Title: Seeing Is Believing
Author: ZzoaozZ
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow
Pairing: Ichabod/Brom
Description: After Ichabod rescues Brom, he starts seeing things in a different way.  A light bit of fluff, a prelude to love.
Rating: Very mild PG

Disclaimer: Don't own them, didn't make money, don't sue.


Ichabod secured Katerina and young Musbath in the Van Tassel home and wandered alone, away from Sleepy Hollow along the path of the small creek that cut under the covered bridge and out into the western woods.  He kept replaying the events of the past two days.  He could not seem to get a grip on things.  It all refused to make any sense.  The thing that most confused him was why his mind kept returning to one scene in particular.

He had heard screaming and run back into town, in time to see Brom Van Brunt attacking the Horseman single-handedly.  It was the bravest thing he had ever seen and the most foolish.  He had already figured that the Horseman was being controlled by someone.  If Brom had stopped he would have lived, but he could not let go.  The Hessian had sliced through him with one chop of his axe, knocking Brom's body into the creek below. 

It was a courageous death and he would be well remembered by everyone in the village, except perhaps Katerina Van Tassel who had apparently already forgotten her beau.  That was what troubled the constable far more than her witchery or her brazen ways.  She had already turned her sights on him when Brom had died.  She was not necessarily glad of it, but she certainly was not heartbroken either. 

He walked faster, keeping his head down and letting his thoughts and his feet take him where they would.  He was deep into the woods when heard a sound, a weak thrashing from nearby.  He listened intently long enough to realize the sound was not an animal before going to investigate.

He made his way carefully down the creek bank following the sound.  He pushed aside a thick tangle of vines and fell backward as a ghost lunged out at him.  The thing caught hold of his shirt and whispered his name.  He fainted.

When he came around, he found he could not breath very well.  A heavy weight lay across his chest.  he opened his eyes slowly and found himself looking at a mud and blood covered body, a body that was laboring to breath. 

Ichabod struggled up into a sitting position.  He wiped away the mud soaked hair and dead leaves and found himself cradling Brom's familiar face.  His heart raced threatening to send him unconscious again.  He shook his head to clear it causing the larger man to groan in pain at the movement. 

He was ice cold.  Ichabod knew enough about anatomy to realize that he would die of exposure if left here much longer.  Why he was not already dead was the true puzzle, one that would have to wait for an answer.  He used his own handkerchief to wipe the man's face and shook him gently.

"Brom, Brom Van Brunt, can you here me?  It is Constable Crane.  You are hurt, we need to get you to shelter.  I can't carry you so you have to help me.  I need you to wake up just a little, please?"

A striking blue eye opened in the pallid face.  Brom groaned again and pushed himself up to his hands and knees opening the chest wound and sending fresh blood he could not afford to loose flowing down his mangled chest to mix with the gore and mud already present.  He caught his breath and lurched to his feet.  He was shaky and trembling so hard his teeth were chattering but he was strong and stubborn.  Ichabod seriously doubted if he would have been able to do the same were their positions reversed. 

Ichabod stripped off his coat and draped it around Brom.  It looked like a toy on the big man.  He wrapped an arm around Brom's waist and caught his arm with other.  He nearly fell when the wounded man let his weight descend on the slender constable.  He kept his footing somehow and staggered laboriously back toward the village.

Night was falling in earnest before they had made it halfway.  It seemed to Ichabod that Brom's breathing was growing more shallow and difficult with each step.  Panic clutched at him lending him new strength.  He spoke encouragingly to Brom, not really paying attention to his words only the tone of his voice.  He desperately scanned the forest around him for any kind of shelter.

It was growing colder and a bitter wind began howling down from the Cascades by the time Ichabod spotted a shelter.  It was a small house on stilts with narrow slots for windows, a guard post.  The villagers must have posted a guard here to watch for the Horseman. There were no houses near, only a field full of sheep huddled quietly together against the cold.

"I guess Lady Van Tassel might have decided that these sheep had to die as well."  Ichabod had not meant to speak out loud but was glad he did when he heard a weak exhalation that might have been laughter from Brom.

"Good, you can hear me a little, you great ox.  You have to manage to climb this ladder.  You'll die out in the weather and I cannot carry you."

Brom grunted vaguely but seized the ladder and dragged himself up onto the floor of the little shelter.  Fresh red bloomed on the tattered remains of his shirt and trickled in a thin stream over the lip of the structure.

Ichabod climbed in after him.  There was barely enough room for both of them to lie side by side and no room to sit up.  The first thing Ichabod did was strip off the blood soaked shirt and examine the wound.  Amazingly, it was clean.  Like all the Horseman's work it had been cauterized, but it must have been opened by the fall or the icy water of the creek.  The flow of blood had kept it washed and kept infection at bay.  He cleaned Brom the best he could with the torn shirt and the handkerchief he carried.  Shivering, he took off his own waistcoat and loose cotton shirt.  With no small regret, he ripped the white shirt into long strips and bound Brom's wound. 

Looking around, he found a couple of horse blankets in the corner and took the larger man awkwardly into his arms before covering both of them.  He gently chafed Brom's arms beneath the covers until very slowly warmth began to creep back into them.

Brom whimpered a little at the ministrations of his companion.  As soon as his shivering stopped he curled his longer body around Crane and gave in to sleep.

Ichabod squirmed under Brom's heavy limbs until he found a fairly comfortable spot and tried to sleep himself but there seemed to be a thousand noises in the night and he could smell blood on both of them.  He lay awake a long time before his labors of the evening caught up to him and he drifted off to sleep.

A scratching awakened him.  It was truly dark and there was no moon to shed any light in the small, dark shelter.  He listened with indrawn breath until the noise came again, a scratching and a splintering sound accompanied by a snorting and a deep whoofing sound.  His heart was threatening to break through his rib cage.

"Bear."  The hoarse whisper caused Ichabod to jump whacking his head on the low ceiling.

"Bear?  You're sure?"

"Yes."  Brom's voice sounded a little stronger, "He can't get up the ladder.  It'll break under his weight, probably smells the blood."

"Oh, yes of course.  Just a bear, perfectly normal for the woods."  Ichabod tried to keep the edge of panic out of his voice.

Brom's warm hand curled around his own reassuringly.  Ichabod did not pull away.  He settled back down on the hard floor and tried to ignore the crashing sounds from below.  He did not sleep again that night.

As soon as it grew light, Ichabod pulled away the covers to look at Brom.  His long brown hair was plastered with mud and twigs and dried blood.  His face was flushed and feverish while his hands were cool and clammy.  The gash across his chest looked a little better than it had the night before. He dug through the pockets of his coat, still wrapped around Brom and found a small metal box.

Inside it was a needle and some black thread and a tiny pair of scissors.  It was a constables duty to appear neat and clean at all times so tears in the uniform had to be repaired immediately.  He threaded the needle biting down on his tongue until the thread went through the tiny eye. 

"Brom, Brom, listen.  I am going to stitch this wound to keep you from losing any more blood.  You need to be still."

Doing is best to recall from memory all that he had learned from his books about field surgery, Ichabod muttered to himself as he placed a neat row of very small, tight stitches along the edges of the gash.  he tried to ignore the blood that welled from each wound or the occasional glimpse of yellow that had to be bone.  It was the bone that had saved him.  The blow had cut straight across his broad chest and been shunted away from any vital organs by the ribs. 

He felt a stab of guilt.  he had assumed Brom was dead and never even sent someone to look for the body.  It was that easy acceptance of what appeared to be that made him so furious at his superiors in New York.  He tightened his thin lips and silently vowed to never let it happen again.  He would not call any man dead until he felt their cold, lifeless flesh himself.

Those incredible,blue eyes opened again.  They looked at him questioningly.

"We can wait here another night, but I'd rather get you into town where the new doctor can look at you.  Do you think you can stand to travel?"

"I'll do what I have to."

Nodding, Ichabod bound the wound with the last remnant of his best shirt and helped Brom to slide over to the door.  He fought a wave of dizziness as he saw what the bear had done to the ladder.  The last three steps were broken off and long gashes scored the rough logs everywhere.  "How do I get you down from here, now?"

Brom solved the problem by rolling off the platform.  He landed heavily on the ground below, but staggered to his feet quickly enough.  Ichabod scrambled down after him, jumping the last few feet.  "He caught hold of Brom and berated him.  Anger made his voice tight and sarcastic.  "Why don't you try using your head for something other than a hat rack, you idiot."

Brom laughed.  The laugh quickly turned to a ragged cough.  If the wounds did not kill Brom, he would still be looking at a good case of pneumonia. 

They made it into town by noon.  To Ichabod's dismay, the locals shrank away from Brom suspiciously as if he were a ghost.  It wasn't far to the doctor's office, thankfully.  Exhausted and rather irritated, he turned the injured man over to the young new doctor then drug himself back to the Van Tassell house and his own bath and bed.  It was dinnertime before he woke again.

As soon as he woke, he headed out the door ignoring Katerina's questions and young Musbath's curious looks.  He strode toward the doctor's office forcing himself to walk and not run.  It seemed to take forever to cross the small village. 

He stood for a moment on the porch of the office.  It was terribly quiet.  His heart sank.  He prepared for the worst as he opened the door. 

The doctor was napping at his desk, in his sleep he truly looked like a child.  Beyond him in the second room, he could see a still form under several layers of blankets.  Blinking back tears he moved carefully past the sleeping physician.  There was no need to wake him now. 

Softly, he crept up to the side of the bed.  It grieved him to see the young man who had fought so valiantly loose the fight in sight of victory.  He laid a hand gently on the bodies forehead and nearly jerked it back.
        
He was warm.  Holding his breath, the constable felt for the pulse at his neck.  It was there, strong and steady.

"Incredible."

"Crane?"

He had not meant to speak aloud.  It was too late now though, Brom was awake and struggling to sit up.

"Don't do that.  You'll break open the wound again.  Lie still.  You can speak as well on your back, sir."  He pushed Brom back onto the sheets, holding his shoulders as carefully as he would fine china.  If he let his hands rest there a trifle longer than was strictly necessary, Brom did not seem inclined to speak of it.

Instead he smiled up at his rescuer.  "Thank you, Constable Crane.  I owe you my life."

"You owe me nothing, it is my job to help people.  Call me Ichabod, though.  I may no longer be a constable when I report what happened to my superiors.  I might end up in chains or in a mad house even."

"Tell me what did happen after He cut me.  You said something about the Lady Van Tassell and where is old Doctor Lancaster?"

Ichabod related the entire tale from beginning to end while Brom listened spellbound.

He only realized when he finished that he had not thought to gloss over Katerina's infatuation.  He start to apologize when a soft chuckle cut him off.  "Don't worry about that Ichabod, we were never more than friends anyway and not very good ones at that.  I was someone to drape over her arm at social affairs and she was someone to keep other girls from flinging themselves at me.  It was a good working relationship you might say."

"That shocks you?"

"Well yes, a bit anyway."  Shocked was actually a very mild way of putting it.  Poleaxed was closer to the truth.  Something else seemed to echo in his mind.  Brom had said it kept girls from pursuing him.   "Why exactly would you want to keep girls from pursuing you?  You seemed quite the lady's man at the Van Tassell's Halloween party."

Brom bit his lip for a moment and seemed to consider his wording.  "I'm not interested in girls."

Ichabod looked puzzled for a moment then understanding lit up his eyes.  "I don't know how to tell Katerina, but neither am I."

Brom caught on of Ichabod's hands and drew it to his lips.  He brushed a light kiss across the back then again across the palm.  "Maybe we can tell her together after I get out of this bed.  If you want to that is."

In answer, Ichabod leaned over the bed and kissed Brom hesitantly.  Pale hands tangled in his silky dark hair and pulled him closer.  The kiss deepened into an unspoken promise that there would be more to come.