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

146. Amends

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"Verily, with every hardship comes ease."

— Quran 94:5

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The rain stopped shortly before dawn, but the power didn't come back on in my apartment until well after day broke. I stayed on the phone with Striker until sunlight began to pour in through my bedroom window, listening to him murmur soft reassurances while I bundled up in the covers and did my best to tune out the rolling thunder outside.

Our argument never came up again after I told him I'd be back in the morning. Our phone call lasted hours, and consisted of very little more than Striker's repeatedly whispering in my ear, "You're alright, darlin'. I'm here. You're okay."

I awoke late that morning to the sound of my heater cutting on, my bedside lamp and a few lights outside my bedroom flickering back to life. I crawled out from under the thick covers and took a quick shower before finding some clean clothes to throw on, then prepared to leave home to see my fiancé.

Shivers racked my body as I walked briskly to the hospital, the frigid winter air piercing my clothes and chilling my damp hair, and I wrapped my scarf snugly around my neck and held the thick knit fabric to the lower half of my face. I heard someone from across the lobby greet me when I arrived at the hospital, but I kept my head down and continued to the elevators.

I looked at my reflection in the metal elevator door when I walked inside: dark half-moons sat below my tired, bloodshot eyes, which were still a little puffy from my crying the night before, and my messy hair, still wet from the shower, poked out from under the red bandana I had tied onto my head. I hadn't bothered to put any thought into my appearance; I didn't care, and I hadn't for over a week now.

I shot a brief half-smile at one of my coworkers as I stepped onto my unit, pausing and taking a deep breath when I stopped outside Striker's door. It didn't even occur to me to knock; I let out my breath in a long sigh and quietly pushed the door open.

Peeking around the door, I saw Striker lying in the bed, his head slightly cocked to the side on his pillow. His eyes were closed, his features (mostly) relaxed, and his bare chest steadily rose and fell with each slow breath. I pursed my lips, silently shutting the door behind me and pulling up a chair to his bedside. His hand twitched beside him, and I reached for it, but stopped only inches from his fingers.

"Guess it's not all water under the bridge like you said it was."

My stomach rolled as the memories of our argument replayed in my mind. They reeled in my head, jumbled together with memories of the night before, memories of the Extermination, memories of us. . .

"You motherfucker. I should've fucking taken Mary up on her offer when I had the chance."

My heart clenched from regret. I'd never told him what happened during the meeting with the angels. But I knew what I'd said—what I'd meant.

But I didn't mean it. I was just so angry, that he spoke as if I couldn't possibly understand what he was going through. Angry that he had been so bitter towards me. All of the pain that I'd endured over the past year and a half came bubbling to the surface in that moment.

I'd forgiven him. I had.

But no amount of forgiveness could simply erase all of the hurt I felt.

I leaned over on the mattress, holding my head in my hands as tears welled in my eyes. My breaths hitched in my chest, and my shoulders jerked and spasmed with every sob I tried to suppress.