He still watches Mighty Mouse whenever it's on. He still eats sugary cereal in the morning, only occasionally with a beer alongside it. He still wears his baseball caps backwards when he's off duty, even though he knows it looks stupid. He's considering growing out his bangs again, although he knows they make him look young. He's six foot five, thirty two years old, but he can sprawl across a couch like the best of them, limbs and joints everywhere like a teenage boy still in the middle of a growth spurt. He's been on the force for years, but Munch still calls him "Timmy-boy".
But Tim Bayliss has put away childish things. He has put away squeamishness. How else would he be able to pick through a dead man's pockets, looking for some hint about how that life ended? He has put away respect. How else could he pry into people's lives, push and pull them every which way until they break open and spill out what they know and what they did? He has put away optimism and pessimism. How else could he go back out there every day, walk the streets of Baltimore? He can't hope for the best, because he knows it will never come true, but he also can't give up on this city. He has settled into a cold, harsh realism; years of working with Frank will do that to a man.
But he still clings to two things, like baby blankets, at night. He has not set aside his dreams or his nightmares. He dreams of finding Adena's killer. And he has nightmares about what he has become, because he is able to ignore those dreams.