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

101. Atonement

---

I was awoken by the click and creak of a door opening and closing, and my eyes snapped open at the sound, my heart racing. I shot up when I noticed the empty side of the bed, briefly scanning my bedroom before jumping to my feet and warily making my way into the hallway.

"Striker?" I muttered, my panic causing my voice to shake.

I heard a few heavy footsteps coming from the living room, and I turned the corner to see Striker standing near the front door, fully dressed, removing his hat and boots. He looked a little surprised to see me awake, but said nothing. Instead, he smiled and walked toward me, taking my hand in his.

"Hey, darlin'," he said softly, bending down to give me a quick peck on the cheek. "It's late. You should get back to bed."

I pursed my lips, my brows furrowing in bewilderment when I noticed his dampened hair. "Striker," I started.

"I'm thinkin' we oughta go to that place you like downtown for brunch tomorrow," he said while he shed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the front door. "It'll get you outta the house, and we can have a good hot meal without havin' to worry about cookin'."

"Striker. . ."

"And maybe for dinner, I can try my hand at that jambor — jumba — whatever the hell it's called — I can try makin' that again." He unbuttoned his vest and slipped off his shirt to reveal his black wife beater. "Your friend gave me the recipe. Reckon I could actually use venison this time — "

"Striker, your arm!"

Striker paused, looking down at the long gash that had been freshly carved into his forearm. "Oh, yeah," he said nonchalantly. "It's just a scratch. It'll be fine."

I held up the sleeve of the charcoal shirt he'd just removed and showed him the bloodstain blending into the dark fabric. "It's still bleeding, Striker. Goddammit, sit down and let me patch your ass up."

Striker finished taking off his belt and laid it and his shoulder holster over the back of the couch, taking a seat while I fetched my basket of wound care supplies.

Striker blinked when he saw the supplies in my hand, a small disapproving frown tugging at his lips. "That stuff is for your belly wound, (Y/N)," he argued.

I mirrored his expression and countered, "Well, maybe you should've thought about this sort of thing before doing whatever the hell it was you were doing."

Frustration mingled with the disapproval painted on his face, but it faded as he let out a sigh of resignation and held out his arm for me. I took a closer look at the gash on his forearm, noting that it was surprisingly clean considering the roughness of the tear. It looked like he had received his wound from a rusted nail or jagged stone, yet there wasn't a single particle of dirt or debris to be found.

He must have taken a shower, I thought. That's probably why his hair's wet, too . . . But I would have heard him if he'd taken one here. And he looked like he'd just gotten back from somewhere. . .

"Where were you, Striker?" I asked quietly, meeting his gaze.

There was a strange look of satisfaction visible in his yellow eyes, as if he had just completed a difficult task and was now sitting back admiring his work. He smiled softly at me, his hand resting on my thigh. "Just doin' my job, darlin'," he replied. "Your bodyguard had to take care of some business."

I stared at him, a knot forming in my stomach.

"You went out to kill him, didn't you?"

Striker kept silent, his expression going blank.