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

111. What's Done Is Done

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Striker told me that when daylight came, when all of the soldiers were gone, he dug three shallow graves in the hard desert earth and buried Cora, his mother, and his sister, then took what little food and water he could find and headed out of the decimated town with no real direction. He told me about how he wandered through the plains of Wrath for almost four days with nothing but Bombproof, a half-empty canteen, and the clothes on his back. He collapsed just outside of a small farming town, and Bombproof eventually attracted the attention of a pair of imp siblings riding on horseback. They found Striker dehydrated, starving, and barely conscious on the ground, and brought him back to their home, where they nursed him back to health and later hired him to work at their stable.

Some years after that night, he learned that the project to expand the mines had been abandoned only a few months after the town was destroyed, simply due to a loss of interest from those in power.

So everyone—his friends, his mother, Cora, Lillie—they all died for nothing.

I was in tears by the time he finished telling me what happened, and I directed my gaze to the floor beside the bed, tightly clenching his hand.

"And . . . I don't remember what those sons of bitches looked like. Most of 'em wore helmets that covered their faces." A twinge of bitter rage flashed in his yellow eyes. "But after that, I swore I'd kill every single one of the royals if it was the last thing I did—I'd make 'em all pay for what they did. . ."

"How old were you?" I asked softly after a brief period of silence.

"I was eighteen," he answered. "Cora was a year older than me. And Lillie. . ."

He stared distantly at the ceiling as he continued, "I was the oldest . . . I don't—I should've. . ." He brought a hand to his face, hiding his eyes from me, and a deep abashed grimace warped his features.

"She was ten. A fuckin' baby, and they just. . ."

He stopped himself, and I had noticed his breathing growing more labored while he spoke.

"Easy, honey," I cooed. "Just catch your breath for a few minutes."

Striker tried to do as told, but his chest hitched in pain each time he attempted to breathe deeply.

"Take some pain meds, baby," I said as I reached for one of the prescription bottles on the nightstand and poured a tablet into his hand. He sat up and complied, popping the pill in his mouth and downing the glass of water I got for him. He remained sitting for a while, not saying a word, until I placed a hand on the back of his head and gently guided him toward my frame.

"You must have been so lonely," I murmured, still a little choked up. "So angry and hurt. I can't even imagine. . ."

He rested his forehead on my shoulder, and after a moment, I heard him let out a tired sigh. I waited for him to say something, and when he didn't, I wove my fingers through his hair and leaned my head against his. His hands travelled up my arms, lightly squeezing my flesh, but his grip quickly grew tighter to the point of discomfort.

Striker suddenly wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his frame. He held me firmly to him, burying his face in the crook of my neck, and his hitched breaths warmed my skin and gave me goosebumps.

"My love," I muttered, rubbing his back, "I know nothing I can say could ever make it better. And I know the last thing you want is someone's pity." I shook my head, fresh tears pricking my eyes. "But I love you. And I'm so sorry. And I wish with every part of me that I could take your pain away—and it tears me up inside knowing that I can't. . ." I clutched his shirt in my balled fists, planting a small, tender kiss on his temple. "I love you. . ."

His arms constricted around me, and I felt him press his lips to my neck. He grabbed a loose fistful of my hair and whispered against my skin, "I love you, (Y/N)."

I melted into his warmth, my body instinctively reacting to his touch. I meant what I told him: I wanted so badly to take away the pain that had been festering inside him for so long. I wanted to tell him something—anything—to relieve that pain.

But I remained silent, holding my tired, broken lover for as long as he needed me to.

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"You cookin' somethin', darlin'?"

I turned my head to see Striker leaning on the wall at the kitchen's entrance, his hands in his sweats pockets. A small frown crossed my face. "You should really be resting right now, honey," I said.

"Can a man not take a piss around here?" he remarked and stepped to my place by the stove. "I smelled somethin' when I came outta the bathroom. Whatcha' makin'?"

"I'm reheating some gumbo," I replied as I slowly stirred the contents in the pot in front of me. "Al dropped some off this afternoon while you were asleep."

"I'm guessin' that's another human dish." He snaked an arm around my waist, but still left a few inches of space between us.

"It is." I smirked. "And hopefully this one won't be so hard for you to pronounce. Say it with me, honey: GUM-bo."

Striker laughed—and then began to cough. He turned away from me and coughed hard into his fist, and I dropped my spoon on the stovetop to tend to him when I could hear the coarse crackling in his chest with each sharp inhale.

"Alright, that's enough activity for now," I said. "I want you back in bed. Come on."

I walked with Striker back to the bedroom, where he sat down on the side of the bed and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He clenched his teeth, stifling another coughing fit. A small shiver ran through his body, and I held a hand to his flushed forehead.

"You've still got a fever, too," I said with a frown, observing how winded he was. "That's it. I'm putting you on strict bedrest. Bathroom privileges only."

He let out a small sigh of resignation as he lay back on the mattress, flopping his head on the pillow and closing his eyes.

I brushed my fingers through his hair, pushing his alabaster locks out of his face. "Just rest. Dinner should be ready soon."

I retreated to the kitchen to finish heating the gumbo Alastor had brought. About ten minutes later, I came back to the bedroom with a bowl in each hand, perching myself on the side of the bed and handing one to Striker when he sat up.

We ate in relative silence, and I watched my lover as he downed most of his food in a notably short amount of time. A small grin tugged at my lips when I reached for his empty bowl. "I take it you liked it."

"It was good—your friend sure does know how to cook," he said, his eyes focused on the bowl in his lap. His gaze seemed a bit distant, and given what he had shared with me earlier that day, I wondered if he may have been reliving something from that particular night.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

He shook his head, finally looking up at me. "Nothin', darlin'," he answered with a half-smile, then handed me the bowl in his hands.

I pursed my lips, but not wanting to press him further, I let it go and stood to take our dirty dishes to the kitchen. We prepared for bed not long after—Striker was obviously exhausted from his illness, and I figured my worry over him had tired me out a bit as well.

After brushing my teeth and turning out the lights in the other rooms, I settled down in bed next to Striker, resting a hand on his chest. I outstretched my other arm to switch off my lamp, but stopped when I noticed that distant stare on my lover's face again.

"Striker?"

His eyes shifted to glance at me for just a second, then directed their gaze back up at the ceiling. "Sorry, darlin'," he said softly. "Just—I've been thinkin'."

My teeth briefly gnawed on my bottom lip. "About what happened?" I asked slowly.

He gave a small nod. "It's been sixteen years," he said in a low voice. "I think it might be time I paid my home a visit."