Ichabod had not expected her to return that day – nor,
perhaps, on any day. So he had no time to hide the detritus of his despair.
The sink clattered with dirty dishes; the counters were
laden with hillocks of crumbs, from when even plates became too onerous. Every
flat surface of the living room groaned under books and papers, with a liberal
sprinkling of empty energy drink cans.
The air carried a sour odor.
If the lieutenant noticed any of this, she gave no sign. “Gonna
go to sleep. We’ll finish catching up tomorrow, yeah?”
“Of course,” he said, though he longed more than anything
just to hear her talk, to stay by her side, to make sure she could not
disappear again. But his pang of disappointment turned to panic as she started
for her room.
“Lieutenant, a moment, if I may. There is some tidying which
needs be done and—“
But it was too late. She’d already swung the door open. She
stood on the threshold and took in the scene: Her bed, not made with its usual
rigid corners, but tousled and thoroughly slept in.
“I can explain.”
A moment of silence. Then she shook her head. “No need. My
mattress is better, right? Makes sense you would use it.”
Because this was the
place where I could feel you most.
Because even now, you
scent the sheets and I awoke happy, if only for a moment.
Because I love you.
But he could not place one more burden – even if that burden
was love – upon her weary head. Not now. The time wasn’t right. It never was.
“Yes. Your tick is much … bouncier.” He cleared his throat. “Now,
give me just a moment and I’ll have fresh sheets on.”
“No,” she said just a fraction too quickly. “It’s fine. We’ll
take care of it tomorrow. I just really want some rest.”
He bowed – not some grandiose gesture, but small.
Respectful. “Welcome home.”
Later that night, as he finished his frantic cleaning of the
rest of the house, he walked by her bedroom. The door was just slivered open.
And, cad that he was, he could not resist peeking inside.
She slept, illumined by the moon. Her cheek was nestled into
the pillow, her hands tangled in the top sheet.
For you guys who don’t know what this is, it’s a cancelation index for TV shows. Black means it’s already canceled, red is likely to be canceled, and yellow is only in danger.
Last week, Sleepy Hollow was red. Thanks to us, it’s down to yellow.
okee I guess i’ll answer asks tomorrow I just wrote a 5 hr discussion for Psychology on alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine and now I feel like I’m on drugs I’m gonna just knock out now, here’s an old sketch for your troubles
He promised to never
let her go again but it was a promise he couldn’t keep. The moment his feet
touched the ground on the other side, Jenny was clawing at his hands, pulling
Abbie’s frail body from his arms. He understood of course. His desperation to
save Abbie was not greater than Jenny’s. It was simply different. That didn’t
stop a deep seated rage from building within him.
The word reverberated throughout his soul, primal and loud in its voracity.
Logic was fighting a losing battle against his need, yearning and instinct to
hold and protect her. He watched as Joe kneeled next to her, checking her
responses and taking her vitals. He bit back a growl as Jenny’s arms wrapped
around her waist and Joe’s hands felt for a pulse and her wrist and neck. Mine was on the tip of his tongue. He’d
waited so long to touch her, to hold her, to feel her again. The inability for
him to do so made his blood boil.
She was cold. She was tired.
But most importantly, Abbie was overwhelmed. She could feel Jenny’s tears on
her neck, searing her skin as if they were droplets of fire. Her sister’s arms
came around her middle like a vice grip. Joe’s hands wandered and pressed into
her flesh. She should have been happy to see them; she had been alone for so
long. Abbie loved her sister immensely. Joe was like a brother to her, but all
she could think was not you. Him.
comforting platitudes beneath Jenny’s sobs. She tried not to recoil at all of
the sensations bombarding her at one time. The sun was too bright; the birds
chirped too loudly and the attention was too much. It was all too much after
months of solitude. Panic swelled within her chest. I can’t. I can’t! Please just go away! The words came out in a rush
and she sought out the only person who would understand. One look was all it
took. Everything subsided; the pain, the overload, the anxiety disappeared once
she felt his arms cradle her to his chest.
The look of fear in her
eyes set the beast loose. Damn the consequences and the animosity that he would
endure from Jenny for taking her sister away. He could not stand by when it was
clear she needed him. He needed to reach out to her; he needed to hold her, to
keep her safe. He needed to be the one to make her whole again and only his
touch could do that.
Back away. It’s too much for her! Let me get her
home. Let her rest. With her head
next to Ichabod’s chest, Abbie could feel the vibrations of his baritone voice beside
her ear. The quick, rhythmic breaths he took in his anger pressed against her
upper body creating a constant hum within her. It soothed the tatters of her
soul being able to feel him; to be near him. She would deal with the fallout
later. For the time being, there was nowhere else she would rather be. There was
no one else.
How is Abbie handling this separation differently than her time in Purgatory?
“Well, she’s handling it the best way you can. There’s not a lot of answers. There’s just a profound loneliness, and a need to look inside herself. I’m not that familiar with the psychology of the writers’ room when they put together the Purgatory version of being separated. I know this one was, to some extent, much more threatening because of the isolation, the loneliness. Being where she’s at, there’s a sensory overload in absolute isolation. I think she starts to question what’s real at all. It doesn’t end with where she’s at; it reframes our own perceptions of time and space and reality. I don’t want to be that vague, but I have to be that vague in order for the audience to enjoy what we’re about to show everybody.” (via TV Insider)