#Rosey Dayze

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Blind Hope Chapter 2

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1508 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. Chapter One Found Here

“I'm sorry-” he starts.

“I wanted to-” you say at the same time. His words and yours overlap, mingle, and fall apart. The laughter that follows is tight, like the both of you are afraid to be amused or angry or something in between. But, beneath that, hope blooms.

If you can laugh about something so simple as talking over one another, then maybe there is more between your than apologetic flowers and wasted days.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, softly. It's amazing how someone with such a gruff voice can sound so gentle.

“You go first.” You pull your legs beneath you. When that's not enough you pull a blanket across your legs. It's soft, and the feel of it as you brush your fingers anxiously back and forth offers a little comfort. A sliver of moonlight turns the fabric silver. “Please.”

“I should have found a way to call you sooner.” He lets out a breath that you can almost feel through the distance of the telephone.

You chew on your lip, twist the blanket between your fingers. “Why didn't you?”

“I broke my phone.” There is something about the way he says it, like he's practiced the words a thousand times that makes you uncertain of their authenticity.

“It's a funny thing,” you say, plucking at a piece of invisible lint. “You're a pretty careful guy. I noticed that during our walk. You seem to be pretty aware of your strength, Nick.”

The silence stretches again, this time it's heavier. Anxiously you tug the blanket off your legs and readjust your legs. It's like you've suddenly forgotten how your body works, like you can't remember how you like to sit.

“Well, I didn't break it. Johannson broke it.”

You raise your brow and go still. Your limbs don't matter anymore. “Johannson?”

“A co-worker. He was...he was messing around.” The words are flat, the amusement forced. You think the huff of air that follows is supposed to be a laugh but it is empty of amusement.

“Like a joke?”

“Yeah. A joke.”

You chew on your lip for a moment. There is a weight in your chest that you can't put a name to. “Hey, Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“You aren't a very good liar. If you don't want to tell me everything, you don't have to. But don't lie. Please?”

The sound of his pacing echoes through the phone. That feeling in your chest grows heavier. Had you said too much? Pushed too hard? After all, one date didn't necessarily mean he had to explain everything in his life to you. And yet, you think as you slide from the couch to do a little pacing of your own, it seems really important that you know what happened, and understand. Nine days felt like forever, and you want, maybe even need, an explanation.

“I'm sorry,” he says again.

“I know.”

“It's like that thing that frat houses do to new members. You know, to make sure they are letting the right people in.” You wonder if he's trying to convince himself, or you. “It's normal. It's...funny.”  

“Breaking your personal property?” You come to a stop in the middle of your living room and swtich the phone from one ear to the other.

“Well, he thought it was funny,” Nick finally says.

There was a universe of hurt in those few words. It staggers your heart in a way you did not expect. You suddenly wish he were right there, rather than halfway across the city. Though, to be fair, you have no idea what you might do to fix the pain you heard.

“Oh, Nick-”

“It's fine. Really.”

It's not, and you know it's not. You are pretty sure he knows that too.  Anxiety and frustration carry you into the kitchen. Your eyes land on the roses. Their colors really are striking. The more you look, the more you notice. Pink petals have veins of blue and green weaving their way through them. The yellow ones have the slightest hint of silver dappled along the stems. The orange blossoms are tipped ever so slightly with red. They remind you of his eyes. Your lips curl ever so slightly. Slowly you reach out and touch one. For a moment nothing happens, and then, as if by magic, the petals deepen in hue. It's like a blush.

“Ward told you to send me flowers?” you ask. It's an olive branch. He doesn't want to talk about it, and you don't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is.

“I didn't know what to do for a human woman.” He pauses. “That sounds terrible.”

Curiosity has you tilting your head. “What would you do if I were an orc?”

“Well, three hundred years ago I'd have pillaged the home of someone who had trespassed against you and stolen something that you wanted.”

“Well that's both illegal and romantic.”

The laughter that rings through the phone is warm. It fills you from your ear to your toes. You pluck the orange blossom from the bouquet and run it over your lips. You remember the way he kissed you and that warmth becomes a tingle.

“Today,” he says, “if you were an orc woman, what I'd want wouldn't matter.”

“Why not?” The moment the words are out of your mouth you know they are the wrong ones to ask. “I'm sorry, that was rude wasn't it?”

He sighs. “It's okay. I just...”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Nick. Honestly.”

“No. No, you deserve to know.” He clears his throat. “Do you know what Clan Law is?”

Not really, you want to say, but that's not ultimately true. You've heard about it on the news. Journalists toss the phrase around whenever there is a confrontation in orc heavy locations. It's a theme in orcish music, and during your orc language studies it was only lightly touched on because, as the teacher explained, humans just couldn't understand. Moreover, you tried to do a little research after your first date with Nick, but the thought of admitting that makes your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“I know a little,” you finally admit. “But I'd prefer to hear your explanation.”

“Clan Law is...it's important,” he tries to explain. “No, that's not right. Hold on. I haven't tried to explain clan law since I was a kid.” He clears his throat. And, when that isn't enough, he coughs. “For most orc, nothing matters more than your clan, and the stories of your clan. Being able to trace your blood back to someone who did something great is the best thing an orc can offer to his clan. More than that, those same great heroes set down our Laws. Telling us what we could and couldn't do and more.” His words, which had been picking up speed, come to a sudden halt. “Clan Law is supposed to decide everything an orc does.”

“Okay.” You turn the words over in your mind. You think you understand, at least the surface idea, if not the complexities.

“Laws can change a little, from one clan to the next. But, you know, if you can't trace your line back, if you've never done anything heroic or great, you aren't blooded.”

He says blooded like it ought to be capitalized, like it needs its own definition in a dictionary.

“You are going to have to explain that one to me too.”

“Blooded is something I'm not,” he finally spits out. It's a toss up if this bothers him more or less than Johannson breaking Nick's phone. “My father's not, my mother's not. We aren't welcome among most clans because of our round teeth.”

Your heart feels heavy. A piece of the puzzle that is Nick Jakoby falls into place. Here was a man who wasn't accepted by humans for being an orc, and yet wasn't orcish enough for that either. Here was a man who had clung to the idea of being a cop, and yet there was at least one man on the squad who wasn't making Nick feel welcome there either. Suddenly the fact that he hadn't called no longer matters to you.

“Well, on the plus side,” you say, trying your best to sound light, “You send excellent flowers.”

“You mean it?” he asks.

“Enough that I am seriously thinking about asking you out on a date this weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, something extra cheesy, I think.” You run the rose across your own cheek. “I mean, we covered the traditional dinner date. Maybe a movie next?”

“I could do a movie,” he says. “I do the night shift this Friday.”

“Saturday night? Or Sunday morning?” you offer.

“Saturday night.” He nearly pounces on the offer. “I'd really like that.”

“I would too.” You realize you are grinning. You spin the rose through the air. “And Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Feel free to call me every day between now and then.” Chapter 3 Found Here

#Bright #bright fanfiction #nick jakoby #youfic #Rosey Dayze #fluffy #chapter fics

[fangirlingincamouflage]

365 Days of Drabbles - Day 4

Title: Girls Day Out Author: Rosey Dayze Word Count: 401 Pairing: Reader x Joan Watson Themes: Shopping, kisses, casual affection Rating: PG Disclaimer: I do not own the character of Joan Watson. She is the sole property of CBS. I make no money off of this fanfiction.

“You can come out anytime now,” Joan’s voice calls to you from the other side of the dressing room door. For the sixth time, you tug at the shirt she picked out for you. It doesn’t fit bad. The fit, as they say, is like a glove. It’s just so different from what you’d pick out for yourself. The color, the style, it’s not like anything you own. But wasn’t that the point? You’ve been going out with Joan for months, and every time she shows up to whatever show or dinner you two are enjoying together, she always looks like a goddess of fashion and you look...well...you don’t match.

“I’ll help,” she promised last night, when you admitted to your closet ineptitude. “It’ll be fun.” It was, mostly. Watching Joan stalk through clothing stores and high end departments was like watching a soldier prepare for battle. Pieces were picked up, tossed in your arms or discarded beneath her critical eye. Slowly you begin to understand just how much time and effort Joan puts into her seemingly effortless looks. “Okay,” You finally say, making a last adjustment. “Here it goes.” You unlock the dressing room door and it swings open. Joan stands there, her glossy, dark hair pulled into a long, swinging braid. Her eyes sparkle as she takes you in. Before you can think she swoops in and presses her lips to yours in a quick kiss. “You look perfect.” “Really?” She waves a hand away, not seeming to realize the impact those few words have. “Well, you always look great. But what I mean is that you look exactly how I thought you would.” She pats your cheek. The gesture is easy, casual, loving. It hasn’t always been easy between you two. Joan has a tendency to keep the people she cares about at a distance.

“You look perfect,” you say, your lips close enough to hers that they brush when you speak.

“Go on. Change. We have a reservation to make.”

You stomach tingles and you find your arm sliding around her back. “You could always help me undress.”

She grins at you, but steps back, planting her hand on your shoulder to keep you a literal arms length away. “I hardly think that kind of thing will keep us on schedule.”

You shrug, watching her walk away. It was totally worth a shot.

#readerfic #reader fic #joan watson #elementary #fanfiction #reader x joan watson