Work Text:
The bright red block numbers that read ‘3 :17 am’ were glaring at him.
Obviously, Doc knew that numbers on an alarm clock couldn't glare at him. Couldn't glare at all even. But it made him feel better if he personified the things in the room. It gave him something to think about instead of his thoughts and gave him something to be mad at.
The fluorescent lights over head hummed at him like they were laughing. The pens always clicked with taunt when he wrote with them on the sticky notes that were so obnoxiously bright that it made his eye hurt. The whiteboard on the wall with the phrase, ‘Days before incident! :’ with an accompanying large and bright red ‘4’ on it stays on the wall unmoving. The matching bright red eraser marker sits on top of the whiteboard.
The Stormtrooper Star Wars mug that he's been drinking out of for the past 4 days stares at him with no remorse as he writes and sketches and sits and tinkers and paces.
Pacing.
He's pacing again.
He turns the cup around to its facing the empty twin desk instead with a small and angry huff. Doc takes a deep breath before he punches the damn wall. It wouldn't do much to his prosthetic but it would surely attract… whatever the hell was outside the lab door.
He doesn't know what's outside. It's the most frustrating part of being stuck in a lab. Other than the fact that he's stuck in a lab of course. Doc doesn't mind being holed up in a room for days on end without going outside until he's done with whatever project he's working on and then some until it was perfect. But he had a choice in staying in a room for days on end.
Doc thinks that if he stays long enough in the damn lab he loves to change the bright red ‘4’ to ‘5’, he's going to punch the wall.
He's not going to punch the wall. No matter how much he wants to.
— —
Doc wakes up with a start. He's breathing a lot faster than he should. He feels sweat bead down the back of his head and onto his shirt. Doc is suddenly too aware of the fact that he hasn't showered in 4 days.
He looks at the whiteboard.
5 days now.
5 days without a shower. He snorts to himself when he can practically hear Ren scolding him for not taking a shower in 5 days.
He looks around. He's still in the lab. He's in the same white walled, white tiled, but decorated with so many colors and accessories to make it seem lived in, lab.
He looks around again. He listens this time. It's silent. There's no Ren.
Doc sighs. He rubs his face and shakes himself out. He gets up and stretches. He ignores the pain in his right shoulder from sleeping with his prosthetic on. It’ll go away with coffee.
He nods to himself.
Coffee first, then change the number on the whiteboard.
He grabs the Stormtrooper Star Wars mug and walks over to the other side of the room. He crouches to get the filter, coffee beans, sugar and cream. He stands back up. Open the top of the coffee maker. Put the filter in, put the coffee beans in. Turn it on. Wait.
Doc didn’t usually mind waiting for things. It was an essential thing to do when working on things long term, especially in the field of work that is ‘a little bit of everything’ at the Octagon. It was something he didn't mind doing when he was accompanied by his best friend.
Doc decides at that moment that he doesn't like waiting.
He huffs, mad at himself for thinking about Ren as much as he is right now. It's not that he didn't like thinking about Ren! He just didn't like that he was thinking about Ren without knowing where he is, or how he's doing, or if he's…
Doc looks at the time. ‘7 : 53 am’
He changes the number on the whiteboard.
— —
When Doc changes the number to ‘7’ on the whiteboard, he punches the wall. The force of it makes the whiteboard fall and clatter on the ground. It's the most sound he's heard in a week and even though it gives him a headache nearly instantly, it feels great. It feels good to hear something else that the clicks of pens and the hum of the fluorescent lights from the ceiling.
He does it again. His shoulder hurts.
Doc doesn't bother picking up the whiteboard. He just paces around it and runs a hand through his hair. He winces at all the tangles and how oily his hair feels.
He thinks back to the first time Ren made him join in on a care day. It was when they had first moved into their apartment. A single air mattress in the living room with so many boxes left to be unpacked the next morning. The only box that was unpacked were a bunch of self care products that Ren had brought.
He can remember Ren’s explanations about all the products and he can remember falling asleep next to the comfort that was his best friend and falling asleep to him talking next to him and not through the grainy audio of his old phone.
Doc blinks and shakes himself out. He tries to run a hand through his hair again. It's still oily and tangled. And he doesn't know why that's the thing to make him snap.
He doesn't know why that's the thing that makes him realize and process that the world has ended. That Ren could be dead. That he's going to die. That so many people are probably dead. That he's alone. Has been for days. A single week now.
A week of mostly total silence.
He's going to die.
There's barely any food in the cabinets other than the ungodly amount of coffee beans.
He's going to die.
Doc fights the urge to yell and punches the wall so hard that it dents. He breathes heavily and too fast for his lungs to get a full breath of air. He takes his fist back and checks the hand. It's fine as usual. He glares at the whiteboard on the ground.
He's going to die.
He grabs an obnoxiously bright green sticky note and clicks the taunt pen to write. He hangs up the whiteboard and changes the number to ‘0’ with the matching bright red marker.
Doc huffs and counts to seven. It seems like a lucky number for him. He’ll take whatever comfort he’ll get.
He counts to seven again.
He accepts that he's probably going to die.
He looks around the lab and grimaces.
Doc isn't going to die here. It would be pretty embarrassing to die in his workplace after surviving so long in it. He also has to find Ren and make him help him with his hair.
He sticks the sticky note next to the whiteboard.
‘No one changes the number on the board. Unless your Ren. If you’re Ren, then my hair is a mess. — Doc. M’
And for the first time in a single week, Doc considers opening the door.
He counts to seven in his head while looking for a potential weapon. Something temporary.
He settles for a broken pipette.
Doc counts to 7 again.
He moves the small jammed under the doorknob at 2. Puts his hand on the doorknob at 4. Thinks it's a bad idea at 6. Opens it with stubborn determination at 7.