Look! They're getting longer (yayy)! Granted not by much, but oh wells; it feels wrong to add more content to make them longer just for the sake of being longer.

OH AND LOOK WHO IT IS! You guys have been asking about him since I started this series, so here you go. I feel like you've earnt it.

Part One: Great Expectations

Chapter Six: : Itches

When Harry wakes up for the second time, the pain is still there. It burns through his veins and claws at his throat and eyes with fiery talons. But there is a noticeable difference; the pain is muted, as though hiding from him behind locked doors. He knows the agony is there, but it's not as overwhelming as before. He can ignore it… or at least, think of other things.

Other things like the growing discomfort along the bridge of his nose, which feels like the only thing not broken. Or the disconsonant beeping that seems to echo through the room. The room that is filled to the brim with what can only be muggle technology. Or the padded restraints that tie his arms and chest down to the bed (he feels like he should be more concerned about that than he really is, but he can't really bring himself to care). Or the itchy skin on his nose…

… The itchy skin on his nose…

Oh God his nose is itchy.

Harry Potter cannot move and buggering bitch-tits but his nose is itchy as hell.

He casts his eyes around the room, turning his head as much as he dares in the neck-brace. The room is empty.

Harry feels like crying. This is literally his own personal hell.

"Hello?" he tries to call out. His voice breaks half-way through. He rolls his eyes, clears his throat and tries again.

Steve Rogers hates being on the Helicarrier.

It's all stainless-steel floors and white walls that feel alive thanks to the constant him of machinery and electronics that run through everything. It reminds him too much of all the things he'd gone and lost in his seventy year sleep. Technology that he should have seen the development of. People who he should have been able to watch develop it all.

Of course, the absence of should-have-been memories is not his only problem with the Helicarrier. There is also the dilemma that everything here looks exactly the same. He'd swear that not a visit went by when he didn't find himself lost. Sometimes he manages to retrace his steps and find out where he'd gone wrong. Most times he ends up having to ask someone where he is and how he could get where he needed to be, whilst simultaneously trying not to flush with embarrassment (he was Captain America after all, and Captain America does not flush).

Unfortunately today was one of such days.

He doesn't know where he is; there are never any signs and the corridor in which he finally admits to himself he is lost in is filled with doors, but he'd bet his shield that none of them are the door he actually wants. He's rather hoping they're offices, but none of them sport windows so it's hard to tell (and does the Helicarrier even have offices? It feels weird that it possibly could).

Feeling quite foolish, he knocks on the first door he comes across. There is no reply, though he does wait half a minute before he tries opening it. It's locked; naturally.

Ever the tenacious one (and the slightly desperate- he was supposed to be at the meeting 10 minutes ago) he moves onto the next one.

And the next.

And the next.

He's about to give up- it's more than likely (and just his luck) that this is just an empty corridor- when he hears something. He walks quietly down the corridor, curious.

There it is again- muffled, soft, but it definitely sounds like someone talking. When it comes again, he's close enough to hear them.

"Hello?" comes a voice. Male; young. He sounds almost desperate, perhaps distraught. Steve speeds up, concerned now.

"Hello?" he answers, making sure he's loud enough for the man to hear him.

A pause, then, "Oh Thank Merlin! I thought I was alone in here!" The voice is coming from the last door in the corridor. A laminated piece of paper has been blue-tacked to the door:

John Doe 33678

He tries the handle, half expecting it to be locked. It isn't. He lets the door slide open… and stares dumbfounded for a moment at the image he's presented with.

The room is filled with machines- which would have been a nightmare to him on a good day. From wall to wall- there are machines everywhere, with what looks like just enough space cleared away to walk around the bed sitting in the middle of it all.

The bed that holds what is probably the most injured person he's ever met.

There are bandages everywhere; bandages and wires and tubes. The poor guy looks like half a machine himself for all the things he's been hooked up to.

"Thank Merlin you're here." The very injured man gasps with relief. Steve wonders how he's even managing to talk.

"Hello." He says, awkwardly. The man tries to get a look at him from his supine position and fails.

"Yeah, hi." He sounds British, Steve decides, and impatient, "I need your help."

"What can I do for you?" ever the eager helper is Steve. He's kind of hoping this John Doe hasn't mistaken him for a doctor though, because that's definitely not something he can help him with.

"I need you to scratch my nose."

Steve stares at the man, perplexed.

"That's it? Scratch your nose? Why can't you just do it yourself?"

He huffs in frustration, "Because I can't fucking move." He snarls, giving a soft tug at his arms and ultimately bringing attention to his restraints.

Steve suddenly wonders if he has the clearance to be in here.

"Come on man!" John Doe pleads at Steve's sudden hesitation, "Just scratch my fucking nose already! I've been waiting half an hour for someone to come along and help." Steve moves closer to the bed and the stranger locks eyes on him. His eyes are a startling- albeit bloodshot- green, and they are filled with a desperate pleading. It doesn't take long for Steve to relent.

He reaches out, despite his shortcomings, and tentatively scratches at John Doe's uncovered nose. The man practically melts, every line of tension slipping away under the pressure of Steve's blunt nails.

"Oh God that feels good." The man practically purrs. Steve laughs. After a time the stranger sighs, content, "You can stop now. Thanks. That itch was driving me mad."

"I can imagine." They fall into an awkward silence, the Green-eyed man sizing Steve up, almost calculatingly, as the super-soldier takes in his injuries.

"I'm Harry."

"Steve."

"You don't look like a doctor, Steve." He smiles at Harry.

"I'm not… I'm a soldier."

"Oh." He looks sad at that statement for a moment, before the calculating look comes back into his eyes, "What's a soldier like you doing in here then?" he asks, almost shrewdly. Steve laughs in embarrassment; he can feel a flush coming on.

"I got lost. Again. You wouldn't happen to know how to get to the Bridge, would you?" Harry looks like he's trying to raise an eyebrow, but they've both got stiches in them and he gives up quickly.

"Mate, I don't even know where I am."

"Ah."

"So… where am I?"

"I'm not sure if I'm allowed to tell you that. But you're with SHIELD."

"Shield?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"… Someone just wanted that to spell out shield, didn't they."

"Probably, yeah." Another silence. Steve contemplates the machines around them. Some of them he could probably guess the use of. Some are familiar from his own time. Others seem to have no purpose to him, other than being there. Harry yawns, his eyes drooping, "So how did you get here?" It's probably rude to ask a question to someone about to fall asleep (especially an injured person) but he wants to get the information.

"Buggered if I know," yawns Harry. Steve thins his lips.

"You're impressively calm for having no clue where and why you're here."

"…mm… Where I come from you just kind of let things lie where they fall… They'll probably come find me soon…"

Steve frowns at the man as he slips off. British Special Forces perhaps. Although it didn't explain why they hadn't identified him, nor why he was so young; he wouldn't place him past twenty. Granted, it was hard to tell with all of his injuries, but he certainly came off as young.

He's moving to look at the med chart sitting at the end of the bed when his phone rings. He fumbles for a moment, but manages to answer it before it rings out.

"Hello?" he exits the room, not willing to re-awaken Harry. He looked like he needed all the sleep he could get.

"Captain Rogers, where are you? The briefing was supposed to start twenty minutes ago." Agent Hill says, only the slightest hint of agitation in her voice. He looks down at his watch and winces.

"I got lost..."

A sigh, "I'll send someone down to collect you. Where are you?"

"Ummm."

Another sigh, "Right. Well, stay where you are. Agent Davisson will pick you up shortly."

"Roger that." The phone goes dead. Steve lets out a heartfelt sigh; he feels like an idiot. Captain America, the man out of time, with a habit of always getting lost. He should be grateful at least; he never had a problem when he was on a mission.

He pauses, just outside the door and looks back at the laminated sign. It seemed silly to call him that when they now knew his name- or at least, half of it. He fishes a pen from his trouser pocket and scratches in the name Harry into the hard plastic.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he smiles and walks down to the other end of the corridor to wait for Agent Davisson to find him.

I love this chapter. Love it very much, so I hope you guys do too :) Once again, If you're unsure on something, don't hesitate to leave me a message or a review and I'll get back to you.

Or hey, leave me a review anyway :P

Reviews are like drugs.

Only less expensive.

See you next week guys!