Nothing
The room (cream-coloured, plain save for four small cameras in each corner and a steel table with chairs) was just on the uncomfortable side of cool, and Steve considered offering the John Doe his blazer jacket to put over his shoulders. Said John Doe was wearing borrowed black sweatpants and a white vest, the vest a little too small and the sweatpants a little too large. The vest did nothing to hide his leanly muscled shoulders, his ink, or his eye-catching metallic arm.
Fury had decided to actually let Steve talk to the man after said man had scared the shit out of the small brunette with the English accent who worked the polygraph machine. He’d been irritated by the endless questions about his past, none of which he seemed to be able to answer. Finally, he’d torn the wires off, loudly demanding to speak to somebody in charge.
It was then, of course, that Fury had elected Steve as lead agent on John Doe.
“I’m Special Agent Steve Rogers. I’m the head agent on your case.”
“Do you know who I am yet?” The second Steve sat down, John Doe turned pleading eyes on him. “Please tell me you know what’s going on.”
“Unfortunately,” Steve said, setting his folder of printed photographs on the table, “no.”
The tattooed man let out a frustrated noise. “All of these tests and – “
“Your fingerprints have no match, nor does your DNA. Facial Recognition has nothing. We can’t trace the metal or make of your prosthetic back to any known locations or sources.” He pulled a single photo out from the folder and held it out, not even glancing at it. The image had already burned itself into his consciousness, probably forever. “We do, however, have this.”
John Doe took it immediately, examining it closely. He wrinkled his nose. “This is – is this one of the tattoos?”
“Yes. Do you recognize me?”
“Why would I – I don’t even recognize myself. How would I recognize you?”
“Because that’s my name, and you have it written on your back, along with the name of my employers. Dr Banner believes that if you encounter familiar stimuli, it might trigger a memory.” Steve shifted uncomfortably. “I know this is overwhelming for you, but please just – try?”
After a long moment, John Doe nodded. He sat forward in his seat as Steve manoeuvred his chair around the table to sit diagonally from him, no more than twelve inches between them. John raised his hands, then looked to Steve for confirmation. At Steve’s quiet “go ahead”, he gently put his hands on Steve’s face.
The fingers of his right hand were roughened, the kind of calluses that came from physical work and holding firearms. Steve tried to resist tensing at the idea of the man currently fondling his face holding a dangerous weapon, and, surprisingly, it wasn’t difficult. John’s touch was light, the sweeps of his fingers trailing and soft – even the hand that clicked and whirred and sighed like a small, smooth engine was gentle.
He had his hands on Steve no more than twenty seconds, before lowering them. Steve had to clear his throat before saying, “anything?”
John looked him directly in the eyes. “No.”
There were a few uncomfortable silent moments, Steve’s mind not quite connecting to what he was supposed to say next. Finally, John Doe said, in a subdued voice, “so what happens now?”
“What?”
“What happens? Where do I go? I have nowhere to stay, and no money, and – “
“We’ll set you up in a safe house,” Steve interrupted, finally making his brain function properly. “Near to headquarters, close enough to reach you if you need help. The fridge should be fully stocked.” John still looked unconvinced, so Steve – throwing professionalism to the wind – leaned forward and placed a hand tentatively on John’s cool, smooth, artificial forearm. “You’ll be fine. Okay?”
John nodded after a second, his jaw working. “Yeah. Okay.”
The safe house, once John had finally been cleared of medical problems and/or weapons that could be concealed on a naked body or inside a prosthetic, was a destination Steve was charged with driving him to (along with a plain car with a bodyguard inside).
“He’ll be out there for your protection,” Steve said, when he handed John the door key. “He won’t come inside unless you ask him to or something happens that endangers you.”
John, who had been walking down the entrance hall, turned to look at Steve again. His eyes were very, very clear – sharp as a razor, bright with intelligence and, for the moment, nerves. “What – what do I – “
“Eat something,” Steve said, moving his weight from foot to foot. He had his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, a move he made only when feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m sure you’ll find something you like.”
“I don’t know what I like.” He looked like a deer in the headlights, lost again.
“Try something,” Steve said. “Try everything, even. Find out what you like. There’ll be something.”
When the agent finally left, he felt mildly relieved – but, at the same time, worried. Grey eyes and silver arm and brown hair and tattoos, those tattoos, so dark and so fresh –
Steve shook the thoughts out of his head and pressed down on the accelerator a little harder.
***
He stood in front of the mirror. It was medium-sized, with a gilded frame, with a few water spots on the lower right hand side. Slowly, silently, holding his breath, as if scared he might frighten something away – frighten himself away – he peeled the borrowed white vest from his body. The sweatpants came off next, then the socks, then, after a moment of hesitation, the boxer shorts.
He couldn’t quite refer to himself as John, not yet. It didn’t – it didn’t feel right. It felt oddly close, as if his true name was something similar to his temporary one, but it fit like his borrowed clothes did: not quite - but good enough for the time being in the opinion of the FBI.
He looked at himself in the mirror. It felt like looking at an alien. An alien that raised its hand when he did, blinked when he did. The arm didn’t seem as strange as the tattoos did, like he’d had it long enough to get used to it, to get used to moving it, seeing it, feeling it, using it –
But the tattoos.
He turned slowly on the spot, twisting his head to keep looking. They were everywhere. Utterly foreign, even to his subconscious, the instinctual part that knew, even if he didn’t, whether he’d encountered something before.
How did they get on him? If – if he hadn’t consented to these, who – someone had violated him, marked him, branded him, all over, visible to anyone looking, who had –
Who –
Who –
He realized his cheeks were wet, and his ribs hurt. He curled over, trying to ease the ache, and the tears began to fall properly.