i gave you what you wanted, but no more than just enough.

[docwithablog]

[ When he wakes up, it's ten hours later into the day, the clock reading twenty-three hundred hours and he's starving, his entire system begging him to fix himself something to eat, biscuits will do, really. Except, John's really very sure biscuits won't do, not with the amount of physical exercise he's been engaging in and how long it's been since he last ate, but maybe something relatively low effort will cut it. Beans on toast... Is he out of beans? God, he hopes he isn't out of beans.

Rolling slowly onto his back -- and then onto his other side, so he can swing his legs lazily out over the edge of the bed, John doesn't make great efforts to avoid waking up the other man, looks pretty comatose to him, after all. Still. A slight smile as he sits up, feet coming into contact with the floor, cool and bathing in shadows. Christ, he's knackered as well, his entire body feels like a 400 pound boulder.

The walk to the kitchen should be fun like this. ]

Comments

[docwithablog]

[ John crosses from the doorway to the bed quickly, in a bloody stride as soon as the lights are turned on, bathing the bed in a golden glow and half the room with it. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, halfway turned towards Khan, he purses his lips and holds out the plate closest to him, an offering, because the man still looks rather worn out. It's a good look on him, however, John likes it. It's like a souvenir from a very good, very nice vacation.

As soon as the other man has taken his plate, John shifts the other down onto his thighs, the porcelain having grown slightly warm from its contents. With the ease that comes of eating this type of food too often in the middle of the night, considering what he knows of nutrients and bad fats (as well as healthy sleeping habits), he keeps the plate balanced there without getting into collision with his briefs and those particular contents. ]

You're still here. [ He notes. Around his first bite of toast. ] That's a first.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He accepts the plate and digs into it. Fast. When John speaks to him, he takes a moment to answer, seeing as he's managed to gulp down the first slice of toast in three bites, completely ignoring the heat of the beans. He's somehow managed not to make a mess in the process, having to wipe away just a few crumbs from his lips before eyeing the next slice. With intent.

Pause.

Focus on John. ]

I have 24 hours, always. [ His mind suddenly registers the taste of the beans. It's such a basic sort of food, the kind you wouldn't necessarily expect a man like John, not quite middle-aged and a doctor at that, to indulge in with any kind of regularity. Interesting. ] Usually, we don't meet up quite so early.

[docwithablog]

[ While beans on toast isn't exactly food you eat with a knife and a fork, daintily in any way, the way Khan tears into it, borderline animal, is still a bit -- what, extra? John watches him gobble down the slice in three bites, completely uncaring about the heat of the beans and finds himself halfway impressed that he manages not to -- make an actual mess. No spilled beans, literally. Just a few crumbs and the slice is gone. Okay, then. Impressive. The man was hungry.

Raising an eyebrow slightly, he eats his way through his first slice with less predatory tendencies, bloody hell, mostly to avoid spilling everything everywhere and managing -- mostly. It takes him seven bites and the first toast is gone, John speaking in between swallowing and taking the next bite. He doesn't comment on Khan's leave being a strict window, that's normal in the army, but he does comment on -- well, the other thing. A smile as he lifts the second slice of toast up. Jokingly: ]

Buying more time. It's okay, I get it, I'm pleasant company.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He looks his second piece of toast over for approximately ten seconds, then glances sideways at John. I'm pleasant company, he says. Humility really is an overrated concept. He's got nothing much to say to that, however, seeing as John - joking tone aside - is merely stating the obvious. He's pleasant company. What else would he be, for Khan to continuously return to him, despite having more important goals to achieve?

Instead, John gets a look and a raised eyebrow. Then, Khan makes short work of the toast - two bites, this time, rather than three - his body momentarily sated once it's all gone and the plate is empty. Setting the plate aside on the bedside table, he straightens up slightly in his seated position, runs one hand through his tousled hair and blinks. It's late, still. He could easily go back to sleep and he will, in a moment.

First, however, he asks a question. He's been curious for a while and seeing as they're just sitting here, he might as well: ]

Your job. [ He turns slightly towards John. ] You don't particularly like it. Why?

[docwithablog]

[ Watching Khan swallowing down the second piece of toast in just two bites is just a very potent reminder exactly how big his mouth is, how much you can fit in there and John shifts a bit while munching on his own toast, getting halfway through the second slice before giving up. No more, all right, he's full. Utterly and completely full. Probably for the better, too, beans on toast doesn't rank high on any list of healthy snacks anywhere.

Putting the plate away and shuffling backwards against the headboard, ending up in a position that mirrors Khan's with his legs stretched out comfortably and his tank top riding high up his stomach, he considers the other man's question only -- briefly, really, because it's not exactly a difficult one. He knows why he absolutely detests his job at present, yes. Being around Khan has only made it all the more evident and thank you for that. John makes a face, stretches lazily. ]

At some point, you get very tired indeed of feeling out strangers' prostates or conclude to a crying Ms. Palmer that it wasn't breast cancer this time either, just a lymph node misbehaving, naughty thing, that. [ While he realises it sounds rather harsh, it's the truth. God, if he has to listen to one more cough or look at one more mole, which he will like a good, invested doctor, of course, he might just -- what, burst? And since Khan won't care, what a bloody relief, he might as well get it out, so John turns his head and raises both eyebrows in a look of really rather frank arrogance. ] I'm used to -- different stakes.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He meets John's arrogant look with blank indifference, mostly because that's his default expression when someone else is speaking. Different stakes. Makes sense on multiple levels, of course. Khan tries to imagine the level of dreariness associated with the life John's just described for him - and all that, just to keep people alive, as if their bodies won't kill them eventually anyway if they manage to dodge all the other dangers inherent to human existence. For a man who's used to working for a cause, doing clinic work is bound to feel like scaling down. It is, after all. It's like the very definition of it.

Of course, humans weren't really meant to achieve anything beyond mediocrity - reach any higher and they burn themselves, inevitably. History proves it very well, he thinks, having experienced both the past as well as the far future. He can certainly understand wanting more, however, and it speaks to John's credit that he doesn't want to settle with less. ]

So, change tracks. [ He leans his head back against the headboard. ] Before we meet next time, find something better to do, something that suits you. A life devoid of meaning or purpose simply passes. It's a pitiful thing to behold.

[docwithablog]

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.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He doesn't react much to John's... tantrum? Disagreement? He looks at him for a moment longer, processing his words. Then, he looks away, disinterest clear in his voice: ]

You will listen or you won't.

[ And that's that. With a quick exhalation, he lies down on his back once more, arms by his side, gaze directed upwards. He doesn't put out the lights, choosing to leave it to John - it's a small courtesy, meant as compensation. He shifts slightly, remembering the feel of the other man's mouth around his cock, the feel of his mouth in general, against his shoulder, chest, stomach. The memory is like an electrical current, rushing through his blood and igniting his body. He leaves traces beneath his skin, does John Watson. It's an interesting experience, for a man who is, by design, completely untouchable.

Not his commanding officer, well no, not in this world. In another, he would have been, perhaps. He could have been. Khan doesn't much like the idea of that; if he'd been at war, he would have never noticed John. He would almost certainly have allowed him to die when, inevitably, he'd outlived his purpose on the battle field and he would have done so without ever knowing his name. Then, briefly, he wonders if maybe - just maybe - this is exactly why he's never met the other man in his own universe.

He frowns, hands clenching against the mattress on top of the duvet. ]

[docwithablog]

[ A frown. John glances over at Khan as the man lies down on his back, the irritation -- leveling out after a few seconds. You will listen or you won't, said Mr. Free Agent and sure, it's true, that. Most likely he'll consider the possibility of a new career change (in a row of others) and he'll dismiss it for the safer, more logical option of a steady, comfortable income, stable work from nine to five and free time enough to wait around for Sherlock to -- make his way back here already, damn it. And if not for him, then for Khan to show his stupid face once more, unpredictably and randomly from time to time. Weekend to weekend.

John shakes his head and turns off the lights, sliding into a horizontal position beneath the duvet, the shadows massive and suffocating around them as he opts to stay in his briefs and tank top, not like they'll be getting down and dirty a second round right now, after all. Half a minute passes in a tense sort of silence and he eventually sighs, rolls over on his side and shuffles closer to the other man, without reaching out, just -- closer. A bit closer still. He can smell him at this distance, the faint traces of sex and arousal and orgasm. Bet you, when John wakes up in the morning, both the smell and the man will be gone.

He doesn't even hesitate, slinging one arm across Khan's stomach. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He closes his eyes when John turns the lights off, settling down and breathing deeply, evenly, the tension dropping slowly, gradually, from his muscles. A few seconds later, however, he can feel the way John shifts towards him in the darkness, the mattress moving beneath his weight as he drifts closer, closer --

When John throws his arm across his stomach, Khan tenses for the briefest moment, mostly in surprise. Partially... something else. Something warmer and more fragile, simultaneously. He thinks about his crew, waiting for him back home, about Marcus who is also waiting, the weapons, the war that is surely coming, a war that Earth has no chances of winning because victory amounts to more, infinitely more, than a well-stocked armoury.

He forces himself to stop thinking and, on a long and deep exhalation, touches his hand to John's wrist, just a quick brush of his fingers. Then, he finally relaxes enough to go to sleep, the quiet in the room broken only by the sound of John's steady breathing and cars passing by on the street, keeping the pulse of London going through the night. ]