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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[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ He laughs, mostly despite himself, fingers relaxing visibly against the tabletop. He leaves his beer half-finished for now, raising an eyebrow at Khan across the table, cocking his head somewhat, amused. ]

Yes, good, make me feel like a fucking dog.

[ Normally he wouldn't throw around a word like fucking in polite conversation, but he's still a bit agitated, probably noticeably, too, because anger management always was an issue with him, so it slips out with the rest, sounding coarse and exactly as loud as the very stupid, very loud-mouthing teenagers a few tables down. Khan will have to excuse him, since he's being so very generous with the rest, the acknowledgement and the praise. Honestly, John deserves it as well, because he's pretty sure he's only half a step away from telling Dr. Johnson to kindly sod off and that, oh God, will be the greatest relief he can possibly imagine, safe for Sherlock showing up at his (their) door alive and don't dally on your way there, either, will you...

A moment's quiet while that particular scenario plays out in his mind. They're just looking at each other, Khan and him, Khan expectantly, because if they're playing the game, it's John's turn now, to ask. John smiles slightly, eyes narrowing in expectation. Listen, he's probably waited too long asking this anyway, but only because he's at least certain you're legal, Mr. Free Agent. ]

How old are you?

[ Though John's reply is anything but outwardly respectful, Khan clearly senses the warmth beneath the words, the way John looks happy, amused, despite the increasing tension filling the atmosphere in the pub. The men by the table are getting worked up, visibly so, possibly egged on by the lack of response. He's paying only slightly more attention to them than before, mostly because he can see, even without looking directly at them, that one of them is planning on visiting their table soon. People. Does he really have to deal with people, just when he's managing to escape them so very successfully?

John looks at him for a moment before asking his question. It's a tough one, at that, at least in terms of maintaining the illusion of normalcy. He could, naturally, pretend to be younger than he is - John's born in the 70s and going by looks alone, Khan ought to be at least slightly younger. The fact that he's 10 years older, plus his 300 years in cryosleep, is an interesting topic to breach and he's just about to do so, when they're interrupted by one of the angry men, this one younger than the rest. He's bulky, showcasing the sort of muscle you set when you spend too much of your life, working out.

Khan ignores him. He doesn't answer John's question, however, seeing as he wants the man's attention for this conversation and right now, he most certainly doesn't have it. He watches the newcomer blankly, as the boy looks between them, his under-nourished frontal lobes clearly choosing quickly, instinctively, between them before he rounds on John (Hey, fag, didn't you hear me? I said, why don't you two fucking leave and do your nasty business somewhere private? This is a public place!). The pub is eerily silent. Violence in the human world has been a spectator sport, after all, since ancient times. ]

Edited 2019-08-03 22:02 (UTC)

[ Khan's about to answer, when one of the men -- a younger model, very young, in fact, very bulky and very aggressive comes over to their table, looking between them pointedly once before turning to John and calling him fag again, this time directly to his face, rather brave of him, really. The quiet falls over the entire pub and John faintly remembers Sherlock on his knees in front of him, fingers tearing at his bomb vest, undressing him. People might talk, John had joked back then. People do little else, Sherlock had replied with a huff of laughter and it had been very funny, very entertaining, because despite all the dumb shit they've pulled during their time, Sherlock and him, they've never faced -- well, this. Then, John thinks about his sister, about some of the shit he knows she's taken, in turn. Maybe it's simply his turn now.

Or maybe Mr. Louder Than Thou simply ought to shut up.

John cocks his head in Khan's general direction, though he's mostly looking at him without seeing him now. He blinks, frowns, blinks again and then narrows his eyes, before turning his head towards the newcomer slightly. Looking the guy up and down -- and he's leering back at his little, stupid friends from time to time, then at John, what, 20 years younger than him. Oh, the roaring 20s, what a time to be alive, right. John eventually lets a smile slip onto his lips, an entirely unpleasant one. ]

Good. Great. Now, fuck off.

[ That's all he says. He's not going to argue with some wimp about his legally protected right to do whatever the hell he wants in a public place, yes, you are so very correct, kid, Christ. The man looks more provoked by him turning his attention back on Khan again than by what he actually said which is quite telling in its own right, so John shrugs and gives the tabletop a small slap with both hands as he makes to get up to indicate that -- okay, he's paying now and they're getting out, this is not how they're ending their night, that much is certain.

As he starts to shuffle, moving to get up, the man's expression hardens, he notices out the corner of his eye and he leans in closer. John sees this going very wrong, very quickly and although he's got relatively quick reflexes, the other man is still faster, fingers stretching out for the glass on the table (coming in here, holding hands like a pair of fucking poofters, fucking disgusting).

Oh, for God's sake. They should've just gone home, they'd be doing some actual fucking now, Khan and him. Much preferable. ]

[ He sees it in stages before it happens - John's face growing colder, patience well and truly spent; the young man losing his temper even faster, itching for an excuse. Then, John makes to get up, slapping his hands against the counter after telling him to fuck off and that, apparently, is all it takes to push the fool into action. Khan knows where his hands are going seconds before he even reaches out; his eyes and his body movements give it away.

Khan's fingers close around his wrist like a vice, lightening fast. The glass remains untouched on the table.

Silence. The stranger stares at his hand, at Khan, for a long moment. Then, quite stupidly, he tries to pull away which, for such a little rat, amounts to much the same as trying to free a limb from hardened concrete. Khan keeps his arm still through the younger man's wrestling moves and consequently, within seconds, there's a loud, hard snap as the radius bone breaks cleanly in half. The hand goes limp between Khan's fingers. The boy's lower arm changes shape.

Then, he starts screaming, his face paling almost to white, and Khan releases his arm without further ado, straightening up slightly in his chair and sipping his beer. The quiet in the pub, at least, is broken now by the sounds of the man's friends getting up to help (too little, too late); chairs scraping across the floor and cutlery being dropped; and the young man, stumbling backwards against a nearby empty table before he overbalances, rolling onto his back like a fat turtle and crashing to the floor, limbs flailing through the air.

Khan looks at his beer. Looks up at John. ]

You want to leave?

[ It all happens -- rather fast, Khan reaching out and catching the angry, young man by his wrist, his movements clean and efficient. Shit. As the man starts flailing against the grip, John sees it happen even before the loud snap sounds. A grimace. Well, that's going to be decidedly unpleasant, radius bones don't exactly heal themselves. As Khan releases his arm, he starts stumbling about until finally dropping onto the floor in obvious agony, much deserved, but still -- there is a moment where John's morals as a doctor battle his maybe slightly more innate instincts, where he quite honestly considers helping the man, getting him to the A&E, doing some initial first aid on the way, but then Khan looks at him and asks whether he wants to leave. John meets his eyes across the table, straightening up, ignoring the screaming mess of a thug on the ground, ignoring his stupid friends gathering around him, throwing enraged looks in Khan's direction now. ]

Sure.

[ They better.

Not only because someone's bound to call the police at any time now, but because John certainly isn't sticking around to elevate the man's arm or keep the bone in place with compression bandages or whatever they've got in their first aid kit out back. He actually couldn't care less what happens to the guy, he should have taken John's advice and got lost while he had the chance. Besides, there's a slight buzz to the way his blood is pumping through his veins currently, a heat in the pit of his stomach, his palms feeling sweaty and his cheeks heated. All right, they're getting out of here now and then he's finding a tree or something to suck Khan off behind. To hell with decent use of public spaces anyway, yes. Come on.

Breathing slightly irregular, he moves past the group of men, their attacker curled well and truly in on himself while clutching his hand. Medical attention, he wants to tell them, if only out of a professional pride -- but honestly, he doesn't give a damn and keeps quiet, turning around to wait for Khan to follow. The guy's friends are beginning to look slightly agitated and one of them is whispering angrily to -- someone else, gesturing wildly with his hands before stepping forward, in between them (what the fuck do you think you're doing, huh). He turns towards Khan.

John raises an eyebrow, at this point very much expecting a show. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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.

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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