H:LotS Fanfiction in honor of Maddy!
Title: Sleeping Beauty
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street!
Pairing: Why, Frank/Tim, of course...
Rating: PG
Summary: Episode related, Fallen Heroes arc. Frank waits for Tim to wake up after Tim has been shot.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own these characters, though I greatly admire whomever does...
Written for Mad_lynn! Here's to you (and isn't this pairing lovely?)!
Once upon a time, Tim had read Olivia the story of Sleeping Beauty. Frank remembered it well. Tim had come over for dinner. Mary was tired, pregnant with Frank Jr. then, and she went to bed straight off the bat afterwards. He had followed Mary to make sure she made it to bed okay, leaving Olivia for Tim to put to bed. He found Tim sitting in the armchair in Olivia’s nursery, Olivia cradled tenderly in his arms as he read to her from an illustrated story book. His voice was soft, soothing like the smile he bestowed on her as she hooked her fingers in his mouth, and on he read, noting Frank in the doorway, turning the page with Olivia carefully against his chest like it was old hat to him. Frank was impatient. He made gestures to put the baby in the crib, but Tim refused to set her down until after she had fallen asleep. He’d been so gentle with her. In telling that fairy tale, it was almost as though he believed it himself.
Afterwards Frank, for the sake of argument and because he’d never really forget how green Tim was, told Tim, “You know what the prince really did to wake her up in the original fable, don’t you?” Of course he didn’t, but Frank’s knowing nod was provocative. Immediately he grasped his meaning.
"Frank!” He had called out warningly.
Sleeping Beauty. The story had never held appeal for him. The latent passivity the legend’s name sake took made for very little development, and the idea of a woman asleep amid a bed of roses never seemed romantic. A boy in his school under the Jesuits had a pornographic comic rendering of Sleeping Beauty that Frank could still see in his mind’s eye if he wanted to. That was probably the closest he’d come to harboring any interest in the fable.
Tim, though, seemed like he would be just as excited by Sleeping Beauty as Wayne Rogers as a kid. The daring rescue, the heroic effort of the prince in pursuit of love; those high flown notions appealed to Tim, not to Frank. He could imagine him, maybe seven, wide eyed on the floor in front of the TV, his mouth hung open like he still did now, enthralled as the prince made his way to Sleeping Beauty’s side and awoke her with a kiss. It was probably the reason why he was a cop, to save whomever needed saving. It was too bad his best efforts would never work for Tim himself.
That was why he was there in that hospital bed. It was because of his ideals that he was there, because he grew up like that prince without even knowing it. Bravery and tenderness were second nature to Tim. He was Homicide because he believed in justice, courage, and the valor of those few in protecting those who were helpless themselves. Frank was Homicide because he had been born unable to leave any stone unturned. Frank would never be the way he was, and for that, Bayliss was laid out unconscious, not Frank.
His breath whistled through his nose. He was alone with Bayliss to keep him company, and the steady heave of his chest was enough company as long as it kept heaving. Long ago, Mary went home to the kids, Jim came in to take Tim’s mother down to the cafeteria, and the rest of the Homicide department was either in the waiting room or had gone home, too. It was well after four, but Frank’s eyes wouldn’t close. He was deprived of sleep completely. Even the impulse was gone.
Frank slowly stroked the pad of his thumb over Tim’s palm. It was a soothing pressure. He wanted to be like Tim with Olivia in his arms. He wanted that unthinking gallantry to be his own. He wanted to take away that moment where he hesitated too long and Tim leapt before him. He wanted to be back in the nursery with Tim’s hushed recital of Sleeping Beauty’s plight. He wanted to be back in the squad car talking about Molly and Rex. He wanted to be drinking with Tim at the Waterfront. He wanted Tim to be awake, not dreadfully still.
Long past, the noise of the beeping machinery ceased to be alarming. It was soothing now, a muted lullaby to Tim’s fitful sleep. Maybe Frank was more tired than he realized. Tim’s eyelashes were long soot smudges over the plump curve of his cheek; there was little play behind his eyelids, and his face was relaxed as Frank had rarely seen it before. His doctor had removed intubation earlier that day after Tim briefly regained consciousness for the first time. Without the hospital surrounding them, it wouldn’t seem like anything was wrong other than the hole in Tim’s side.
If Frank was a prince, he would know what to do. If Frank was Prince Charming, he would have something he could do. If Frank was a prince, Tim wouldn’t be there at all. He smoothed his thumb in small circles on Tim’s palm. Tim. He thought insistently, wake up, wake up; wake up and stay up.
If Tim was Sleeping Beauty, he would’ve woken himself up already, if only to complain about the misalignment he got from sleeping for too long in the same position. He didn’t need to think about what Tim would do if he was a prince; the answer was self evident.
Once Tim woke up, he’d let him read whatever fairy tales he wanted to Olivia. He’d let him believe whatever he wanted. He’d cherish Tim’s boyish desire for happy endings.
Frank brushed his hand along Tim’s cheek, a ghost of contact. He stood and put his lips to Tim’s forehead. The touch was gentle, as soft as a butterfly kiss. Tim’s skin was warm underneath his mouth.
If Frank was who Tim needed him to be, that perfect ideal, he’d be able to wake him up.
They were alone. The silence of the hospital emboldened Frank. It was maybe the last night he’d spend with Tim. Carefully, Frank sealed his mouth over Tim’s, the pressure of his partner’s lips like satin, and just as unresponsive. He sat back down and took Tim’s hand in both of his, brought it to his mouth and kissed his knuckles.
"Wake up. Wake up.” He murmured.
___________
Frank woke up because Tim’s hand was jumping between his own. He started groggily, tightening his grasp on Tim’s hand with ferocity.
“Frank?” Tim called raspily. His was a desperate and confused tone. His voice was like a hundred thousand good things all at once. Frank smiled until his face felt like it was splitting. He stood and bent courteously over his partner.
“Yeah, baby. Yeah, I’m here.”
And that seemed like all there was to say.
Happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday, Mad!!
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street!
Pairing: Why, Frank/Tim, of course...
Rating: PG
Summary: Episode related, Fallen Heroes arc. Frank waits for Tim to wake up after Tim has been shot.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own these characters, though I greatly admire whomever does...
Written for Mad_lynn! Here's to you (and isn't this pairing lovely?)!
Once upon a time, Tim had read Olivia the story of Sleeping Beauty. Frank remembered it well. Tim had come over for dinner. Mary was tired, pregnant with Frank Jr. then, and she went to bed straight off the bat afterwards. He had followed Mary to make sure she made it to bed okay, leaving Olivia for Tim to put to bed. He found Tim sitting in the armchair in Olivia’s nursery, Olivia cradled tenderly in his arms as he read to her from an illustrated story book. His voice was soft, soothing like the smile he bestowed on her as she hooked her fingers in his mouth, and on he read, noting Frank in the doorway, turning the page with Olivia carefully against his chest like it was old hat to him. Frank was impatient. He made gestures to put the baby in the crib, but Tim refused to set her down until after she had fallen asleep. He’d been so gentle with her. In telling that fairy tale, it was almost as though he believed it himself.
Afterwards Frank, for the sake of argument and because he’d never really forget how green Tim was, told Tim, “You know what the prince really did to wake her up in the original fable, don’t you?” Of course he didn’t, but Frank’s knowing nod was provocative. Immediately he grasped his meaning.
"Frank!” He had called out warningly.
Sleeping Beauty. The story had never held appeal for him. The latent passivity the legend’s name sake took made for very little development, and the idea of a woman asleep amid a bed of roses never seemed romantic. A boy in his school under the Jesuits had a pornographic comic rendering of Sleeping Beauty that Frank could still see in his mind’s eye if he wanted to. That was probably the closest he’d come to harboring any interest in the fable.
Tim, though, seemed like he would be just as excited by Sleeping Beauty as Wayne Rogers as a kid. The daring rescue, the heroic effort of the prince in pursuit of love; those high flown notions appealed to Tim, not to Frank. He could imagine him, maybe seven, wide eyed on the floor in front of the TV, his mouth hung open like he still did now, enthralled as the prince made his way to Sleeping Beauty’s side and awoke her with a kiss. It was probably the reason why he was a cop, to save whomever needed saving. It was too bad his best efforts would never work for Tim himself.
That was why he was there in that hospital bed. It was because of his ideals that he was there, because he grew up like that prince without even knowing it. Bravery and tenderness were second nature to Tim. He was Homicide because he believed in justice, courage, and the valor of those few in protecting those who were helpless themselves. Frank was Homicide because he had been born unable to leave any stone unturned. Frank would never be the way he was, and for that, Bayliss was laid out unconscious, not Frank.
His breath whistled through his nose. He was alone with Bayliss to keep him company, and the steady heave of his chest was enough company as long as it kept heaving. Long ago, Mary went home to the kids, Jim came in to take Tim’s mother down to the cafeteria, and the rest of the Homicide department was either in the waiting room or had gone home, too. It was well after four, but Frank’s eyes wouldn’t close. He was deprived of sleep completely. Even the impulse was gone.
Frank slowly stroked the pad of his thumb over Tim’s palm. It was a soothing pressure. He wanted to be like Tim with Olivia in his arms. He wanted that unthinking gallantry to be his own. He wanted to take away that moment where he hesitated too long and Tim leapt before him. He wanted to be back in the nursery with Tim’s hushed recital of Sleeping Beauty’s plight. He wanted to be back in the squad car talking about Molly and Rex. He wanted to be drinking with Tim at the Waterfront. He wanted Tim to be awake, not dreadfully still.
Long past, the noise of the beeping machinery ceased to be alarming. It was soothing now, a muted lullaby to Tim’s fitful sleep. Maybe Frank was more tired than he realized. Tim’s eyelashes were long soot smudges over the plump curve of his cheek; there was little play behind his eyelids, and his face was relaxed as Frank had rarely seen it before. His doctor had removed intubation earlier that day after Tim briefly regained consciousness for the first time. Without the hospital surrounding them, it wouldn’t seem like anything was wrong other than the hole in Tim’s side.
If Frank was a prince, he would know what to do. If Frank was Prince Charming, he would have something he could do. If Frank was a prince, Tim wouldn’t be there at all. He smoothed his thumb in small circles on Tim’s palm. Tim. He thought insistently, wake up, wake up; wake up and stay up.
If Tim was Sleeping Beauty, he would’ve woken himself up already, if only to complain about the misalignment he got from sleeping for too long in the same position. He didn’t need to think about what Tim would do if he was a prince; the answer was self evident.
Once Tim woke up, he’d let him read whatever fairy tales he wanted to Olivia. He’d let him believe whatever he wanted. He’d cherish Tim’s boyish desire for happy endings.
Frank brushed his hand along Tim’s cheek, a ghost of contact. He stood and put his lips to Tim’s forehead. The touch was gentle, as soft as a butterfly kiss. Tim’s skin was warm underneath his mouth.
If Frank was who Tim needed him to be, that perfect ideal, he’d be able to wake him up.
They were alone. The silence of the hospital emboldened Frank. It was maybe the last night he’d spend with Tim. Carefully, Frank sealed his mouth over Tim’s, the pressure of his partner’s lips like satin, and just as unresponsive. He sat back down and took Tim’s hand in both of his, brought it to his mouth and kissed his knuckles.
"Wake up. Wake up.” He murmured.
___________
Frank woke up because Tim’s hand was jumping between his own. He started groggily, tightening his grasp on Tim’s hand with ferocity.
“Frank?” Tim called raspily. His was a desperate and confused tone. His voice was like a hundred thousand good things all at once. Frank smiled until his face felt like it was splitting. He stood and bent courteously over his partner.
“Yeah, baby. Yeah, I’m here.”
And that seemed like all there was to say.
Happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday, Mad!!