off with a casual wave. "Worry on; I get the feeling he could use a few more people concerned with his welfare anyway."
She was spitballing on that, really; what did she know about Captain freaking America? But Ichabod had read quotes from his letters over the last few months, and she had her very own slept through a bunch of decades soldier on hand to extrapolate from, so she was pretty sure she was in the right ballpark.
Ichabod nodded, though his eyebrows were still eloquent in their commentary. "There is a difference between the reliance and trust of those who have been through battle together, and the connection of personal friendship, and you are correct that he has yet to cross that gap with most of his modern compatriots. He is a more private man than I, however. I have not yet decided whether that is ultimately to his benefit, or mine."
"Don't ask me." Abbie raised her hands, palm out. "You remember the personal space conversation. But I don't think I could do this Witnessing thing with you if we weren't also friends."
"I feel much the same, Miss Mills." Ichabod smiled again, mostly in the eyes, then dropped his gaze back to the letter.
One of these days, she would get him to call her Abbie when he wasn't on the verge of dying. She shook her head in fond amusement, then walked over to the lockbox that held Washington's Bible; there were some things she wanted to look up while they had a few minutes between cases. Whether the verses about the fates of the two witnesses, more than just their presence and the length of their tribulations, had been changed or expanded on in the Founding Father's version, for example. She wasn't all that keen about ending up martyred, even if the witnesses were supposed to be resurrected and yanked up to heaven afterward.
They had enough Terminator references in their lives already; why not one more? "No fate but what we make," she muttered to herself, flipping through the pages.
Ichabod looked up from his letter again at that, but didn't comment on it; instead, he made a considering noise, a line forming between his brows.
"Captain Rogers informs me that the cultural lesson of the week is 'grumpy cat', and he suggests that I apply to Captain Irving for an explanation." He glanced up at her, inquisitively. "The name bears a resemblance to the infuriated avians to which I was introduced by Miss Jenny; surely she would be a better source to approach?"
Just the thought of Ichabod approaching Frank Irving on the subject of Grumpy Cat-- as recommended by Captain America, who'd certainly seen the aggrieved side of the police captain's personality during the encounter between SHIELD, Sleepy Hollow's law enforcement, and the Headless Horseman a few months back-- surprised a snort out of Abbie. She clapped a hand over her mouth for a moment to shield her smirk, then made a valiant attempt to even out her voice as she replied.
Captain America: kind of a brat, who knew?
"Ah-- no. It's an Internet meme. Some guy posted a picture of his sister's cat to Reddit because it looked like it was frowning, the picture got made into an image macro with a bunch of grumpy captions, and... yeah, not enough 'no' in the world. I don't think either one would be amused by the comparison. I'll pull up the Wikipedia page for you later-- or maybe just the Instagram; it's pretty self-explanatory."
"I'd appreciate that, as I understood only about half of your attempt at an explanation, as per usual," Ichabod sighed, as ruffled as if he were Grumpy Cat himself.
Abbie valiantly held back a wave of giggles, then cleared her throat. "So what wonder of modern culture are you going to write back about this week?"
He adopted a wry expression at that. "I originally intended to declaim my astonishment at the invention of Liquid Paper; if it had been possible to so easily erase one's mistakes with ink without scraping the page thin back in my day, letter writing would have been a far less daunting prospect. But Miss Jenny informed me that such correction fluid is already passé, and that indeed, it might prompt a hair color joke."
Abbie blinked at that. "I thought the Wite Out joke was about blondes...?" she asked.
Ichabod's lips thinned. "And it still is, in part. For how does one know that a blond has been at the computer?"
Okay; whatever, she'd play along. "There's Wite Out on the screen."
"And how does one know that a brunet has been using the same machine?" he continued with a resigned air.
"I don't know, how?"
"There is writing over the Wite Out," Ichabod concluded, a biting note in his voice.
Abbie had to laugh at that. "All right, all right. Probably not the most appropriate joke for a technology challenged brunet to share with a blond. So what did you pick instead?"
"It is difficult to find technological advancements to which he has not already been introduced by his teammates," he lamented. "Though rest assured, I will find something by the deadline for today's mail; most of the letter is already written. I require only a moment's inspiration."
She could see that; several sheets of paper already covered in Ichabod's old-timey script lay on the corner of the table. She didn't make an effort to read it, but one place name stood out right near the top: Dobbs Ferry. "Reassuring him you're still in one piece? I'm guessing he's heard about our latest adventure by now."
Ichabod made a disgruntled face. "Very likely. I'm still not certain how I feel about the notion of a manmade being perusing my every move from the ether and reporting it, however friendly said being and said recipient might be. The invasion of privacy alone is alarming, never mind the potential for abuse and the theological implications."
"Shades of Skynet," Abbie said, shuddering. Then, off his querying look, she added, "Cultural reference again. We should definitely add the Terminator movies to your watch list, by the way. At least the first two; the message gets a little mixed after that. Even Christian Bale couldn't save the fourth one."
"I'll take your word for it," he said, skeptically. "Far be it from me to dispute the value of an actor's attractiveness in elevating a muddled plot to something worth the time it takes to view."
"What? Don't tell me you haven't watched your new friend's old propaganda movies yet. Because let me tell you, there is only one reason to watch those things now, and the historical value isn't it."
"I'll have to take your word for that as well; he has most earnestly dissuaded me from looking them up on the You Tube."
Ichabod pronounced the website as though its name were two words, and still prefaced most internet references with an article, though Abbie knew damn well he knew better. But she humored his disapproving verbal tics just like she did his daily attempts to get in a quota of conversational sparring; it would be a little hypocritical of her to call him on it too often.
"All the more reason to do it," she grinned.
"Yes, well. Perhaps." He grinned back at her, then changed the subject, nodding to the file folder she'd brought. "So. What brings you to the Armory this early in the day? Another unusual investigation for the Sleepy Hollow police?"
"No flashburned corpses, creepy houses, or beheadings yet today," Abbie assured him. "I was looking into the Biblical verses about the Witnesses, actually. There's some interesting insertions in Washington's version. Here, take a look...."
Ichabod Crane may have dragged her neatly planned life royally off course-- but he'd also saved her, in more ways than one, since they'd become partners. She was glad she'd taken a chance on him.
She wondered if there was anyone else out there who'd say the same for Ichabod's new friend. She hoped so; the world could be a pretty lonely place when you had no one to talk to about the things that mattered most.
Or even just the things that made you smile.
Two mornings later, a jogger in Washington DC stopped at his mailbox.
"...We of course observed the practice of posting broadsides outside public establishments in my day advertising all manner of things, but nothing like these 'bill boards'. Their sheer size and ubiquity, never mind the breadth of subject matter, frequently astonishes me. I encountered one this week, for example, inviting passersby to a salon established for the sole purpose of something called 'eyebrow threading'. Miss Mills assures me that this is a legitimate and historically established grooming technique, particularly favored by ladies of Eastern heritage, but I would not have guessed without her explanation. The vagaries of modern toilette seem to be unending, as does the time and expense required to so indulge...."
Steve grinned, then picked up a pen to reply before his morning meeting at SHIELD HQ.
-x-