docwithablog | does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

[ 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.

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[ 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?

[ 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. ]

[ Ah. The ends before the means, is it? Khan looks away, gaze growing pensive for a moment. So, yes, the human factor is quite unpredictable and chaotic across most contexts, even when they attempt to regulate themselves. John Watson is, it seems, a prime example of why. This is, as it happens, one of his main reasons for deeming people unfit to rule over their own masses; they will never be able to contain a man like John by themselves, to make him less likely to follow his own, internal moral compass. The perfect army is morally sound, deferring only to their commander's moral code. Imagine an army containing just five or ten people like John, small, potential wildfires, only waiting for ignition.

Destruction from within.

No, any regular human would not be able to contain him but Khan certainly would.

He keeps his voice low, undisturbed. ]

Your commander failed you, you know. [ He nods at John's shoulder. Something like that could happen to a medic if they acted either on the basis of bad strategy or utterly out of turn - which, in John's case, could occur solely if he didn't agree with the orders he'd been assigned. ] The human race loses wars as well as soldiers on weak decision-making. You should have had someone stronger.

[ Obviously, trust is earned. The ultimate display of trust is standing on the battlefield and disobeying your inner instincts simply for the sake of strategy and a future victory that you might not even get to see. Blind trust and commitment may get you far but ultimately, you need soldiers who can think for themselves, who're willing to do what it takes. In a way, they solved this dilemma quite efficiently by creating Khan and his people. They should've simply accepted the natural consequences of such efficiency. What you must give up for the sake of peace. ]

[ At Khan's words, John falters to a halt, staring a bit blankly at the other man's back as he moves a couple of steps ahead before stopping as well, turning. He swallows something thick and heavy in his throat, not a cock, far from it, pity -- no, something more massive than that. Clearing his throat, John licks his lips, remembering the front line south of Bastion where there'd been bombings, then raids, casualties, injured, the medics team had been told to stay behind while the troops cleared the premises and he'd waited, hadn't he? He'd waited quite long enough and then he'd decided not to wait any longer, because people were bloody well dying and he'd had little to lose anyway. In the grand scheme of things, yes? Very little.

Sure, bad strategy and selfish commanding officers can certainly become the death of you, but for the most part -- that responsibility rests on your own shoulders and Christ, if you don't need two healthy shoulders to bear it. He's learned. The hard way.

So, he shakes his head, before setting off towards the Special Forces exhibit up ahead. ]

Should have been someone stronger.

[ It's not said particularly bitterly or anything, he simply concludes, voice slightly hoarse, that's his only sign of weakness. John considers himself a good soldier, loyal, efficient, unscrupulous. He considers himself an even better doctor, ethical, hardworking, dedicated. But as a person? Oh, he's got faults. His shortcomings as a person are what sometimes, sometimes gets in the way of him being a good soldier and a very good doctor and he'll admit to that, any day, anytime. ]

[ He looks at John, allowing him to walk ahead by a few steps and watching as he sets off for the Special Forces exhibit. He frowns slightly at the other man's response - implying, of course, that he ought to have been stronger. Wishful thinking, isn't it, and the reason someone finally took that train of thought to its natural conclusion and created something stronger. Human weakness is not transcendible: it's not a matter of wanting things enough, of having enough will power or whatever else they're trying to teach themselves on a mental scale. Ultimately, it takes only one correctly aimed bullet to end a man. That's that.

Not an individual mistake but an inherent flaw and logically, John's right. It shouldn't be there - or alternatively, he shouldn't have been. Why send people into war when they aren't meant to be there? Catching up to John, he keeps silent for a moment, eyes on the upcoming items of the Special Forces exhibition. He's worked for many different government branches before branching out, so to speak - he knows how they function, broadly speaking, though there's a very understandable level of secrecy to their operations that makes it impossible to generalise. ]

All soldiers have their limits.

[ Not his people, granted, but they aren't soldiers as such. They are warriors and in Khan's mind, there's a rather sizable difference, even beyond the bare terminology. The exhibition on the Special Forces isn't terribly large - what could they exhibit, after all, except for outdated history? He glances over a showcase containing black and white images as well as slips of documents - radio transcriptions - and maps. All pertaining to early-forties operations. Outdated, indeed. ]

As does this exhibition, clearly. [ Lip curling slightly in distaste, he moves on to the next showcase. ] Is this really entertaining to people? Do they know so little of non-contemporary SAS operations?

[ A sign on the door saying classified would have been just as useful. ]

[ Obviously, he wants to reply to Khan's statement about soldiers and their limits. He rolls his shoulder once more, mostly an automatic reaction at this point and waits for the other man to catch up, saying nothing of the sort, because it's redundant, really. They're agreeing, a painful, quiet sort of agreement. If nothing else, though, it's nice -- being able to do something painfully and quietly with somebody. Again. He'll take that any day. Over the clear vacancy his life's been until Khan showed up.

Khan who doesn't seem overly impressed with the Special Forces exhibit at first glance. Perhaps not at the second one either. Or the third. John's lips twist upwards slightly as he follows the other man through the room, old missions described in photos and documents. Nothing contemporary, of course, that would be idiotic and we're trying to steer off that track, aren't we? After all, people might get killed. Oil get lost, that sort of thing.

When the man comes to a halt in front of a showcase, 40s and 50s era stuff all of it, he stops next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush slightly. Khan really is hard as rock in every sense of the word, unyielding and unforgiving and evidently rather unimpressed which actually amuses the hell out of John, in turn. He purses his lips, before turning his head towards Khan, raising one eyebrow eloquently. ]

Why do you think people watch all those spy movies? We know nothing and would rather like to know even less. [ A snort. ] Fiction over fact, sorry to say.

[ John pauses next to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Khan shifts slightly, just a fraction, enough to press against John's upper arm. Tilts his head slightly and nods. ]

Peace is both maintained and compromised by ignorance. It's a typical paradox.

[ He clasps his hands between his back and straightens a bit, looking the objects over critically before pushing past John towards the next showcase. This one holds a collection of various artifacts, all related to the history of the British SOF from the early equivalents in the 1840s and onwards, all the way through the 00s. He frowns. Some of it follows his own timeline and history, some of it definitely doesn't. He remembers reading up on this when he first came here. Naturally, this world has never been through the Eugenics Wars, as the historians call it. Never will, either. World War Three, when it comes, will look very different from the one that ravaged Earth in his universe. Incredible, how relatively small changes, decisions made or roads taken, prompt so very different realities. ]

They used to work in such small, vulnerable units. [ He mutters as he speaks, drawing closer to a nearby showcase with items from a 90s mission, the Bravo Two Zero. Hm. His people were once called upon to participate in a similar mission, one they purposefully sabotaged. They were building up, at the time. ] Efficient at the best of times, terribly vulnerable at the worst. People used to perceive them as some sort of super-humans. [ Head-shake. ] Ridiculous.

[ It's almost like a ripple effect. Khan stands at ease with his hands behind his back -- and it would have felt wrong not to mirror him, do the same and they must look a fucking sight for the people passing through the exhibit behind them, like they're trying to out-man each other, if not out-military each other, but second nature's exactly that. Nature. It's been drilled into him, he can help it, but only with an effort. So, it's easier not to. It's easier to follow Khan who talks about commanders quite a lot and acts like one, too, Mr. Free Agent who probably answers to no one but himself. Well, himself and some obscure government he doesn't even seem to like.

Following the other man to the next showcase -- oh, Bravo Two Zero, that went quickly downhill, didn't it? John listens to Khan's angry muttering, raising an eyebrow at him slightly. For a man who doesn't even seem to be able to maintain a wrinkle or a grey hair, he sure sounds very much, very much indeed like an grumpy old man.

Which would be less amusing, weren't John ready to bet that he's his senior by, what, a decade, give or take? ]

Come on, it's a comparative issue. [ A chuckle. He resists the very tempting opportunity for a more prolonged shoulder brush, perhaps even a bump, again, with a bloody effort. ] Most people can't manage even a percentage of what those guys do. Yes, sure, they're not gods, but they're the closest we've got -- [ A long look up at Khan's face, because he's talking about you, you idiot. ] -- a little admiration's in order.

Edited 2019-08-03 16:42 (UTC)

[ A comparative issue, says John and goes on the defend the Spec Ops because they're the closest we've got. Khan's face remains mostly blank, though the coolness in his eyes thaws quite considerably when John looks up at him and compliments him. Well, Peter Harrison, strictly speaking, and that's actually annoying. Khan gives him the slightest hint of a smile, looking him over for at long moment.

He doesn't particularly care whether John knows the truth, nor how much of it he knows. The secrets surrounding him and the purpose behind his existence were never his in the first place and currently, with Marcus holding his crew hostage to force him into cooperation, keeping the man's secrets only matters insofar as any indiscretions might cost Khan. And by proxy, his people. In this universe? It doesn't. It won't.

However, while John's knowledge of the truth doesn't matter much to him, the lies bother him. They're Marcus' lies - not his. And John is... not unimportant. ]

You realise I'm not Spec Ops. [ He looks away, raising an eyebrow slightly. ] But I'll accept your compliment for what it is.

[ Not Spec Ops, says the man who's as Spec Ops as they come. John frowns, staring straight ahead, not seeing a single of the pinned up documents from Bravo Two Zero hanging in his immediate field of vision. What are you, if you're not Spec Ops, but can obviously pull every bloody Spec Op trick in the book? Private mercenary? Consulting -- mercenary? God, please say we're not going there again. The frown deepens and he licks his lips, turning towards Khan fully, in time to catch him looking away and raising an eyebrow.

But I'll accept your compliment for what it is.

O-kay, then, well, wrong timing, altogether wrong timing, John Watson. How much do you care that the man might or might not run around murdering people for cold cash? He stares at him for a long time, realising that Khan could go about doing exactly that in stupid, rainbow-striped underwear and he wouldn't give a damn. Dead people don't need his assistance anyway, the most he could do for them was an autopsy. He swallows hard and turns his back on the showcase, heading towards the next exhibit, mostly noticing the sign that points to the exit.

They are in dire need of a pint and he knows just the place to get it. ]

Yeah? [ Tone careful, he turns his head and looks at the other man over one shoulder. His voice is level, even, unaffected. His face probably looks a little less so. ] And what is it?

[ The change in the atmosphere is almost palpable, the way John withdraws, not just physically but mentally as well. Khan follows him out of the corner of his eyes, never losing the straightness in his stance nor the calm in his expression. In reality, John actually knows nothing about him, save his name. The fact that he has a family back home. It's minimal. He follows the other man after a few seconds, though he doesn't give much thought to the next exhibit, detailing the Jebel Akhdar War. Instead, he drifts closer to him until once again, their shoulders touch. ]

A nod to the skill-set you correctly ascribe me. [ He turns his head, looking at John more fully. His voice is even as always, almost as if discussing something comparatively unimportant. Weather forecasts, perhaps. ] I've worked with special forces all over the world for this very reason. I've simply never considered myself affiliated with them. A very mutual assessment, to be fair.

[ He reaches out, running his palm up the side of John's upper arm. It's a very brief touch and might, to an outsider, look like nothing more than fixing the fabric, maybe a crease or a piece of lint. His next words are lower yet, a hint of something gentler creeping into his voice. ]

Does it matter?

[ Neither of them is actually interested in the next exhibit and without asking, John simply sets course for the exit a couple of showrooms down. They've seen enough, honestly. Said what they -- needed to say, supposedly. Christ, he needs a beer.

Then, Khan goes on to tell hm that whatever skill set John imagines it requires to be Spec Ops, that's indeed the skill set he's got which, unsurprisingly, John had figured, thank you very much. He also tells him that he used to work with special forces all over the world for that very reason and John proceeds to recall Mycroft and his slight hissy fit... When their shoulders touch, it doesn't make him recoil. Khan isn't exactly frightening, just because he might be able to kill people with a, what, melted spoon or whatever. He's had the man down his throat, he really isn't afraid of him. The day that changes, he will reconsider his dating pool dramatically. Or his life choices. Either or.

He doesn't pull away when the other man reaches out, his palm connecting with John's upper arm and touching him briefly, the sensation of togetherness seeping into his system, somewhere in the stomach region but different from arousal, not that deep. Yet, very deep, in fact. Very deep. John turns his head to meet Khan's eyes with a forcibly casual expression of his own. ]

Trust me, we wouldn't be here if it did.

[ John doesn't draw away, though there's something in his expression that doesn't quite let up. Khan looks him over, then drops his hand to his side. He stays close to him, however, thinking that trust is always difficult, as it should be, if you aren't gullible. How would John trust him, really, when there's little but a specter to acknowledge, aside from the sex which, really, says a lot and nothing all at once? He thinks about the tea kettle. Perhaps, eventually, there are other ways he can leave himself and his world behind for John to find - to find and, hopefully, to wonder at. He likes the thought of that. He likes the thought of the other man in awe.

But as time goes by, he likes the thought of leaving him behind less and less.

Frowning, he finally steps back, turning to look at a nearby exhibit without actually seeing the contents. He really should cease reminding himself of the temporary nature of their relation; what's the point? He already knows. He knows it well, just as he knows that he's letting his crew down with every day that passes. Really, in doing this with John - this thing that he can't rightly name which in itself speaks volumes - he's closing his eyes. Willingly and without regrets.

A harsh exhalation.

Always without regrets. ]

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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