Chapter Text
Dr. Thatcher had always enjoyed his solitude, or at least he thought he did. He was used to working alone, it was what had become normal to him, a comfort even. An oasis away from the busy, stressful life of the ICU. However, he was proven very sorely wrong. Now, Dr. Thatcher, used to hearing the unending, incessant chatter of Beck, felt the lack of that chatter caused a restless unease. He sat in the silence, an incessant buzzing underneath his skin, the faint feeling that something was missing, something very important, and it bothered him greatly. He was being handed proof, in experience, that he was not an exception to the basic human need for company.
Since coming here, since setting up his lab, since the incident with the bottle, Beck has invaded nearly every aspect of his life. For whatever reason, Dr. Thatcher’s home had become overrun with Beck’s unrelenting presence. She usually lingered around his desk or followed him around the room, asking him questions, intruding on time that Dr. Thatcher would otherwise spend focusing on his work. It bothered him at first, irritated him to no end when she would overwhelm him with questions and conversation. He found no initial comfort in the way she would invade his personal space, looming over him as he attempted to focus on mixing together the cleaning solution he needed to clean his beakers and test tubes. He found no initial endearment in the way she would approach him in the town’s market asking him how his day went, what he planned on doing later, if he was busy, when she could drag him somewhere for the purposes of ‘going out’ and ‘socializing.’ But over the course of a couple months, much to Dr. Thatcher’s dismay, Beck had begun to grow on him like a tumor. He had begun to anticipate the feeling of someone lingering around him as he worked. He had learned to look forward to her appearing in the doorway of his lab, the way she would sometimes toss a book or two onto his desk as she walked in as some sort of peace offering. The words slowly began to come easier to him as their conversations became more frequent and lengthy. He began to find comfort in her presence and a quiet, lonely discomfort in her absence. He wondered if this loneliness was a recent development or if it was always there, lingering at the edges of his mind. He wondered if it was something he had simply learned to ignore, if it was something that he had covered up with detailed lab reports and a never-ending stream of tasks. Eventually, the spare bedroom next to his lab, the one he occupied in the days when the pain in his joints flared up and he could not make it to his own room, became Beck’s room too.
Then came that dreaded note.
Beck had a habit of stealing Dr. Thatcher’s personal journal, the one he wrote his thoughts in, descriptions of his work and personal thoughts. She began to write little notes of her own there. At first they were little taunts, casual conversations, though Beck began to write more personal things in there. She expressed her history, vague retellings of the abuse she went through at the hands of her mother, expressions of disdain for humans, believing them to be no greater than common mold, spreading across the land and destroying anything they touched. Thatcher would disagree with these statements. He would express to her his belief that humans were complex creatures, that trying to reduce such a complex group of individuals to “good” or “bad” did not accurately represent the population as humans were not a monolith. She would disagree, and they would argue in circles with neither side letting up until the argument was forgotten about.
But this note was unlike the others. It was vague, yes, though much less so than the previous ones, expressing a disdain for humans that extended to herself. She expressed a deep self loathing, a feeling that, in her eyes, the world would benefit if she were to perish. More specifically, if she were to kill herself, and it was something Thatcher had vehemently disagreed with. He had been nearly red in the face when he read that note and scribbled a sloppy response onto the paper. It led to an argument, albeit one through notes within the journal rather than a true verbal argument of raised voices and shrill retorts. It was in Thatcher’s belief that suicide was inherently selfish, that those who committed weren’t considerate of the fact that the person committing suicide would be leaving behind people who cared for them. This was what Thatcher had been taught, the regurgitation of words spoken to him in a sterile room, one where he was meant to recover. Words he had listened to while holding an empty card with “get well soon” plastered on the front in colorful lettering. Words he had listened to while inhaling the stale air of that pale room. He did not mean to hurt Beck with those words.
Beck had been distant and quiet since then. She visited Thatcher less than usual, though Thatcher saw her about town on occasion and did not think much of it, assuming that his words had sparked irritation, that it was just a mild disagreement and that this would soon pass and everything would go back to normal as long as he maintained patience. Though a week passed and Thatcher was stuck in the restless discomfort that came with the silence of his lab and he hated every minute of it. He found himself frequently glancing up at the doorway, hoping that Beck would walk through, that she would greet him with that smile on her face that he had grown a fondness of. He considered going to Beck’s house, the place she actually lived, and attempting to talk out the rift that had developed between the two, however the stress was getting to him. Stress had a way of inflaming his joints, causing him pain, and so, reluctantly, even though he hated it, he had to take some time to rest. Beck did not visit him those two days.
In fact, upon finally emerging from his home and conversing with the others in town, he had learned Beck had not, in fact, been in contact with anyone for those two days. While it wasn’t unusual for Thatcher’s colleagues (if they could even be called that) to disappear for a period of time (It was fairly common for Lilly and Ophilia to go on little expeditions), he hadn’t exactly associated the behavior with Beck, which left him feeling even more stressed, tapping his heel against the pale tiles of his home as he mulled over the past couple days. The quiet of his lab, occasionally broken only by the beeps of his machines and the faint whirring of a far-to-old computer felt suffocating, isolating. He didn’t want to be too demanding, too overbearing. He didn’t want to be seen as clingy and pathetic. Lilly and Ophelia seemed far more familiar with Beck than Thatcher was, so he assumed that if they were not worried then he should not be either. This must be normal, he attempted to rationalize. Nothing bad would happen, he reassured himself.
“Resource collecting, yes that would be good.” He grumbled to himself as he grabbed a couple pokeballs from his PC. Anything would be better than sitting in silence, he decided. Perhaps it was the stale air of his laboratory that was driving him insane and getting a bit of fresh air would help him clear his head and settle down. Perhaps then he would have a clear enough mind to go talk to Beck if he just ceased rotting in his own thoughts. Besides, today was not too awful of a day when considering mobility and pain levels. So he gathered his things, potions and revives for his pokemon, spare pokeballs, a map and compass. When he figured he was sufficiently prepared for an outing, he stepped out of his tower and flipped the sign to ‘The doctor is out’. Glancing down at the list of things he needed he took a pokeball from his pocket and opened it, his Diggersby appearing in front of him, letting out a low noise of delight. Today they would go get sand from one of the northern river banks so that he may be able to make more concrete and glass. He began to walk, much as he always did, cane sinking into the soft earth beneath him with every step. The air outside served to settle his nerves, and focusing on the map in front of him gave him the chance to remind himself of the world surrounding him. It was grounding, in a way, and for a moment he could forget about his troubles with Beck and focus on this simple task. For a moment everything in his life felt fine.
However, nearly 3 miles north, merely half a mile away from the river he intended to collect sand from, Thatcher’s nose was assaulted with a horrible, putrid smell and he quickly covered his face with the sleeve of his lab coat. He bit back the urge to vomit, instead gagging openly against his sleeve as he wondered what the smell could possibly be. At first he came to the conclusion that a pokemon of some sort must have died here and was beginning to rot, as was usual for these woods. He would simply avoid the source of the smell. Though as he stepped to the side his shoe came in contact with a leaf still wet from the day before’s rain and he slipped, tumbling forwards and landing on the ground, the handle of his cane hitting him square in the stomach and knocking all of the air out of him despite reaching out in an attempt to catch himself.
The smell was horrible, it reminded him of his time in his father's hospital, it especially reminded him of the patients suffering from necrosis. He vaguely remembered going to take the boot off of a patient with peripheral neuropathy from diabetes, he remembered the shoe coming off but the necrotic flesh sticking to the sole of the shoe. He remembered the smell then, though he believed this to be worse. It had to be. He was sure of it. He gagged again, moving to try to get up from the leaf litter when he saw it, an omni cuff laying on the ground, familiar in size and color and his eyes lifted up, coming in contact with a familiar face hanging amongst the branches of trees. He wasn't able to keep the bile down. The bitter taste of stomach acid and whatever half digested food he managed to get down earlier that morning filled his mouth, the smell mixing uncomfortably in the air with that of rot and decay as he retched, stomach emptying out onto the mix of dirt and leaves below him . He heaved against the autumn air, holding back a sob as his vision blurred from a mix of nausea and despair flooding his system. His mouth still tasted gross, his body still shook with the effort of vomiting but he didn’t want to get up just yet. He knew what he saw, he understood it, but some part of his mind was still suspended in disbelief, he foolishly believed that in some way if he didn’t get up he wouldn’t have to accept the reality of his situation, he wouldn’t have to look up at her, he wouldn’t have to accept what had happened. If he didn’t get up he wouldn’t have to sit with the fact that the one person left in this world had, in his mind, made the most selfish decision to leave him alone again.
But of course, he could not sit amongst the leaf litter and vomit forever, and eventually, shamefully, hesitantly, he slowly began to get up. The mere motion nearly made him double over in nausea and he gripped the handle of his cane tighter, leaning hard against it as he tried to fight back the bile that threatened to crawl up his throat again. Against all instinct screaming in his mind, he began to approach that putrid smell.