Title: A Losing Fight
Fandom: Battle Creek
Rating: PG
Length: ~660 words
Notes: Russ/Milt
Summary: Night-time alley kisses.



They were standing close, too close. They were both sweaty from the chase and the firefight and triumphant from the bust (Font and Jacocks were taking the guy in), and it was dark, and Milt was standing too close, and Russ’s back was to the wall literally, he was propped there, panting, catching his breath and just starting to vibrate with frustration, because Milt was too close and Russ wanted and he didn’t want to want, and he couldn’t even put into words exactly what he wanted, and then Milt started to lean in as if he was actually going to kiss him, here in this crappy alley that stunk of old gym shoes and piss.

“The last guy I slept with was hotter and smarter than you,” blurted Russ before he could think better of it.

Milt paused mid-lean, and it was too dark, Russ couldn’t read his expression. But his voice was as mild and fucking polite as ever. “Then why aren’t you with him now?”

And oh, no, Russ was not going to admit that Chris Hofstadter had been a drunken one-night stand twelve years ago. The point was he’d been way out of Russ’s league; the facts were more or less the facts. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” said Milt, a breathy little taunt that made Russ’s pulse stutter. Russ’s hand twitched, about to go for Milt’s tie—or maybe just punch the guy—but then Milt went on, in his overly sincere boy-scout voice, “And for the record, I’ve never slept with anyone hotter or smarter than you.”

Russ spluttered. “You are either an incredible liar or—or—I don’t know what.”

In his defense, his brain was fritzing like a BCPD taser. His hand came up to give Milt a derisive shove, but somehow it just landed on Milt’s belly and stayed there. Savoring the heat and the hard wall of muscle. Oh god, he was so screwed.

“I was speaking subjectively,” said Milt.

Russ shook his head to clear it, blinked hard. He’d more or less lost track of whatever the fuck they were talking about, but he had to keep up appearances. “What about objectively?”

“Well—” Milt tilted his head in the universal sign for pompous contemplation. “I don’t like to brag.”

“I hate you.” Russ tried to take a step back, but oh right, wall. Plus his shoe landed in something foul and squelchy. His eyes were adjusting, and he could make out Milt’s face now, his dark eyes, straight nose, perfect square jaw—so close—and punching him seemed counter-productive at this point, so Russ fisted his hands in Milt’s shirt instead, and raised up and kissed him.

Milt’s mouth opened instantly, his big, hot, wet mouth, and his tongue slid against Russ's, and Russ was overcome with a sensation a lot like vertigo. How had this happened? One minute, they’re slamming cuffs on a lying weasel of a drug dealer, and the next they’re hyperventilating into each other’s mouths? That made no sense.

Milt gripped Russ’s hips, tugging him closer, oh Jesus, then kissed across his three-day stubble to his ear. “No, you don’t.”

Russ had definitely lost the thread now. “What?”

“You don’t hate me,” said Milt, in that same soft murmur, like he was trying to hypnotize him. “You want me.”

“Yeah, uh, maybe.” Russ swallowed and tried to pull himself together, ignore the euphoria that was stealing over him and hold up his end of the logic chain. “But contrary to popular belief, those things are not mutually exclusive. Which you would know if you were an actual human being with human being emotions.” He meant to sound scornful, but it just came out in a croak, and somehow his hand was inside Milt’s shirt now, palming the smooth hot skin there, and Russ was about ten seconds from coming in his pants.

“Russ?” said Milt.

Russ cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“Shut up.” And Milt kissed him again.


END