Chapter Text
"You were mistreated and cheated
Out of the childhood you needed
And now you'll never succeed
If you're so convinced you're defeated
If you're obsessed with your yesterday
Then you're destined to repeat it"
- Icon for fire (Sorry about your parents)
Chapter V
In which we see Striker's past
The backpack hanging over Striker’s shoulder was heavy on his back; not because of what was inside it – he really did not bother to pack much; the more he left behind, the better – but because of what it represented.
Standing in the middle of his room, the only room he’d ever come to known as his, he looked around and tried to take a mental picture of it. He wanted to remember what it was like. Even the bad parts of it… which, granted, were most of them.
The red walls where he’d drawn on as a kid, the faint sharpie dye that survived all the cleanings hanging on like a faded silhouette; the window with the broken glass that let the cold breeze in every night and made him shiver under his thin, worn-out blanket; the bed with a frame that squeaked loudly and annoyed his mother whenever he sat on it.
In a way, he’d miss the familiarity of it all.
With a hand holding the backpack strap, he mindlessly ran his fingers of the other hand over the shelves that bore so many memories. The books he read over and over as a kid because he rarely got new ones, the few trinkets he had collected over the years, a rock he found neat and took home with him and never had the heart to throw away.
He wanted to remember what it looked like. But ironically, he didn’t want to have any physical reminders of it.
It would make the whole thing easier if he didn’t, he told himself.
With a final look around his room to make sure he’d covered it all, Striker left the place and closed the door behind him; locking it and leaving the key in the keyhole. He didn’t need it anymore.
Every step Striker gave towards the living room grew heavier than the previous one. But he didn’t stop walking. The feeling reminded him of getting in the ocean, trying to walk in when the strong waves push you out.
And if you’re not careful, they pull you down. And you drown.
Standing in front of the doorframe, the living room finally came into his view. Striker finally stopped walking and held his breath.
A tall female imp sat on the couch with her legs folded and her hands nimbly preparing a seemingly fancy drink as she mixed the liquids from several different bottles into a thin glass; the small table in front of her shining with color as the sunlight hit the glass of the colorful bottles.
Striker could smell the cheap booze, but she drank it so elegantly that one would think she was handling the finest of champagnes instead. If he ignored the smell and everything else in the room, he’d almost find himself believing that as well.
The dying sunlight of the afternoon came through a window and shone on her impeccable raven black hair, making her locks shine as though it were on fire. It was incredible how despite their miserable situation, there was not a single part of her that didn’t scream elegancy – from her silk gloves to her dress to the stilettos she wore even when she was home, leaving small dents in the cheap carpet.
If only she put as much effort into taking care of him as she put into the appearances of it all, maybe things wouldn’t have been so bad.
Striker looked down and walked past her as though she wasn’t there, going straight to the door that lead outside.
“Where are you going?” Rubi finally asked, acknowledging Striker for the first time since he walked into the room; although she didn’t move her gaze from the drink she had in her hands.
“Away,” Striker spoke dryly as he laid a hand on the key in the keyhole, staring straight ahead.
“Sounds lovely,” Rubi spoke as though she hadn’t actually heard what he’d said, “Can you pick the laundry up on your way back? I was supposed to get it last week but keep forgetting it. You’ll run out of clean clothes soon.”
“I did yesterday,” Striker muttered, not loud enough for her to hear, and then sighed as he turned to look at her, “No. I’m not coming back this time.”
Rubi’s eyes widened for a second as they moved up from the drink in her hand for the first time, although her expression remained unchanged.
“What is that now?” She raised an eyebrow and slowly turned her head to finally look at Striker.
“I’m not coming back, Rubi,” Striker shook his head, “I’m leaving.”
Rubi sighed in annoyance as she rolled her eyes, her head falling into her hand in an exasperated move. Far from being sad, however, she just seemed to be done with the situation.
“How adorable, a kid running away from home,” She pressed her back against the couch, “Just like those adventure books you’ve always been obsessed with. I told you they were garbage and would just fill your head with ideas. Though I thought it’d happen much earlier. Isn’t thirteen a bit too old to be influenced by children’s stories?”
“I’m fifteen,” Striker corrected through his clenched teeth, “My birthday was literally last month. You were there.”
“I was there when you were born, too. It doesn’t mean I find it worth remembering,” She waved her hand in a dismissive way, “But that just proves my point. Go to your room, Striker. You are way too old to be doing this.”
Striker watched as she pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and held it with one hand as she lit it up with fire she made herself with her fingers on the other hands; blowing off the flames once it was lit.
“I’m serious. I’m leaving. I’m not coming back this time.”
Rubi stopped her inhaling the smoke midway and moved her eyes up and down, giving a good look at Striker as she gulped it down. And he didn’t know if it was his tone, or the way he stood upright, or if she was just playing him for a fool – but she seemed to be taking him seriously, for once.
“So,” Rubi coughed out some smoke, “You’re going to run away?”
Striker folded his arms and leaned sideways against the door.
“I’m not running away from anything. I’m just leaving. Everything. This house, this place. You,” Striker counted on his fingers, his eyes narrowing when he got to the last item.
“You can call it whatever you want, Striker, does not change what it is. Escaping, leaving; in the end, you’re running away. You can call a knife ‘a tool’ and it would be true, but it will cut and hurt all the same if you touch it. It’s still a knife,” She gave a slight smile and moved to the side of the couch, patting the space besides her, “Come here.”
“You won’t change my mind,” Striker didn’t budge, his fists turning into balls.
“And I don’t want to. I just want to have a chat before you go,” She reached for another glass and laid it beside her own, “Come have a drink with me. I’d wait till you turned eighteen, but well, guess we won’t have that chance, then. Might as well do it now. Your first drink… with me, that is.”
By the way she eyed him sideways, Striker knew she’d smelled the alcohol in his breath before. He knew she had noticed her bottles were always a sip shorter when she went to grab them again. He thought he’d been careful enough to keep it a secret.
But whatever.
With a shrug, Striker let his backpack slide down his arm and fall on the floor by the door before he walked to the couch and sat where she had indicated, making sure there was a considerable space between them still. He was quiet while she filled a glass and handed it to him, which he grabbed with his tail to avoid having to get closer to her.
“It’s pretty useful to have a strong, articulated tail, isn’t it?” Rubi let out a laugh as her own tail came into view, “You should thank me for that. Your father’s side could never. Their tails are too thin to do anything with. He broke a glass once trying to do what you just did. Have I ever told you that story?”
“I’m not thanking you for anything,” Striker rebutted, ignoring everything else she’d said as he took the glass with his hand and slouched down further on the couch.
“Fair enough,” Rubi shrugged as she raised her glass, “To you, in your new adventure.”
Striker rolled his eyes and raised his glass as well before taking a sip with dexterity, despite how strong the liquor was.
It was far from the first time he’d done that.
They both took a sip at the same time; the most synchrony they’d had in years. Striker watched as her leg bounced up and down and she stared down at the glass in her hands, moving it around and making it tinkle as the ice hit the walls of the glass.
If you watched it carefully enough, you might pick up a hint of anxiety coming from her.
“So, you want to leave,” She finally spoke, staring straight ahead.
“I thought I’d made that pretty clear,” Striker propped his head up with one arm as he took the glass to his nose and sniffed it. He remembered when he was eleven and the first time he smelled it made him gag.
Now, it barely tickled his senses.
Rubi seemed surprised at his tone.
“And you’ve made up your mind, hum?”
“There’s nothing left for me here,” He tightened his grasp on the glass, making it fog around his hand, “There’s no reason to stay.”
“You speak like a man,” Rubi smiled at him, “But when I look at you, I find a boy. I find a scared little boy, trying to run away.”
Striker wasn’t sure if she expected him to budge in any way, but he didn’t. He furrowed his eyebrows and straightened himself up on the couch, folding his legs as well.
“If that’s what you see, then fine,” Striker looked up, “I know this is a novelty concept to you, Rubi, but what you see and what you think isn’t always what the reality is. What you think of me is not what I am. And my life got a hell of a lot better after I realized that.”
Rubi was slightly taken aback at the lack of compliance – it wasn’t what she’d gotten used to from her son. But perhaps now that he was leaving, he realized he had nothing left to lose by speaking his mind.
In a way, she was proud of his courage. Good for him.
“Well, I won’t try to keep you here. But could you spare a few minutes with me, before you disappear forever?” She asked as she refilled her glass, “If nothing else, perhaps I can give you some advice.”
“Oh, yeah,” Striker let out a laugh, “I’m sure the woman who had an affair with her brother in law and then killed him when he refused to marry her after he knocked her up knows a lot about making good life choices.”
Striker closed his eyes, expecting the familiar sharp pain of her open palm against his face. It would be worth it, if it meant he’d managed to get to her for once. But it never came.
Instead, he just heard her let out a weak laugh back at him.
“I didn’t kill him because he refused to marry me. And you know that,” She spoke, sounding genuinely offended that Striker had gotten that wrong, “I killed him because I found out he was slipping poison into your bottles every time I asked him to feed you. And to think you never thanked me for that.”
Striker pouted and bit his lip, his finger running along the border of the glass.
“Because I wish he’d been successful,” Striker held his breath.
Rubi fixed the hair falling over her eyes.
“Sometimes, so do I. Seeing how things turned out,” She shook her head, speaking that as though she’d just told him what time it was.
“Well, so seeing me go away must be a relief then,” Striker raised his glass in a fake toast.
“That’s not what I said,” She shook her head, “I have no ill will against you, Striker. Unlike what you may think. Not anymore, at least.”
“How comforting to hear,” He condescended.
“I’m serious. I don’t wish to see you fail any more than I wish to see you succeed. I gave you your life, but it doesn’t mean I want to tell you how to live it. I… I actually kind of don’t care.”
Striker clapped his hands together with fake enthusiasm.
“Great, neither do I, can I go then?”
“Calm down, the world will still be there if you wait a bit more. Because if nothing else, I don’t want you to go without hearing what I have to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Your words probably won’t help, anyway.”
“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for myself, to help me sleep at night. Because in a few years, when I hear about your death for messing with the wrong people, I want to be able to sleep at night, knowing there was nothing I left unsaid.”
Striker rolled his eyes at her usage of the word when rather than if. But it’s not like she ever had any faith in him.
“Fine.”
He watched as she took another sip.
“Listen, Striker. And listen carefully,” She spoke as she stared at the bottom of her glass, “I know you, and I know who you are. I carried you, I made you, and you are doomed to carry within you the same ugliness I bear within me. We are one and the same.”
“I know that,” Striker nodded. He wished he could deny that, rebut that. But he couldn’t.
“And I know,” She kept on talking with a sigh, “I know you want to run away and find a better place. And trust me, you will. You will walk out of the door, and you will find yourself a job in a farm, or a brothel, or wherever you end up. And you will feel really good for finally making something out of yourself. For seeing the products of your honest labor. And for the first time in your life, you will feel like you did something right.”
“Sounds good, can I go now?” He pointed to the door over his shoulder.
“But soon, you’ll realize,” Rubi dipped her fingers into the glass and played with the ice cubes, continuing her monologue as though he hadn’t said anything, “You’ll realize that even though this is the best you have ever felt in your life, you’re still hurt. You still cannot deal with yourself when you lay your head on the pillow at night. Your heart will still ache.”
Striker opened his mouth, but shut it without a word.
“And you will try to be positive, because you’re stubborn,” She glared at him, “You will tell yourself you just need more time. You just need to work harder. You just need to try again. And you will try to feel good again. And again. And again.”
Rubi’s hands clasped her dress, wrinkling it for the first time since Striker could remember. She spoked so slowly and painfully that he wondered if perhaps the alcohol had finally gotten to her, or if she meant for it to be that way for dramatic effect.
“But eventually, in a few months, in a few years, in a few decades, I don’t know; after you tried all you could, as many times as you could, it’s going to dawn upon you. And you will have to face the reality.”
Striker held his breath as she finished her drink.
“You will have to face the reality that it wasn’t this house, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t this city,” She said as she gesticulated around herself, “All along, it was you.”
Striker’s eyes widened.
“It was you that made you feel broken. You carry your brokenness within you, and you cannot get away from that. It’s as much part of you as your bones, as your arms and legs,” Her voice got lower as she poked Striker on the chest – her finger touching his skin like a knife piercing his heart, “You can run away from this house. You can run away from me. You can leave your things behind and start anew.”
Her finger then ran up from his chest to his throat, and kept going up until she reached his face and held it tight.
“But you cannot run away from yourself. No matter where you run to, you will be there. No matter where you turn, you’ll find yourself again. There’s no escape from what is inside you.”
Striker held her hand and pushed it away from himself.
“And you’ll realize there’s no escape. You’re trapped with yourself. You snared your own path, and from the moment you were born, you ensured your fall. No amount of running away will ever get you away from that.”
As if to illustrate her words, the glass on her hand fell on the floor and shattered, and Striker was almost sure she’d let it go on purpose. He shrunk in his place with the loud unexpected sound, whereas she remained unbothered.
“And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you will stop running away. Because you’ll see it’s useless. You’re at the bottom of the well. We all are. Your father was buried in one… figuratively and literally.”
“I know,” Striker looked aside.
“And some imps are stupid and positive. They’ll say once you reach the bottom, you’ll see the only way out is up. But that is bullshit, plain and simple. There’s another way out. You can still dig yourself further down. And that is what you will do. That is what we all do.”
Striker took a deep breath.
“Perhaps I can be the one to go up.”
“I said the same thing, Striker,” She lit up another cigarette, “Don’t bother”.
Rubi looked up at a big picture of herself and a much younger Striker on the wall.
“I was happy before I met your father, you know,” She fixed the hair strand that had fallen over her eyes again, “Perhaps things were never perfect. Life sucks. But… I was alright. I thought I was going up. But that’s what love does to someone, Striker. It pulls you back down the well when you are almost out.”
She played with the cigarette in her hands, using the trail of smoke coming out of it to draw a heart in the air and then blow it away.
“Love lifts you up. It takes you to the sky, and you feel like you’re among the clouds. It’s a high like no other. And makes you wonder, how come you lived so far without this? It’s amazing.”
Rubi clapped her hands in fake enthusiasm, before stopping and her expression becoming one of pure disgust.
“But then, you fall. And because it took you so high… the fall hurts. It hurts so bad, Striker,” She shook her head, “I know you don’t think you should take my advice. And I don’t blame you for that. But if you must choose one thing I have said to listen to, make it this one. Don’t love anyone. Don’t let yourself be taken high. Because my life started going downhill when I told your father I loved him.”
Striker seemed to genuinely ponder over her words.
“So you just decided to shut it out and hate everyone. Even me. Tell me, Rubi, how is that any better?” Striker tilted his head to the side, “What good do I get from following that advice?”
“I didn’t say you’d get any good out of my words. I just said it’d avoid a fall that you’re not prepared for. It’s better than nothing,” She shrugged.
Striker tugged on his shirt, looking sideways. Silence took over as she bit her lower lip.
“And I didn’t hate you, Striker,” She sighed.
Striker’s eyes widened as he looked at her with a puzzled look.
“I just hated that I wanted to love you, and I didn’t like that feeling. Because love did nothing for me but ruin everything. And yet there I was, with a baby in my arms, that I so desperately wanted to feel something for. But I couldn’t get myself to. Because I knew that if I loved you, it’d be another fall. If I loved you, it could only end in disaster. So I didn’t.”
Striker took another sip of his glass, his sight becoming slightly blurry for the first time that day.
“Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy, hum?” He shut his eyes that teared up with the alcohol in his throat.
“Tell me about it,” She shook her head, “But if it means you’ll listen, then, it’ll be worth it. I will have done you a favor. Trust me.”
Striker looked away.
“Just don’t love anyone the way I loved your father, Striker. It’s all I can tell you.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Striker folded his arms, looking down at his lap, “I think you ruined any kind of feeling there ever was inside me.”
Rubi hissed.
“Well, in a sick turn of events… You’ll thank me for that someday,” Rubi made finger guns at him with a hand and took another sip, “Trust me.”
Striker took his glass to his mouth and turned it, drinking until the last drop.
“Can I go now?”
Rubi looked up and hit her finger against her chin as though she was going through a mental checklist.
“Actually, one final thing,” She said as she got up from the couch and walked to a closet in the living room. Opening a drawer, she recovered a small object from it, motioning for Striker to approach her.
He did as he was asked, his eyes widening when he got close enough.
“Is that a…”
“A pure silver bullet, yes,” She held it against the light and stared at it in admiration – seemingly being prouder of the bullet than she had ever been of Striker, “I figured I’d keep it in case we ever needed it again. But perhaps you can make better use of it.”
Rubi took Striker’s hand and laid the bullet on his palm, closing his fingers around it. Striker opened them again to stare at the object.
“I even managed to clean all your father’s blood off of it pretty well, hum? It looks brand new.”
Striker’s eyes widened as he pushed the bullet against her.
“I don’t want anything from you,” He uttered when she grabbed it again, “If I ever need a silver bullet, I’ll find one myself.”
Rubi raised an eyebrow, then shook her head.
“How noble of you,” She took her hand to her chest and rolled her eyes, “Don’t try to be a big man, Striker. The sooner you embrace the snake you are, the better.”
Striker looked at her from head to toe, taking in her fancy image and getup.
“Bold of it to say that… You’re the one to talk about someone who refuses to embrace who they really are,” Striker uttered with his hands on his hips.
Rubi raised her hand to her shoulder, and Striker flinched instinctively as he covered his face. The pain he expected, however, never came.
Instead, Rubi closed her eyes and sighed, lowering her head and letting her hand fall back to the side of her body.
“Good luck, Striker,” She whispered as she walked around him and went back to the couch, sitting on the same position she was before; as though none of that had even happened.
Striker took his hand to his cheek and felt around his face, as though he couldn’t believe there hadn’t been any pain. He took a last look at his mother, and at the living room around them; before he walked by her and went to the door again, picking the backpack off the floor.
With a sigh, he turned the key on the keyhole at last.
“Can I just… ask you something?” Striker sighed, “Before I go.”
Rubi didn’t turn to look at him.
“Shoot it,” Rubi stared at the ceiling.
“When did you realize running away doesn’t work?” Striker turned to look at her direction, “When did it hit you that no matter where you went, you’d still be broken, because it was inside you all along?”
Rubi tapped her fingers on her knee and hummed, as though that was the first time she was giving that question some thought.
“When your father held you for the first time,” She nodded her head in a sorrowful way.
“That’s very specific,” Striker let out some air through his nostrils, loud enough for her to hear.
“Because I had a very specific hope,” Rubi nodded, “Pregnancy was hell. Keeping it a secret from my sister and family was hell. Hearing that he didn’t plan on helping me at all was hell. I was at the bottom of the well, and kept digging my way further down.”
Despite her silence, Striker felt she wasn’t done talking.
“But I kept hoping that that would be the one moment where everything would be alright. All throughout the pregnancy, I told myself: when this child is born, he will hold it, and he’ll realize he loves me, and that he loves his child, and we will find a way. I’ll love my child. And all this shit will have been worth it.”
Rubi turned her head over her shoulder to look at him, and Striker felt himself shrink under her gaze – as though it was his fault that she felt that way.
“But you know what happened?” She raised an eyebrow, and he didn’t bother to answer. He knew she would keep on talking regardless, “You were born. And I held you. And you looked so much like your father, that I almost hated you immediately.”
Striker rolled his eyes, “Do you want me to apologize for that?”
“And when your father showed up and held you, of course, after the hard part was done with like the coward that he was,” She clenched her fist, the cigarette in her hand coming undone under her strength, “I just felt angry. I was angry that he wasn’t happy. Angry that he hadn’t been there for delivery. Angry that you looked like him.”
She then let out a sigh, her tone becoming softer.
“But more than anything… I loathed myself for thinking that that one moment would make things better. Because in the end, I set myself up for disappointment. In the end, it was my own fault for thinking it would be different. I was a fool. And I paid for it.”
Rubi let her head fall over her shoulder, her joints cracking loudly.
“And that was when I realized, Striker, that it wasn’t your father. It wasn’t my baby, it wasn’t the cheating, it wasn’t my sister. It was me. I was broken. I was the one making me unhappy. And I would never, ever escape that.”
Striker nodded, taking in her words. She’d never bothered to share much with him, and in a way, he was surprised that she did then. But maybe now that he was leaving, all walls went down. There was no reason to bother to keep up an act anymore.
“Why did you keep me?” Striker asked, the words chocking up in his throat.
Once again, she was in silence as she gave the question some thought.
“Because I set myself up. Everything was awful, and everything sucked. But you, you were my child. I was supposed to love you. You were supposed to make everything worth it and give me motivation despite it all,” Rubi shook her head and laughed, “I was stupid. You were the victim of high expectations even before you were born. And you didn’t meet any of them.”
Striker’s heart skipped a beat, but he just took a deep breath and turned to the door again, finally opening it.
“And I’m sorry.”
Striker stopped in his tracks right before he could step outside.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Striker. In the end… it really wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask to be born, after all. You were a baby, what could you do? You just looked so much like your father, that I, well…” She looked up to look at him, to look at his ringed-eyes which he’d gotten from his father, “Your mere existence is an eternal reminder of my mistake. And that… that’s your birthright.”
Striker pushed the door further open.
“And you think that excuses it all? That I happen to look like the one who sired me?”
“Of course it doesn’t,” She took her palm to her face, as though she was disappointed at him, “I never said it did. I never said it excuses it. I never said you even had to forgive me.”
The sun outside finally set, the room became consumed by darkness.
“I just said I’m sorry. Because I regret it all.”
Rubi turned to look at Striker, and in his mind, he could practically hear her saying ‘And I regret you’.
“Goodbye, mom,” Striker sighed as he held onto his backpack strap and started walking away.
Rubi’s eyes went wild at the way he referred to her, for she’d gotten so used to him using her real name instead. It was one of the first times in many years she’d heard him say that word, and she knew it would be the last.
“Goodbye, son,” She replied, her choice of words having a similar effect on Striker, “Good luck.”
“Good luck, too.”
Striker felt the urge to look over his shoulder and back at the house after he started walking. To make sure that his mother would be looking at him walking away one last time. Because a small part of him hoped that she would be – that she’d want to look at him for as long as she could, one last time.
But he didn’t turn around.
In part, because he knew she wouldn’t be looking at him.
But also, because in the slim chance that she was looking, he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he cared about her looking at him.
Striker’s eyes shot open as he bolted awake in his bed, looking around the room as he panted.
Shivering in confusion and with his heart beating fast, it took him a few seconds to realize where he was. He let out a deep breath as he ran his fingers through his hair, feeling it damp with sweat. He needed to calm down, he told himself.
Looking sideways, Striker’s eyes fell upon the small imp sleeping peacefully by his side.
Striker sighed again and couldn’t help a small smile. He slowly caressed Moxxie’s face with his fingers, reaching for the blanket that he’d pulled when he woke up and covering his lover again.
It had been six months since they began sharing a bed almost every night, but every time he woke up besides Moxxie, it was like the first time all over again.
Moxxie snugged into it in his sleep, and Striker watched him for a few seconds more.
Striker then sat up on the corner of the bed, his elbows on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. He could still see them shaking despite his best efforts to calm down.
How he loathed those memories that forced themselves back into his mind in the form of dreams… or rather, nightmares.
Making sure to be as quiet as possible not to wake Moxxie up, he opened the drawer on his nightstand and grabbed a cigarette and a bottle – both which Moxxie had asked him to stop storing there – and walked up to the window, leaning on the windowsill and lighting up his cigarette before he opened the bottle and took a sip from it.
Looking at the bright white moon in the dark red sky made him shiver – he remembered his mother’s eyes; the pearly white pupils shining against her ruby-red sclera.
There were so many memories of his childhood he had blocked, or pushed away, or just forgotten. But her eyes… those were forever burned into his memory; and he knew it’d be so till the day he ceased to be.
Even when she was under the ground, she still haunted him.
Fuck that.
“Striker?”
Striker turned around and saw Moxxie sitting up on their bed, scratching his eyes as he yawned.
“Hey, Mox,” Striker took another sip from the bottle as he turned to look at the sky again, “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Striker spoke as Moxxie approached him.
Moxxie got to his side and leaned against the windowsill, admiring the sky as well before he turned to Striker and watched him smoke.
“Nightmare?”
“Guess you can put it that way,” Striker shrugged.
Moxxie got closer and pressed his head against Striker’s chest, Striker wrapping an arm around Moxxie’s shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze.
“Do… do you want to talk about it?” Moxxie asked carefully.
“No.”
“Alright,” Moxxie held up his hands, but Striker could tell he wasn’t done, “It’s just… it’s the third one you’ve had one this week. It sounds like there’s something bothering you.”
“When is there not something bothering me, Mox?” Striker scratched his eyes with his wrist.
Moxxie let out a pitiful laugh before he eyed Striker carefully.
“You know… you know you can tell me what is going on if you want to, right? Maybe that could help,” He whispered.
“I know,” Striker took his arm away from around Moxxie, slightly pushing the smaller imp away from him, “I just don’t want to. They’ll stop eventually.”
Moxxie sighed, trying to reach out to touch Striker’s shoulder, but retracting his hand before it could touch him.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Moxxie shrugged, “A nightmare is literally just your brain scaring itself. For no reason. It just decides to mess with itself. Like, who decided that was a good idea, right?”
Striker rolled his eyes.
“Right.”
Moxxie sighed in defeat.
“I just don’t like seeing you like this,” Moxxie scratched his arm, speaking as carefully as he could, “At all. And if I can do anything to stop it, I… I want to.”
Moxxie reached for Striker’s hand, holding it in his as he looked up at the taller imp hopefully. Striker couldn’t help a pitiful smile as he squeezed Moxxie’s hand in his.
“Come on, let’s go back to sleep,” Striker spoke as he threw the cigarette outside, exactly like Moxxie had told him several times not to do, and left the half-empty bottle on the windowsill.
Moxxie smiled as Striker guided him to the bed, noticing it was the first night that week that Striker didn’t finish the bottle he’d grabbed after having a nightmare.
Small steps, he thought to himself.
Striker stood and watched as Moxxie crawled into bed, doing the same once Moxxie seemed to be settled. His head felt heavy against the pillow and his heart was loud against his ribcage, but he hoped he’d fall asleep soon enough.
Moxxie reached for the blanket, covering them both.
“You ok?” Moxxie asked as he looked down at Striker.
“Yeah,” Striker sighed, turning to his side so that his back was on Moxxie, “Sleep well, Mox.”
Striker could feel Moxxie moving by his side, but closed his eyes and tried to get some rest. Until they opened again when he felt Moxxie’s arm make its way under his own, Moxxie placing his head right behind Striker’s neck.
“Hum, what the fuck are you doing?” Striker looked over his shoulder.
Moxxie’s cheeks warmed up and he buried his face deeper into Striker’s nape.
“Uh, cuddling you. Or, something,” Moxxie stuttered as he let out a nervous laugh, “Hum, it helps me when you do that to me, so I just thought I could- you know, try that.”
Striker rolled his eyes.
“That’s so cheesy.”
“Oh,” Moxxie’s smile faded as he took his arm away, “Sorry, I just…”
He was interrupted when Striker held onto his hand and put it around himself again.
“I said it was cheesy,” Striker muttered, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”
Moxxie laughed as he got back into position, happy to comply. Striker smiled as Moxxie wrapped his arms around him again, feeling the smaller imp’s warm breath on his neck as their tails wrapped together.
“Night, Striker.”
Striker felt warm. Inside and out.
“Mox?” Striker called after a few seconds.
“Hum?” He answered, half asleep.
“Are you happy?”
“I’ll be… if you let me… sleep,” Moxxie stuck his tongue out.
“I’m serious,” Striker insisted, “Are you happy, here with me?”
Striker could feel it when Moxxie nodded, clearly barely awake and too tired to carry on the conversation any longer. That reply would have to suffice, for now. Striker bit his lip and sighed letting his body relax more into the mattress.
“Mox?” Striker called again.
There was no reply.
“Mox?” Striker shook his arm slightly. Moxxie just followed his moves like a ragdoll, expressing no reaction, “Mox?”
It was only then that Striker was convinced that Moxxie was asleep, completely unaware of his surroundings.
“I love you,” Striker whispered, and he could feel his body shaking as he did so. He waited for a few seconds – to see if Moxxie would wake up, if he’d say anything, if anything would happen.
Nothing did.
“Fuck it,” Striker could feel his eyes getting watery, but he sucked air in not to let tears fall down his eyes as he closed his hand around Moxxie’s hand that clutched his chest, “I love you so much.”
Moxxie expressed no reaction, no signal that he’d even heard it.
Striker hoped he did, somehow. Or that someday, he’d be able to say that when they were both awake.
He wondered how Rubi would react, seeing him do the one thing she told him not to.
But well, at least he’d learned to prepare for the fall.
Striker closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm embrace of his partner.
He was in love. But it would be ok.
Hopefully.