Sequel: Paint You Wings

Cyan

I

A grunt on her left made the corners of her lips lift up slightly. Her eyes raised and found two dark orbs watching the man lying down next to her. She ignored the movement and kept cleaning her hands of grease, trying not to stain her already ruined clothes. She counted a total of ten seconds before Yinsen spoke.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She finally looked to her right, where Tony Stark, of all goddamn people in this world, looked horrified as he followed the wire attached on his chest to the car battery over the table. She would’ve felt bad if it weren’t for the fact that it was his own weapon that had gotten him into the situation.

Her eyes fell away from his hands ripping away the bandages and she found a clean enough towel to dry her hands. A few blonde and pink strands of hair fell into her eyes, the dye washing away after so many weeks stranded inside the cave with nothing but weapons and Yinsen—and now Tony Stark, she supposed.

“What the hell did you do to me?” he croaked, alternating his eyes between Yinsen and her. A pickle of annoyance hit her.

“He saved your life, idiot,” she scoffed.

Stark watched her and she felt guilt crawling under her skin when she found him pale, sweating, scared. So scared. This wasn’t the Tony Stark from the news but she still couldn’t look at him without feeling hatred in her bones.

“We removed all the shrapnel we could but there's a lot left, and it's headed into your atrial septum,” Yinsen explained, smiling at her when she passed him a small screwdriver she’d found under the table.

He took the small jar with the shrapnel and she glanced at the Merchant of Death laying on the table. If it had been her alone, she’d have let him die, to be honest. It wouldn’t have been the worst thing she’d done.

“Here, want to see? I have a souvenir. Take a look,” Yinsen threw the jar and Stark grasped it with a shaky hand. “I've seen many wounds like that in my village. We call them the walking dead, because it takes about a week for the barbs to reach the vital organs.”

“What is this?” the billionaire touched the metal and winced a little.

“That is an electromagnet,” she answered, finally giving him her full attention. His eyes zeroed on her face and she sighed when he didn’t leave the black bruise over her left eye. “hooked up to a car battery, and it's keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.”

Stark looked about to have a damn heart attack, which would be just delightful. Instead, he surveyed the room around them, finally locking eyes with one of the cameras surrounding them.

“That's right. Smile,” Yinsen let out his own cynic smile. “We met once, you know, at a technical conference in Bern.”

“I don’t remember,” he mumbled.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” she scoffed again, and he seemed about to send her a glare when he thought better of it, glancing away.

“No, he wouldn't,” Yinsen seemed amused. “If I had been that drunk, I wouldn't have been able to stand, much less give a lecture on integrated circuits.”

A bubble of laughter peeled from her throat, unable to keep it down, and Yinsen chuckled. Stark didn’t laugh.

“Where are we?”

She was about to open her mouth when the familiar sound of the thick doors opening made her tense.

“Come on, stand up,” Yinsen always kept his cool when they came but she was sure he was as scared as her whenever their captors came in. “Stand up!”

She jumped into action, grabbing Stark’s arm and pulling on it. He hastily grasped the car battery and cradled it against his chest. The three of them moved so they were at least a foot apart from each other and facing the doors.

“Come on, put your hands up,” Yinsen directed Stark on her right. She glanced at the doctor on her left and he gave her a wavering, reassuring smile. She tried to return it.

“Those are my guns,” his voice was faint and she tightened her jaw. Did he realize now what his empire had done? “How did they get my guns?”

“Do you understand me? Do as I do!” Yinsen chastised.

“Just shut up, Stark, and don’t get us into trouble,” she spat at him.

The men spread out, all holding Stark Weapons. She was used to it by now but the new presence by her right made her heart hammer inside her chest. Abu Bakaar entered the room, grinning at the mechanic beside her. Her blood ran cold when his eyes scanned Yinsen and herself, lingering on the dark bruise on her eye.

The bastard knew where it came from.

Spreading his arms wide, he began to speak in Urdu, or maybe Arabic. She wasn’t really sure, she didn’t know much besides Russian, German, Spanish and English. Yet Yinsen began to translate.

“He says, 'Welcome, Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in the history of America. He is honored. He wants you to build the missile. The Jericho missile that you demonstrated.’”

She didn’t know about the Jericho but by Stark’s face she knew it couldn’t be anything good. He was stiff, probably shaking with wobbly knees, like the first time she had woken inside this god forsaken cave so many weeks ago. Could’ve been months, for all she knew. Time blended in.

Bakaar grasped a photograph and gave it to Yinsen, who passed it to her and she finally showed Stark. He barely glanced at it.

“This one,” Yinsen whispered.

She was sure. She was damn sure of it, she could’ve sworn on her aunt’s grave that he would’ve nodded to save his own ass for the fifteen days he had until the shrapnel reached his pathetic, little black heart. But then he looked at Bakaar in the eyes and said with the firmest voice she had ever heard two simple words.

“I refuse.”

And that day, for the very first time in a long time, Fawn Quill was rendered speechless.