Blood Bourbon

Whiskey For My Boys

"Here we are." Kyle muttered, before turning to glance at Daryl, who was barely conscious in the back seat. "You sure, man? You really look like you need a doctor of some sort."

Dary glanced out the window, seeing a bar that didn't look particularly out of the ordinary, though the windows were tinted and the door seemed to be made of a heavy metal plating. The sign just read "Vault" and the street around it appeared deserted. None of the neighbouring establishments looked to be in business and there was no one in sight.

"Yeah. This looks like the place. Look, thank you." Daryl sat up, grimacing at the stiffness and the light headedness when he finally moved. He pulled the handle up and half stumbled out of the Jeep, ignoring the worried look of the three marines. "Seriously. You've done me a solid, guys. Thank you."

He just needed to make it a few more steps.

Daryl closed the door and turned around, walking as smoothly as he could manage on a leg that felt like it was going to collapse beneath him. He didn't know how he had made it that far, though he had remembered to grab the bag of dirty bandages, tossing it in the garbage sitting outside the bar door. He shouldn't have survived, he knew he should have bled out by now and that his body was struggling even with whatever he had been injected with or exposed to. Whatever had gotten him this far was starting to gutter and fade out.

The bar was dark as he stepped through the door, soft blues playing on the speaker system. There were a couple people sitting at tables in the far corner, two women playing pool to his right and a guy wiping down the bar. The feeling of safety washed over him as the door closed behind him, so strong that he felt his eyes water. But he couldn't stop there, merely limping his way past the pool game to climb onto a bar stool and lean heavily on the dark wood countertop. These were people, they may have felt slightly on edge but they were safe in ways that Hunters and scientists and even Marines, were not.

"You in the right place, buddy?" The bartender gave him a sceptical look, eyes darkening and nostrils flaring.

"I hope so." Daryl offered the man a smile and was rewarded with a relaxed grin in return. "I know so, actually."

The bartender shrugged and glanced at the bar. "What can I get you? And what kind of trouble have you been in?"

"Mr Alesky doesn't happen to have a tab here, does he?" Daryl didn't know why he asked that, other than the fact that a small part of him knew that Knight Corp would probably be able to figure out what to do with his body, perhaps even contact Charlie some how. And he figured that, with Ryker dying while working for the man, a whiskey wasn't too much to ask.

The bartender looked at him for a long moment, before offering a shrug, " You have a drink of choice?"

Daryl glanced down at the bartop, letting out a slow breath. "Whiskey. I'd really like a whiskey."

"You need a doctor, is what you need." A man stepped up to lean against the bar beside him. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough for Daryl to smell the scene of salt water and forests on him. "Who the hell did you tangle with?"

Daryl heard the bartender move into the back and hoped that he'd manage to get his whiskey. He could hear the man talking, but was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on one thing, let alone two. So he looked to the man in front of him. He seemed young, though his hair was a greyish white, his skin was tanned and his eyes were a golden yellow, like that of a wolf. "I believe you guys call them Hunters. I'd call him an asshole."

"I hope he wound up worse than you. Why do you want a whiskey?" The guy grinned, exposing rows of sharp teeth, though he seemed genuinely amused.

"Cause in every good western, the cowboy dies with whiskey on his tongue." Daryl winced as he shrugged, coughing and hunching over his one side, feeling a weird pressing sensation as he tried to breathe. He could taste blood on his tongue right now but he forced himself to straighten, staring at the rows of alcohol in front of him. "Asshole and most of his friends are probably near the bottom of the pacific now, for what it's worth."

"I'm Castor, by the way." The man stepped closer to him, eyes searching Daryl's face when Daryl turned to look at him. "Are you so set on dying, then, Human?"

"Daryl." He turned as the bartender walked back towards them, sliding him a glass of whiskey and Castor a bottle of beer. "I don't want to die, but I want to rest. I don't even know if I'm human anymore, to be honest."

Daryl found his eyes crossing, shaking his head and grabbing the glass of whiskey, breathing in the scent as he lifted it to his mouth. He took a mouthful and closed his eyes, enjoying the taste of whiskey mixed with blood. Behind him, the two women were still playing pool, the clack of balls dropping into pockets shifting through the music. He grinned, listening as a blues song ended and a Johnny Cash song started up.

Castor didn't respond for a while, though Daryl could feel that the man hadn't stepped away from him. Finally, the man's voice was a low rumble beside him, "I have a distinct feeling that tells me not to let you die, Daryl."

Daryl had opened his mouth to respond when the door swung open, bringing with it the scent of outside and familiarity that had Daryl turning to look in that direction, half falling off of his chair with the sudden movement. Before he could stumble, whether to his feet or knees, he saw Ryker standing in front of him, holding him and lowering him to the ground. "Castor, I think you're too late."

"What the hell are you doing, cowboy?" Ryker asked roughly, half cradling him. Daryl found himself semi-sitting, leaning back heavily and resting his head back on Ryker's shoulder. "Open your eyes Daryl, I need you to understand that I'm making a very important choice for you right now."

"I had hoped I'd see you. Wasn't sure if I would." Daryl turned his face into Ryker's neck, breathing in the scent of him, "I'm sorry they killed you, Ryker. But I got the guy who did it. Ripped his throat out with my teeth."

"I'm not fucking dead, cowboy." Ryker growled. "And even if I was, that doesn't give you the right to fucking give up. You can hate me for this later."

Ryker bit him then, teeth digging into his flesh, sending a new sharp pain through him, far too real to be a hallucination. Daryl's body jerked, then burned, vision swimming as he felt the violent illness of another Treatment. He panicked then, wondering if he had hallucinated the escape completely, if he were really just back in a bed, out of his mind on drugs.

The world collapsed around him into only pain and fever, and someone far stronger than him holding him down.