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

68. Do Right by You

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I never had good dreams. Most of the time, I didn't have dreams at all, but on occasion, I would have a crippling nightmare about something from my past. It was always something from my past — the mind has a way of exhuming old memories you've buried and repackaging them into something far more insidious.

But I had never had a dream nearly as scarring as that one.

When I finally opened my eyes, the sun had already set, and the distant lights of Imp City shone into the window of my room. It was dark, the only true source of light being one of the overhead lamps above the head of my bed. I lifted my head off the pillow to look around, stopping seconds later as I caught sight of the figure at my bedside.

Striker sat back in a chair beside my bed, staring back at me with an unreadable expression. His eyes didn't look quite as bright, though they still glowed softly in the dim light. He looked tired, like the tired you feel after having a long, mentally draining day: defeated and resigned.

I shifted in bed, stiffening when an intense pain radiated from my stomach. A loud whimper escaped my lips — I didn't expect the pain to be that bad.

"Take it easy, darlin'," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "You busted some stitches earlier."

A vision of my nightmare flashed in my mind as he reached for me, and I quickly backed away from him, wincing from the pain of the sudden movement. Striker froze and withdrew his hand, an almost knowing scowl crawling onto his face.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, slowly settling back into the mattress.

"Don't be," he replied in a low voice. "How're you feelin'?"

"Sore as hell." I brought a hand to my stomach, letting it hover over my wound. I pulled the call remote out from under my pillow and called for pain medicine, and a few minutes later, in came Carrie with a pre-filled syringe.

"I heard you tore some sutures today," she said as she shot the drugs into my IV. A small, teasing smirk tugged at her lips. "I thought I told you not to get frisky while you're healing."

I flinched and looked down at my bedsheets, unable to come up with a response.

Carrie leaned down, attempting to get a better view of my face. "You okay?"

I didn't answer her, but fortunately, Striker did after a moment: "She's had . . . a bit of a rough day."

"Bad news?"

I shook my head. "No. I just . . . I-I don't really wanna talk about it."

She straightened up and stuck her hands in her pockets. "Okay. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Carrie," I said in a hushed voice.

I didn't lift my gaze after she left the room, and I waited until the effects of the pain medicine kicked in before I spoke again: "I'm sorry if I scared you earlier."

Striker slid a hand across the mattress until it was just inches from mine. "It's alright, darlin'."

I pursed my lips, keeping my eyes on the crisp white sheet over my legs. They eventually travelled to Striker's hand, and slowly, I brought my hand closer to his and partly laced our fingers together. He immediately gave my hand a firm squeeze, stroking his thumb across my knuckles.

"I don't want you to feel like you gotta apologize," he started after a long period of silence. "Not for things like that. . ."

Striker took my chin in his free hand and gently turned my head to face him. There was something storming behind those yellow eyes, something tormenting him.

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you ever again," he said sternly, mostly to himself. "I can't."

Part of me wanted so badly to believe him, to be elated that he would make that kind of promise to me. Part of me wanted to love him more for it.

But I had been down here long enough to know better.

My chest tightened from my own bitterness — my own grief. "If I recall correctly, you called me a liability," I retorted quietly, looking away from him.

Striker stiffened, apparently left speechless, my words hitting him like a hard blow to the gut. He sat stunned for a moment, then groaned in frustration and leaned on the bedrail, clutching a fistful of his alabaster hair. An angry grimace marred his features as he glared down at the bedsheets. "I. . ."

He remained silent for a long time before finally shaking his head and tightening his grip on my hand.

"I'm sorry," he started in a low voice. His expression contorted when he spoke, as if his words physically injured him. He shook his head again, his eyes growing misty. "I'm sorry, (Y/N) — for fuckin' everything. You were never any of that." A small, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "I'm just a shitty bodyguard. Seems like I'm just not meant to do anything other than kill, after all." He clenched his jaw, his eyes glazing over with tears. "I can't even protect one fuckin' person. . ."

I sat watching him struggle to keep his composure — it seemed as though his anger for himself was boiling over, and it took every ounce of strength in him to keep from inadvertently unleashing it on someone else. He lifted his head, locking eyes with me.

"But I wanna do right by you this time, (Y/N)," he said. "I promised I would."

I closed my eyes, a lump forming in my throat. "People have made a lot of empty promises to me since I've come down here, Striker," I responded, then looked back at him. "Are you going to keep yours?"

He stared at me with a steely determination, covering my hand with both of his. "I am."

Hot tears pricked my eyes. "You said you'd like to make eternity a little easier for me," I continued, my voice breaking. "Do you still mean that?"

His eyes fluttered closed as he brought my hand to his lips, his brows knitting together. "I do."

The lump in my throat grew larger, and I strained to speak again: "I forgave you a long time ago, Striker. I don't know if you even want my forgiveness, but it's yours."

He smiled as a sigh of relief escaped him, and he stood and leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on my lips. "I'll take it, darlin'. Gladly."

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