Rosalind
This story and all themes and ideas contained in said story are the sole
ownership of J.L. Scott. Any copyright infringements can be prosecuted in a
court of law.
To borrow a phrase: NYPD Blue no mine......no permission..no money, no sue, please?
John sat across the table, wiping a tear from his eye. He had been laughing so hard his sides hurt and he was sure he had stopped breathing for a good five minutes. Grace had been doing an, exaggerated he was sure, impression of her parents arguing about how to make some potatoe soup.
"Do they really sound like that?" he asked. He'd been seeing her for about a month now. Sometimes she came to the apartment for dinner and she usually ended up playing dolls with Rosalind or helping her read more than talking to John but he didn't mind it so much. Maria had commented that she thought the female influence was good for the little girl, even though she hadn't met Grace yet.
"Yeah. They're from Ireland, you know, first gen immigrants. They're not your average Irish couple though" she explained with a softer smile, "They really hardly ever fight, except when they aren't really serious. Neither one of them really has a bad temper"
"You're right, that is odd for anyone Irish" John chuckled.
"Well you'd never know it by my second oldest brother, Paul. He has a mercury temper. Easily ignited, but easily cooled too" She rolled her eyes and let a little puff of air escape her lips, another kind of laugh of hers he'd discovered. Their check came and he paid it and then they started home. It was a beautiful autumn night, the stars shining brightly above and a slight wind shaking the colored leaves that were still hanging onto the trees. They had walked to the small Italian restaurant, just a few blocks from their respective apartment buildings. Grace was wearing a strange outfit: the shirt was skin tight and came all the way up to her throat in the front, but plunged in a "v" all the way down her back and a calf length skirt. He could see the bumbs raising on her skin as the breeze swept down on them.
"Here" he said, taking is jacket off and wrapping it around her shoulders.
"Well, aren't you the silver screen gentleman" she replied wryly. She said things like that all the time. And he'd discovered she was the ultimate romantic. She loved old black and white movies, especially with Gregory Peck or Cary Grant. "Sabrina" was one of her favorites.
"Well, I try" he replied with a smile, "You said your brother's were helping pay for your apartment, didn't you?" he asked as they walked. Grace rolled her eyes. Her hair was coifed into a wild sort of French twist, but wisps kept falling in face and tangling in the long earrings she was wearing. John wondered how she got it all up on her head but figured it was one of those mysteries that made women worth wondering about.
"Yes" she confirmed, "They were convinced my last place was detrimental to my health"
"Just how many brothers do you have?" he asked. He'd been wondering the past couple weeks, ever since she had said something to the effect of "a bunch of my brothers". The idea of a "bunch" indicated she had more than one.
"Too many!" she laughed, and the comment piqued something of the cop in John. She hadn't really answered the question. But he didn't want to press the point.
"Oh, look!" she stopped and pointed up at the sky, "The moon is full" He glanced up but was more drawn to her face. She was looking up wistfully, romantically, dreamily. He was almost convinced she was reminiscing about some trip she'd taken up to the lifeless hunk of rock. She had a delicate, private little smile on her lips and those eyes of hers were sparkling.
"I love the moon" she said finally, "I love the night" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she laughed and looked at him as she started walking again.
"I'm a pathetic romantic!" she announced and slipped her hand into his. Why this small action made him feel closer to her than any of their kisses, light and electrifying, he didn't know. He supposed he hadn't held a girl's hand since jr. high. It had a kind of innocence, which was sweet, but that wasn't all. New parents held hands. Old couples that had been married fifty years held hands. John decided it was a symbol of the kind of relationship he'd never had before, a stable, permanent one.
He sucked in a breath. Permanent. That was supposed to be a terrifying idea, being chained down, trapped in a cell. (Which he knew from experience that he did NOT like) But the sudden thought didn't scare him, at least, not when he was thinking about Grace at the same time. Permanent with Grace was more.....right, good, secure, beautiful, fun, healthy........than anything else.
A lifetime flashed through John's head, too fast for him to catch. Smiles, laughter, Rosalind's happy face, Grace cooking at a stove in some big kitchen with white walls and blue counter tops, a Christmas tree in front of a fire with Rosalind curled up on a rug and Grace handing him a cup of hot cocoa, Grace crying as Ros went off on her first date, family photographs, Ros in a white dress and on his arm, Grace's hair fading and turning white as she chased three little grandchildren around a big backyard somewhere. He could do that. He could do that.
He smiled at her and kept ahold of her hand.
AN: Sorry it's so sappy, but I really am a pathetic romantic!
To borrow a phrase: NYPD Blue no mine......no permission..no money, no sue, please?
John sat across the table, wiping a tear from his eye. He had been laughing so hard his sides hurt and he was sure he had stopped breathing for a good five minutes. Grace had been doing an, exaggerated he was sure, impression of her parents arguing about how to make some potatoe soup.
"Do they really sound like that?" he asked. He'd been seeing her for about a month now. Sometimes she came to the apartment for dinner and she usually ended up playing dolls with Rosalind or helping her read more than talking to John but he didn't mind it so much. Maria had commented that she thought the female influence was good for the little girl, even though she hadn't met Grace yet.
"Yeah. They're from Ireland, you know, first gen immigrants. They're not your average Irish couple though" she explained with a softer smile, "They really hardly ever fight, except when they aren't really serious. Neither one of them really has a bad temper"
"You're right, that is odd for anyone Irish" John chuckled.
"Well you'd never know it by my second oldest brother, Paul. He has a mercury temper. Easily ignited, but easily cooled too" She rolled her eyes and let a little puff of air escape her lips, another kind of laugh of hers he'd discovered. Their check came and he paid it and then they started home. It was a beautiful autumn night, the stars shining brightly above and a slight wind shaking the colored leaves that were still hanging onto the trees. They had walked to the small Italian restaurant, just a few blocks from their respective apartment buildings. Grace was wearing a strange outfit: the shirt was skin tight and came all the way up to her throat in the front, but plunged in a "v" all the way down her back and a calf length skirt. He could see the bumbs raising on her skin as the breeze swept down on them.
"Here" he said, taking is jacket off and wrapping it around her shoulders.
"Well, aren't you the silver screen gentleman" she replied wryly. She said things like that all the time. And he'd discovered she was the ultimate romantic. She loved old black and white movies, especially with Gregory Peck or Cary Grant. "Sabrina" was one of her favorites.
"Well, I try" he replied with a smile, "You said your brother's were helping pay for your apartment, didn't you?" he asked as they walked. Grace rolled her eyes. Her hair was coifed into a wild sort of French twist, but wisps kept falling in face and tangling in the long earrings she was wearing. John wondered how she got it all up on her head but figured it was one of those mysteries that made women worth wondering about.
"Yes" she confirmed, "They were convinced my last place was detrimental to my health"
"Just how many brothers do you have?" he asked. He'd been wondering the past couple weeks, ever since she had said something to the effect of "a bunch of my brothers". The idea of a "bunch" indicated she had more than one.
"Too many!" she laughed, and the comment piqued something of the cop in John. She hadn't really answered the question. But he didn't want to press the point.
"Oh, look!" she stopped and pointed up at the sky, "The moon is full" He glanced up but was more drawn to her face. She was looking up wistfully, romantically, dreamily. He was almost convinced she was reminiscing about some trip she'd taken up to the lifeless hunk of rock. She had a delicate, private little smile on her lips and those eyes of hers were sparkling.
"I love the moon" she said finally, "I love the night" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she laughed and looked at him as she started walking again.
"I'm a pathetic romantic!" she announced and slipped her hand into his. Why this small action made him feel closer to her than any of their kisses, light and electrifying, he didn't know. He supposed he hadn't held a girl's hand since jr. high. It had a kind of innocence, which was sweet, but that wasn't all. New parents held hands. Old couples that had been married fifty years held hands. John decided it was a symbol of the kind of relationship he'd never had before, a stable, permanent one.
He sucked in a breath. Permanent. That was supposed to be a terrifying idea, being chained down, trapped in a cell. (Which he knew from experience that he did NOT like) But the sudden thought didn't scare him, at least, not when he was thinking about Grace at the same time. Permanent with Grace was more.....right, good, secure, beautiful, fun, healthy........than anything else.
A lifetime flashed through John's head, too fast for him to catch. Smiles, laughter, Rosalind's happy face, Grace cooking at a stove in some big kitchen with white walls and blue counter tops, a Christmas tree in front of a fire with Rosalind curled up on a rug and Grace handing him a cup of hot cocoa, Grace crying as Ros went off on her first date, family photographs, Ros in a white dress and on his arm, Grace's hair fading and turning white as she chased three little grandchildren around a big backyard somewhere. He could do that. He could do that.
He smiled at her and kept ahold of her hand.
AN: Sorry it's so sappy, but I really am a pathetic romantic!