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

115. Laid to Rest

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You'll miss the sun, the warmth of another's embrace

You'll need room to run and something to chase

And that thing you fear will coax you out of that unholy place

'Cause all you've ever wanted is an escape. . .

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We packed up and headed out across the plains early the next morning, not long after sunrise. The cold was much more bearable with the contrast of the warm Wrathian sun beating down on us, and there was (thankfully) not a cloud in the sky.

Late in the morning, we reached a set of broken train tracks leading to a tunnel carved into the side of one of the mountains. An abandoned mining cart sat crookedly on the tracks near the entrance, its wheels worn from years of erosion, and its familiarity suddenly struck me. I had been here before.

"Striker," I said, "is your lair in those mine shafts?"

"Yeah," he answered. "Well, it was. I haven't been back there since. . ."

"Since I found you?" I finished for him. I took his silence as a yes, and asked slowly, "Do you want to go down there?"

He was quiet for a moment, one of his hands releasing the reins to wrap around my waist. "No," he said curtly. "There's not really much left there worth goin' back for, anyway. . ."

I pursed my lips, looking out onto the horizon past the mine shaft. Just within sight, I could see a few manmade structures here and there, along with a pair of train tracks that stretched out toward them.

"Striker," I started, but before I could say anything more, he smacked the spearhead of his tail against Bombproof's rear, sending the hellhorse cantering across the plains.

We followed the train tracks for maybe ten minutes before we reached the structures, and the closer we got, the better I could decipher what they really were: they were buildings, broken down from both the elements and the passage of time. Scorch marks painted the walls that still stood, and charred wooden beams lay scattered on the ground. Every now and then, I would spot a sword or an old rifle or various farming tools in the loose sand—and every now and then, I saw a skeleton peeking out amongst the dirt.

"We're here," Striker said, his voice barely audible.

He tugged at Bombproof's reins to bring him to a halt, then swung a leg over the horse's back and hopped to the ground. He guided Bombproof to follow him as we entered the ghost town. Neither of us said a word, and with no breeze blowing, the only noise we could hear was the low clop of Bombproof's hooves on the dirt.

Striker slowed his pace until he came to an eventual stop, and he stared out at an old house not too far away. It was one of the few buildings in the town that was still mostly intact, though its tin roof was now peppered with holes from rust and deterioration, and the weathervane on top had long since fallen to pieces.

After watching him in pensive silence for a moment or two, I asked him slowly, "Was that your home?"

His tail whipped slightly behind him, and I saw him lower his head a few degrees.

"No," he answered somberly. "It was Cora's."

My stomach flipped for a split-second, and I mentally chastised myself for the feelings of jealousy sprouting inside me. It wasn't fair of me to act that way. So I kept quiet and waited for him to speak again.

Striker rested a hand on Bombproof's shoulder and leaned on the hellhorse's frame, still looking at the old house. He remained there for a while before finally letting out a small chuckle and muttering, "Y'know . . . now that I think about it, she was a lot like you."

I bit my tongue, both jealous of his borderline comparison of the two of us and frustrated with my enduring lack of sensitivity. My jealousy wanted to angrily remind him that she was gone and I was not—but I couldn't do that. It wasn't right.

Instead, I leaned forward and reached out for his hand, gently prying it from Bombproof's shoulder and lacing our fingers together. He finally tore his eyes away from the house to glance at our hands, then looked up at me. A small smile crossed his face, and he brought my hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss on my knuckles.

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We gradually made our way across the ghost town, Striker leading while I sat in Bombproof's saddle. After about thirty minutes or so, we reached another old house—except this one had been almost completely razed to the ground. It was missing an entire wall and half of its roof, and most of the wood was rotted and barely hanging onto the frame.

The way Striker let go of Bombproof's reins and stepped toward the dilapidated structure told me all I needed to know: This was his home.

I watched his shoulders and tail droop as he stood in front of the porch, and he moved to climb the steps, but stopped. The wide brim of his sunhat blocked my view of his face, but I could tell he seemed almost afraid to even set foot on the property. He turned his head, looking down at something on the ground beside the porch.

And it was then I noticed the three large rocks sitting on the ground near him. They were lined up next to one another, with about five or six feet in between each of them. I gnawed on my bottom lip for a second, then carefully shifted out of Bombproof's saddle and slid off his back. After ensuring he wasn't going to wander off, I walked toward Striker and the three makeshift graves, my hands clasped in apprehension.

"Striker?"

"I'm fine," he said in a low voice. "I just—need a minute to myself. . ."

I frowned. At any other time, Striker was an exceptionally good liar—but in this moment, he couldn't have fooled even the most gullible of demons.

He was not fine. And I certainly wasn't going to leave him alone, especially now.

Gently, I laid a hand on his back, letting him know I was there, then slipped my arms under his and wrapped them around his broad torso. Striker stiffened at my actions, and I could sense a small spark of frustration threatening to build inside him. But he didn't push me away, and it prompted me to hold him a little tighter.

"I said I was going to be with you every step of the way," I said, resting my head between his shoulder blades. "You can take all the time you need, but I'm not going to leave you." My hand found his chest and lay flat over his heart. "It's okay to feel sad or angry or hurt. I'm not going to blame you for grieving."

He slowly lifted his hand, and after a second or two, I felt it cover mine and give it a firm squeeze. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, letting it out in a long, wavering sigh. His shoulders sank, his head tilting upward as he brought his other hand to mine, lacing our fingers together over his chest.

I'm not sure how long we stayed like that, but I knew it must have been a while when my knees locked and my legs started to hurt. But I ignored it, and I held him for as long as I possibly could, until he really was fine again.

After who knows how long, Striker pried my hands off of his chest and turned around to look at me. He hadn't cried, but I could tell by the slight redness around his sclera that his eyes had welled up with tears several times. His expression was that of resignation, of a man tired of the weight the world had forced him to carry all these years. He swallowed, then bent down to plant a gentle kiss on my lips.

"C'mon," he said softly, taking my hand in his. "I wanna show you somethin'."