The Strongest of Us (Tf2 x Reader)

32. My Way

(3rd person P.O.V.)

~

(Y/N) felt sick and her fingers reeked of nicotine. The garage was filled with the horrid stench of it, second-hand smoke that could kill a person over time. She felt ashamed. Sick, and ashamed. Her father always warned her to stay away from cigarettes, despite his habit to have a few himself. He didn't even need to say anything and she would know. He had a terrible cough that said it all (That, or his brief meeting with early on Tuberculosis before he died).

Despite her curling stomach, she had hauled out cleaning supplies and a roll of wax paper. What she was to do with it, I'll explain later.

For the first day, she spent pulling out bullets from her car from misfires. She took a hose to her trunk, gagging and bright yellow gloves providing her with a small amount of protection. Red pooled at her feet when she soaked each mat. If only she had put a tarp down.

(In her defense, she didn't know she would be bringing home a body.)

While the tainted water slid down the drain in the floor, she got back to work with a roll of double-sided tape, and the roll of wax paper (as I promised to explain).

She had made the mistake, twice now, of having the tags of her car out in the open. If anyone were to catch her, say, the police perhaps, they could run the tags, see that it was stolen if her crime had been reported--

(And It was)

-- charges would start to pile up. She shouldn't have to worry about that, if she was caught after a job. She'd be in prison for the rest of her life for murder, even without the stolen vehicle.

(Y/N) took a long strip of tape and crossed it across the top and bottom line of her tags. She tore a piece of thin wax paper from the roll, and stuck it right over the tags. It stuck to the tape and it held firmly-- perfectly, even.

This was a method she hoped would work. If anyone tried to take note of her tags, the image of them would be blurred, and it would hopefully throw a person off enough to lead her case to a dead end. Since her problem was bigger now, it was best to take extraordinary precautions. She was sure her work was at an amateur level for an assassin, at most, but it would hopefully do her some good.

'Would be a shame if that wax paper were to fall...' she thought.

She looked at it again, a deep lump in her throat. She added one more layer of tape. For safety.

She was sitting at her desk, messing with an old light fixture and dusty blueprints when Tom hobbled his way down the steps and into the garage. Of course, he was the only one truly brave enough to venture and see what (Y/N) could be up to.

Tom didn't even speak a word. He just hopped right on in with a crutch under his arm for support, dressed as all hospital patients were, and sat himself down in an extra wheely chair next to her. He was calm, confident even. He was still the happy-cranky old man he was, despite his injury.

His eyes merely touched the blueprints, then he looked up at the broken light fixture and tilted his head. (Y/N) still didn't acknowledge his presence, until he said something.

"Did you know his name?" He said, resting his crutch on his knee. "He said it was Mike. I don't think I believed him."

"I do," (Y/N) murmured. "It's Adam." She stopped twiddling with the light, momentarily. "It was Adam."