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Blood. Blood on the floor. Blood was everywhere. His hair was matted with it, his costume soaked, his lungs trying desperately to expel the thick liquid. The hand in his hair forced his head back, and Dove gasped as the knife was plunged inside his gut, and twisted mercilessly. He didn't understand. He hadn't done anything to hurt this man, and yet he was being tortured, broken, at his hands. The knife cut cruelly across his right cheek; his mask had been torn off long ago. An uncontrolled slice tore from his left cheek to his shoulder then to his arms above the elbow. More blood. His already broken leg, his right one, was kicked to the side, before a nail was driven through the ankle. Don screamed. A snarl from his captor.
"What are you crying about? You deserve this, you killed your brother." And it's true, he does deserve this, because he had seen Hank fall, seen his body crumple to the ground, lifeless, he'd seen it on the monitors his captor had shown him. The man had tortured him, and finally had shown him the video. Of Hank dying, trying to rescue his little brother. Yes, Don deserved this. And he was weak for not being able to take it. A slice at his gut, opening him. His intestines clearly visible. Sobbing, he choked on his own blood. It wouldn't be long now. He would die soon, and join his brother in the afterlife, if there was one. Although it wasn't like Don deserved it anyway. Not him. Hank was dead because of him; it was all his fault. He fell silent. There was a whipping, he thought. And some kicking, and punching. All reminders of how he had failed, of how Hank was dead because of him. Because of his incompetence. And finally, he was hung up to die. He was reminded of Star Wars, where Anakin's mother, Shmi, was hung on some kind of stake thing. This was like that. He hung there, not knowing how much time had passed, when he felt someone gently undoing his bonds, He toppled forward, wincing, wondering who would save him; if this was just another trick.
"Don?" The voice cracked, but it was one that was used to being strong, impenetrable; uncaring to someone who didn't know. A voice he never thought he'd hear again. He really must be dead now, he decided. The chest was familiar. Everything about the figure was familiar. The strong hands, the thick arms and chest. The voice. Everything.
"H-Hank?" He couldn't believe it. No. Hank was dead. This was just an illusion, a way of breaking his already shattered heart.
"Don, I'm sorry, I won't let them hurt you again, you're safe now." Don felt himself being pulled close to that chest, bridal style, and let himself go limp.
"Thought you were dead." He whimpered, managed through cracked lips, blood clogged throat.
"No. I'm here. I'm here, little brother. I'm here." Dove felt himself being carried away, Hawk's strong arms around him, and he relaxed into them, because it would be alright now. Hank would make everything better, and it would be alright. His delirious, overtaxed brain slipped into blissful unconsciousness, the near only relief from the pain he would have for so very long, and Hank stared down at the little brother in his arms, and vowed revenge on the man who did this. He would 'take care' of that man if it was the last thing he did. But no. No, Don came first. He would stay by his brother's side until he was no longer needed, and when that time came, then he would have his revenge. And no power on Earth could stop him.