Three days.
Killian Jones had holed up in a cave in the hills with little more than the supplies he'd stolen from a nomadic group of travelers and the water he'd painstakingly measured out and boiled for three days.
To be fair, he'd slept for most of the second, trying to regain some of the strength he'd need to craft an exfil plan with no resources.
But three days in a cave in the hills in a desert climate with nothing more than tattered clothes and bandages to protect him from the changing temperatures had left him miserable and feverish.
He only had one thing on his mind when he finally emerged.
Get home to Liam.
It was likely going to take a wing and a prayer.
And a new set of clothes, some money, and an identity that wouldn't garner too many questions.
Thankfully, Killian Jones was nothing if not resourceful and could put the Boy Scouts to shame with his own level of preparedness for any situation.
The scratch of fabric over badly-healed wounds assaulted Killian's senses as he pulled on a clean shirt and he fought the urge to tear it off. He was stronger than this, he had survived far worse.
Just because he couldn't think of a time when that was true didn't make it any less so.
Jeans next, and he nearly whimpered at the pull of the marks on his back, at the crunch of his ribs as the broken ends rubbed together while he pulled them up.
He slept an entire afternoon away in a cheap motel room after getting dressed, needing the escape as much as, if not more than, he needed to keep moving towards Liam. Towards home.
Killian couldn't make it home if he collapsed from exhaustion or depleted defenses first.
It was surprising what a shower with questionable water pressure and some carefully rolled down sleeves could do to make a person look trustworthy, he'd realized some time long ago. With his ballcap pulled low to mask the score above his temple from the bullet wound that Liam still thought had claimed his life, Killian had managed to weasel his way into a local poker game and walk out with just enough to keep him afloat and not enough to convince any of the men he'd fleeced to come after him.
His ribs really didn't need another workover any time soon.
He wasn't healing as quickly as he should, it was in the back of his mind at all times. He needed to get back to the States where he could safely stand down.
God, he just wanted to rest.
One last step in his plan - an identity.
Killian Jones had plenty of false identities. Aliases that had been carefully crafted and backstopped by the analysts at JR Solutions. He had access to any number of passports that he'd stashed before starting this godforsaken mission.
He couldn't risk using a single one of them.
If he did, an alert would pop up back home and signal to whoever was looking - Liam, for sure, but also whomever had betrayed them to the terrorists - that he was coming.
Killian really couldn't chance the wrong person seeing that alert.
William Smee, on the other hand, had no ties to Liam's company and no reason to betray him.
Not with all the favors he owed Jones for not outing him, killing him, or otherwise abandoning him to the less than savory men Smee associated with on a daily basis.
An identity that would get him on a flight to the States didn't even begin to pay Killian back for everything he'd done for the man, but he'd cash in whatever chits Smee required to get home.
To get to Liam.
James Hook.
Really?
Killian shook his head, regretting it as the world spun around him again. His head was pounding now, the multiple concussions and the lack of nutrition over the past… how long had it been? were all starting to catch up with him.
"I can get you on a flight," Smee cajoled as Killian opened the door. "But you'll owe me a favor for it."
He thought he might regret it, but it sounded so good to just let someone else figure out the next step that he nodded before he could think too hard about it.
Smee grinned. "Give me a couple hours to make sure she's set and we'll get you home, Cap."
Killian agreed, sinking down onto a ratty old couch that had seen better days.
It smelled like cheese.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed, sunk into a half-stupor that allowed him to rest while still keeping watch, hyperaware of his surroundings at all times. But it was still light out when Smee returned, a wide grin on his face and a piece of paper clutched in his grimy paws.
"Go to this hangar and ask for Jack. He'll get you to New York. I assume that will get you close enough?"
New York. He could get to Boston from there with the money he'd won in the game. Boston meant the T, the T got him to JR Solutions. JR Solutions meant Liam.
Liam meant home.
"Aye, mate. I owe you one."
The portly little man smirked. "Happy to help, sir," he snarked before shooing Killian out the door.
There was no one in the goddamned hangar.
Killian was going to go back to that ratty little room and tear Smee apart piece by-
"Can I help you?" a mousey little woman peeked out from the fuselage of a half-finished plane.
Killian started. He'd had no idea anyone was there. He was slipping.
"I was… I was told to find Jack," he stuttered, still trying to understand how far his senses had started to slip.
The woman beamed. "Monterey? Oh he's out with the boys at the Festival. I can help you out with whatever you need."
What?
His vision was starting to swim, his ribs starting to scream. He just wanted a bed. Or a chair. Or even just a corner where no one was going to find him and hurt him.
"Smee sent me?" he tried instead.
"Gee willikers! You're Mr. Hook! Of course. Dale said you were coming. We're almost fueled up over there"-she pointed to a rickety looking plane that Killian would swear had never logged a single air mile-"and I'll get you to New York lickety split."
Oh God.
He was going to kill Smee slowly.
If he survived the flight home.
Home. Liam. Home.
Could he trust her?
Killian Jones counted on two fingers the number of people in this world he counted on to watch his back. His brother and himself. Could he let this woman take his safety into her hands and trust her to get him home?
Killian climbed aboard the plane and collapsed into the seat afforded to him. A spring stuck into his back and the cushions chafed against where his shirt had ridden up, aggravating the burns on his lower back.
The blackness claimed him within minutes of them getting in the air.
"Mr. Hook? Mr. Hook, we're here. Do you need an ambulance or something?"
Killian startled awake, shocked to see the young woman's face so close to his own without him noticing.
"No, lass, I'm fine. Are we… did we crash?"
She laughed, a light little giggle that made it seem as if what he'd asked wasn't alarming at all.
"Gee willikers, no! We're here."
Killian looked out the window of the plane, surprised to see a large airport outside instead of trees or the ocean.
"Oh," he remarked stupidly.
She giggled again. "I know Mr. Smee said that you needed to get to Boston, so I brought you here instead. Seems like you needed to be here more than I needed to get to New York."
Boston.
Liam.
Liam!
"Thank you," he breathed out, relieved to be so close to aid. He was chagrined to feel the sting of tears in his eyes, but blinked them back quickly. "I never even asked you your name, lass."
"Oh, that's all right. I told you when we got in the air, but you were already sleeping. It's Gadget."
Right.
"Thank you," he breathed again, disembarking and nearly collapsing on the tarmac.
Boston.
Killian eventually stumbled down into the subway, curled up in a corner of the train, and tried to breathe away the stars in his vision.
He was going home.
Liam Jones had been many things in his lifetime. He was an orphan. He had been an older brother. He had been a Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. He was the commanding officer at JR Solutions.
He was completely, and utterly, alone in this world.
The men and women under his command now walked around eggshells around him, had done so ever since that goddamned video had come into Ops, obliterating his world around him and hardening him into the shell of a man he'd once been.
Some days he didn't know why he even bothered coming into work anymore.
Alone in his office, the day's itinerary was posted on his blotter as if he truly cared about the requisitions meeting or the budget committee that would keep his firm in the black for the next quarter. He heard the bustle of the bullpen, the comings and goings of everyone under his command, and he felt completely removed from it.
He didn't care.
He had a job to do, Killian would have torn a strip off him if he thought for a second that Liam was neglecting the other missions so that he could perfect the details of his funeral. But it didn't matter. Details were all Liam could focus on without falling apart, so this last way to honor Killian would have to serve.
Liam kept a tight rein of control on the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface again, images dancing in his memories of Killian at his first day of primary school, Killian on the rugby pitch, Killian sitting on the side of their bathtub with a black eye and a fierce glare as Liam reminded him - again - that fighting wouldn't solve anything.
Killian as a gangly teenager, balancing on the balls of his feet and learning to box under Liam's careful tutelage. Killian in his Navy uniform, bright faced and proud to be following older brother's lead.
Killian after Somalia.
Killian as he healed in Boston.
Killian on his knees in that hellhole in God-knew-where, bloody and-
No!
Liam clamped down on the memories, unwilling to fall back into the last moments of Killian's life here at work. He didn't need the video to relive his little brother's last moments, but he'd go home tonight and play it again, anyw-
The office outside his door was silent save for hushed whispers. What was going on? He had just stood up to go and see, thankful for the distraction, when his door creaked open painstakingly slowly.
Who the bloody hell dared to enter his office without knoc-
Liam's breath caught in his chest. He was hallucinating. It was the only explanation. He'd been daydreaming about the past, allowed his memories to wander down that path, and had snapped.
There was no way that his lit-
"Liam?" Killian asked in a hesitant whisper, as if he, too, weren't sure how real this was.
Killian.
Killian. There. Just there. Alive and standing in his doorway. Alive.
Alive!
Liam couldn't move. Rooted to the spot at the side of his desk, one hand clenching against the wooden top - to keep him from flying off the handle or grounded in reality, he wasn't sure - Liam couldn't move.
His little brother was standing in - leaning against, rather - the doorway and he was, quite literally, a bloody mess. Liam's eyes tracked immediately up to the badly healed gash at his hairline, the sound of the gunshot that had caused it echoing in his ears. There were bags and dark bruises under Killian's eyes, a hitch in his stance that Liam was well accustomed to equating with his brother hiding injuries. His clothes were ill-fitting and rumpled, days of wear out of them. One arm wrapped tightly around his ribs, the other still holding onto the door handle as if it were a lifeline.
None of it mattered one bloody bit, not when Killian was standing mere feet away from him.
"Liam?" his brother asked again, biting back a grunt when he finally, finally, took a few steps forward, hand outstretched as if he could summon his older brother to his side.
Liam Jones had been many things in his life, but he'd never been able to ignore his baby brother's pleas. He stepped forward, begging silently for this to be real, for this to be true, not some cruel trick or dream - nightmare - where his brother was going to be ripped from him as soon as he tried to touch-
Killian sank to his knees, a little cry of pain the only warning.
No.
No!
Liam raced the last few steps around the desk, skidding to his knees and catching his little brother in his arms before he could fall prostrate to the floor.
No!
But it was real. Liam didn't wake up, he didn't startle himself out of the hallucination, he didn't lose his brother to the mists of daydreams. Killian was real and solid in his arms, his head lolling to Liam's shoulder with a cheeky little grin of relief before his eyes rolled back into his head and he surrendered his strength.
God, Liam had never been so afraid in his- yes, he had. All those weeks ago when he'd seen the video and realized what was going to happen as soon as Killian had over the airwaves. But this was a damn close second.
His little brother had always been small, lanky and nearly scrawny, but he felt tiny in Liam's arms. Most of his muscle tone was gone, weeks of starvation and torture tearing it away from him. He was radiating heat, every inch of skin that Liam could reach was burning with fever.
He was terrifyingly and startlingly limp, passed out in Liam's embrace.
"Help!" he screamed, uncaring if his subordinates heard the emotion in his voice, needing them to hear the emotion in his voice. "HELP!"
He pulled Killian further into his arms, backing them both up until he leaned back against his desk and sat there, helpless. He had Killian. He could fix this, now.
"Killian," he nearly wailed when his brother didn't respond.
Will Scarlet stuck his head around the door. "We already called a medic when we saw him, boss. Should be here any minute."
Liam barely managed a nod, cuddling his little brother closer to keep him off the cold floor.
And then hands were tearing his from his brother, pulling him away from Killian, trying to get him to stand and leave Killian's side.
He couldn't. Goddamn it, didn't they see that? He was Killian's older brother and he needed to…
No. He wasn't what his brother needed right now. That was for later, when Whale put Killian back together and sent him home for Liam to heal him.
But, right now, Liam didn't have antibiotics and pain meds. He didn't have warm blankets and antiseptic. He didn't have the keys to the bloody ambulance so he could drive Killian to the hospital himself.
He had to leave his brother to the capable hands of the medics trying to save his life.
God, I'm bloody well going to kill him this time, he thought in exasperation, moving his brother to the floor and kneeling as far out of the way as he could while still holding Killian's hand.
His brother would be all right now.
And then Liam was going to shackle him to the goddamned bed and then a goddamned desk until they were both old enough to retire.
(Well, maybe not. But still.)