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

116. Found

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The first thing Striker saw when he opened his eyes was an old ceiling fan spinning lazily above his head. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and his lips were dry and cracked. He felt wrung out, as if he could feel the thickness of his blood sluggishly flowing through his dehydrated body.

God, he was so thirsty. . .

He remembered how he had gone four days in the merciless Wrathian summer heat with no food and almost no water. While he had left the demolished town with a half-filled canteen, most of the water he didn't save for himself—he saved for Bombproof. At that point, after the soldiers had gone, and the only ones remaining were him and Bombproof, Striker would have truthfully rather died himself. He wasn't about to lose him. Bombproof was all he had left. All he had left of his home.

All he had left of Cora.

He felt the coolness of a wet washcloth on his forehead, and he lifted a hand to remove it, his thirst suddenly driving him to shove a corner of the cloth in his mouth and suck out the moisture. Slowly, he pushed himself up to see that he had been lying in a rickety twin-size bed. The room was small, just big enough for the bed and a couple other pieces of furniture, and his pupils immediately dilated at the sight of a full glass of water sitting on the nightstand.

Striker tossed the washcloth aside and grabbed the water, downing the entire glass in just a few seconds. But he was still thirsty—he had days of going without a drop to drink to make up for.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest when the memories of that night came flooding back into his mind. He slumped forward in the bed, listlessly holding the now empty glass in his lap. He didn't even have the energy to cry—and even if he did, he was likely too dehydrated to form any tears. Every part of him ached, and the realization that nothing would ever be the same again left him feeling completely gutted.

His home was gone. Everything he owned was destroyed. Everyone he knew was dead. And the three most important people in his life had been brutally murdered.

And for what? So some royals could have the miners find them more shiny rocks and precious metals to hoard in their ivory towers.

The thought turned his stomach until he was sick with anger. The contempt these royals—and even their soldiers—felt toward his kind. How they could have such blatant disregard for his kind was lost on him. And for something so seemingly trivial. . .

It took only seconds for his grief to twist and contort into hatred. It ate away at his gut. How he wanted to kill every last one of those bastards who did it, all of the sorry pieces of shit that were complicit in the loss of his home. They took everything from him—and he wanted nothing less than to do the same to them.

A bolt of panic suddenly struck him:

Bombproof.

Striker scrambled out of the bed, his knees almost buckling beneath his weight. His weakened body struggled to stay standing, and he leaned a hand against the wall as he staggered toward the door.

He pushed the creaky door open and stepped into a dimly lit hallway. To his left were two more doors and a small round table at the end, and to his right were a third (closed) door and a light coming from the room at the other end of the hall. His tail dragged on the floor behind him as he headed toward the open end of the hallway, a buzzing yellow fluorescent light shining in his eyes when he turned the corner. It was early in the evening, he deduced, when he saw the low natural light peeking in through the front window. He stood there, puzzled, until a side door opened, and in strode a female imp carrying a farrier hammer and set of old horseshoes.

The woman blinked at Striker, setting down her work gloves and equipment on a nearby table and flashing him a small smile. "Good," she said. "You're finally awake. How're you feelin'?"

"My horse," Striker rasped, his throat still unbearably dry. "Where's my horse?"

"Easy, sweetheart," she responded, taking a few steps toward him. "He's fine. I actually just got done shoein' 'im. Those shoes he had on were 'bout completely worn down."

"I don't believe you," he retorted bitterly. He was several inches taller than her, and any other day he could easily overpower her—but they both knew he wasn't in any condition to be picking a fight. Instead, he simply fixed her with a hardened glare and repeated impatiently, "Where is my horse?"

The woman let out a small sigh, hooking her thumbs in her overalls pockets, and she nodded to the door behind her. "He's in the stable. You can go see 'im if you want—but you don't look like you got the energy to be walkin' around very much right now." She stepped toward a door at the back of the room. "Lemme get you some more water."

Striker watched the woman enter the other room, and he heard the muffled conversation between her and a very masculine voice:

"He awake?"

"Yep," answered the woman, and he heard a sink run briefly. "Askin' about his horse."

"Should I get a third plate out?"

"I'd reckon so. Poor baby looks like he hasn't eaten in days."

The woman returned a few seconds later with an empty glass and a water pitcher, and she filled the glass and set them on a small desk near the wall. "You're probably still pretty thirsty. Here, have some—"

Before she could even finish her sentence, Striker seized the glass and began gulping down its contents. He finished his drink in just seconds, then grabbed the pitcher and hurriedly poured himself another glass.

The woman stared at Striker as he downed glass after glass, eventually grabbing the back of the desk chair and telling him, "Here, baby. Sit down."

Striker glanced warily at her for just a moment before taking a seat in the chair, briefly catching his breath and emptying the last of the water into his glass.

"I know you're hungry," she said, leaning a hand on the desk. "Darryl's makin' pork roast and mashed potatoes for supper, if you want some." She took the empty pitcher and headed back through the door to refill the water, returning a minute later and setting the now full pitcher back on the desk. "Don't drink it so fast this time—you'll make yourself sick."

The woman could tell it took a significant amount of effort for Striker to refrain from downing the water as quickly as he did before; he still swallowed in large gulps, but waited a second or two in between swigs.

Striker had finished about half the pitcher when he set the glass down on the desk and held a hand to his belly. He kept his tired eyes on the desktop, staring blankly at the glass in his hand. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, letting it out in a lengthy exhale. He clenched his jaw; he could feel his strength gradually returning to his exhausted frame, even if it was just a little.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

The woman smiled warmly. "You're welcome," she replied softly. A grin tugged at her lips as she leaned down in an attempt to meet his eyes. "Y'know, it'd be a lot easier to call you for supper if we knew your name."

He lifted his eyes to look at her, wetting his chapped lips and answering slowly, "It's Striker."

The woman's smile widened at his words. "Mine's Daisy."

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