After years of violence, domestic life was weird to Stryker. He was still a hired gun, however wasn't taking hits on innocent people like his old gang insisted he did. Mostly corrupt business men, and those who prey on seemingly weaker people to get whatever they can get. He'd escaped his old life with you. He helped you run away from your father, a man he was meant to assassinate but ended up ignoring because you were much more important. He wouldn't say looking over his shoulder for old gang members and your fathers lap dogs was domestic, but he tended to ignore that part when he described how he lived, mostly thinking about you at home.

You had taught him kindness, you nursed his wounds and looked after him when he had his less than prettier moments. You helped him realize that his emotions were not a handicap, but something to treasure. However he still struggled with going towards his old style of life, but you set him straight when you noticed.

Today was one of those rougher days when the grief and guilt of what he had done was overwhelming. His chest was tight, his head hurt from the screaming thoughts and the images of those who he had eliminated all for some gang. This was a day where the blood never left his face, never left his hands-- he was drowning in it.

You came home after a long day at your job, shutting the door behind you, abandoning your shoes by the door. You called out to see if he was home, your eyes settling on his figure in the kitchen, hands on the counters edge and looking down into the sink. His burnt orange eyes were clouded over, brows furrowed, a frown forming on his lips. He was gripping the counters edge so tightly his knuckles went white, and he only released it when he heard you call to him. Stryker's eyes flickered with relief, moving swiftly from in front of the sink to in front of you, wrapping his arms around you tightly and burying his face in your shoulder. As you asked what was wrong, his muffled voice came out, hurt and soft, "Just a moment longer. Please."