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

117. Again

---

"Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form."

— Rumi

---

We rode Bombproof to the outskirts of the ghost town, following a broken set of train tracks until we reached one of the smaller mountains. The light from the floating orb of magma on top of the peak grew brighter as we approached, and it grew increasingly warmer when we made it to the mountainside. We stopped near the entrance to a mineshaft, and I expected Striker to take us into the shaft. But instead, he tugged at Bombproof's reins and led him off to the side.

I glanced back at him in confusion. "Where are we going?"

Striker didn't answer me, simply responding by placing a hand on my arm and giving it a gentle squeeze. We circled the mountainside for a few more minutes before he finally stopped and dismounted Bombproof, guiding the hellhorse to a wooden beam driven into the hard ground and tying his reins to it.

Striker held out his arms for me, and I swung a leg over Bombproof's back and slipped out of the saddle into Striker's embrace. He held me a second or two longer than usual, planting a small kiss on the top of my head, then took my hand and said, "C'mon."

I followed him to a large crevice in the mountainside, not far from the mine shaft, and he removed his hat, ducked his head, and sidestepped into the gap. I hesitated, pausing just outside of the crevice, but slowly shuffled inside behind him.

"Watch your head," he said, still holding onto my hand as we carefully walked through the tight space, and he crouched down to pass under a dip in the rock formation.

"Striker, where are you taking me?" I questioned, bending down to join him on the other side of the dip.

I received my answer when I made it to the other side. We stopped in a small cavern, maybe ten or twelve feet across, with a ceiling barely high enough to allow Striker to stand up straight. Though worn and weathered from the passage of time, there were several knickknacks and small fixtures scattered about the area, and two tattered dusty rugs were sprawled across the floor. A few pictures and paintings still hung from the wall of the cavern, although it appeared that most had fallen to the floor over the years.

"To be honest, I'm a little surprised an animal hasn't tried claimin' this place since I've been gone," Striker remarked. "It looks like it's gone almost completely untouched."

"What is this place?" I said.

He adjusted his hand in mine and laced our fingers together. "This is where me and Cora used to hide out when we were kids." He must have noticed me looking at the more amateurish paintings and added, half-smiling, "Cora liked to paint when she was younger."

I gave Striker's hand a squeeze before letting go and stepping away to view the rest of the cavern, curiously looking at nearly every item around me. A square wooden end table sat by the wall on the far end of the cavern, a small picture frame lying facedown on the rotted tabletop. I reached out to pick up the object, rubbing the years of dust and dirt off its exterior, and looked at the photo.

"Whatcha' got?" Striker said, stepping behind me and leaning his head over my shoulder. He suddenly stiffened, wrapping a hand around my arm.

"Where did you find that?" he said in a low voice.

"It was right here," I stammered. "On this table. . ."

I craned my head to see Striker staring in astonishment at the picture in my hands: It was a photo of a much younger Striker, about eight or nine years old, and a young female imp whom I could only assume was Cora. The girl beamed cheerfully at the camera, while Striker wore a cheeky grin that showed off the gap where he'd lost a baby tooth. And in Striker's arms was a tiny newborn imp hybrid, just like him.