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

67. Haunted

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CONTENT WARNING:

This chapter contains discussions of suicide and sexual trauma that may be disturbing or troubling for some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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"Out, damned spot . . . Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes in Arabia will not sweeten this little hand . . . What's done cannot be undone. . ."

— Lady Macbeth

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"I wish that bullet would've just fucking killed me . . . !"

Stolas froze mid-stride in the half-open doorway, his hand still on the knob. He pulled the door back slightly and hid behind it, his heart pounding in his ribcage as he listened to the couple on the other side.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, filled only by (Y/N)'s violent sobbing and Striker's small, incredulous, "What?"

Stolas' mind raced, a knot forming in his gut, and a twinge of anger surged through him at the possibility that Striker may have been at fault. But that thought quickly dissipated when he heard (Y/N) pitifully utter: "Hold me. Please. I need — I can't feel you. . ."

His heart clenched at the sound of (Y/N)'s anguished weeping, his frustration worsened by the realization that he likely couldn't do anything to console her — if Striker couldn't, then he definitely wouldn't be able to.

Through (Y/N)'s cries, he could hear Striker murmuring soft reassurances. He heard him saying to her, over and over, "I'm here, darlin'. I'm right here."

Striker's words and gentle tone reminded him of countless nights years ago, when Octavia was very young, when Stolas would rock her in his arms and coo comforting affirmations to her until she drifted back to sleep.

It seemed like an eternity, but (Y/N)'s cries eventually died down, slowly fading into short, erratic hitches in her breath. As she quieted, so did Striker, his murmurs gradually becoming hushed whispers. After several more agonizingly long minutes, the pair finally fell silent, and he heard Striker let out a heavy sigh.

"I know it's you, feathers," Striker said calmly. "I can see your shadow."

Stolas stiffened for a moment before hesitantly stepping into the room. The sullen frown on his face deepened at the sight of his friend, now unconscious, curled up in Striker's arms on the hospital bed. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were slightly puffy from her crying. One of Striker's hands held her head to his chest, his fingers partly woven into her hair.

Striker looked up at Stolas with weary eyes, then returned his gaze to (Y/N). "She's asleep now," he said. "Looks like she finally tired herself out."

Stolas' stare remained fixed on (Y/N), his expression contorting with worried confusion. "What happened ?"

Striker leaned back on the elevated head of the bed and responded flatly, "A bad nightmare." He laid his hand on the side of (Y/N)'s face, his thumb gingerly stroking her warmed cheek. "Seems like it brought up some old memories — I couldn't get her to calm down when she woke up."

Stolas brought a hand to his chest, uncertainty dancing in his glowing red eyes. "Maybe . . . I should come back another time. I fear I may only upset her further. . ."