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John first heard the rumours while hunched over an unconscious Corporal's arm, stitching up a wound.
"...absolutely wrecked. Giant footprints everywhere!"
"I bet Channings was just messing with you, man, that can't be true."
"No, no, he saw it along with the rest of his squad and I was with them just now, they were shaken up really bad!"
The hushed voices with American accents drifted past John to the bed opposite where a fellow Marine was lying.
"Hey, buddy, how're you feeling?"
"Fine, the docs are just being paranoid and want to keep me here another day. What were you guys on about? What about Channings?"
In the corner of his eye, the two figures by the bed huddled closer in a conspiratorial manner. John wondered if they really thought they were being secretive, or if he himself had somehow turned invisible and escaped their notice.
"Channings and his guys were about a hundred miles south on a recon mission when they saw this huge green monster crashing around in the mountains – "
"I still say he's pulling our legs."
"Trust me, I thought he was at first, but you should have seen the way he was talking, he and the others were really freaked out. And here's the clincher – I met him right as he got off the chopper, but barely a minute in, the whole squad was summoned by the Colonel for a debrief. I mean, being debriefed by the Colonel himself for a routine recon? There's something going on there."
Done with the stitches, he made a note on the Corporal's chart and heaved himself up in search of his next patient. Huge green monsters? Well, in this godforsaken place, people had hallucinated worse things.
Shortly after, the number of American soldiers increased dramatically around Camps Bastion and Leatherneck, all seemingly part of a separate task force that set off on mysterious missions south of the base. Heavy artillery the likes of which he had never seen before were airlifted in. Even the several American soldiers John had become friendly with over the years had no idea what was going on, though there were whispers of a 'General Ross' floating around.
************
John, attached to a platoon on a sweep of Afghan villages, made his way steadily towards the south. They occasionally glimpsed or came across American troops who seemed to be searching for something in the mountains, carrying what seemed to him an excessive amount of Stark Industries weaponry.
Was that even legal? Hadn't Tony Stark withdrawn his company from the weapons manufacturing industry after his nightmare hostage experience in Afghanistan? John still remembered those first hopeful weeks when daily searches of the mountainous terrain had been conducted tirelessly by the US military, led by that Air Force Colonel who was a friend of Stark's. Then the frantic desperation as time passed, and finally grim resignation. John had been distantly happy when the news came in of Stark's escape a few months later, because even if it wasn't really any of his business, any kind of good news in a war still deserved to be celebrated.
They set up camp next to a village with orders to be on standby for another unit raiding a nearby town occupied by hostiles. John and his men spent their time offering their medical expertise to the villagers, and very soon there was a line of people waiting to see them. He fell quickly into a well-established routine, working on his patients, though there really wasn't anything he could do about the rampant starvation or malnutrition.
US soldiers passed through, there and gone again swiftly in a rumble of vehicles. Bill popped his head in briefly to convey information. "We're supposed to keep an eye out for an American man in his late thirties, dark hair, who looks like he's on the run. If we find him, don't engage, but radio the Americans the coordinates."
They exchanged raised eyebrows. All that manpower and weapons just to hunt down one man?
That night, as John was packing up and readying to return to his tent, a young girl who couldn't be more than six years old grabbed his sleeve urgently and tugged. He waved off a concerned Bill, checking his pistol and med kit. "I'll be back within the hour, mate."
He followed the girl to the outskirts where a group of people from other villages had arrived earlier as the rumours of doctors giving free treatment had spread. In one of the tents, the girl's parents scolded her harshly, but gestured him towards the back where a figure wrapped in ragged blankets was curled.
Carefully turning the figure over, John blinked down at the man with prematurely-greying black curls who definitely wasn't a local. The man was unshaven, wearing a kameez that fit badly, and even unconscious, lines of stress and exhaustion were evident on his face.
Hair standing on the back of his neck and remembering Bill's words, he sat back on his heels and deliberated. The Afghan girl crawled past him with a wet cloth, mopping at the man's brow as she spoke rapidly at John. His Pashto was laughably limited, but he managed to pick out the word 'help'. Frowning, he noted the sweating man's feverish flush.
The doctor in him won out. Ushering the child away, he checked the man over and grew increasingly alarmed and perturbed by what he found. Scars littered the man's entire body; marks from bullets, knives and other sharp implements that he recognised from his torture resistance sessions. Burn marks as well, the shiny patches of skin obvious. Most of them appeared years old, but several were recent.
Swallowing back nausea, he did what he could, though the man's temperature had cooled significantly during the short period of time John had been examining him. The stranger didn't seem to be suffering from any physical ailments aside from fatigue.
After telling the Afghan family 'water' in Pashto and miming drinking from a cup, he retired for the night. Memories of the scarred body were vivid in his mind, threaded through with a muted simmering anger at faceless villains. He kept the existence of the stranger to himself for now.
************
"Hello," John said to him neutrally in English. "Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"
The man relaxed just a tad at his British accent. He cleared his throat, glanced at his uniform and gun and looked away again nervously. After several deep breaths, he finally responded, "I'm...fine. Vahida tells me you, um, helped me last night. I, er, really appreciate that."
If John had even a wisp of a doubt that this was who the US military was after, it was dispelled by the American accent.
"Well," John shrugged and folded himself down onto the ground, sitting cross-legged. "I didn't do much, really, you're actually fairly healthy aside from a case of severe exhaustion."
Wringing his hands together in his lap, the man nodded jerkily but didn't respond.
"So," he continued nonchalantly. "What do I call you?"
The man's gaze snapped back from where he had been watching the open tent flap. John kept his posture loose and non-confrontational, trying not to startle the stranger who was obviously jumpy and ready to bolt at a moment's notice.
"Um," the man stammered. "B-Ben, my name's Ben."
"Hello, Ben." John didn't allow any of his scepticism at the undoubtedly false name show in his voice or expression, instead nodding amiably and leaning closer to offer his hand. "I'm Captain John Watson. Pleasure."
Ben eyed his hand for several long moments, visibly surprised, but John waited patiently. Finally, the other man reached out to shake it. The handshake lasted far longer than social norms dictated as Ben stared down at their joined hands with a variety of expressions flickering across his face, but John made no mention of it.
Something seemed to occur to Ben. "Vahida said you were a doctor," he blurted.
"I am. I'm a doctor in the Royal Army Medical Corps."
"Ah, of course." The tension radiating from Ben's person was dissipating slowly at John's constant calm demeanour. They were interrupted by the little girl – Vahida – who scampered right up to Ben, not noticing the man's reflexive flinch away, and chattered away in Pashto. The American responded haltingly in the same language, smiling crookedly at whatever the child was saying but still keeping an eye on John.
They shared lunch together, Ben gentle and warm as he interacted with Vahida, wary and guarded with John. Throughout the meal, John wondered what this man had done that warranted being hunted down across Afghanistan by the US military, with heavy weaponry no less. That prompted a recollection of the Marines' conversation the day before, of a giant green creature in the mountains. Ridiculous as the rumours were, he was now forced to view them with much less disbelief than before.
Nonetheless, he had the evidence of a mild-mannered American man in front of him. John considered himself an excellent judge of character, and he failed to sense any sort of danger from Ben, or at the very least, he didn't seem like he would willingly cause harm to anyone. All John saw in him was a very, very tired man. Ben's fight-or-flight instincts were certainly well-developed, but self-preservation was hardly a crime.
Uneasily recalling Ben's scars, he thought that perhaps those same instincts were even necessary for survival.
By the end of the meal, his mind was made up. John hadn't actually been given any direct orders, after all, just information from a friend which could just as well be gossip. Ben was not a threat, not according to John's judgement, and he refused to knowingly deliver an innocent into cruel hands.
"You may want to consider heading east," he told Ben quietly as he stood, brushing off sand. "Take care of yourself, mate."
He ducked out of the tent before the other man could respond, determined to put this behind him.
************
It was only the fact that, after sending off another truckload of patients, he happened to recognise Vahida by one of the many donkey-drawn carts that he was reminded of Ben. Checking that no other soldier was around, he wandered closer.
"You're not going to fool anyone who's really looking," he said casually. Wearing a turban and standing amongst the locals, Ben did a passable job of blending in, but a full frontal glimpse of his face gave him away immediately.
Ben smiled wryly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The American seemed to have regained some semblance of equilibrium overnight. He still seemed like he was bearing a very heavy burden, still very reserved and cautious, but there was a spark of life in his eyes where there hadn't been before. "I'm afraid I'm quite out of options. This is the best I could manage."
Activity around them picked up as the locals bustled around. The procession of carts began to move, sand kicking up everywhere. With the organised chaos going on in the village, both soldiers and civilians alike leaving, this was the best opportunity for someone to slip off without being noticed.
"I didn't get the chance to say this yesterday, Captain," Ben spoke to him lowly in a sincere tone of voice. "I have no idea why you're doing this for me, but thank you."
He didn't understand the exact reasons behind his own actions either, except knowing on a primal level that it was the right thing to do. Nodding to him, he stepped away and raised a hand in farewell, Vahida's family closing in around Ben protectively as they moved off. He didn't stay to watch them leave, turning briskly back towards the medical tent.
John blinked and twisted his head to look. He could have sworn that he had just seen someone with red hair –
"Hey, doc!"
The moment broke. He shook his head to clear it as Bill jogged up to him with an armful of supplies. Back to work.