Run Away [TF2XREADER]

Chapter 57- Spy

Day 1:

He felt like he had failed. Like he had broken a promise he never even made. When he heard you had died, such a variety of emotions had washed over him and overwhelmed him. And with how he was trying to hold it all in and hide it, it was too much to bear. So, the moment he could, he locked himself away in his smoking room, repeating history once again. He was so sure now. He didn't know how, but he knew who you were. But now, you'd never know. Regret ate away at him. He had a feeling, but he never expanded on the possibility. He should have. Pauling told him to. To an extent, he had, but he never came to ask you. And that was his biggest mistake. He wouldn't have had to go on the massive goose chase that would become his undoing, and your destruction. Feeling like an idiot, he smoked and drank, but did not cry. He didn't feel like he should. It didn't feel right for him to cry. To release the band that had been pulled taut felt like too good of an end. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep. A part of him hoped it would distract him for the short amount of time he would be floating weightless in the empty space of his subconscious. Life couldn't allow that, though. It wouldn't. He dreamt of having one last conversation, finally being able to tell you everything. But even as he spoke, you wouldn't listen. You couldn't, and simply didn't care, along with that. He wanted to tear himself to shreds, and you. The frustration boiled up and threatened to explode. He awoke at around 11:00 pm, the sound of a shattering glass echoing in his ears. He shot up in his chair, scanning the room as he panted with the panic and adrenaline had burst through his system. The source of the noise was quickly found. As it would turn out, Spy had dropped his glass of whiskey in his sleep, sending it soaring towards the floor and bringing it to shatter. It was a shame, too. He liked that glass. He kneeled down, cleaning the glass and taking a hand towel to the remaining liquid. He remained awake for the rest of the night, the time draining into the next day.

He didn't want to have to deal with another dream.

Day 2:

Another day to sit in that room. Another day to wait around, pacing pathetically.

Another day for feeling like shit.

Spy could leave, but what would he do if he did? There was nothing to do around that base, and there was nothing for him in the other mercenaries. They didn't know. They wouldn't understand. And if he were honest, if any of them did find out, that would be even worse. He didn't want to risk that.

Day 3:

Spy was going through a rather tough episode. He may have drank too much in the attempt to distract himself. But with the odd way alcohol works, it just made him feel worse. He grit his teeth, furling and unfurling his fists as the leather of his gloves wrinkled and squeezed with his movements. He pulled at his balaclava, a part of him thinking it might help him see better. It didn't. He was more drunk than he thought. Throwing his head back, he lifted the glass to his lips for another drink only to find the glass was empty. He scowled, growling as he threw the glass at the wall with his rage. Another glass broken. Spy grumbled, realizing what he had done. He made his way over to it and began to clean up the pieces. For some reason his mind decided to torture him, making him think of how the shattering of glass what similar to the shattering of your fragile life. He knew you weren't fragile, but life in itself was. His glare intensified as he collected the glass, throwing it away. He turned back to head for his chair, but tripped over a rag he had forgotten about. He fell with a loud thump, cursing as he snatched up the rag, tossing it onto a table.

"Uh- Spoi? Ya alroight in there?"

Spy cursed again. It was Sniper. Of course he just had to be passing by. Spy remained silent, hoping the man would leave. "Spoi, I know you're in there." Still, he remained silent. Sniper let out a frustrated groan, the sound of footsteps leaving the door. Spy let out a huff, getting to his feet and rubbing his tired face. Time to get another glass. He would have to stop breaking them, or else he might just run out. Or, he may even break something of value. Either way, things would end badly if he broke any more.