First Post! "Soul Food"
Apr. 2nd, 2007 02:36 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
cocoajava.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tasty_ficsViola. Welcome to Tasty Fics! Tis my shiny new community, so I am indulging in the first post. Tis a story that was very fun to write.
Title: "Soul Food"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cocoajava
Pairing: Tim Bayliss and his Mind. Guest appearances by Frank and Munch.
Rating: G (Also rated C for confused, L for lonely and A for Awwww.)
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street (AKA "the best damned television show ever")
Summary: The small glimpses we've been allowed into Tim's apartment and life there haven't been nearly enough for me, so I thought I'd fool about with that setting. This is simply a ramble, no major plot is in store, and was fun to write. Tis also offered out forsuzene's birthday.
Feedback: Oh god, yes. :D
Warnings: It's a bit.... cheesy.
Tim’s apartment in Fells Point wasn’t anything remarkable – it was basic, clean, and comfortable, lacking any sort of personality whatsoever. The plain, functional furniture could in no way be mistaken for belonging to anyone other than a confirmed bachelor. Ah, wait – there was one standout difference between Tim’s place and the average generic bachelor pad. That was his bookshelf. It covered one wall completely, and was stuffed with all sorts of self-help books, lined up in what at first would seem to be a very confusing order, but upon closer examination, proved to be ordered by the author’s country of origin.
Detective Bayliss pushed through his front door, his head just barely missing the top of the doorframe. His broad shoulders sagged a bit under the weight of another long shift working Homicide, followed by a few hours of bartending at the Waterfront. He tossed his keys at a copper pot on an end table, missed and heard them thunk softly on the carpet as he trudged on to the bedroom. That room contained a comfortable, rumpled, unmade bed, a dresser, and in the corner, five boxes of books that wouldn’t fit the living room shelves. Tim kept meaning to get another bookcase for the bedroom. He carefully hung up his extremely long cloth overcoat and changed out of his distressingly bland suit and gawdawful tie into much more comfortable sweats, which had the effect of immediately transforming the man from a figure of authority into an extremely longlegged kid. He shoved his hair back out of his eyes, and it promptly fell right back over his forehead. A battered Orioles baseball cap slung backwards over the offending mop of hair fixed that problem, and Tim was officially dressed for another evening at home.
The expression on his face as he sighed and flipped on the television told of far too many nights like these, which was an ironic circumstance to be in, considering Tim was a good-looking man who spent his working hours dealing with every possible slice of humanity in Baltimore. Tim was a people person. Only catch was, hardly anyone out there was a Tim person. Now and then he’d connect with someone, but it never seemed to last. Maybe if he’d step outside the world of Homicide now and then, things just might be different. But it wasn’t like Tim to even know how to stop stumbling into short affairs with his fellow detectives, or accepting offers from the likes of a handsome restaurateur who loved Tim’s tie and helped solve a crime, or a combat-craving freelance crime scene coffin-sleeping artist who wished to bronze his head. Somewhere outside this bizarre working/social realm were people who, amazingly enough, were not connected in the least to Baltimore Homicide. Maybe there were entire Tim-like social circles out there, just waiting to welcome in one of their own.
Maybe. It was unlikely that Tim would ever find out. He clung to his reluctant-to-return-the-favor Homicide family, extending it only to include those rare patrons of the Waterfront that managed to find a barstool unoccupied by a cop.
And so it was that Tim faced down his Friday night. At least the television wasn’t letting him down. The kid's channel was running a vintage Mighty Mouse cartoon. Tim grinned and dropped to the couch, losing himself to his favorite rodenty hero. The commercial break and his impatiently growling stomach brought him back to the present. Right. Food. Tim pondered calling out for pizza, but he’d done that last night. And now that he thought about it, the night before, too. “Okay. I will cook for myself. Because I am a responsible, adult male and I can cook if I want to.”
He loped into the undersized apartment kitchen, and began poking about in search of dinner inspiration. In spite of being a responsible, adult male, Tim’s kitchen looked as if it had been stocked by a fourteen year old boy.
The cupboards yielded up dozens of cans of Campbell’s vegetable soup (with ABC’s and 123’s, for writing messages in your spoon to send to your stomach.), and a package of Chips Ahoy cookies, one of which immediately disappeared into Tim’s mouth. Life is short, eat dessert first, as the saying goes. The freezer was a solid wall of frozen entrees.
The fridge contained beer. Lots of beer. Individually wrapped American cheese slices, sticks of butter and a jar of Miracle Whip wrestled for space among the cans. A balanced diet needed vegetables, though, and if one were to dig back behind the beer cans they’d find a half used jar of dill pickle chips.
On top of the fridge sat five opened boxes of cold cereal and a loaf of white bread. White bread. Tim quietly closed the freezer and stared at it, lost in thought. ‘The Incident’ had happened two years ago, but Frank’s words still stuck in Tim’s brain, and would still bob to the surface at unexpected times, like this one. Tim’s mind was a strange maze of memories, hurts, slights, small victories, great losses, and too many fears for one man to carry. Some of the older memories were niched away in closed off corners of his mind, but most of Tim’s thoughts existed in a free-form jumble that was never far beneath the surface.
“It’s not about the sandwich, Frank.” Tim muttered as he munched his cookie and popped open a beer. “It’s not about the sandwich because you don’t understand the guy that wanted the sandwich.” Tim was fully aware he was alone at home and talking to himself.
Tim owned four plates, four bowls, a handful of silverware, a few dozen mismatched glasses (including cartoon festooned jelly jars), a spatula, one pot and a fry pan. He would never win any awards for his kitchen, but it was enough to keep him fed, more or less, not that his gaunt frame could offer any testament to this.
He grabbed the fry pan in a well-practiced motion, plopping it on the blue gas flame on the stove top. He cut off a thick slice of butter, flicking it off the knife with his thumb, into the pan. Amazingly, he did not cut himself. This time. The butter sizzled, sounding like the whish of a wire brush drumstick, the start of a good bit of jazz music. Tim imitated the sound with a hissed breath through his teeth, then crooned out a few snippets of song, managing to stay only a little off-key.
Two slices of bread were covered in more butter, one was dropped slick side down into the pan, offering up more sizzle-sounds. Three slices of American cheese shimmied shyly out of their wrappers and lay down to wait on the pan-warmed slice, anticipating their tucking in under a blanket of more bread.
Tim liked to lift the edge of the top slice and peek at the cheese as the sandwich cooked. He’d take a look, wait a minute, and then peek again. There was something about that moment of surrender when the cheese would sigh and give up its form, the three separate, distinct slices finally melting against the bread in a warm, sticky mass.
Cooking grilled cheese sandwiches was indeed a very sensual experience to Tim. Perhaps, somewhere far, far away, one of those aforementioned theoretical Tim-like souls was also lifting a browned, gooey sandwich onto a plate, reaching for the pickles, and popping open a fresh beer.
* * *
Monday morning, dressed again in one of his unfortunate work suits, Tim ambled into the Homicide squad room and headed straight for the coffee. Back at his desk, he nodded at Frank, who eyed him warily. “Have a good weekend, Tim? Out there doing whatever it is that single, confused, bisexual men do on the weekend, not that I want to know. Please don’t tell me.” His upper lip curled, a pencil twirled in his fingertips, and intense eyes dared Tim to for once in his life, to please just shut up and work.
“Thank you for asking, Frank.” In spite of Frank’s snarky query, Tim was the sort that would always be genuinely pleased to be inquired about. Those moments reinforced in his mind that he was among family. Whether this assumption was a healthy one was another matter. “It was a weekend, Frank. Just a normal, relaxing weekend at home. Oh! Right. Um, I had some extra time this morning and cereal didn’t sound good, so I cooked my own breakfast. And I brought you some, too.” Tim reached in his coat pocket and brought out a small paper bag, neatly folded around a warm soft mass. Frank gave him a curious stare and silently unwrapped the bundle.
Frank's exasperated sigh as he tossed the sandwich across his desk made Tim cringe, those three worry wrinkles between his eyes instantly deepening into sharp creases.
“It’s just a grilled cheese sandwich, Frank.”
Frank looked incredulous, snorting out a sharp breath of air. “It’s never just anything simple with you, Bayliss. This isn’t a sandwich. It’s guilt in a ziplock bag!” Frank stood up and rubbed his head, now openly glaring at Tim. “One time. One time. I forgot one time! All right, maybe two. Whatever. I know what you’re trying to do. Tim. Let. It. Go. It was never about the sandwich!”
“Fine, Frank. You don’t want the sandwich?” Tim looked wildly around the squadroom, reached for the paper bag and walked briskly over to where Munch was intently reading the paper. “Good morning, Munch, and a fine one it is. Here. I brought you breakfast. Have a nice day.”
As Tim smugly walked back to his desk , Munch gave him one of those thin-lipped, eye squinting ‘you are such a noob’ looks, but didn’t hesitate to dig into his unexpected treat.
“I need coffee.” Franks words were a statement of fact. In spite of the scene just passed, Tim perked up. “Me too. I’ll get us both coffee.” He started to stand, but Frank slapped a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down in his chair. Frank’s mouth was open in that ‘I have a lot to say right now and it’s too much so you’re going to be subjected to my incredulous face’ expression. And then Frank ran for the coffee room. “I’ll be damned if you’ll bring me anything, Bayliss. I don’t know what coffee represents in your self-help book-addled brain but I’m not playing into it! I’m bringing the coffee!”
Tim leaned back, a confused half-grin forming. “Frank’s bringing me coffee. I should tell him it’s never about the coffee.”
Munch heard that. He chewed his bite of sandwich quickly and swallowed. “Don’t tell him that, Tim! Geez! Just take your free delivery and shut up! Because, my young confused friend, let me tell you once and for all. It was never about anything. It’s just food and coffee. All quite fleeting and transitory, though very tasty, and you are welcome to bring me sandwiches any day of the week.” Munch was on a roll now. “But. Bayliss. If you do not stop reading ultimate meanings of life into lunch deliveries and coffee runs, I will go find Gee and tell him you’re bothering me with detailed descriptions of erotic dreams involving threesomes between you, Barnfather, and Falsone. I mean it. Now shut up and … solve a case. Turn red to black. Something. Oh. Is this a pickle?”
Title: "Soul Food"
Author:
cocoajavaPairing: Tim Bayliss and his Mind. Guest appearances by Frank and Munch.
Rating: G (Also rated C for confused, L for lonely and A for Awwww.)
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street (AKA "the best damned television show ever")
Summary: The small glimpses we've been allowed into Tim's apartment and life there haven't been nearly enough for me, so I thought I'd fool about with that setting. This is simply a ramble, no major plot is in store, and was fun to write. Tis also offered out for
suzene's birthday.Feedback: Oh god, yes. :D
Warnings: It's a bit.... cheesy.
Tim’s apartment in Fells Point wasn’t anything remarkable – it was basic, clean, and comfortable, lacking any sort of personality whatsoever. The plain, functional furniture could in no way be mistaken for belonging to anyone other than a confirmed bachelor. Ah, wait – there was one standout difference between Tim’s place and the average generic bachelor pad. That was his bookshelf. It covered one wall completely, and was stuffed with all sorts of self-help books, lined up in what at first would seem to be a very confusing order, but upon closer examination, proved to be ordered by the author’s country of origin.
Detective Bayliss pushed through his front door, his head just barely missing the top of the doorframe. His broad shoulders sagged a bit under the weight of another long shift working Homicide, followed by a few hours of bartending at the Waterfront. He tossed his keys at a copper pot on an end table, missed and heard them thunk softly on the carpet as he trudged on to the bedroom. That room contained a comfortable, rumpled, unmade bed, a dresser, and in the corner, five boxes of books that wouldn’t fit the living room shelves. Tim kept meaning to get another bookcase for the bedroom. He carefully hung up his extremely long cloth overcoat and changed out of his distressingly bland suit and gawdawful tie into much more comfortable sweats, which had the effect of immediately transforming the man from a figure of authority into an extremely longlegged kid. He shoved his hair back out of his eyes, and it promptly fell right back over his forehead. A battered Orioles baseball cap slung backwards over the offending mop of hair fixed that problem, and Tim was officially dressed for another evening at home.
The expression on his face as he sighed and flipped on the television told of far too many nights like these, which was an ironic circumstance to be in, considering Tim was a good-looking man who spent his working hours dealing with every possible slice of humanity in Baltimore. Tim was a people person. Only catch was, hardly anyone out there was a Tim person. Now and then he’d connect with someone, but it never seemed to last. Maybe if he’d step outside the world of Homicide now and then, things just might be different. But it wasn’t like Tim to even know how to stop stumbling into short affairs with his fellow detectives, or accepting offers from the likes of a handsome restaurateur who loved Tim’s tie and helped solve a crime, or a combat-craving freelance crime scene coffin-sleeping artist who wished to bronze his head. Somewhere outside this bizarre working/social realm were people who, amazingly enough, were not connected in the least to Baltimore Homicide. Maybe there were entire Tim-like social circles out there, just waiting to welcome in one of their own.
Maybe. It was unlikely that Tim would ever find out. He clung to his reluctant-to-return-the-favor Homicide family, extending it only to include those rare patrons of the Waterfront that managed to find a barstool unoccupied by a cop.
And so it was that Tim faced down his Friday night. At least the television wasn’t letting him down. The kid's channel was running a vintage Mighty Mouse cartoon. Tim grinned and dropped to the couch, losing himself to his favorite rodenty hero. The commercial break and his impatiently growling stomach brought him back to the present. Right. Food. Tim pondered calling out for pizza, but he’d done that last night. And now that he thought about it, the night before, too. “Okay. I will cook for myself. Because I am a responsible, adult male and I can cook if I want to.”
He loped into the undersized apartment kitchen, and began poking about in search of dinner inspiration. In spite of being a responsible, adult male, Tim’s kitchen looked as if it had been stocked by a fourteen year old boy.
The cupboards yielded up dozens of cans of Campbell’s vegetable soup (with ABC’s and 123’s, for writing messages in your spoon to send to your stomach.), and a package of Chips Ahoy cookies, one of which immediately disappeared into Tim’s mouth. Life is short, eat dessert first, as the saying goes. The freezer was a solid wall of frozen entrees.
The fridge contained beer. Lots of beer. Individually wrapped American cheese slices, sticks of butter and a jar of Miracle Whip wrestled for space among the cans. A balanced diet needed vegetables, though, and if one were to dig back behind the beer cans they’d find a half used jar of dill pickle chips.
On top of the fridge sat five opened boxes of cold cereal and a loaf of white bread. White bread. Tim quietly closed the freezer and stared at it, lost in thought. ‘The Incident’ had happened two years ago, but Frank’s words still stuck in Tim’s brain, and would still bob to the surface at unexpected times, like this one. Tim’s mind was a strange maze of memories, hurts, slights, small victories, great losses, and too many fears for one man to carry. Some of the older memories were niched away in closed off corners of his mind, but most of Tim’s thoughts existed in a free-form jumble that was never far beneath the surface.
“You always do this to me, nobody else, just me. Just your partner.”
You ordered...a meatball hero?
“Grilled cheese.”
Oh, that's it.
“That's what? What's wrong with a grilled cheese sandwich?”
It's so... you know... white boy.
“White boy?”
Yeah, it's such a non-statement. White bread, cheese, you know?
“This isn't about the sandwich Frank, this is about you and me.”
No, it's the sandwich.
“You know, you're starting to display passive-aggressive tendencies. You're trying to tell me something by not bringing me lunch.”
No. It's the sandwich.
“It’s not about the sandwich, Frank.” Tim muttered as he munched his cookie and popped open a beer. “It’s not about the sandwich because you don’t understand the guy that wanted the sandwich.” Tim was fully aware he was alone at home and talking to himself.
Tim owned four plates, four bowls, a handful of silverware, a few dozen mismatched glasses (including cartoon festooned jelly jars), a spatula, one pot and a fry pan. He would never win any awards for his kitchen, but it was enough to keep him fed, more or less, not that his gaunt frame could offer any testament to this.
He grabbed the fry pan in a well-practiced motion, plopping it on the blue gas flame on the stove top. He cut off a thick slice of butter, flicking it off the knife with his thumb, into the pan. Amazingly, he did not cut himself. This time. The butter sizzled, sounding like the whish of a wire brush drumstick, the start of a good bit of jazz music. Tim imitated the sound with a hissed breath through his teeth, then crooned out a few snippets of song, managing to stay only a little off-key.
Two slices of bread were covered in more butter, one was dropped slick side down into the pan, offering up more sizzle-sounds. Three slices of American cheese shimmied shyly out of their wrappers and lay down to wait on the pan-warmed slice, anticipating their tucking in under a blanket of more bread.
Tim liked to lift the edge of the top slice and peek at the cheese as the sandwich cooked. He’d take a look, wait a minute, and then peek again. There was something about that moment of surrender when the cheese would sigh and give up its form, the three separate, distinct slices finally melting against the bread in a warm, sticky mass.
Cooking grilled cheese sandwiches was indeed a very sensual experience to Tim. Perhaps, somewhere far, far away, one of those aforementioned theoretical Tim-like souls was also lifting a browned, gooey sandwich onto a plate, reaching for the pickles, and popping open a fresh beer.
Monday morning, dressed again in one of his unfortunate work suits, Tim ambled into the Homicide squad room and headed straight for the coffee. Back at his desk, he nodded at Frank, who eyed him warily. “Have a good weekend, Tim? Out there doing whatever it is that single, confused, bisexual men do on the weekend, not that I want to know. Please don’t tell me.” His upper lip curled, a pencil twirled in his fingertips, and intense eyes dared Tim to for once in his life, to please just shut up and work.
“Thank you for asking, Frank.” In spite of Frank’s snarky query, Tim was the sort that would always be genuinely pleased to be inquired about. Those moments reinforced in his mind that he was among family. Whether this assumption was a healthy one was another matter. “It was a weekend, Frank. Just a normal, relaxing weekend at home. Oh! Right. Um, I had some extra time this morning and cereal didn’t sound good, so I cooked my own breakfast. And I brought you some, too.” Tim reached in his coat pocket and brought out a small paper bag, neatly folded around a warm soft mass. Frank gave him a curious stare and silently unwrapped the bundle.
Frank's exasperated sigh as he tossed the sandwich across his desk made Tim cringe, those three worry wrinkles between his eyes instantly deepening into sharp creases.
“It’s just a grilled cheese sandwich, Frank.”
Frank looked incredulous, snorting out a sharp breath of air. “It’s never just anything simple with you, Bayliss. This isn’t a sandwich. It’s guilt in a ziplock bag!” Frank stood up and rubbed his head, now openly glaring at Tim. “One time. One time. I forgot one time! All right, maybe two. Whatever. I know what you’re trying to do. Tim. Let. It. Go. It was never about the sandwich!”
“Fine, Frank. You don’t want the sandwich?” Tim looked wildly around the squadroom, reached for the paper bag and walked briskly over to where Munch was intently reading the paper. “Good morning, Munch, and a fine one it is. Here. I brought you breakfast. Have a nice day.”
As Tim smugly walked back to his desk , Munch gave him one of those thin-lipped, eye squinting ‘you are such a noob’ looks, but didn’t hesitate to dig into his unexpected treat.
“I need coffee.” Franks words were a statement of fact. In spite of the scene just passed, Tim perked up. “Me too. I’ll get us both coffee.” He started to stand, but Frank slapped a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down in his chair. Frank’s mouth was open in that ‘I have a lot to say right now and it’s too much so you’re going to be subjected to my incredulous face’ expression. And then Frank ran for the coffee room. “I’ll be damned if you’ll bring me anything, Bayliss. I don’t know what coffee represents in your self-help book-addled brain but I’m not playing into it! I’m bringing the coffee!”
Tim leaned back, a confused half-grin forming. “Frank’s bringing me coffee. I should tell him it’s never about the coffee.”
Munch heard that. He chewed his bite of sandwich quickly and swallowed. “Don’t tell him that, Tim! Geez! Just take your free delivery and shut up! Because, my young confused friend, let me tell you once and for all. It was never about anything. It’s just food and coffee. All quite fleeting and transitory, though very tasty, and you are welcome to bring me sandwiches any day of the week.” Munch was on a roll now. “But. Bayliss. If you do not stop reading ultimate meanings of life into lunch deliveries and coffee runs, I will go find Gee and tell him you’re bothering me with detailed descriptions of erotic dreams involving threesomes between you, Barnfather, and Falsone. I mean it. Now shut up and … solve a case. Turn red to black. Something. Oh. Is this a pickle?”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 05:09 pm (UTC)Maybe there were entire Tim-like social circles out there, just waiting to welcome in one of their own.
Maybe. It was unlikely that Tim would ever find out. He clung to his reluctant-to-return-the-favor Homicide family, extending it only to include those rare patrons of the Waterfront that managed to find a barstool unoccupied by a cop.
And so it was that Tim faced down his Friday night. At least the television wasn’t letting him down. The kid's channel was running a vintage Mighty Mouse cartoon. Tim grinned and dropped to the couch, losing himself to his favorite rodenty hero. The commercial break and his impatiently growling stomach brought him back to the present. Right. Food. Tim pondered calling out for pizza, but he’d done that last night. And now that he thought about it, the night before, too. “Okay. I will cook for myself. Because I am a responsible, adult male and I can cook if I want to.”
Really hooked me, and that's totally Tim's voice. What a nice break in the middle of the day!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 07:47 pm (UTC)