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

58. A Torch in the Dark

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Everything that happened after I found Striker in the Bad Man Lands was all a darkened blur. I had fleeting, unclear memories of Striker lying with me in the old wagon in that cavern, and I remembered the feeling of something cool and wet pressed against my burning face, followed by a calloused hand gently holding my cheek.

I heard voices in my sleep, sometimes clear, sometimes muffled and indecipherable. And I could hear Striker telling me over and over to wake up.

"(Y/N). C'mon, baby. I need you to wake up for me."

But I couldn't move. Every last bit of strength had been drained from my body — I couldn't even open my eyes.

"Please . . . I can't do this again. . ."

Oh, my love. Please don't cry anymore. Not for me. . .

I thought I had heard Miss Daisy at one point, and Stolas. And then Striker again:

"I'm sorry. Please — don't leave me alone again."

Oh, Striker. . .

Where are you? Why can't I talk to you? Why can't I just open my damn eyes?

How can I reach you?

"(Y/N). Can you hear me?"

There he was again. I could hear his voice, along with Stolas', but also various beeping and the whirring of machinery. And it wasn't long before I caught the scent of antiseptic.

Oh. I'm in the hospital again. . .

Was it all just a dream . . . ?

But I heard him clear as day. Striker was right there. I heard him.

Slowly, I was able to gather enough strength to move, but I could only turn my head to the side. I was so groggy that my eyes refused to open, sleep threatening to overtake me again.

But I had to wake up. I had worried him for far too long already. Eventually, I forced my eyes open, but they quickly fluttered closed again under the harsh fluorescent lights. I repeated the process over the next several minutes, gradually peeling them open long enough to look around.

My vision was still dim and blurry, but I could just make out a pair of luminous yellow eyes. They burned just as beautifully as ever, and I followed their soft glow like a torch through the darkness.

The fog slowly lifted from my brain until I could see his face more clearly. He looked down at me, an uncharacteristic worry in those bright eyes.

"Stri. . ."

A small smile tugged at Striker' lips, and his hand gently held the side of my face. "Hey, darlin'," he murmured.

I smiled tiredly at him, shakily raising my hand with what little strength I could muster, and Striker quickly caught it and gave it a light squeeze.

"Stri — ker," I whispered. "I. . ."

He shook his head. "Save your energy, darlin'."

"Yes, just rest for the time being, (Y/N)," said Stolas. "You've been through quite a lot over the past few days."

My jaw went slack when I saw him leaning over the opposite side of the bed, and my brows furrowed together. "You're both here. . ."

The two looked at each other warily, silently watching the other's movements before focusing their attention back on me. Stolas briefly cleared his throat and said, "We . . . We've had more pressing matters to tend to as of late. . ."

I closed my eyes for a moment and rasped, "W-Where am I . . . ?"

"Your wound was badly infected, so we brought you back to St. Ann's," Stolas explained. "And you had surgery earlier this morning to treat it." He grinned. "You know you're in the same room where I was when you took care of me."

"Really?" I slurred, a tiny smirk on my face. "Tha's kinda cool. . ."

He smiled softly at me before his phone blipped in his pocket. He quickly read the new message he'd received and frowned. "It's Octavia," he said. "She's wondering where I am. . ."

"Go," I said quietly. "I'll be okay."

His brows furrowed, and he assumed the disposition of a concerned parent. "I know, my dear." He laid a hand on the top of my head, his long fingers briefly stroking my hair. "You're past the difficult part. Now rest."

I gave him a small nod, and he turned to leave, looking back at me before hesitantly walking out the door. When the door clicked shut, my eyes fell back to Striker, who had glanced down and pulled a lever to lower the bedrail. He leaned closer to my face, his hand gently cupping my cheek, and softly planted his lips on mine.

"I love you," he whispered against my lips, a torn expression on his face as he rested his forehead on mine.

"Striker. . ."

He shook his head, a deep grimace carving itself onto his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so — . . ."

The words died in his mouth, as though he couldn't bring himself to say anymore. He was silent for a moment before I lifted my trembling hand again and laid the pads of my fingers on his cheek.

"It's okay," I muttered. "It's — It's o-okay. . ."

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head more fervently. "No. It's not."

He kept my hand pressed to his cheek and leaned into my touch, his eyes closing and brows knitting together, as if he were trying to burn the feeling into his memory.

"Striker?"

He opened his eyes and looked back at me. His glowing eyes betrayed him, and I could see every ounce of worry and guilt brewing behind them.

Tears pricked my eyes, and a weak, bittersweet smile crossed my face. "I love you, too," I said, a lump forming in my throat. "Please d-don't. . ."

The fog had begun to cloud my brain again, and I couldn't think straight. The words I wanted to say just wouldn't come to me, and I was left virtually speechless. It seemed that Striker could tell, and he nodded and lowered my hand back down to my side. With a feather's touch, he kissed me again and stroked his knuckles across my cheek.

"Okay," he murmured. "Just rest now. Get your strength back."

He straightened up and clicked the bedrail back into place, and a small surge of panic tightened my chest. I reached out for him, my hand falling back to the mattress just a few seconds later.

"Striker — stay. . ."

Striker smiled softly at me. "Don't worry, darlin'," he said, his voice like a light summer rain. "I'm not goin' anywhere."