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The Mirror's Stranger

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Ichabod opened his motel room door upon Miss Mills' knock. "So, you know how we need the Colfax brothers to talk to us and get them to tell us everything they know about that ritual they're planning, right?" she began before he could greet her.

He was immediately swept away by a sense of unease at both her tone and a look at the many bags she was brandishing. "I believe we determined that doing so might be vital to our investigation, yes," he agreed.

"And if we don't want them to make us the second we walk in their bar we-"

"Make us what?" he asked, but she continued as if he hadn't interrupted her, a trait of hers he was becoming frustratingly familiar with.

"Now, since we don't have anything we can arrest or hold them on, we need to trick them into talking us. And if we want them to not only not recognize either of us, but actually get any info out of them, we have to play our cards right." She shove the bags in his hands. "Now they know me, know who and what I am, and they're never going to talk to a cop, but you? You, we got a chance with, but not looking like that. You'll stick out too much if you go in looking like that." She made an impatient gesture for him to delve into her offerings. "I had to guess on the sizing. Wendy helped, she has a good eye for that sort of thing and apparently she's been making a habit of studying the merchandise."

"What merchandise? And what sort of sizing were you in need of determining? I don't," he began before pulling out a pair of trousers similar to what he'd seen men wearing on the streets of Sleepy Hollow in this century. "Ah, I see." The stiff blue fabric looked like it would be decidedly uncomfortable. Next he pulled out an undergarment of some sort. Perhaps a shirt? The writing on it was of a practically illegible swirly script. After squinting at it for a bit he managed to decipher it. Possibly. "Does this say 'Black Sabbath'?"

"Yes. It's a band, and besides, I like the irony."

"A band of what?"

"Just wear it. And I didn't know if you were a boxers or briefs kind of guy so I got you a package of both."

"I have witnessed a few fights in my day and while I am a proponent of Broughton's rules, they did not necessarily result in a bout being any more brief than its bare knuckle counterpart and I fail to see-"

"I'm talking underwear, Crane. I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I was discussing the sport of boxing," he explained.

"Well don't. Stay on the current topic. Clothes. Underwear to be precise. It comes in two styles, boxers and briefs. Well, and boxer briefs, but whatever, I'm not even going there. Underwear? You put it on under your jeans." She must have made note of his confusion because she grabbed the bag out of his hand and rifled through it. "Underwear," she repeated, slapping two small packages against his chest, barely giving him the option of grabbing them from her or letting them fall. "You put them on first, then the jeans." Ah, so 'jeans' were the name of the trouser-like item. "The T-shirt's next and there's a hoodie in there too to finish off the look." She shoved the bag back at him.

"Hoodie?"

"There's only one thing with a hood in the bag. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out what I'm talking about. Now, you change. I'm going to," she cleared her throat and gestured to the washing room, "I'll be in there. Holler if you need help."

"I have been dressing myself for quite a number of years, Lieutenant," he called after her, forcing as much confidence into his voice as possible. "I'm sure I can manage your modern finery without a problem."

Without much of a problem, anyway.

Both the boxers and the briefs felt wrong and indecent, but as there was no way his own undergarments would fit under the jeans he eventually decided upon wearing the boxers; the provided trousers were constricting enough, thank you very much. The t-shirt, at least, was not uncomfortable, although he considered its irreverence a bit disconcerting. And as for the so called 'hoodie'? Twenty-first century clothing stiles were something he was never going to understand.

"You may return, Miss Mills, I am properly clothed," he announced eventually, even though he felt he was far from attired in any manner that should be considered proper.

She opened the door and paused, taking in his appearance. "Not bad," she murmured as she tore off the small paper tags that adorned each item of clothing and announced its monetary value. "Not bad at all. Here, take a look." Grabbing his arm, she pulled him in front of the mirror. "Of course, we still have to do something about your hair. I mean, don't get me wrong, that windswept look might be working for you but... Maybe with the hood up it'll work." With a flick of her wrist, she lifted the hood, resting it so his hair was mostly hidden underneath its fabric.

Ichabod let her words wash over him as he took in his appearance. He looked... odd. Almost unrecognizable. There was so much about this world he found himself in now that he no longer knew or understood and he began to wonder if he was destined to lose himself as he struggled to make his way though it.

"Well, it's a decent enough disguise at any rate," Miss Mills announced with certainty. "Doesn't really do you justice though, bet you can't wait to get out of them and back into your usual gear. But, for now, we have some bad guys to question. You ready for this, Crane? We got an apocalypse to stop."

"Ready, willing and able, Lieutenant. Ready, willing and able."