PSL no. 2: cruel wars

[presurgery]

CHRONOLOGICALLY -

i. alternate universe
ii. picture prompt
iii. quote prompt
iv. random scenario
v. psl
vi. stargazing
vii. psl
viii. psl
ix. psl
x. insomnia

Comments

v.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ For the past two weeks, they've laid waste to the Russian border, decimating all barriers including radars, mine fields and air defenses. He called in Rachita for assistance, going with a team of twenty-five and leaving very little behind, except for scorched earth and barren fields. Nature will restore itself in time, wasteful as it might seem. Maxim's still growing the lower parts of his legs and really, the Russians haven't paid nearly enough in damages as far as he's concerned.

For now, however, it will suffice.

He's taking a rare break this afternoon, a few hours of respite before joining his crew in the underground workshops, running weapon testings on a new gun with laser capacity. He's gone without sleep for ten days in a row, which isn't terribly uncommon during missions but it leaves him feeling slightly unfocused and mindless exercise usually helps. So he hangs away his bathrobe neatly before making his way to the pool itself wearing nothing except a pair of dark briefs, his footsteps light but steady against the tiles. ]

[presurgery]

[ Really, there's not enough to do at the castle to make up for an actual everyday schedule, Mike and him filling their days with a mix of medical work (what little they can do outside of research, John doesn't think he's ever had a larger arsenal of random knowledge crowding up his mindspace), inane activities in the man cave that Atlas has prepared for them (including a popcorn machine which is quite a dangerous thing to put anywhere near two bored uni buddies) and exercise, either at the gyms available or, as now, here in the indoor swimming pool.

John has just got out of the water, Mike close at his heels, grabbing a towel and beginning to dry off, when a shadow catches his attention out the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he gets a rather magnificent view of Khan entering the premises in nothing but briefs (and thank God, they're dark like everything else the man wears or John would probably be making out anatomical shapes, yes). Glancing over at Mike who looks somewhat starstruck, he senses that Khan's doing the same and there's a moment where Mike looks from one to the other and then, stammering, excuses himself, hurrying towards the nearest exit. Mostly to distract himself, John follows him with his gaze until the door's closed behind him, only then does he turn his attention back on Khan.

Jesus, why did they have to make them so bloody good-looking? Don't tell him that was a strategic move, that was someone being vain, that's what it was. John licks his lips, starts drying off again and nods towards the water. ]

Have fun.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ Oh, there's an audience. It speaks volumes as to his levels of exhaustion that he hadn't actually noticed beforehand and when the fat one insists on staring at him like a complete idiot, Khan stares right back at him, feeling nettled. Get lost, he thinks, apparently projecting exactly that because seconds after, he scurries out. John's looking at him too, a different intensity - something like hunger - in his gaze and Khan takes a moment to look him over, head to toe. Whilst not the tallest, he has a pleasing built. Square shoulders and sharp lines, weight nicely distributed, muscles subtle but defined. Mm. He could stand to take his clothes off more often, really.

Without wasting any words on John's comment - the sheer flippancy of that man! - Khan re-focuses on the water. Without pausing in his step, he walks up the edge, muscles tensing all the way from his shoulders to the back of his thighs as he sets off, diving head-first into the pool. There's barely any splash at all.

He heads directly for the bottom of the pool, five meters down. Have fun said John and thank you, he will. Settling onto the tiles, cross-legged, he lets out the very last air in his lungs, bubbles trailing to the surface. Then, he just sits there, the quiet along with the pressure of the water around his body oddly comforting - like stepping into a parallel universe, perhaps, or a small pocket of calm where time runs at a very different pace. ]

[presurgery]

[ Wordlessly, the way Khan seems to do most things, the other man heads directly for the pool and dives right in, one long, elegant arch through the air, barely any splash at all. And before that, lots of muscle, lots of muscle showing, right? All the way up and down his backside, from shoulders to thighs and John keeps an eye on him, hopefully without being too obvious about it. Had their relationship been of another nature, hadn't John had an inkling he might get bloody well decapitated at some point for his nerve, he'd have told the Augment: showoff. Instead, he focuses on drying off properly (takes a bit longer than usually, he'll admit that much), waiting for Khan to emerge again, so he can bid him good day or whatever way he might otherwise be able to provoke the great leader a little.

Except, he doesn't. Emerge. He doesn't come back up for air at all. John waits a long moment, unable to find even a hint of bubbles anywhere. Waits a moment longer, but exactly nothing is happening. He knows the Augment isn't dead, come on, if all it took was a pool full of water, humans would have beaten these things years ago, but what the hell he's doing down there, whether he's - well, okay... Yeah, John doesn't know. He can't very well see, can he? Not from up here.

Dropping the towel off to the side, he waits another minute, maybe two and when the surface of the pool stays still and undisturbed, eventually he sighs, loudly, running an irritated hand through his hair and marches over to the edge, looking down. There's something like a dark outline on the bottom, but that's all he can make out. Why he makes the call he does, he isn't actually sure. It might not even have anything to do with Khan. Or it might have everything to do with him. Whatever the case, John takes one deep breath and jumps in, diving into the depths of the water, a couple of metres down, trying to figure out what the hell's going on.

Khan is just sitting there, on the bottom. Meditating, apparently. How? How does he do that, one thing is being pretentious to a fault, John has realised that's just how he works, his very peculiar makeup, he can't help it, too bad, but how does he not drown? Shaking his head hard, he makes for the surface again, because whatever Khan's capable off in regards to not dying from lack of air, John can't pull the same stunt.

He breaks through the surface, spluttering a little, heaving for breath. Legs kicking below. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ There's moment of silence - nothing but the water pressure around him and the distant sounds of the complex itself. His thoughts re-arrange themselves, war and destruction slipping into the background, leaving room for... other contemplations.

Such as, where's John Watson? Did he leave along with his friend, the man from Rye? Khan hasn't registered his footsteps but then again, even with his enhanced hearing, there's quite a mass of water between him and the floor. He thinks about John, almost naked, drying off, muscles working under his skin in time with his movements. His confusion and anger when Maxim was at his worst, the way he'd administered the morphine later, showing a carefulness their scientists would have never bothered with. Even today, Maxim asks about him in private. Is the doctor well? Is he still here? Will he stay?

Very curious, for his people to attach themselves to anything beyond their own society.

Eyes falling shut against the water, he's just about to enter an actual, meditative state when something disturbs the water - he glances up slowly, just as John dives in, going down a couple of meters and hovering over him. It's a very brief visit, naturally, because humans can't hold their breaths for very long without extensive training. All the same, he came to... check, did he? To make sure? Of what? So many questions and thought patterns, all pertaining to the same man.

Looking up, he unfolds his legs and pushes off from the bottom. He's not making plans, thinking ahead, no, oh no. He's just following the logical consequence of his prior contemplations; that if John takes up his mind so persistently, then surely, it's time to bridge the distance. He does it in a very physical way, by coming up from beneath John's kicking legs, sliding up against him, front to back, and folding both arms around his waist. From one moment to the next, he goes from being all alone underwater, secluded, to having John's body pressed up against his, warm and wet and full of strength. He pulls him backwards, keeping him balanced against his own body, their legs entangling. ]

[presurgery]

[ He doesn't even get as far as making for the edge of the swimming pool before something shoots up behind him, two very strong (very strong) arms fold around his waist and the whole, vast expanse of body presses up against his, dragging him backwards into the water, back first, legs kicking uselessly, entangling with another pair, water splashing everywhere. John gasps, grunts and fights to twist in the Augment's hold, finally managing to turn halfway towards him, getting plentiful glimpses of wet, pale skin, perfectly smooth and glistening, muscular upper body, shoulders, Jesus, shoulders. He's breathing hard, perhaps also harder than is strictly necessary as it's pretty obvious Khan isn't out to kill him. Had that been his aim, yeah, John would've been bloody well dead already. He still wonders about that, you know. He still wonders why he's living and breathing and well, when they're waging a war against each other on all other levels but the personal. Blinking water out of his eyes, he sucks in a couple of sharp breaths and looks up at Khan's face, his unusual eyes, those chiseled features...

Supposedly, he thinks, this has been a while in coming. They've probably both felt it, the attraction between them, curious as it might be, since John first arrived. It's sort of magnetic and sort of unstable and sort of very, very dangerous business, right? What the hell is he thinking about, thinking about... He purses his lips, twists some more in Khan's grip. ]

And what are you going to give me this time?

[ My life's accounted for already, after all, it means. Can't give it to him twice over. His voice's a bit hoarse.

Although it's better now, with Mike here, working medicine again and what not, there are still times, minutes, hours, day, when John remembers Sholto and wants nothing better than for the earth to bloody well swallow him up, since Khan insists on - well, not killing him, basically. Strangely enough, though, this isn't one such time, he isn't thinking about death at all, rather he's thinking about the shape of Khan's mouth, surprisingly sensitive for a man who didn't see the use of morphine for the guy with half a body left. Soft-looking. Shining wetly. John licks his lips. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John fights and wiggles in his hold, though the water's working against him as well as Khan's strength, making him unable to turn around completely or release himself. Instead, he ends up twisted in Khan's grip, his shoulder pressing against his chest. Beneath the water, his buttocks slide up against Khan's crotch. This close up, he can smell him very clearly, the distinctive, warm notes of his scent, the sharpness. Combined with his proximity in itself - physical, solid, real - it all feels intensely intimate and for a brief moment, he actually forgets to answer, too caught up in the shapes and lines of John's profile, the soft curves of his lips.

His cock is definitely hardening, though, as a response in itself. ]

What would you like? [ He leans in, his grip around John's waist loosening, transforming into a hold, instead. He spreads his palms out across the small of his back, stroking the skin there lightly. Suggestively. His voice, when he continues, is lower than usual. ] You're such a stubborn man, John. [ He very purposefully skips his last name. His lips slide over his cheekbone when he adds: ] Other than death, surely there's something you want.

[ It all comes down to this, ultimately: he's caught John Watson fair and square, survived him, even (technically speaking) and traded insults with him for the past two months. Back and forth they go, circling back to the same starting point each and every time. John's here because he wanted to die. Khan keeps him because he wants him alive. And between those two seemingly opposite motivations, here they are, slung together, under water and above and John's asking him what he's going to give him this time because he's searching, he's searching, knowing perfectly well that he won't find what he's looking for on his own. Alone. ]

vii.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ It's a quarter past seven in the evening. The complex is dark, the lightening adjusting itself to the time of day and he's had to turn on a sharp reading light in the library in addition to the dim overheard LEDs. He could, potentially, turn them all up to max but there's something about the shadows lining the floor and the walls that he rather likes. Creates a sense of stillness. Thus, he's seated, straight-backed, in semi-darkness, the table in front of him absolutely covered in stacks of books, articles and sketches. He's working on the details of a new laser weapon for aerial combat, based on the new prototype they've developed in the lab.

He's aware of John's presence somewhere in the complex. They've got their routines, their two prisoners - researching at noon, eating and relaxing until evening (apparently, Atlas has created a rec room for them, complete with TV, a pool table and... a popcorn machine? It's quite strange and naturally, everybody's talking about it) and then, research again.

So while he hadn't exactly planned for the library table to become his personal workspace for the evening, he's not here completely by coincidence. Really, he rarely goes anywhere without a reason these days, there's simply too little time. ]

[presurgery]

[ Of their two daily research rounds, John highly favours the second, the one after dinner, because that's when he does his research alone. It's not that he dislikes Mike, come on, Mike's a friend, a comrade and a thousand other things that fall into various sub-categories of the two first, but mostly he's also begun looking a John a particular way after the incident in the pool a week ago, like he knows, when John's pretty sure there are no clues to pick up on. They don't see each other more often than previously, Khan and him (minus the evening scroll a couple of days ago, but honestly, that could've happened either way - he thinks) and they don't act any differently around each other, when they do cross paths. So, really, John's got no idea what Mike knows. Nothing, possibly. He might just be reading too much into it. Yeah.

He probably is.

Tonight he's headed for the library that's become a fixture in his evening study seances, although he hasn't actually worked this academically since his uni days. He misses practical medicine, let's be real, he misses working on people, not - what, computers and the like. He misses actual tissue, flesh and blood and - yeah, fluids? Might be that he's missing fluids. Sounds a bit sick, now that he is giving himself time to pause at the thought.

Pushing the door open slowly, he steps inside, halting himself mid-motion at the sight of - someone else there, and not just someone else, that one specific person. Of course, he's here. Where the hell else would he be? John finishes his movement after another beat, closes the door behind himself, looking around slowly. ]

And to what do I owe the honour?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He's picked up John's scent before he actually enters the library, a comfortable heat of satisfaction settling in his body. The other man steps inside, his footfalls giving his actions away - pausing, thinking, then... onwards. How very much like him. Khan's starting to recognise his patterns and that thought, too, is intensely satisfying. It's been a while since the pool and though he hasn't actively thought too much of it - compartmentalization is an utterly necessary skill when you're ruling a quarter of the planet - he's returning to those memories now. Scent, touch, taste... His hand pauses over the diagram on the iPad for half a second at most before he continues. ]

You're often here during the evenings. [ His voice is quiet, unhurried. He erases a line, adds another. ] I wanted to see you.

[ It's a direct admission; no need to dance around the issue, after all, they both know what this is about. It's not about him, throwing tokens for John to reject or accept, as a captive soldier at the mercy of the enemy. He's not offering him anything except what they are, here, at this very moment. Gaze narrowing in concentration, he flips open one of the books, checks up on the drawings there and corrects his own. The calculation near the top of the screen flashes briefly in the darkness. ]

[presurgery]

[ Khan's answer brings him more pause than the sight of him did. Frowning, noticeably, eyebrows knitted together and forehead creasing, he looks at the other man for a long moment, the steadiness of his work pace, his hands doing - whatever they're doing on the iPad, they're moving, they're recognisable lines of skin and bone. The journey between book and screen, the blue light making the Augment look even paler than usually. Deadly. Well, he was always deadly, wasn't he? And now he's direct, too. That's great. Sholto would've liked him, he thinks.

Slowly, John inclines his head, moves over to the nearby shelf where they keep their hundred rows of books on medicine and picks out a tome, some random one, he doesn't even bother to check, before pulling out a chair at the table. Opposite Khan. He doesn't seat himself, though. Instead he leans in over the tabletop, and he has to really stretch here, because the table's big and he's short, okay, and angles the lamp Khan's lit, so that some of the light reaches all the way over to where he's sitting. It's more than just practicality, of course - this is war and you only get so and so many moves. As such, it also brings him closer to Khan, close enough to catch a whiff of his scent, study the lines of his neck and jaw. His hands, up close. John readjusts the lamp a bit more, then starts drawing back. ]

Then you'll have to look, I guess.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John takes a book from the shelf and pulls out a chair by the table on the opposite side. Khan doesn't look up at him immediately, though he's conscious of his movements, his path through the room. His scent grows stronger, more distracting, and then, finally, the man leans into his personal space to direct the lamp light, saying that he'll have to look, bringing himself close enough that it qualifies as its own response if his words weren't answer enough.

With a slow exhalation, he sets down his iPad, closing the screen. Then, he straightens up and looks at John, eyes dark and heavy. He lets his gaze roam, from his face, his eyes and lips, to his neck and shoulders, chest, stomach - the table top cuts off the visuals near John's waist but happily, he can make out the hard lines of his hips, the hint of darkness beneath his abdomen. He remembers the pool, then; John wearing only his briefs. His cock, hard and thick, the taste of it.

Licking his lips, he thinks about the bullet scar on his left shoulder, about the way it felt beneath his fingers, and his hands actually twitch by his sides, his body warming fast. Another slow intake of breath while he simply takes him in, gaze hard and unwavering. ]

[presurgery]

[ While Khan looks his fill, then, John stays where he is, muscles trembling a bit from exertion at the awkward position, though there's no doubt some degree of excitement to it as well. You'd have to be an idiot not to get what the man's thinking of, when he lets his eyes roam down over John's front, head to toe, a very visible journey, every stage exaggerated. Pale eyes. Pale skin. Sensitive lips, but back to his eyes, snap. Jesus, he's not holding back, is he? No, Khan's challenging him with that gaze, of course, daring him to respond, wanting him to. John licks his lips, pretty much in time with Khan doing the same and he knows, at that point, this is a lost battle. He could try and fight it, he could tell himself he doesn't want it (knowing it was a lie), that the conflict of loyalties is too difficult (and it is, God, it is, that part at least is true enough), but he could also just - tell himself to bloody well do it and be a more honest person for it, yeah? A traitor and a defector, sure, but honest, at least.

God honestly rotten.

In love and war... Huh, Sholto? All is fair? ]

I'll start this time. [ Planting both hands, palms flat, against the tabletop, he leans in more, getting more or less up in Khan's face. The table's digging into his thighs, but he doesn't care. Khan smells like - well, he smells like him, and the mark on John's neck has just begun fading yesterday. He's worn nothing but turtlenecks all week. He's wearing a turtleneck now. Bad man. ] Do you want me to kiss you?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ The change doesn't happen abruptly - rather, it's like a gradual shift, the atmosphere between them aligning like puzzle pieces, settling into their proper places. John looks back at him for a long moment and then, he leans in further, until he's almost close enough to touch. Do you want me to kiss you he asks whilst Khan's gaze slips to his neck, covered by the turtleneck sweater. The mark must still be there. Humans never heal very fast, it's such a slow, arduous process. ]

Yes.

[ Spoken with a sharp smile, one eyebrow quirking very slightly. Before John can act upon his offer, however, Khan reaches for his shoulders and upper arms, grabbing hold of him and lifting him up on the table, onto his knees. Books and articles clatter to the floor on both sides, a little bit of necessary chaos, the way things are, the way they've been between them since the beginning.

Like this, the other man's actually taller than him for a change. Light and shadow flitter across his face as Khan leans up and kisses him hard, pulling him over the rest of the way, until John's sitting on the edge of the table, more or less on top of his drawings and diagrams. His taste feels familiar already, warm and sharp in nearly equal measures, and Khan wants to devour him, fuck him, take him. And have him, in every way that he possibly can. ]

viii.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ The stench of blood and smoke makes the library seem like a place of death. It's not, yet. The rec room, yes. The weapon's lab, yes. But whilst John's battered, looking a bit worse for wear taking cover behind a bookcase in the corner, she hasn't managed to christen this room. Not yet. And she won't, either. Khan watches Rachita warily, ten feet away, and she's reeking of fear and anger, her clothes drenched in sweat and blood and bone. When he took her back from Tromsø by force, she'd smelled of smoke, too, her hands burned and her eyes still glittering from the flames.

He should have known it, then. This time, she won't be back.

He'd managed to disarm her early on, leaving them fighting hand-to-hand. She's struggled well, his little sister. He's stopped counting his own broken bones by now. He's got blood gushing down his face, his eyebrow cracked, his nose broken and his lip split in several places. Ribs broken, something in his pelvis, something in his back - well, it happens. It doesn't matter.

What matters is that she managed to get the upperhand for all of two seconds and now, she's crouching by the wall, barring her teeth at him like a trapped animal and taking aim in John's direction, the weapon loading slower than she likes. You've built it badly, she's gasping, words distorted by her broken jaw. It's too little, Noonien, it's too little. He stares at her, hands clenching. In less than five seconds she'll have twenty rounds at her disposal and she'll burn John as she burned his friend along with her own fortress, she'll burn the whole place down.

It's too little, yes, that's evidently true. Whatever he's given her isn't anywhere near enough. Doesn't mean he'll let her take whatever she pleases to make up for his inadequacy.

Thus, jaw setting, he walks towards her, forcing her to fire at him instead, in self-defense or insanity or both. He doesn't attempt to dodge, unwilling to give her even a single reason to aim in any other direction, and then, suddenly, he's right in front of her, feeling none of the smoking holes currently littering his torso. He reaches down, expression drawn and tight, folding both hands around her face, fingertips digging in. For just a second or two, it's a caress. Rachita drops the weapon and grabs onto him, pushing her fingers into the wounds on his upper body and holding on and the pain feels like nothing as he remembers her pointing that gun at John, thinks about his three people dead in the labs. Her own hands, swelling with burns and the look of crazy, dead triumph in her eyes.

It's nothing.

So he crushes her skull between his hands and collapses on top of her broken body, allowing the world to fade to black. ]

[presurgery]

[ This is war, he should've remembered, but he didn't. He'd forgot. In the peaceful lull of fucking Khan, of quiet afternoons here or in the rec room, trips by chopper out into the wild? He'd forgot. That's what happens when you let your guard down, soldier, he can hear Sholto bark somewhere behind him, although nothing's behind him except towering walls and windows and everything's in splinters and shards now. She's left everything in bloody pieces, Mike included, Atlas, Khan... She's aiming at him and firing and every round leaves a gaping hole in his chest, yet he just keeps walking, because they're not human, Augments, they're something beyond human. John had forgot about that, too. Easy what with the other man's cock down his throat. Different priorities.

Right now? Yeah, he's just hoping to survive, he's hoping Khan survives, too, cowering behind a large bookcase that's cut the room in two, the actual battlefield where Khan grabs the Terror Queen by her head on one side - and the trenches where John's hiding, shaking (crying, gasping from it) on the other. Hoping, oh God, he's hoping so very badly, praying to God, let him live, because when there's nowhere else to go, you go to higher court.

Khan crushes her skull and her body goes limp beneath him as he collapses on top of it. John's whole body, in turn, makes a pitiful launch forward which isn't a real movement, just his muscles reacting, his system kicking into gear. The actual forward motion doesn't begin until he's made sure she's dead, really dead, unmoving at least, then he quickly crawls over the bookcase and walks over, warily, a little bit hesitantly. Constantly ready to leap backwards, make a run for it. That desperate need to live, he supposes. In the midst of death as a given, war.

Stopping next to them, he automatically goes into that coldly analytical state where he just observes, Khan's breathing, barely, good, his torso holed like a Swiss cheese, but some of the wounds are already closing up a bit, crusting around the edges, it's the whole picture that's the problem. That she's wrecked him so thoroughly. No way of knowing if he'll come back from that. She sure won't come back from her injuries. Since he can't possibly do anymore harm to him, John bends down and pushes one arm beneath Khan's chest, the other holding him around the shoulders and he hoists him up, dragging his unresponsive body with him a few feet away from the body of Rachita. ]

I told you so.

[ It's a hoarse mutter, a whisper almost. Doesn't mean anything. Doesn't mean anything at all, not when everything smells like blood and burns. It feels like home, when it shouldn't, this hell. He'd forgotten the feeling, hadn't he? Purpose, meaning. Chaos. This is it, boys, this is war. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He wakes up at the feel of something jostling his body, of being dragged, and instantly grabs for what's in reach, his mutilated left hand (two fingers chewed to pieces between her molars but he's killed her now, it doesn't matter) connecting with a shoulder, an upper-arm. He breathes in raggedly, managing a long, uneven drag, feeling his one, un-collapsed lung fighting to respond, the other full of blood and fluids. Turning his head sideways, he spits blood onto the floor, just as his brain - slow now, too slow - registers John's scent, the sound of his familiar footfalls.

Blinking one, swollen eye open, his vision takes a long while to clear, though he manages to catch a glimpse of her form, the shape of her, dark and small and out of sorts. As she's been, he thinks, for most of her adult life. Ah, but everything hurts - the laser gun did what it was supposed to, of course. Badly built? Hardly. He groans, one leg caught at an awkward angle (and stuck there until the bone heals). Frowning, he raises his hand again and grabs hold of John, where ever he can get a grip of any kind at this angle. She's dead but he's alive. Most of them are. It's not good enough, it's not good, but war never is - when first you've realised, you learn to work around very different constants. Different values, different scopes.

He forces himself not to lose consciousness, blinking up at the ceiling, then at John. John, who is alive.

The goal, by most relevant definitions, accomplished. ]

[presurgery]

[ Little by little, in recognisable stages, Khan comes to - eyes (well, eye) opening and his hand scrambling for purchase along John's upper arm, shoulder, whatever's within reach, pretty much. John eases him down on a mostly untouched spot of floor, shrugging out of his shirt quickly to give him something to rest his head on. It's blood-soaked (Mike's), but more comfortable than the ground, so it'll have to do. Bare-chested, he gets to work on the other man, looking him over properly, checking out his most severe injuries (try with all of them), the external ones, the rest he'll need an x-ray machine and the works for, right? Broken leg, all those bloody holes... ]

I'm here, I'm fine.

[ John grasps his hand briefly, it's chewed up and bleeding, but still feels like nearness and intimacy. Shit, he must have difficulties breathing, with both his lungs shot to bits, air escaping through the open wounds. John releases him, moving over to grab one of the blankets off the nearest chair and folds it up, spreading it out over his chest. Then, he undoes his belt and straps it around the blanket and beneath Khan's back, tightening it up with all the strength he's got. It's an intermediate solution, far from perfect, but it'll keep the air in his system somewhat. And although Khan might not need it to actually, you know, breathe, like he doesn't need morphine to heal, it'll probably help his cells regenerate, if they're not lacking oxygen.

Only once that's done, a turned-over chair popped underneath his broken leg for support as well, does John stroke his hair (because, shoot him), mutter be right back and run to the nearest intercom panel, swiping his card over it and saying exactly four words: ]

Library. Bring medical supplies.

ix.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ The floor's bright from artificial light, imitating the sun at noon and its movement across the sky. Khan blinks awake, swallowing heavily against a wave of nausea, the morphine in his system somewhat diluted at this point but potent enough to make him feel slow and cumbersome. He listens. Places John in the room next to his, tending to... who's in there? Sniff, sniff (lungs complaining loudly). Atlas, yes. Rachita took him down as well. He wonders how that came about - usually, he'd be wise enough to stay out of her path.

Must have had a purpose.

His hand, fingers healing up (taking a longer time due to all his other injuries, blood loss, slow cell growth from lack of oxygen), scrambles along the side of the bed briefly until landing on the panel, pushing a few buttons. The backrest rises slowly in response, until he's mostly sitting up, the movement jostling his still-healing lower-back. He coughs. Curls one arm over his torso, riddled with holes still, the bandages around it growing wet from blood. He can sense his consciousness slipping and growls, feeling stubborn, though he doesn't actually know why.

So he punches the panel next to the bed to lower the morphine dose in the IV because surely, the thing isn't helping him think any clearer. ]

[presurgery]

[ It's been four days. Four days of next to no sleep (aside from the two naps Amélie's corporally forced him to take), only basic fluid and nutrient intake (aside from the two lunches Amélie's forcibly had him eat) and constant on-his-feet treatment of Khan and Atlas, both of whom have been mostly unresponsive. Maybe a good thing in these particular circumstances, less work for John, right? Less work.

He washes his hands after having checked on Atlas' bandages and is about to grab a granola bar, well out of harm's way, when he hears the telltale punching against the panels on the bed next door. Jesus, what's the man doing? Not again. Khan's been up once since his showdown with Rachita and it didn't end well, not for him and certainly not for John's pride. The problem of handling a patient who's stronger than you even when halfway drained of blood, yes? He's never afraid around Khan, mind, but he's got a healthy skepticism in regards to his strength. Dazed from morphine and pain, who the hell knows what stupid decisions he might make. Like now. John stops in the doorway, watches Khan who has raised the headboard, his upper body contorted into a position it's in no way ready for, his bandages soaked with fresh blood as a result. Yeah, like now. Look at this idiot. Christ.

Sighing deeply, he walks over to his bed, physically removes Khan's hand from the buttons and starts lowering the headboard once more. ]

No, we're not doing that. [ His eyes feel sensitive against the bright lights, it's sleep deprivation mostly. John blinks a few times, leans in over Khan to check a particular soaked spot on his chest. No touching, just the visual. A headshake and he turns away, moves over to the cupboards and finds a couple rolls of fresh ones. ] I changed you half an hour ago, you know.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He can't actually manage to regulate the morphine dosis - apparently, that requires more advanced motor skills than he's currently capable of - and when John walks in once more, he's so oddly relieved by his presence that he doesn't resist being moved away from it and lowered down again. His back protests at the motion though he senses his muscles relaxing better as he's returned to his reclining position. Blinking harshly, he manages to lift himself onto his elbow, just enough to look at John, his hair clinging to his brow.

Eyes narrowing, he takes in the other man's appearance - whole, first and foremost, but very visibly exhausted - and takes another ragged breath before speaking, his words coming out dry, voice hoarse. ]

You should rest. [ Spoken as matter-of-factly as he can manage in his current state. He takes another shallow breath, putting some weight on his side, his hip miraculously pain-free. At least some parts of him weren't destroyed. ] Have Amélie call in - [ Pause. Cough. Cough. Chest pain. He blinks water out of his eyes, then continues, unperturbed: ] - reinforcements.

[ To begin with upon waking up, he'd been almost panicked at the feeling of tubes going into him, seemingly from everywhere, along with the heavy feeling of sedation coursing through his body. He's not used to any of it. John, however, seems to deem it necessary and on this particular battlefield, he'll... defer to his judgment.

He thinks about Rachita, her head squashed between his hands. His call, then.

In this place, John's. ]

[presurgery]

[ When he returns to Khan's bed, he's hoisted himself up on one elbow, very much against doctor's orders, yes, and John frowns at him while he listens to his slurred, hoarse speech that gives him a good idea of exactly how holed and beaten up the man still is. Okay, they're not there, yet. Far from it, seeing as Khan sounds like a collapsed lung and several malfunctioning internal organs, pretty much. John steps up to him and starts unwrapping the soaked bandages with efficient, but gentle fingers, secure handiwork, no accidental touches of anything, please. He bares his chest in stages, the blood beginning to run in actual little streams near his skin. The final layer's soaked through. John doesn't look up at him, instead focuses on wringing a wet cloth, guiding him with a hand against his shoulder to make him lean forward a bit so John can tend to both his back and his chest at the same time.

The man coughs. Tell him to call in reinforcements, tells him to rest, but not like Amélie who's ready to tug him in herself, more like he's acknowledging the work behind it. The work behind the tiredness. The natural connection. John's field of expertise, yeah? Finally looking up at him, John raises an eyebrow. Also tired, but what can you really do. ]

Next time I see her, sure. [ Dab dab dab at the middle of Khan's chest. ] Could use someone with more knowledge of the way your systems work. [ Dab dab dab. ] How's the morphine taking effect?

[ He had to level up the doses to horse tranquilizer amounts to get a visible reaction in his muscles and nerve response, but it's always difficult to tell how it'll relieve the pain once you're awake and conscious. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John gets to work on his bandages, his hands careful, precise. Khan's never seen much use in medical personal, particularly not in battle when all you need is enough muscle and enough power - before Rachita lost herself, they'd had frequent discussions on the matter, as she'd deemed it downright hazardous to their people, not caring about pain management, proper wound care. We're still alive, she'd said with emphasis, once he'd made her mad enough to actually raise her voice. We're not dead and we're not some lower animal species, either.

Then, he killed her with brute force, proving them both wrong.

He sighs, focusing on the aches in his body for a moment. As John dabs away at him, soaking up bloods and fluids from the various holes scattered across his chest, he tries to come up with a sufficient answer. He's not used to measuring his pain levels. They come, they go. It's all the same to him, really, but then again, he doesn't normally attempt to dull them in any fashion. ]

Mm. It's... efficient. [ He follows John's instructions, leaning forward or backwards, to give him working space. ] I feel as if I could - [ Pause. He frowns, staring at the doorway. ] - go back to work, even.

[ Not that he... should. Obviously. But with the pain dulled to something that he'd never care about under any other circumstances, it takes a bit of mental power to remember. ]

She killed your friend.

[ It's not a question. He doesn't know how he knows - perhaps aside from the fact that he can't imagine Rachita sparing the man anymore than he can imagine the man getting out of her way fast enough to survive. ]

[presurgery]

[ Khan is nothing if not a compliant patient. He moves as he's told to, he answers as he's asked. John's eyebrows are knitted together as he gets as much of the blood and fluids off as possible, before putting the now reddish water away with several soaked pieces of cloth floating in the surface. Unwrapping the bandages, he shakes his head a bit in acknowledgement of the other man's observation - not the last one, the painful one about Mike, but the first. If he feels ready to return to the world of the not half-dead, well then John's doing an all right job, he's going to guess. Not that Khan's going anywhere right now. Pushing him back a little, John leans in over him and starts expertly wrapping his chest up again, closing off the holes littering his torso and keeping the blood flow in, as good as it gets with these sort of injuries. Extensive and inhuman. ]

She has killed a lot of good people.

[ It's a dry, curt statement. True, but unpleasant. He's obviously talking about Sholto here, too, but sure, also Mike. And Khan's people that they've buried. And a good percentage of Europe's population, if they're getting into that. His hands continue to tighten the straps of bandages in criss-cross patterns around Khan's back and chest and that's the most talking he's doing, really. There isn't much to say. It's done. They're dead, Mike's dead, she's dead now, too. Khan's seen to that.

Finishing up, he fastens the loose end off with a safety pin and urges Khan to lie back down completely against the now-level headboard. He's not the kind of doctor to fluff pillows and tug duvets in properly, usually he has nurses to do that, right, but there are no nurses here, now, so John does it himself, efficiently fixing up Khan's bed so the man's as comfortable as possible. ]

We're not going back to normal for a while to come, yeah?

[ Pat pat on top of the duvet, near what feels like Khan's knee. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He doesn't reply. Instead, he leaves John's words hanging between them as the other man fixes up his bed, making it comfortable. He thinks about Rachita's head, exploding between his hands - then, he remembers a night, several really, sleeping curled up with her in the same, small bed, their fingers entwined, back when they'd thought they would always be two. Back to normal? Oh, they are far, far away from that.

Possibly, they've never been anywhere near it.

He lies down gingerly, feeling the exertion of simply staying seated quite acutely. Normally, when healing from debilitating injuries, he'd simply stay down until the pain levels were manageable enough to ignore. Can't do that now, with morphine running through his system and John setting the pace, slow, slower, but more proficiently as well. Less chaotic. He looks up at him for a long moment, blinking heavily, his breathing evening out, completely beyond his control. He thinks about John, curled up in the corner behind the bookcase, very visibly terrified. The choices had been simple at that very moment.

He clings to that now, as he goes back to sleep. ]