Chapter Text
The room was designed to break people.
That was the first thing Steve realized once the door slammed shut behind them again.
No windows. Bare concrete walls stained darker in places where something—someone—had bled before. A single metal table sat in the center of the room beneath a harsh fluorescent light that hummed like an insect trapped in glass. The sound drilled straight into Steve’s skull, vibrating through his teeth, settling in his bones. The air smelled of oil and ozone, sharp and metallic, stinging the back of his throat every time he breathed.
This place wasn’t for questions.
It was for answers.
They shoved Steve into another chair a few feet away, forcing him down so hard the impact rattled his teeth. The metal was cold through his clothes. Before he could even shift, someone yanked his arms back, cuffs snapping shut around his wrists and biting deep. The restraints were anchored to the chair, locking him upright, helpless, unable to turn away.
They adjusted him deliberately—tilted the chair just enough, angled his head with a rough hand at his jaw.
“So you don’t miss anything.”
Steve’s chest tightened as his vision settled on the chair before him.
Dustin. Bound. Pale. Too small in that chair, straps cutting across his shoulders and chest, his legs pinned, his hands useless in his lap. Every shallow breath Dustin took felt like a hook in Steve’s ribs.
The distance was cruelly precise. Close enough to see the fear in Dustin’s eyes. Far enough that Steve couldn’t reach him.
That was the point.
Steve swallowed hard, panic roaring in his ears, because he understood exactly what they were doing.
They weren’t just hurting Dustin.
They were making Steve watch.
Every tremor in Dustin’s hands.
Every flicker of fear he tried—and failed—to hide.
“No,” Steve said immediately, the word tearing out of him before he could stop it. Panic clawed up his spine, hot and suffocating. “No, no, no—he’s a kid. You want leverage? I’m right here.”
The Russian officer stepped closer, boots echoing softly against the concrete. He was calm. Almost bored. He said something in Russian—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring each syllable.
Then the cattle prod was lifted into view.
Steve’s stomach dropped through the floor.
Dustin’s eyes flicked to it for half a second.
Just long enough.
Just long enough to understand exactly what it was.
Steve sucked in a breath that didn’t feel like it reached his lungs. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Please. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
The officer crouched in front of Dustin, tilting his head slightly, studying him like a puzzle. Like a curiosity. Dustin straightened his spine as much as the restraints allowed. The leather straps dug into his wrists and chest, cutting off circulation; his fingers had already started to tingle, then numb.
Okay, Dustin told himself desperately. Okay. You can do this. You have to.
The chair was cold against his back. The room smelled wrong. Everything was too loud—too bright, too close. His heart was beating so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs from the inside.
He thought of Mike’s basement.
Of the radio tower.
Of Steve’s stupid car and the way he always pretended not to care when Dustin left crumbs everywhere.
You don’t cry, he told himself. You don’t scream. You don’t give them anything.
“You don’t have to do this,” Steve said, desperation leaking into every word. He was shaking—Dustin could hear it in his voice. “He doesn’t know anything. I dragged him into this. Hurt me.”
The officer smiled.
Then he nodded.
The prod crackled to life.
The sound alone made Steve flinch—sharp, electrical, wrong. It wasn’t loud, not really, but it sliced through the air like a blade.
Dustin sucked in a breath.
It’s just pain, he thought wildly. It’s just pain. You’ve been hurt before. Broken bones. Demodogs. This is just—
The prod touched his side.
The world exploded.
Electricity tore through him like fire under his skin, every nerve lighting up at once. His body went rigid, muscles locking so hard it felt like his bones might snap. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as a strangled sound ripped out of his throat—half gasp, half sob—but he didn’t scream.
Not yet.
Steve did.
“STOP!” Steve yelled, thrashing uselessly against the restraints. “STOP IT! YOU’RE KILLING HIM!”
The shock ended.
Dustin sagged forward, chest heaving violently. His breath came in short, broken gasps, each one scraping his throat raw. Sweat soaked through his shirt instantly, plastering it to his skin.
The officer leaned down, said something quietly.
Dustin forced himself to lift his head.
Every movement felt like dragging his body through wet cement.
“I—I don’t know anything,” he said. His voice shook, but it was clear. He focused on that—on keeping the words steady. “You can hurt me all you want. I still don’t know.”
Steve stared at him.
Pride hit him like a fist to the chest—sharp and devastating and completely swallowed by terror.
The prod crackled again.
“No,” Steve whispered, then screamed it. “No, please—!”
This time it was longer.
The electricity surged through Dustin’s body, brutal and unrelenting. His back arched violently against the restraints, the chair rattling across the concrete floor. His scream tore out of him, raw and terrified, echoing off the walls until it felt like the room itself was screaming with him.
Pain swallowed everything.
There was no room for thought anymore—just white-hot agony and the desperate need to breathe. His vision burst into blinding spots of light. He tasted blood where he bit down on his lip, hard enough to keep from saying anything else.
Don’t tell, a small, terrified part of his mind chanted.
Don’t tell. Don’t tell. Don’t tell.
“Dustin!” Steve sobbed. His voice cracked completely, breaking apart under the weight of it. “Please—please talk to me. Look at me.”
Dustin forced his eyes open.
Steve’s face was twisted with pain, streaked with tears and fury and helplessness. Seeing him hurt worse than the shock did. It grounded Dustin in a strange way—pulled him back from the edge.
“I’m okay,” Dustin gasped between sobs, even though it was a lie. Even though nothing about this was okay. “I’m okay, Steve.”
Steve broke.
He screamed. He cursed. He begged.
He promised anything. Everything.
His voice went hoarse, then ragged, then barely there at all. He would have given them Hawkins, the mall, the entire damn world if it meant they’d stop touching Dustin. If it meant Dustin could breathe without shaking.
But the officer only watched.
And nodded again.
The prod pressed against Dustin’s shoulder this time.
The shock ripped through him so violently his body convulsed uncontrollably. His vision went completely white, then black, then white again. His throat seized, cutting off his scream mid-sound, leaving only a choked, broken noise behind.
Steve couldn’t breathe.
This was it, his brain insisted wildly. This was how Dustin died. In a concrete room under a mall, because Steve hadn’t been fast enough. Smart enough. Strong enough.
The shock finally stopped.
Dustin slumped forward, barely conscious, head hanging limply. His body still trembled in aftershocks, nerves firing without permission. The world felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater.
“Hey,” Steve whispered desperately. “Hey, stay with me. Please, Henderson. You gotta stay with me.”
Dustin stirred.
Barely.
“I didn’t—” he whispered. His voice was so quiet Steve almost missed it. “I didn’t tell them.”
Steve’s chest caved in.
He sobbed.
The officer straightened, clearly dissatisfied.
He lifted the prod again.
Steve’s heart stopped.
And then—
“HEY! JERKFACE!”
The door burst open.
Chaos exploded into the room.
The officer barely had time to turn before a body slammed into him, sending him crashing into the table. The cattle prod flew from his hand, skidding across the floor toward the wall.
Erica Sinclair grabbed it.
“Oh, I knew this would come in handy,” she said grimly, eyes blazing, and without hesitation she jammed it straight into the guard’s chest.
The crackle was loud and violent.
The man collapsed instantly.
Robin rushed past her, already moving for Dustin. “Oh my God—oh my God, Dustin,” she said, hands shaking as she fumbled with the restraints. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
Steve’s cuffs were off seconds later.
The moment he was free, he lunged forward, catching Dustin as the chair tipped. Dustin barely stayed upright, eyes unfocused, body trembling violently like he couldn’t stop shaking no matter how hard he tried.
Steve wrapped his arms around him, pulling him tight, shielding him from the world like he could erase what had just happened just by holding him hard enough.
“You’re safe,” Steve whispered fiercely into his hair. His voice shook, but it was steady—for Dustin. “You’re safe. They’re gone. I’ve got you.”
Dustin clutched at him weakly, fingers curling into Steve’s shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the universe. His grip was shaky, but determined.
“I didn’t talk,” Dustin murmured again, barely conscious, as if he needed Steve to know. As if that was the most important thing in the world.
Steve choked on a sob.
“I know,” he said, voice breaking completely now. “I know, buddy. I’m so proud of you. God, I’m so proud of you.”
Robin hovered close, eyes wet but steady, scanning the room, the hallway beyond. “We need to move,” she said gently. “But… take a second. He earned it.”µ
Steve nodded.
He pressed a soft, trembling kiss into Dustin’s hair without thinking, his hand steady on Dustin’s back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing—fast, uneven, but there.
In the darkness beneath Starcourt Mall, surrounded by concrete and blood and the echo of pain that would never fully leave them, one truth rang louder than anything else.
Dustin Henderson had been tortured.
And he had been unbelievably brave.
And Steve Harrington would never—ever—forget it.