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

52. Exhale

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Come, my dear, and drink while the water's still cold

I am not but a scar upon your breastbone. . .

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Lava slowly poured down into formed ditches at the edges of the cavern, giving the open space a soft orange glow. Old tracks circled the cavern, a few empty mining carts scattered here and there. A wave of relief washed over me as I realized where I was: I'd finally made it.

I'd been led to believe that a round-trip to and from the mines would last two days, max — but it had ended up taking me three days just to get to the mines.

Moonshine walked slowly through the cavern, and I rode her a bit farther over the broken tracks and abandoned mining equipment before carefully dismounting. I loosely tied her reins to the steel bar of a track that been ripped out of the ground and decided to set off on foot. I gently held my hand to my stomach, my apprehension causing my wound to throb with pain. I was close — I could feel it.

It wasn't long before I came across a set of old wagons, a couple of which were overturned. There were shattered neon signs all around the interior of the cavern, one of which was still glowing pitifully as the neon leaked little by little from the cracked glass tubing. Broken bottles and wooden planks were scattered everywhere, tiny shards and splinters mixing with the dirt. What appeared to have been a statue was now rubble on the ground. The place looked like it had been ransacked by a gang of bandits.

The farther I travelled through the large cavern, the more my apprehension grew. Something about this place told me I was nearly there.

I passed one of the overturned wagons when a familiar rattling sound suddenly echoed through the cavern, and I barely had time to lift my arm in defense before a set of sharp talons came barreling toward me. I was quick enough to block the attack, but not without receiving three long slashes down my forearm. The assailant had shoved me hard, pushing me backward onto the ground, my brown sunhat flying off my head.

I looked up, ready to scramble back to my feet and run for it, when I met eyes with my attacker. He stood frozen, staring at me. His frazzled snow-white hair split off into wayward cowlicks going in every direction, and his clothes were caked in dirt and sand. Dark half-moons hung under both of his eyes. He looked like shit — though I was sure I didn't look much better.

But his eyes were just as I remembered them; they glowed a soft yellow in the dim light, and they widened when they fell on me. And like they always had, they drew me in with their mesmerizing gaze.

"(Y/N) . . . ?"

I let out a loud groan as I pushed myself up. My hand flew to my side, the burning pain from the holy bullet still very present in my belly. A pair of hands took hold of my arms and pulled me to my feet. Striker kept a firm grasp on me as he looked me up and down repeatedly. There was something troubling that glinted in his eyes.

"I thought you were. . ."

I strained to ignore the searing pain in my stomach and flashed him a reassuring smile. "Apparently, the bullet didn't hit anything major. It burns . . . but I'm okay. I'm okay, Striker."

His hands tightened around my arms, and he clenched his jaw when his eyes fell to my stomach.

"Let me see you."

I stepped away from him, my hands covering where he'd been looking. "Striker. . ."

"Please," he said quietly. "Let me see."

It was the please that halted me — Striker never said please. I pursed my lips and looked at him with a suppressed worry. Slowly, I unbuttoned the bottom half of my flannel and showed him the wound he'd given me.

Though the entry wound was still covered by a small square bandage, sprouting from it were several ghostly white root-like discolorations in my skin that stretched across my abdomen. He looked with wide eyes, his brows tightly knitted together. He reached out, his fingertips barely touching my blanched skin. I winced involuntarily, the familiar sharp pain burning through my gut, and he immediately withdrew his hand.

Striker stared at my wound, his distress building. His breaths became a little heavier, hitching every so often. There was a tortuous guilt brewing behind those glowing eyes, and he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from my stomach.

"(Y/N)," he muttered, his voice a shaky whisper. "What did I do to you?"

I shook my head, lowering the hem of my shirt over the wound. "It was an accident. I — I'm okay." I forced a smile and held out a hand to him. "It's not so bad, Striker. It's okay. I — I can take it."

Of course, I was lying. Nearly every movement I made sent that burning pain shooting through me. It was such a crippling, excruciating feeling — and to be honest, when he had initially shot me, I really did want it to kill me. As it healed, the pain eased little by little, becoming a bit more manageable, and I had hoped that I wouldn't be in total agony for the rest of eternity.

But I was lying, and he knew it.

The emotion became clearer in his eyes, and it was then I realized that it was an overwhelming amalgamation of both worry and guilt. He clenched his teeth, his mouth contorting into a deep rueful scowl. A low reptilian hiss escaped him as he lowered his head.

"Fuck, (Y/N). . ."

I watched him for a moment. His hunched frame trembled slightly, as if he were struggling to keep his composure. He said nothing, but every now and then he would let out a shuddered breath through his teeth. My heart squeezed in my chest at the sight — I couldn't stand seeing him like this.

I lifted a hand and gently laid it on Striker's cheek. He flinched at first, but then relaxed and leaned into my touch. His eyes fluttered closed, though his brows remained furrowed in frustration. I stepped forward, closing the gap between us. Leaning in closer, I brought my lips to his in a soft kiss. He looked down at me in surprise before I pulled away and wrapped my arms around his neck.

Striker stiffened. Slowly, he brought his hands to my back in a half-hearted attempt to return the embrace. After a long moment, I heard his breath begin to hitch repeatedly, and his shoulders jerked slightly under my arms. I listened to him briefly before it hit me:

He was crying.

He clutched the back of my shirt in his fists, and his voice quivered as he tried to speak: "I-I thought that I. . ."

I held my hand to the back of his head, gently pressing his cheek to mine. "I'm okay, Striker. I'm here."

Striker suddenly pushed me off of him and looked at me through troubled eyes. Before I could react, he took my face in his hands and kissed me hard. I gasped in surprise, but quickly gathered myself and kissed him back. He pulled away briefly to catch his breath, then smashed his lips back into mine.

He kissed me passionately, desperately, as though he were begging for forgiveness.

"I love you," he murmured breathlessly before kissing me again.