Killian's nose itched.
He had no idea why his nose was itchy, nor why it was so important.
And then he remembered.
Dead men's noses didn't itch.
But his did.
It was, perhaps, the most startling realization that Killian had ever made - that he was, in fact, alive instead of an abandoned and probably mutilated corpse in whatever hellhole his captors should have left him in. It didn't make any sense. He'd known from the moment that he'd seen the video camera that he was a dead man. The beating and the lead up to it was entirely unnecessary, Killian had thought, but hadn't had more than a moment to muse on it before the entire right side of his face had exploded in agony and he'd let the blackness claim him.
Thinking it was his end.
Bloody hell.
Liam. Killian didn't know much at the moment, his ears were ringing and his world spun sickeningly around him, but he knew this.
His brother was on the other end of that video feed, and now he thought Killian was dead.
Why wasn't he dead?
His thoughts kept flitting away from him, like an annoying fly that won't leave you alone but won't stick around long enough to be pinned down. There was something important he needed to figure out but he just couldn't focus.
As the world lurched underneath him, Killian let his hold on consciousness slip away from him.
When he woke again - why do I keep waking up? - he was in a new room, bound and gagged but blissfully alone.
And his nose still itched.
Killian tried to concentrate on that so that he could ignore the rest of his body - caught up in throes of agony that all seemed to stem out from the right side of his head, which thrummed brightly with every beat of his heart.
He tried to breathe around the feel of broken ribs, tried to pretend that the lacerations and bruises on his back weren't throbbing, tried to keep as still as possible so as not to drag one burn or another across tattered and blood-crusted clothing.
And still, the world swam around him.
Killian had no concept of the passage of time other than the sporadic bottles of water and moldy bread that showed up near his head when he woke sometimes. Slowly, surely, he conserved his strength, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he had to manufacture his own escape.
Because as much as he knew that Liam would have moved mountains and torn the moon from the sky if it would have helped him rescue his little brother, Liam thought he was dead.
Liam wasn't coming.
Which meant Killian had to find his own way out, his own way home, back to the safety of his brother's watchful (if a little too Mother Hen for Killian's liking) eye. He needed Liam, and Liam needed him.
It was the only thing, now, that drove him to silently seethe as he was beaten again and again, to hold his tongue when he was taunted and humiliated, to bide his time until he could stand on his own two feet again.
And, just when they thought they'd beaten him, just when they'd thought him far enough gone to drop their guard and risk moving him to a more secure, more permanent location, Killian struck.
The man delivering his daily mold was the first to fall under Killian's onslaught. The bastard who had laughed at Killian day after day as he'd choked down the bread with his hands bound behind him never saw Killian's attack coming. His hands no longer bound, Killian made quick work of the man - leaving behind only a comical look of surprised fear etched onto his face as his neck broke.
Two knives and a .38 with a full clip settled Killian's nerves a bit, allowing him to channel the adrenaline and focus around the distracting pulse of blood in his head.
Worry about the pain later, he commanded, compartmentalizing the needs and the annoyances his body was trying to paralyze him with.
Water. Need.
Killian stooped down and snagged the water bottle, downing half of it in one gulp as he stood straight up again.
Dizziness. Annoyance.
He breathed deeply through his nose, pushing past the weakness that threatened to send him back down into a crumpled heap and finding as much stability as he could manage.
It would have to be enough.
Sharp pain. Annoyance.
His head pounded in time with every other hurt he'd endured over the past days, weeks… months? he wasn't entirely sure how long it had been nor where he was. Those could be examined later, on his way home.
Escape. Need.
Killian checked the gun in his hand and weighted the two knives before storing one in his boot and fisting the hilt of the other. Creeping to the door, he thankfully found it left unlocked and the hallway on the other side empty.
It wouldn't last for long, and he'd take the reprieve where he could.
Killian sidled down the hallway, knife held aloft and gun left dangling at his side - he needed the element of surprise if he was going to make it out of here.
And then the real battle would begin when he tried to make his way across several borders and an ocean without this organization getting wind of where he was.
He was utterly alone in this rat's nest of terrorists, and he couldn't even count on back up swooping in to pick up the pieces.
Liam's going to be insufferable about all this running around without backup when I get back, he thought idly as he wiped the blade of the knife clean from his fourth kill.
And then he remembered.
Liam thought he was dead. His big brother was suffering his own agony that Killian didn't even want to imagine having to worry about. No, he had the easy job out here in the field taking the physical risks. He knew his brother was safe and sound, would go home every night and probably die an old man with no regrets.
Liam had the hard job, having to survive the risks Killian took.
"Sonuva-" Killian slashed the man's throat before he could finish the curse, but the damage was done. His partner turned back to see what had startled the dead man, but he was too far away for Killian to silence before he raised the alarm.
All right, a fight it is, he mused as he sighted down the gun and pulled the trigger.
It was the last easy battle Killian fought.
They came at him in pairs, in trios, fists and clubs and knives that all claimed their pound of flesh from him. But they fought to subdue him.
Killian fought to survive.
To save his brother from himself.
To get home to Liam.
They never stood a chance.
Man after man fell, exacting as much damage as they could before they did, but to no avail.
When it was all said and done, Killian knelt in a room full of bodies, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe through the pain and not pass out.
Rest. Annoyance.
He could rest when he was safe - when Liam had his claws in him, forcing medicine and bedrest on him for the foreseeable future.
Killian might not even complain.
But that reprieve was still a long way off.
He was in a foreign country with no exit strategy and no resources.
He remembered the intel he'd gathered, the sly comments his captor had made that only someone who knew the ins and outs of JR Solutions could make, the fear that his brother's firm had been infiltrated.
No, Killian had no resources. Not when he didn't know which safe houses and which allies had been compromised.
It wasn't the first time Killian had needed to make his way home by his own ingenuity and skills.
But it was the first time he'd done it knowing that to stay radio silent was tantamount to torturing his brother.
Killian's heart clenched as he thought of the agony he was leaving Liam in, thinking his little brother was gone. There was no one in the world that Killian could trust other than his brother right now, and he couldn't risk that Liam's phone had been tapped.
He'd just have to apologize later.
Killian slunk away from the compound, limping painfully and holding onto consciousness by nothing more than grit and determination. He couldn't rest, couldn't give in to the aches and pains and stabbing reminders that he was very much hurt.
Not yet.
Not until he was back with Liam, where his big brother could take over the watch.
Killian had a long way to go.