In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Twenty-Eight: Skip the Formalities

        Engie smiles at me as I push the knot up his yellow tie. I scoff quietly and smile back. "What are you so happy about?"

"Mmm, nothin'," he claims with sweetness as I fold his red collar back over. He buttons his cufflinks and sighs while reaching for his jacket. He opted to have our attire complement each other, as revealed from when he asked what color my dress was while at the fort. His tie goes along with my dress, and my shawl mirrors his shirt. Yellow has proven time and time again that it's one of the few colors that look good on darker skin no matter the variation, tacking on that it just so happens to be my favorite.

I look over at Engie's glove. "Engie, could you please take your glove off?"

"Why?"

"We're trying to blend in as much as possible, and I know you won't budge on your goggles," I explain with a gentle tone. I hold my hand out. "Hand it over."

"Oh, but you're wearing gloves, Miss Fredrickson. C'mon now," he counters.

"Because they go with my dress. Engineer, please," I pester. "I'll even take off my own so we're even."

Heavy chuckles and I look over to Medic helping him with his own tie. "Heavy has learned to never go against wishes of lady from sisters. Give up, Engineer."

"Misha is correct," Medic quietly agrees, "Neuro has expressed this same behavior. The will of a woman will be seen through until it is instilled."

He stands frozen, not doing anything. I step up to him and lift his arm up. He balls his hand into a fist, and I pry his fingers up, his hand feeling significantly different from when it was resting on my hip on the jet ski. "Engie. What are you hiding?"

"Nothin'," he says again, trying to block my hands.

"Then take off the glove, dear," I sweetly suggest. He grumbles, and I back off a little. "Is there something wrong with your hand? If there is, then you can keep it on."

He slides it off, revealing the ordinary. "Nope, see, it's perfectly fine."

"Then why--"

"I'm just a bit difficult sometimes, Ma'am." He tosses his glove onto the bed and picks up his jacket, buttoning up over his stomach. I leave my gloves on the bed with his. "You do look rather stunning in your dress, though."

I straighten out his lapel and turn the corners of my lips upward. That same weird feeling in my chest, but he's not asking me to go or do anything with him this time. "And you rather striking in your suit." I pat my hands on his chest. "You'll do great."

It was hard to focus during the planning phase last night. No matter how much I tried to push it away, the face of the man from the brig kept invading my head. Constant. Nonstop. Miss Pauling had gotten rid of both him and the guy that was disguised as Bailey during the night, throwing them overboard with the help of Heavy and Sniper. I pulled the trigger. I didn't fight him, I didn't knock him out, I shot him in the head. We never found out if he worked for the Peytons. If he did, I don't think I'd feel any better, but at least I'd know that it was absolutely necessary to do so.

Miss Pauling enters the room, a purple satin dress fitted to her body and flats. I told her not to wear the shrug, but she did anyway to cover her arms, and she reminds me of an English teacher with how long her coat is over her dress. At least it matches. Her hair is slicked back into a bun, as per usual. "Come on, we've gotta go."

"Wait, wait," Sniper stumbles in after her in a brown suit he borrowed from Spy, coming up to me and holding a medical syringe out. "Take this, Luv."