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

86. Azathoth's Tears

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"Darryl wasn't lyin' when he said there'd be a big-ass bruise," Striker remarked, handing me a long strip of plastic tape.

"It's called a hematoma," I explained as I gingerly placed the tape along the edges of the new dressing on my stomach, careful not to exacerbate the soreness. I glanced at the large, splotchy bruise now covering nearly half of my abdomen. "Believe me, it looks worse than it feels."

"That's good to know." When I finished, he pulled down the hem of my shirt and laid a hand on my belly, leaning in to kiss me on the mouth. "'Cause it looks pretty damn bad."

"Gee, thanks," I deadpanned before looking down at his hand. His touch was warm on my skin, even through my clothes, and he held me with a remarkable gentleness.

And it was that gentleness mixed with the location of his hand that took my mind back to earlier that day when we were saying our goodbyes to Miss Daisy and Darryl.

"S'too bad ya' can't have kids. I think y'all'd've made some cute little babies."

My stomach rolled as her words replayed in my head, and I bit my lip in an attempt to suppress the nauseating feeling sprouting in my gut. Striker retracted his hand and stood from the couch to head toward the kitchen.

"You want anything in particular for supper tonight?" he asked, circling around the couch.

"Not really," I said in a hushed tone, staring down at the roll of tape in my hands. "I don't want much tonight. I'm not really hungry. . ."

He leaned over the back of the couch and briefly held his hand to my forehead. "You feelin' okay?"

"Um, yeah. I just . . . I just don't really have an appetite right now."

His mouth flattened into a straight line, and he bent down to plant a soft peck on my temple before pushing himself off the couch and turning to walk into the kitchen. "I'll make ya' somethin' kinda plain, then," he said. "Somethin' that'll be easy on your stomach."

I half-smiled at his thoughtfulness. "At least add salt to whatever it is."

"Darlin', that don't even count as a seasonin'," he quipped. "That shit's like butter: essential and necessary."

I giggled in amusement, tossing the roll of tape into the basket of supplies on my coffee table. I relaxed into the couch, draping one of my throw blankets over my legs and turning on the TV. After channel surfing for a minute or two, I saw there wasn't much on and settled on some generic sitcom. Not surprisingly, the show failed to hold my attention, and my mind wandered again to the events of that day. Soon enough, however, my memories began planting seeds of doubt and worry in me.

Miss Daisy was right; I couldn't have children — no sinner could. Even among the hellborn, it was common knowledge that sinners were infertile. It only made sense: Why would a creature who earned their place in Hell — who spawned in Hell as a fully-fledged being — be capable of procreating down here? We already had our chance. . .

But Striker and I had never discussed the prospect of having a family. And I truthfully had no clue how Striker felt about having children — but now that the choice was seemingly taken away from him altogether, the fear that he might become increasingly dissatisfied with our relationship caused that sickening feeling in my stomach to grow.

My teeth clamped down on my bottom lip as the conflicting thoughts raged in my head, and I was so wrapped up in my own little world that I lost track of time, jumping in my seat when I heard Striker call from the kitchen, "Supper's ready."

He entered the living room holding two dinner plates and sat down on the couch beside me, handing me one of the plates and telling me, "Eat slow. Don't make yourself sick."