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

145. Tempest

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The loud rattle of Striker's tail filled the room shortly after (Y/N) stormed out, and he sat on the edge of the bed glaring at the door for several minutes, a part of him hoping that she would come back.

The door eventually did click open, but much to Striker's chagrin, it wasn't (Y/N)—it was Phoebe, returning to see if he would allow her to collect another blood sample.

But he definitely wasn't in the mood to be a pin cushion now.

"I still ain't lettin' y'all poke and prod at me no more," he snarled at her. "Now get the fuck out."

"I figured you'd say no again," Phoebe remarked. "Especially when I saw (Y/N) leaving." She shrugged nonchalantly and pushed her supply cart toward the door. "Alright, then. Have a good night."

Striker watched the succubus-hybrid exit the room and close the door behind her, his rage bubbling up inside him again. An angry bellow rumbled in his chest as he shoved the bedside table into the wall nearby, the utensils falling from his dinner tray and landing on the tile floor with a tinny clatter. His tail still rattled violently, echoing in the confined space, and he slouched over with a hand tightly curled around the bedrail, panting in low, heaving growls.

He lifted his eyes to the table, noticing the closed Styrofoam box sitting beside his dinner tray. Striker could smell the hot food inside from his place on the bed, and even just that was enough to send another sickening wave of nausea crawling up his throat. He clenched his teeth, swallowing hard to push down the urge to vomit again, and let out a long, steady breath.

A sigh escaped his lips as a blanket of relief gently washed over him, alleviating at least some of his pain. He recalled the nurse coming in his room not long after (Y/N) had gone downstairs to find something to eat, that she shot something into his IV, saying something in passing about a steroid or something, and promptly walking out. He sighed again when he reached the most plausible conclusion: (Y/N) had requested pain medication for him.

He suspected she'd done it a few times since he was hospitalized, when he would feel some level of relief from his symptoms shortly after the nurse gave him an unspecified medication, and a part of him was a little annoyed that she would so readily go behind his back over something like this. He was a man—an exceptionally strong man, he thought. Accepting help would mean admitting that he couldn't handle the pain. That he was weak. Hell, even (Y/N) managed to traverse the Wrathian desert with her own holy bullet wound—not that he necessarily considered her weak, but he certainly didn't care for the idea that he, a well-trained and highly-skilled assassin, was weaker than his fiancée.

"Trust me, Striker, I know exactly what kind of pain you're in—and who's fault was that again?! "

"I wandered through the desert in Wrath for days to find you, Striker. Does that not mean anything to you?! Do you know how much fucking pain I was in?! "

A grimace marred his features. That's right. She did travel through Wrath freshly wounded. Alone. And she did find him—but she nearly died in the process.

Striker's stomach rolled at the memory of his lover lying unconscious, unresponsive, in his old bed in that cavern, her face flushed and her skin boiling hot, her frame totally limp in his arms. Just how long was she in Wrath looking for him?

"Where were you, Striker?! I needed you—and you just fucking ran away!! "

He suddenly felt a few tiny pinpricks piercing his free hand, and he looked down to find a dark pigment painting his fingertips—he had clenched his fist so hard that his claw-like nails had dug marks into his palm, staining his hand with small black smears of blood. Striker scowled at the observation, and he leaned back in bed, settling into the mattress and shutting his eyes.