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To most who knew him, Doc Scratch was a rather stiff man. He was always caught up in nitpicky details and rarely showed any sort of emotion besides the occasional jest, as necessary to be an excellent host. He kept mostly to himself unless it was on a strictly formal basis, relaying orders to the Felt and giving the Handmaid her daily lessons, always maintaining an air of aloofness and separation. He was a private man at heart, preferring to keep his personal affairs just that; personal. The only exception to this was his servitude to his lord.
He was proud to serve, that much was clear. He never considered it to mean he was less than anyone around him. In fact it was quite the opposite. Scratch saw it as an honor to be so close to his lord. Although he would never admit it to anyone else, it was all he’d ever wanted. If he could have one wish, or change one thing about his life, he wouldn’t have a thing to ask for. He would follow the same path and serve his lord just the same, even though he was now dying because of his service. Well...perhaps he would change one thing. He’d take away that ill mannered child’s chair privileges.
Normally such an oversight wouldn't have occurred. Normally Scratch would have handled the Handmaid and stopped her abhorrent breach of edicate. Normally he wouldn't be so lost in his own thoughts. Normally he wasn’t planning a confession of romantic pursuits.
Even an omniscient being could make oversights. Just because you knew something would happen didn’t necessarily mean you were aware of it happening. After all, Scratch had knowledge of every possible outcome and timeline in existence, how was he to know this would happen, despite being the one with the lowest probability of happening. How was he to be expected to create the perfect setting, menu, and musical arrangement for his dinner date tonight all while teaching advanced physics to the Handmaid, and still somehow find a way to be prepared for near impossibilities? It was inconceivable.
Ironically enough, so was the stuffing pouring pitifully from his chest with every step.
All it took was for Scratch to turn his back and a bright pop of color filled the room, sending a broken chair leg through his chest with enough force to drive it straight through. He knew the Handmaid had been trying to escape ever since she was able to form the thought in her primitive trollian mind, but it had escaped his grasp that perhaps one day she’d get her way.
As she left the room in another colorful burst, Scratch turned towards the door. His mind was growing dim already, far too fuzzy to be useful in any sense of prediction. There was no telling if his self repair kit was in its proper place, or even if he could reach it in time regardless. The only proper choice it seemed would be to find his lord instead and make his last goodbyes. He walked quickly through the hallways, a trail of fluff left behind him. Green sparks filled the air as he felt the sun’s power leaving his body. Soon, Scratch knew, he would be nothing but a broken puppet. A pity for such a fine man as himself to fall, who would be able to replace him as the mansions excellent host? ...Would he be replaced? The idea was unsettling and a pang of jealousy ripped through him. To be replaced would surely be both the most practical and expected course of action, but somehow it seemed wrong to Scratch. His lord would not mourn him, he knew that much, but at the very least it struck him as appropriate to let the position lie empty for a period of time. It was the respectful thing to do for someone so devoted.
His steps slowed to a halt outside of the door to Lord English’s chambers. For once in his life Scratch felt helpless. What purpose would this serve? Why did he want to say goodbye to a man that wouldn’t care? It was enough to make him reconsider bothering his lord in the first place. After all, it would be an inconvenience to him for Scratch to die on his clean floors. There would be no one to clean up the mess, and the sight of it would be displeasurable and-
No. This simply would not do. A man of his caliber did not cower within their own personal doubts. A man of his caliber did not have doubts, personal or otherwise. He had made up his mind to say these tender words to his lord and that was what he would do, the current circumstances made no difference to anything but the timing.
Scratch raised a hand to knock at the door, trying to ignore the uncharacteristic panic bubbling inside of him as a large pile of stuffing fell to the floor. The doors swung open, inviting him into the room. Lord English was seated on the far side of a large table, staring with incredible focus at an old chessboard. He broke his gaze when Scratch staggered in towards him and within moments the hulk of a man was at his side, a large, green hand offered to steady him.
A moment of silence passed between them as Scratch struggled to regain his composure enough to say what needed said. He watched the stuffing continue to fall from him, only realizing the urgency of the situation when he felt himself sway. When he finally did speak, his voice came out surprisingly soft compared to it usual crisp tone.
“I was yours from my first breath and I shall be yours until my last and beyond, there is nothing more in the entirety of all existence that I love more deeply than you. I wish with all of my being that I did not have to leave you in such a way, and I truly hope you can forgive me for it. Know always that I adore you, oh lord of mine.”
He hung his head in shame, the words burning him as they fled like frightened birds. Again silence fell over them. He felt Lord English’s hand slip away from his own and sorrow spilled in to fill the hollow left in his chest, only to be quickly banished by a gentle nudge upwards of his head. A spark of hope bloomed within him and ignited upon receiving a chaste kiss. Skeletal lips lingered just a breath away from him, mouthing words they could not bring themselves to speak with any volume. “I love you too” they said. A certain sadness in the mismatched eyes looking down at him mirrored the same emotion within scratch as he felt his body crumble beneath the weight of his head. Though he had gotten the answer he wanted it was all for naught in the end.
The unmistakable crack of a cueball hitting a polished wood floor rang out, and Doc Scratch was no more.