Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

7. The Line, Pt. 2

Author's Note: This chapter contains strong themes that may be disturbing or troubling to some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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When I finally had no more tears left to cry, and my sobs had subsided, I let out a long, shaky breath and glanced at Striker. He was still in the same spot beside me, his hand still resting comfortingly on my arm. He looked down at me with a gentle but unreadable expression. I muttered to him in a voice hoarse from sobbing, "You can have your jacket back."

He shook his head, a half-smile briefly crossing his face. "S'fine. You hold onto it for now."

I didn't respond, instead choosing to slip my arms through the jacket sleeves and draw the garment closer to my frame. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Striker pushed himself off the bed to his feet, then took in a deep breath and cleared his throat as he exhaled. "It's the least I could do for probably ruinin' that shirt o'yours."

I pushed myself up, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Still quite inebriated and thus unsteady, I leaned forward and supported myself with my hands. "No," I said quietly. "I . . . I mean thank you for stopping."

Striker halted abruptly in his stride toward the bathroom and turned back to me. He looked at me with a strained bewilderment, and I knew exactly why: He was shocked, appalled even, that I would thank him for stopping, for simply showing a sliver a restraint. He turned his head away from me, his mouth curving downward into a deep scowl, and placed a hand on his hip. He shook his head in staunch disapproval. "Darlin', you shouldn't be thanking anyone for doin' the bare minimum. I don't know who ever taught you that that was praiseworthy, but they were dead fuckin' wrong."

There was a growing edge in his voice, as if he was trying his damnedest to suppress a rage I had inadvertently stoked. He looked back at me briefly, just for a second. Anger had warped his features — but there was a sadness in his eyes now. He sighed gruffly in frustration and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

I stared at the worn wooden floorboards while Striker washed up, the events of the night finally processing. My chest tightened as what Striker had said repeated in my head like a broken record. My throat attempted to close, and I felt like I might once again burst into tears. But I was too tired to cry anymore — I'd done more than enough of that for a while.

Striker walked out of the bathroom, his charcoal shirt and vest unbuttoned to reveal a dingy wife beater. He had taken off his belt, which carried two holstered handguns on each side, and he hung it over the back of the couch. His sleeves had been rolled up, and he removed the black fingerless gloves from his hands and tossed them on the small coffee table.

"Bathroom's all yours," he said, not looking at me. "It's late. We oughta get ready for bed soon."

I stood and wordlessly went in the bathroom. I faced the mirror—my eyes were starting to swell from my crying, and dark half-moons hung directly beneath them. I looked tired. I felt tired.

But a new feeling began to sprout; it radiated from its home in my chest and seemed to lighten the invisible weight on my shoulders. It was small, yes, but it was there.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth, noticing I was still wearing Striker's jacket. It was clearly broken in, but warm. I brought the collar to my face and inhaled his scent. It was the smell of a blue-collar man: sweat and earth and fresh air. But I also caught scent of something else — cologne? Aftershave? I wasn't sure, but it was a rather beguiling aroma, nonetheless.

I smiled at the smell as I left the bathroom. Striker was seated on the couch, his head tilted backward and his eyes closed. They remained shut when I came back into the room.

My hands lightly tugged at the ends of his jacket, pulling it over my torso. I pursed my lips as I watched him for a moment. He opened his eyes and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He kept his gaze on the floorboards — even he seemed uncertain of what to say.

Giving it just a second's thought, I stepped over to the couch and perched myself on the cushion beside him. Before he had time to react, I leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his temple.

Striker blinked, finally looking at me, a hint of confusion flashing across his face.

"Maybe someday in the future, we can pick up where we left off," I said with a knowing smile. "Just — not on the same day I met you."

He straightened up in his seat, and I could have sworn I saw a light shade of pink dust his cheeks.

"You've shown me kindness when others haven't," I continued, "and for that I thank you."

Striker's expression softened slightly. He reached out a hand and tilted my chin up with his finger. "That sorta kindness isn't a luxury, darlin' — it's a requirement. Remember that."

A tired smile crossed my face, and I closed my eyes. "Will you play for me?"

He released my chin. "What do you wanna hear?"

"Anything," I said mindlessly. "Something calming, to help us wind down for bed."

He smiled and reached for his guitar leaning against the opposite side of the couch. "That I can do, darlin'."

I leaned against his frame as he briefly tuned his guitar and adjusted it on his lap. He started playing another familiar tune — a human song — and sang softly:

"How many roads must a man walk down

Before you can call him a man?

And how many seas must a white dove sail

Before she sleeps in the sand?"

I smiled and rested my head on his shoulder as I began to sing along with him:

"And how many times must the cannonballs fly

Before they're forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind

The answer is blowin' in the wind. . ."