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

54. His Weakness

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Kiss me quick, steal every secret I keep

You can have anything that you want from me. . .

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Striker watched with a resounding ache in his heart as (Y/N) drifted in and out of consciousness. It had eventually reached a point where the searing pain became too much to bear, and she passed out. Her eyes closed and features relaxed, though her brows were still somewhat furrowed. A thin sheen of sweat covered her skin and left her feeling hot and clammy.

It made him sick to look at. As soon as he was sure she had fallen asleep, he carefully pushed himself off the bed and climbed out of the old wagon. His hand immediately clutched at his gut when a wave of nausea washed over him.

Striker clenched his teeth. A storm of frustration raged inside his chest. He wanted to do what he had done over the past several weeks: He wanted to take whatever was still intact around him and smash it into a million pieces. He wanted to hit something — anything. And a part of him foolishly believed that it would make him feel better.

That it would undo the damage he'd caused.

A massive lump formed in his throat, and he shook his head violently, hoping it would drive away the tears pricking his eyes. He knocked his closed fist into the side of his thigh, increasing the force behind his hand with each swing. It was as if all his emotions were stored in his leg and the only way to banish them was to beat them out. He would have much rather felt the physical pain of a bruised leg than what he was experiencing now.

Striker walked over to a neighboring wagon turned on its side, but stopped when his eyes fell on something on the ground. It was a tattered brown sunhat — his hat. And he suddenly remembered when he returned to Pride all those weeks ago to see (Y/N). He had completely forgotten that he left it at her apartment — his attention had been occupied by other things lately.

He swooped down and picked up the sunhat, briefly batting the dust off its brim. His brows furrowed.

Did she bring this here for me?

A deep scowl crept its way onto his face as he clutched the hat in his hands.

This woman thinks so much of you, said that damned voice in his mind. And just look at how you repay her: with an eternity's worth of agony. She came all the way out here, wounded, just to find you. You, who put her in so much pain to begin with.

Striker could feel himself beginning to shake, and his trembling hands struggled to keep hold of his hat. Tears pooled in his eyes once again.

Someone like you doesn't deserve someone like her.

An angry, humorless laugh escaped his lips, and he shook his head.

"You're right," he whispered. His voice was barely audible. "You're fuckin' right."

Striker turned his head at the sound of a light whinny. He rounded the corner of an overturned wagon to find a small white hell horse with a black flaming mane and tail, its saddlebags loaded down with supplies. He half-smiled in recognition as he approached the mare.

"Hey there, Moonshine," he cooed, scratching her jaw. "Long time no see."

Moonshine let out a small grunt, leaning slightly into his touch. He untied the reins from a broken train track and led the mare across the grounds near Bombproof. After slipping off her bridle, Striker extracted a half-full canteen from Moonshine's saddlebag and returned to the wagon, picking up a small, chipped bowl off the ground along the way. Pouring the lukewarm water into the bowl, he glanced around the wagon's interior for a rag or washcloth before giving up and removing the bandana from his neck. He dunked the red cloth in the bowl of water, wrung out the excess liquid, and placed it on (Y/N)'s forehead. Her brow twitched slightly as he gently pressed it to her face, and a frown tugged at Striker's lips when his hand felt  her cheek.

She's still burning up, he thought. He stood and hopped out of the wagon, walking back over to Moonshine and filing through her saddlebags.

She had to have brought some kind of medicine with her, he told himself. The hospital wouldn't've let her go without something, right?

After a few minutes of searching, Striker finally found a prescription bottle at the bottom of one of the bags. He pulled it out of the bag and read the label: Take one to two tablets every four hours as needed for pain.

He gave the bottle a small shake, noticing that there were only two pills left, and let out a sigh.

"It'll work," he mumbled and headed back to the wagon. When he climbed inside, his eyes instantly softened at the sight of (Y/N)'s frame lying still in his bed. She was a little thinner than he remembered her, her cheeks sunken in just enough for him to tell a difference. His heart clenched — she looked so frail. . .

Striker sat down on the edge of the mattress, something on (Y/N)'s neck catching his eye. He pushed the collar of her flannel to the side with his fingers, revealing a sapphire-blue Asmodean crystal in an ornate gold setting and the rattlesnake necklace he had given her. He held the copper pendant in his hand for a moment, examining it with a small smile on his lips before releasing it and fixing her collar. His eyes travelled downward, and he clenched his teeth when he saw the three bloody lacerations that had been freshly carved into her forearm. He took the damp cloth from her face and laid a hand on her forehead, a knot forming in his stomach when he felt of her still torrid skin.

Shit, he cursed with a grimace. She's on fucking fire.

Uncertainty tightened the knot in his gut. She likely needed medical attention — but would she be able to handle the journey back to town?

Or back to Pride, for that matter. Any physician in Wrath wouldn't know how to treat a sinner, he figured, especially one with a wound inflicted by a holy bullet.

"(Y/N)," he said, gently nudging her shoulder. "I gotta get you to a doctor. Can you stand?"

(Y/N) didn't respond to his words; her expression stayed flat, and eyes closed. She lay motionless next to him in the old bed.

The blood in Striker's heart turned to ice, and he shook her with a bit more force. "Hey. Wake up, (Y/N)."

Though she was still breathing, albeit weakly, she remained unresponsive to his attempts to wake her. Panic began to set in as he took her face in his hands.

"(Y/N)," he repeated, his voice giving away his fear. "(Y/N), answer me."

She didn't respond. Her expression went unchanged, and her skin was flushed and scalding hot.

"Shit," Striker hissed. "Fuck, (Y/N). Wake up!"