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]

[ So, they're leaving. Khan empties his beer before following suit, straightening up and walking languidly past the group of men who're looking ready to attack either him or John any time. He's quite happy to see John, doctor that he may be, disregard the whole spectacle as they head for the exit. Good. Confirming once more that the man is no push-over.

He comes to a halt, when one of the men - slightly older than the other one, not by more than year or two and equally bulky - steps in front of him and blocks his path, putting himself directly between him and John. That's very annoying, and then there's his disrespectful language and those hands, flying everywhere, like there's a point to them. Or to the man himself. Khan stares at him for two seconds, tops, before he contains himself and makes to simply brush past. Would have been easiest. Would have been the peaceful way and he can do peace, certainly, if the alternative is pointless violence.

The stranger then makes the mistake of reaching for his shirt, presumably to hold him back. Without blinking, Khan simply grabs onto his face, fingers digging into his cheekbones and forehead, the man's nose and lips moving against his palm as he starts writhing and yelling in response. With an expression of complete boredom, Khan holds the man out in a stretched arm, taking what's supposedly a punch to the side of his face and the top of his chest without moving a muscle. He looks at the idiot, then at his friends and raises an eyebrow in question. Then, mostly to finish off this thoroughly thrilling, nonverbal conversation, he tightens his grip slightly, hearing the man's nose creak, dislocate, at the pressure before flinging him out of the nearest window, the glass exploding on impact and the man sailing through the air, landing on the pavement outside. It's not a very long fall. Khan's pulling his punches.

The remaining men - and guests in general - seem less than inclined to challenge him further. There's mostly quiet now, except for the man with the broken wrist who's making some odd, high-pitched sound of distress and some of the other guests, muttering to themselves in disbelief - and so, he simply turns to leave. He waits for John to leave first, mostly so as not to leave the other man's back open for repercussions. ]

[docwithablog]

[ John gets -- quite the show, actually.

The man stepping in between them makes to grab hold of Khan and John could have told him that would be an insanely stupid idea, borderline suicidal, probably, but doesn't -- instead letting events run their course as Khan... what. What. Smashes his palm in the guy's face and keeps him out at an arm's length while punches rain down over his face and chest, something he seems exceedingly unbothered by. John just stares, meanwhile. Just -- that. Stares. Khan, on the other hand, glances over at the rest of the group of men and promptly -- yes, good, very good, great, cracks the guy's nose single-handedly before throwing him out the window. Single-handedly. Fuck.

The quiet in the pub has deafened to almost unbelievable degrees and John glances around quickly, catching sight of people frozen with food halfway to their mouths, wine glasses left untouched, a spilled drink on a table in the corner... They all got a show, it seems. From the looks of it, he's not the only one thinking Khan looks awfully hot this way, flashing the skill set that they talked about earlier, correctly deduced by one John Watson. For once. Good, but they're going now, they're definitely doing now, because they need to get to either a hotel, if not home, anywhere with a suitable bed, really, so Khan can bloody well fuck him already. His blood is pumping hard and fast in his veins. His adrenaline levels are shot, completely. His breathing harsh, shallow.

He leads them out. Stops on the pavement outside, not too far from the groaning, glass-covered guy handled by Khan 2 minutes earlier and turns around, sharply, facing the other man, pupils no doubt dilated and his voice slightly hoarse. ]

Fine, quick question: 5 minutes or 11 minutes?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ They step outside, past the groaning man on the pavement. John turns towards him, pupils blown, breathing fast. Though Khan's not winded in the least, the irritation has transformed into something hotter now, the violence - low-level as it may have been - going straight to his blood. They mirror each other as they stand there, John's question hanging between them. Both of them, wanting to act, to do. And both of them ready to translate this urge into sex.

5 or 11 minutes? Khan breathes out harshly through his nose, eyes narrowing very slightly. On the street, people are taking care to walk around the bleeding man whilst from inside the pub, sounds can be heard of resumed activity, phone calls being made and first-aid kits being dug out from the backroom. He can feel the echo of the fight between his hands, like a lingering layer of heat running over his fingers, his palms, up his arms and downwards. He could have easily killed them all, re-painted the pub walls in blood, in sprinkles of bone marrow and entrails. 5 or 11 minutes? What sort of a question is that?

Stepping closer, he looks down at John. Says, voice slightly rough: ]

5. Lead the way.