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

118. High Waters

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"I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her name was Grief."

— C. S. Lewis

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Daisy's eyes snapped open at the sound of a loud clatter outside her bedroom. She scrambled out of bed to her feet, grabbed the hunting rifle propped against the wall, and walked toward her bedroom door. Turning the knob and opening the door just a few inches, she caught sight of a thin ray of light shining across the floorboards. She didn't think much of it—assuming one of the boys had gotten up to use the bathroom—until she heard retching coming from the other side of the cracked door.

Curious, Daisy left her bedroom to investigate, and she quietly approached the bathroom door, peeking her head through the small gap to find the boy she and Darryl had found half-dead in the desert just the day before. He sat exhausted on the floor, slumped against the wall as he caught his breath. He clenched his teeth, shutting his eyes to prevent his tears from falling.

"Striker?"

Striker immediately froze at the sound of his name, and he looked up at Daisy with eyes resembling those of a rabid animal: wide and full of a panicked anger.

"Are you okay?" Daisy asked, setting her hunting rifle outside the bathroom. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she added half-jokingly, "I didn't think Darryl's cookin' was that bad—"

"Get the fuck outta here," he growled bitterly.

Daisy's smile faded. She stared down at the young man for a moment, her lips pursed, before taking a washcloth off the wall rack and wetting it under the faucet. She knelt down beside Striker, reaching out and gingerly wiping the traces of bile and saliva from his mouth.

"What the f—get the fuck away from me!" Striker roughly grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand back. "I told you to get out!"

Daisy peeled Striker's hand off of her wrist with little effort, wiping his lips once more and telling him sternly, "You ain't in no shape to be fightin' me right now, baby. I was just cleanin' your mouth—"

"I didn't fuckin' ask you to do that, you old bitch!" he snapped. "I didn't ask you to bring me here—I didn't fuckin' ask you to save me!"

Daisy frowned at his words. Slowly, she tossed the washcloth aside and shifted closer to Striker, carefully wrapping her arms around his frame.

"Stop," Striker said, half-heartedly attempting to push her away. "Just leave me alone . . . !"

"It's okay, baby," she cooed, lifting a hand to gently stroke his snowy hair. "You're safe now."

Striker's body went rigid. What little strength he'd mustered to resist her was rapidly siphoned from his body, leaving only a painful emptiness in his chest. He quickly relented under her touch, his breaths hitching in his throat as tears rolled down his face. He clutched Daisy's nightgown in a white-knuckle grip, quiet sobs racking his body.

Daisy remained still, keeping a firm but gentle hold on Striker while he twitched and jerked in her arms. Her heart clenched at the sounds he made—like an injured animal, or an infant separated from its mother.

"It's okay, baby," she repeated over and over. "You're safe."

Striker clung to her tighter, crying weakly into her chest as she whispered soft reassurances into his hair, and she held him for as long as he needed her, until his weeping eventually subsided and every ounce of strength had been drained from his body.

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"Why don't you go and take a look around the shop?" Striker said after catching (Y/N) and setting her on her feet. "You can look for you some more preserves. I'm gonna find Daisy and give her back the supplies we didn't use."

"Okay." (Y/N) grabbed her wallet and cell phone from Bombproof's saddlebag and headed inside the tiny shop.

Striker blew out a small sigh while he collected the unused supplies from the saddlebags and walked to the shed adjacent to the shop. The large sliding door to the shed was closed, and Striker bent down to grab the handle and gave it a hard tug. He pushed the old, creaky door up just enough to slip under, then let it fall back to the sandy ground as he smiled at the woman sitting at her workbench near the wall.

Daisy returned the smile. "Welcome back," she said, setting down the tools in her hands and standing from her seat. "How'd your little excursion go?"

He chuckled dryly. "I'm not really sure how to respond to that, Miss Daisy," he answered and placed the bag of supplies in his hand on the workbench. "(Y/N)'s next door lookin' for some more preserves right now."

Daisy pursed her lips, her brows furrowing slightly. "You look like you wanna tell me somethin'."

"Is it that obvious?"

She shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. "I've known you long enough to tell when you got somethin' on your mind. You can't fool me, baby."

Striker's mouth flattened, the corners slowly twisting downward into a frown. He stepped toward her and curled his large hands over her arms, leaning over her much smaller frame and resting his head on her shoulder.

Daisy stiffened, taken aback by his actions. "Striker?" she said softly. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Striker was silent for a moment, his tail drooping until it landed on the floor of the shed. He let out a long sigh through his nose.

"I lost my home, Miss Daisy," he started quietly. "Soldiers invaded our home and destroyed the town. I saw my mother die tryin' to protect us." His grip tightened on Daisy's arms. "My girlfriend was raped and murdered in her own home. And I . . . I watched my baby sister die in my arms."

Striker spoke in clipped, jagged sentences, and his voice was low and distant. Daisy could hear the resignation in his words, and they hit her like a hard blow to the gut.

"Striker," she muttered. She stood frozen for a moment, then slowly laid her hands on his back, gingerly pulling him closer as tears pricked her eyes. "Baby. . ."

"I left and was stuck in the desert by myself for four days before you found me," Striker continued. His shoulders slumped forward, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck. "When I met you, I wished you'd've just fuckin' left me there. . ."

"No, baby," Daisy croaked. "Please don't say that. . ." She wrapped her arms around his broad chest, holding his head in her hand. "Your momma wouldn't've wanted you to make it all that way just for you to die alone in the desert. She would've wanted you to keep goin'. They all would've. . ."

Striker released one of Daisy's arms and raised his hand to gently cup the side of her face, his thumb briefly tracing lines on her cheek.

"I know that now," he murmured. "I was angry for a long time, Daisy . . . And I'm sorry I took it out on you and Darryl for so long. . ."

He finally lifted his head from her shoulder and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Thank you, Miss Daisy," he whispered against her red skin. "For everything."

A wave of tears fell from Daisy's eyes and rolled down her cheeks, her body shaking and jerking from the sobs building in her chest, and she hid her face in Striker's shoulder.

"Striker," Daisy said, her voice breaking. "When I was young, the doctors told me I'd never be able to have my own kids." She clenched her jaw to stifle a sob, gripping the back of Striker's jacket in her balled fists. "I wanted kids so bad, baby. A-And that day, when we found you layin' there half-dead—I just couldn't leave you. I wanted to help you, but I was being selfish. I wanted my own—I'd just felt so empty for so long—and you were just s-so. . ." She shook her head vehemently and cried into her shoulder, staining his jacket with her tears. "I haven't felt that empty in a long time, baby—you've filled that hole ever since we brought you back home. . ."

A bittersweet smile crawled up Striker's face as he returned her tight embrace, a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "I love you, too, Miss Daisy."