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

108. Rehash & Repeat

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Neither one of us slept very well that night: Striker was kept awake by his coughing, and I was kept awake by both my worry and his restlessness. I watched him tentatively for most of the night, noting every unsteady rise and fall of his chest. At one point, after an exceptionally long coughing fit, I successfully convinced him to fold some pillows behind him and try to sleep sitting up.

At about ten in the morning, Striker finally managed to fall asleep (and stay asleep). Finding myself unable to join him, and not wanting to disturb his slumber, I left the bedroom door half-closed and went to the kitchen to fix myself an easy breakfast. I sat down on the couch a moment later with a bowl of cereal, turning on the TV and lowering the volume.

I spent most of the day on the couch either playing on my phone or mindlessly watching whatever was on TV or simply napping, every now and then peeking in on Striker in the bedroom. Each time he would be in the same position on his side with the covers up to his shoulders, his jaw slack—and each time I would stand at the door and watch his breathing for a few minutes.

Around mid-afternoon, there was a knock at the door, and I scrambled off the couch to answer it before they could knock again.

"Good afternoon, (Y/N)! I hope our dear boy is doing be—"

"Shh! " I interrupted. "He's asleep right now."

Alastor nodded, then said in a softer tone, "I take it he had a bit of a rough night, hm?"

"Yeah, it was rough for both of us," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "What can I do for you, Al? You here to cash in that favor?"

"Oh, no, no, no," he replied. "I just stopped by to deliver this." Alastor handed me a lidded ceramic bowl that was obviously Charlie's and added, "Made fresh this afternoon. Once again, no one else wanted any of my cooking."

"Jambalaya?" I guessed, pulling back the lid just enough to look inside.

"Gumbo," he clarified. "My mother's old recipe."

I flashed him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Al. This was really sweet of you."

Alastor mirrored my expression. "Let him consider it a thank-you for . . . assisting me last month."

I looked down at his shoes for a moment, then asked, "Would you like to come in?"

"No, thank you, my dear. I should be going now. I have a previous engagement I must attend to." He bent down to plant a quick peck on my cheek. "Until next time."

"See you later, Al."

Alastor's smile widened before he vanished in a puff of red smoke, and I shut the front door and carried the warm container he'd given me to the kitchen. My mouth watered at the smell of the fresh gumbo, and I set the bowl on the counter to cool while I checked in on Striker.

Reaching the bedroom, I pushed the door open and leaned in to take a peek at my lover, seeing that he had finally moved from his position on his side and was now lying on his back. As he slept, I noticed his brows furrowing, and a grimace twisted its way onto his face. He had begun to breathe a little harder, as if he were in distress. Not wanting him to work himself up when he was already sick, I took a seat at his side on the mattress and gingerly shook his shoulder.

"Striker?"

"Cor—"

Striker suddenly bolted upright in bed and clutched my arms tightly in his hands, panting heavily as he fixed his widened, almost panicked eyes on me. We stared at each other for a long moment, and his hands started to shake slightly when an apparent realization struck him. He released me slowly, his tensed shoulders slouching a bit.

"Sorry, darlin'," he whispered, looking down at the bedsheets in his lap. "I—I was havin' a dream. . ."

His body had broken into a sweat in his sleep, but he shivered when the covers fell from his torso and pooled around his hips. His face and neck were flushed from a fever, and even from my spot on the mattress, I could still hear the soft rattling in his chest as he breathed.

"It's okay, Striker," I said gently, laying my hand back on his shoulder. "You're safe. Just rest. I'm gonna go get something for your fever, okay?"

He nodded, and I stood to head out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where I filed through my designated medicine cabinet until I found the bottle I was looking for. Pouring a couple tablets into my hand, I fixed a glass of water from the tap and walked back to the bedroom.

"Here, honey," I said. "Take these."

Striker popped the two pills in his mouth and took the glass from me, and he downed the entire glass of water within a few seconds, like he had been stuck in a desert and was finally offered something to drink.

"Thirsty," he rasped after he swallowed the last big gulp of water.

"Clearly," I remarked, then took the glass back and went back to the kitchen to refill it.

They should've fucking kept him at the hospital, I thought bitterly as I retrieved more water. He can tolerate drinking, and he's okay on room air, but dammit, he needs more than just what I can give him here. . .

I returned to the bedroom with the filled glass and found Striker lying back down in the bed, one hand covering his eyes from the daylight shining through the window. He didn't react when I perched myself on the side of the bed and set the glass on the nightstand, and I waited a moment before asking him, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, his hand unmoving. "No," he answered in a low voice, a scowl quickly marring his features. "I don't—I don't tell people about it."

I reached out a hand and took his, carefully pulling it away from his face and lacing our fingers together, and I leaned closer to meet his tired eyes. "And you don't have to tell me either," I said. "You can say as little or as much as you want."

His grimace dissolved slowly, his expression softening. He directed his almost distant gaze back up at the ceiling and remained silent as the wall clock ticked away the afternoon. After several minutes, when I thought he really wasn't going to say anything else, he drew my hand to his chest and finally spoke:

"I was—dreamin' about my hometown. Before the soldiers came. . ."

I stared down at him, waiting patiently when he fell silent again. I gave his hand a comforting squeeze, stroking his knuckles with my thumb, and he smiled briefly and reciprocated the gesture.

"I had somebody, too, one time," he said quietly, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. "Not a fiancée, though. We were still a little too young for that. But. . ."

He spoke about his late girlfriend from his old home, how witty and funny she was, how pretty he thought she was, how loved she was by his family, and he talked about her with such fondness that it admittedly made me a little jealous.

But I still felt that way about my ex-fiancé sometimes. I couldn't blame him for still having feelings for someone he once loved . . . especially someone that was taken from him so suddenly.

By the way he spoke, it seemed like this was something he had been holding inside for a long time, something he'd never told anyone else.

"And my sister. . ." His eyes wandered up to the ceiling fan as he remembered. "She was seven . . . no, eight years younger than me. . ."

I didn't interrupt. I didn't make any remarks. I didn't ask any questions. I simply listened to him talk about his life before me, before he lost everything.