#whatever it's 5am in the morning i don't even know why i'm awake now

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Chapter Four: Internet

The horrible little alarm clock that sits on the edge of Abbie's bedside table screeches and blares at 5AM, which only makes her want to snuggle down under her comforter even more, bury her head underneath her soft, plushy pillows, and nuzzle into the fuzzy sweater she'd fallen asleep in…the very same fuzzy sweater she'd bought for Ichabod…and had then stolen from him…oops. (Whatever…mint green looks much better on her anyway.)

The five-minute snooze ticks by way too fast for Abbie's liking. Groaning into her pillow, Abbie slowly turns over onto her back, props herself up on her elbows, and rolls out of bed, slamming the off button with an open palm. She puts on a bathrobe and trudges across the hardwood floor in a raggedy old pair of slippers, slowly cracking open her bedroom door. She's just warming up to the idea of a hot shower followed by a steaming cup of coffee, when she spots Ichabod sitting on the living room couch, stirring a spoonful of honey into a comically large cup of peppermint tea with one hand, and…oh dear god…attempting to pry open the lid of her laptop with his other hand.

"Crane," she croaks, vocal cords not quite awake yet. "Why do you have my laptop?"

At the sound of her voice, Ichabod's head quirks up, and, upon seeing that she has finally woken up and come to join him, gives her the most ridiculous grin she's ever seen him wear. It almost lets him off the hook…almost.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," he says, far too cheery for this early in the morning. "I do hope you had a good night's rest. I myself could not sleep, so I decided to make a nice cup of tea and reflect upon this gorgeous September morning." Crane tilts his head toward the open window, where a stream of sunlight pours through the dusty, fingerprinted glass, casting fiery gemstones of light onto the hardwood floor as the curtains waltz with the wind.

So that's where the draft is coming from. 

Crane, paying no mind to Abbie's growing frustration, removes the tiny spoon from his teacup and proceeds to lick it clean.

"I am fortunate that your kitchen faucets were not too difficult to learn how to use, and I was able to procure hot water directly from the tap. I admit that I may have developed an addictive fondness for herbal infusions, as I am now on my fifth helping of the same peppermint and tarragon blend. I should very much like to thank the Tazo family for their wonderful contribution to society, and compliment them on their brilliantly varied tea garden. Is their tea shop nearby? Could we visit?"

Abbie closes her eyes, rubs at the sore spots on her temples where she harbors an ever-present migraine, and mumbles, "Not exactly…Tazo's a company, not a family…but I mean, Starbucks bought Tazo a couple years back, so I guess we could always go there…but that still doesn't answer my—"

"I sifted through a few of the books you had left lying about your living room," Crane chirps, purposefully avoiding Abbie's question. "I hope you don't mind, only I rather enjoyed the one about the young boy who discovers that he possesses magical abilities. Very endearing, as I'm sure you know. Young Harold Potter's troublesome life certainly throws mine into perspective. Is it a work of fiction, or is this a biography?" Crane asks, holding up Abbie's battered and dog-eared copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. "Is there really a hidden school for magic in Scotland? If so, I should very much like to visit someday."

Abbie sighs heavily and laughs, taking pity on Crane.

"Sadly, no," she says, and Ichabod's eager smile disappears. "The whole series is fictional. Trust me, I was disappointed when I found out, too. By the time it was published, eleven had already come and gone for me…I always told myself that my letter had gotten lost in the mail," she laughs, rolling her eyes at the memory of her naïve, stupidly optimistic younger self.

"There is an entire series? It's not just the one book?" Ichabod asks, and Abbie nearly melts into a puddle of sugar and saccharine at the sight of his blissfully hopeful smile.

"Yeah, there're seven books in total. I've got them all in hardcover on a bookshelf in my room…you can borrow them if you want. Hell, after we kick the apocalypse in the ass, I'll even take you to the theme park in Florida, get you a tin of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans and a Butterbeer…maybe even make a pit-stop in Disney World if we've got time. But I'm getting off track, here…how about you tell me what you were doing with my—"

"I did not understand most of what you just said, Lieutenant, but I did wonder if there was, perhaps, a sequel to—"

"Crane!" Abbie sends him a warning glare.

"Which brings me to your question, Lieutenant," Crane practically lilts, all too aware of his seemingly effortless ability to irritate the shit out of her. Abbie stares daggers, which only spurs Ichabod on, his lips curving into a devilish smirk in response.

"After I had finished The Sorcerer's Stone, I attempted to invest in some of the other novels that you have, but I quickly grew bored of them. Then, I discovered this rather large, metal book sitting upon your kitchen table. I thought it odd to find a book lacking description on the cover, save for a small, white image of an apple that appears to have a bite taken out of it…is this, perhaps, a cookbook of some sort, entirely dedicated to apple-dominant delicacies?" he asks, smoothing his fingertips across the little plastic logo. Abbie can't help but laugh, her sour mood evaporating at the sight of Crane's curious, yet utterly bewildered, expression as he looks to her for instruction.

Sighing heavily, Abbie treads across the living room and nestles into the nook in between Crane and the armrest. It's inevitable, really. Ichabod is going to have to discover the synchronous wonders and horrors of the internet eventually…and if anyone is going to teach him how it's done, it might as well be Abbie.

"Okay, Crane. I'm feeling charitable this morning, so I'm gonna teach you how to use a computer…and then the internet."

Crane gives her a look that's both intrigued and frightened at once, and well…that about sums up the internet, really. 

"First lesson…open the lid," she says, holding back a smile as she waits to see what he'll do. She realizes she's playing with fire here, letting him handle her one-thousand-and-something-dollar laptop…but Crane's a pretty smart guy, so she's giving him the benefit of the doubt. Ichabod's lips twist into a frown as he stares down at the rectangular contraption. Slowly, carefully, as though he were handling a baby bird, Crane lifts the lid, cradling the metal underside in the palm of his hand…and then proceeds to turn it on its side.

"Lieutenant, I don't think I quite understand. There are only two pages to this book…one crafted of a shiny, black material, the other containing buttons with various lettering and symbols. How am I meant to read this book if there are no words?"

Abbie rolls her eyes, laughing as she snatches the laptop from Crane's hands, settles it onto her lap the right way up, and presses the power button. Ichabod jumps about a foot out of his seat at the start-up sound, blinking rapidly as the screen fires up and the little gray apple appears in the center.

"No, come on, don't give me the spinning wheel of death," Abbie grumbles. Ichabod settles back onto the couch cushion, his eyebrows raised in confusion at Abbie's comment. After a few seconds, her background comes into view, and Abbie sighs. It's an old photograph of her and Corbin on the day of her promotion, one of the few captured memories she has of him. He looks like a proud father, his smile prominent in his bright, blue eyes. Ichabod makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, staring at the screen with fondness and sympathy.

Abbie clears her throat, shaking the sadness off of her shoulders, and gingerly deposits the computer into Ichabod's lap. She leans over Ichabod's shoulder, places her hand on top of his, and delicately moves his pointer finger to trace circles on the track-pad. Visibly startled by both the contact and the little moving arrow, Ichabod leans in closer, pressing his fingertips to the screen and inquiring as to how it works.

"I don't actually know, to be honest. Something to do with LED lights and plasma, I think," she says, leaning back and removing her hand from his to let him get used to the track-pad on his own. She shows him the basic settings, explains what apps, folders, and documents are, and lets him play around with different tracks in iTunes for a little bit to test out the sound system. To no one's surprise, it turns out that Ichabod hates dub-step and American pop, but is rather fond of Sinatra's upbeat swing ballads and Beethoven's string quartets. Meaning to switch back from Finder to iTunes, Ichabod accidentally clicks on Google Chrome, his eyes mimicking the little beach ball as it bounces in the dock.

"Lieutenant, I've accidentally opened up another program. Is this that internet thing you were talking about before? What do I do?" he asks, eyes wide as the new tab automatically opens to a Google search box.

"Go on," Abbie says, nudging him in the ribcage. "Play around a little bit."

Abbie watches with amused interest as Ichabod expands his research methods beyond the dusty old books in their archive, marveling at the speed at which a never-ending supply of knowledge is available to him with only a few key phrases and the click of a button. It amazes Abbie just how much the concepts of entertainment and curiosity haven't changed very much since Ichabod's time, especially when he giggles and tilts the screen toward Abbie whenever he finds a particularly adorable photograph of a kitten. Noting the time, Abbie leaves the comfort of the couch and begrudgingly goes about her morning routine, starting up the espresso machine while she waits for her shower to hit hotter-than-the-sun proportions.

After an unfortunate (and mildly horrifying) pornographic ad experience when Ichabod accidentally types in the wrong address, he'd mostly just taken to Wikipedia to (loudly and irritatingly) scoff and correct various historical inaccuracies while he waited for Abbie to return. An hour later, clad in her police uniform, Abbie settles back onto the couch, stealing the computer from Ichabod's lap as he's typing mid-sentence. He pouts for a moment before he realizes what she's doing, and then a curious grin spreads across his face. Abbie plugs in the Pottermore URL, clicks through her account, and pulls up the Sorting Hat quiz.

"Humor me," she says with a wry smirk. "I'm curious."

Ichabod takes to the quiz with great enthusiasm, pausing only to ask Abbie questions concerning diction and phrasing. In the end, he gets sorted into Ravenclaw. Go figure. Abbie's eyes shift to the scarlet-and-gold-striped scarf with the embroidered lion, wrapped around one of the prongs of the coat rack, and smiles. And then, spotting the glowing green numbers on the microwave clock in the kitchen, Abbie sighs heavily and starts to get up, condemning her workaholic lifestyle.

"Come on, Crane," she says. "Back to reality. We've got work to do."

Ichabod closes the lid of the laptop and gently places it on the coffee table, gathering his jacket and boots from the floor where he'd left them, chuckling to himself as he does so.

"What's so funny?" she asks, grabbing her keys from the kitchen table.

"Don't you find it odd how much our lives have come to resemble a work of fiction? Think on it: a world that harbors harsh realities and bland, bleak existences, while concurrently veiling the truth about fairy tales and folklore…a place where logic and lore collide, where dark magic and monsters and demons thrive in secret. If we ignore the horror, the pain, and the sadness the impending apocalypse will undoubtedly bring us, that impossible fact alone is quite astonishingly beautiful, in a macabre sort of way, because…when you think about it, you and I are destined to become the very heroes we admire," he says, a soft, thoughtful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

He's standing at the kitchen door beside her, towering over her like a giant, his brilliant blue eyes so full of honest, raw wonder and intensity that it's almost too much for Abbie to handle. She's frozen to the door handle, unable to move, because if she does, she's afraid she'll start crying, that every emotion she's bottled up inside of her chest since the night she saw the demon in the woods will unravel and let loose in a flurry of sorrow and rage. Crane is her anchor, he's the one who simultaneously keeps her sane and contributes to her madness. He must see it in her eyes, must know that he's touched a nerve, because his gaze quickly shifts and suddenly he's glancing down at her police uniform, arching an eyebrow and fixing her with a scrutinizing frown.

"Lieutenant…have you commandeered my new sweater?" he asks.

Abbie says nothing, averting her eyes as she hides an impudent little smirk.

"The one you were wearing this morning," he presses. "Don't think I've forgotten about it. You took it from my laundry pile last night and slept in it. I want it back."

Abbie smiles so wide it nearly breaks her jaw, stifling a giggle as she pokes him in the chest and retorts, "No way. I bought it, so I'm keeping it."

"Well, that is true enough, but didn't you originally intend for me to wear it? Isn't that why it was located in the men's section of that department store?"

Abbie scoffs, feigning offense, and says, "Don't give me any of that gendered bullshit, I'll wear a man's sweater if I want to…and I'll look damn good doing it."

"Indeed you will, Lieutenant. It's a very flattering color on you," he says, unable to hide his brazen smile. His mind wanders back to this morning, recalling the memory of Abbie in his intended clothes with perfect accuracy, down to the very last detail, and adds, "I've changed my mind. You should keep it. After all, it looks much nicer on you."

"Thank you, Crane," Abbie says, slightly taken aback by the compliment.

"Though I would like to borrow it from time to time."

"I'll think about it."

"Only after you've washed it, of course. I don't want Abbie scent all over me," he amends, flashing her a cheeky grin and miming disgust.

Abbie rolls her eyes and laughs, unrestrained and honest for the first time in days. Maybe work won't be so bad, now that she's got Crane.

✨ Read Next Chapter | Chapter Masterlist ✨

You Always Want What You're Running From

Sleepy Hollow » Ichabbie

Title: You Always Want What You're Running From

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (Masterlist)

Relationship: Abbie Mills x Ichabod Crane

AO3 Rating: Mature (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: When Abbie invites Ichabod to come live with her, the last thing she expects is for him to start feeling like home.

She'll tell herself, over and over again like a mantra, that it's because she feels indebted to him, that she feels bad for him, that it'll make their casework much easier if she can keep a constant eye on him, that it's convenient.  But really, it's because, in spite of everything, in spite of an impending apocalypse that only they, the unwilling witnesses, can prevent, he keeps her grounded, keeps her sane. For reasons she can't explain, she trusts him.  She hasn't trusted anyone like this since Corbin…and now, Crane is all she has left. In his company, she feels secure. Protected. Cared for. They've only known each other for a short while, and yet…Crane's company feels like home. Besides…how bad could living with a man from the 1700's truly be?

Read On AO3 | Read On Tumblr: Chapter 1 » Chapter 2 » Chapter 3 » Chapter 4

[kaiserouo]

(prev)

redid the shadow again because i kinda didn't know what i was doing...? it's a little bit better i guess

[ikarus-wax-wings]

5am Tea

( an outpouring of thoughts)

It's 5am.

I'm sitting on my kitchen floor. My mother sits in the next room, newly awake. We have not spoken. She is up to start her day. I am up because of this ache in my heart.

There are many things living inside me. There is this graveyard of houses, and the way I have started to bury this one while I'm still inside.

There is the story of the mermaid who's bought legs cost the feeling of stepping on swords. She whose prayed future ended up being nothing she wished. And despite her tale having been penned, the quietness of her pain and sorrow is never noticed. Her pain and sorrow, too, are rarely recounted.

No one likes a sad story. Especially quiet ones. Ones that speak of deceptive hope.

This tiled floor is cold. I'm cold. I put sugar in my tea. More than usual too When did I stop being able to do even that? Why must it be an achievement that I do it now?

God, this weight is neverending- It's this asphyxiation that lasts years. Turning my lungs to stone, tiny particle, by tiny particle.

I too, am a sad story. One no one wants to hear of. I live in grief of the end of my own world, Which crawls at me so slowly it's imperceptible to most others. And that's no heroic tale.

Why can I not change my ending? If it comes at me so slowly? Why can I not be some bold-faced protagonist who doesn't accept fate's wishes, who works and bleeds- not to bleed- but out of triumph and dedication? Why can't I own myself? Or at least entertain and inspire.

Maybe if I was a story and not a person, this would all be easier. My tragedy would be a tragedy. My words would be read. I would not have to die so slowly no one sees it. I'd have people to mourn me. Someone who'd understand.

But I am not a story. I am a person- with this disgusting body and unexplainable mind.

This tea tastes like tears. I've been learning to cry. It's the first thing a baby knows how to do. And I forgot how somewhere along the way. Like forgetting how to breathe. Or how to eat- I am an infant with no mother. Worse than an infant because I have lost my instincts.

My humanity is uneven- a little broken. The edges don't quite fit together. And I shove them against each other, trying to will these imperfect pieces to become whole, to make sense. I laugh to the people around me, ' How funny! I don't know why it's not fitting. It fit just this morning, I swear!' And they watch my desperation with pity and disgust. They know I am simply not one of them. No amount of trying to fit the pieces of my humanity together will fix me. They know this and I do not.

I cannot. To know this is to die.

And, God, I want rest. But I seem to have too much suffering left, No way I've justified an exit ticket by any god. And I'm stuck here. Weighing the questions of hope and morality. Because if God won't give me rest, Do I tuck myself into bed? Am I that selfish yet?

Because here I sit, and what I refuse to think of, yet think of almost solely past my flitting self pity, Is the person I love who is hurting.

I can barely write it.

Barely explain the type of pain and the fear that holds me- a hand around my sternum, tugging the soul of me out, Each line of me, through my stomach, through my chest, coiled in my heart, up my spine and in my neck and tied around each turn of my intestines, The strings are all being pulled out through the centre of me, by this hand- This hand which feels more like God than anything else I've experienced.

How can I feel this and none of the softness I was promised? Is it that I never learned to feel the good, Or that it wasn't there?

I have returned my grief and anger for desperation again. I stopped asking favours a long time ago. Stopped pleading to be saved. To be good. Or to be killed as some pest. I stopped asking for safety.

But now I scream out with this hand squeezing my soul and tugging it out of me. I scream and I sob and prayer seems too soft a word for whatever it is I do. And I do not pray for myself, but I am still selfish in my selflessness.

I am hoarse when I beg for God to help my Lovely. I go blind with tears and lose all breath.

He brings back some part of my humanity. The part that needs God. The part that cries. The world found some piece of me in him that had not been shredded to numbness yet. Why does their pain hurt me more than my own?

They handle themselves and I do what I can and I stay in reach and I try to be solid- or really be anything Anything, anything And this hurt and panic fills me. I am nothing if not a pitcher of fear.

And they're okay. He's doing what he can. He's doing what he needs to. I'm doing all I can. And it's enough. I know it's enough and it has to be enough

And it's not enough.

All the words I have are to explain how words fail me. How it is not enough to explain. How I've not figured out the way to describe it.

I am sick for my Love. I can't find a cure. And I'm searching- yet I fear the absence of fear. That in the moment I learn to be calm- Will be the moment I keep my eyes shut a second too long, And am not there when I'm needed. Maybe first for a small moment. Maybe then to lose them.

What do I pray for besides their peace? To not lose hope? Or like myself, to not become selfish- As if it's my right to say that-

When I mean ' Please don't leave me' ' Please care' ' Please see me, see me, don't black out yet, don't forget, just see my hands here, and how they cling to you, and please care that they do, please care to not leave me behind- at least that, at least that.'

And what hypocrisy that would be, For someone like me who yearns for rest, Who's world grows gray and who stops seeing other's hands reaching out to keep me here. I beg her to be what I can barely be- What I am dishonestly. My presence offset by an open window.

But for them- For her- I cannot bear to leave or be left. And yet I cannot bear to feel her pain.

I'll curl up in bed. Pretending I'm holding her from far away. Whispering one last prayer, One with broken voice and lacklustre expression: Please just this once, let him feel my arms hugging him from afar.

And I let these few tears out against my pillowcase, The last grains of sand through the hourglass.

[gobletofmilk]

hours of the day ranked

1. 6pm 6pm is the best hour of every day because this is when you are eating dinner. sometimes it doesn't happen in this hour but when it does, this is why we are on earth. dinner. it's also good because you eat dinner then. 

2. 7pm i love this hour because if you have eaten dinner already you have a good 4-5 hours of true free time. you can literally do whatever, spend time with friends, read, write, watch a movie, or do what god herself placed us on this earth to do which is rot in bed and look at phone.

3. 12pm yummy lunch time 

4. 4am I'll fight all of you on this but 4am is here because of that sweet sweet rem. you know how good sleep feels at 4am? you kidding me? this is why i LIVE.

5. 12am there's just something special about midnight you know. it's just cool. if you're still awake the vibes are kinda crazy you know. if you're with friends then the vibes are even crazy er. i love it when it is midnight. 

6. 3pm i haven't been in school for years (like millions of years), but there is no denying the power of 3pm. home time. it's also the peak time in the afternoon. lots of shenanigans to be had at 3pm you know

7. 5pm this is like like school ending but for adults although i don't have a job that ends at 5 i just kind of work whenever and it is so bad for my work life balance because i end up working at the worst times and don't give myself enough time to relax but if i had a normal job this would be the best time

8. 10pm sleepy vibes you know

9. 8pm i really like this time because i'm usually right into a movie or something or playing a game or rotting in bed usually rotting 

10. 4pm it's interesting at this point we are starting to get to the hours i'm not too fond of. don't get me wrong i'm a fan of 4pm, but my brain just turns off around this time every day. i can't get anything done. it sucks. i'm not a morning person or an afternoon person or an evening person tbh.

11. 11pm hey that's a good placement

12. 5am such a risky hour. if you're getting good rem then it is the greatest hour in the world. but if you wake up at 5am and still want to have a little more sleep. god. kill me. it happened to me this morning and it has just ruined my day

13. 9pm it's kind of sad at 9pm because the night is coming to an end and it's like sad and stuff??

14. 1pm i ated all my lunch :(

15. 10am hey this is usually like a snack time so that is good. but you have a whole work day ahead of you and it's like ugh lame you know. if it is a day off though 10am can be pretty exciting. i'm usually rotting in bed around 10am

16. 2pm controversial maybe but this time isn't it. i want to go home you know i don't have three hours of work left in me.

17. 11am the most nothing hour ever created what even happens at 11am

18. 1am not for me

19. 2am like 1am but slightly worse 

20. 3am like 2am but slightly worse

21. 8am of all of the morning hours, this one is the least offensive. you're usually eating breakfast or just commuting and listening to music so hey, it gets a pass i suppose. morning sux.

22. 7am the only good thing about 7am is your bed is so comfortable, but like why can't we take that comfort and move it to other parts of the day. i gotta get up at 7am, don't do that to me.

23. 6am kill me now it's so over

24. 9am imagine being henry time, inventor of time, and thinking you know what is a good idea? 9am? what a fool. i'm so upset this time should not exist. so sick and twisted.