The revelation that his arm was not an expected removal was somewhat relieving. Distantly, he had an idea that it was possible to remove, that it maybe had been removed. But he couldn't remember it happening, couldn't remember what it had been like before it had been metal. Maybe he'd never had one.
"No, sir," he said. "I don't flinch." Which was, more or less, true. There were self-preservation tics that couldn't be ironed out, like blinking when something got near his eyelashes, but he didn't flinch at pain or fear. He'd spent so much time with it that it wasn't possible for him to remember a time when they hadn't been staples of his existence.
That Jefferson would assure him that he had steady hands never occurred to Agent Barnes as a kindness extended with hope of easing a fear. It was a reminder that Jefferson was competent, that he was able to perform what he told Agent Barnes he would do. No one stopped to offer the asset comfort, even in the form of words. He was a thing, expected to perform the duties he had been manufactured to do. His personal feelings didn't matter. Fear was something he could live with, as long as he didn't speak out of turn or botch any jobs.
But when an agent told him what they were capable of, he didn't just brush it off. He told them he'd been paying attention. "I never had doubts about your steadiness, Jefferson." Another to dismiss his use of title, but the longer he spent with his handler, the more that Agent Barnes was willing to bet that Jefferson dismissed it because he didn't need a reminder of his status. The incompetent agent dismissed it, Agent Barnes was sure, out of shame.
He cut the rest of the fish apart with his fork and continued to eat, pacing himself along with his handler. However long it took Jefferson to eat, that's how long Agent Barnes intended to take, and not a heartbeat more.