does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

[docwithablog]

[ He's standing in the doorway to the kitchen while Khan, a couple of hours into his stay, is sitting at the table, fixing -- something on the kettle again, what is it with the bloody thing, it worked fine last he used it, didn't it? Licking his lips a bit nervously, he steps into the room fully and walks over to the kitchen counter, leaning back against it, facing the other man. Hands gripping the edge of the counter. Sock-clad feet shifting a bit restlessly from side to side.

It shouldn't be this damn hard, honestly. It's just a -- suggestion, the man can tell him no and they can go fuck in the bedroom as per usual. But John isn't stupid, he knows what the implications are. You don't go from being fuck buddies to buddies, once you decide a friendly outing is in order, no, if you go out, then -- you go out as something else entirely and he has absolutely no idea how well that is going to play out. For either of them.

Nevertheless -- okay, good, here goes. A deep breath. ]

I was thinking I'd take you to the National Army Museum today.

Comments

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He's brought a spare part with him from home and is currently busy, upgrading John's sad excuse for a tea kettle to something a little more interesting. It's nothing too fancy and will, eventually, grow old and rusty and useless like everything else, but it'll last longer, it'll use less energy and - best of all - it'll boil the water about ten times faster. He doesn't know why this even matters to him and he's decided not to question it. It's an impulse. They happen.

And maybe he just likes the thought of leaving something behind.

John's body language doesn't distract him, as such, but it keeps him alert. He's tenser than usual, more restless. Then, when he speaks, Khan understands why. Is he being asked out on a... a date? Is he? His hands pause in their work, expression blank as he stares ahead. Is this - why would they go to the museum if it wasn't... His mind can't seem to complete any inferences and, with a frown, he looks up at John. His voice sounds - perhaps - a bit colder than he'd intended. He doesn't like being surprised. ]

To do what?

[docwithablog]

What do people normally do at museums?

[ Khan's voice is a couple of degrees colder than John has heard it in other contexts, mind you, but he raises his chin regardless and refuses to be deterred. Come on, it's -- not that bad an idea, is it? A couple of hours looking into the historical development of warfare on several fronts, there's probably some engineering stuff to be found in one of the dusty corners, if not in several of them and John knows for a fact that their medical collection is rather interesting, followed by -- what does he know, a stroll through the park to one of the local pubs, a pint, then home in time to fuck before the man's 24 hours are up. They're not exactly racing the clock here. Or maybe they are. Maybe they are.

Giving Khan a very eloquent stare, complete with a fully raised eyebrow and the cock of his head, he licks his lips again and finally looks off to the side, crossing his arms over his chest. ]

Listen, we're two people, we seem to -- not want to kill each other. This is how I imagined we could utilize that.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He stares at John for a bit longer before resuming his work on the kettle. It takes him a bit to answer and not just because he's close to finished with it.

He hasn't stopped to wonder what this is, with John, except to question the fidelity of it all, of visiting him when he ought to focus on the situation they've landed him in back home. Since his last visit, however, he's been seeing the man in dreams as well; not too often but often enough, in ways that clearly imply a subconscious preoccupation. He visits him from the get-go now, doesn't wait until night-time as in the beginning, and he... enjoys the hours John grants him, the time they spent.

Growing attached is no danger at all, so long as you can shoulder the break. He's never been overly good at that, granted, but John's a human and comparatively unimportant - certainly, in time, he'll be able to do what he must and leave him behind, no matter what else transpires. He exhales, slowly. Picks the path that he wants and tries not to think about why he shouldn't. ]

I see. [ He sets the kettle on the table. ] That's fine, then.

[docwithablog]

[ That's fine, then? John stares at him.

Seriously, that's the best the man can offer. That's fine, then. Both John's eyebrows go up now, expression momentarily -- and very thoroughly unimpressed, too. So, he's graciously allowed to take the other man to the museum and graciously allowed to enjoy his company and he -- what, ought to be grateful for it, too? Well. As a matter of fact, he is actually rather grateful for it, because there honestly hasn't been a day during the past week when he hasn't -- well, thought about... if not Khan, then the stupid order Khan left him with, find something better to do.

Something or someone, right? Okay, great. John's working on it. Obviously.

Features softening, he licks his bottom lip once and then manages a small smile, nodding his head a couple of times, aimlessly. ] Good. That's -- good. [ A pause. Realising that he has no idea whether Khan is even the museum-going type, he adds, voice carefully interested: ]

You've been before?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He stands and walks around the table to put the kettle back on the counter. He doesn't have to try it out - it'll work. He thinks over John's question, carefully posed and soft, despite his initial annoyance at Khan's answer (he noticed, of course, how could he not). He's a proud man, is John, and the fact that he keeps trying to re-connect, even when Khan's given him very little reason to do so, is... pleasing. He likes it. He likes it quite a bit.

Consequently, he straightens slightly and turns to face him. There's about a feet of distance between them and in a brief flash of memory, he thinks about the hardness of John's body, the solid weight of him, the heat. When he speaks, his voice is low and even, almost devoid of emotion. ]

I have. The ones who raised me found the study of war imperative. [ His tone gentles almost imperceptibly. ] But not for years. There'll be lots of exhibitions I've never seen. [ The shadows of a smile. ] It's a good suggestion.

[ He brushes past John to stand by the window, looking out. His gaze is calm, mostly contemplative. It's status quo at the moment back home and for once, he's not actually here to counter something terrible or rage-inducing. Interesting, actually, that John should choose this day, in particular, to suggest something so different from their usual raison d'être. This trans-dimensional travel really is a curious thing. ]

[docwithablog]

[ That's -- interesting, really. John would have frowned at the other man's way of talking about his parents, but then he's telling him, it's a good suggestion and he's smiling instead, something genuine and amused. You shouldn't think he'd be that easy to flatter, but hey -- he's got an ego, it needs constant feeding, right?

Following the man with his eyes as he moves over to the window, he does, however, wonder. Probably not a happy parent-child relationship there, no love lost, obviously -- and naturally, John can relate. He'd probably not go as far as to say the ones who raised me, but they all come with their own baggage, he imagines. There's a reason they end up in the army, after all. There's a reason that's the sort of stimulation they need. Extreme sports, in its own way. Immediate danger, war games and a new family in addition. The lost boys.

John shakes his head and crosses the small distance between them, placing himself behind Khan, in perfect height (well, if he angles his head a little, at least) to rest his chin on the other man's shoulder, one hand pressing against the small of his back. ]

Of course it is.

[docwithablog]

[ They've been at the NAM for half an hour, walking through the two current exhibitions, a poster collection from the WWII era and an exhibit about women's position in the army since the 30s (nothing truly exciting, albeit admittedly important as an organizational insight, he'll give them that much), now landing themselves squarely in the regular displays -- the Special Forces section is a bit further ahead and John would actually be quite interested in going over that collection with an insider like Khan, but he isn't rushing them, continuing at the same languid, halfway lazy pace that they've struck so far. They're moving through the medical displays on the way, as it is -- and it always brings him right back to his uni years, seeing the glass cases with old medical equipment and medals and records. Photographs on the walls. They're moving along the far end wall currently, several glass cases put out with a showcase of old medicine bottles (most of the stuff largely ineffective, even in its own day and time) and John purses his lips, gaze moving to the next display -- where he halts. Surgeon's medical case, 1850, the sign reads and he quickly runs through his general history, that would be in the immediate wake of the Napoleonic Wars, the experiences they'd gained throughout the early 19th century... Noticing the forceps in particular, he stays where he is, leaning in slightly for a moment, eyes narrowed, before turning his head to look up at Khan.

It's not exactly a throw-away comment, but it's very casual, very careful not to load a whole bunch of semi-useless info on to the other man, shouldn't he want it. After all, John knows how that feels. Drowning in someone else's specializations. ]

Although we've fine-tuned the concept since then, surgical forceps have worked largely the same way since the 18th century.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He hasn't been in a museum for... some time. There's something slightly bittersweet about revisiting all this ancient history, most of it very congruent with his own universe, at least until the end of WWI. He - they - pushed the world to change beyond anything the human race could have ever imagined, back in his day; indeed, when he woke up, it was, at least on the surface, in-recognizable.

This, on the other hand, is familiar.

He follows John, letting the other man decide upon which exhibitions to visit and when. Khan doesn't have a preference. He's mostly soaking up the peace and quiet, knowing full well that the better he manages to infuse his nervous system, the better prepared he'll be once he lands back in his own London with Marcus breathing down his neck. It's not just about the context, either. He looks at John as the other man looks up at him, talking about a pair of surgical forceps. He's clearly testing the waters, taking care not to be presumptuous. Taking care.

No, definitely not just the context.

Khan nods, indicating his interest - the words are mostly for that added sense of connect: ]

Go on.

[docwithablog]

[ Oh, that's gracious. John raises an eyebrow somewhat and cocks his head a little, then leaves it be, shrugging once. Khan is, at least, showing an actual interest in his knowledge about -- what, some old, rusty medical equipment, that's more than most and certain others would. John licks his lips once and leans in over the display with the surgeon's kit once more, getting another look of the pair of forceps. They're not shaped much differently than surgical artery forceps today, but they've got no locking mechanism and would have required an extra pair of hands, to keep the artery pinned sufficiently out of the way. No wonder it took teams of five-seven, if not more people back then, to perform surgery. On a current battlefield, an emergency team would consist of two, maybe three with an extra nurse -- all thanks to these little things.

He nods, curtly and straightens up, turning towards Khan fully. ] Major difference is the lack of a lock. [ A gesture to the surgeon's case, precise enough to indicate the pair of forceps specifically, but too general to be an actual pointing to. ] This pair would have to be tweezed by hand. The surgeon needed assistants or nurses to keep them closed around the artery during the procedure, ensuring that he could have both hands free to operate. More people during surgery, however, meant higher risk of infection, hence an overall greater loss of life.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He tilts his head slightly, looking the forceps over. The first thing that crosses his mind is, naturally, how easily he could kill someone with them - an operating theatre, modern or not, really is a prospective torture chamber if you know how to turn the balance. Obviously, something long, thin and metallic is a no-brainer (literally). John talks about saving lives, risk of infection, the way human solutions generally come with problematic consequences to balance out the advantages. He's a rather good example, isn't he. Giving John a quick glance, he takes a moment to reply, thinking his words over thoroughly first. ]

A small but essential enhancement, the locking mechanism. [ He straightens up a bit, hands resting behind his back. ] Imagine the amount of people you'd need for a medical team in a war zone. Complete chaos.

[ The medical aspects of warfare have never concerned him overly much, not just due to his blood cell generation. There are doctors in his crew as well, educated scientists with detailed knowledge of Augment biology and he'd defer to them when necessary, trusting entirely in their expertise. He can, however, easily imagine how vulnerable people would be without efficient medical personal to keep them going for at least a little while longer; prolonging the inevitable, obviously, but even so. They die so rapidly as it is, once under fire. The enormous casualties of the greater wars really are no wonder. ]

[docwithablog]

I've seen old photographs of surgery teams consisting of 10 to 12 people. [ He shrugs, there are still surgery types today that require several participants, but on the battlefield, they generally boil it down to the essentials. You can't have ten doctors running around near the front line, you bet, one of them will get shot. John makes a slight grimace and rolls his left shoulder that isn't aching today, what a bloody treat. He's seen battlefield surgery from both sides, hasn't he? He knows. About chaos. ] When you think about it, people are a pretty chaotic race. Killing others or healing others, we go about it in a chaotic way.

[ His expression changes slightly, softens, lightens, the hint of a smile finding its way onto his lips. He inclines his head a little, an amused gesture with brows rising and the smile growing full, almost teasing, almost. They're talking war, after all, can't be too happy about it. On the other hand, Khan is talking to the man who misses the stupid thing enough to show abstinence symptoms. Happy is all he's got. ]

That's what makes us so exciting.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ It strikes Khan for the first time, possibly because they haven't really talked all that much previously, possibly because he hasn't shown the appropriate amount of attention - John misses the war. He misses it. He hasn't spoken to many human war veterans for obvious reasons but his general impression is that while some people are certainly thrill seekers, they typically come out of war traumatized and damaged, body and mind both. But John's talking about it with warmth in his gaze, with something that sounds almost like reminiscing.

Khan doesn't hate the battle field by any means. He doesn't love it, either, but then again, there's something inherently complicated about being created by someone else for at specific purpose. He does like the challenge of it, though. Of facing off against a stronger opponent and taking them apart, single-handily. The instinctual savagery, associated with it.

In that aspect, at least, they don't seem overly different. Him and John. ]

Curious. [ He sets off down the exhibition hall, making sure that John's following him, seeing as he'd prefer not talking to the empty air. ] Some would say this proficiency for chaos is a great weakness. You put everything into systems, boxes and regulations, bureaucracy, for this very reason. Even wars. [ Pause. His voice softens. ] Wars, that can only ever be governed by the strongest party. [ Eye-contact. Stare. ] Wouldn't you rather be without?

[docwithablog]

[ What he says is: ]

Most of the time, fine, we need the bureaucracy not to descend into unregulated, savage killing, naturally.

[ What he means is -- and he corrects himself after only a second, breaking into a jog to catch up to Khan who in turn catches his eyes, stares as John falls into step next to him again, their marching stride mostly compatible in length, mostly: ]

Circumvention exists for a reason, though, all the instances when rules don't cut it.

[ You won't hear John Watson not pledge himself to the communal effort of regulation, he believes in a functioning society, thank you very much. However, neither would you ever hear John Watson deny that he very much believes in doing exactly everything it takes to see his own intentions through, be it in the operating theatre, on the battlefield or in private. He's never been one not to do what it takes, whatever it takes. Sometimes that means ignoring orders or rules. Sometimes it means -- other things. He's a soldier and a doctor, he knows how to take lives as well as save them and he'll gladly do both for the greater good, as it's been defined, by his country, by his ethics and by himself, sure. Also by himself.

So, he doesn't look away from the other man, meets his stare straight-on, chin slightly lifted and expression defiant. Mr. Free Agent probably won't argue with him or he'd be a big old hypocrite, but come on -- he's basically saying that you're free to make the rules, only so he can fuck with them. Not a whole lot of people will take kindly to that. Maybe there's a reason Sherlock thought his friends don't really like him. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Cooper's Arms is only a short walk from the museum and although it doesn't exactly count as one of John's "local" pubs, he's been here a few times with girls in the past, because it's quality food and old-fashioned atmosphere with the costs being quite relative to that, of course. If it were the kind of place you ordered pints, they'd rob you of a tenner -- as it is, you get a cold bottle of beer (25 centiliters, mind you) for just below that. He doesn't care, he told Khan to get whatever he liked. Himself, he's ordered a Scottish ale, leaning back in his seat once the waiter has shuffled off. Uni age, blonde girl. Pretty.

He glances over at the other man.

Since he's apparently going all out on this date -- concept he got started, John had decided Cooper's Arms would be the place to finish. Definitely date-location, come on, with the dark Victorian interior and the wall-lining benches with their dainty little tables, perhaps big enough for three regular people and, with a little squeezing about, their knees colliding as they seated themselves, just about two of them, Khan and him. Leaning across the table to make himself heard over the general noise of classical music (something, something, the violin, something) and chatting diners, John raises an eyebrow slightly. Licks his lips. ]

Sherlock has a brother, the guy practically runs the government and -- well, his people have kept tabs on you.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John's led them to a pub not too far from the museum. Khan's no expert on interior design but the style, overall, looks classic and soft, the darkness of the floor broken up by chairs and sofas in blues and yellows as well as the light from outside spilling in through the huge window panels lining the dinning area. They're sitting quite close - if he were to stretch out his legs fully, he'd be playing footsies with John under the table which is a funny albeit ridiculous thought. He's taken note of all possible exits as well as the table close to the counter where a group of younger men are glaring at them while no doubt drinking forth enough courage to stage a confrontation.

He ignores them and focuses on John, leaning in slightly. He's ordered a pale ale from the menu, picking one at random as he's always done when it comes to beer. In a casual situation, he only very rarely picks something he already knows. ]

That must keep them occupied. [ There's a hint of humour in his voice. ] If they find anything on me, let me know.

[ Dimension-hopping is great for laughs, apparently. Though, it is somewhat amusing to think of this man, whomever he is, fighting to dig up information on Khan when his dimensional equivalent happens to be his own flesh and blood. He reaches out, running one, long finger idly over the top of John's hand, just tracing patterns back and forth. They should play that game again, he realises. A question for a question. It's hard to know exactly how much info John's actually waiting for and there aren't any questions as such Khan wouldn't answer. There are definitely things he wants to ask John. About his family. About his job - has he left it yet? If they'd been crew - family - Khan would have gladly burnt down the place to convince him. And really, if he did so in this reality, who would ever know? ]

[docwithablog]

Yeah, Mycroft insisted you didn't exist. [ A chuckle that quietens down relatively quickly when Khan reaches out and lets his finger trace patterns over the top of John's hand. He could move it, of course, his hand and he probably should, they're surrounded on all sides by people, after all -- yet, he rather doesn't want to, actually. This is good. This is fine. It's all fine. So, instead of withdrawing, he leans in closer over the table again, lowering his voice a tad. For privacy or pretenses or whatever you'd like to call it, he really doesn't care. ] I told him I would personally vouch for your corporal presence on this plane.

[ An eyebrow raise.

He leans back again in his chair, shifting slightly in his seat, their knees bumping under the table, because Khan has beanpole legs like -- certain others, like Sherlock and John wonders whether the lack of curls has resulted in longer limbs as compensation. There's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he can tell, mostly because there's also a warmth in the pit of his stomach and at this point, with Khan's finger brushing over his skin like that, it isn't just deep-felt and pure, let's be real, it's also quite physical and hungry and wanting.

The waitress returns to the table with their orders, placing a pale ale in front of Khan and a Scottish in front of John, glancing down at their hands as discreetly as she possibly can before politely telling them to enjoy and moving out of the way, exchanging looks with a group of younger guys a couple of tables over. John frowns. Moves his hand, though he meets Khan's gaze as he does so, gesturing towards his beer. Explanatory. Pouring his ale, he ignores the stares which seem to come from approximately half the pub at this point. How lovely the air of prejudice, truly. Briefly, very briefly, he thinks about Harry. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ That makes him smile, genuinely if briefly, as he pours his own ale and takes a sip. John draws his hand away and feels the need for a nonverbal explanation which probably reveals more of his discomfort than he'd like. Khan doesn't bother looking around, reading the atmosphere effortlessly simply by the change of mood alone, the rustling of clothes and the changing of breaths. It doesn't bother him, barely even serves to make him alert. He wouldn't care if a handful of ants found his presence objectionable and this is barely any different. Instead, he brushes his knee lightly against John's underneath the table and straightens up in his seat, gaze dark. Heated, somewhat, by the implications. ]

There are things even British intelligence isn't privy to. [ Aside from his untimely appearance in this dimension, he remembers from his own days - it's never easy, playing games with any governments, a former empire, least of all. But it's amusing, in its own right. One out of many ways to power. ] He should be more concerned about you. You haven't found a new job or you would have told me, presumably. Why?

[ Near the counter, the men have started talking quite loudly amongst themselves about queers and fucking faggots. He remembers this from his own time and day. Humans really can be exhaustingly puerile. He doesn't bother looking at them, simply keeps his gaze fixed on John, waiting for his answer. The beer is a bit too light for his tastes but he'll drink it anyway, it's fine and he's not, as a rule, picky. ]

[docwithablog]

[ And -- because those other guys start running their mouths pretty damn loudly with slurs John's sure they can't even muster the collective IQ to spell, much less comprehend the social significance of (idiots, he'd call them, if now had at all been the time to quote Sherlock in regards to anything, least of all other human beings), he's endlessly grateful when Khan leads them onwards into safer territory. Are they doing the question thing again? That game from -- couple of times back? Well, it beats anything he can think of currently with his one hand resting on the tabletop, fingers curled into a tight fist while he lifts the glass of dark Scottish ale to his lips with the other, taking a drink, deeply. The taste is nutty, slightly caramelized, notes of sweetness underneath the hops, the liquid cool down his throat. He's beginning to feel overheated and it isn't just the darkness of Khan's gaze, no, pity, really.

John swallows something thick and decidedly unpleasant in his throat, careful to uncurl his fingers every now and then, drum a beat on the tabletop to do something with his body that doesn't involve -- what does he know, picking fights with stupid teenagers about things like his personal distaste of being called a fag when, really, the playing field is so much wider than that, kids. What kind of shitty sex ed teacher has taken them through the books, seriously?

Shaking his head, he focuses. Refocuses. Shifts in his seat, his legs getting entangled with Khan's and this time, he sure as hell isn't going to withdraw anything. He meets the other man's gaze over the rim of his glass, putting it down slowly and shrugging once. ]

Because you can't hurry processes with the Albany Street Barracks.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He's tuning out the jeers from the men, infinitely more interested in John's reply. The other man is definitely having a hard time not letting the lowlifes get to him - Khan mostly leaves it as a footnote for now, in case something happens later on that'll require his attention (it will, obviously). John's answer, however, pleases him. A lot. He leans back slightly, without withdrawing his legs and nods slowly at John, very visibly satisfied. ]

Well done.

[ Another sip of ale. The glass is half-empty by now and he leaves it sitting on the table, conscious of making it last. He doesn't get drunk easily, doesn't feel the effect of alcohol unless he's positively injecting it into his bloodstream, but he isn't completely without manners and seeing as his body doesn't currently need for him to be fast or efficient about his intake, there's no reason why he can't be polite.

Poking John's foot lightly with his own, he gives him an expectant look. Surely, he must have caught on to the point of this already, they've done it once before. ]

[docwithablog]

[ There are a vast selection of hotels in the Chelsea area, the even vaster majority of them expensive as all hell, but watch him not care as he orders a room, double (two beds, sir? one, he replies) at the nearby My Chelsea Hotel, the receptionist displaying the first proper example of real, British politeness this entire evening by not even batting an eyelash at the sight of them, clearly in from the street, no luggage, simply making him plug in his credit card, sign the receipt and they're good to go. Good. Good.

God, it's eating him up, the urge. All the way in the lift where they're standing next to each other, shoulders brushing, because he bumped them up on the first floor, a superior double room or whatever she called it, it's fine, it'll do. He can still vividly picture Khan's hand in that poor guy's face, breaking his nose with just the pressure of his palm and is that some serious non-Spec Ops trick they don't learn in Special Forces? Christ.

The room is big, really too big for what needs they have (he means, seriously), but on the other hand -- who the fuck knows, maybe Khan intends to throw him around a bit, too. The thought makes John raise an eyebrow slightly, a shiver running down his spine as he finally slams the door shut behind him, turning towards the other man fully. The air between them is positively charged, impatience and raw, unfiltered lust, lots of adrenaline, pumping, pumping, pumping -- it's a real good high, this, for even the advanced adrenaline junkie, he'll give Khan that. Stepping forward, he frowns slightly, staring straight up in Khan's face without touching him, just standing there, very, very close, breathing in his proximity...

He always manages to push all John's bloody buttons. ]

All right, are you done?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ Within long, they're standing in a hotel room - large, a light-red, bordering on pink colour scheme, huge bed near the windows - and they're staring at each other again, as if the time keeps stopping around them. In the back of his mind, Khan knows that it's ticking in more ways than one; timing both his upcoming departure for home and his exit, the one that will leave them parted for good. John asks him, are you done, as if he's ever really begun, and there's something incredibly harsh and beautiful about what's happening. What's been happening, ever since he arrived here by accident all those weeks ago. He doesn't feel done in the slightest. His hands are still tingling, muscles aching for more.

Are you done.

With a half-strangled growl, he crosses the distance between them and grabs onto John's shoulders, pulling him close and fisting one hand in his hair. He stares into his face, taking in his features almost desperately, thinking that there are really only so many uses for regular human beings and isn't it ironic, isn't it grandly typical, that this once... this one time... He swallows, forcing out the next words, few as they are. His cock is rock hard already, straining against the fabric of his trousers. ]

Not by far.

[ He pauses. Slips his hand from John's hair to his neck in a brief but gentle touch before stepping back and nodding at the jumper he's wearing, the jeans. It's a single command, wordless, as he pulls off his own, black shirt and drops it on the floor. He doesn't care about putting it away nicely, it's on the floor and it'll stay there until he's ready to pick it up. Until he's done, as John says. His trousers and socks are next and he works efficiently, fast, to move on from this small, insignificant intermission and take them where they both want to go. ]

[docwithablog]

[ It happens in an explosion, much like it did at the pub -- Khan crosses the distance between them with a growling sound, grabbing onto John's shoulder, pulling him close before fisting his other hand in his hair, a harsh, demanding kind of touch that makes John's breath catch in his throat. They stare at each other, unblinkingly, intensely, John not pulling a single muscle even as Khan's yanking at his hair and basically showing him muscle enough for, what, ten people. Not by far, the other man replies and it's a promise, isn't it? It's a promise of what's to come, tonight, beyond, wherever they end up taking it. It's good -- he exhales shakily, yes, it's good like this, it's exactly what he needs. It's exactly what he's needed for so long.

A brief, but gentler touch -- and Khan steps back, nodding at John's clothes, wordlessly ordering him out of it and John waits only as long as it takes the other man to pull off his own shirt, eyes running down over his chest, his stomach, further down to the waistband of his trousers, a bulge clearly visible at the front. Okay, then, fine. His own cock, almost fully hard in his jeans, jerks slightly at the implications and he licks his lips while finally pulling first his jumper off, then starting in on the buttons of his shirt underneath, a plain blue thing, maddeningly slow to work open. Fingers aggressively undoing the first five buttons, he just -- gives up, dragging the shirt over his head and dropping it on top of the jumper. Gets to work on his jeans, but not before pulling the small bottle of lube out of his left back pocket and aiming it carelessly at the bed, throwing it with a good, old rugby aim, landing the vial somewhere near the square middle. You know you're getting laid regularly again -- and that your partner is male when lube's become one of the basic carry-arounds.

Only then does he start toeing out of his socks, pushing his jeans down impatiently. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ His eyes follow the movement of John's hands as he pulls out a bottle of lube and dumps it on the bed - nice aim - before toeing out of his socks and pushing down his jeans. He's bared his body for Khan in stages, rapid stages, but stages nonetheless and in the meantime, Khan's sense of want has grown exponentially into starving hunger. Staring at the man for another couple of seconds as he wrestles out of his jeans, he pushes his briefs down, drops them with the rest, and pounces.

In one, fluent move, he's crossed the small distance between them once more, thrown his arms around John's lower body right underneath his buttocks and hoisted him off the floor. The other man isn't small or light by any means, but Khan is happy to carry him anyway and he'd better know it. He buries his face in John's midriff, lips and tongue dragging over skin, fingers digging into his buttocks. The scent of his arousal is strong and enticing, John's cock hard underneath his briefs and he wants him right now, almost overpoweringly so, he wants him on his back, writhing and moaning. He wants to swallow him whole.

On a hard exhalation, he sets off for the bed, tightening his grip on John, his mouth never leaving his skin. He tastes of himself, of sweat and arousal and the remnants of cologne (sandalwood, fresh and spicy), the one he always uses when he dresses up. There's something about this sense of familiarity that makes him ache; he knows his scent, yes, and would recognise it anywhere, a thoroughly useless ability when you think about the future and thus, resolutely, he doesn't. Think. Instead, he mouths his way down to the waistband of his briefs before tipping him onto his back on the bed, gently, narrowly avoiding squashing the tube of lube. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Khan's a step ahead, perhaps a couple, while John wrestles out of his jeans, he dumps his briefs and -- pretty much plays big cat again, pouncing across the small distance at John, lifting him up with his arms thrown around his lower body, beneath his buttocks and John exclaims a wow while grabbing onto the man's shoulders with both hands, fingers digging into the exemplary display of muscle and tissue. Bone. God, he's strong -- John isn't exactly lightweight and he's carrying him around like, what, John carried around his lube, that's reassuring, isn't it? It's not, but he'll take it, fuck, if he won't take it right here and now.

It's not a long walk to the bed, but Khan is pressing his face in against John's midriff, mouthing his way down over his abdomen, licking and kissing and breathing his way heavily downwards while they go and it's driving John absolutely nutters, the stimuli, the heated feel of expelled air, saliva, soft lips, wet tongue. Feeling his own breathing pick up, he doesn't even try to temper the pace, his cock growing fully, completely, utterly hard in his briefs the closer Khan draws to the waistband -- where they don't get any further, because the other man tips him like timber onto the bed, John releasing his hold on his shoulders accommodatingly, dropping onto the mattress with a soft thud, avoiding to make contact with the tube of lube, that would have been uncomfortable. Apparently, Khan has a good aim, too. Do they play rugby in the Spec Ops he isn't affiliated with?

Pushing himself up on his elbows, John looks up at the other man from his reclining position, chest rising and falling rapidly, his briefs definitely more a display of his cock's outline than anything else. He wonders, just for a second, how old the man is, he never got his answer to John's question and he sure as hell isn't going to inquire about it now, it doesn't matter, but he's curious all the same. Body, posture and face says -- hardly older than 35, but he has a tendency to talk like John's old military commanders, well into their 50s, if not their 60s, pension-aged and weathered, experienced men, that's what Khan -- well, feels like.

You wouldn't think that kind of rather perfect combination existed, but there you go. John purses his lips. ]

Come on, get down here.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He obliges, dropping to his knees on the bed and shifting upwards, until he's got one arm on either side of John's hips. The small pause between action and inaction is minute, feels more like a quiet inhalation, and his blood pumps faster and faster, as he leans down and presses his lips to the skin beneath John's navel, his happy trail tickling his chin. He doesn't work slow; after all, he's ravenous. Drawn-out exploration will simply have to wait. Instead, he reaches up with both hands and pulls John's briefs away, hooking them quickly behind his balls. Then, with a quick glance up at John's face, he bends down and sucks his cock between his lips.

The head feels big like this, a bit like a stretch, and he presses his tongue against it, coaxing it deeper into his mouth. When it hits the back of his throat, he draws back only briefly, sucking it back inside. He doesn't care about making the man climax before they've fucked, he'll just as happily take him there twice. All he knows is that John feels large and solid and altogether present like this and it's intoxicating, it's exactly what he wants. So he draws back again, he curls his fingers around the base of his cock, keeping it angled and dipping in, running his tongue over the head and around the retracted ridge of foreskin. The taste and feeling of it goes straight to his cock and in none too many moments, he'll fuck him just like this, on his back, windswept and disarranged.

He swallows him again, this time to the base, the stretch nowhere close to painful. Burying his nose in his pubic hair, there's an almost overpowering sense of John all over and he thinks about some idiot offending him, showing him disrespect for no reason whatsoever, just to prove himself, to play pretend, and he's almost sorry he didn't hurt the man any worse. It's simply not allowed. It wasn't before, in the world where John may or may not have been and Khan made the rules across continents and seas, and it isn't now. ]