HLotS fiction: Unlove You - #12
Happy Birthday, Mad!!
Title: (12. I'm drunk.)
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street
Pairing: Frank/Tim
Summary: Preslash, set after the sixth season and before the seventh season. (Spoilers for the sixth season.) Tim is drunk.
Disclaimer: The characters of Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss, as well as the series Homicide, belong to NBC, Tom Fontana and David Simon.
Table: In this post.
Prompt: #12 I'm drunk.
12. I’m drunk.
“What do you do for a living?” The blonde man’s voice cut through the oppressive rhythm of bass and Tim looked at him through the lenses of his glasses from a hundred miles away.
“What do I do?” he asked, his voice rough and a little throaty. “I’m a cop.”
10:17 in the evening, the lights filtered through the haze of smoke crawling on the ceiling and the bar was full of voices and poor dance music that throbbed against the inside of Tim’s head. At his elbow, the blonde guy wanted his attention and Tim turned in his seat to give it to him. He had a heavy feeling in his chest like an implosion - dragging him down somewhere dark. Like he might do something stupid and it might be a good idea. He watched red lights from across the room move over the shoulders of the guy beside him and he felt he might explode.
“A cop? That sounds dangerous.”
“Not for me,” Tim lied confidently. The space between them was warm and whiskey scented. Tim got a little closer. He put his hand on the bar nearby and framed the contours of the body of the other man. He felt the heat of his body on his skin. No place was close enough. He wanted to be filled up by another person. It was the only thing that could make him feel all right.
Lately the place he’d been shot kept him up at night hurting, and the pain killers his doctor prescribed didn’t numb the feeling at all. He needed to talk to Frank but it was harder now they weren’t partners. There was no excuse for the connection. When he called, the silence on the line seemed to stifle his efforts and whatever words he wanted to express fell short. I need you. The words had never meant much to Frank. Anyway, if they had, why would he go and disappear?
The guy beside him said something and the look on his face seemed flirtatious but his words were lost in the din of the bar. Tim realized vaguely that his eyes were a glossy brown. The fact made him feel good and confused at once. He shook his head and felt his head spin, his brow creasing as though something was wrong. Six drinks made his head light. He dropped his hand to the bar and his fingers slid over the condensation from his glass.
“It’s Steve.” The guy’s correction sounded like a gentle reminder.
“Huh? Ah, isn’t that what I said?” Tim knit his brows and the lights over the bar shone on the surface of his glasses as Tim sucked his lip between his teeth and released it, glossed and red. “Steve,” Tim affirmed. “I like that name. Sounds good.” He turned his eyes to the ceiling, bowing like a reed toward the bar as he said something inane. He was awkward, trying to make a connection and he was surprised every time his wry come-ons worked. When he lifted his eyes to the other guy’s face, he touched his cheek and felt stubble beneath his fingers. He kept looking into his round, brown eyes. “I like your eyes, too.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Tim smiled. “Yeah,” he answered. “They remind me of someone.”
The secret look of amusement on Steve’s face recalled something Tim was no part of, like Tim was thinking of someone else. It seemed to be going well before Steve slid off his stool. “You know what? I’m going to go because it seems like your mind’s somewhere else.”
Tim’s face fell, his mouth bowed as he slumped. “Hey, come on…,” Tim said, laying his hand on the guy’s arm as he stood up and disengaged. “Come on.” Steve's face seemed to float off, a dim moon falling out of orbit as he shook his head and waved, walking away.
In his absence, Tim’s side felt cold. He watched Steve's receding figure as though he’d turn around but he didn’t and when he disappeared into the crowd, Tim slouched against the bar. The bartender leaned back against the wall at his back and looked at Tim like he thought it was funny.
Tim’s brow creased, still surprised at his sudden failure. He pointed at his drink. “Another,” he called over the noise. The bartender bent to do as he’d asked him, pulling a bottle from beneath the counter. Tim watched the amber liquid swirl around his cup.
“You need a ride home?” the bartender advised lowly, leaning on an elbow on the bar.
Tim eyed the bartender as he picked up the glass and swallowed the contents in one go. With heavy hands, he picked up his coat and straightened up. “Yeah. Yeah.” Tim nodded in his direction vaguely as he stood up and turned around. When he slipped off his stool, the floor swayed beneath his feet. His lips shaped around the words, “Whoa, whoa, whoa” as he balanced himself with a hand on the bar. Whether he knew when to call it quits - the jury was still out on that.
He moved through the crush of the crowd in the opposite direction. He slipped out the door and left behind the stale scent of cigarette smoke, moist heat and bad music as the door shut at his back. He’d felt earlier like the noise might fill the void that he was feeling but the comfort of a stranger’s presence was fleeting, at best.
He turned in either direction and surveyed the sidewalk, lids low and jaded over hazel eyes. The icy streets of Baltimore gleamed beneath the street lights and the headlights passing at uneven intervals yielded a feeling of vertigo to the passersby. His apartment was dismayingly empty. He was in no rush to return. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew into them. The exhalation made his head spin. He thought again, Frank, wanted to hear his voice without listening to him.
What would Frank say to him that could help him find his way? Frank didn’t like talking about emotions. Frustration choked Tim and he felt again the pain of the bullet wound in his side like an aching reminder. That son of a bitch. Every time Frank decided to do something, he decided it on his own. How could Mary stand living with him? Tim had a brief impression of silent commiseration. But Mary wasn’t the one he wanted nearby.
His shoes scraped over the pavement and he thought about where to go. He couldn’t go home yet. It was too early. He was still alone.
At the end of the block, streetlight fell over a payphone anchored to the brick building. The light framed Tim’s shoulders and short brown hair, illuminating the white plumes of his breath on the air. Adjacent the pay phone, his gait slowed and his eyes moved there. The light on the chipped enamel of the receiver drew his gaze like the weight of a line towing him near. He stood, considering, a well of shadow in his creased brow and down the smooth plane of his cheekbone.
Strangled again, he made a sound like surrender. He drew his lip into his mouth and worried the flesh. He was on his mind. Like always. What would Frank do? What would Frank think? What was Frank doing right now?
It was a sea soft litany rushing in his head.
His black coat swung against his knees as he turned and stepped close to the pay phone. Sleeping, probably, beside Mary with Olivia down the hall in the crib. Or maybe they weren’t sleeping and Frank’s body was against Mary’s in the secretive dark. Frank’s bed was probably warm around him like the street was cold outside with Tim. Whatever was between them, the separation, was an insurmountable obstacle. They might as well be in different worlds.
He needed to talk to him. He wanted to hear Frank’s voice on the line, even if it was to dismiss him. No one else would do. He’d tried.
Tim picked up the receiver and fed quarters into the slot. He pushed the numbers and listened to the ringing on the line. The metal was cold against his skin as he curved his hand over the edge of the phone. The tone pulsed in his ear. He dropped his head against his knuckles, his face in the shelter of his elbow. He watched the light on the metal of the pay phone and his heartbeat mounted in his ears.
There was a click and the static of an open connection. Mary’s voice filled his ear. “Hello?”
Tim jerked his head up, his mouth sagging open. His mind was blank, resounding with the sound of feedback.
“Hello?” Mary asked. She sounded tired, and Tim imagined she was bed-warm from lying beside Frank.
Tim’s mouth worked, awkward, his brows knitting. He thought of what to say, how to say it, but his head was too light to make sense of the words. “Ah, sorry,” he stammered and hung up.
Tim turned with the streetlight on his frowning features, looking across the street at nothing in particular. It was cold and he was drunk and alone.
This entry was originally posted at http://omg-wtf-yeah.dreamwidth.org/1856.html. Comment at either journal. There are
comments on DW.
Title: (12. I'm drunk.)
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street
Pairing: Frank/Tim
Summary: Preslash, set after the sixth season and before the seventh season. (Spoilers for the sixth season.) Tim is drunk.
Disclaimer: The characters of Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss, as well as the series Homicide, belong to NBC, Tom Fontana and David Simon.
Table: In this post.
Prompt: #12 I'm drunk.
12. I’m drunk.
“What do you do for a living?” The blonde man’s voice cut through the oppressive rhythm of bass and Tim looked at him through the lenses of his glasses from a hundred miles away.
“What do I do?” he asked, his voice rough and a little throaty. “I’m a cop.”
10:17 in the evening, the lights filtered through the haze of smoke crawling on the ceiling and the bar was full of voices and poor dance music that throbbed against the inside of Tim’s head. At his elbow, the blonde guy wanted his attention and Tim turned in his seat to give it to him. He had a heavy feeling in his chest like an implosion - dragging him down somewhere dark. Like he might do something stupid and it might be a good idea. He watched red lights from across the room move over the shoulders of the guy beside him and he felt he might explode.
“A cop? That sounds dangerous.”
“Not for me,” Tim lied confidently. The space between them was warm and whiskey scented. Tim got a little closer. He put his hand on the bar nearby and framed the contours of the body of the other man. He felt the heat of his body on his skin. No place was close enough. He wanted to be filled up by another person. It was the only thing that could make him feel all right.
Lately the place he’d been shot kept him up at night hurting, and the pain killers his doctor prescribed didn’t numb the feeling at all. He needed to talk to Frank but it was harder now they weren’t partners. There was no excuse for the connection. When he called, the silence on the line seemed to stifle his efforts and whatever words he wanted to express fell short. I need you. The words had never meant much to Frank. Anyway, if they had, why would he go and disappear?
The guy beside him said something and the look on his face seemed flirtatious but his words were lost in the din of the bar. Tim realized vaguely that his eyes were a glossy brown. The fact made him feel good and confused at once. He shook his head and felt his head spin, his brow creasing as though something was wrong. Six drinks made his head light. He dropped his hand to the bar and his fingers slid over the condensation from his glass.
“It’s Steve.” The guy’s correction sounded like a gentle reminder.
“Huh? Ah, isn’t that what I said?” Tim knit his brows and the lights over the bar shone on the surface of his glasses as Tim sucked his lip between his teeth and released it, glossed and red. “Steve,” Tim affirmed. “I like that name. Sounds good.” He turned his eyes to the ceiling, bowing like a reed toward the bar as he said something inane. He was awkward, trying to make a connection and he was surprised every time his wry come-ons worked. When he lifted his eyes to the other guy’s face, he touched his cheek and felt stubble beneath his fingers. He kept looking into his round, brown eyes. “I like your eyes, too.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Tim smiled. “Yeah,” he answered. “They remind me of someone.”
The secret look of amusement on Steve’s face recalled something Tim was no part of, like Tim was thinking of someone else. It seemed to be going well before Steve slid off his stool. “You know what? I’m going to go because it seems like your mind’s somewhere else.”
Tim’s face fell, his mouth bowed as he slumped. “Hey, come on…,” Tim said, laying his hand on the guy’s arm as he stood up and disengaged. “Come on.” Steve's face seemed to float off, a dim moon falling out of orbit as he shook his head and waved, walking away.
In his absence, Tim’s side felt cold. He watched Steve's receding figure as though he’d turn around but he didn’t and when he disappeared into the crowd, Tim slouched against the bar. The bartender leaned back against the wall at his back and looked at Tim like he thought it was funny.
Tim’s brow creased, still surprised at his sudden failure. He pointed at his drink. “Another,” he called over the noise. The bartender bent to do as he’d asked him, pulling a bottle from beneath the counter. Tim watched the amber liquid swirl around his cup.
“You need a ride home?” the bartender advised lowly, leaning on an elbow on the bar.
Tim eyed the bartender as he picked up the glass and swallowed the contents in one go. With heavy hands, he picked up his coat and straightened up. “Yeah. Yeah.” Tim nodded in his direction vaguely as he stood up and turned around. When he slipped off his stool, the floor swayed beneath his feet. His lips shaped around the words, “Whoa, whoa, whoa” as he balanced himself with a hand on the bar. Whether he knew when to call it quits - the jury was still out on that.
He moved through the crush of the crowd in the opposite direction. He slipped out the door and left behind the stale scent of cigarette smoke, moist heat and bad music as the door shut at his back. He’d felt earlier like the noise might fill the void that he was feeling but the comfort of a stranger’s presence was fleeting, at best.
He turned in either direction and surveyed the sidewalk, lids low and jaded over hazel eyes. The icy streets of Baltimore gleamed beneath the street lights and the headlights passing at uneven intervals yielded a feeling of vertigo to the passersby. His apartment was dismayingly empty. He was in no rush to return. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew into them. The exhalation made his head spin. He thought again, Frank, wanted to hear his voice without listening to him.
What would Frank say to him that could help him find his way? Frank didn’t like talking about emotions. Frustration choked Tim and he felt again the pain of the bullet wound in his side like an aching reminder. That son of a bitch. Every time Frank decided to do something, he decided it on his own. How could Mary stand living with him? Tim had a brief impression of silent commiseration. But Mary wasn’t the one he wanted nearby.
His shoes scraped over the pavement and he thought about where to go. He couldn’t go home yet. It was too early. He was still alone.
At the end of the block, streetlight fell over a payphone anchored to the brick building. The light framed Tim’s shoulders and short brown hair, illuminating the white plumes of his breath on the air. Adjacent the pay phone, his gait slowed and his eyes moved there. The light on the chipped enamel of the receiver drew his gaze like the weight of a line towing him near. He stood, considering, a well of shadow in his creased brow and down the smooth plane of his cheekbone.
Strangled again, he made a sound like surrender. He drew his lip into his mouth and worried the flesh. He was on his mind. Like always. What would Frank do? What would Frank think? What was Frank doing right now?
It was a sea soft litany rushing in his head.
His black coat swung against his knees as he turned and stepped close to the pay phone. Sleeping, probably, beside Mary with Olivia down the hall in the crib. Or maybe they weren’t sleeping and Frank’s body was against Mary’s in the secretive dark. Frank’s bed was probably warm around him like the street was cold outside with Tim. Whatever was between them, the separation, was an insurmountable obstacle. They might as well be in different worlds.
He needed to talk to him. He wanted to hear Frank’s voice on the line, even if it was to dismiss him. No one else would do. He’d tried.
Tim picked up the receiver and fed quarters into the slot. He pushed the numbers and listened to the ringing on the line. The metal was cold against his skin as he curved his hand over the edge of the phone. The tone pulsed in his ear. He dropped his head against his knuckles, his face in the shelter of his elbow. He watched the light on the metal of the pay phone and his heartbeat mounted in his ears.
There was a click and the static of an open connection. Mary’s voice filled his ear. “Hello?”
Tim jerked his head up, his mouth sagging open. His mind was blank, resounding with the sound of feedback.
“Hello?” Mary asked. She sounded tired, and Tim imagined she was bed-warm from lying beside Frank.
Tim’s mouth worked, awkward, his brows knitting. He thought of what to say, how to say it, but his head was too light to make sense of the words. “Ah, sorry,” he stammered and hung up.
Tim turned with the streetlight on his frowning features, looking across the street at nothing in particular. It was cold and he was drunk and alone.
This entry was originally posted at http://omg-wtf-yeah.dreamwidth.org/1856.html. Comment at either journal. There are
comments on DW.