Chapter Text
She can't quite make up her mind whether to hold him or not.
Even when she goes to him, for the last time, in the jail cell, at the archives---on their porch.
She finds it hard to tell him, it's gone.
It. The singular it, that tied, bound, kept, them. Some part of that is no longer.
It's not such a hard thing to let go--he's, not such a hard thing to let go.
She contemplates in fact if in her next lifetime, if she will run from him and all of the destruction and misery he brought her.
Though there had been joy, yes.
There had been smiles and embraces and laughter and a forced reviewing of her life and purpose since he toppled into it. She wonders if she'd have made amends with Jenny without him. If she'd have continued to shun the other men who waltzed into her life, if she might have watched the world burn, had he not come slinking out of his ill fated grave, dragging all manner of terror into her world with it.
Would she have been spared, were it not for Ichabod Crane?
She would have turned on the supernatural, she is sure. She would have carried on, as planned, eventually, she'd have found ways to repair her family.
She'd have held tighter to the men who wanted to hold her. She'd have had great love affairs. Some ending in tears maybe but that would have been alright. She'd have lived fiercely and still be living it.
She'd have stayed with Danny, before pushing him away. Before walling him out of her heart already full of a man incapable or unwilling to open his up entirely to her.
She'd have loved more. Fully. In ways that could be tasted, felt, rather than remembered, meandered, imagined---like a passing gaze or an embrace hot on the heels of fear.
Did he ever hold you when he was not afraid? she wonders as she leaves him on the porch.
Whisked away like a wind the moment he swept into his deep bow.
Did he ever want you when you were right there before him, or only if he felt lost? Did he cook for you, before there was no one to cook for? search for you, when you were right by his side? Did....did he ever hold your hand merely for the pleasure of it?
And were there ever embraces when you came in the door?
Were there ever remarks on your hair, or your smile.
Or were they always hidden and tucked away, little parcels that he would never share, until at last on your own doorstep in your final moments still he is unable to utter even a word of love in parting.......not a word.
He does not fret himself with asking where will you go, Abbie. He does not ask what happens to you, your soul, your heart, all that you are.
Abbie, he did not even ask of your body, so that he may bury it properly, to your wishes. No, what he asks, what concerns him is how will he survive.
How will he carry on?
What about me, Crane. She wants to ask, almost does, but bites her tongue instead. What is there in the world for him without you---it's sweet, really, surface.
For he does not beg to join you.
He asks, but once, he flimsily implores you come back. As if what you've done, your sacrifice, your bravery is an easy, simple, retractable thing.
Something you can erase.
Well there is nothing light in dying, Ichabod Crane. You of all people should know that.
There is nothing, flight of fancy, in what I have done.
You cannot undo, this.
You cannot undo waking from the grave anymore than I could help wanting to save the world---a world that had never been kind to me mind you but you saw fit to give me cause to save it.
And then.....and then what, Crane.
Now, now, I get to watch you, sniffing my pillow cases.
Holding my camisole, my God Crane, I shared the roof with you and you could have held the body that wears it, felt the skin and curves of what it barely concealed but here you cling to this fabric. This scrap.
Is that all you wanted from me Crane?
Never the All of me.
Never the soul and core and Earth of me,
but a crumb?
Is that why you withheld?
Because with me you might plant roots, you might grow still you would feel too deep tell me why should your grief mean anything to me now----
I will grieve me, because you can't do it right.
You don't understand the depth of what I was, had, could have been before you. Without you. How you changed everything. Changed me.
You can't mourn my loss---you don't understand my loss, the loss you gave me if only you were braver---
WHY DIDN'T YOU CAST YOURSELF IN THE BOX WITH ME
When that....power,
when it snaked out.....Crane......and curled around me.....twined around me......
embraced me.....like you never did on your own......how-how could I help?.......Crane--
How could I help but feel its want of me?
The box wanted me more than you did.
The box saw something vital in me,
was greedy for me, hungry for me, desperate, it wanted, needed and craved me more than you.
..........
What, what choice......
what choice did I have, but to go to it?
To feel it claim me as its own?
How could I turn that away?
It wasn't painful, dying.
It felt like nothing.
I was gone, when the explosion came. And I'd been watching you run about, oscillating between bitter anger and tenderness as you scrambled.
And then I came to you, to part.
And words were said.
A hand was kissed.
And held to your cheek.
And still all I can remember is that Box's tendril had been warmer and beckoning than you had been then.
It was not so hard, to go.
To leave you.
You vow to find me, Ichabod Crane.
I advise you look hard. Look deep.
I don't plan to make it easy for you.
I don't plan on being found.
I don't plan on being the selfless giving woman you knew---the moment I became her seemed to be a day I was destined to loose my life, and my heart.
Do not look for her,
This next life,
with or without you,
world or no
Damn it
I will be kissed
I will be touched
I will be brave I will be fiery, sweet, strong hard and soft.
I will live.
This,
next,
life,
is mine.