Archive of Our Own ^beta

Abbie had dreams.

It wasn't like they didn't happen before she had met Crane. Sometimes, Moloch wedged his way into her brain in the form of the ghostly figure she and Jenny had seen in the woods and she'd have nightmares about that night. But, after meeting Corbin and joining the SHSD, she had more or less stopped dreaming.

Then Corbin was beheaded by a man with a hole between his shoulders, someone that she would eventually come to know as Death, or Abraham Van Brunt. That first night, she hadn't slept at all. She'd had a lot of coffee and worked into the night. But the week that followed was a breeding grounds for the nightmares, and Abbie woke up scrabbling for the blankets more than once.

But her mind must have gotten used to the weird shit she was seeing, because, after awhile, the nightmares tamed themselves. Maybe it was she got used to them; maybe it was Crane's constant presence giving herself something else to focus on.

But then she went to Purgatory, and Abbie didn't think she'd ever sleep again.

The endless moans of the tormented souls around her sank into her eardrums until that was all she could hear. The moaning, and her own heavy breathing as the reeking air around her slowly strangled her. There was forest around her, forest in front, in back, and side to side. She didn't know where the church had gone, and she didn't know how to get anywhere else. Places came and went like floating air in this realm, and Abbie was lost in the twisted maze.

What was most startling, perhaps, was that the place of devoid of smell. It probably shouldn't have registered, but it did. Forests smelled nice. Woodsy, green, and in tune with nature. In Purgatory's forests, all Abbie could smell was something charring her nostrils. She realized later it was flesh. It was cold and dark. The goosebumps on her skin weren't from fear, because she seemed devoid of that. The place sucked emotion out of you. The good, the bad, or the desperately sought. Abbie felt devoid of life herself.

Crane appeared.

Abbie felt emotion then, happiness so strong that she nearly dissolved into tears on the spot. She was contact starved, but there he was. She'd never been so happy to see him - no, to see anybody in her entire life. She reached up for his hand

and then he turned into Moloch.

Moloch's nails sliced through the delicate skin on her wrists. She felt the blood run down her arm, but she couldn't hear anything over her own screams. She struggled, with no recollection of her self-defense training, kicking and slapping wildly. Moloch grabbed her other arm and jerked her close. There was cold radiating off of his body and the air around him smelled of death.

Abbie screamed and screamed and screamed.

But then the forest dissolved, bursting into light and color and shapes that Abbie couldn't make out immediately. There was a figure over her and she lashed out again. The skin her hand curled around was neither cold not dry to the touch; instead, it was warm and oozing life. Abbie faltered.

"Abbie!"

The use of her given name startled her the rest of the way back into consciousness. Not her given name, per se, but Abbie, and she was positive that Moloch did not call her by a nickname. Besides, she recognized that voice.

"Crane..." Abbie breathed and, like that, the fight went out of her.

She remembered now. She was out of Purgatory. She had been for weeks. Crane had rescued her. They were researching most presently, for another creature of the week. This was her house. She had fallen asleep on her sofa. Purgatory was just a dream, a horrible memory.

"Are you alright, Lieutenant?" Ichabod prompted roughly. His hand was still on her shoulder, and her fingers locked around his wrist. Abbie forced herself to let go.

"Yeah," she muttered, struggling to sit up. Her body felt weak; she was shaking, she noticed. Just small trembles. She hated nightmares. "Sorry. Bad dream."

Ichabod had taken a step back the moment that Abbie had sat up, but he regarded her with a careful, calculating look. "Are you quite sure?"

"Quite sure, Crane," she replied, attempting to break the tension with humor, and teasing him about his archaic way of speaking.

He didn't smile. "You're dreaming of Purgatory, are you not?"

Abbie tried not to flinch. "Boundaries, Crane. I don't ask you about your dreams."

Ichabod seemed to take that into consideration. "Point taken," he allowed, "but Purgatory was a travesty that we both had to face. You took far more of the warped reality in than I, however, and given your state just a moment ago..."

"Uh, no," Abbie interrupted. "No, thanks."

Ichabod nodded slowly, taking another step back towards the chair that he had been sitting in previously. "If you wish to speak with anyone, no matter the time..."

"Then you'll be the first one I come to," Abbie said. "Trust me."

Ichabod inclined his head. "Very well."

Abbie smiled wryly. "Besides, why work through these nightmares when there's just more to come?" She picked up a folder nearby and waved it at him.

"That's a highly pessimistic view, Lieutenant..." Ichabod cocked his head slightly. "However accurate it may be."

Abbie shook her head slightly. "Yeah, exactly. Come on. Back to this."

Ichabod dreamed about the war, Katrina, Moloch, and Abigail.

Abbie didn't know this and, to be honest, if she did, it would have probably rattled her more than her own nightmares. She knew about the nightmares that she had, especially after Purgatory, but rarely did Ichabod share about his - if he had any. But Abbie was sure that he did, because who in their lifestyle didn't?

He rarely fell asleep in front of her, anyway, and when he did, he apologized profusely upon waking, badgering himself for falling asleep whilst entertaining a guest.

This time was different. Partially because they were in a shared hotel room, and partially because they both needed to sleep.

Abbie had an uncanny ability to not fall asleep if she was somewhere else than home. She tried not to think that maybe it was stemmed off of her life. Once she got used to a bed, she wanted to stay there. And with foster care, one and done didn't even matter. Besides, she had memory foam at home, and these spring loaded mattresses made her back ache.

So, while Ichabod slept, Abbie stared into space. And when she noticed that Ichabod was dreaming, Abbie idly stared at him. As long as he didn't wake up, it wasn't weird. He just happened to be in the way that she was facing, anyway.

But then whatever he was dreaming about changed, sometime in the dark of the night, because no longer was his breathing regulated and face peaceful. It took on a concerned look, his eyebrows pinching together even in his sleep. His eyelashes fluttered restlessly and his fingers constricted around the thin blankets. His breathing accelerated.

Abbie waited. She didn't want to interrupt his sleep - hard won sleep, both of them - if the dream was going to edge off.

Ichabod shifted restlessly, his knuckles white in the half light that was cast from the neon sign outside the hotel. Abbie wondered what he was dreaming about, then decided she was probably better off not knowing, anyway.

He twitched again and made a noise; if it was meant to be a semblance of language, Abbie didn't get it. Or maybe he was sighing, or huffing, or, hell, even trying to scream in his nightmares.

Abbie hated watching people dream.

She sighed and pushed the blankets away, padding the short distance over to the bed he was occupying. "Crane," she said softly. "Hey." She shook his arm gently. "Wake up. It's just a dream. Come on, Crane."

She tapped his shoulder again and he woke up with a start.

"It's just me," Abbie said firmly, holding up her hands. "You were dreaming."

Ichabod's eyes flickered around the room for a moment before settling back on her. "... Yes," he mumbled. His voice was rough; Abbie hoped it was from sleep and not emotion, because the latter had never been her strong suit. "Sorry for waking you," he continued tiredly. He didn't even bother to raise his head.

Body language, though, Abbie was good at. And it was clear that Ichabod didn't care to associate, about the dream or in general right now. She shook her head and walked back to her bed. "I wasn't asleep."

"I see," Ichabod replied dully.

Abbie didn't press the conversation. She tried to find something else to focus on instead of blatantly staring at him now.

Ichabod shuffled slightly to tuck his arm under his head and then tilted his head down, half covering his face in the shadows made by the blankets. He didn't close his eyes, though, and, even when Abbie dropped off sometime around four-thirty in the morning, she was pretty sure that his eyes were still gleaming into the darkness.