We Make Each Other Worse (Ticci Toby X Reader)

Two

Your phone told you that there was a village a few miles away from the farm building. Even though the police were likely to search it, you felt that it was worth the risk if you could get a change of clothes, because nothing screamed, 'I'm on the run!' more than wearing a prison uniform in public.

Luckily for you, though, a face mask had been amongst your possessions that had been moved with you, so you could cover your face while you stole someone's belongings. It was, in its outline form, the perfect plan, and you refused to think further on it in case its perfection (and therefore its success rate) was ruined.

Once the rain stopped (which was only about forty-odd minutes after it had started), you began your journey to Conriston. Despite the mud and acute paranoia that you were being followed by a gaggle of officers ready to drag you back into confinement, quaint village houses appeared on the horizon by the early afternoon, igniting a spark of vigour in your muscles. It was easy to ignore the voice of reason telling you that everything was too simple, that it was a trap designed to lure you back into the arms of the prison guards.

No negativity today, you thought as you crouched behind a fence and stared through the gaps at the house on the other side. Everything is fine. I'm a master thief, and...apparently that house is not one to go into. Okay—oh God they're actually doing that in their kitchen. Moving on.

You quickly scurried away, blood rushing to your head as you desperately wiped away the images of what you had just witnessed. Plants and fences were your only cover as you slunk around the village, peering through windows of both cars and houses alike as you mentally made a pros and cons list for each house.

And then you saw a house that was like a piece of gold in a field of dust and rotten pieces of wood.

It was conveniently detached from the rest of the village thanks to its large garden, and the back door was facing away from the other houses, so no one would notice if you slipped inside. But what made it even better was the fact that the small car that sat on the drive had a learner's plate on it, which meant one thing and one thing only: there was a young adult living there.

Excitement began to pool in your veins as you made your way towards the back door, clutching a rock in your hand. As soon as the projectile connected with the glass of the door, shattering it with a crash, you hurried off and hid in a corner, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

Breaking and entering was shockingly thrilling.

No one emerged to investigate the door, so you assumed that no one was in and hurried over, keeping your head low. Peering through the glass (and the rather large hole in it), you spotted a set of keys on a hook nearby. Bingo. Threading your arm through the hole with such caution that you held your breath, your shaky fingers pinched the keys and brought them back out, where trial and error resulted in the door swinging open.

You let out a whispered, 'Yes!' as you crept into the kitchen. Head turning from side to side like you were at a tennis match, you made your way upstairs, peeking into each room as you passed. The occupants were incredibly organised—something which posed a problem when you tried to ransack their bedrooms. (Come on, who honestly stores bags in a wardrobe?)

You had to pinch things from both the parents and the teenager. The teen's shirts were a little bit too small to be comfortable, so you stole shirts from the parents while taking trousers from the teenager. Sure, the outfits may not have been traditionally 'matched' but who honestly cares? Not you, that's for sure. You had bigger fish to fry.

Half-way through setting aside some clothes to change into, you suddenly stopped and realised that, after years of proclaiming your innocence, you were now technically a thief. As if it had been programmed, a wave of guilt began to creep over your heart, but you pushed it back as you thought, Well, if everyone's going to treat me like a criminal, I might as well act like one. Oops, better hurry up.