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

63. Bitter, Pt. 1

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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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"You've been smoking."

Striker looked up at me, but didn't respond, only leaning back in his seat on the nylon couch against the wall. He had gone outside for some "fresh air" a few times over the past couple of days, and I could smell the cigarette smoke on him each time he returned to the room.

"What's the matter?" I said. I had known him long enough to know that he only smoked when he had something on his mind.

He shook his head. "Nothin', darlin'," he replied. "Just . . . thinkin' about things."

I pursed my lips, slowly examining his frame. Striker's clothes were horribly wrinkled and dingy, his beige jacket still covered in a thin layer of Wrathian sand. His face was slightly ashen, and his lids hung half-closed. His eyes didn't seem to glow quite as vibrantly as normal, and dark half-moons hung under each of them.

He looked exhausted.

"Can you hand me that bag?"

Striker glanced at the plastic belongings bag to his side before picking it up by the drawstrings and bringing it to my bedside. I plopped the bag into my lap and rummaged through it until something smooth and cool touched my hand. I pulled out the copper rattle pendant, a small smile tugging at my lips, and slipped the leather cord over my head. I then continued filing through the bag until I finally found what I was searching for.

"Here." I reached for Striker's hand and placed my apartment key in his palm.

Striker eyed me, a slightly puzzled look on his face. "You want me to go get somethin' for you?"

"No, honey," I answered. "I want you to go take a good shower, find some clean clothes, and get some sleep in a real bed."

"You don't need to be worryin' 'bout me, darlin'," he said in a low voice. "I'm alright."

"Striker," I started. I reached for him, my fingertips lightly caressing his cheek. "You can't pour from an empty cup. You've been neglecting yourself for way too long — I can see it. You need to take care of yourself, too."

His lips flattened into a straight line, one of his eyebrows furrowing in uncertainty.

I smiled softly at him, holding the side of his face in my hand. "You look so tired, my love," I murmured. "Please, get some rest. For me."

He stared at me a moment longer before letting out a sigh of defeat. "You ain't gonna let this go, are you?"

I flashed him a cheeky grin. "Nope."

He chuckled and laid his hand over mine, prying it from his cheek and lacing our fingers together. "Alright, darlin'. I'll head over there in the mornin'."

"No, you're going tonight," I retorted. "You need real sleep in a real bed. I'll be fine, I promise."

Striker's mouth turned downward into a disapproving frown, but the bags under those bloodshot yellow eyes gave away his exhaustion. A rough sigh escaped his throat, and he half-smiled and bent down to plant his lips on mine. I mewled in contentment as he kissed me slowly, cradling my head in his hands. But I was immediately taken out of the moment by his taste, and I pulled away from his lips and scrunched my nose in displeasure.

"Blegh," I groaned. "Cigarette breath."

Striker was clearly a little disappointed that I had ended our kiss prematurely, but a mischievous smirk crossed his features when he remarked, "What? You don't want my sugar, sugar cube?"