So I've been working on this story for such a long time, and I'm finally ready to start posting! :) I hope you enjoy!

The Sleeping Man

The man wasn't waking up.

Penny wasn't surprised, really…she'd seen injuries like his before. Shrapnel to the heart. Her aunt had helped lots of people, saved so many. But she'd never been able to do anything for the walking dead...the ones whose organs would be torn apart by tiny shards of metal working their way deeper and deeper into their bodies. This man had been unconscious for hours...maybe a full day. Keeping track of time was the most difficult thing she did now, but she had to do it. Otherwise, she thought, she would be lost.

She'd tried to go about her day as normally as possible. Avoiding the cameras. Making food. Pacing. These were the things she did now without books to read or TV to watch or anyone to talk to. But she couldn't help but worry. Why had they put the man in with her? Why had they kept her around in the first place? These were questions she'd had plenty of time to dwell on since they'd taken her, but all that time hadn't given her any answers. The men that kept her here rarely spoke to her...rarely even entered the room they kept her in other than to bring more bread, which they hadn't done in at least five days if the tally marks she'd scratched into the wall were any indication.

And then, without any fanfare or warning, he was waking up. The man groaned, shifting on the cot, and she shrank back against the wall her cot was pressed against, making herself small as he stirred. The wall had scratches, all made with a tiny kitchen knife they hadn't hesitated to put in what amounted to the kitchen in the prison cell she now shared with Tony Stark apparently. They all had machine guns, these men. They weren't afraid of a knife they'd given to a child to cut half-molded bread. When they'd dragged Tony Stark of all people into the room that served as her cell, dropping him, bandaged and smelling of antiseptic and explosions onto the bed, they hadn't even bothered pointing their guns at her.

That had been almost a day ago.

She fought the urge to crawl onto the ceiling...to be safe. Ever since the bite, something in her had urged her upward...urged her to get as high as she could, to make herself as small as she could. But she couldn't risk these people finding out who she was...or what she could do. She already had too many secrets, secrets they didn't even know existed. Sure, they'd knocked her around plenty of times, but she'd never told them a thing. It was something she was proud of, that she'd endured pain without saying a word to them.

The man they called the merchant of death groaned again, starting to stir. She couldn't help the twinge of sympathy. They'd cut him open, shoving a magnet in his chest and talking about how he was worth more alive than dead. They would want him to build weapons for them. After all, why buy or steal the weapons when you can have them made for free. Still, that magnet in his chest would hurt. She had learned enough about medicine to know that much. She'd unwrapped the dirty bandages when he'd been asleep, spreading the ointment they'd thrown at her over the sides of the magnet and his chest, trying to prevent infection. As best as she could, she'd washed the bandages, then rewrapped them with more care.

She didn't know why they were keeping her, but assumed they didn't want Tony Stark to die.

May had taught her this...had taught her how to sew a wound and how to wrap them. How to prevent infection which would kill a man no matter how small the cut. While she and her uncle had chatted in the handful of languages they'd known, May had taught her to sew and clean and heal. She wasn't sure which skill would come in more handy now.

When the man put a hand to his head, blinking in the dim light of the cave where they would live, she curled up even tighter under the blanket, praying he didn't see her. Not yet. She didn't want to talk to Tony Stark. Not now, not ever. Her uncle had talked enough about him for the both of them.

Ben hadn't hated Tony Stark. But he had been disappointed by him, as if the man barely a year or two younger than him were his own to be disappointed in. "A man with that much power holds a lot of responsibility," he had told her in French one day while she had practiced sewing a banana together, the words rolling off his tongue with an ease she envied. She'd been ten then, and they'd lived In their small home in a small village for almost three years. She could barely remember New York anymore, although the other school kids still looked at her funny. In the other room, May had been studying medical textbooks, a pastime she'd engaged in almost every day.

"Doesn't he care? That he's killing all of these people?" she'd asked in German once after a long day of helping May in the makeshift hospital. German was her favorite. She liked the way the words sounded, strong and sure and deep. She had wanted to be strong. Now she had to be.

"He doesn't kill people, Pen. He builds the weapons, and he doesn't care where they go." He'd stuck with French, his own favorite, and one he rarely had need for in their small village in Afghanistan. She hadn't seen how that had been any different, but hadn't argued.

The man on the other side of the room groaned, coughing and shuddering as he yanked the nasal tube out. She had to assume that hurt, but she didn't ask...didn't draw attention. He was making noises, gasping and moaning, sounding almost like a normal man, and just for a second, Penny thought about asking him. Did you know that your weapons were being sold to terrorists who would kill innocents? Do you like being called the merchant of death?

"What the hell?" He spoke in soft, raspy English. His head whipped around the room, seeming to search for something. She clutched the knife in her hand, the one she kept under the balled up sweater she used as a pillow. At first, his eyes didn't find her. His gaze swept the cave, lingering on the heavy metal door that was barred on the outside. And then the camera.

Once more, she thought about making a comment but didn't. 'Say cheese.' She thought, smirking just a little, then scolded herself for being mean. But she'd been angry with Tony Stark. She'd been angry when she'd seen his name on the bombs that terrorists used to murder the people she thought of as hers and she'd been angry when he'd appeared on TV, giving speeches and smiling and drinking his fancy alcohol. There had been days when she'd been helping in that hospital that she'd hated him. But not now. Now he was just another man that had been taken hostage.

Then Mr. Stark saw her, bringing her memories to a halt. The place wasn't big enough for him not to notice her, and the electric lights that flickered along the wall gave off just enough light that he would see her in her trousers and too-large shirt, all of it belted loosely at her waist. She'd lost her shoes at some point in the scuffle, but she didn't really need shoes in this room, a prison that would, in the end she was sure, be her tomb.

"What did you do to me?" he demanded. As if he were in a place to demand anything from her. As if she were in a place to give him anything.

She debated staying silent. Letting him think she didn't speak English. She'd wager good money on him not knowing Farsi. She could try that one. Or even one as common in America as Spanish, even though she only knew enough Spanish to order a churro and ask for the bathroom. Her uncle had promised to teach her more Spanish if she ever went back to America. Her aunt had laughed and said they were definitely going back to America.

They would never go back now.

"They saved your life. I didn't do anything," she told him, sticking with English and keeping her voice soft He glanced back down at his chest, eyes following the wires to the battery. For a second he just stared, and she knew it must be strange. Scary, even, if a man like Tony Stark could be scared. But then he started to unhook himself from the battery. She sighed, knowing that they'd blame her if he died...not to mention the fact that she wouldn't let him kill himself like that. "Don't," she ordered.

"What is this?" he gasped, shaking his head.

"That is an electromagnet and it's hooked up to a car battery." He just stared at her, shaking his head a little. "I've seen injuries like yours in my village. My au…" She hesitated. No reason to tell him anything about herself or her family. "We called them the walking dead. Sometimes it takes days for the shrapnel to pierce the organs...but they always do." Standing up, she kept a close eye on him even though he was tethered to a car battery and obviously disoriented. She doubted he could hurt her, even if he wanted to. And maybe he wouldn't want to. She hoped not, since they'd be sharing a cave cell for the foreseeable future. Moving over to the counter where they'd placed the jar, she grabbed it, then held it up. "A souvenir from your trip," she told him, tossing the jar his way. He caught it easily. "That magnet is keeping the shrapnel from reaching your heart. It's keeping you alive."

The man held up the jar, shaking it a little and glancing back down at the magnet in his chest. She wanted to ask questions again...how did it feel to nearly be killed by the weapons you made? She didn't though. Penny knew how this would work...the less she spoke, the better. Still, he looked terrified. It was strange...he was arguably the most powerful man in the world. The merchant of death.

And there he sat in a dirty cave, hooked up to a car battery that was keeping him alive. Moving over to the jug that had been left the day before, she poured a glass of water. Hesitating for only a second, she moved within reaching distance, holding out the cup. "Water," she told him when he just stared. "Drink."

"Thanks," he muttered, eyes following her when she stepped out of arm's reach. "What about you? How the hell did you end up here?"

"Wrong place, wrong time," she told him simply, grabbing her own glass, then freezing when she heard footsteps. Dropping the glass on the counter, she turned to Tony Stark. "Get up."

"What?"

"Get up!" she ordered again, hurrying over and grabbing his arm, urging him up. He stood, holding the car battery in a shaking hand. "Hurry. Here." She supported him for a second, making sure he was upright, then put her hands on her head. "Hands up, eyes down. Do as I do!" she hissed.

"I…"

"Shut up!" she hissed again, and then the doors were thrown open, the leader stepping into the room surrounded by his posse, all with very large guns.

"Those are my guns. How did…".

She rolled her eyes, then dropped them when the man began to speak. A long speech...one he'd apparently practiced. Penny bit her lip, forcing her mouth shut so she wouldn't say something stupid.

"Hey, I don't speak…" Stark started, but the leader kept going, then turned to Penny.

So this was why he'd kept her alive. She clenched her jaw, keeping her head down.

"Boy!" the man yelled in English.

"Yeah, I don't work for…" she started in a language she knew he'd understand, and then she was on the ground, nose gushing blood, the leader's friend standing over her. "Asshole!" she snapped in French, and then a foot came back, kicking her in the stomach hard enough that she coughed and gasped, doing her best not to scream.

"Stop! He's just a kid!"

Well, at least Stark didn't suspect her. It was almost touching to have him defending her, or it would have been if it didn't hurt so much.

Penny struggled to her feet once it was apparent that they weren't giving her a choice. "Boy," the man demanded again, jerking his chin toward the man at her side.

"Fine. The asshole says, welcome Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in the history of America. He wants you to build the missile. The Jericho one." Penny waved a hand as she picked herself up from the floor, wiping absently at the blood she was sure covered the bottom of her face now. She wasn't sure what that meant, but Mr. Stark seemed to. For a second, he looked grim. Then angry.

"I refuse."

"Well, then this is going to suck for all of us," Penny muttered, then translated for the man with the gun. "He says no."

And then they were dragging him out of the room, leaving her alone once more. Curling up on her bed, she made another mark.

There were almost 30 now.

Thank you for reading!