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hopefulatrocity · 9 months

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From The Ashes- Chapter 9

Note: Thank you to my wonderful beta, @garlic-the-gnome, who also made this beautiful edit. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's Pheonyx and Daryl's first time really conversing one on one. Next chapter is a big one, twice the size of my past chapters. Also, can anyone recognize a future TWD character that Pheonyx knows? Honestly one of the first scenes I thought of for this story(way down the line canon wise) involves them.

Chapter CW/TW: past depression/anxiety, allusions to past rape/non-con, past child abuse, transphobia mentions(Shane), anxiety

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Pheonyx's POV

For some people, home is a house. Four walls, a roof, a nice bed. If you ask them to describe their home, they’d probably tell you about the color of paint on the siding, or the flowers planted out front, or maybe the style of the dwelling. Maggie and Beth would give a picturesque description of the farmhouse that they had grown up in. The white exterior, the black window panels, the large wrap around porch, the height marks on the kitchen doorway that go back 4 generations, even the rolling fields bordering the historic home. It was the house where they learned to walk, learned to ride horses, where they had their first loves and subsequent first heartbreaks. It was where they had a loving mother and father who supported them throughout every hardship and shaped them into the kind, strong women they were. While the farmhouse was heaven compared to the house he spent the first 8 years of his life in, Pheonyx could never truly call it home. It was a safe place, yes. He didn’t have to worry about being beaten, burned, or degraded like before, but that didn’t mean he felt like he belonged.

No, the farmhouse was simply a shelter. A place to rest his head during the night before he would escape to his real home. An acre away from the house, the rich, dense forest was where Pheonyx felt solace. When Pheonyx told Rick that he spent everyday in those woods, he hadn’t been exaggerating. Apart from the years he was in Michigan and a couple cases of the flu during his grade school years, he had spent everyday in the woods on the property. It was an escape from the stresses of bullies, school, and church. An escape from his anxiety, his depression, and his own personal demons that formed from having a monster as a father. In the woods, he was safe. In the woods, he didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself.

Walking side by side with Daryl Dixon though, Pheonyx had to admit that he was a bit nervous. The safety of the woods had calmed his nerves from the sudden presence of Rick’s group and of Shane’s transphobic comments. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious about working with a man who made his insides turn to mush.

No words had been spoken in the first thirty minutes of their hike. Even when they went to enter the woods, Pheonyx had only held out a hand in front of Daryl, to stop him before he walked straight into the brush-covered barbed wire that lined the edges of the woods. The man had grunted at him(possibly a thank you?) before stepping over the metal wire. Pheonyx had nodded in return and picked up Kismet, all seventy lbs of wiggling hound, before stepping over himself. The dog practically leapt out of his arms to follow after the archer. Apparently, Kismet was also enamored by Daryl.

So they walked in silence, Daryl just a step in the lead with his crossbow held ready in his hands. Pheonyx couldn’t help but watch him. At the farm, Daryl’s muscles were tense, even when he was in the presence of his group, people he had probably been with since the beginning of the outbreak. His eyes were constantly flitting back and forth, looking for threats of any kind. He looked like a scared deer about to bolt back into the forest.

But there, in the woods, Daryl was calm, relaxed. His posture displayed a self-confidence that wasn’t apparent at the farm. The steady movements he made were almost majestic. Although he was walking at a normal pace, his steps were careful and silent, evidence of years of hunting and tracking. The woods around the farm had always been dangerous, but even more so now that the dead were walking around. Pheonyx felt at ease knowing he was walking with someone who knew what they were doing

Despite that ease, he was still feeling the inner butterflies that he was wholly unfamiliar with. This attraction wasn’t something Pheonyx was accustomed to. He’d felt romantic attraction to people before and sexual attraction, but not often since his 22nd birthday. He honestly felt like he had lost a part of himself that night all those years ago. That, maybe, those demons had broken him beyond repair. Had stolen not only his innocence but his ability to trust anyone enough to feel any sort of attraction to them. As part of his healing process, he tried having sex with various people. Shawna, River, and Kasey were women he’d made friends with while working at the tattoo parlor. With them, it was more of a hookup situation. He wasn’t really friends with them, but he trusted them enough to attempt a physical relationship with them. Pheonyx was up front with them about his issues, the idea of maybe leading someone on didn’t sit right with him, and they all had been okay with keeping things as a casual encounter. All three were survivors like him and were familiar with how difficult physical intimacy could be after traumatic events. The only other person Pheonyx had had sex with was Aaron. But he didn’t count that as a hookup by any means. While he wasn’t romantically or sexually attracted to him, Aaron was his friend. More than a friend really. The man had saved his life. He’d been barely clinging to life in that alley and the only reason he survived was because Aaron found him. He’d put pressure on his wound and covered him to protect his dignity while they waited for an ambulance. Unlike most strangers would have, Aaron didn’t leave him when he was taken to the hospital. No, he stuck around. Even after Hershel and his mother had arrived, he stuck at his bedside. He held Pheonyx’s hand for days when he was unconscious, and when nurses were taking evidence from his broken body. Even when he was nearly catatonic, Aaron would come in and read to him or even just talk about nothing. The fact that he had stuck with him, had created a bond that a simple word like “friendship” couldn’t even begin to cover. Aaron had even transferred his job to Michigan for a while after Pheonyx moved so that they could still be around each other. A couple years later, after getting drunk and celebrating Aaron’s upcoming trip with his NGO to Niger, inhibitions lowered by alcohol, they had ended up in bed together. It was clumsy and awkward, but it showed Pheonyx that sex–with a cis man in particular– didn’t have to hurt. It wasn’t something to fear anymore. Afterwards, they both had agreed that they were better as friends. Even Aaron, a man he trusted implicitly and who wasn’t unattractive by any means, didn’t make him feel the way Daryl did. Having barely spent an hour in the man’s presence, Pheonyx was almost willing to throw caution to the wind and try to get closer to the man walking beside him.

He had barely spoken to Daryl and yet he felt no fear or apprehension in regards to the man hurting him. The only thing he felt was the weight in his chest that one would get when in the presence of their grade school crush. And the feeling of heat in an area of his body that he had actively avoided for a long time.

Kismet was oblivious to the turmoil in his owner’s head. He ran ahead of them, sniffing trees and chasing birds, occasionally stopping to run back and make sure that Daryl and Pheonyx were still behind him. He would trot alongside them for a moment before running ahead again. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Pheonyx could see a slight upturn of Daryl’s lips whenever Kismet would trot back to them. He couldn’t blame him. The dog was adorable and his cuteness was why he got away with any trouble that his speckled paws managed to stumble into.

The only noises around them were the ambient swaying of leaves in the late-summer breeze, the crunching of debris under Kismet’s large paws, and the occasional whistling of a bird high in the trees. Combined it was one of Pheonyx’s favorite songs. But honestly, he wanted to break the silence and speak to Daryl. Break the ice. Learn everything he could about the man. But what did he say?

“Hey, so you’re probably straight and could possibly be transphobic, but I think you’re super attractive and you don’t make me feel like I’m dying of anxiety when I’m in your vicinity. So, would you maybe want to hang out sometime?”Pheonyx internally snorted. That would be too forward. So he started small.

“How long until we get to where Sophia was last seen?” he broached the waters glancing at the man out of the corner of his eye.

“Ain’t too far. Maybe ‘nother hour on foot. Rick left ‘er at the creek righ’ off the highway, tried to draw away the walkers chasin’er. She was supposta’ go back but somethin’ spooked ‘er.” Daryl responded, his husky voice licking up Pheonyx’s spine like fire. He thought that the silence of the woods was his favorite sound, but Daryl’s voice was easily pushing that out of the running.

“Not surprising. She just got chased by shadows. Her adrenaline was probably running high. Any noise could have had her running in the opposite direction.”

Daryl grunted in agreement. Pheonyx didn’t know that a single sound could have so many meanings but the archer could probably have whole conversations using that single guttural noise.

“Why dya’ call ‘em that?” Daryl asked, his eyes still roaming the woods.

“Why do you call them walkers?” Pheonyx countered, with his eyebrow raised.

He swore the corner of Daryl’s lips turned up in a brief smirk. But it was gone as fast as it came. “They walk ‘round. Ain’t too complicated.” His defined shoulders lifted up into a small shrug, making the muscles in his arms clench. Pheonyx physically gulped as he watched the movement and had to avert his eyes before he started drooling.

Pull yourself together, man. You’re acting like a dog in heat, he thought, clenching his hand on the hilt of the hunting knife at his side.

“These dead things. They used to be people. They had lives. Families, friends, hopes, fears. Now…. they’re just shells. All those things are gone, and all that’s left is the shadow of the person they once were. They look like them, but all they are are mindless killers now. The light of their lives is gone and all that’s left is the darkness,” as he spoke, Pheonyx’s voice got more somber and he had to hold back tears as his thoughts floated to his mother and younger brother. Just like at Otis’s funeral though, he took a deep breath and swallowed the pain. “That’s why I call them shadows. I guess I just don’t want to ever forget that these used to be people. I won’t let that stop me from protecting my family or myself, but I still want to remember.”

Once again, there was silence. Pheonyx wasn’t surprised. Daryl didn’t exactly seem like a man intune with his emotions and he’d just laid a whole therapy session's worth of them on the archer. Luckily, the lack of conversation didn’t last for long. Kismet stopped in his tracks ahead, his head tilted and ears perked. The white and black mottled fur on his hackles raised up and Pheonyx unsheathed the knife at his hip when the pup let out a warning growl. Following this, a low groan and hiss sounded to their left along with characteristic tinkle of windchimes. Daryl lifted his crossbow next to him, taking a step towards the sound.

“Quiet,” Pheonyx told Kismet and the dog immediately stopped growling. Kismet trotted to his owner’s side, keeping close but not close enough to interfere with his movements.

Taking slow steps, Pheonyx pushed through the thick brush blocking their view of the dead. A few feet away, one shadow was stuck in his trap. At some point, the woman had probably been beautiful. Her light blonde hair was long and framed a face that had once been heartshaped. Now, her skin was gray and blood coated her hands and chest. A large gaping wound on her arm and neck let him know that she had died from being bitten. The sharpened sticks that she had impaled herself on, were keeping her in place. One was through her shoulder, having torn the small strap of the destroyed dress, and the other was straight through her heart. Black glistening blood coated the tips of the sticks that protruded from her decaying body. Luckily, she was a stranger to Pheonyx. It was always harder when he knew the dead that were caught. Not only did he have to put them down and burn them, but he had to keep silent when his family mentioned those people in passing. Often they made comments, usually at mealtimes when conversation strayed from daily chores to memories, “I wonder if Mrs. Overtan is still around?” or “Do you remember Big Jim? He used to have the cotton farm off of Wyatt Rd? He was headed to the Atlanta safe-zone when the reports started coming in. I hope he, Mary, and the kids are okay.” In those cases, he had to keep his mouth shut and focus on eating. He couldn’t tell them that Mrs. Overtan had her neck torn out and that Big Jim was missing an arm when they both had impaled themselves on the sharp sticks spread throughout the woods. He couldn’t tell them that he had taken a sharp knife to their heads, effectively ending their undead lives, and then burned their bodies in a pit. They wouldn’t be able to handle it. To his family, he would be seen as a murderer. Maybe he was. But he would continue to do it to protect them.

The walker in front of them most likely wasn’t from Senoia. Unless she had moved there while Pheonyx was living in Michigan, but he doubted it. People rarely moved to the small town. More than likely, she had died in one of the traffic snarls off the highway and the noise from woods had drawn her in once she’d reanimated. Either way, the small niggle of guilt he felt, when he knew who the shadow used to be, was absent. A low breeze made the windchimes above her tinkle louder and another hiss escaped her gaping mouth, revealing teeth coated with black ooze. Her bony, decaying arms reached above her towards the sparkling metal tubes of the chimes. Pheonyx raised the knife and took a step forward to kill it, but the woosh of Daryl’s crossbow releasing a bolt stopped him.

Black sludge, what used to be blood, sprayed from the shadow’s head, coating the side of the tree and dripping down onto the forest floor. The body went limp and the arms, that had been stretched above its head, slumped down at its sides. Pheonyx turned his head and gave Daryl a nod of thanks. He approached the corpse, sheathing his knife as he went, and pulled the bolt from between the shadows eyes. More of the sludge splattered onto his hand and the smell of rot intensified. He wiped the blood off the quarrel on the bottom hem of the shadow’s dress, dirtying the yellow fabric even further. The now-clean bolt in one hand, he used the other and began to check the small pockets on the front of the tattered dress for anything of use. It was morbid, and some might find it disgusting or appalling, but it was necessary. Resources of all kinds were in short supply. And Pheonyx had found that most people had taken to keeping important items on their person. Ammo, matches, lighters, water purification tablets, medicine. All things he had found by searching pockets of the shadows caught in his traps. Plus a boat load of now-useless change and dollar bills.

In this case, he found an unopened tube of chapstick, several pennies, 3 dollars, a fancy zippo lighter, and a crushed pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights.

“You smoke?” Pheonyx asked Daryl over his shoulder, noting the slightly disgusted and confused look on the man’s face. Rolling his eyes, he explained, “I’m not trying to cop a feel on it. People don’t take out the important stuff from their pockets when they’re dying. Morals kinda went out the door when all this shit started.”

He lifted the lighter and cigarettes up to prove his point. A look of understanding( and possible sheepishness?) overtook Daryl’s face and he cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I smoke.”

With that, he tossed the crumbled pack to the man, who caught it expertly and stuffed it into the pockets of his worn jeans. Kismet had placed himself next to Daryl, waiting patiently for Pheonyx to give him a command. Over the last couple of months, Kismet had gotten used to staying to the side while Pheonyx took care of the bodies that ended up in his traps. In the beginning, the pup had gotten underfoot a lot. He couldn’t blame him really. Kismet had always been eager to help, wanting to be included in any action that occurred. But he didn’t want his best friend to accidentally get hurt while he was distracted with cleaning up the woods. So, Pheonyx spent a good couple weeks training Kismet to sit to the side while he was working on traps. Just like teaching the dog to guard, it took a lot of treats and patience but eventually the training clicked. Now, Kismet gave him a wide berth while he was hauling and burning bodies and he didn’t have to worry about the dog getting into trouble. Chocolate eyes stared at him adoringly and the leaves under Kismet’s butt crunched as his tail wagged back and forth. Pheonyx whistled for him to come over and the dog bolted over to him without hesitation.

“Gentle,” he said while giving the crossbow bolt to the pup, making sure to offer him the clean end. While animals didn’t seem to be affected by the virus or the blood of those infected, he didn’t want his dog ingesting any of the vile fluids. Kismet’s tail began to wiggle faster in earnest, eager to please. Despite the burst of energy and excitement, he still grabbed the bolt between his sharp teeth delicately. “Take it to Daryl.”

Kismet grumbled happily at him and pranced over to Daryl. He began doing happy toe taps, proud of himself, as he dropped the bolt at the man’s feet. The archer raised an eyebrow at the dog and bent over to pick up the quarrel. He inspected the item for any damage and nodded his head approvingly when he didn’t see any cracks or dents on the fragile shaft. Kismet began to grumble at the man, whining a bit, begging for him to offer some kind of attention or praise for doing a good job. Rolling his eyes, Daryl patted Kismet’s blocky head in reward. Tongue rolling out in pleasure, Kismet melted under his affections.

Fucking hell. Never thought I’d be this jealous of my dog, Pheonyx thought before turning back to the matter at hand.

Now for the gross part, he thought sadly. Using his arms as leverage under the shadow’s armpits, he lifted the corpse off the sticks. At one point, the woman probably weighed a buck twenty five soaking wet. Now, she barely weighed anymore than Kismet. Pheonyx’s cutlass knocked against his leg as he pulled the body along. Decayed feet dragging on the floor, he hauled the body ten feet over to the burn pit that he dug next to every trap he set. Unceremoniously, he dropped it into the hole. Using the lighter he had taken from the shadow’s pockets, he lit the dollar bills that accompanied it on fire. The flames burned the tip of his fingers as the dry paper caught. But he held back the pain and stared at the glowing embers for a moment. Then he carefully tossed them into the pit, onto the body.

For some reason, shadows were incredibly flammable. Maybe it was the dried skin and hair that made the flames catch so easily. Or maybe it was some byproduct of the virus mutating a body's cells. Either way, it made Pheonyx’s job a lot easier. He didn’t have to worry about finding much kindling or fuel to get rid of the shells that ended up in the traps. The once-pretty woman was engulfed by flames in moments. The red fire licking along her limbs and burning up the destroyed dress. Soon, all that would be left of the person she was before would be a pile of ash and a memory.

Pheonyx was drawn from his haze when he felt a nudge at his bicep. He turned his head and saw Daryl holding out a red bandana to him. Glancing down at himself, he grimaced when he saw the black blood coating his hands and the splatter of it smeared on his shirt. The bandana Daryl was holding out to him, had seen better days. The red print was faded and streaks of black grease marred the crumpled fabric. But the thought was what counted.

“Thanks,” he took the rag and began to wipe off the blood from his hands. Until he took a shower, though, his hands would still have the stain of death on them, no matter how hard he rubbed with the bandana. Daryl shook his head when he tried to hand back the cloth.

“Keep it. Got more in ma’ bag.”

Stuffing the cloth in his back pocket, they continued their trek towards the highway. Kismet took the lead and began to inspect every tree they walked past. Expecting the rest of the walk to be filled with silence, Pheonyx was surprised when Daryl started the conversation again.

“Ya Pops din’t seem to know ‘bout all the traps ya got set up. Din’t seem too happy about it neither,” he commented.

A loud snort broke from Pheonyx’s nose. “That’s an understatement,” he gripped the handles of his hunting knife and cutlass, both sheathed at his sides, “Let’s just say Hershel and I have differing views on how to handle the shadows. He thinks that they’re sick. Which, I guess is technically true. But he also thinks they can be cured. He thinks that someone out there is working on a cure and that it’s just a matter of time before things go back to normal. It’s not just him. They’re all in denial.” Images of his younger brother flashed into his head. A primal hunger reflected in his milky orbs as he bit down on their mother’s arm, condemning her to the same fate. Her screams as Shawn chewed on her pale flesh and blood splashing on the white linens.

“What do ya think?” Daryl asked. His words were softer, seeming to notice the change in Pheonyx’s tone, the lilt of sadness that laced through his words.

“They’re dead. Plain and simple. My-,” Pheonyx took a deep breath to ease the ache building in his chest, “My younger brother, Shawn, was bitten early on. I was sitting next to him when he took his last breath. We didn’t really know what was happening at that time. We just knew people were getting sick and going crazy. We didn’t realize what they turned into. So, my mom was too close. She was hugging his body one minute and the next he was biting into her arm. Hershel and Otis got him off of her but it was too late. Within 12 hours she was dead. I had my fingers on her pulse when her heart stopped. And it didn’t restart when she woke up. No rhythm. No blood pumping,” he stepped over a broken tree limb, looking down to try to keep Daryl from seeing his eyes getting red. “I can understand the desire to feel like things will be okay. If they don’t, then they have to acknowledge the fact that Shawn and Mom are gone. But I’m too much of a pessimist to think that everything will go back to normal. Even if, by some miracle, someone created a vaccine or a cure, these people are dead and decaying, curing them would just put them in unimaginable pain.”

There was silence again, the only noises coming from the stomping feet of Kismet as he chased a squirrel up a tree.

“Don’ know if Rick told ya but we were at the CDC ‘fore we came here.” Daryl’s deep voice wrapped around Pheonyx in a comforting blanket. The ache of talking about his mom and Shawn was still there, but it felt like a dull throb as opposed to a fresh wound. “There was only one doc there. Jenner. All the others left or killed themselves. Doc showed us some stuff. Basically said the bite kills ya but it restarts ya brain stem to get ya walkin’ around. Ain’t nothin’ left of the person ya was before though. Ya brain’s dead. He weren’t too sure if anyone else was lookin’ fer a cure. Fucker nearly killed us. He tried ta lock us in ‘fore the whole buildin’ blew. Rick talked’im outta it though. Got out just in time.”, Blue eyes locked on Pheonyx’s green ones. “Yer right ‘bout the walkers. There ain’t no curing them. Cain’t cure death.”

Pheonyx felt a scale of emotions. On one side he felt relief at knowing his dark views on shadows were right. He wasn’t mindlessly killing sick people like Hershel would think. But he also felt sorrow. Because it meant that his mom and Shawn were truly dead. A small part of him had hoped he was wrong. That maybe the military would roll through any day and cure the sick people they had locked in the barn. But now he knew the truth. The shadows in the barn were just that. Shadows. Just the shells of the people he once loved.

Kismet seemed to sense his inner rollercoaster of emotions because he trotted over and leaned himself against Pheonyx’s leg as they walked. He tangled his fingers in the downy fur on the dog’s head, letting the warmth of Kismet’s body ease the weight on his chest. Whatever pain was left, he pushed back down. Eventually that denial and repression were going to come and bite him in the ass. Eventually he’d break down and be forced to feel the weight of the pain and sorrow that was hidden in his mind. But that was a problem for future Pheonyx. Kismet gave his hand a small lick before bounding off again after a bird.

He knew the man didn’t have to offer those words of comfort. He could even tell it made him feel a bit awkward, with the way he was avoiding eye contact and how his shoulders tensed a bit. So, he smiled at Daryl in appreciation.

“Thanks.”

Hearing the gratitude in his voice, Daryl turned his head to look at him, making eye contact. And something came over him in that moment, a bit of flirtatiousness that he’d never felt before. So, his body acted without him thinking and he winked at him. Pheonyx Greene winked at Daryl Dixon. He winked at a man, a tough looking redneck, who he wasn’t entirely sure was gay or bisexual.

Why the fuck did I just do that?, Pheonyx screamed internally and a bit of fear rose in his chest, What if he reacts badly? This is rural fucking Georgia and the man looks like a typical conservative country boy! They don’t take too kindly to other guys flirting with them and assuming they’re not straight. Oh shit, should I run? I can’t end up like that again.

Thousands of panicked thoughts ran through his mind and he waited for something, some kind of bad reaction from the man next to him. But nothing came. The only thing he noticed was the red flush that crept up Daryl’s neck and over his ears. Daryl quickly averted his eyes from Pheonyx and coughed a bit.

“We’re here,” his deep voice was a slight bit huskier and, just like Daryl, Pheonyx felt the blood rush to his face. Mostly from attraction(and a small bit of arousal, he wouldn’t lie), but also from embarrassment. He had almost forgotten why they were out there in the first place. Sophia. The lost girl.

The trickling of the creek off in the distance allowed him to orient himself. They weren’t too far from the highway and, now that he was here, he knew exactly where they were. Pheonyx whistled the three note recall and Kismet came bounding from the bushes a few feet away. He had a feather hanging from the corner of his lips so Pheonyx could only imagine what the dog had been up to.

“Ready to work, handsome?” he asked Kismet. The dog began to wiggle, happy at the prospect of having a job, but he sat and waited for Pheonyx to give him a command. He pulled the backpack off his shoulder and opened it up. Just like Maggie said, the pack contained three bottles of water, a dog bowl, and several baggies of Pheonyx’s homemade jerky. The three bigger ziploc bags had darker colored jerky. The color was from the blend of seasonings, soy sauce, worcestershire sauce, and honey that he used to marinate the meat before smoking. The smaller bag had lighter colored unseasoned jerky that he used specifically for training Kismet. Pheonyx stuffed the smaller bag in one pocket and two of the bigger bags in his other pocket for him and Daryl to eat later. One of the nice things about men’s pants was that the pockets were absolutely ginormous.

Seeing the bag of jerky, Kismet’s eyes got wide and his body began to shake in anticipation. Pheonyx closed his bag and slung it back over his shoulders. He could feel Daryl’s eyes on him from the few feet that separated them. He reached for his waistband, where he had Sophia’s small shirt tucked over his belt, and pulled the thin fabric off the leather strap.

Kneeling down next to Kismet, Pheonyx used his free hand to stroke the dog’s head. Soft fur and chocolate eyes shining with happiness made his chest swell. He scratched the dog's ears and offered the shirt to Kismet to smell.

“We gotta find someone, okay boy? We’ve only tracked squirrels and ‘coons up until now but I think you’re ready,” Kismet snuffled his nose along the shirt, deeply inhaling and then snorting like a pig. Once he got a good few whiffs of the shirt, he leaned back on his haunches and waited for Pheonyx to give him his command.

Pheonyx stood up and tucked the shirt into his belt again, “Find it boy!”

Being released by the command, Kismet placed his nose to the ground and began to follow the trail. His thick paws kicked up dirt as he trotted through the foliage, snuffling and snorting against the ground the whole way.

Pheonyx turned and briefly took in the visage of the older archer. The sunlight was peaking through the trees and hitting the side of his face, making his blue eyes shine even brighter than before. Dark hair now looked golden from the sun’s rays. His crossbow was loose in his hands and angled towards the ground. The tender hold he held on the weapon was a facade for the lethality he possessed. Despite the dirt and general scruffiness, he looked almost ethereal. God-like.

With that image in mind, Pheonyx gestured to the direction that Kismet went.

“After you, Apollo,” he said with a smile. The other man snorted in response to the nickname, but he adjusted his grip on his crossbow and began to follow the hound’s lead.

He wasn’t quite proud of it, but Pheonyx took a brief moment to watch Daryl walk in front of him. Green eyes were glued to the other man’s backside and he watched as those dirty jeans hugged him in all the right places.

“Ya comin’, Firebird?” Daryl called over his shoulder, breaking Pheonyx from his less than innocent thoughts.

I wish, he thought, Wait….

“Firebird?” Pheonyx asked in confusion, jogging to catch up with him.

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