Title: Freedom's Waiting
Fandom: Battle Creek
Rating: R
Length: ~3900 words
Notes: Russ/Milt, set post-canon (major spoilers). Mild hurt/comfort. I came across a WIP from early 2016 and decided it needed finishing. Many thanks to cyphomandra for beta and to people in my journal comments who gave me h/c advice! No warnings apply.
Summary: Russ shoved him into the passenger seat, impatient but gentle, and got behind the wheel. “You can’t go back to that antiseptic hellhole you call an apartment. It’s insane. Besides, you’re my partner.” He glared at Milt as if expecting an argument.


“What do you mean, you’re letting him go? He’s unconscious!”

Russ sounded furiously incredulous. So basically, he sounded like Russ.

“I’m fine.” Milt opened his eyes. His shoulder was throbbing despite the pain meds, but the bullet had passed right through without hitting anything vital. He could heal as well at home as he could here. He avoided Russ’s eye and looked to the doctor for support. “Right, doc?”

“Yes, you are, but we can keep you in overnight if you’d like, just to be sure.”

“That’s not necessary.” Milt sat up, suppressing a wince. Russ had probably sustained more injury than he had, when Casey’s father kicked him.

“Don’t be an idiot, Milt,” said Russ, but Milt couldn’t read his tone, and he couldn’t stay here. The burden of guilt he’d been carrying for the last six years was still there, despite his absolution by gunshot, and he needed to be alone to figure out what that meant going forward. Forward. Positive. Embrace the day.

His workout that morning seemed a lifetime ago. And damn, he wouldn’t be able to go for another run for at least a week. Now the euphoria of not dying had worn off, that was going to suck. Sometimes pushing himself physically was the only thing that kept him sane.

He looked around for his shirt, to find Russ holding it out to him. “Here. You’re a grown man, you can make moronic decisions if you want.”

He watched, hands on hips, as Milt struggled to put it on, snorted when he managed to get it across his bandaged shoulder, and turned away as Milt fastened the buttons one-handed. Apparently he’d been bluffing, hoping Milt would demonstrate his own incapacity.

Milt focused on the complexity of clothing himself. He still couldn’t look at Russ, scared of what he’d see: triumph that Russ’s suspicions had been confirmed, Milt really had been conning them all. Or loathing, which would be well deserved, given what Milt had done to Casey. Or Russ might simply be remote and disinterested, now the mystery of Milt’s arrival in Battle Creek was solved.

Any of those reactions would be understandable, but Milt wasn’t up to facing them right now. He pulled on his pants and stood up to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thank you.”

She smiled and held out his prescription and discharge papers, but Russ snatched them, muttering, “Give me those. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to.” Milt tried to take them back, but Russ held them out of reach.

“Look, if you’re determined to do this, just get in the damned wheelchair or you’ll pull your stitches.”

“Fine,” said Milt. Once his prescription was filled, he could get a taxi from the hospital entrance.


*


“I can get a cab,” he insisted, climbing out of the wheelchair. “I’m fine.”

“Shut up,” said Russ, dragging him toward Russ’s crapheap of a car. “You’re staying with me.”

Milt knew he wasn’t at his sharpest, but that still didn’t compute. “What? No, that’s not necessary.” He injected it with all the firmness he could muster, which it turned out wasn’t a lot.

Russ shoved him into the passenger seat, impatient but gentle, and got behind the wheel. “You can’t go back to that antiseptic hellhole you call an apartment. It’s insane. Besides, you’re my partner.”

He glared at Milt as if expecting an argument.

Milt stared back. “Okay.”

“What?” said Russ, starting the car.

“Nothing.” He suddenly felt incredibly tired. “I’m just not used to you being—kind.”

“Hey, what are you saying?” Russ navigated the parking lot and headed east. “I’m not a monster. I can be kind.”

“Apparently.” Milt leaned his head back where the headrest should be, forgetting for a moment that Russ’s car didn’t have headrests. He caught himself just in time, and leaned gingerly against the passenger window instead, hoping the door latch wouldn’t give while they were in motion.

“That’s right.” Russ patted his arm, approvingly. “Get some rest.”

“You know, a couple of weeks ago, you wouldn’t even have a beer with me,” Milt muttered. “You don’t have to pretend you care just because I got shot.”

“A couple of weeks ago, you were still lying to me.” Russ took a left into his street. “I don’t drink with people I don’t trust.”

“But now you trust me.” Milt almost laughed. Now Russ knew he’d been responsible for the death of his teenage CI, now Russ trusted him.

Russ’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer, and there didn’t seem anything more to say. Milt rubbed his eyes and gathered his energy for the stairs up to Russ’s apartment.


*


Milt knew the location of Russ’s apartment, he’d done his homework, but of course he’d never been there before. Russ unlocked the door, flipped on the lights and headed straight through to the kitchen, leaving Milt to wander into the living room. It was plain—not much more elaborately furnished than Milt’s place, really—but unlike his place, it felt lived in. A battered leather couch sat against the far brick wall, with wood-slat venetians covering the windows on either side. There were a few books on the coffee table, more on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf by the door.

Milt sat on the couch and poked through the clutter on the coffee table: bills, junk mail, Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke, Drinking Sapphire Wine by Tanith Lee, a book of Asimov short stories. “I didn’t know you read science fiction.”

“Only the classics.” Russ came to stand in the doorway. “You know, that means nothing published after the eighties.” Several volumes on the shelves belied this declaration, but before Milt could point that out, Russ went on. “If you’re done searching the place without a warrant, do you want to tell me if you’re hungry? I’ve got canned soup and frozen pizza, or we can send out for something.”

“Whatever you prefer,” said Milt.

“Yeah, no, the guy who took a bullet gets to choose what he eats,” says Russ. “Pick something.”

What Milt really wanted was a steak, smothered in onions and gravy, with fresh greens, but he was exhausted and hungry and sore. He smiled. “Frozen pizza sounds great.”

Russ narrowed his eyes as if he found Milt’s manners personally offensive, but he just shrugged. “Your funeral.”

The pizza was as bad as Milt had feared (“Oh, man, that’s disgusting. Why did you choose this, seriously?” said Russ, accusingly), but they washed it down with flat Coke, and then Milt stopped trying to smother his yawns, and Russ took the hint. “Bedroom’s through there,” he said, pointing with the hand wrapped around the beer can. “Bathroom too. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

“Oh, I can take the couch,” said Milt, patting the leather cushion beside him. “It’s no trouble.”

Russ sighed and leaned forward. “Would you cut the B.S.? You’re injured, you get the bed. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same for me.”

Milt pressed his lips together. He would never have to do the same for Russ, because Russ had Detective Fontanelle and Commander Guziewicz and half a dozen others who’d take him in and care for him if he got shot. And if for some reason—say a city-wide plague—it eventuated that they were all unable to extend their hospitality, Milt’s apartment had a guest room. But that didn’t negate Russ’s reasoning, and if Russ wanted to express some kind of chivalry to Milt for the first time ever, Milt probably shouldn’t throw it back in his face. “Okay. Thanks.”

He sounded grudging, even to his own ears, but it was the best he could do, and for some reason, it made Russ’s lips curl in an almost-smile. “You’re welcome. Night-night.”


*


Milt slept like the dead and woke early. Russ’s bed was big—they could have shared, if Russ really trusted him—and surprisingly comfortable. Milt hadn’t closed the blinds, so stripes of sunlight crept across the covers toward him.

He levered himself upright with his good arm, took some painkillers and managed thirty-nine and a half crunches and eighteen squats before admitting to himself that he might need a rest day. He could resume his exercise regimen when he was back in his own place with the specialized weights machines.

It was still early, but he needed to use the bathroom and get a drink, so he ventured into the rest of the apartment, despite the risk of waking Russ. To his surprise, though, when he went through to the kitchen, Russ was lying on the couch, reading.

He glanced up without closing his book. “Hey. Sleep okay?”

“Yeah.” Milt drank a glass of water. “You want me to put coffee on?”

“Nah, I don’t have anything here for breakfast, so I thought we’d eat out.”

His inclusion in this casual plan made Milt’s eyes sting, which was so ridiculous, it could only be a side-effect of the pain meds. They must be why he felt so fragile and exposed. He covered with a nod and a casual complaint. “I usually start the day with a run, get the blood pumping. Guess I won’t be doing that for the next week or two.”

Russ set his book aside and came over. He was in t-shirt and shorts, his hair sticking up, and the effect would have been comical if it weren’t for the intensity of his gaze. “You know, you’re strung tighter than a—I don’t know what. I do know you’re going to crack if you don’t let off some steam.”

Milt leaned on the counter, holding his shoulder. “That’s why I run.”

Russ pursed his lips.

“Well, what do you suggest?” said Milt, a touch defensively.

“That depends,” said Russ, and walked away toward the bedroom. Apparently that was the end of that conversation.

Milt followed, compelled by a flash of suspicion. “Depends on what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” Russ took some clothes out of the dresser and started toward the bathroom, but Milt boxed him in by the door. He might have one arm out of commission, but he still had the height advantage.

“How exactly do you suggest I blow off steam, Russ?”

Russ went very still. In Brock’s trunk yesterday, he’d fidgeted the whole way, as if he were physically incapable of keeping still, but now he might have been made of stone. He met Milt’s eye head on, clear and open, and then his gaze flicked to Milt’s mouth and back up, and Milt froze too, habitual guilt crashing through him like a wave grinding his life into sand.

Milt leaned back. “I don’t—”

“Okay,” said Russ quickly. “Forget it. No harm, no foul, right?” He clutched his clean clothes tighter and stepped sideways, away, but Milt caught his arm.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he explained. “I don’t deserve it.”

Russ’s forehead wrinkled. “What, me? You don’t deserve me? You know, most people would consider me a punishment, not some kind of aspirational prize.” He twisted his arm free and backed through the doorway, then stopped. “So, but you do. With guys.”

“I’ve been known to.” A long time ago. But then, it had been years since he’d been with anyone. He’d been too busy trying to balance the scales. To live a good life. And yes, to punish himself.

“And you would?”

Milt licked his lips, still not a hundred percent sure this wasn’t a trap or a really bad idea, but abruptly desperate for it anyway. “If you would.”

Russ sucked in air through his nose, and the moment stretched and crested. “Breakfast first.”

Time to think was the last thing Milt wanted, but he swallowed a protest. “All right.”

“And coffee,” said Russ. “Lots of coffee.”


*


They walked to a diner around the corner and ate pancakes and bacon, and argued about Asimov’s laws of robotics and whether they applied to humans too.

“You know, just because you enjoy flagellating yourself for a mistake you made six years ago, doesn’t mean it’s the morally right thing to do,” said Russ, gesturing with his fork. “What about forgiveness?”

Milt put down his coffee cup. Russ couldn’t seem to grasp the enormity of his crime. “It wasn’t a ‘mistake.’ I got an innocent kid killed.”

“Hey, I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel bad. But carrying it around like it’s some big dark secret you can’t even acknowledge, like you’re the only person to ever screw up and no one could possibly understand your terrible pain—that’s not atonement, that’s not honoring a dead kid’s memory. It’s just really fucking annoying.”

“Thanks for the advice, Russ, really.” Milt glared at him, hoping that would shut him up, but Russ was on a roll.

“I mean, why not get therapy like every other dumb schmuck? Because you think you’re better than other people, admit it.”

There was an unusually gentle note to the accusation, but Milt didn’t have time to figure that out; he had to shut him down. “You’re one to talk.”

“Well, if you’re going to take me as a role-model…” Russ shrugged and picked up his coffee cup.

Milt blinked. Something was off. For once, Russ wasn’t scoring points for the hell of it. He actually seemed sincere.

Russ finished his coffee and signaled to the waitress for a refill. “You know those gang members who come out of prison all seen-the-light and then go and work with at-risk youth? They can’t do that if they pretend they were saints since the day they were born. They have to own what they did.” He picked something out of his teeth with his tongue. “If you weren’t so determined to martyr yourself, you could have been a role-model for delinquent feds.”

“Except I didn’t go to prison, Russ. I got a commendation and a promotion.” The old anger flared, but he kept his voice level. “What kind of message does that send?”

“You think you’re not in prison?”

Milt opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say to that.

Russ drained his coffee and dropped two tens on the table. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”


*


They stopped at a grocery store so Russ could stock up on caffeine, saturated fats and E-numbers. Milt added milk, steak, and free-range bacon and eggs to the basket. He’d need to shop again when he went back to his own apartment later that day, but in the meantime the least he could do to repay Russ’s hospitality was to leave something of nutritional value in his fridge to go with the Pop-Tarts.

He expected an argument at the check-out when he pulled out his credit card, but Russ just slid his own wallet back into his pocket, though afterwards he grabbed the bag out of Milt’s good arm with a muttered, “Give me those!” so Milt was reasonably confident he hadn’t been body-snatched.

Back at the apartment, Russ put the groceries away while Milt leaned against the kitchen counter, drank a glass of water and took more painkillers. His shoulder was throbbing. And Russ was acting so matter-of-fact it could have been any other day. Had he forgotten their exchange earlier? Maybe conversations didn’t stick if there was no caffeine in his bloodstream.

The refrigerator door closed with the clinking of loose beer bottles, and Russ turned and folded his arms. “You changed your mind?”

He was the prickliest, most suspicious man in Battle Creek, and the fact he was offering to get up close and personal meant something. The tension that’d always hung in the air between them seemed to have relocated to the tight set of Russ’s shoulders and the clench of his hands. He looked like he’d be as rough a ride as his car.

And Milt wanted that. He could tell himself it was just that he needed to feel something besides the ache in his shoulder and the endless rolling sea of guilt, but the truth was, Russ was magnetic and smart and stubborn, and Milt got far too much pleasure out of provoking him.

He hadn’t changed his mind at all. “No.”

Russ stood there blinking for one beat, two, and then pushed Milt bodily toward the leather couch, still scattered with Russ’s pillow and blanket. “Sit down.”

Milt moved the pillow aside and sat. Russ shoved the coffee table back, carelessly sending a spill of bills across the floor, and knelt in front of Milt on the flokati rug, gripping his knees. Milt’s mouth went dry. “What are you doing?”

“Listen, I have zero intention of being the cross you hang yourself on. So just stay still and relax. If you pull even one of your stitches, we’re stopping, got it?”

Milt nodded, too distracted by the way Russ’s thumbs were rubbing circles on the insides of his knees to think.

“And just for the record—” Russ leaned in slightly, his body taut as a violin string. “—normal people would already know this but you’re such a mess I’m gonna spell it out—whatever happens here places you under no obligation for anything. Reciprocation is not required. You don’t even have to remember my name.”

“Were you always this much of a romantic, Russ?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.” Milt slouched lower on the couch, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, curving his spine and sliding his ass forward, letting his thighs close around Russ’s hips.

“Yeah, fine, whatever.” Russ reached for Milt’s belt, and for a moment both of them were scrabbling to get Milt’s pants down, and then Milt had his pants around his ankles, soft blanket against his ass and Russ’s hand wrapped around his semi-hard cock.

Russ was still vibrating, but as soon as he put his head down, the tension seemed to drain out of him, so maybe Milt wasn’t the only one letting off steam. He closed his eyes and licked the head of Milt’s cock and then sucked it into his hot, wet mouth. It was a mouth that had jeered at Milt for months, but this was different—Russ knew the truth about him now and didn’t hate him, actually seemed to like him better. Then Russ pumped his hand and sucked, and something, maybe a knuckle, slid behind Milt’s balls and pressed up, and Milt stopped thinking anything at all, threw his head back and panted silently at the ceiling, feeling himself coalesce in Russ’s mouth, hard and urgent.

God, he needed this. He’d been treating his body like a machine: maintaining it scrupulously and pushing it to perform. But he wasn’t a machine, he was an animal, and he was suddenly starving for touch, for release. That Russ was the one filling his need seemed oddly right.

What wasn’t right—what was downright shocking—was how gently he was doing it. He withdrew his knuckles from where they were buried under Milt and rubbed his thigh instead, as if he was soothing a startled horse. Almost as if he were petting him.

Milt got the message, and he tried to relax, but the moment he loosened his control he started babbling like an idiot. That’s good, that’s really good, God, fuck, yes, keep going, just like that—

Russ made a sound in the back of his throat. Was he laughing? But he met Milt’s eye, and even with the crinkles around his eyes it was okay, and that was just as well because Milt couldn’t shut up. And Russ seemed to appreciate it, started going to town, his hand wet with saliva, moving freely, so good. Something hot and sharp pinged through Milt’s shoulder, and he tried his best to relax, but that just meant he couldn’t hold off anymore. “Russ. Russ, I’m—”

But Russ didn’t stop, and about thirty seconds later, because that was all Milt could manage, everything gathered into a dark urgent pulse, and Milt came, groaning, in Russ’s mouth.

He waited for his heart to stop racing, and then wiped his face on his sleeve, feeling like he might die—or at the very least, sleep for a week. When he looked, Russ was sitting back on his heels, flushed and red-lipped. There were sweat blotches on his t-shirt and a satisfied look on his face, not even a smirk. He pointed at him. “How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s fine,” said Milt automatically. He tucked himself away, mostly one-handed, and zipped up, then saw Russ’s raised eyebrow. “Sore, but I’ll live.”

“Okay.” Russ was obviously hard in his pants, but he wasn’t making any moves to deal with it. Milt felt he should offer, but he couldn’t summon the energy to figure out how.

Instead, without meaning to, he said, “Why are you doing this?”

“Call it a mutual benefit.” Russ shrugged and clambered onto the couch beside him, wincing as he straightened his knees. “You needed it, and I wanted to.”

It was ludicrous that I wanted to should be the final straw, especially given half the people Milt met in Battle Creek hit on him the moment they met him, and yet Milt had to look away quickly to hide the tears burning his eyes. It was the painkillers, or the orgasm, or God, the shock from yesterday when his past had caught up with him and he’d been sure he was going to die. It was six years of waiting for justice, and instead somehow ending up here. It was affection from the least likely source. It was Russ.

Russ, who had always been the one bitching him out and calling him on his bullshit. Russ wasn’t dazzled. Russ knew him.

“Hey, you’re gonna be okay.” Russ squeezed the back of Milt’s neck. He didn’t even sound offended.

Milt bit his lip, trying to shove it all back down into the bottom of his ribcage where it belonged, but now he’d relaxed his control, feelings kept rising up in waves. All kinds of feelings. Complicated ones. Sad ones. Attraction and desire. He took a shallow breath, and then a deeper one. “Russ?”

“What?”

“Can I stay here again tonight?”

Russ huffed. “No, I’m going to kick my partner out on the street when he’s just been shot. What kind of an asshole do you take me for?”

It wouldn’t be the street. Milt had a perfectly functional apartment of his own, but okay, he got the sentiment. Partners. He inhaled again, let it out and turned to face Russ. “Your bed’s big enough for two.”

Russ’s gaze flicked over his face as if he were assessing a crime scene. “Yeah.”

His hand was still on the back of Milt’s neck, his thumb rubbing up and down. Milt arched into it slightly, his heart beating heavily. “Russ—can I kiss you?”

Russ reached out his legs like he was trying to casually prop his feet on the coffee table, but he’d shoved it too far away earlier and the movement turned into an ungainly kick. “Uh, that depends. I mean, if it’s just one more way of torturing yourself—”

Milt grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close. “It isn’t,” he said, and he kissed him.



END