Killian Jones has been a lot of things in his life - an officer in the Navy, a bothersome little brother, freelance muscle, abandoned son - but he has never been dishonest with himself. And honestly? He hates the dark. He always has, way back to the small bedroom that he and Liam shared with no windows and a door that had to be closed per their mother's request. Not that it blocked out the yelling. Or the slamming doors. Or her stifled tears when their father stormed out. Again.
Or worse, those years in group homes, fighting to stay with Liam and bartering for batteries for the penlight he'd snitched from some nurse's office or another. They'd never lasted long enough and the duct tape around the switch only worked for so long, leaving the small space under the covers that he'd carved out at Liam's side pitch black.
Here, in this rat-infested hellhole in who-knows-where Afghanistan or Bolivia or wherever he'd followed his latest lead, there's at least a dirty and barred window - the remnants of a tarp blocking most, but not all, the light. He can feel every bruise, every laceration, every broken bone. But as long as they don't block out all the light, he'll be okay.
Liam has men coming. Killian knows that like he knows his callsign - Hook - and knows his brother won't stop until he finds him. Killian just has to hold out until then.
They come for him again, these men who don't speak his language and are angry that he took out their leader. They are a bit scattered, and he's used it to his advantage as much as he's able, mapping out potential escape routes and cataloguing weapons and personnel. But he's still shackled and they still have metal pipes and cattle prods that keep him firmly in the "survive and wait" frame of mind.
But he sees the black fabric before he registers the new man, feels the sweat start to trickle down his back, smells his own fear - sharp and acidic - in his nostrils. As soon as they're near, he fights, using what little movement he has with his hands shackled to the wall and his feet bruised and swollen under the manacles. He fights, using his elbows and his shoulders and the crown of his head to keep them away from him.
It's no use, and perhaps it never was. The blow to the nape of his neck subdues him just long enough for the fabric to fall over his head, obliterating his last view of the sun. Killian shakes his head wildly, trying to dislodge it, but the drawstring at the base of the bag cinches tightly around his throat and - momentarily - he has something more terrifying to worry about.
He can't breathe.
Killian's head whips back and forth, searching for air that isn't there, fighting for one more breath that isn't coming. The fabric is stealing the oxygen, the string around his throat cutting him off from the air.
His vision begins to go dark, half-formed apologies to Liam racing through his mind.
Stars dance against the backdrop of fabric when they finally release him, his gasps only doing so much to take in precious oxygen. He can still imagine that the bag is suffocating him, but the string has loosened enough that he doesn't pass out.
Then, they start to beat him.
It's nothing new, the blows to his ribs, the punches to his face, the ringing in his ears as the world tilts sickeningly around him. But he can't anticipate the strikes, can't tell where - how - they're going to hit him next. Killian lets his body go slack, hoping they'll think he's unconscious, but even as he falls prostrate, they keep kicking him.
One lucky boot catches him behind the ear and it all becomes a blur, and Killian floats far above the pain, the fear, the darkness.
Killian doesn't know how long they beat him, how long he does his best to think of the brownstone Liam insists is their home instead of the grungy room they've kept him in. He does know that when he finally sees light again, he wishes he hadn't.
The feel of a cold steel muzzle bruising the base of his skull doesn't manage to terrify him as much as the lens of the video camera and the blinking red light capturing all of this on film.