Chapter Text
At a certain point, Lucas thinks, you accumulate enough nightmare fuel to saturate the market. A demogorgon might as well come within inches of biting his head off, really. Makes sense. Sure.
In the moment of what is surely his death, he becomes strangely calm. So, this is the last thing he’ll see. A pity to die mid-failure, but realistically, there had been no way he could save those kids alone. He hadn’t even been able to save Max, had he?
Come on, then, demogorgon. Make it quick, at least.
Time slows down. Or seems to, at least. The demo seems frozen. Then the thing lifts off the ground and starts to snap, eldritch and gruesome. Lucas has to hand it to El - because it has to be El, somewhere - it’s a spot-on impression of his deepest trauma to date. Very fitting. Take them out the same way as…
He tries not to think about Max, as if that’s ever been a possibility open to him.
The democorpse - he’ll run that by Dustin later - flops unceremoniously to the floor and, after taking a moment to dry heave a little and adjust to having a bit more lifespan, Lucas staggers upright, makes his way around it, and starts the journey to the Squawk basement.
His progress is slower than it might be otherwise, because deep breaths are a little painful due to the gash across his chest that he’s trying not to think about. It’s not… very bad. Compared to immediate death by digestion, especially.
“Lucas!”
Footsteps, behind him. He turns to see Joyce and Mike struggling to carry what looks like an unconscious Will between them. Lucas can’t discern any obvious injuries - he must have experienced another connection to the hive mind.
“Are you okay?” Mike asks, as the gap between them closes.
“More or less,” Lucas confirms. “But the kids…”
“He got them. We think he got them all. Robin’s almost out of range, but she seemed to be saying the same.”
His heart sinks. All for nothing, then. He would rather be the only one who’d failed.
“It’s not your fault,” says Joyce. “Okay?”
He hadn’t realised he was being that obvious, but then, he’s losing blood. Give him a break.
“I thought I was a goner,” Lucas admits. “There was a demogorgon — right in front of me. But El must have…”
“Not El.” Mike interrupts. “Will.”
“…Will?”
“Who we really need to get back to the Squawk,” Joyce says, pointedly.
“Oh. Right, yeah. Can I help?”
He and Mike are closer in height; it would surely be easier for them to take Will’s weight more evenly. Lucas can’t exactly picture Joyce letting him go, but maybe she’d be able to appreciate the practicality.
As it happens, both Mike and Joyce look at him with the same amount of disbelief.
“No, Sinclair. Look at yourself.”
Oh yeah. The blood and all.
He settles for leading the way, glad that they’re slow so he’s not holding anyone up by being slow himself.
“So Will… hacked into the hive mind? He can take over now?”
“Apparently so.”
“Damn, Byers.”
“Yeah. It was awesome.”
For a moment, Mike sounds twelve again. His voice is deeper, obviously, but it’s the same tone of absolute wonderment Lucas hasn’t heard since they met El. He turns back to confirm - yeah, same look on his face as well.
Lord, how he wishes Max were here to laugh at that. Actually, best not to think about it.
“Has Erica checked in?” he asks instead. Last he knew, she was in the crow’s nest, double-timing his and Mike’s usual positions.
“Yes,” says Joyce, “She’s on her way. Don’t worry. We didn’t want to send her into the base past all the bodies so we told her to connect to the tunnel from the woods. She’ll probably beat us back to the Squawk.”
She has, it turns out. Erica takes one look at Lucas and all but forces him into a chair, while Mike and Joyce drape a still-sleeping Will over the larger couch.
Lucas notes with some pride that Erica has taken the initiative to raid the first aid cabinet and even, apparently, warm up some water.
“This is gonna hurt,” she tells him as she peels the ragged edge of his shirt out of the wound.
“You could try and sound a bit sorry about it,” Lucas winces, glad beyond belief that she’s absolutely herself, and giving him something to bicker about while she works.
“Why should I be sorry? I’m saving your ass from sepsis.”
“Nobody asked you to.”
“Fine, then bleed out, see if I care.” She doesn’t even pause, her hands as gentle as her words are harsh. “I’m gonna have to take off your shirt.”
He lets her do it, helping as much as he can, though it hurts like hell to lift his arms above his head. Once done, she finishes cleaning out the cuts she couldn’t access and begins to apply the mysterious ointment Murray confidently described as ‘miracle cream’ when he dropped it off, however many runs ago. Whatever it’s made of, it stings. His eyes protest strongly.
“Aw, don’t cry, Lukey.” She knows very well it’s involuntary and the sickly sarcasm should by rights go some way to genuinely enrage him, rather than just distract him. “Someday a girl might actually want to see you with no shirt on.”
“Screw you, Erica,” he hisses. Or hopes that he hisses. He’s actually a little concerned it comes out more like a whimper.
After what feels like two or three eternities, she puts the cap back on the pot of ointment and goes for the gauze and bandages. It’s at this point that Lucas makes the fatal mistake of remembering Max, frustrated with his and Mike’s poor attempts to help her render first aid to El at the Starcourt convenience store. She’d been so fierce. So capable. So incredibly out of his league.
He silently begs Erica to go back to berating him. Anything to stop Max’s face swimming in front of his vision. She should be here. She should just be here.
Say something, damnit, Erica. He can’t, somehow the tears are in his throat as well as down his face, so it’s up to her to go on pretending, please, that this is just a scratch and they are barely tolerating each other as normal siblings who have nothing more to bond over than annoying parents who make them say grace before dinner.
Say something.
Finally she does, but it’s not what he wants to hear.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
He can’t really see properly but he senses that she’s trying to hug him without touching the bandages, which is no mean feat. Still, her arms round his neck and her head on hers are enough to break him properly. He hasn’t properly bawled like this since the first few days in the hospital with Max and he’s acutely aware that Mike and Joyce are only a few feet away but he can’t stop, he can barely even breathe.
“You made it out,” Erica continues. “We’re gonna do it, Lucas. We’re gonna make that noseless bastard pay, alright, you know we are.”
He brings up both hands to grip onto her arm, the only way he can really return the embrace.
He tries to say, “I know,” but he has no idea if it’s intelligible. He has no idea if he believes it. The only thing he knows is that if he goes down, he’ll go down fighting, for Max, for Erica, for Holly, for the kids in his care, for Patrick, for Eddie, for all of them.