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Observations From A Sleepyhead

Chapter Text

“And that’s everything in the living room,” Abbie concluded, reaching the kitchen.  “Now here we have the blender, the oven—I know you know how that works—the refrigerator, the toaster—”

“What’s that?” Ichabod interrupted.

Abbie gave him a peculiar look. “A toaster,” she said slowly, pointing at it.  “It turns bread into toast.”

“I deduced as much,” Ichabod said testily.  “I was indicating that device.”

Abbie followed his pointed finger.  “That’s a microwave.  It’s,” she paused, unsure how to proceed.  “It’s like an oven, but faster.  Let me show you.”

She pulled open a cupboard, looking for something quick to cook.

“Yes,” Ichabod muttered, glancing around behind her.  “Everything seems to be faster in this time.  Doesn’t anyone savor the wait anymore?”

Abbie turned to him, a pop tart in her hand.  “Do you want to wait for this?”

Ichabod waved her on.  “No, by all means, demonstrate.”

So she did, and after ninety seconds she was handing a fully cooked pop tart on a plate to Ichabod.

“There, see?” she asked as Ichabod took a bite.

“Ugh, this is dreadful,” he said, making a face.  “It obviously hasn’t been cooked long enough.”

“You’re supposed to cook it that long.”  She glanced at her watch.  “I’m going to go get some sleep.  I’ll come pick you up in the morning.”

With that, she left, leaving Ichabod with a device he didn’t fully comprehend.

 

Abbie pulled up to the cabin, tranquil in the early morning.  She got out of her car and stretched.

A sharp crack split the air, followed by several more.

Abbey ducked down, gun out.  Those were gunshots.

She ran into the cabin, ready to shoot.  “Crane!”

“In here!”

She ran into the kitchen, ready to shoot—

She stopped, not comprehending what she was seeing.

“Left-tenant!” Ichabod scolded, pulling her down behind the island.  “Please show some more sense than that!”

“What happened?”

“Obviously, we’re dealing with something evil.  I daresay it’s in league with the horseman.”

Abbie gave him a deadpan stare, then winced at an electrical hiss.  “I’ll take care of it.”

She crawled out from behind the island, ignoring Ichabod’s exclamation of “Lieutenant Mills!”  She reached the wall outlet and unplugged the microwave.

Instantly the hissing and spitting died.  Abbie stood up, holding the plug, and examined the remains.

The microwave was decimated, smoke pouring out, several bullet holes littering the front.

She turned to Ichabod, who had risen from his hiding spot and was now looking quite sheepish under her glare.

“Why did you shoot the microwave?”

“Because it hissed and spat worse than anything I have ever heard.  I thought it was an evil spirit possessing the device.”

Abbie carefully opened the microwave.  “Did you put metal in here?” she asked, pulling out a plate with gold trim.

“No, I put a plate with eggs in there.”

She could see that.  “You’re not supposed to put metal in a microwave,” she said, indicating the gold.  “That’s what makes it hiss and spark.  Next time, unplug it.”

“There won’t be a next time.  I refuse to touch that infernal device.”

Abbie rubbed her temples, thinking.  “Okay, I have another idea.”

She led him outside to the grill.

“Turn on the gas, press the igniter,” she directed, showing him the flame the grill produced.  “The rest is old-fashioned cooking.  And it’s nice to metal.”

Ichabod nodded.  “Yes, this seems more workable than that device you showed me.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

 

The next day, on her way to pick Ichabod up, Abbie heard a call go out over her radio: fire trucks needed at the cabin.

Abbie picked up her receiver.  “Lieutenant Abbie Mills, I am near the site and heading that way.”

When she arrived, she saw that firemen were busily extinguishing the grill.  Ichabod was seated nearby, covered in soot and looking frazzled.

She walked up to him.  “Now what?”

“You might have mentioned,” he said testily.  “That it was important to turn the gas off when I was finished.”