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Chapter Text

“Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!” Striker yelled angrily as he entered his lair, progressively getting louder.

The job he was hired for did not go well. At all. He had that bastard Blitzø and his stupid clown friend cornered, and then that clown had to go cause that scene and distract him/those dumb goons that were supposed to be helpful to him.

But that wasn’t the worst part, no. Sure, he caught that clown again and could have blown his brains out, but said clown just HAD to make a comment about how aroused he was. And Blitzø HAD to shoot those oil barrels. And-

Striker growled angrily as he threw his angelic blade straight into the wall, piercing it as it would one of his targets. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through his body, causing his breathing to turn into panting for a short while.

Oh yeah, those oil barrels Blitzø shot? They caused a fire that burned large parts of his body. And clothing.

At this point, every little thing made Striker grow more enraged (more than what anyone in Hell could think was possible). Every little thing reminded him of defeat after defeat by that fucking imp and his employees.

“Another failed job?”

That was Chaz, walking out of the lair’s saloon, appropriately named “Striker’s Saloon.” After failing to integrate himself into Crimson’s family, he found Striker and somehow managed to convince him to roommate with him. It was a wonder he was still alive, considering he had his jawbone and teeth ripped clean out of him. That made the first few weeks awkward when he needed money for replacement fangs.

But nonetheless, Striker tolerated him, at least. He stayed out of the way and even helped his injuries (as payment for living under someone else’s ceiling).

“FUCK that FUCKING clown and his-“

“Okay, dude. Take a breath,” Chaz cut Striker off loudly. He knows he gets extremely vulgar when mad.

Striker groaned in both pain and annoyance, both hands clawing at his own face in frustration. He held his breath before huffing dramatically.

“Fine. Just…fine. Tell me you have the shit for burns.”

“…I do. Come inside,” Chaz breathes a sigh of relief as his roommate calms down, and doesn’t hold back a chuckle at the unintentional innuendo.

“Do not start,” Striker states angrily, limping towards the saloon.

The “sex thing,” as he put it, got him into this condition, but also he just wasn’t a fan of sexual innuendos. In the slightest. And unluckily for him, that was the majority of Chaz’s vocabulary. He didn’t even try to censor himself. He, in his own words, “didn’t know why it was such a big deal, though.”

Striker, after a painstakingly long time, makes it to the saloon, where he sits down on the bed he set up there. Yet another jolt of pain surges through his body, making him swear under his breath.

“Damn, that looks rough,” Chaz said, pointing out the obvious. He then gathered the supplies (that he definitely didn’t steal) and sat down next to Striker on the bed.

“Everything you’re wearing. Off,” he said flatly, preparing the burn medicine. This is one of the few times where he didn’t mean it in a sexual manner.

“Excuse me?” Striker asked with barely-suppressed rage, gritting his fangs.

“I’m serious. Take off everything so I can apply the stuff. Above the belt, at least.”

Striker grumbled as he quickly took off his jacket, vest, and turtleneck. He also removed his signature southern-looking hat and bandana, not cautious of the wounds that clearly hurt a lot. If the burns looked bad while he was fully clothed, then they were ten times worse underneath it all.

“Just clean the damn wounds.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Chaz retorted as he began to apply the medicine.

Despite his self-centered and brash nature, he made sure to at least try to go gentle on Striker’s wounds. This is especially the case since he usually came back with at least more than one. Being an assassin is not an easy job.

As for Striker, he remains quiet as his burns get treated, occasionally hissing from the pain. He was used to it, sure, but today’s burns were just that bad.

“…was this about that guy you hate? Blitzø, or whoever?” Chaz inquired.

Striker nodded subtly, not bothering to turn and look at him. He disliked most, but one imp he had the most vitriolic hatred for was Blitzø Buckzo. That was made more obvious by the fact that a lot of the past few jobs he had revolved around him in some way.

“Damn, again,” Chaz muttered to himself while attempting to cool down the burns (something he realizes he probably should have done earlier).

Striker doesn’t go off on a tangent about his sworn enemy (well, one of) this time, a new thing for him. He was just…tired.

Tired of losing, tired of getting badly injured so fucking much, tired of having to have someone tend to his wounds. It came to a point where it was obvious even to someone like Chaz.

“Lookin’ kinda out of it,” he said, breaking the silence that just formed after getting rid of the last one.

“…it’s fine,” Striker replied forcefully.

“Whatever you say.”

Chaz moved on to wrapping the wounds with bandages. He made sure that each burn was tightly wrapped, but not tightly enough to where they would cut off circulation. Just like that, he covered every burn on Striker’s body, from the torso to the tail.

“Done.”

As Chaz says he’s done with the wounds, Striker starts to put back on most of the clothing he took off.

“Thanks,” Striker mumbled in a way that didn’t express his true gratitude.

“…just get some rest,” Chaz responded quietly, resting a hand on his roommate’s (now clothed) shoulder.

Chaz then watches as Striker flops down onto the bed with a soft thud, who sighs dramatically and turns over to the side facing away from him. He places a comforting hand on his leg, both showing a rare instance of vulnerability to each other. Chaz wasn’t the brightest demon in Hell, but he was smart enough to realize one thing:

Contrary to what Striker told him, it was, indeed, not fine.

Chapter Text

The sun rose over the horizon of the Wrath Ring as Chaz opened his eyes. After treating the wounds, both of them fell asleep on the same bed; a first. But considering that they slept with their backs to each other, hopefully Striker wouldn’t be too mad about sharing the bed. If it’s mentioned.

Chaz sat up slowly and yawned, rubbing his eyes to try and wake himself up. He then looked at Striker, who is still fast asleep. He had been sleeping noticeably longer than usual lately, often by a few hours. Maybe it’s just the wounds?

He stood up and stretched briefly before returning to his own mattress (that, again, he definitely didn’t steal) and sitting down. Because the mine shaft the two live in has no running water, Chaz resorted to squirting water in his face to wash it and wake himself up more.

Then, as if on cue, Striker woke up and shifted to lay on his back, groaning loudly to try and release his pent-up stress and anger. It never completely worked, but he still did it every morning ever since Chaz recommended it to him.

“Morning, sleepyhead~” Chaz said teasingly as he combs his hair.

“Ugh…mornin’,” Striker mumbled, resting his forearm on his head as he huffs.

“You must have slept well, doll~” Chaz observed playfully, now applying way too much gel to his hair to style it.

“Chaz, no. Too early.”

Striker sat up like he was being weighed down by a ball and chain. He slept on something wrong, so now he’ll ache the entire day. Starting the morning strong.

“Don’t forget to take your painkillers. You’re kind of a bitch without them.”

Chaz didn’t remember when he had to start reminding Striker to take painkillers every time he went out for a job, but now he has to every single morning for him not to forget (or avoid taking it entirely).

“Mmph…thanks,” Striker responded sarcastically.

But he took them anyways. He reached over to the side of his bed and picked up the bottle of pills that was deliberately placed there by Chaz. He opened it up and swallowed one of the pills. One. He tried taking two and that ended up in him puking about a fourth of his body weight.

Striker scratched at himself a little. However, he accidentally ran his fingers across one of the burns, making him yelp in pain as he held it, shaking slightly. Yep, still raw. And if he wasn’t awake before, he sure was now.

“Careful, now. I just treated those,” Chaz responds indifferently, secretly sympathizing with his pain.

He then strolls over to the bar and pours himself a glass of whiskey to start the day off. He sits down on a stool as he downs the drink, his shark-like tail swaying as he continues to gaze at Striker.

“Fuckin’…bitch…” Striker grumbles painfully.

The saloon remains quiet as Chaz watches him recover from the pain. He’s always been fascinated by how quickly he can simply just…get over it. Was that a Wrath thing, or learned skill? Either way, it’s both impressive and quite concerning. If Chaz was the one who got his skin burned raw, he’d still be on the bed writhing in agony. That sort of already happened after the surgery that gave him a prosthetic jawbone.

Chaz finished his drink and slammed the glass down onto the counter, sighing in satisfaction.

“Pour me some too, will ya?” Striker looked over at him after getting over the sudden pain.

“Yeah, no can do. You’re on medication.”

“Since when have you-“

“I did not steal- I mean pay for the strongest painkillers in all seven Rings of Hell just for you to drink and OD while on them,” Chaz states sternly, cutting him off.

“No,” Striker leans back on the mattress, sighing before looking straight at Chaz, “since when have you cared about me this much?”

He stays silent for a noticeable amount of time, unsure of how to answer that question. Much like how he himself was insecure about his financial status, Striker was never a fan of having someone treat him any nicer than he treats those “blue-bloods.”

“…I always have. Ever since we became roommates.”

Striker stared at him, silently judging his poor, naive mindset. He then rolled his eyes and checked his phone for any missed “job offerings.” There was one, so he called the number back while stepping outside.

“Howdy, you reached Striker…” was the last part Chaz heard before Striker exited the saloon and shut the door.

As he watches him close the door, he exhales defeatedly. Why did Striker feel the need to answer every phone call? It certainly wasn’t the money, and it definitely wasn’t out of fear of being hunted.

Chaz asks himself this as he rests his arms on the bar counter, using one hand to prop his head up. Maybe it was just the whiskey kicking in, but something inside him genuinely felt concerned for his rattlesnake, Wrath-born roommate.

However, his thoughts are interrupted by Striker swiftly shoving the door to the saloon doors open and preparing his things for another target.

“Wh-“ Chaz began to ask a question before being promptly interrupted.

“No time, this victim’s all the way down in Envy and he needs to be dead by nightfall,” Striker says hurriedly, gathering his weapons (including the angelic knife he threw into the shaft’s wall yesterday).

“…okay. Have fun,” Chaz said with fake passiveness.

Striker swiftly books it out the saloon and his lair, taking on the client that he could have just as easily ignored or put off (according to Chaz, at least).

After he left, Chaz sat there for another few minutes before getting up and walking out as well. He had nothing else to do, so he decided to just…go somewhere. And maybe pick up anxiety meds for his roommate. Striker hasn’t gotten diagnosed with anything yet, but the signs of it are huge and might as well be lit with neon.

Chapter Text

It all happened so fast. Before he could shoot, he was disarmed and cornered in an alleyway. The target didn’t just want to live, no, he wanted to kill Striker in revenge by using his own sadistic ways.

He still overpowered Striker despite only bringing a knife to the gunfight, pinning him to the ground and stabbing him in the arm. His sleeve was quickly stained black with his blood. Striker, in retaliation, kicked him in the stomach and pushed him off, attempting to grab his blessing-tipped rifle.

He reached down, but before he could grab it, his target grabbed him from behind and stabbed him in the abdomen. No blood to be coughed up, but it pierced through previously burnt skin. As soon as the target let go, he fell to his knees and clenched the spot that was now bleeding out at a steady rate.

He then closed his eyes and dove for the rifle, turning onto his back and shooting point blank at his target. This time, he managed to hit his target’s heart. In a similar manner, he falls to the hard ground. However, he does not get up. Striker had won the battle. Just barely.

But he had not won the war just yet. Striker called his client to tell him about what he had done and that he would come pick up the money later. Afterwards, he lay in the alleyway alone with the corpse, clenching his black-stained chest as he watched the sun begin to fall. It was going to be a long ride back to his lair.

With heavy breathing, Striker slowly got up and dragged himself out of the alley with his rifle. He slung the rifle around his shoulder and mounted his horse, Bombproof, who immediately sensed his owner’s pain. He ran as fast as he could back home, being careful not to cause Striker any more pain than what he’s already experiencing.

But Striker is already in much more pain than what he could take.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chaz sat on his bed, scrolling through nothing in particular on his phone. Even though he was bored with what he saw, it was better than sitting around and worrying about where his roommate was. After all, he already did that more than he wanted to admit.

Chaz groaned in boredom as he walked out of the saloon, slowly growing more impatient as time went on. He leaned against the outside wall, once again beginning to scroll through whatever social media app he’s probably been banned from at least once.

Good news for him, however, was that Striker did come back.

The bad news was that he had a 50/50 chance of going away forever. That depended on how well either of them could stop the bleeding.

Chaz’s eyes widened significantly as he watched Striker clench his abdomen in pain before walking swiftly over to him on his steed. He swears under his breath as he goes faster and faster, eventually stopping at Bombproof’s side as he reaches for Striker.

Striker, not having the energy to properly dismount, falls off the stallion and, luckily, into Chaz’s arms.

“What the FUCK happened to you?” Chaz asked frantically as he power-walked back to the saloon, this time faster than when he left.

“Nothin’…I took care of him,” Striker responded weakly through gritted fangs.

It clearly wasn’t “nothing.”

“Damn it, Striker! This is what happens when you don’t let yourself heal!” Chaz exclaimed as he pushes the saloon door open with his shoulder.

“Sh-shut up…!” Striker retorted through heavy breaths and sounds of pain.

Chaz laid him down gently on his own bed so he doesn’t have to go farther to get the medical supplies. In fact, Chaz keeps them under his bed for safe-keeping. He pulled the first-aid kit out and sets it beside Striker.

“Clothing. Off. Again, not in a sexual way,” Chaz commanded as he rummaged through to find everything he needs.

Striker held his breath as he removed all of the clothing above his waist. This felt strangely familiar (except for the fact that he goes slowly to avoid the extra pain). He lays there, gasping in pain every few seconds as Chaz applied more pressure to both of the wounds.

“Hold still, dammit. Here,” Chaz gave him some antibiotics as he continues to apply pressure.

Without any liquids, Striker is still able to swallow his second pill of the day as he writhes in pain. He grips his roommate’s bedsheets to try and relieve it.

After a few minutes, Chaz poured some of his water onto a rag and proceeded to clean the wounds on both his arm and chest. He himself was trying to remain calm, even though he had to entertain the thought of Striker dying in his care.

And the thought kept requesting him for an encore of the guilty feeling that came with it.

In their states of shared stress, they forgot about the painkillers. Striker, having two fairly deep wounds, absolutely needed them. Against his wishes, he was shedding a few tears from the agony of what could have been a disembowelment.

“Breathe. You’re gonna be okay,” Chaz stated, exasperated and almost like he wanted to believe it himself.

He then applies some petroleum jelly onto the wounds. In his panic, he somehow remembered one video he saw on how to apply first aid to a severe wound. He knew he saved that video for a reason.

As for Striker, the pain he was feeling had yet to subside. Every movement, no matter how small, caused him agony on his still-exposed wounds.

Although neither of them had perfect vision, Chaz could very much see at least one muscle in his arm that was torn from the blade that Striker’s target wielded. If the burns didn’t need that much time to heal, this certainly did. At least one of them knew that.

Chaz lifts Striker into a sitting position, applying bandages to the stab wound in his arm as he speaks up. This would be the first either one of them has talked in an uncomfortably long amount of time.

“Tell me what happened.”

“…he had a knife. And I’ll be damned if he wasn’t good at usin’ it,” Striker replied quietly, tired of enduring the pain that’s still lingering.

It’s really embarrassing for him, having to admit that he was almost bested. Striker wasn’t born in the Pride ring but he sure had a lot of it.

Chaz wraps up the incision in his chest tightly as well, the bandages on both wounds already stained black with blood. He then sighs as he looks at his bloodied roommate before packing up the medical supplies and returning them back to where they originally were.

Striker begins to pick at the bandages Chaz put on his left arm, uncomfortable at how tight they are. In fact, all the bandages wrap around his body in the past 24 hours have been really tight, like some sort of bear hug. If that’s what it felt like, then maybe Striker would like to be hugged (for once in his life).

Chaz sits next to him on the bed, slowly lowering his hand away from the bandages.

“That’s gonna need a long time to heal,” he said with a sigh, his clawed hand resting on Striker’s.

“You know I don’t have that kinda time,” Striker argued, already stressing about the clients that’ll probably call tomorrow.

And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

Chaz can already see the subtly anxious look in Striker’s glowing, yellow eyes. In response, he gets up and grabs the bottle of painkillers from the other bed, as well as the anxiety medication he picked up a few hours ago. As a result from a five-minute internet search, he knew that these two specific medications don’t cancel out or cause easy overdoses. He takes one pill from each and hands them to Striker.

“Here. They’ll both work.”

Striker, who didn’t start taking meds until Chaz forced him to, was reluctant to take them. He stares at the pills in Chaz’s hands before looking back up at him.

“…you sure?”

Chaz nods and moves his hand closer to him, urging him to take the pills.

And Striker does eventually take the pills, again without any liquid to help him ingest them. He doesn’t say anything about doing so, but he silently and weakly wraps his tail around Chaz’s. Striker has never believed believe in low points, but this was sure one of them. It went without saying.

Chaz, picking up on Striker’s subtle gratitude and request for comfort, wraps an arm around his torso. He is, of course, careful not to press too hard on the fresh wounds.

Striker, in response, unwraps his tail from where it was and puts his own arms around Chaz’s body. Something about the way his hoodie covers his scarred body that feels…warm. Welcoming, even. He gets closer, not even realizing how clingy he’s being. It’s better off that way.

Chaz also wraps his other arm around Striker, once again being careful not to hurt an already-wounded area.

Striker rests his head on Chaz’s shoulder, sighing softly as he rests his eyes.

“I’m not weak, am I?” he mumbled, briefly squeezing tighter.

Dead silence. After a few seconds, Chaz slowly pulls Striker into his chest and leans back onto the bed, holding him against himself as he rubs his back. Chaz wasn’t looking directly at him, but he could feel all the scars from wounds either taken care of incorrectly or straight up neglected.

“Nah. Just…be more careful next time,” he said quietly.

If it wasn’t for the signs lighting up Striker’s lair, it would have been completely dark in the saloon. Maybe it’s better that neither of them could see much past sunset.

“…’kay,” Striker murmured, closing his eyes.

Chaz eventually did the same, but he wouldn’t fall asleep until much later. He needed time to process the sight of seeing his roommate so…hurt. In more ways than one, no less.

…how could he have let this happen?

Chapter Text

The morning after was…unnaturally quiet. Nothing going on inside or outside Striker’s lair. Maybe it’s because both of them got way more sleep than they normally do. Not to mention, for the first time in however many moons, the atmosphere is calm.

Striker groans quietly as he wakes up. He’d do the thing where he makes a loud noise to vent his frustrations, but something stopped him from doing so. It sure as Hell couldn’t be that he didn’t want to wake his roommate up, right?

Probably, considering that he was aching too much to move. Despite being given painkillers the previous night, his body felt so heavy and pained. He moves his body to where his head is right under Chaz’s (who is still fast asleep).

Striker continued breathing slowly and manually, forcing himself to remain calm as he lays on Chaz’s chest. He was just about to go back to sleep, but something stopped him from doing so at the last minute.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He slowly reached into it and pulled it out, lowering the volume before he answered the call.

“Howdy…” Striker whispered tiredly.

“Hi, you’re that hitman I hired yesterday, I assume?” the voice on the other line answered.

“Yeah…? What do you want?”

“I have another job for you.”

“Ugh…how much?”

“Same as last time. So there’s this other guy-“

“Okay, sir, your last job kinda did a number on me. Can’t ya’ stop bein’ so trigger happy for one day?”

“Do you want the money or not?” the client asked rudely.

“…keep going.”

“So there’s this guy who-“

As soon as the man on the other side of the phone was about to describe the target, Striker felt his flip phone being pulled out of his hand.

“Hi. Striker’s roommate. I dunno what the fuck your deal is, but he’s not your  servant to do your bidding whenever you want. How ‘bout you take the money you’d pay him, buy a 10 foot dildo with it, and shove it up your ass. Got it? Have a horrible day.”

Chaz hangs up and closes the phone, putting it back into Striker’s pocket like it was nothing.

“What the fuck, dude?” Striker said, pushing his body off of Chaz. He winces in pain due to the sudden movement of definitely-injured muscles.

“Look at yourself. You’re in no condition to kill another target,” Chaz said nonchalantly, rubbing his hand over Striker’s bandaged arm.

Striker immediately becomes enraged. How dare Chaz try to stop him from doing his job?

“Are you outta your mind? He was gonna pay me big time!” Striker raised his voice, trying to get off Chaz, who still has his tail wrapped around him.

“You don’t need the money. You live in a goddamn mineshaft,” Chaz said in rebuttal, slightly raising his voice as well.

“Okay Mr. ‘I-Tried-To-Marry-The-Mafia-Boss’s-Son-To-Get-Into-His-Rich-Family,’ look who’s talkin’.”

“Ooh, deep cut,” Chaz muttered solemnly, “but what’s your point?”

“My point, Sir Artificial Jawbone, is that I don’t want us to live like we’re homeless!”

“Goddamn, again,” Chaz once again mutters.

Striker began to breathe heavily. He Hated (with a capital H) the thought of being poor. Both because of what happened to Chaz and, well, one particularly large skeleton in his own closet.

“…do you even like this job?”

“Fuck yeah…? Why do you say that?” Striker asked after a moment of trying to calm himself down.

“Name one benefit of being a hitman that isn’t the money, adrenaline rush, or your hatred for royalty.”

“W- you can’t just- that’s not fair.”

“Exactly. Now look at your body and tell me you’re in the condition to be doing this.”

“Wh- Fuck you, I’m completely fine,” Striker said as he wrestled Chaz’s tail.

Chaz slowly unwraps his tail, freeing Striker. However, this freedom is short lived after he grabs his wrist firmly.

“You asked me if you were weak yesterday.”

Striker stops trying to pull himself away. Was it exhaustion? Was he actually listening to Chaz this time?

“…ow…fuck,” Striker mumbles, once again rubbing his arm.

“See? You can’t even pull away from me.”

Chaz sits up on the bed and once again wraps his arms around Striker.

“Take a deep breath, dude. I’m not letting you hurt yourself more than you already have.”

Striker scoffs at that, but gently wraps his arms around Chaz in return. He shivered at the feeling of Chaz’s warm, hoodie-covered body surrounding his, half-expecting him to plunge a knife into his back or something. But a few seconds pass and nothing happens to him.

As those few seconds pass, Striker slowly melts into Chaz’s touch, almost making them both fall over from the weight distribution. He whimpers quietly as the wounds beginning to ache again.

“Shh…you’re okay. You can rest today. No one’s blamin’ ya,” Chaz mumbled, resting his head on Striker’s.

He slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out, putting it out of reach for him. Now was Chaz’s chance to finally get Striker to take a day off.

“…I need those painkillers,” Striker said defeatedly.

“I’ll get them for you.”

Chaz carefully sits Striker back down on his bed as he retrieves the painkillers. While doing so, he takes his phone and places it with his stuff. When he returns, he finds Striker sitting cross-legged with his head in his hands. He may also be clawing at himself.

“Here,” Chaz puts his hand out for Striker to take the pill.

He does eventually take it out of his hand and swallow it. Having his hands away from his head also gives Chaz the opportunity to see how distraught Striker is. Among other things.

It gives Chaz a pit in his stomach seeing his normally boastful roommate so…out of it.

He sits down next to Striker and wraps his arm around him. He could already tell that words wouldn’t comfort him as much as physical touch (even though it’s something he’s still getting used to).

Striker, in return, once again wraps his arms around Chaz in what could only be described as some sort of side-hug as his tail rattles quietly.

Just for a second, Chaz could have sworn he saw him crying. Not out of pain of his many wounds, but of something neither of them thought he could feel: Sad.

…if blood was thicker than water, then why did the tears fall down his face so slowly?

Chapter Text

Up until he met Chaz, Striker would have the same recurring dream for days on end. He would reject a client, and a few hours later, the client would be pinning him to the floor and dragging a knife into and across his body.

Striker could never remember dreams (or even nightmares) that well, but he could have sworn that the agony was burned into his mind. This would go on until he simply couldn’t find the time to worry about those nightmares. He had jobs from the mansions of Sloth to the warehouses of Greed.

Until today. The adrenaline rush from his victims’ screams were absent. The gunshots from his blessed rifle couldn’t fill the empty space in the air anymore. Everything else he could occupy his head or his hands with was too far away.

Striker usually could never remember the nightmares that well, but the one that plagued his mind for days at a time burned into him once again. He could envision it: this faceless client barging into the saloon and choking him out, leaving him with just enough air so he would live through the painting of his skin with his own blood.

He now wraps his arms tighter around Chaz, his fists clenched the fabric of his hoodie. He didn’t know that he’d always be with him, so he tried to grab onto any form of reassurance he could get without asking. He unknowingly breathes faster to negate the fact that he could feel his chest becoming heavier. To negate the feeling of weakness and paranoia wrapped around him like a snake around its prey.

He was too hot. Too cold.

Too sighted. Too blind.

The feeling of the bandages against his skin made him want to claw them off. Every attempt at a deep breath was met with this metaphorical snake wrapping him tighter. He began to feel dizzy and couldn’t stop himself from crying harder even though he could feel how pathetic he’s being.

Striker thought he was going to black out. He almost did, if it weren’t for Chaz picking up on his state of distress and panic. To try and help him, Chaz hands him one of the water bottles from the big case he acquired the day prior.

“Here. Drink it.”

After staring at the bottle, briefly paralyzed by his own fears, he slowly unwraps one arm and takes the water bottle, chugging it like he was in a desert and on the brink of death.

Does that make him feel much better? No. However, he stopped crying and his breathing begins to slow down again. And when you feel like you have nothing, the small victories matter a lot more.

“You wanna get coffee or something?” Chaz asks as if his roommate isn’t still in a state of panic.

“…yeah,” Striker mumbles tiredly.

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.