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]

[ 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.

[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.

[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?