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

61. Wounded

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And darling, when you've tired, you will see

There is no safe place, no sanctuary

It's all just child's play, a game of hide-and-seek

Don't make it harder than it has to be. . .

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Striker continued through the halls of the hospital until he reached an empty stairwell, and he started down the flights of stairs toward the ground floor.

Just go. Get as far away from her as possible. You're only ever going to hurt her.

His chest began to tighten as the voice's words plagued his brain. He quickened his pace, descending the stairs as fast as he could. And he kept going until he finally found the first-floor exit, an early autumn breeze taking him by surprise when he stepped outside.

The red afternoon sun burned over Imp City, warming Striker against the light coolness of the air. He turned the corner and silently headed down the sidewalk.

Don't forget what you did to her — what you put her through.

Something gnawed at his insides, and he clutched his gut in a vain attempt to stifle it. It had been eating away at him for over a month — there was no way it was leaving him now.

After walking to the opposite side of the hospital, he eventually came to a stop and leaned back against the brick wall. He pulled the brim of his sunhat down over his face, hiding it from any passersby who may try to sneak a glance at him, and reached into his jacket pocket for his lighter and pack of cigarettes. He extracted a single smoke with his teeth and put away the carton, protecting the lighter's small flame from the wind as he lit the cigarette.

Striker took a long, hard drag, then let it out slowly, watching the smoke collect in front of him and float off toward the parking lot. He repeated the process a few more times, soon burning through most of his cigarette.

Don't forget what you are.

He clenched his jaw, his lips tightening around the cigarette butt. Memories of the last month or so flashed through his mind: the petrified look on (Y/N)'s face when he shot her. Her blood spilling out on the concrete. Her sad yet hopeful eyes when she had found him in his lair. Her exhausted smile and pitiful whisper, I love you, too. His panic as he futilely tried to wake her. And his relief when she finally opened her eyes again.

And no matter how he tried, he couldn't stop seeing her lying in that hospital bed weeping as the doctor tended her wound.

The wound he had given her.

It's all your fault.

His eyes still stung with tears, but he'd be damned if he let them fall here. A wave of nausea washed over him and left him sick to his stomach. He looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, staring into the dull orange glow of the burning tobacco.

"(Y/N) has long forgiven you."

Stolas' words echoed quietly in his head, like an afterthought at first. Slowly, they grew louder in his ears.

"(Y/N) does not seem to blame you for what happened."

How could she not? After what he did to her — after everything that'd happened. . .

It's all your fault.

Striker brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking another long drag, as if it would somehow cleanse his mind of all his swarming thoughts. He let the smoke blow out of his nose, coating his nostrils in the smell of tobacco and cinder.

"You're arrogant. A borderline narcissist — so full of yourself that there's barely any room left in there for anybody else."

He winced at the memory of his argument with (Y/N), how undeniably hurt she sounded when she spoke to him, how the pang of betrayal danced in her eyes.

And his stomach lurched when he realized that she was absolutely right.

"Do not fly too close to the sun, my dear Icarus. For in your hubris, you may bring down more than just yourself."

A small, humorless chuckle escaped his throat as he recalled his conversation with Stolas in the emergency room. How very like Icarus he had been.

But at least Icarus didn't take his father down with him.

"(Y/N) needs you — and like always, you're only thinking of yourself."

Striker held his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, eyeing the thin trail of smoke slithering out of it. He let out a soft sigh and dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk, stamping out the burning remains with the toe of his boot. Looking up at the scarlet red sky and taking a slow, deep breath, he pushed himself off the brick wall and headed back the way he came.