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

56. Hurry Up and Wait, Pt. 1

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"Damn, she's on fire. Hey, can we get some ice packs over here? We need to cool her down."

A male nurse helped Striker lay (Y/N) on an empty stretcher, then looked at the imp and said, "Can I ask you to step back for a minute? We're going to need some space to work."

Striker reluctantly stepped away from the stretcher, staring at (Y/N)'s still frame while the hospital staff tended to her. Another nurse approached the stretcher with a few plastic bags of ice, placing two under (Y/N)'s arms and the remaining bag beside her flushed face. To both Stolas' and Striker's dismay, she had no reaction to the sudden cold against her skin.

The two were left in the waiting room as (Y/N) was rolled into triage. Stolas quickly paced back and forth in front of Striker, who sat in one of the chairs impatiently bouncing his heel on the floor. Striker propped his elbows on his knees, glaring up at the prince.

"Would you stop that?" he snarled. "Do you think traipsin' around here is gonna make her better?"

Stolas paused in his stride and retorted, "And you think sitting there berating me for worrying about her is?"

Striker looked up at him, a cynical scowl on his face. "Why do you care, anyway?" he said. "Why would a Goetia give a shit about one loathsome sinner?"

Stolas suddenly turned to face him, anger distorting his features. "That 'loathsome sinner' is my friend. She has shown me kindness when many others did not. And when you nearly killed me, she nursed me back to health. Despite what you may believe, I am inclined to look past the status of a person to see their character — and it would serve you well to do the same." He bent down to bring his face closer to Striker, and his glowing red eyes closed to narrow slits as he fixed him with a hardened glare. "And if it weren't for me, she would have never met you in the first place."

Striker grimaced, but said nothing.

Stolas straightened back to his full height, his eyes falling on the double doors to the triage unit. "It's your fault she is in this state to begin with," he spat bitterly.

Striker winced, clenching his teeth. His back hunched forward as he stared angrily at the linoleum floor and muttered, "I know."

It was so quiet Stolas almost didn't catch it. He looked down at Striker, admittedly a bit dumbfounded by his words. His brows furrowed, and he sighed softly before sitting down in the chair beside the imp.

He briefly glanced at Striker, then returned his gaze to the triage doors. "Have you ever heard the story of Icarus?"

"No," Striker answered derisively. "That one of them rich people stories?"

A small chuckle escaped Stolas' throat. "No," he replied plainly. "It's actually a human myth. Icarus and his father Daedalus become imprisoned after they're suspected of treason. To escape, Daedalus constructs two sets of wings made of clothes and beeswax. They are successful in escaping from their prison, but Icarus ignores his father's warnings and flies too high. The heat of the sun melts the wax from his wings, and Icarus then falls into the sea to his death."

"That's fuckin' depressing," Striker remarked. "Is there supposed to be some moral to that story or somethin'?"

"The moral of the story is:" — he turned his head and leaned in closer to Striker — "Do not fly too close to the sun, my dear Icarus. For in your hubris, you may bring down more than just yourself."

Striker opened his mouth to speak, but unable to find the words, he quickly shut it. A dull pain gnawed at his gut as he fixed his eyes on a tile on the floor.