After two hundred and fifty years, he must admit he's a bit contact starved.
The simplest brush of fingers against his skin at the moment would probably drive him mad. It was shameful really, for him to be this desperate. He should conduct himself as a man of his position was expected to: With the utmost dignity and courtesy to all. Still, he wanted to connect with someone. One touch. One touch would have been enough. One touch, and he could go back to pretending that he was well adjusted to waking up nearly three hundred years in the future with everyone he'd ever loved or cared about dead or missing. Just one touch, and he would be fine, he promised himself that.
So, the next time he saw Miss Mills in the corridor and she told him it was time to go, he resolved to cure himself of his starvation, at least temporarily. He followed her into the parking lot, toward her motorized coach and approached her from behind. With barely a seconds worth of hesitation, the soldier leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his partner, resting his chin on her head. Abbie tensed in his arms and for a beat he was terrified that she was going to shove him away. Her grip had tightened on her binder and it sounded like she'd stopped breathing.
But then she turned round and wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest. No words were exchanged between the two of them. They didn't have to speak. She knew exactly what he needed. After a minute both of them pulled away and slid into the car. Ichabod's starvation was satisfied, he suspected as he watched the woman beside him out of the corner of his eye, for good. In a matter of seconds, she'd cured and sustained him and made him believe that everything truly would be alright.