bakerstreet | (no subject)

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The Night In Jail Meme

No matter how careful you are, no matter how good you try to be--well, sometimes things just happen. Maybe you need to fudge a few little rules for the greater good, or maybe you're a full-time villain with no regrets. Either way, everyone has to slip up sometime--and this time, there just so happened to be law enforcement involved to catch you as you fell. What happened to get you into this fiasco, and how will you cope?

Warning: This meme deals with criminal activity and confinement, and has the potential to get into explicit detail. Please be aware of any triggers you may have concerning subjects like these, and make sure to state any preferences you may have.

How to play:
1. Respond to this post with your characters--be sure to put their name and canon in the subject line, and include any preferences you may have.
2. Feel free to set up the scene yourself, or leave it to those who respond to you.
3. Click here to select a crime, and here to select a scene, or go to the RNG site and roll your own numbers.
4. Start playing! AUs and canon-blending alike are highly encouraged, as is characters who actually are cops or lawyers tagging around and getting to strut their stuff.

Crime

1. I fought The Law, and The Law won: You really don't mess around, do you? You're running right up against the law and government in its purest form. Did you try to resist arrest? Flee probation? Conspire to commit treason against the government? Maybe you didn't even do anything wrong, and you're being unlawfully held with no warrant, no conviction, and no hope of a fair trial. However it happened, it looks like you're in dire straits.

2. Civil disobedience: Fight the Man! You represent the will of the people! You're a political prisoner, and you regret nothing, even if the authorities are abusing their power and position. Whether you were organizing a peaceful protest, or engaging in a little ideologically-motivated terrorism, you're out to prove a point and ensure that justice will be served in the end.

3. No entry: You really shouldn't have gone in there, should you? Whether it was simple tresspassing, forcible breaking and entering, outright burglary, or just sneaking into an abandoned building, you've been caught somewhere you have no right to be.

4. Up with your sticky hands, this is a fuck-up!: So, what caught your eye? Some smug fat cat who needs to learn the meaning of charity? A bank or jewelry store that didn't seem to have surveillance? Vital medical equipment you just couldn't afford? Whether it was armed robbery or a more hands-off theft, you've taken what doesn't belong to you.

5. Let's take this outside: That was one hell of a fight! Who won? Hopefully you gave as good as you got. And hopefully the other guy is doing just as much time as you are. Assault, public brawling, illegal use of firearms, or even self-defense gone wrong--as long as it's violent, you're going to have a hard time explaining yourself to the police that pulled you out and patched you up.

6. Hit list: Sometimes, just roughing someone up isn't enough. Sometimes, a more permanent solution is needed. Cold-blooded murder plots, a struggle gone too far in the heat of the moment, or perhaps just a terrible accident on the highway--however it happened, you've ended another person's life.

7. Superheroics don't pay: Not your average criminal, are you? No, you're the sort who should really be dealt with by special forces, not your work-a-day beat officers. Maybe you're a diabolical supervillain whose scheme got foiled, (again) or you shouldn't be here at all--you were the guy in the cape trying to save the city! The citizens, however, don't seem to appreciate the fact that your heroic defense included large explosions, vast collateral damage, or dozens of innocent lives being held in the balance to bait you into coming to fight your archnemesis. Maybe you and your cellmate were the two super-powers slugging it out, or maybe you're master and sidekick, but one thing is for sure--no normal jail cell can hold you. Unluckily for you, it seems this prison was well-prepared.

8. Organized crime: So, are you the criminal mastermind orchestrating illicit operations all over the city? Are you a much-abused mook who just happens to work for this sadistic madman for a living? Maybe you're a mercenary hitman, or just a kneecap-breaker and debt collector. Whatever your position, you're not one to operate in a vacuum, and it looks like you've made one wrong step too many. Hopefully your colleagues will get you out safely--if you don't sell them out first.

9. White collar crime: A bit too sophisticated for dirtying your hands, are you? You know your way around the business world, and you know how to make it give you exactly what you want. Money laundering, embezzlement, corporate espionage..... so long as it involves a respectable workplace, there's a good chance you've got a hand in it. Did your boss finally find you out?

10. Indecent exposure: .....Wow. Uh. W-would you like a coat? Maybe you decided to streak for some reason, maybe you decided to skinny dip in a public fountain, maybe you couldn't find any covering for your walk of shame, or maybe you and your lover got caught in an intimate position in public, but whatever happened, you've bared it all to the wrong eyes.

11. Bad trip: You smoked what? And they found you where? Whether you were selling, using, or simply in possession of them, you've been caught with some illegal drugs. Drunk driving, sharing a joint with some friends, or maybe doing some of the harder stuff--you'll have a while behind bars to come crashing down and face the music.

12. Goddamned kids!: It isn't like this crime had a victim! Really. All you did was throw bricks through a few windows, or set fire to an abandoned warehouse, or spray paint graffiti onto public property, or maybe egg and toilet paper some loser's house. Whether you were vandalizing things, disturbing the peace, or just up to miscellaneous criminal mischief, you must have had bad luck to get caught by an officer having a lousy day.

13. Drunken shenanigans: Well, it looks like somebody had a wild night! You might be high-fiving your partner in crime and reveling in just how awesome that stunt you pulled was, you may be terribly hung over and regretting every second of your escapades, or you might not even remember what in the world you did to get locked up to begin with. Here's hoping it was at least fun enough to be worth the trouble you've gotten yourself into.

14: This isn't what it looks like! You've got the wrong guy!: Wow, it must really suck to be you. Either you were an accomplice who was thrown under the bus to take the punishment for everyone else, you were framed for a crime you didn't commit, there's a serious case of mistaken identity going on, or you were just some innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. Hopefully you can convince them of your innocence before it's too late.

15. Sweating the small stuff: Who shoved a stick up that officer's ass? Seriously, who gets arrested for littering? Or jaywalking? Or smoking at a bus stop? This is beyond ridiculous. Maybe if you can talk to some other, hopefully sane officer, you can get this whole mess straightened out.

16. You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant: Got the perfect crime in mind? Don't see your offense listed above? Mix n' match, choose which you want, or create your own!

Scene

1. Caught red handed: Oh, now you've done it. The sack of money is still in your hand, or the body is still in your trunk, or maybe you reek so badly of alcohol they sniffed you out from a block away. What'll you do, now that there's no denying what you've done?

2. On the run: Whether it's a high-speed car chase, trying to climb a chain link fence, or a grueling crawl through the sewer system, you're trying to evade justice. Hope you're good at thinking on your feet!

3. Busted: No getting out of it this time. You're getting a very thorough patdown, being handcuffed, and stuffed into the back of the patrol car. The arrest is in progress, and there's nothing you can do about it.

4. Police interrogation: Down in the station, this is your one chance to persuade them of your innocence--or have them crack your resolve and make you spill everything you know. Are they playing good cop and bad cop with you? Using illegal torture methods? Does anyone even know you're here, or are these a different sort of police entirely?

5. Guard and prisoner: The arrest and crime alike are definitely past you now. Now you've got to deal with the people holding your life in your hands for the long haul. Maybe if you're lucky, or persuasive, or just have something to bribe them with, they'll be inclined to make your life a little easier.

6. I want a lawyer!: Even a prisoner has rights, after all. You've been allowed some legal counsel, so you'd better make the best of it. Just how sympathetic are they? Do you trust them to do you any good? Or are they just one more of law enforcement's dogs?

7. Cellmates: It looks like you two are going to be roommates for a long, long time, whether you know each other or not--better make yourselves comfortable and get acquainted. Who knows some party games?

8. Your one phone call: You're in it up to your ears, now. Who will you turn to, with only one chance to contact the outside world? Will they come in to bail you out, or let you suffer the consequences of your actions?

9. Visiting hours: Awww, someone came to keep you company? How sweet! Hopefully they didn't come just to laugh at your misfortune.

10. The Great Escape: Maybe you and your cellmate are plotting to break out, or maybe a friend on the outside has come to rescue you--either way, you're busting out of this joint. Freedom!

11. Who was that masked man, anyway?: Got an idea for a scenario or relationship you can't see on here? Go wild!

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It's been a long day. The kind of day that leaves weariness seeping into your very bones and settles in your joints. All Abbie Mills wants is to go home, have a damn bath and maybe a mug of tea before falling asleep to the dulcet tones of late night television.

But that is not in the cards tonight. Everyone at the station knows lieutenant Mills' permanent shadow is the lunatic in period clothes. So naturally, she is their first and only call...

The cells smell of artificial lemon strong enough to prickle your nose but not quite strong enough to drown out the smell of dank bricks and unused spaces. Occasionally, there's the stink of alcohol to liven things up. But not tonight.

Abbie stops and watches Ichabod through the bars, arms crossing over her chest. It's remarkably like both their first and second meeting. "I can't leave you alone for two seconds...

Edited 2013-10-13 18:44 (UTC)

By dint of impressive effort he's somehow managing to look indignant and sheepish simultaneously. Really, he doesn't see how she can reasonably be that displeased with him. Since coming together in their role as Witnesses they have frequently found themselves in situations which are bizarre and alarming to the outside observer. And being unfamiliar still with the social mores of this time, he is at a natural disadvantage in navigating around the confusion of others.

In his defense, he really hadn't been that out of line. In fact he rather thinks he'd been close to smoothing things over right up until the arresting officer had insisted on seeing some form of identification, and the address of his place of residence. Being able to provide neither was apparently grounds for great suspicion in this century.

He gives her a thin smile that's barely masking a vast and unending irritation. "I consider that quite unfair, lieutenant," he replies with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances. This is no mean feat while shackled in a cell, but he feels he's given it a respectable effort.

The dignity with which Ichabod Crane carries himself at all times will never cease to amaze Abbie. Snatched from his own time and thrust two and a half centuries ago, and he still wears his pride like a suit of armor capable of fending off any and all blows. Even cuffed and shoved in a cell it wraps around him along with a sense of righteous indignation. (He pulls the latter off quite spectacularly.) She highly doubts she'd be capable of the same in his position.

It's odd how his by-now-familiar presence chases the exhaustion from her and draws a smile she didn't think herself capable of tonight. She shakes her head and just barely avoids rolling her eyes.

"Fine. Half a day then," she corrects herself. Though it might seem foreign to him, she still has a job to perform outside of this whole "witness" nonsense and Sleepy Hollow has been thankfully devoid of grisly murders this week. It's left her free to pursue such important cases as Mrs Thomas' missing rose bushes and the unsightly graffiti now decorating the back of the grocery store. Not to mention the numerous stop sign violations on the corner of main street. (A grisly murder wouldn't be unwelcome right about now. Or rather tomorrow. When she's had a chance to shower and sleep.)

Abbie leans a shoulder against the bars and watches him through them. "I never thought I'd say this after high school, but we need to get you a fake ID."

His lips press together, mouth twisting slightly in the manner of a man who has tasted something unpleasant. "That any society can demand its citizens carry identification-" With a sharp indrawn breath he cuts himself off, forcibly suppressing the incipient rant with a visible effort.

In many ways, humanity has made an incredible amount of progress over the past two hundred and fifty years, and he would not deny that for the most part it seems to have been for the better. But it is disheartening to see that so much of what they had fought against all those years ago has, despite their apparent victory, not only survived but flourished.

He makes an aborted move to rub a hand across his face before being brought up short by the cuffs. He gives them an unfriendly look before sighing, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and exhausted resignation. It's wearying, picking his way through all the unnecessary complications his lack of familiarity with this time brings, and sometimes he can't help but wonder just how long he'll be able to keep it up.

A hint of a tired smile passing across his face, he looks up at Abbie through the unruly fall of his hair. "Am I to be released to your custody, or shall I resign myself to another evening spent in these...charming accommodations?"

Edited 2013-10-13 21:03 (UTC)

A bare month into their acquaintance and Abbie can practically see the oncoming rant. It's not that she doesn't appreciate how hard this must be for him, she really does. But there are days where she's simply not up to the task of listening to another rant on the donut-tax. She gives him a nod of approval as he cuts himself short; he's finally learning.

"Well, Luke wanted to at least keep you over night," Abbie says in a slow drawl, still teasing. (Though not lying; Luke isn't exactly Crane's biggest fan.) "Said something about teaching you a lesson." There's a brief pause for effect, like on one of those late night game shows she could be watching right now, and then she holds up the key with a soft jangle. It rasps in the lock before she lets the cell door swing open. "I told him you're a quick study."

Abbie pushes away from the bars with an exhausted sigh; it seems both of them could do with a bath and some sleep. "Come on. I'll get the cuffs for you."

"Naturally," he drawls, a hint of a smirk curling his lips. He honestly tried to approach the man with an open mind, but he is nothing if not wholly unimpressed with Abbie's former paramour. It beggars belief that she could possibly have seen anything worth pursuing in such a petty creature.

He stands, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head to crack his neck. Though the cell is not particularly cramped - certainly there is space enough to stand and pace, an activity he had devoted quite some time to earlier in the night - but there is a restriction beyond the physical in being imprisoned. The opening of the barred door is like a breath of fresh air. He steps forward, extending his cuffed wrists.

The cuffs, well-maintained and free of rust, come away easily. "I thank you," he says, rubbing at the reddened marks where they had bit into his wrists. He takes a moment to straighten his sleeves and brush some imaginary dust from the lapels of his coat. "I fear that should I spend any more time in this particular cell, your desk sergeant may begin charging me rent."

Abbie tucks her spare handcuff key back into the hidden key keeper on her duty belt. The cuffs aren't hers, so she closes them with a decisive if somewhat rattling click each, and then folds them together with a jangle of the chain.

"I was going to go home, you know," she says. It didn't seem fair, complaining when he was locked up and cuffed and practically oozing frustration. "Draw myself a bath. Maybe have a glass of wine. Definitely have some chocolate."

Thumb hooked in her duty belt, she saunters out the door and down the corridor. Without looking back, she continues, "But, no. I get called down to the station 'cause my 'boyfriend' has gotten himself arrested." Luke doesn't refer to him as such, but the rest of the force sure does whenever the Captain isn't around. She stops by the desk sergeant's (well) desk and drops the cuffs atop it with a sharp clatter. Then and only then does she look up at Ichabod, head tilted slightly to the side. "You owe me, Crane. Two hours of my life."

He follows along at her shoulder with his hands folded behind his back, letting her words wash over him with the serenity of a man who has long since resigned himself to not being able to make full sense of anything which is said to him for the foreseeable future. It's been possible to get by keeping his mouth shut and simply observing as much as possible. As tonight has reminded them both, however, there will always be circumstances under which deliberate ambiguity and the ability to think fast on his feet will not be enough.

As she turns to face him he arches an eyebrow at her, letting his expression speak eloquently regarding his opinion of that claim. "I can only apologise," he replies dryly. Somehow his inflection manages to turn the statement into something impressively unapologetic. "I trust you will find some appropriate means for me to repay you."

Of course he does owe her a great deal. He can hardly deny that. But nor does he agree that he's been naught but a burden, however much his disadvantage in dealing with modern life may inconvenience them at times. The events of this evening were hardly his fault, and he rather feels that he has been punished enough for his part in them.

Edited 2013-10-13 22:58 (UTC)

The look on Abbie's face is a curious blend between raised eyebrows and somewhat smug grin breaking through despite herself. But whatever she might've replied is lost as the desk sergeant interrupts by wordlessly handing Abbie a clipboard with the release form. She signs it with a quick scribble that might look a little like it contains both an A and an M if you squint. Mostly it looks like a squiggly line. She hands the clipboard and the pen back along with the key to the cells. "Thank you, sergeant."

He waves her off with a vague handgesture and Abbie turns back to Ichabod, the very level of how completely unamused she is etched into the lines of her face. But it softens when she catches just how tired and agitated he still is. "They shouldn't've arrested you," she admits quietly. "There's not a man or woman on this force who doesn't know who you are." Everyone knows that he is hers. This thing they're doing? It's closer to hazing than anything else.

That little matter dealt with, Abbie glances around herself before jerking her head towards the exit. "Come on, I'll drive you home." And that bath grows ever more distant. At this rate she'll have to make do with a quick shower before bed.

He gives a small shrug in response, too weary to really be as angered as he should by Abbie's colleagues amusing themselves at his expense. Part of him concedes that they can hardly be blamed for their wariness of him. These days he occasionally questions if he knows who he is; all this pretending to be from a different time period can wear on a man.

"Thank you," he says as he follows her out into the dim yellow light of the streetlamps outside the police station. It comes out quiet and genuine, all trace of wry sarcasm gone. He's too worn down to put the effort in. It's tiring, dealing with the suspicion and strange looks and always having to keep his guard up less he let something slip that we shouldn't and be unceremoniously shipped back to the asylum.

After today, being alone in the dark with Abbie is like a breath of fresh air. She knows who and what he is; he doesn't have to pretend. It's that, even more than being free of the cell, which lifts a weight from his shoulders.

Abbie's steps falter and she turns to look at him. Her teeth catch against the inside of her cheek. Most of the time their interactions are fraught with sarcasm and teasing. When that falls away to reveal the man beneath the ridiculous costume and the armor of pride and self-confidence, Abbie never knows quite what to do. Intimacy never came easy to her. Sure, there was Corbin but he fought hard for that closeness. Whereas Ichabod just seems to duck under her defenses until he's right there, closer than he should be and it aches.

The streetlamps paint patterns of shadows across his face and Abbie watches them in silence for a few seconds too long. "You're welcome," she finally says, just as quiet and genuine as his thanks. They proceed to her car in silence. Abbie slips her hands into the pockets of her jacket and her fingers curl against her palms.

Once in the car, she turns the radio on for him; classical music from a CD that she bought just for him. It's late enough that the streets are empty. The dark of the car's interior is intermittently broken as they pass beneath a streetlamp in companionable silence.

Rather than taking the turn to his motel though, Abbie keeps driving straight on an instinct she can't quite explain. When she finally pulls up it's on the driveway of a small one story house. Nothing special at all with yellow walls and a black roof. Her fingers tighten around the steering wheel and she stares straight ahead. "This is me," she says. Then clarifies, "My house. I live here."

For a while there's a comfortable quiet, the rushing sensation of motion as the lights of Sleepy Hollow flash past the window and soft music fills the air. He does appreciate her choice. He's not wholly opposed to all of the music from her time, much as some of it is downright alarming, but he could use a little familiarity at the moment. Lulled by the motion of the vehicle and the music curling around them, it's easy to fall into an almost meditative trance.

So easy, in fact, that he blinks like a sleepwalker waking from a dream as they roll to a stop in front of a building he doesn't recognise. Her statement answers some questions, but it raises others.

"I thought that..." he begins, only to trail off as his mind catches up with his mouth. Well clearly he thought wrongly. And he cannot help but be conscious that she is doing him a great kindness by inviting him into her home. His own accommodations, though perfectly comfortable, are impersonal in a manner which is sometimes unnerving and frankly the last thing he wants right now.

"A charming home," he concludes instead. There. That's better.

In the silence there's enough time for Abbie to question herself a million times over. Why the hell did she bring him here? And without asking. It's tantamount to kidnapping and for him -- with his different values and 18th century ethics -- it must be shockingly scandalous. A woman bringing a man into her house without a proper chaperone. (Nevermind that Ichabod has never hinted at moral outrage in situations like these before.)

But he breaks the silence and Abbie releases the breath she's held without thinking and her fingers loosen their death grip around the steering wheel. "Thank you," she says on reflex, with a light shrug. "It's not much."

They leave the car, and it beeps as Abbie locks it behind them. The house key sticks a little and she has to wiggle it a couple of times before it turns in the lock. As they walk in, she tosses her keys on the little table by the door and flips the light switch.

The living room is tidy. A nice sofa with a floral print and a throw blanket tossed across the back. A coffee table littered with photocopies from old texts and piles of books on demons. There's a TV and a half-filled bookshelf. There're a couple of cardboard boxes piled up in the corner. She was all packed up for Quantico and she hasn't had much chance to unpack yet. If it was personal Ichabod was hoping for, he might be disappointed.

"Have a seat, I'll get you a glass of wine," she says, already moving towards the small kitchen.

"Thank you," he says in response to her offer, but he makes no move to accept it. He's too busy orbiting the room, looking over the books, the boxes, the innumerable small things which make this a home. Certainly the piled boxes lend an air of impermanence to the scene; the evidence of her near-departure is all around. But still, there is something comfortable and comforting here. It feels like her.

He pauses by the bookshelf, fingertips tracing over their spines as light and the sounds of muted clattering spill from the kitchen door. Here and there is a title or author he recognises, to his surprise. And of course a bible sits on its side on one otherwise bare shelf, Revelation bristling with bookmarks. Some others are wholly unfamiliar to him - what in creation is a Da Vinci Code? - but at a cursory inspection appear to be fiction. He is somewhat pleased that the practice of owning and reading books for pleasure has not died out entirely.

Selecting a volume at random - Criminal Procedure and Sentencing, by one Dr Hungerford-Welch - he takes it down and opens it. He only means to skim through, but he rapidly finds himself fascinated. Perhaps, given his recent brushes with them, it is well that he should educate himself regarding the criminal justice system of this nation.

"You're not seriously reading that for fun," Abbie says by way of greeting as she steps back into the living room carrying two glasses of red wine. If she'd been alone, she would've gotten the screw-top wine that cost her all of five dollars at the grocery store. But he warranted uncorking a twenty dollar bottle of Californian red.

In the kitchen, she took the opportunity to get rid of her jacket, duty belt, and bullet proof vest. Now, her sheriff's shirt hangs loose over her hips, open to reveal the white t-shirt beneath. There's something quite nice about someone being in her living room, going through her things. It shouldn't be, of course. But she finds that maybe she's missed having another presence in her personal life more than she thought. (The fleeting thought that maybe she should reconsider the whole Luke thing is quickly dismissed though.)

She goes up to him and holds out one of the wine glasses to him. "It's fascinating, sure. But hardly a light read."

"'Fun' is not precisely the word I would use," he replies, closing the book and slotting it back into its place on the shelf. "But it is certainly interesting," he adds as he reaches out to accept the glass of wine, "Thank you very much." He raises the glass to her in a small toast, smiling at her. This is a pleasant moment. Strange and alarming as this time frequently is, he can hardly deny that there has also been some good.

"I should like to learn more, I think," he continues, looking into the wine glass as though it holds the answers to all of life's great questions. "We fought hard for the future of this nation. I am curious to know what came of it." And hopefully requiring citizens to carry identification is as unpleasant and alarming as it gets.

Looking up, he flashes her a wry smile. "And perhaps if I better acquaint myself with your laws, we can avoid any further incidents such as this evening."

In a horrible breach of etiquette, Abbie clinks her glass against Ichabod's when he toasts her and flashes him a fleeting grin. It fades away as he continues talking. It must be so strange for him, carving out a place for himself in this new time and today must've unsettled him far more than Abbie thought.

"I can get you a couple of books to get you started," Abbie offers. She gestures towards the book, back in its place on the shelf now, with the hand holding the wineglass. "Perhaps something a little more basic though."

She wanders over to the sofa and sets her wine glass down on the edge of the coffee table after nudging a couple of stray papers away. Technically, she should probably dig out a coaster, but they're somewhere beneath the pages about ghosts she printed out from the Internet.

The sofa is soft when she sinks down in it and she can't quite help the tired sigh that leaves her lips. She leans forward and tugs at her shoelaces, undoing them just enough that she can toe off the heavy shoes. She tucks her feet in beneath her on the sofa and snags her wine glass from the coffee table again. "You want to talk about it? What happened?"

Edited (not the icon I wanted) 2013-10-14 03:03 (UTC)

"I would appreciate that," he replies, following her over to sit on the other side of the sofa. With a soft sigh he settles into the cushions in a frankly inelegant but very comfortable sprawl. It's hardly proper, but right now propriety can go hang. It's been a long day.

He rubs a hand over his face and gives a small shrug, wineglass steady in his other hand where it's hanging over the arm of the sofa. "Today was...simply ill fortune," he replies, taking a sip of wine. "I rather think I might have talked my way out of the situation had the officer not taken exception to my lack of identification."

"Like he didn't know exactly who you are," Abbie says with a disapproving snort. They should've been cutting him some slack, not making life harder on him. But that's the way it goes when you keep secrets from your co-workers. They harass your revolutionary war soldier to try to get some answers.

She heaves another, heavier sigh and curls up in the sofa, taking a slow sip of her wine. "Let's just forget today happened, okay? Maybe tomorrow another demon will show up." Please, let another demon show up. She cannot spend another day chasing traffic offenders. She follows the proposition with a quick smile, one of those that's reserved solely for him.

"Hear hear," he replies, returning the smile like it's a secret shared only between them. "I feel rather better equipped to handle a demon." Or at the very least, he feels no worse equipped than anyone else, which is really precisely the opposite of near every other aspect of life at the moment.

He takes a rather heartier swig from the wine glass and gives her a speculative look. "I should have thought you would welcome the lull in demonic activity," he says.

For him their entanglements with various malevolent supernatural entities are, though undeniably unpleasant, are strangely welcome. They are...grounding. Even to his own ears that sounds bizarre, but he has no better way to phrase it. It's relieving to be periodically reminded that he isn't insane, that there truly is some dark power at work here. In the quiet moments between crises he sometimes begins to doubt himself again.

But surely the reverse should be true for her; surely she should welcome the chance to put aside prophecies and demons and time-travelling revolutionaries and settle back into her own life for a while. That she would prefer not to be reminded of the arcane insanity they periodically descend into.

The smile warms her more than the wine and maybe that should be her first warning sign. (Or fifth, this evening, to be honest.) But she ignores it. Maybe 'cause it feels good to have a man on her sofa, smiling at her. Or maybe because they're partners and you're supposed to like your partner, but not like-like them.

Abbie's gaze drops to her wine glass and she rubs a thumb absently along the rim of it. It's not a completely easy question to answer. Partly because it's hard to explain the difference between the sheriff's office and Quantico.

"I was leaving," she reminds him softly. "I was going to be more than simply a police officer." It wasn't easy, a small town cop with a chequered past, getting into the Academy. But she gave it up for hunting demons and witnessing the end of days. (Or maybe preventing it. The text isn't really clear on that point.) Every day she spends here doing her old job, puts that decision into question. She could've been more and she chose to stay for the delusions of a man who might quite possibly be mad.

"Every day there's a demon, I know I made the right choice." Inbetween, that's where the doubt creeps in and she begins to feel trapped in this damn town.

"Ah," he replies, giving a small grimace and taking another drink. "That I fully understand." Of course 'choice' is perhaps a strong word to describe what they've come to. For him in particular; Abbie had the chance to leave, though he'd like to think she wouldn't have taken it. He has nowhere else to go.

He sets down the empty wineglass he'd swear was full just a moment ago. A thousand thoughts rise to his lips; thanks, mostly, the heartfelt appreciation of the fact that she didn't choose to flee this insanity while she had the chance and eave him to face it alone. But he knows her well enough by now to now that she wouldn't welcome it, and he hasn't drank enough to disregard that and continue anyway.

So instead he shrugs, lips curling wryly, and says, "Well if nothing else, at least we are not alone in our potential insanity."

"Thank god for that," Abbie agrees and she raises her glass in a quiet toast only to find his glass empty. She sets her own glass back down on the coffee table before she clambers out of the sofa. She pads across the wall-to-wall carpet and disappears into the kitchen.

Mere moments later she returns with the wine bottle in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. Back in the sofa once more, she refills his glass generously before putting the bottle down atop the legal pad on the coffee table. The top page is filled with scribbled notes and the occasional doodle of what might be runes.

"Honestly, if you hadn't been here, I think I would've gone to Quantico anyway. Let someone else sort out this mess." A lifetime spent without him, and yet she somehow can't imagine what her life was like without him in it. Dull, no doubt. She holds out the red box of chocolates, companionably offering him one.

He gladly accepts the refilled glass with a murmur of thanks. It's very pleasant, spending time in her company when there is no immediate crisis at hand. Of course that being said, it's very pleasant to spend time in anyone's company without a crisis at hand - the television set in the motel room is hardly a substitute for actual human interaction - but hers is particularly agreeable.

Her words seem to hang in the air between them, and he can only blink at how casually she makes the statement. "Well, I am grateful that you chose otherwise," is what he finds to say eventually.

After a moment he shakes himself and reaches for the proffered box. Lifting one of the confections he eyes it warily and gives it a speculative sniff. This is followed by an exploratory lick and, apparently deeming it acceptable on the strength of this, pops it in his mouth. He makes a small, approving noise and swallows. "Now these are far more agreeable than your 'energy drinks'."

Abbie snorts an amused laugh at Ichabod's careful examination of the piece of chocolate. Apparently the incident with the energy drinks taught him to be more cautious about what he puts in his mouth during this era of food and drink built mostly out of chemicals never found in nature.

Wine, chocolate, bath, late night TV, and sleep. Two out of the five things Abbie wanted for herself tonight, aren't bad. Especially not when coupled with his company. All things aside, he is remarkably easy to spend time with, and it's nice, really, doing so outside of work.

"Well, these," she says with a laugh as she picks a small piece of dark chocolate with a rich caramel filling and sea salt sprinkled on top, "are designed to be a joy to eat. Not keep you up at any cost." As if to prove her point, she pops the little chocolate square into her mouth. As it melts on her tongue, her eyes drift shut and she lets out this soft and pleased little noise. Sometimes, chocolate is better than sex. (Especially when she's not really in any position to get sex.)