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It’s unusually cold the day everything gets worse.
Hopper had grown used to the cold of his cell over time, but sometimes an extra chill would creep in and keep him awake through the night, as if it wasn’t hard enough getting to sleep after each day of pain and labour and hopelessness.
This time, however, Hopper is woken not by the chill of the night but by the chilling of his blood when he hears a familiar accent.
“No, no, please , no, let me go, just let me go, please , please , no—”
The voice is cut off by the sound of a cell door creaking open, followed by a heavy thud and the laughter of the guards. Hopper keeps his body still, waiting until the footsteps retreat before slowly pulling himself upright and praying he’s just having a bad dream.
He’s not.
The cell beside him now houses one Steve Harrington.
Hopper curses, and watches as Steve flinches, then turns towards him with an incredulous expression on his bruised face. “Chief?” he whispers.
“What the hell are you doing here, Harrington?” Hopper hisses back, regretting it immediately when Steve flinches again, and averts his gaze, breathing a little too quickly. Taking a deep breath, Hopper tries again: “Sorry, kid. Are you… okay?”
It’s a useless question, because, even in the low light of whatever moon there must be somewhere above them, it’s clear the kid has a black eye, a bruised cheek, a lip split twice over, and probably some kind of head wound, judging by the blood matted in his hair.
Still, Steve just shrugs. “Been better. The… uh, the others all made it out, though.”
As much of a relief as that is to hear, Hopper doesn’t like the way Steve phrased his answer, as if it doesn’t matter that he didn’t make it out with them. “Not really what I asked.”
“I…” Steve pauses, and turns back to him, his gaze flickering across Hopper’s face for a long moment. “I guess… I think I’m kinda concussed?”
Again .
Hopper sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. “Any nausea?”
“Not anymore.” Steve flashes him a weak grin, then winces, and shuffles back so he’s leaning against the wall. He winces again as he makes contact with it, and clenches his jaw. Hopper wants to punch something at the sight, but knows that wouldn’t help matters much.
“You’ve gotta stay awake, Harrington,” Hopper says as soon as Steve’s eyes begin to droop.
“Tired,” Steve replies, making no effort to re-open his eyes.
Momentarily forgetting everything other than just how many times he can recall Steve suffering from head injuries, he leans forward. “Hey. Eyes open, kiddo.”
He must have spoken a little too loudly, because someone chuckles behind him. “Kiddo?” They echo, clearly amused.
Both he and Steve bristle at the Russian accent, but the damage has already been done.
“Funny coincidence that both Americans know each other this well, no?” And, unfortunately, it’s one of the wardens asking, which means there’s no deal they can make to convince the man to turn a blind eye.
“I don’t know him, but he’s obviously a kid,” Hopper tries anyway. “He can’t be much use to you, either, so I don’t know what you think you’re doing here.”
But the warden just smirks, and flashes his torch at Steve, who yelps and lifts an arm over his eyes. The warden moves the torch over to Hopper, who squints and glares as darkly as possible, before shining it back on Steve. “No. There is something between you.”
Hopper says nothing, and nor does Steve. The warden glances between the two of them again, and nods smugly to himself. “We will see tomorrow.”
And, unfortunately, they do.
Neither of them say anything more throughout the night, in hopes of lessening the consequences already waiting for them, but Hopper grits his teeth every time Steve’s head drops forwards and he sharply wakes himself up with a groan. He’s exhausted by the time dawn arrives, but still tense enough to watch as the guards roughly pull Steve upright, ignoring his protests.
Hopper, with great difficulty, also ignores his protests, but they ring in his head throughout the day, and he throws as much of his anger as he can into shovelling as he wonders where they’ve taken Steve and why. It’s perhaps not the wisest idea, because it means all of his muscles ache by the time he returns to his cell. But then again, maybe it is, because it means he’s too tired to explode when they drag Steve back to his cell.
He was expecting Steve to resemble him when he’d first arrived, a shaved head and a new set of uncomfortable clothes, but instead the kid is dressed exactly how Hopper assumes he had been when he'd been taken, in his Scoops Ahoy uniform, blood and all. The only visible difference is the fabric wrapped tightly around his eyes.
Holding his breath, Hopper watches as they shove Steve to the ground, and the kid groans, his back arching in pain just enough for it to be noticeable that he’s also sporting the new addition of handcuffs around his wrists, keeping his hands trapped behind his back.
“Does this upset you, American?” the guard asks.
Hopper glares at him.
“Unlucky for him, then,” the second guard says, and kneels beside Steve, who flinches when the man presses a hand down on his forehead, keeping him still. “Doctor sent you something new,” he whispers, smirking.
That doesn’t make much sense to Hopper but Steve practically whines, and immediately starts thrashing, his legs kicking out aimlessly because he can’t actually see where the guards are. “No, no, no, not again, please, please , don’t —”
The guard jabs a syringe—Hopper curses himself for not having noticed it before, he knows better than to be situationally unaware—into the side of Steve’s neck.
Steve cries out, and the first guard grins at Hopper. “Fun kid-do you have.”
Hopper bites his tongue as the guards lock Steve’s cell, torn between demanding they explain what they’ve given him and refusing to show he cares so they get bored and leave him alone.
“Stop… stop, stop, stop it, stop it…” Steve mumbles, and Hopper turns to him in confusion. He’s shaking his head from side to side, clearly trying to dislodge something that isn’t there, which can’t be good for his concussion recovery.
Still, Hopper says nothing, a horrible, sinking weight in his stomach. He’s seen plenty of teenagers getting high in his life, but he’s never seen a drug act this fast, and he doesn’t like it. Nor does Steve, it seems, because, despite being handcuffed, he manages to wriggle backwards and haul himself up against the wall, pressing his head back into it. It looks painful, and Hopper wishes he would stop.
Steve’s head drops forward and it seems for a second that the sensation must have faded, but then he whimpers and flings his head back, letting it hit the wall with a thud. Hopper’s fingers clench into fists, increasingly tighter, as Steve repeats the action, again and again and again and again and again. “Stop it, stop it, get it—get it off me, stop—please, stop it, stop—”
“Harrington!”
The kid freezes, almost panting as his eyebrows furrow in confusion. He then groans, and pulls his knees in towards his chest, letting his head fall atop them.
“Stop this, he’s hurting himself,” Hopper snarls at the guards, who have apparently just been watching in amusement.
The guards shrug, the one still holding the syringe raising an eyebrow. “You can tell us where the girl hides.”
Hopper can’t stop the angry noise that escapes him, and Steve whimpers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t—can’t get it off , I—” He cuts himself off by crying out, this time struggling to try and free his hands from the cuffs, pulling his wrists apart as far as they’ll go, the metal digging into his skin.
“Stop that!” Hopper says, but Steve doesn’t seem to hear him, practically shouting for whatever he thinks is on him to get off him.
“Powerful stuff,” the other guard comments, as if pointing out a well-shaped cloud in the sky. Hopper wants to punch him. Or worse.
Instead, he turns back to Steve, who’s managed to break the skin on one of his wrists, and is now flexing his fingers, clearly agitated by the feeling of blood running down them. Hopper thinks that, if they ever get out of here, he’s going to have a hard time arresting any more teenagers.
“For god’s sake,” he mutters to himself, cutting all pretence of being uncaring strangers because he doesn’t think there can be much worse than watching Steve injure himself all night long. “Harrington!”
Steve pauses, then shakes his head. “Go away, go away , I don’t know you, I don’t know you, go away, I don’t—”
“Steve, listen to me! There’s nothing there!”
But Steve shakes his head, and whimpers again. This time, he twists sideways until he ends up on his back, his fingers scrabbling at the floor as his back arches. “Please, please get it off, get it o— out , get it out, please , please —”
Which is a horrible progression, really.
“I like this part,” a guard says behind him, sounding just a little too gleeful. Hopper would yell at them, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Steve, who’s still awkwardly, painfully, twisting his limbs. He’s vaguely thankful that Steve has managed to find himself in the centre of the cell so he can’t use one of the walls as a weapon again.
“Hey! Steve, hey ! Kid, listen to me!”
But he still doesn’t, carrying on until exhaustion wins out and he flops down with a sob. Light reflects off the tear tracks on his face, and Hopper abruptly wants to murder someone. He’s not proud of the thought, but he thinks it anyway.
“You’re okay, kiddo, you’re okay. There’s nothing inside you.”
Steve shakes his head, and turns on his side, curling into himself. “It’s… going to k—kill me,” he whimpers, and that almost stops Hopper’s heart, but he focuses on the fact that it was a coherent reply at least.
Hopper clenches his fists to try and keep himself calm. “You’re not dying on my watch. It’s not going to kill you, it’s not real .”
“You’re not real?” Steve echoes, sounding awfully small, and Hopper swears as quietly as he can before moving right up against the bars separating them.
“I’m real. I’m here, I’m real.”
The guards are discussing something or the other, but Hopper pays them no mind, watching intently as Steve’s chest rapidly rises and falls. “You’re not real. It’s not real. Not real, not real, not real…” he mumbles to himself.
Desperate, Hopper bangs on the cell bars. “You hear that, Harrington? That’s me, real . Come on, kiddo, please , look at me.”
He regrets the words as soon as he says them, and it’s worse than he could have thought, because Steve abruptly jolts upright and his head turns wildly from left to right. “I can’t. I can’t, I can’t see, it’s—it’s in my eyes, I can’t see, I can’t—my eyes, I—”
“No, no, hang on, Steve, hey—”
But Steve sobs, and his fingers flex jerkily. He shakes his head several times and sobs again, letting out a low groaning sound, clearly not lucid enough to recognise that the darkness is due to a blindfold and not some parasite. He folds forwards and knocks his head against the floor, gently but repeatedly. Hopper knows that, although he’d been cursing the handcuffs earlier, they’re probably the only thing stopping Steve from clawing at his eyes, and he’s suddenly grateful for them.
Twisting to face the guards, who are still just watching with matching smirks, Hopper all but growls. “How much longer is this going to last?”
The taller guard shrugs. “How much longer will you keep secrets?”
And christ if that doesn’t get to him, because he can’t trade one kid for the other, and he apparently isn’t strong enough to handle seeing either of them in pain. So of course he’s thankful for the knowledge that El is alive and well back in Hawkins, but that’s only half of his kids safe.
“Chief?” Steve moans behind him, as if on cue.
“I’m right here, kid, you’re gonna be okay,” Hopper says immediately, instinctively, and throws one last glare at the guards before returning to his previous spot near the cell bars. “You’re gonna be fine, Steve, hang in there.”
Steve sobs, lifting his head up. “It hurts… get it out , it hurts… ”
His lip is bleeding freely from where he seems to have bitten down on it, some of his teeth coated in red, and Hopper experiences a whole new level of frustration. He wants to reach out and wipe the blood away, he wants to tear the blindfold off and burn it, he wants to take Steve back home where he doesn’t have to be in pain just because someone is trying to guilt answers out of him .
He takes a deep breath, and leans his forehead against the bars. “It’s not real, Steve. You’re okay, I’m here,” he says softly, firmly.
Exhaling shakily, Steve turns in his direction, then whimpers. “I can’t—can’t see you. My head hurts, and I—I can’t… it’s… Hop, please… ”
Hopper doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that Steve seems to have remembered who he is. It stabs a little deeper that he can’t do anything to help, but it’s arguably a better option than Steve feeling alone and disjointed in his misery.
“Stubborn man you are,” one of the guards mutters, sounding almost bored.
Hopper clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache, but Steve flinches at the guard’s voice, and he abruptly realises that everything must be so much more disorientating for him, unable to trust any one of his senses. The worst of the drug seems to have passed, but his fingers are still twitching and he can’t seem to steady his breathing and his whole body is trembling slightly, as if his muscles have forgotten how to be still.
As he watches, Steve all but collapses backwards, landing awkwardly on his hands and letting his head thud painfully against the floor. He exhales shakily, clearly having used up more energy than he had to spare, and tears slip out from under the blindfold, one after the other, each one glistening in the moonlight and breaking Hopper’s heart.
“You’re okay, kiddo, I’m right here. You’re gonna be okay,” Hopper whispers, just in case his words register and provide even a shred of comfort.
“Not to worry,” the other guard says brightly, “plenty of doses left.”