HLotS fiction: Unlove You - #2
Title: (2. I was wrong about you.)
Rating: PG
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street
Pairing: Frank/Tim
Summary: Preslash, set after the events in Life Everlasting. (Spoilers for the entire series.) Tim is more than his appearance.
Disclaimer: The characters of Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss belong to NBC, A&E possibly, Tom Fontana and David Simon, with an enormous debt of gratitude to Kyle Secor and Andre Braugher for bringing them to life. ♥ As for myself, I own nearly nothing let alone a televison franchise.
Table: In this post.
Prompt: #2 I was wrong about you.
The day Frank met Tim he’d looked like a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, except that the deer was unreasonably excited to be there.
Tim was all lanky height, those pitched eyebrows and full pout - taller than Frank’s own six one by four inches, his wide earnest eyes beneath a mop of brown hair expressing his thoughts like he was yelling into a bullhorn. That easy height and weight of lean muscle told of his youth on a basketball court and his hazel eyes reflected his attention to detail, the quick study. Rookie was the word that fit best. Frank thought with a measuring glance that he looked stupid but anything would have been better than eight hours glued to Felton’s side.
Bad luck dropped the Watson case in Tim’s lap - the first case he picked up as primary. Tim didn’t cut corners, he consulted every miniscule character in the rule book before proceeding with each step. It was brutal for a new detective to be handed such poor fortune. Right out of the gate the investigation was bad. Frank hadn’t cut him any slack - it wasn’t his style to humor the weaknesses of everyone else around. Had Gee given him the case as he’d asked for it would he have put it down? Seven years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated in saying that he could. But sometimes there were no openings. Sometimes the hand they were dealt was just bad.
Tim had proven him wrong when he’d thought that he was hopeless. He’d gone from a wide eyed rookie to a tried and true murder detective. Four years into their partnership Bayliss was the one he wanted to ride with. His stupid rhetorical questions and random conversations were more amusing than Frank would ever let on. He was so easy to lead on, to lure into saying whatever Frank wanted to hear. He didn’t need psychic powers to see what was in Tim’s mind. Everything he thought or felt was in his face, the sagging line of his frown or the nervous, overanxious cover up of a lie.
Obvious.
Tim was always looking to Frank, always looking at Frank, wanting his approval - wanting whatever. Frank knew that vaguely without sparing it much thought. Tim was wrapped around his finger. Frank appreciated his admiration, his adoration. Even the attention wasn’t bad. Frank was more than a good detective. He was, he could admit without hubris, the best detective in Baltimore. He could read people. Tim, over anyone else, was easy to read.
He was the untried choirboy, all vanilla, the last to know about himself what others had already gleaned. Stubborn, with a temper, he was loyal to his loved ones and he held a grudge when he was hurt. He believed in justice, continued to believe in justice, even when society let him down. Anyone could commit murder, Frank thought, but would have amended that Tim was the exception to his rule. Tim was incapable of understanding the dark and shitty aspects of human nature, his own nature. He’d never understand it even if he was told.
Frank was wrong about him.
On the roof in winter with the wind in their faces and the low light on Tim’s troubled face Frank thought again that his beard was graying. He’d felt his cold fingers on the side of his neck and stared into Tim’s wide eyes, hoping to find a lie. Their hearts had beat, in kindred, the space between them seeming to tremble with the beat and Frank clung to the pain as gravity failed him and Tim confessed.
Even Tim could kill.
He confessed with flushed eyelids and knit brows but he’d stood in front of a killer and gunned the bastard down.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street
Pairing: Frank/Tim
Summary: Preslash, set after the events in Life Everlasting. (Spoilers for the entire series.) Tim is more than his appearance.
Disclaimer: The characters of Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss belong to NBC, A&E possibly, Tom Fontana and David Simon, with an enormous debt of gratitude to Kyle Secor and Andre Braugher for bringing them to life. ♥ As for myself, I own nearly nothing let alone a televison franchise.
Table: In this post.
Prompt: #2 I was wrong about you.
The day Frank met Tim he’d looked like a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, except that the deer was unreasonably excited to be there.
Tim was all lanky height, those pitched eyebrows and full pout - taller than Frank’s own six one by four inches, his wide earnest eyes beneath a mop of brown hair expressing his thoughts like he was yelling into a bullhorn. That easy height and weight of lean muscle told of his youth on a basketball court and his hazel eyes reflected his attention to detail, the quick study. Rookie was the word that fit best. Frank thought with a measuring glance that he looked stupid but anything would have been better than eight hours glued to Felton’s side.
Bad luck dropped the Watson case in Tim’s lap - the first case he picked up as primary. Tim didn’t cut corners, he consulted every miniscule character in the rule book before proceeding with each step. It was brutal for a new detective to be handed such poor fortune. Right out of the gate the investigation was bad. Frank hadn’t cut him any slack - it wasn’t his style to humor the weaknesses of everyone else around. Had Gee given him the case as he’d asked for it would he have put it down? Seven years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated in saying that he could. But sometimes there were no openings. Sometimes the hand they were dealt was just bad.
Tim had proven him wrong when he’d thought that he was hopeless. He’d gone from a wide eyed rookie to a tried and true murder detective. Four years into their partnership Bayliss was the one he wanted to ride with. His stupid rhetorical questions and random conversations were more amusing than Frank would ever let on. He was so easy to lead on, to lure into saying whatever Frank wanted to hear. He didn’t need psychic powers to see what was in Tim’s mind. Everything he thought or felt was in his face, the sagging line of his frown or the nervous, overanxious cover up of a lie.
Obvious.
Tim was always looking to Frank, always looking at Frank, wanting his approval - wanting whatever. Frank knew that vaguely without sparing it much thought. Tim was wrapped around his finger. Frank appreciated his admiration, his adoration. Even the attention wasn’t bad. Frank was more than a good detective. He was, he could admit without hubris, the best detective in Baltimore. He could read people. Tim, over anyone else, was easy to read.
He was the untried choirboy, all vanilla, the last to know about himself what others had already gleaned. Stubborn, with a temper, he was loyal to his loved ones and he held a grudge when he was hurt. He believed in justice, continued to believe in justice, even when society let him down. Anyone could commit murder, Frank thought, but would have amended that Tim was the exception to his rule. Tim was incapable of understanding the dark and shitty aspects of human nature, his own nature. He’d never understand it even if he was told.
Frank was wrong about him.
On the roof in winter with the wind in their faces and the low light on Tim’s troubled face Frank thought again that his beard was graying. He’d felt his cold fingers on the side of his neck and stared into Tim’s wide eyes, hoping to find a lie. Their hearts had beat, in kindred, the space between them seeming to tremble with the beat and Frank clung to the pain as gravity failed him and Tim confessed.
Even Tim could kill.
He confessed with flushed eyelids and knit brows but he’d stood in front of a killer and gunned the bastard down.