Breaking and Entering | Ticci Toby x Reader

Intruder

“Paranoid” is not a word you would use to describe yourself. Paranoia is an unnecessary precaution, wasted worrying. You, on the other hand, did not waste. All you did was absolutely required, nothing short of normal adult responsibility, even though you weren’t quite yet an adult.

You remind yourself of this as you check the locks on every window and door in your house, feet shuffling against the cold floor. It’s about safety, about comfort. It’s not paranoia. This is an especially important reminder when you check outside your window before closing the curtains and when you resist the urge to check under your bed - for what, you don’t know. A person couldn’t even fit there.

Sleep claims you after a lengthy struggle fought half-heartedly on both sides.

You awake what feels like not even a moment later to a jiggling at your window. Through the terror you remind yourself that the window is, in fact, very locked and whatever is on the other side is probably just the wind or a branch or something equally unthreatening. This thought is promptly killed by the sharp snap of the window lock followed by it tumbling to the ground.

You’re shaking as you reach for the kitchen knife you keep in your drawer. (“Another precaution, a result of healthy responsibility for one’s safety,” you have had to defend.) Not a moment after the hilt is in your hand is the window thrown open and a figure steps in like he owns the place.

His bright orange goggles initially read as giant bug eyes and you feel as though you can't breath. He’s holding two axes - two axes against your what? Blunt kitchen knife? - and a mask covers the only other part of his face that might be identifiable. You push the knife away from your body and towards the intruder. He laughs, groans, and collapses.

You don’t move. You’re shaking so bad that the knife risks tumbling clumsily out of your hands despite your grip. The intruder does not move for the next minute, then the next 5 minutes. 10 minutes pass and he’s still immobile on your bedroom floor and though you hate it you should probably check on him.

You nearly fall as you lean over the edge of your bed. The intruder is, uh, a lot more bloody than you initially noticed. There’s a head wound in there, you think, but you’re not sure that’s all his own blood. His axes coated in a little bit of fresh blood, too. You feel dizzy. What do you do in a situation like this? Your goal had always been to prevent things like this; this wasn’t supposed to happen.

The first thing you get the courage to do is to remove the axes from his grips. A precaution: if he’s hurt someone else, he will probably hurt you. The thought does not steady your hands but it turns out its hard to keep an iron grip when you’re out cold so the task isn’t that bad. Next: you need to restrain his hands and feet, and maybe call the police. Thankfully, your responsible personality demands you to keep rope in your room as a means of escape, so you make quick work of restraining the intruder. You also remove his goggles for good measure, though you can’t seem to figure out how to take the mask off.

As you’re standing over him, admiring your preparedness and bravery in the face of danger, he wakes up. You nearly scream.

He blinks for a second, looking up at you from the ground. He checks out his restraints. He spots his goggles on the floor nearby. He looks back at you. “Hey,” he says.

Hey? Hey? He broke into your room and collapsed on your floor and he just, he just says, hey?

“Who are you?” you demand, keeping your eye trained on his hands. They’re steady. No escape attempt yet.

“Toby!” he replies, too happy, as he struggles to sit upright. He wobbles a bit, his head wound probably still affecting his balance. “Who are you?”

“That is none of your business!” your voice is just above a loud whisper. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t just collapse out in the open.”

“I think you could!”

“I’m pretty sure I’d be d-dead if I did that,” he countered, drawing out the “pretty.” You noticed now, too, that he was quivering a little bit. Maybe quivering isn’t right - its more like he’s having a bunch of small spasms every once in a while. “What does it m-matter to you anyway?”

“You’re in my room!” You replied, beyond exasperated. He was getting less threatening and more frustrating.

“Oh yeah! Private property. F-forgot about that.” You could hear his smile in his voice. What kind of person doesn’t understand private property? It’s the pillar of our society! The basis on which half of all rules are founded! And he just forgets about it?? This was making your head hurt.

“Well, this is private property and you need to get out!” You insisted. “Now!”

“I’d like to but I’m a little-” he paused for effect. “Tied up.”

“Oh my god.” You just stared at him, becoming nervous of what would happen if you untied him and let him go. He would want his axes back, right? And they were alarmingly bloody. So you’re not thrilled to give them back. But you can’t just, leave him here until morning, can you? You should call the police. You should have called the police the moment he tumbled in.

Suddenly you become very aware of the wound on his head - the bloody gash that looks at least like, a little serious? Should you treat that before you call? Is that a good idea? Lord, this whole situation is so uncomfortable. Maybe - maybe you should call while he’s not in the room. You concieve of a plan.

“How about-” You’re so clearly unsure of your words, it’s a sad contrast to how you normally are. “I’m going to treat your head wound.”

“Like, for free?”

“Uh, yeah. For free?” You begin to carefully approach him to find your shake is back but not with a vengeance. You get over to him fine and hesitate before awkwardly looping your arms underneath his. You manage to pull him over to the bathroom attached to your bedroom (but he helps with the transfer more than you’d like to admit).

You stare helplessly into the cabinet above the sink while your intruder - Toby - waits patiently on the toilet, still very tied up. How….how do you treat a head wound? Pressure, for sure, but after that?

“Do you need help?” He asks, and your face burns. Maybe you aren’t that responsible. This is a thing you should know how to do!

“No,” You say, grabbing some gauze and applying pressure to the wound until the bleeding stops. That step goes by far too quickly. Oh! Disinfectant. And - you don’t have any! Perfect, you’ll leave the room, call the police, and he’ll never know! “I’ll be right back, I’m going to grab some rubbing alcohol.”

“Okay!”

You walk down the hall into the larger bathroom, closing the door and making the call. Every moment you leave him alone is agony, but soon you get to return with alcohol.

When you get back, the bathroom is empty. Your blood runs cold. You whip your head around to find Toby halfway out the window, goggles back on and axes in his hands. The rope is lying useless and cut on your bedroom floor.

“Oh, hey! I gotta go.” He says, tipping one of his bloody axes towards you in a waving motion. “Thanks for the treatment offer, but I don’t think the doc would like your work much anyway.” He leaps from your window and he’s gone, just like that.

It takes you a moment to register but you’re over at the window the very next. You barely catch sight of him running away with two other people. You collapse on the floor. What an experience.