Beheading him seemed the next logical step

My name is Ichabod Crane. I was a professor of history at Merton College, Oxford, when I was enlisted in the Queen's Royal Regiment and sent to the American colonies to fight the patriots. It didn't take long for me to have a change of heart and I defected. I became a spy for General George Washington, and then I died. Or so I thought.

[rightfullordoflocksley-deactiva]

Open Starter

[rightfullordoflocksley-deactiva]

"England? You are not from England”

"I am no fool my friend and I do not like people taking me for one."

[18thcenturyman]

"I beg your pardon? I'm a professor of Oxford, born and raised in England!"

[18thcenturyman]

bb Ichabod (top) and the man he grows up to be

[18thcenturyman]

OOC: I am humbly grateful for so many followers...

...especially since I've done so little with this muse. For that, I apologize. I'm open to plotting if anyone is interested.

I do intend to do more with this muse, especially since the hiatus is upon us. Obviously it'll be AU since in canon, he's...well, I'd hate to inadvertently spoil it for someone who hasn't seen the finale, but I'm sure the ones who have know what I mean.

That being said, thank you! Thank you for following me. I have no idea what led you here, but thank you for taking an interest. My inbox is open to any and all.

[aformerweapon-archive-blog]

18thcenturyman found you.

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod hadn’t expected the man to know his name, but he took the gloved hand and shook it. “I suppose I am. Please, call me Ichabod.”

He felt mildly confused, wondering who this James Barnes might be. He wasn’t aware of anyone outside the Sleepy Hollow Police Department who had been briefed about him. “You said you’ve been reading about, Mr. Barnes? May I ask what you’ve been reading?”

[aformerweapon-archive-blog]

James could tell that he’d surprised the man, though he couldn’t quite blame him in truth. From what he’d read, he had to almost pity the guy; being out of your own time was not something he would wish on anyone. And if what he’d read about this man was true, he had it far worse than anything James or Steve had ever had. Seventy years was nothing compared to centuries, and he could only somewhat imagine the difficulties it presented.

"First off, James is fine. I’ve never been one too keen on titles. As for my briefing on you … I’m an agent for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I was sent here to confirm the reports we’ve been getting about what’s going on in this town … and about you."

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod hadn't thought that his eyebrows could arch any higher, but he felt them disappear into his hairline as James rattled off the longest organization name Ichabod could ever recall hearing. "Strategic Homeland-" He laughed lightly and shook his head. "I'm afraid I might not remember that one."

He hesitated a moment, licking his lips. It had been made very plain to him that he wasn't to discuss the finer details of his origin, but if James already had reports about it, what would be the harm?

"And what reports have you been getting?"

[fuckinghillbillies]

+ 18thcenturyman

Gretel didn’t know how she got here. She wasn’t even sure she was really here in this strange land. They were staring at her, but then, Gretel was used to people staring at talking about her. Gretel dodged one of the horseless contraptions. The driver shouted a series of profanities and Gretel shouted back.

In the end, it was the crossbow on her back that had her hauled into the police station. She demanded to see the mayor of the shitty little town, 

Her requests were ignored and she was escorted to a holding cell. Abbie Mills (and, by extension, Ichabod) were called in. Since this seemed like something they were dealing with.

Gretel stepped to the bars, leather gloved fingers wrapping around. “I need to get out of here. I don’t know where I am.”

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod had been startled, and admittedly curious, to learn there was another strange person in the holding cell. He had not been familiar with the description of the young woman but he'd felt a slight kinship with her. From the description of her clothes and the fact that she had been carrying a crossbow, he had been willing to bet that she wasn't from this time either.

The very idea of such a thing would've had him laughing and perhaps checking to see if he'd sustained a head injury, but his perceptions had greatly been turned on their heads. As he followed Abbie toward the holding cell, he studied the young woman. She certainly did not look like what he'd come to expect of modern women.

"I'm afraid that you'll have to endure a rather lengthy and bothersome line of questioning," he said, offering her a sympathetic smile. "If you're lucky, you might be able to avoid being restrained." He motioned toward Abbie "This is Lieutenant Mills and I am Ichabod Crane. May I have your name?"

[aformerweapon-archive-blog]

18thcenturyman found you.

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at being addressed by the unfamiliar man, and for a moment, he glanced around to see if there might be someone else he could’ve been addressing. Of course there wasn’t; no one quite stood out in a crowd like Ichabod Crane.

He returned his attention to the man. “I… No, it is safe to say that I am most certainly not from around here. Good day, sir, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

[aformerweapon-archive-blog]

Of all the things that he’d been expecting to find after being briefed on reports from a small town in the Northeast, James had honestly least expected this part. He got it, really; SHIELD dealt with the kinds of things regular law enforcement and the government weren’t prepared to deal with. But this was far from his expertise; after all, the usually called him in to kill things, rather than investigate the situation. But it would seem they had no one else to send out, or perhaps Sitwell just wanted to torture him with the kind of mission he was the least adept at: dealing with people.

Standing up straight from where he’d been leaning against his car, outside the police station, James stepped forward, offering a gloved hand. “Most people haven’t, really. James Barnes. And I’m guessing you’re the Mr. Crane I’ve been reading about?”

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod hadn't expected the man to know his name, but he took the gloved hand and shook it. "I suppose I am. Please, call me Ichabod."

He felt mildly confused, wondering who this James Barnes might be. He wasn't aware of anyone outside the Sleepy Hollow Police Department who had been briefed about him. "You said you've been reading about, Mr. Barnes? May I ask what you've been reading?"

[aformerweapon-archive-blog]

18thcenturyman found you.

"… You are not from around here, are you?”

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod's eyebrows lifted in surprise at being addressed by the unfamiliar man, and for a moment, he glanced around to see if there might be someone else he could've been addressing. Of course there wasn't; no one quite stood out in a crowd like Ichabod Crane.

He returned his attention to the man. "I... No, it is safe to say that I am most certainly not from around here. Good day, sir, I don't believe we've met."

[18thcenturyman]

Pleased to meet you | Tabitha & Ichabod

Abbie had not only arranged the meeting between Ichabod and his descendant; she had been kind enough to drop him off in front of the house as well. She’d left her eye phone behind so that he could call her when he was ready to be picked up (or if he needed to flee early because it wasn’t going well, but Ichabod had wisely kept that sort of thinking to himself. After all, there was no reason to be nervous. It was just his…great-great-great…several generations of great-granddaughter.)

Squaring his shoulders, he made his way up the porch, raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door. All the while, he tried to quell the nervous somersaulting of his stomach. What would she be like? Would she look like Katrina? Was she like Katrina? He had many questions for young Tabitha Crane.

[the-crane-witch]

Oh Lieutenant Mills had explained everything to Tabitha. Or tried to. She had a feeling it was the kind of thing that would make more sense once she and Ichabod officially met.

A meeting she was anxiously awaiting — sitting in the kitchen and running her hand over the small black kitten standing on the table. “It’s gonna be fine, right? No big deal. It’s just…meeting the only relative I have. A relative that’s over two hundred years old.”

Leaning in kiss the kitten’s nose, she straightened when she heard the door. “Guess it’s time. Showfaces, Cole. Showfaces.”

Smoothing down her jeans, she crossed the kitchen and pulled open the door. “Hey…”

[18thcenturyman]

Ichabod offered her a polite smile once she opened the door and bowed his head. "Greetings. You must be Tabitha. I am Ichabod. Lieutenant Mills told me of our connection."

He motioned into the house. "May I come in? I imagine we have quite a lot to discuss." He still felt nervous but he was also excited. He imagined that she had family stories to tell, and he looked forward to catching up with her.

[18thcenturyman]

Pleased to meet you | Tabitha & Ichabod

Abbie had not only arranged the meeting between Ichabod and his descendant; she had been kind enough to drop him off in front of the house as well. She'd left her eye phone behind so that he could call her when he was ready to be picked up (or if he needed to flee early because it wasn't going well, but Ichabod had wisely kept that sort of thinking to himself. After all, there was no reason to be nervous. It was just his...great-great-great...several generations of great-granddaughter.)

Squaring his shoulders, he made his way up the porch, raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door. All the while, he tried to quell the nervous somersaulting of his stomach. What would she be like? Would she look like Katrina? Was she like Katrina? He had many questions for young Tabitha Crane.

[18thcenturyman]

Journal entry 1

Lieutenant Mills suggested that it might be in my best interest to familiarize myself with this era, and to that end, she has taken the liberty of setting up this ‘blog’ for me. Most of what she says to me still sounds like gibberish, but I am truly fascinated by this machine she has given me. I believe she called it an eye phone. I simply speak to it and the words appear.

Two hundred and forty years have passed since I faced off against the masked Hessian soldier on the battlefield, and yet it only feels as though it were yesterday. It seems very strange to wake up in Sleepy Hollow. So much has changed that I hardly recognize the town I came to call home.

I am told that I have a descendant, Tabitha. Lieutenant Mills has arranged a meeting. I find myself rather nervous, honestly. I am ashamed to admit that I had not given much thought to whether my son survived to carry the family name. I had assumed that he'd perished with Katrina. The notion that there have been generations of Cranes growing up, marrying and having babies is a humbling one, and makes me long for watching my own son grow.

It would seem that I have missed a great deal more than historical events in my slumber.