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

47. Fracture

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It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when Darryl heard a loud banging on his door. He groaned and rubbed his eyes as he rolled out of his bed, stretching out his back when he got to his feet.

"Who the hell is knockin' on my door at three AM?" he grumbled to himself. He slipped on his old work shoes and staggered out of his bedroom toward the front door. He unlocked the creaking wooden door, his eyes snapping open fully at the sight of the man standing outside.

"Striker?" he said. "What're you doin' here?"

Striker leaned on the doorframe with one hand, catching his breath. His clothes were caked with a layer of dry desert sand, and the sheen of sweat coating his skin glistened in the dim light.

"Get me Bombproof," he growled through his panting.

Darryl stared at him in confusion. "Striker, it's three in the mornin'. He ain't even been shod yet — "

"Get me Bombproof now!! " Striker shouted, his voice loud enough to shake the rafters.

Darryl shrunk back a few steps, allowing him to come inside. "Okay, okay," he said nervously. "I'll go get him — just gimme a second." He hurried out of the main corridor to the adjacent stable.

Striker stood in the corridor, still out of breath, waiting impatiently for Darryl to return when he heard a voice from behind him: "Striker?"

Miss Daisy stood in the doorway to her room rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She furrowed her brows and wrapped the front of her robe over her nightdress as she approached him. "Sweetheart, it's the middle of the night. What are you doin' out here?"

Striker didn't answer her, instead choosing to simply look back in the direction Darryl had gone. His body was tensed, his jaw and fists clenched, and he looked absolutely and utterly wrecked.

"Baby, what's goin' on?" she said softly, a slight wariness in her voice. "What happened?"

Striker remained silent, ignoring her until he heard Darryl exit the stable with Bombproof. He whirled around and walked briskly out the door, quickly passing by Darryl without acknowledgement and climbing into his hell horse's saddle. With a hard smack to his rear from Striker's tail, Bombproof neighed loudly and took off running, leaving the two siblings alone in the dark.

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It was dawn by the time Striker reached his lair in the Bad Man Lands. He had forced Bombproof to run at a full gallop for the entirety of the journey, and when the pair finally entered the lair through one of the old mine's tunnels, Bombproof came to an abrupt halt and let out a hard grunt, as if to say, We're here, now let me rest.

Striker jumped out of the saddle and paced across the grounds toward the old wagon he had transformed into a makeshift bedroom, then stopped. His hand rested on a barrel beside him, and he leaned on it briefly, his claw-like nails digging into the wood.

He felt his body grow rigid, and he suddenly let out an angry bellow and shoved the barrel forward with more force than was necessary. He clutched the curtain draped over the entrance to the wagon, slashing through the burgundy fabric and ripping it off its hooks. Slinging the shredded curtain to the ground, he hissed sharply, and his tail rattled loudly as he violently kicked and threw any object in his path. He shattered glass bottles, splintered wooden barrels and planks, tore through a canvas tent pitched beside an extinguished campfire.

Striker picked up a sizeable rock and hurled it across the interior of his lair, breaking one of his neon signs and releasing the harsh chemical into the air. He panted heavily, his chest heaving with each labored breath. After finally wearing himself to exhaustion, he staggered backward and slumped against his wagon-turned-bedroom. He leaned his frame on the structure, his knees buckling until he eventually collapsed on the ground. He sat with his back against the wheel of the wagon, still catching his breath, when he felt his throat begin to close on him.

"Goddammit," he seethed in frustration, tears pricking his eyes. "Don't you dare. Don't you fuckin' dare."

His body trembled, his anger consuming him. He could feel his chest tightening as he attempted to suppress a sob. Don't you fuckin' cry. Real men don't fuckin' cry.

Striker looked down at his arm; the long gash carved into his skin throbbed with pain, and his dried blood had dyed his jacket sleeve an inky black. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.

Are you a man, Striker?

His eyes travelled to his hands in his lap. Despite the thick callouses that had formed over the years, his palms and fingers were covered in blisters from Bombproof's reins; he had held onto the abrasive leather so tightly on his way back to his lair that he rubbed his hands raw. Striker reached down to his holster and pulled out his blessing-tipped revolver. He opened the cylinder, a gnawing pain sprouting in his gut at the sight of the two empty chambers. He jostled the revolver and let the remaining four holy bullets fall onto the ground in front of him.

You're no man.

The voice speaking to him now was not his own, but he listened intently as though it was.

She's dead because of you. You killed her. What kind of  man kills the woman he claims to care for? And with a holy bullet, no less. The most painful way a demon can go. Not only did you kill her — you made her suffer.

A devastating weight crashed onto him, leaving him unable to move. The voice's words paralyzed him, and he was no longer able to hold back his sobs.

. . . But then again, isn't this what you wanted? You prefer to be on your own, right? Alone is a lot less complicated, isn't it? She would've only weighed you down.

"Shut the fuck up," he growled through his weeping.

Just a burden. A liability — you said it yourself, didn't you?

"Shut up!! "

He slammed his fist into the ground, creating a small crater in the packed dirt. His breath hitched and hissed between his clenched teeth as hoarse sobs tore through his throat. The voice was silent for a moment before it spoke again:

You're not a man. You're a fucking monster.

He dropped his revolver and wrapped his arms around himself, his nails digging into his skin through his clothes, and his frame shook uncontrollably.

Just a killer. And that's all you'll ever be.