A/N: I want to quickly thank sockie1000 and Cokie316 for their beta abilities, of course, but also their unending support and patience. Ladies… thank you.

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, profit from the following story. All creative rights to the characters belong to CBS Productions and those responsible for its creation.

This story takes place in season two, sometime after "Mai Ka Wa Kahiko" but before "Haʻalele".

It was early morning when Stan woke up; a hazy gleam of daylight streaming through the miniature crack in the wall of his room offering him the only glimpse into the passage of time. How many times had he screamed through that hole? How many times had he strained his right eye against the rough, cold surface… frantic to see anything outside of his prison? His left eye, though healing, still bore the evidence of the livid bruising and swelling he'd worn for the past several days. He was thankful for the small miracle of being able to see through it this morning.

Being able to see more clearly, however, wasn't something to celebrate. It simply gave him better clarity in which to assess his situation.

Not wanting to alert anyone that he was awake, he kept his body still as he moved his gaze down his body and onto the bed he was lying on. Bed was a term Stan used loosely to describe the cheap, worn-out cot shoved into the corner of the room. For the first few days of his "stay" here, he'd suffered through more beatings than any man should ever be forced to endure in a lifetime. But even during the nights, when he was finally left alone, he was allowed no reprieve for his battered body. The thin mattress provided no semblance of comfort or rest that Stan desperately longed for, only adding back and neck pain to his laundry list of injuries. Still, Stan mused, it was better than the floor, and he abruptly clung to the metal frame as though his captor had read his thoughts and was coming in to take the bed away from him.

He nearly laughed at the absurdity, yet didn't release his grip. He'd been kept locked inside the small room for so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like to sleep soundly through the night and wake up in the morning, feeling refreshed. Simple things he had once possessed – a real bed, a change of clothing, a toilet, a glass of water – seemed like luxuries now.

Comfort did not exist in such a place as this.

This cot felt like a tether to a previous life… a life that he only dreamt about now during the hours of darkness that found him curled up and around himself, begging for exhaustion to pull him under. And when it finally did, only then did he allow himself to dwell on what he used to have. Among them, a king-sized bed with a hand-carved headboard. The clothes he wore now (a thin t-shirt and boxers… only part of what he'd been wearing when he'd first arrived) hardly mirrored the comfortable attire he had grown accustomed to in his life. At home, his walk-in closet had been the envy of many, filled with suits from Brioni, Alexander Amosu, Armani and Gucci.

Not that he ever bragged about what he owned. No, Stan knew that he had worked hard for everything that he possessed. He'd gone to college. Netted a prestigious internship with BB&T, and eventually moved to New York to work his way up through the corporate world of finance and real estate. It hadn't been easy, but he'd accomplished everything he'd ever dreamed he could. Nothing seemed out of reach.

Did he have to apologize for missing his four-poster bed? His morning cup of coffee? Running water? A blanket? Plumbing? His dignity?

Was it only four days ago that he had possessed all of those things?

Four days… four days ago, he'd been assaulted, kidnapped, and thrown into this small room. With nothing to look at but bare concrete walls and a concrete floor, his first few hours in this hell-hole had been spent nursing his swollen left eye and contemplating why he'd been so forcefully taken. What had particularly nagged at him was the fact that he personally knew his abductor. Though the two of them had never gotten along, Stan never considered the other man to be violent. At least, not to this extent. Threats had been made, on both sides, but certainly not a threat of this magnitude. Right? Stan's injuries and general disorientation due to his debilitating fear and panic had made his memory sluggish and putting together the pieces of their recent history was difficult.

He supposed none of it really mattered now anyway. The fact was that someone who'd Stan held in such little regard not long ago now had complete and total control of his life. That simple fact had been pounded into Stan with each punch and kick that he'd endured.

Stan hadn't moved since waking, his body still on its side and facing away from the door. He figured it was only a matter of time before his captor realized that he was awake and would return. It wasn't fear of what would happen to him that kept him rooted in place. It was fear for the one who was now sharing the cell with him. Stan finally released his grip on the cot's frame. His fingers began moving methodically as he picked at his nails, desperate to get them clean, as he reflected on the previous day.

For most of yesterday, he'd remained relatively alone, and he'd thought that he'd finally been left for dead. Thoughts of death had permeated every waking moment as Stan sat on his cot and waited. Waited for morning to dawn again on another day while trapped in this room. Waited for death to finally claim him. He mused over how he would eventually go. Would it be starvation? Maybe blood loss? There were afternoons that were so hot, he thought he'd die from heat stroke. He absently wondered which would be the least painful. He wondered how long it would take for someone… anyone… to find him. Would his body even be identifiable? How would Rachel handle it?

Rachel…

His chest tightened at the thought of his wife, and he almost rolled over to look at the motionless body he assumed was still on the floor next to his cot. Memories and thoughts of her had kept Stan going those first few days. He'd envision her in one of her long sundresses. Her hair would be pulled back into a loose ponytail, just how he loved it. She'd be smiling at him. In his dreams, she was always happy.

But then, as the hours dragged on, it only became more and more painful to think of her, and Stan forced himself to think of anything but her. But last night, that became impossible when the steel door was opened and his captor had returned with a "gift" for Stan. Two gifts, Stan slowly remembered, as he looked at the photos piled at the foot of the bed.

The reality of his past decisions had caught up to him, and he was no longer the only one drowning in the consequences.

Blinking away his dark thoughts, Stan slowly forced himself to roll over onto his back. Staring at the ceiling, he took a few steady breaths before pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. Though he tried to fight it, his eyes instantly flicked over to the body lying still on the floor. Stan's gaze held steadily onto the shallow rise and fall of the individual's chest, feeling guilty about the small feeling of relief swelling within him. He should not be pleased that he was no longer alone. He should be feeling horrible. Ashamed. Angry with himself that he and he alone was responsible for another person's suffering.

And not just any other person, but…

"Stanley."

Stan automatically looked up in response to his name, and he was surprised that the other man was so close to him. For a moment, expressionless blue eyes met his, and then he lifted an arm up and rested it on Stan's shoulder. He immediately flinched at the small contact.

"Shall we begin?"

Fear closed off Stan's throat, and he tried to push down the anxiety filling his body. Just that tiny movement of his body tensing under the small contact caused every muscle to ache, reminding Stan that twenty-four hours of relatively little abuse wasn't nearly enough to hide the fact that his body had been pounded into excruciating rawness. Stan brought his hands together in front of him, rubbing them nervously as he absently tried to wipe away the evidence of what he had done the night before.

His head began to shake, and he swallowed with some difficulty. "No." He wished his voice didn't sound so pathetic, but the fact that he'd been able to speak at all after these long days was an accomplishment.

The hand on Stan's shoulder tightened, causing Stan to close his eyes. Hadn't he learned by now that saying anything contradictory was a bad idea? Waiting for the attack he was sure was coming, Stan hung his head low, his chin resting against his chest. But nothing happened before the weight on his shoulder was lifted and he heard his captor moving away from him. Risking a glance upward, he locked eyes with the man and was rewarded with a thin smile.

"Maybe you're right, Stanley. Maybe you've had enough?" He paused, cocking his head to the right slightly and raising a single eyebrow. "Perhaps you think you've been punished enough for what you've done to me?"

Stan didn't dare speak as he broke eye contact. The steel door to the room had been left open… a rare negligent move on his kidnapper's part. But Stan knew that even if he had the stamina to rush him and make a break for it, he wouldn't get very far. And he couldn't leave… no, he couldn't try to escape knowing that he'd be leaving someone behind.

"What about your wife?" Stan's eyes snapped back as the man moved in closer to the body on the floor, nudging it slightly with the tip of his steel-toed boot. The unconscious figure didn't stir. "Hmm? How do you think she feels, knowing what you've done? Because I'm sure she's figured it out by now. Will she think that you've been punished enough?"

Stan's gaze danced between the body on the floor and his own hands. Exhaustion, pain and being faced with the reality of his impending death had left Stan emotionally brittle, and he didn't trust himself to open his mouth again.

"You know what I think?" he continued, the voice deadly and low. Stan's jaw clenched tightly as the distance between the two of them was closed in one, swift move. Stan could feel hot breath washing over his skin as the other man bent low, his mouth inches away from the side of his face. "I don't think she'd be satisfied. And neither am I."

Just as quickly and quietly as he'd entered the room, he exited. Stan shakily let out the breath he'd been holding and clenched his hands into fists. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to stop shaking and eventually his breathing evened out. The brief encounter had left him exhausted and, with one last look at the body on the ground, Stan pulled his legs back up onto the cot and wrapped his arms tightly around them. His body protested against the movement, but he paid no attention to it, instead focusing his attention again on his hands. He rubbed lightly at first, but before long, he was scrubbing them so harshly that they stung with the friction.

Stan looked down again at the figure on the floor as dried flakes drifted off his hands and fell soundlessly to the ground. He couldn't tear his eyes away. He couldn't go back in time and change the past. No amount of staring at the body on the floor would will that person away. He couldn't stop the rubbing, yet he knew that his hands would never be clean. He couldn't take back what he'd done last night.

Looking for a distraction, Stan reached over and picked up the photos, eyeing them slowly. One by one. Caressing one photo. Gripping the next one tightly. He was so focused on the details of each that he almost missed the figure on the floor stirring, and he froze as pain-filled eyelids fluttered open. Stan waited, but then couldn't contain the guilt any longer.

"I'm so, so sorry."

Another few moments passed before those eyes glanced up at him. Bored into him. Accused him.

This is all your fault.

Even if the words were not spoken, Stan heard them. He shut his eyes against the world as he silently agreed.