He just stood there, staring at the floor like he wanted it to swallow him up and spare him from having to answer.
It made my heart sink.
I clutched the edge of the incredibly long kitchen table, forcing myself to stay put and not go over there and shake some sense into him.
“Stryker.” I repeated “god fucking damn it, what have you been eating?”
“Nothing!” He squeezed his eyes shut, shivering “nothing, I…I swear.”
I flinched. “What…?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question.
Stryker opened his eyes again, looking as horrified as I felt. He swayed where he stood, and I rounded the counter, moving towards him, but Stryker staggered away “don’t!” He shook his head frantically, shoulders slamming into the wall behind him “don’t touch me. Please.”
I gulped. I took half a step back, looking at Stryker long and hard. His face was so pasty it looked grey, and his usually dark eyes looked more black than they did brown.
“I won’t.” I grimaced, pointing towards the living room “why don’t…why don’t you go and sit down a minute. You look a little shaky.”
Stryker scoffed “I…I’m not shaky.”
Despite that, he did as suggested, shuffling towards the living room. I couldn’t help staying close, just in case.
He swayed again halfway there, and he made brief eye contact with me, looking absolutely defeated, like he’d resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to make it the rest of the way without help. I smiled sadly, feeling sick at how light he felt when he allowed me to support him the rest of the way.He’d taken his hands out of his pockets, and I noted that he’d been concealing the fact that he’d been clutching his stomach this whole time.
He lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. I sighed and crouched in front of him as he groaned and shivered, head disappearing between his knees.
“Theo?” He croaked after a moment.
“Yeah?”
“I…I feel sick.”
I chewed my lip “you sure? It’s not just hunger pains?”
Stryker shuddered again “no.” He whispered “I feel sick.”
I grimaced, automatically glancing upwards towards the bedroom Matthew was currently asleep in.
“Alright.” I whispered, more to myself than to Stryker “hang on, alright? I’ll…get you a bucket.”
Despite that, I doubted Stryker would have anything to bring up anyway.
I jogged to the kitchen and back to the lounge, finding that, unsurprisingly, Stryker hadn’t moved. I hesitated for a moment, then crouched again and nudged the tin bucket against his legs “you need this?” I asked quietly.
Stryker didn’t look up, but he parted his legs and dragged the bucket up to hold between his knees, breathing heavily. I sat beside him on the couch, keeping my hands dutifully to myself. I gazed at the window, wishing Jack would just hurry up and come back, wincing when Stryker gagged dryly into the bucket.
I tapped my fingers against my thighs, feeling guilty that I’d made Stryker get up at all at the whimpers he was making between gags. I glanced over, hardly surprised that the only thing he was bringing up was mouthfuls of bile.
“What are we going to do with you?” I sighed.
Stryker stiffened, swallowing convulsively a few times before raising his head to glare at me. I grimaced at how wrecked he really looked.
“I’m fine.” He groaned, as if it weren’t obvious that it was a complete lie- a conditioned response. He let the bucket fall to the floor and drew his knees up tighter, hugging one arm against his stomach.
“Yeah, hotshot, you’re the picture of health.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
Stryker squeezed his eyes shut “when’s Jack coming back?” He asked in a quiet, fragile voice.
I shook my head helplessly, asking myself the same thing “soon, I hope.”
