Don't do that. [ Whereas certain parts of him certainly like Khan's tone of voice, his dramatic -- Shakespearean MO that seems distantly familiar, mostly John just grimaces slightly and leans back against the headboard, pursing his lips a bit before adding a level: ] Don't act like you're my commanding officer, ordering me around. [ He hasn't had a commanding officer for years, well, not in rank at least -- and since Khan won't tell him what he does wherever it is he works, John will safely assume that the man doesn't outrank him, if only out of spite. Prove him wrong and he'll take it from there, sure, but here, now? No. Not buying it, not as long as it's all tied up on a feeling. Please. Stretching again, larger and louder this time, he turns his head to face Khan again, arms falling to his sides, fingers drumming against the sheets, soft almost inaudible thuds of fingertips against fabric. ] Or worse, like you're my bloody, what, guru, giving me existential advice.

[ A huff, borderline a scoff. A shake of his head. He leans his head back against the headboard and breathes out deeply, glancing up at the ceiling. It's almost midnight. They probably ought to sleep, the both of them. He's certain that come Monday when he's supposed to clock in for work again, it won't seem quite so -- what did the man call it, pitiful? If nothing else, Khan won't be around for comparison, because apparently everything loses to him. Yes, good, great. ]

Not in my bed.