Word Count: 900
Summary: Milos is prescribed bed rest for his injuries. And socialising, apparently.
Notes: "[Insert word] my arse!" is a British derogatory exclamation (and not, in this case, an actual reference to Milos's arse).
Lodestar: Something that serves as a guide or on which the attention is fixed.
Bed rest. Easy enough cure but, Milos was starting to rapidly appreciate, boring as fuck.
Bed rest. Easy enough cure but, Milos was starting to rapidly appreciate, boring as fuck. Any benefits to not having to go in and suffer through compulsory classes and training—and Alex—were completely negated by the fact every breath felt like someone kicked him. It hurt enough that he couldn’t even bring himself to climb out of bed to retrieve his laptop from underneath it. Hell, laying still and just breathing hurt, and he tried not to think about the trip to the toilet he’d made in the night, or the inevitability that he’d have to do it again at some point.
Really, a knock at the door was the last thing he needed to hear. But there it was—and again. He’d swear, but he hadn’t got the energy for it. He was going to need it all for the uphill challenge that was pushing himself into a sitting position and swinging his legs over the bed. With his luck, the waiting person would’ve gotten bored and left by the time he winced and grunted his way over the few short steps to the door; he didn’t know if that would be an irritation or a relief.
The sound of a key in the lock froze him as he pushed himself to his feet from the mattress, aches and twinges momentarily forgotten. This had to be the first time someone had broken into a house with a key--
Alex pushed the door open and stared at him. All of him, head to foot and back again. And smirked.
Milos could feel the parts of his flesh that weren’t mottled purple and black creep. “What the hell are you doing?”
The smirk was replaced with another expression the alfa was familiar with: boredom. “I was ordered to check up on you. Believe me, I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me.” But that smile returned as his black eyes travelled the length of his body again and Milos was sure he didn’t believe him.
He was just glad he was wearing underwear, even if the blue shorts felt like they may as well not be there under the human’s unnerving stare. “I mean,” he growled, trying to ignore the pain, “why did you knock if you’ve got a key?”
The stare, and its previous blankness, was again focused on the alfa’s face. “You wanted me to walk in on you with no warning? Anyway,” he added, glancing around the apartment, “I didn’t know if you might be... entertaining.”
“I’m not in a position to have a fucking dinner party.” Milos sat back on the bed, digging his right fingers into his knee both to control the pain and keep a rein on his temper.
“You know what I—”
“—Yes. I do.” Screw what it said on the bottle, the painkillers wearing off already. The last thing he needed was Alex’s insults to make everything even worse. “You’ve checked up on me. Now go.”
“Not that easy.” He pushed the door closed again behind him and folded his arms, staring down at his partner with an expression Milos couldn’t quite fathom and wasn’t sure he wanted to either. “They aren’t happy with us.”
“With us,” Alex repeated firmly. His eyes kept dropping below Milos’s neck. He’d almost think it was the first time he’d seen him near naked. Except it wasn’t, and based on how he was looking at him he didn’t want to think about the first time, or that it hadn’t been near naked. “Apparently this wouldn’t have happened if we trusted each other more.”
“Or at all.”
That interjection Alex ignored like it had never even been spoken. “And apparently the way to deal with this is for us to socialise.”
He was starting to suspect his knee was going to end up bearing the same colours as his back, only self-inflicted this time. “So we have to spend time with each other— I have to spend time with you—”
“Believe me,” Alex said calmly, sweeping his gaze over the apartment again, “I dislike the idea as much as you do. Aren’t you going to offer me coffee?”
It was all Milos could do not to choke. Somehow the answers no and only if I can pour it over your head seemed woefully inadequate, albeit very tempting, but if this was supposed to be an attempt at a fresh start... He pushed himself back into a standing position, teeth gritted, and made his way towards the kitchenette. He could feel Alex’s eyes upon him. One specific part of him. “Stop staring at my arse.”
The answer wrong-footed him. “What?”
“You heard me. If you breathe like that you’ll make yourself ill. If you die,” he added, and Milos could hear unexpectedly serious tones in his voice, “God only knows what they’ll drop on me next.”
Only one thing to do with a comment like that: he ignored it, and began the careful process of crouching down to retrieve two mugs from the cupboard.
“I mean it by the way, about the breathing. And anyway,” Alex continued, “you might as well not be wearing pants with how tight those are. I can’t help it. It’s your fault I’m looking.”
Milos bit down the urge to snap fresh start my arse. Somehow, in the circumstances, he didn’t think it’d help.