Chapter Text
An hour passes between Chaz asking that question and the two returning back to Striker’s lair after doing so. They did indeed get coffee, but also had to “pay” for some items they needed but were in short supply of.
“…but yeah, steal from those big stores. They never know what goes missing,” Chaz says as they enter, being met with a nod from Striker.
He doesn’t realize that the whole time they were out, he’s been the one talking most of the time. However, Striker doesn’t seem to mind. Or maybe he does.
Chaz opens the door to the saloon and leans on it as Striker goes inside. It’s only now when he realizes how much he has truly not taken care of himself. The wounds sloppily wrapped in bandages, the bags under his eyes, the way fatigue subtly looms over him like a cloud.
He can’t help but pity him, but he would never admit such a thing out loud.
Striker sits down on his mattress and grabs his angelic blade. Upon examining it, he realizes how dull it’s gotten. He clenches it, cursing under his breath as he begins sharpening it with a rock he definitely didn’t just pick up outside the saloon a while back.
As he’s doing this, Chaz approaches the mattress and sits next to him, watching him sharpen the blade with interest.
“Damn. Blade’s lookin’ real blunt.”
Striker doesn’t respond. He just continues the long process of getting the blade’s sharpness and lethality back.
“Could you imagine having to kill someone with that? Ugh.”
No response again.
“…what, cat got your tongue?”
He pauses sharpening the blade for a second and looks at Chaz with eyes that ask him to stop. Striker then continues until he’s satisfied with his work. He sets the blade down and checks his phone. He was tempted to do so many times while the two were out, but Chaz stopped him every single time without fail.
This time, Chaz just watched, hoping that he wouldn’t suddenly spring up and run out into another job.
Oddly enough, there are only three voicemails. One is from the vet asking to confirm an appointment with Bombproof, one is just a reminder he set himself to take Bombproof to said vet, and the last one, well…
“Listen here, you fuckin’ bitch! I’ll have you know that I’m not someone to be messed with! If you don’t accept my offer right now, I’ll-“
It was from that same guy who called him earlier that morning. Striker closes his eyes as the message plays and deletes it before it could finish. Why did he do that? He’s never done that. Was it because Chaz was most likely going to delete it for him if he didn’t? Was it because he truly couldn’t care less about any more jobs today? Either way, he immediately felt how…wrong it was.
No matter if he objectively made the right choice or not.
Striker sets his phone down on the mattress and stares at the ground in front of him. For the first time in, well, ever, he’s had to genuinely think about what he is doing (and what he has done). And the question of if he even likes being an assassin still rings in his mind.
“Y’know, that was the right choice,” Chaz says quietly, breaking the silence.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Striker responds, slightly leaning against Chaz in the same way he did that morning.
“But it was. I hope you realize that you need to take some time for yourself, too.”
There isn’t a response. Striker just sighs defeatedly and leans forward, holding his head in his hands.
“Dude, just…take it easy. I know it’s easy for me to say that, but…”
Chaz pauses for a second, resting a hand on Striker’s back.
“…I care about you. Why else would I try so hard to stop you from pushing yourself further?”
He lets the question linger for a second, not expecting an answer.
“And if you think I’m gonna do this for the next few weeks, you’re damn right. You’re not doing any more work until every last one of those wounds heal.”
Striker winces at the thought of not being able to satisfy clients at the rate he’s doing so now, but he doesn’t protest for whatever reason. It’s almost uncharacteristic, but they’ve already fought this fight about it.
Chaz then moves to the edge of Striker’s mattress and wraps his arm around his shoulders.
“You’re a good friend,” he states.
He is once again met with silence. However, this time, Striker wraps his own arm around Chaz’s shoulders. As hard as it was for him to admit it, he felt the same way.
But luckily, it went without saying.