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

59. Support

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Author's Note: This chapter contains mild medical gore and content that may be disturbing or troubling to some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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"Alright, let's see how that wound looks."

The surgeon pulled a pair of disposable gloves over his hands, and he turned to my nurse and asked for various supplies to redress my belly wound. My eyes briefly fell to my nurse before focusing again on the doctor.

"If you're about to go poking around in there, can I at least have some pain meds before you do it?" I said, unable to completely mask my apprehension.

"I'll go get you some," my nurse said reassuringly as she headed out the door.

The doctor let down one of the bedrails and leaned over me, pulling back my bedsheets. He promptly lifted the hem of my hospital gown, exposing my naked body for a few seconds before I quickly reached down and covered myself with my blanket. It was in those few short seconds that Striker shot up from his seat on the couch and approached the bed, leerily watching the surgeon's movements.

The doctor peeled off the paper tape anchoring the old dressing to my stomach, and I looked at Striker, reaching a hand out to him. "You don't have to look," I said. "But can you hold my hand?"

He leaned on the bedrail and took my hand. "It's alright," he replied, half-smiling. "I'm sure I've seen worse."

My nurse reentered the room with an armful of gauze and other wound care supplies as well as a syringe filled with what I assumed was pain medication. "Hang on, sir," she said, dropping the supplies on my bedside table and promptly giving me the pain medication through the IV in my arm.

"Thanks," I said to her, then winced as the doctor started pulling the gauze out of my wound. A whimper escaped my throat when I felt him tugging at a portion of the gauze that had adhered to my insides. It finally released after a moment, and I was certain it had taken a tiny piece of my flesh with it.

"Fuck," I mewled under my breath, squeezing Striker's hand. The meds soon washed a warm wave over me, unfortunately only alleviating a fraction of my pain.

"Looks great so far," the doctor said when he had removed all the packing. "Still some residual blessing here and there, but plenty of fresh granulation tissue." Without warning, he proceeded to stick his gloved finger into my wound and prod around the inner edges.

I gasped, tightly gripping Striker's hand. I clenched my teeth hard, a raspy groan tearing through my throat. Not a second later, I heard Striker's tail begin to rattle, and I breathed through the stabbing pain and looked up at him.

"Striker, stop," I said. "H-He's just checking for tunneling."

"He could've checked for that yesterday while you were still under," he growled, his yellow eyes staring daggers at the doctor.

"There was some tunneling that I noticed after we drained the abscess," the doctor explained calmly. He removed his finger and peeled off his gloves, replacing them with new ones. "I wanted to make sure it hasn't progressed since then."

Striker seemed (somewhat) satisfied with his answer, though he still watched the doctor with a hardened glare as he prepared to redress my wound. The hole in my belly was significantly larger than it had been before — I could've fit my entire fist inside it now. Fortunately, the nurse had included some sterile cotton swabs with the supplies, which was undoubtedly preferable for packing gauze than the blunt force of a probing finger.

Still, that didn't stop me from holding onto Striker's hand for dear life when the doctor started repacking my wound. I bit my lip, suppressing a moan as the contact sent bolts of sharp pain surging through my gut.

"Deep breaths, (Y/N)," said the doctor. "Halfway done."

I stared up at the ceiling and forced myself to take in a long breath, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I struggled to keep still under his hands. My eyes eventually travelled to Striker, who was now looking away from both me and the doctor. He instead was now glaring down at the floor to his side, his mouth curving downward into a deep grimace.

I knew I told him he didn't have to look — but dammit, did my heart ache when I saw the look on his face.

I let out a heavy sigh of relief when the doctor straightened up and gently taped a square dressing over my wound. "Alright," he said, replacing my gown and bedsheets. "You're all finished. We're going to keep that dressing on for the rest of the day, then tomorrow we'll start changing it twice a day."

I stiffened, my foreboding morphing into dread as he walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. My stomach rolled, a wave of nausea overwhelming me, and I could feel the color draining from my face. I sniffled, the tears finally rolling down my cheeks. My hand shakily clung to Striker's, the other covering my eyes.

"Goddammit," I hissed in frustration. "It was just once a day before. Now I have to go through that. . ."

Striker and I remained silent, neither of us looking at the other. After several long minutes, he slipped his hand out of my weakened grasp and backed away from the bed. He quietly reclaimed his seat on the couch and slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He kept his eyes directed toward the floor, even when we heard a gentle knock at the door.

It creaked open, and Stolas' head peeked through the doorway. He walked inside, his disposition faltering when he noticed I had been crying.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

I shook my head. "The doctor changed m-my dressing," I muttered, still trying to get my breathing back under control. "And they have to do it more o-often than before."

"Oh, my dear." He stood at the bedside and placed a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you."

I sniffled, taking a deep breath in an attempt to compose myself. "It's okay — I had Striker here for supp. . ."

I trailed off when I looked at Striker. His head was still lowered, hidden under the brim of his hat, and he clasped his hands together so tightly that they were beginning to shake a little. Wordlessly, his head still turned away from me, he stood and circled around the bed to walk towards the door to my room.

"Striker?" I said, a knot forming in my stomach just below my wound. "Where are you going?"

Striker didn't answer me, but kept his face concealed beneath his hat as he quickly strode out the door.