Blood Bourbon

Gentlemen

Ryker 

Fuck Alesky. Fuck his stupid rules.

Ryker stalked down the stairs of his building, needing to burn off the frustration that was burning through him at that moment. He hadn't even paused to grab his phone before he had left the apartment and he wasn't about to go back for it.

He thought he would have been treated to a very embarrassed, adorably bashful cowboy walking out to grab his bag. He had thought that he would be treated to a nice show of the man grabbing his clothing and flashing a little bit of skin.

Instead of listening to the man shower and building his frustration, Ryker had distracted himself with a request for a thorough look at Daryl's medical records. When Alesky had responded to it, as opposed to Tim, and asked why, Ryker had merely texted back.

Something's not adding up.

Ryker's email had chimed not long after that, and he had been scrolling back through the file he had already seen, looking further back through the broken bones, the injuries from rodeo as an adult. But as far as when Daryl was a child, there was nothing.

No illness. Not even a fucking cold.

Though there wasn't much at all after the first two years of Daryl's life, up until the man was about ten. Not even vaccination records. Though if the cowboy had spent time in the hospital, perhaps they had to be careful about vaccinations or illnesses.

But surely Daryl would have faced years of follow up appointments, that would have left a trail. And Ryker should know, he had been doing his homework on this because of Steven. Ryker had been looking up different childhood cancer information since dropping off the boy's file, trying to imagine what the hell was going on with the kid who wanted to be a vampire hunter.

But there was no mention of the sickness in Daryl's records. No follow ups, nothing in the file that indicated Daryl was infertile either.

Then he had glanced up and seen Daryl not bee-lining for his bag, but sauntering to the table of whiskey, the towel clinging damply to the man's hips. He was even more ripped than he had been the last time Ryker had seen him. Solid muscle, very little body fat. Though he glared at the dark bruise forming on Daryl's shoulder and side and fought the urge to growl.

He should have ripped those Hunters to pieces.

Ryker knew that he was making a fool out of himself, drooling over every inch of definition and turned his attention away from the cowboy before he could lose complete control and forgo the polite apology.

Got the files?

Ryker frowned at the message from his boss, before typing out a response. Definitely not adding up. But I'm going to fuck the cowboy.

He didn't need permission from Alesky. It wasn't as if the man was going to drag his ancient ass down here and interrupt anything.

Absolutely not.

Why?

You're being a gentleman, trying to repair whatever the fuck this is. And after tonight, neither one of you is in the right frame of mind. No. Fucking. The. Cowboy.

Tossing his phone down, he had decided to do his best, watching Daryl hesitate over the bottles. There was guilt, enthusiasm, and what seemed to be almost reverence all over the man's features as he looked at the bottles as if they were made of spun glass.

At some point, Daryl had retrieved some tumbler glasses and Ryker almost stopped him and went to retrieve the stupid glasses that had come with the bottles that he had moved into a cabinet. But he was enraptured, watching Daryl pour, then offer a glass to him. There was something to be said about sharing a drink with someone. In the old world, they believed it was a sign of truce, an effort of building relationships, or repairing them.