Archive of Our Own

Daryl is a fucking nightmare to live with.

Paul doesn’t know why he even allowed it to happen, besides the obvious; they’re friends, and Daryl can’t stay in Alexandria for more than two days without losing some vital part of himself.

Daryl’d given him sad eyes for all of two seconds and Paul had offered the trailer without thinking; arms spread wide, heart pounding.

(The worst part was that Daryl hadn’t even asked. Didn’t even allude to it. He just had a resting depression face, and Paul’s stupid fucking savior complex kicked in and reminded him he had a fully functioning pull-out, and did Daryl mind sleeping on it?)

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

+++

It wasn’t so bad at first.

In the first few weeks of Daryl moving in, he made himself scarce for most of the day and occasionally some of the night; slipping in quietly before slumping on the couch and falling fitfully asleep.

He was unusually clean, considering everything Paul knew about him at the time (a full-time hunter, worker, mechanic -the kind of guy Paul fucked before the turn, men with calloused hands and sharp wit), kept all his shit in a designated corner of the living room-slash-dining area, hung up his vest on a hook behind the door.

Washed the floor if he ever tracked mud over it, never made a mess without thoroughly tidying after.

That didn’t change, really, besides Daryl slowly adding some of his own trinkets around the trailer.

Dropping off cool rocks or fossils he’d dug up on one of the various piles of books around the walkways of the small space, leaving a rag here or there, if he noticed Paul having gone without.

Marking a couple of his own books and leaving them on the table with notes attached; you’d like this -DD.

(Daryl was never wrong about that. Any books he recommended were ones Paul loved, either having read it previously or something entirely new. Daryl was too perceptive for his own good, and it made Paul’s skin itch. It’s just. If he knew about the books, what else did he know that he didn’t let on about? Did he know about the way Paul’s eyes tracked him across Hilltop, the way he swallowed when he landed a punch on one of the old bags Enid dragged out from somewhere?)

It wasn’t bad, not at all; in fact, Paul had been glad for the fact he seemed so comfortable, so willing to go from using the place as not just somewhere to rest his head, but somewhere to unwind.

And then he looked at Daryl and thought oh, I really fucking like you, actually. Like, maybe I could fall in love with you? Fairly easily? And he was fucked. Doomed.

Paul had officially become the trope he always hated. The gay guy who falls in love with his straight best-friend-slash-roommate.

Idiot.

+++

Paul’s not stupid.

He’s always known Daryl was hot, in the grimy way every guy is hot these days. All sweaty, greasy hair and glistening skin, arms corded thick with muscle and marked by long-healed scars; that subtle curve of stomach under his shirts, the softness around his hips that never leaves.

It’s not like he’d been -fixated, or anything, it’s just-. It’s been a while since he’s had any guy at all to lust over, and all of a sudden Daryl’s in his space, looking like Paul’s every masturbatory fantasy from fifteen onwards, with the grumbling sense of humor to match.

Now, though. Now they share a living space, and naturally that means they see each other in all states; when Daryl comes back limping from the Kingdom after a fight, when Paul has to stitch his arm up after slicing it open on their shitty countertop.

The end of the world doesn’t lend itself to modesty, and it’s not like Paul’s ever been used to having his own bubble for existing before. Spending years in the system and then years after that in and out of hostels and shared apartments sort of takes away any shame he might have had in his body; the apocalypse just pushed the rest of it out the window.

It’s one thing to know this, logically, and another thing to see it in action.

He’s just spent the morning digging around in the dirt with Maggie, trying to kill off as many slugs as they could find, so he’s covered in slime and mud and god-knows what else, completely ready to sink into the shower and not get out for three hours.

Until.

He walks into the trailer, brushing one ungloved hand through his tangled hair, and Daryl comes across his eyeline like some kind of Greek fucking God, like someone said: oh? You’re gay? Here, have this incredibly jacked dude just mostly fucking naked in your shared living room, and also you’re not allowed to jack off about it?

Paul’s brain screams no at the same time that his dick screams oh Jesus fucking Christ, and he’s left standing on the top step, dithering like a fucking idiot, jaw dropped open and cheeks flushed pink.

“Hey, man,” Daryl says, pausing just in front of Paul’s stupid, frozen body, and he’s fucking glistening, wet from a shower, towel around his shoulders. Paul’s dick is this close to parting from his body and gaining independent thought. “You alright? Look a little flushed.”

Paul thinks: can we fuck yet. Thinks: can I please suck you off. Thinks: I’m too fucking gay to deal with this bullshit.

He says, instead, because he is a poet of absurd proportions, “I’m fine. Hard work, Maggie’s working me to the bone. And you are… Naked?”

Daryl blinks, mouth twisting up as he glances down at himself, and shrugs. There’s the telltale flush of heat over his cheeks from a too-warm shower, hair curling around his ears. Paul swallows and tries not to cry out of sheer arousal. “Yeah. Sorry, forgot to, uh. Bring shit in.”

Daryl wrinkles his nose as he nods at Paul. “Uh. Can you shut the door? Don’t wanna scare the kids.”

Paul slams the door with too much force, so hard the counter in the kitchen rattles, and Daryl cocks his head in confusion.

“Man, you sure you’re alright? You look tense as fuck.”

You’re fucking naked! Paul barely stops himself from yelling. You are naked and I am too starved of affection to deal with this, right now and/or possibly ever!

“I’m fine,” he repeats, even though all he can think about is how it’s been so long since he sucked dick he thinks he might have forgotten how. It’s not polite to ask, though, and it’s even less polite to drop his gaze from anywhere below Daryl’s scarred chest, so he just stares somewhere in the region of his collarbones and swallows back the need to beg. “Feel gross, that’s all. Don’t like being dirty. I, uh. Have to shower.”

Daryl nods, motions. “Go on, then. Gotta get dressed ‘fore someone comes round and thinks we’re, uh.” A flush rises over his cheeks, and Paul wants to cry. “You stink, man, c’mon. Go fuckin’ shower.”

The stupid, idiotic gay part of Paul’s brain begs him to say thinks we’re what? Thinks we’re what? Fucking? That we’re having sex? That we’re having filthy, bone-melting sex right in the kitchen? Is that what you mean? Are you talking about people thinking we’re having sex?

The other, saner, and admittedly smaller part of his mind just. Smiles and nods. He hopes it doesn’t look too manic, but he can feel it stretch weirdly on his face. He scrambles to leave, and absolutely doesn’t take in a hissing breath as he pushes past Daryl’s bare skin and feels the aching warmth of him.

He practically falls into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door before pressing himself up against it and begging for death, and allows himself a tiny rock against his too-tight jeans before straightening back up.

And then the part of his brain that never stops processing, the part that’s kept him alive and in shape, suddenly realises how important all of that just was.

Daryl’s willingness to be around him like that, his openness, the lack of any jokingly homophobic as long as you don’t try it on with me jokes, the way his scars (all of them, the dark ones over his shoulders and back, the puckered one from Dwight, the ones on his chest, thin and barely visible).

All of that says: he is comfortable with you. It says: he doesn’t feel like he has to hide from you.

And Paul knows Daryl, the way he shies away from unfamiliar touch, the creased book about recovering from abuse he keeps in his pack, the intense way he cares for those he deems worth protecting.

He knows how much that means, how much all of it means. All of Daryl’s slowly integrating with the trailer and making it home, allowing his body to be even slightly on show. It means a lot.

He strips off quick and climbs into their shitty shower, knowing full well Daryl’s integration means no hot water, since he turns it up boiling hot, and stares down at his dick.

You’re not gonna jack off, he tells himself, even as he turns the water on and keeps staring down, that’s wrong, and rude. You can’t make Daryl feeling comfortable into some freaky porno fodder.

He slides the soap over his neck, his back, leans under the freezing water and thanks the way it makes his skin turn mottled.

One hand inches between his legs, and he swallows hard, twitching both into and away from it.

No, he tells himself, again, you’re stronger than that.

A thumb strokes at the hard edge of his dick, thick and protruding from his folds, and he jerks into it with a whimper.

Paul shudders. He thumps his head off the shower wall, and removes his hand.

He is a strong and respectable man. He has no qualms about using restraint.

The cold water runs down his back until he’s shivering, and by the time all the dirt has swirled down the drain in sudsy clumps, his dick still isn’t soft, and there’s slick sliding down his thigh.

+++

Watch is quiet, most of the time.

A few of the stumbling dead that get taken down by traps, to be cleared in the morning; the occasional traveller from another settlement, stranded without transport and too tired to keep going. (Though those get rarer as time goes on. Paul wonders about the statistics, how many of the dead won, how many people he used to walk past in the city are dead now, forever or just wandering around.)

Paul takes watch because it quiets the buzz under his skin that comes from years of hypervigilance. He is never not exhausted. But it’s easier to let his mind go blank when he’s got his hands curled over sheet metal, when all he can see is the planes of grass in front of the Hilltop’s gates.

It’s normally quiet.

Paul’s never really minded storms, never cared about the loud or the wet or the bright flashes of light, even if it sometimes sets off a migraine.

Daryl, though.

Daryl grew up with heat, and he’s only just getting used to the idea of not being too hot all the time. He’s started to bundle up, even though he complains non-stop about how much it restricts his movement.

(Maybe if he didn’t wear shirts two sizes too small, it wouldn’t be a problem, but Paul isn’t complaining. Seeing his biceps bulge hard enough to make seams rip isn’t exactly… unattractive. It might be one of his go-to’s for one he needs to get off fast and hard).

So he’s shuddering next to Paul, sat on a stool Jerry made as a gift, knees under his chin, glaring at the horizon like it’s just stomped a cat.

“You could go inside,” Paul tells him, but Daryl won’t.

Daryl doesn’t give up watch, not for anything. Not when it’s snowing, or storming, or so hot it feels like Paul’s bones’ll melt right out of his skin.

Not now, as the darkness slowly swallows up even more of the view, turns the rain colder, icier, until there’s hailstones pounding all around them, thundering against the tin roof they’d erected for this very purpose.

The idiotic, gay part of Paul’s brain begs to move closer, make some smooth line about warming him up. He only doesn’t because-. Well. That’d be stupid.

“It’s fuckin’ fine,” Daryl grunts, teeth chattering. Sounds like some kind of war cry from one of those old movies Paul used to watch in the home. “Just… ain’t a big fan of storms.”

It’s not difficult to guess why. Daryl isn’t any less hypervigilant than Paul, but unlike Paul, he can’t stand not knowing what’s coming, hearing every whisper of noise. He panics easily, stresses easier. Half his clothes are shredded at the hems because he worries them so much, nails biting into cloth instead of his skin, like he’d resorted to so often after the war.

“I like it,” Paul says, and reaches out a hand to catch a falling stone. It’s cold, golf-ball sized in his grip, pretty as it glints under their shitty halogen light. “It’s like a different world. Like it takes something you know and makes it different. A mirror image cracked in the light.”

Daryl grimaces at him. “You talk so much shit.”

A fair point. Still.

They’re quiet for a few moments, after that, instead watching over the forest that surrounds their home. (Paul hadn’t realised, before, how little he regarded Hilltop as his own. Until Daryl, and Maggie, and the sense of belonging they seemed to carry packed between their ribs. Now, it’s home. The place he wants to be. And if part of that is Daryl’s presence, Maggie’s leadership-. He’s stayed worse places for worse people.)

There’s a violent crack of thunder, sharp enough even Paul stiffens before he loosens his joints. It’s followed by an even heavier barrage of hailstones, slamming against their thin roof and the walls, falling against the earth with almighty cracking noises.

Daryl flinches, and his hand lands right on Paul's thigh, big and warm over his jeans. "Um," Paul says, his brain not really functioning properly, with Daryl's thumb gripping the inseam of his pants, "you're. Uh. Touching me."

Wow. Great observational skills, you fucking gay disaster. You incredible idiot. "Oh." Daryl flushes bright pink, obvious even with so little light, ears going red, and withdraws his hand instantly, tucking it under his armpit. His jaw still trembles with every breath, like his teeth are trying to rattle out of his skull. "Sorry." "No," Paul says, and can't stop staring at his own leg, the place Daryl had clutched him without thinking, because he'd gotten startled by the sudden onslaught, "it's. It's fine."

It’s not fine. Not because Paul doesn’t like touch, doesn’t crave it, but-. Because he does. Like it. Too much. Because Daryl’s hand on him is going to stay there like a brand for- probably ever, now, an eternal mark.

If he was so inclined, he’d cut his skin open just to reveal the bone, to see the whorls of fingerprints right against the most vulnerable part of him. Daryl’s DNA grafted into his own, binding them together without their knowing.

He curls his hand into a fist on his thigh, over the burn of Daryl’s hand, knuckles creaking against his slightly damp pants. He avoids Daryl's eyes, even though he can feel his gaze burning into the side of his face, trying to figure out what’s going on.

Paul can’t stop thinking about what might have happened if Daryl’s hand had landed just a few inches higher.

+++

When Paul had been young, just coming to terms with his sexuality and all that meant for him, he’d had a crush on a guy twice his size.

The kid was only a couple years older than him, but might as well have been 20; already nearly five foot ten at age thirteen, all bulk and brawn and round cheeks.

It hadn’t come to anything, because Paul hadn’t been confident enough yet, and the guy had moved away three months after Paul even processed he had feelings for another boy, but-.

The entire time the kid had been around, Paul spent most of it doing stupid shit just to get his attention. Climbing trees and getting stuck just so the kid would help him out, sharing his coveted set of comics with him, trying to send gay vibes through fucking osmosis, anything. Whatever.

Thing is, though, Paul’d looked different, then, a body not quite his, not yet reclaimed.

And now he has the body he wants, the flat edges where before there’d been curves, scars across his chest instead of excess tissue.

And he’s still being an idiot around the man he has feelings for, because that’s just who he is, maybe, right to his core.

His DNA called him a dumbass, and it was right.

Anyway.

The point is, Paul’s always had a thing for guys a little bigger than him, all brawn and muscle and a little softness at the middle; guys he could pin down and make cry, if he wanted, or guys who could fuck him rough against a wall without breaking a sweat.

Paul knew from the moment they met in front of that stupid gas station that Daryl was his type; big, brawny. Strong. Calloused hands and eyes that said: I can be nice, but probably not to you.

It’s seven in the morning. Paul’s ready for the day. He’s got his boots on, his gloves pulled tight, his belts criss-crossing his body.

He’s ready for some manual labor and some cuddles with little Hershel.

The air is misty, the cool morning reacting with sunlight just starting to peer through the clouds. Just enough fog that he has to adjust his eyes for a second when he opens the trailer door.

And then he promptly fucking falls down them, sprawling like a goddamn cartoon character, limbs akimbo and hat flying off to land in a puddle of what Paul hopes is mud.

Daryl is. Doing yoga. Roughly twenty feet away.

Paul knew he was big, okay, and that he had strength behind him, that he used a weapon that had a one-fifty pound draw-weight, no problem. Paul knew that Daryl was strong and capable and light on his feet despite his height and sheer mass of him.

He’s seen Daryl at his most vulnerable, his most naked, has seen him bleeding through bandages and still marching forward, jaw set.

He’d never even prepared himself for the possibility of Daryl like this, because it seemed like an impossibility, like one of the fantasies Paul gets off to and regrets the second his hand is out of his pants.

He hadn’t expected to witness Daryl in the fucking scorpion pose, lip caught between his teeth as he elegantly holds himself there, arms not even trembling. And yet. Here Daryl is.

Paul does yoga. Has taught yoga. That is not an easy pose. It is most certainly not a beginner’s pose.

It is too much, for Paul, sprawled on the cold, damp ground, panting and suddenly bright red, to see Daryl like that.

To know that, for Daryl to be here, in this moment, steam coming off his heated skin and evaporating in the cold morning air, he has to have practised. A lot. Over months, probably, if not years.

And then he realises what he’s looking at, for real, the big picture; like his brain zoomed out and allowed him to see everything in excruciating detail, and.

A strangled noise escapes him. Daryl glances over, seemingly only just realising Paul is even there, which is- a lot to process, considering everything that Daryl is, and slowly unbending his spine to lay flat on his stomach and forearms, hips tilted into the air without any kind of support.

Paul wants to die. He wants to fucking die. He could drill diamonds with his dick. He might, just for the audacity of it betraying him like this.

“Hey,” he says, which might not have been too bad, if he hadn’t followed it up with: “those are tight.”

Paul isn’t wrong.

The fucking yoga pants Daryl are wearing don’t leave much to the imagination, stretched tight over his ass as they are, bright purple and showing the line of his boxers through the thin material. They outline the thick muscles in his thighs and calves a little too well.

Paul feels the familiar burn of his boxers rubbing against his sudden arousal, the low ache that sends heat ricocheting up his spine. To cover up this fact, he crosses his arms across his chest and splays his legs outward, like he’s trying to become one with the earth.

If it could swallow him whole, he wouldn’t complain.

“Yeah,” Daryl grunts, eyes squinting in the watery light as he cocks his head. “Easier to move in. Carol got ‘em for me.”

Right. Carol.

Paul doesn’t know whether to kick her ass or kiss the very ground she walks upon.

Paul smiles, swallows down the stupid jealousy that shouldn’t even exist, especially not right now, when he’s being treated to Daryl Dixon curled up like a pretzel. “That was nice of her.”

“Hmph.” Daryl slowly comes down into a forearm stand, lowers his legs back to the floor with such grace it makes Paul deeply aware of just how good he’d look fucked out and spread across his bed. “Think she was kiddin’, honestly, but they’re comfortable.”

They are. Paul knows that much, at least, having his own collection that Maggie’s taken pieces from over time, a couple pairs he used specifically to seduce a couple of Kingdom men into a harsh fuck.

He knows how to use his body, is the thing, knows how to be sexy and how to seduce people, and Daryl - he doesn’t even have to try. It’s effortless.

It’s irritating as all hell, the way he doesn’t even seem to notice eyes tracking him across Hilltop, the way some of the older women will stroke his arms and call him darling, doesn’t get that half the men Paul knows are into men are deeply into Daryl.

Like, fucking obviously, but. Christ. Daryl is so oblivious it hurts.

“It’s about the only time something that tight can be comfortable,” Paul agrees, and abruptly wishes he didn’t have a mouth at all.

Daryl blinks at him, eyes still narrowed as he rolls up an old camping mat into a neat spiral, tucking it under his arm and bracing it against his hip. His hand is thick, strong, calloused against the metallic material. Paul wants one wrapped around the meat of his thigh. “Depends if you’re into somethin’ tight or not, I guess.”

Paul flushes, drops his head, hopes to god his dick isn’t visible from space. It’s maybe the only time in his life he’s ever hoped for a smaller dick than testosterone gave him, and all because Daryl gives off such a stupidly horny energy.

“Ah,” he mumbles, “well, loose and messy can always be fun.”

There’s a choked sound quickly cut off by a hacking cough, and when Paul jerks his head up to look for the source, he realises Daryl’s very quickly disappearing across the fog-hazed courtyard.

And, if he’s not mistaken, there’s a slight redness to the very tips of his ears.

… But he’s probably mistaken.

+++

Paul kicks himself for the flirting for days, after, not that it seemed to have any noticeable effect on Daryl past him running off that first morning.

He knows better than trying to turn a straight guy, trying to flirt with a guy who‘s probably never thought about men romantically in his life. Daryl won’t beat him up like some of the homophobes he’s risked a chance with, but he might ignore him and leave him and-. That, honestly, would be worse than any cracked rib or black eye.

And then there’s also the knowledge that Daryl had yoga pants in his possession, which hasn’t been exactly good for Paul’s productivity.

Case in point: “you’re spacing again.”

Paul jolts in the chair next to Maggie’s desk, legs kicking out in shock before he resumes his affected, calm demeanor. “Sorry. Thinking.”

She gives him a shrewd look, which is… ridiculous, when there’s spit-up on her shoulder and she’s waving Hershel’s chubby little arms around and making him giggle.

A smile rises to his face, soft and adoring.

He loves Maggie -so much. So, so fucking much. She’s possibly the best thing that ever happened to him, her kindness and gentle heart, the fire that rages beneath.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Maggie tells him, and taps Hershel on his little nose, face lighting up when he screeches and bats at her hands, “you might overheat.”

“Ha-ha.” He slides onto the floor next to her, presses a kiss to her cheek and one to Hershel’s little damp hand. “Catch me up to speed?”

“Well,” Maggie stretches, fingers curling up towards the sun as her back crunches. Paul wrinkles his nose. “I believe I was talking about your boner for one grouchy redneck.”

Paul flushes all over at once, hopping back across the carpet, eyes wide. “No, we weren’t.”

Maggie snorts. “No, we weren’t, but one of these days we need to.” Paul disagrees, but he knows better than to try and stop the inevitable. “I was talking about the cabbage crops. They’re dying. It’s no real problem, with the other stuff we’ve got growin’, but if whatever’s killing them starts getting to the rest, that’s when the shit’ll hit the fan.”

Paul stretches out his neck, watches Hershel shove a wooden block into his mouth and Maggie kindly pull it out and replace it with a teething ring. “You should try some of those new slug repellent pellets I found, to start. Start putting up some barriers between the cabbages and the other crops; maybe put the other crops on raised beds. We need to, anyway, so Ernie and June can get to them with their chairs.”

Maggie nods, slow. “Could work. I’ll try roping you, Daryl and a couple of the others into the work.” She shoots him a look at Daryl’s name, and he purposefully makes his face go blank.

“Sure thing.” He stands, stroking through her silk-soft hair, “you need to lend me some conditioner, one day. Your hair’s fucking perfect. It’s insulting.”

She grins at him, leans into his hand, curls one small hand around his calf and squeezes. “Maybe if you tell me about your fixation on Mr. Dixon.”

Paul swallows. “On second thought, I don’t need soft hair that much.”

Her laughter follows him out of her office and down the stairs.

The blush takes longer to fade.

+++

In the end, Maggie ropes a few unlucky teens into the work, with Daryl and Paul acting as supervisors.

Paul’s not going to pretend he doesn’t know why that is. It’s cunning, sure, but Paul’s known Maggie long enough to know this is her way of matchmaking.

Which won’t work, because Daryl’s straight.

Daryl sits in the dirt, carving out the edges for quick transfer to a raised bed they’d prepared together in the early morning, and Paul watches with a dry mouth and pink cheeks.

The kids do their thing, planting seedlings and picking out herbs carefully without destroying roots. It’s going to be a long day, because they can’t afford to lose the crops they’ve got, but they’re good at it. Methodical.

“We need a tunnel, or something,” Paul says to Daryl as he settles, working on destroying some weeds. “So we can grow even when it’s freezing.”

“Hm.” Daryl scratches at his nose, leaving a dark stripe down his face. “Seen a few thousand garden centres around. Could be one for that shit. We can try and find one on a run, or somethin’. I’ve been craving strawberries, could be nice to grow ‘em here instead of having to go to-.” He shakes his head.

Paul smiles, even as his heart aches in his chest. Even after all this time, the idea of the Sanctuary makes Daryl pale. He’ll never forgive them for what they did to Daryl, for the way he still wakes screaming some nights.

“Yeah,” Paul agrees. “Need to go on a run soon, anyway, search some pharmacies and clinics. I’m almost out of vials and needles, and I don’t want to use the ones from the med trailer.”

Daryl nods. “Same. Think I got a month’s supply. I’m good for needles, though, shoulda told me sooner, could’ve given you some.”

Paul shrugs. “It’s yours, I’m not jeopardizing your shot days. ‘Sides, we’ll find some soon, right?”

Daryl’s mouth curls into a smirk, and heat licks up Paul’s groin. “Right.” He pats Paul on the arm, once, twice, three times. Paul nearly goes breathless. “Stop slacking. Kids are making us look bad.”

Paul laughs, dropping his head, tilting it back up to glance at Daryl haloed against the watery sunlight, and finds Daryl’s eyes on him, mouth parted just slightly before he clamps it closed again.

Almost like…

Paul pinches himself. He’s being an idiot. It’s nothing.

+++

Paul’s not sure what woke him up, at first.

One moment he’s asleep, in the hazy dreamland where he gets everything he wants, and the next he’s blinking at his reflection in the glass sat by his bed, ears trained and body tensing to ready himself for a fight.

Daryl, he thinks, and tilts his head towards where he was last, the tiny wobbling dining table they keep steady with a couple hardbacks.

Nearly swallows his tongue when he realises, exactly, what woke him.

Daryl’s awake, gilded in the moonlight and so stupidly beautiful it makes Paul’s guts ache, but more than that, his jeans are unzipped, hand shoved down them, fingers moving in rhythmic little circles.

He realises with a jolt what that noise is, the slick slide of skin on skin, the pants of air Daryl’s letting out, head laid back against the wall while his mouth drops open.

God.

Paul suddenly wishes it were light, that he could see him, that he could watch the way Daryl moves, that he weren’t trapped in his bed watching the probable-love-of-his-life jerking himself off mere feet away.

As it is, he has to take what he’s given: the way the moonlight sliding across the room makes Daryl almost eerily pale, angel-bright. The way it catches his hand, wet and dripping when he pulls his hand out to drag his pants down his thighs, jerking them down just enough to get his hands on himself, and then jerking into it when he catches his dick between his forefingers.

Paul snaps his eyes shut, because for all this is his ultimate fantasy come to life, he can’t-. He shouldn’t be watching. He shouldn’t be hearing it.

He tries to ignore the way his own dick throbs in his pants, the way he can feel himself getting wet enough to soak through his boxers, the fact he can hear Daryl’s whining, desperate noises as he (clearly) gets closer and closer to release.

You’ve been in worse situations, he thinks, this is no big deal.

He bites at the pillow, the one fucking Daryl brought him back when he’d gotten hurt on a run-god, grinding his hips in small movements against the mattress, fists clenching at his sides.

Fucking Daryl, he thinks, and. Oh. Oh, God.

Fucking Daryl.

Getting to touch him, spread his legs, suck his sweet dick between his lips and watch him fall apart. Sliding his fingers inside of him and feeling the way he clenches, hot and tight and wet. Breathing his name like a benediction, like a prayer, against the thin skin of his thighs.

His brain’s going hazy with the friction of his dick rubbing against his sweats, so he almost doesn’t hear it when Daryl comes.

Almost.

There’s a choked-off, bitten keening noise, then a breath of air, the wet sound of fingers leaving a tight entrance, slick noises as Daryl (probably) jerks himself off.

And then, softly, “God. Fuck. Paul.”

Paul comes in his pants like a teenager, like a goddamn amateur, like some fucking idiot, and has to bite down on his hand to try and stave off the wave of noises that rise forth.

He said my name, he thinks, slightly panicked and even more horny than before he’d gotten off.

He said my name!

Paul sits in utter silence for a couple of minutes, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, and then Daryl tugs up his jeans and sucks his fingers clean (jesus fucking Christ and holy lord) before he stands and slinks out of the trailer, quiet as a mouse.

Paul tries to get back to sleep, but by the time the sun’s rising, he’s still thinking about his name coming from between Daryl’s teeth and trembling.

+++

Paul wakes up at noon with drool crusted in his beard and his hands tacky from his come.

In all of the commotion, he must have forgotten to wipe his hands off and slept in his soaked sleep-pants like a horny goddamn teenager.

The only saving grace is that Daryl’s long gone, probably with Maggie discussing their garden-focused run, hashing out the fine details.

He takes his time in the shower, washing the dried slick from his inner thighs and trembling a little when he remembers how wet Daryl had looked even in the dim light of the moon. Presses his head to the solid shower wall and curses because, Christ, this would all be so much easier if it was only about being horny and not the fact he’s in love with an emotionally repressed straight redneck.

He said your name, his brain reminds him, as if he could ever forget the way Daryl’s mouth formed the word. Yours.

Paul swallows roughly and dries off fast, not daring to get too close to his dick lest he get carried away and start fucking himself in the bathroom, yanks a pair of Daryl’s jeans on and tries not to think about if Daryl fucked himself in these, too, at some point.

He looks at himself in the mirror, the edges of his neatly cut beard, his jaw, his mouth, locks eyes with himself. “He said that because he probably remembered I was here and didn’t want to wake me. That’s it. That’s all.”

It’s hollow, but the longer Paul spends thinking about it the more it makes sense, and the more that makes it hurt.

He knows what it’s like to get carried away, start touching yourself without ever even planning to. Daryl doing that was a necessity, in some ways; they live together, spend almost all their time together, of course at some point one or both of them would need to release some steam.

Paul doesn’t hold it against him -how could he, all the times he’s come with a bitten off whimper in that shower, thinking about grinding on Daryl’s face and making him eat him out til he’s wet to his collarbones?

It just sucks that it’s given him false hope, that every time he thinks about it now he’s going to wonder, just for a moment. Maybe more than a moment.

He said my name, he thinks, and tugs his coat on while he locks his mouth around a shitty energy bar, and that doesn’t mean anything special, even if I want it to.

By the time he’s joining Maggie and Daryl in the meeting room, he even almost believes it himself.

Hershel’s cradled in the crook of Daryl’s arm while Maggie writes down a supply list for the run, and Paul strokes over his little head before hopping up onto the desk and nudging Maggie with his toes.

“Hey, honey,” she says, scratching out farming supplies in shorthand, “you slept in.”

“Yeah.” Paul coughs, wipes his mouth on his shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Behind him, there’s a choked off noise that sounds like a gargled word, and then complete silence. Paul doesn’t glance back; Hershel makes a lot of noises like that.

Maggie twitches, lip quivering for a moment before she places her pen down and stretches, fingers curled together in the air.

“Oh?” Maggie matches his gaze, wide green eyes glinting like she already knows all the details.

Paul is almost 100% sure she’s not actually psychic, but sometimes he’s scared anyway.

“Rough night. Nothing I haven’t dealt with a hundred times over.”

Maggie strokes his calf gently before turning back to her long, stained piece of paper. Daryl’s chicken scratch marks the corner; a couple of additions Paul can only make out because he’s been seeing Daryl’s handwriting for the better part of a year.

Coffee; good stuff. Boots, size 8.

Paul traces the words with a bitten fingernail. “Didn’t know you were a size 8.”

He turns to look at Daryl, and is almost taken aback by the shade of his cheeks, bright pink all the way to his ears, where they peek out around his hair.

“I ain’t,” Daryl mumbles, tickling Hershel’s belly to make him giggle. Paul’s stomach tenses, want surging so darkly he has to take a trembling breath. “But you are. Saw the cardboard you shoved in there a week back. You need new ones.”

Paul just blinks at him. “Oh.”

Daryl coughs. Nods. Turns his attention back to Hershel, gnawing at his bottom lip.

“Told you he was observant when he moved in,” Maggie reminds him, “think he was the only one who worked out I was pregnant before I even told anybody.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Y’kept protecting your stomach over everythin’ else against walkers, kept gettin’ sick whenever I brought in a hunt. Went through that chocolate stash I got you in about ten minutes.”

“I got a sweet tooth, Daryl Dixon,” she grins, standing and coming over to Daryl and Hershel both, pressing sweet kisses to their heads before relieving Daryl of baby duty, “ain’t my fault you’re one of the sweetest men alive.”

Daryl grumbles, smacking at her as his cheeks flush even darker.

Paul snickers, and Daryl meets his eyes with a wry grin, sharp canine tooth catching on his lip, nose crinkling up.

Fingers wet in the moonlight, head bent back, the noises -, “God. Fuck. Paul.”

Paul drops his gaze, and misses the glance Maggie shoots him.

+++

“Scoot.”

Daryl glances up at him, eyes narrowed against the sun, but does as he’s told.

“Miss Maria’s on the warpath. Keeps telling me I need to eat more. She’s scared of you, I think. Well. That, or she’s got a crush on you. I can’t really read women.”

Daryl huffs and goes back to sharpening one of his knives on an old leather belt. “Well, she’s not wrong. You’re a goddamn twig.”

Paul blinks. “I could beat you in a fight with both of my hands tied behind my back. Hell, I already have.”

Daryl spits on his knife, rubbing over a stubborn bloodstain before scratching at it with his thumbnail. “Could probably break you in two, these days. You keep slippin’ all your rations to that Rodney kid.”

“He was sick last month! He needs to put that weight back on. Even Carson agreed.”

Daryl slides his knife back into his holster. “Awful defensive for someone who’s supposedly eating enough.”

“You’re constantly giving extra to the kids, don’t act like I’m the only one.” Paul points out, because it’s true.

One of the things that made him realise he was in entirely too deep was seeing Daryl with the kids. With adults -minus his family-, he’s snappish, wary, builds all his walls right up and refuses to open a door. But with kids, it’s like a weight lifted off his shoulders; he could spend hours with them, teaching them about tracking and hunting and how to gut a kill, giving them all the love and affection his gigantic heart holds.

He’d cried almost as much as Maggie when Hershel was born, and was the first one to hold him before Paul himself.

Paul knows, with complete certainty, that if Hershel ever got so much as a sniffle he’d be the first out of the gates.

Daryl shrugs. “Didn’t say I wasn’t. Just agreed with Miss Maria; you do need to eat more.”

Paul cracks his knuckles. “Alright, if you’re so sure of that, try and beat me in a fight.”

Daryl gives him a Look. “You wanna fight? Here?”

Paul casts around for a location, and points over towards the side of Barrington. “There.”

Daryl grunts, rolls his shoulders. “You sure your reputation can handle a loss like that, pretty boy?”

Paul’s gut jumps, but instead of responding he just crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head.

Pretty boy. Christ.

“Put your money where your mouth is, Dixon.” He leans in close, flicks his eyes over Dary’s face. Daryl watches him with an amused tilt to his mouth, relaxed and sprawling. “You win against me, I’ll eat double what I normally do. I win against you, and…”

“And?”

“And…” A light bulb flashes over Paul’s head. “You’ve gotta clear out all those green beans Maria keeps trying to force on you. At once.”

Daryl hums. “Guess it’s a good thing I’ll be winning.”

“You’re in?”

Daryl eyes his outstretched hand before taking it and standing, calluses rough against Paul’s own. Paul holds back from shivering, but only barely.

“You’re on, Rovia.”

+++

Here’s something Paul’s known to be true about Daryl since they first met outside that gas station: he fights dirty.

Where Paul has the years of training under skilled martial artists under his belt, Daryl has the pent up anger of a kid who got hurt far more than he was loved. He makes up for the lack of skill with his sheer, unerring stubbornness, with his bodily strength and his complete lack of care for his own wellbeing.

If Daryl ever got properly trained up, if he ever got the kind of mentoring Paul had as a scrawny gay kid tossed between foster families like he meant nothing, he’d be genuinely scary in a fight.

Hell, he’s close to it even now; teeth bared, stance ready, shoulders forward. He keeps his center of gravity perfectly in line with every movement he makes, never overcompensating or moving too quick for his brain to follow.

His advantage comes from his being an endurance fighter, where Paul has always been the one who gets in and out with barely a bruise. Daryl fights past the point of pain, uses it to fuel himself. Where other men back down, take a moment to breathe, Daryl draws in a ragged breath with shaky lungs and keeps going.

Paul moves quick, in lithe darting motions Maggie sometimes compares to a cat, and Daryl takes his time and watches. Eyes like his never miss a trick; he knows when Paul is about to feint left, when he’s about to dodge, when he’s ready to throw a punch.

Daryl is a tracker to the bones.

It’s just unlucky for him that Paul knows all that.

The first move Daryl makes is measured, arms stretching out and waiting for Paul to pounce, and instead of launching at him, Paul slides through his open legs and jumps up behind him, too quick for Daryl to grab him.

“You sure you wanna do this, Dixon?” He asks, taunting, as Daryl pivots on his heel and sweeps his leg out, catching Paul’s ankle.

He uses Daryl’s momentum to his advantage, controls the fall he pulls him into by rolling onto his back and then moving forward again, legs curling around Daryl’s.

He hits the grass with a grunt, sweat trickling down his jaw, and Paul grins at him.

Daryl takes the distraction, digs a heavy boot right under Paul’s torso and jams it right into his kidney, making him wheeze.

“Yeah, pretty boy,” Daryl says, prowling forward now that he’s got the upper hand, “I’m sure.”

Paul waits for Daryl to settle over his chest, ass pressed to his hips, before launching one arm up and pinching him in the back of the neck, like a mama cat to her young.

Daryl yowls, swatting and unseating himself, and Paul rolls them until he’s on top of Daryl, chest heaving and heart pounding.

Daryl snarls up at him, teeth bared, lips pulled back; he’s all animal, and for maybe the third time in his life Paul is glad he’s not a cis dude, because if he were Daryl would feel the swell of his dick rubbing against his damp chest.

“That all you got, boy?” Daryl asks, leaning up, neck muscles cording and thick, arms pressed to the grass either side of him. Paul hums.

“Can you take any more?”

Daryl’s leg whips up, and Paul feels the tugging sensation before he even realises what’s happening.

Daryl’s toes curl in his hair and yank Paul backwards, bending him in half over Daryl’s legs while Daryl keeps him in place with a leg crossed over Paul’s stomach.

“How the fuck did you unlace your boots?” Paul wheezes out, staring up at Daryl’s flushed face, the strands of hair sticking to his jaw, the glint in his eyes when he rolls right on top of Paul and then pins his hands. Fingers clutching at his, pressing them into the grass until the dew makes Paul shiver.

Or… some of it is the dew.

The other half is the strain of his muscles with his body bent in half a way it’s not meant to go, Daryl’s considerable weight pinning him down, arms bulging with the effort of holding Paul down.

“God. Fuck. Paul.”

Paul swallows back a whine and tries to rock his hips, unseat Daryl from where he’s probably crushing all of his goddamn organs, but Daryl sits steady.

He slowly unwinds the leg behind Paul’s head, stretches it out beside Paul’s exhausted body, toes digging into the dirt. Presses his knee softly into Paul’s inner elbow before holding his arm over Paul’s throat, grin wide and unrestrained.

“You wanna tap out, darlin’?”

His voice is rough with exertion, almost a purr, tongue striking over his mouth. Paul swallows hard, hopes to God that Daryl can’t feel his heart pounding, the racing of his pulse where his fingers clasp his wrists.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, but he smacks the ground anyway.

Vague shame at losing a fight bursts over him, but more intense than that is the way Daryl said darlin’, the rolling southern twang, the heat of Daryl’s body cradling his close, even in a restraining pose.

Daryl pats over Paul’s shoulder before clambering to his feet, legs either side of Paul’s face. If Paul was a braver, stupider man, he might just lean right up, press his face into the soft bulge of Daryl’s packer, taste the way Daryl falls apart.

Instead, he takes his hand and hopes to God he isn’t trembling too hard.

“Good game,” he manages, and Daryl snorts and nudges Paul’s shoulder with his forehead; an affectionate move that makes Paul’s breath stutter and trip over itself in his chest cavity.

“Double what you usually eat,” Daryl reminds him, and Paul fakes a pouting groan, but his stomach’s still fluttering with Daryl’s words, his face, the way victory looked on his striking features. “You promised.”

“Technically,” Paul corrects, and brushes off a stray piece of grass from Daryl’s jacket, fingers catching on cool, smooth leather, “it was a bet. But. Same difference.”

Daryl watches him with a blank expression, eyes flicking over his face, and for a moment, Paul could swear he looks at his mouth.

But then he takes a breath and rolls his eyes, and Paul stops hoping.

“Let’s get to Carson,” Daryl mumbles, hand dropping out of mid-air where it was going to-what? Touch Paul’s arm?-, “got you in the kidney. Just wanna make sure you’re not bruised up.”

“You’re not that good, Dixon.”

“Yeah, well.” He looks Paul up and down, “me winning that bet says otherwise, Double-Rations.”

+++

Daryl is a sore winner, which is something Paul should have seen coming.

After dragging Paul to Carson’s trailer he takes the lead in shoving him into Maggie’s office, arms bundled with whatever the kitchen staff were willing to give.

(Considering it was Paul, -which is just so fucking embarrassing, that they see him as somehow needing more supplies instead of less-, there’s a stupid amount piled in Daryl’s strong embrace).

“Earl came in talkin’ about you idiots,” Maggie tells them, swinging her feet under her as she steals a stick of jerky from the pile. “Saying you damn near gave Adrien a heart attack with that fight.”

“It weren’t a fight.” Daryl huffs, smacking at her hand when she reaches for a cored apple. She crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him, because Maggie Rhee is a responsible and mature leader. “Was a bet, and I won.”

“You cheated,” Paul mutters, teeth locked around one of Kingdom’s energy bars that taste like what tar looks like, “I’m sure.”

Daryl snorts. “Uh-huh. Maybe you’re just weaker than you look, Hay-soos.”

Behind Paul, there’s a light noise of derision, and Paul swings to see Maggie covering her mouth with one thin-fingered hand, shoulders shaking. “Ma’am, are you laughing at me?”

Maggie’s eyes flick over him. There’s a wicked curl to her mouth, eyes entirely too bright, chest still hitching from escaping giggles. “Just that y’all can’t see it.”

Daryl pauses where he’s breaking up a couple sticks of celery and dunking them into peanut butter, shoving them at Paul. Paul takes them with a resigned sigh. “Can’t see what, Mags?”

Maggie hums. “That’s your business, Daryl, not mine.” She nudges a can of beets closer to Paul once he crunches his way through the small mountain of crushed vegetables. “Eat up, Jesus. Maria’s right. You’re gettin’ too damn skinny for my liking. You better find some shit to put some meat on those muscles of yours -that run y’all are going on can’t come soon enough.”

Paul dribbles peanut butter into his beard. “You’re telling me.”

Daryl watches him, and Paul tries to ignore the heat that licks up his spine from the even gaze.

It doesn’t work.

+++

“Hey.” Paul wipes off some polish on the rag at his side. “You were gone a while. You need your knives sharpened?”

Daryl shrugs out of his jacket, jaw tensing, back a rigid line. “Uh. Yeah, thanks.”

Paul narrows his eyes. There’s a rip in Daryl’s shirt, just a few inches long but enough for Paul to see the smattering of bruising covering his hip, the way they clearly extend farther into the middle of his back.

Testing a theory, he says, “you wanna throw me your belt?”

Daryl flinches as he tries to bend down, and Paul slides out of his chair and grabs the belt without a word. “I coulda got it.”

“No, you couldn’t.” Paul glances him up and down, the stray couple of twigs caught in his hair, the graze over his cheekbone he hadn’t noted when Daryl first stomped into the trailer. “What happened? Deer fought back?”

“Pft.”

Daryl turns away, gingerly settling on the cramped sofa, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He looks like his entire goddamn body hurts, like he just crawled up from Hell.

“Daryl.” Paul sets the knives down, in their holsters, for later use. “Tell me.”

“What the fuck are you, my damn mother?” Daryl hisses, but it’s such an echo of the anger he used to hold Paul doesn’t even wince. “Mind your business, man.”

Paul leans forward and presses one knee into the crease of Daryl’s hip, and watches him flinch a little away from the light touch. “I’m not going to send you to Carson, Dixon, but I’d rather know if I’m going to wake up to my leg getting gnawed on if you got bit or scratched.”

Never mind the fact he’d let it happen: seeing Daryl turn, or die, or even get grievously injured, that’d do him in. After that, he might as well just let the dead have him.

“Ain’t an idiot.” Daryl sighs, but there’s a chagrined tilt to his mouth. “Fell outtova tree tryna save a damn bobcat from the dead.”

Paul pauses, lip twitching. Not what he’d been expecting, but-. “You fell out of a tree?”

“What I said, Rovia.” He gives Paul a dark look. “Dead didn’t get me, but the goddamn cat leapt right down on top of me and ran off.”

That’s it for Paul -he fucking loses it.

It’s the imagery of it that makes him break; big, tough redneck cooing at a wild animal in a tree, arms bulging and crossbow across his back, before the burly bastard tumbles backwards.

“Stop goddamn laughin’, prick!” Daryl grunts, kicking ineffectively at Paul’s stomach when he dances out of reach. “It ain’t funny!” There’s a little bit of a smile on his mouth, though, something so sweet and fond that it makes the laugh rattling in Paul’s chest catch.

He forgets, sometimes, the way Daryl looks when he smiles. Not the mocking grin he gives, the smirk he hands out, but a true smile that makes his eyes wrinkle, his nose twitch. The way his eyes glow a little, bright blue between those even-more-narrow-than-usual eyelids, that darling little curve to his mouth that shows off his sharp incisors against a pink lip.

His breath is stolen for just a second before he manages to settle back, and places a vaguely amused but distant mask on, lest Daryl realise just what he thinks of him, the depths of his feelings for a man who could never feel the same.

“We need to, uh,” Paul coughs, and Daryl just cocks his eyes and smiles again, crow’s feet standing out like a stream in the summer; refreshing, something to cherish. “See if you got clawed by it, don’t want you dropping dead of rabies. There’s not much we can do about the bruises, but I can steal some ice from one of the stores in the basement; Kal managed to hook up a freezer on solar power.”

“Sure thing.” Daryl nods at him. “You wanna get the med kit? Under the sink, used it when I fucked up my shot last time, wouldn’t stop bleedin’.”

Paul disappears into the small, shared bathroom and locks eyes with himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck are you doing, Rovia?” He asks himself, before taking a deep breath and swallowing down the lump in his throat, retrieving the med kit. It’s just where Daryl said it’d be, of course, and he has to take a moment to wonder what he’d do without him before the pain of it jerks him out of his thoughts.

I won’t have to, he thinks, if he dies, I’m going with him.

Back in the main living area, Daryl’s stretched out on the sofa, shirt tugged up and caught in his teeth.

Paul has to wonder if he’s doing this on purpose, like waving a carrot on a stick before a starving donkey, but there’s nothing even vaguely mischievous about the set of his jaw, the look in his eyes.

He instead focuses on the deep bruising all up his side, curling over his stomach and back around to the very bottom of his shoulder blade. No doubt where the crossbow hit him when he landed. “You’re not bleeding, I don’t think.”

“Nah,” Daryl agrees, “didn’t think I was, but s’hard to tell on my back. Don’t really notice anything there any more.”

Paul thinks about the night Daryl revealed his history; his father’s violence, his brother’s distance and emotional abuse. The whippings he used to get that tore away skin and nerves both, and the reaction he has now to getting hit in the back -the breathless response like he knows it’s there but can only feel it through a haze.

He keeps the rage in check, but his hands still tremble a little as he starts wiping down his side with antiseptic. Although, that could be because he’s a gay disaster, but. Six of one.

“After top surgery I barely had any feeling on my chest for, God… nine months? It’s back, now, but I remember how weird it was to be touched and not feel anything.” Almost without thinking, he thumbs over the material covering his long-healed scars. Daryl watches his hand move with a quirk to his mouth.

“I got some feeling, you know. It’s not-. I don’t know if it’s entirely numb, or it’s some fear response, some way to shut down the flashbacks. A couple books Carol gave me, they talked about how sometimes your body ignores the signal’s it’s getting if it’s not life threatening.”

Paul nods, feeling over some of the swelling and bruises at Daryl’s hip, before lightly turning him over and touching the grazes over his back. “You good with me touching you here?”

Daryl takes in a ragged breath, burying his face in the sofa cushion. “S-sure.”

“I can stop.” Paul says, pulling his hands away, watching the way his face contorts a little, ears red. “I think once I wipe it over it can be done, or we can come back to it. It doesn’t seem like there’s any internal bleeding; this is just to make sure. I can go get ice and have that be it. Really.”

“No!” Daryl blurts, and his hands jerk for a moment, dragging Paul’s own to the soft skin of his lower back. “Just-. Go slow. Needs to be done and I trust you.”

Paul feels his throat clench, hopes to God his pupils aren’t blown and Daryl can’t tell how much of a turn on that wording is, because-. This is just not the goddamn time, holy fuck.

“Okay,” Paul mumbles, swallowing. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

Daryl nods.

Paul starts cleaning the area, gentle sweeping motions as he ignores staring at the deepest of his purpled scars, the criss-cross markings of them. He warns Daryl whenever he cleans over a graze, just to let him know it’ll sting like hell, and Daryl takes it with a sharp breath and gritted teeth.

Some filthy and depraved part of Paul’s brain wants to hold him down and say good boy, but the saner part knows that’s a fucking idiotic idea and might revoke any trust Daryl has placed in him over the past couple of years.

He places a couple band-aids over any of the worst scrapes, just to stop any of Daryl’s shirts rubbing against them and irritating him, and then tells him to turn back over.

Daryl agrees, and when he does Paul has to blink and look away for a moment, just-. Not look at how grateful he looks, the sweet pink of his cheeks, the doe-eyed gaze he’s settling on him, so unlike the violent man in the war between the Saviors. So gentle, so kind, so perfectly good.

“You’re good,” Paul tells him, and hopes his voice isn’t as breathy as it feels, “nothing wrong with you.”

“Thanks,” Daryl whispers, and pats over Paul’s hand, where it rests on Daryl’s flank. His fingers curl around Paul’s, rough against smooth, cool where Paul feels like he’s overheating. “Thanks.”

He pulls his hand away, and Paul stands, butterflies in his stomach and trying to tell himself it means nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Like always, that only makes his chest hurt.

+++

It’s some time in the middle of the night, moon high in the sky and casting shadows across Maggie’s office, that Paul hears the crackle of the radio in the next room over.

He’d fallen asleep setting up provisions for their upcoming run, and Maggie had dragged a thick throw blanket over his shoulders before crashing in her bed next to Hershel.

It takes him a moment for his brain to come back online, synapses firing wrong like he’d fallen into a coma instead of a nap. When it does, the words he’s hearing just make him even more confused.

“...Ain’t like tha’, brother, don’t… feel like that, not about me-...” Daryl’s voice, low and gravel-thick, cut off by a burst of static and Rick Grimes’ southern drawl.

“...be stupid not to, Daryl.” Another crackle. “Michonne says to tell you to make a move. Before time runs out, man.”

“Tell ‘Chonne to mind her own damn business.” Daryl huffs back, but even from a room away Paul can hear the smile in his voice, the way his eyes must be rolling in his head, dark blue in the evening light.

Some more crackling, followed by, “I’ve seen the way that-. Not fair t’string you along.”

“Shut up,” Daryl sighs, “given plenty’a damn chances. Pretty clear that -don’t want nothin’ like that. With me. I’m-. It’s fine.”

A crackling sigh over the radio, and then words too quiet for Paul to hear.

“No,” Daryl mumbles, “I love ‘em, but-... No.”

Paul’s heart pounds in his chest, nausea rolling in his gut, and he squeezes his eyes tight to hold back the tears.

Nothing, he tells himself again, and goes back to sleep with the taste of salt in his mouth.

+++

Paul’s watching Daryl drag his bag into the back of the truck when Maggie presses a hand to the small of his back, chin resting on his shoulder.

“I’ll miss you,” she tells him, voice sugar-sweet, and Paul drops his head back against hers and takes in a trembling breath, because. He’ll miss her, too. It’s not even the longest run they’ve done, not by a long shot, but it’s the first in a while, the first since Hershel started toddling around on clumsy feet. “Better make it back safe.”

“We’ll do our best.” He squeezes at her hand as it sneaks up his side. “I love you.”

Maggie laughs, a breathless, wheezing little thing. “I love you too, sugar. Keep out of trouble, alright? An’ make sure he does, too.”

Her head cocks to the side, at where Daryl’s dusting his pants down and holstering some of his fancy knives. “He’ll be alright.”

I’d die if he wasn’t, goes unsaid, but the way Maggie’s right hand squeezes the back of his neck says she heard it anyway.

Daryl wanders over, sway to his step, crossbow over his arm, making his pecs bulge. Paul only manages to prevent himself drawling by thinking about the way Daryl had sounded the night before, vulnerable and hurting for a woman who probably didn’t deserve him.

He pulls a mask over his features and hopes Daryl can’t see how fake the smile he gives him is.

“You tryna bully him, Mags?” Daryl asks, leaning around Paul to give her a kiss on the cheek.

Paul’s chest aches with the closeness.

“Ain’t either of you good at caring for your damn selves,” she huffs, stroking over Daryl’s arm with a gentle hand, “at least with the both of you you’ll look out for each other.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Daryl ducks out of the way as Maggie goes to cuff him around the back of the head, and it just pushes him further into Paul’s space, warm and strong and everything he wants and can never, ever have. “Give Hershel love for me, right?”

“Both of us,” Paul amends, “I left him a gift in the trailer.”

“Nah.” Daryl shakes his head, knuckles bumping into Paul’s stomach through the layers of leather, “saw you left it there, took it up to the office.”

Maggie makes an amused sound before pulling back. Paul immediately misses her warmth, the safety of he kind touch. “Don’t die, fellas.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Paul and Daryl parrot, and exchange matching grins when she just sighs and tilts her head up to the sky.

+++

Paul takes the first driving shift, much to Daryl’s chagrin.

“Not like I don’t think you can drive,” Daryl tells him, looking over some of Paul’s knives to check if they need sharpening, legs kicked up on the dash. “But I saw that damn truck swerve all over the fuckin’ place first time we met.”

“Because you went and attached a fucking vending machine to it! It was throwing off the-the… Streamlining.”

“Streamlining.” Daryl scoffs. “That the hill you want to die on, Rovia?”

“At least I can climb trees.” Paul smirks, and Daryl’s hand darts out to grab for the wheel, turning the truck into a sharp left before Paul can correct it.

Paul smacks at his arm with one hand, teeth bared. “No fucking fair, Dixon!”

He swerves back into place in the centre of the highway, and Daryl just cackles next to him, deep and sounding so happy it makes Paul’s entire body tremble just a little.

“You know,” Paul sighs, fingers drumming against sun-scorched leather, “I don’t like being out of Hilltop as much, now? It’s just -we’ve got everything there. And Maggie and Hershel, I don’t-. I feel weird leaving them. I know they can handle themselves, and that Maggie has Enid and everyone to help out, but… I was there to see him be born. He was so tiny. It’s weird to think of him as just a miniature human.”

Daryl nods, biting at his nails, casting a look. “I felt that way ‘bout Judith, moving to Hilltop. She ain’t my kid, but all of us- we all helped with her. With all the kids. They’re family. S’weird, caring about people that much.”

Paul takes a left onto a dirt road as he hums in reply.

The road’s essentially just a rut some of the Sanctuary’s people dug for ease of access to other communities, but it cuts the drive to the nearest garden center almost in half.

Daryl wrinkles his nose when he uses it, but doesn’t complain.

“I never had a family, before Maggie, Sasha and Enid, ” Paul bites his lip. He swallows. “You.”

Daryl goes still next to him.

“Before all of you turned up, I was this close to leaving Hilltop forever, did I ever tell you that? Gregory was driving me up the fucking wall, half the guys there gave me looks like having a gay man being a provider threatened their masculinity. And then I found you and Rick, and… I just knew. I knew I couldn’t leave. I could see what the place would be, then. I saw Maggie, making deals with Gregory, and. He was such a fucking asshole, such a piece of shit, the way he treated her, I couldn’t just let her be the one person fighting for you guys. Rick would, you would, you all would, but.”

“Gregory tried to make her fuck him.” Daryl grits out, reading between the lines.

Paul knows Maggie didn’t tell anyone about Gregory’s treatment, the way he tried to grope her before she threatened to cut his hands off his body, but it’s still a shock seeing the rage hit Daryl’s body like a physical thing. Something new and fire-hot.

“Yeah.” His fingers tense on the wheel. “And I saw the way she reacted, and I knew: she’s someone I can follow. And she was. She is. She always will be.”

“All of them are like that.” Daryl shakes his head, jaw still tense but shoulders relaxing slowly. Knowing Maggie’s safe, Gregory’s dead, that his rage won’t do anything right now. “Rick, Michonne, Glenn, Carol… They were all people to follow, y’know? Good people.”

Paul blinks. “You don’t think you were?”

“I know I weren’t.” Daryl scoffs. “You really think some dumb redneck piece of shit like me could be a leader?”

Paul’s chest hurts, so intense he has to take a couple soothing breaths. “No. I think a good, kind, compassionate, brave man could be a leader. I think you are one, whether you admit it or not. I think a smart man can be a leader, I think we’d be lucky if you were to lead. I’d be lucky. I’m lucky just knowing you.”

Daryl’s cheeks go pink. “Shut up.”

“No.” Paul snorts. “You can’t tell me you really think you’d be a bad leader? You lead half the troops against the Saviors, Daryl. You’re the reason I’m alive. You give me a reas-.” He breaks off, hopes to God this isn’t going to ruin everything, that Daryl didn’t truly take his words at face value.

When he glances over, slowing the truck incrementally, Daryl’s facing the passenger window, tips of his ears red where they peek between tangled webs of hair. “Okay.”

A breath. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Alright, then.” He reaches a hand out, fingers nearly touching the rough fabric of Daryl’s shirt before he drops it back to the gearshift.

+++

It’s evening, sun sinking below the horizon, and Paul’s leaning back against the truck, breathless from exertion.

The centre had everything they needed and more; they’d taken what they could fit in and made a note of the location before locking the place back up with four types of locks.

It’d also had such a massive group of walkers they’d just spent the past hour and a half back-to-back, sweating and drawing the dead in as they took them down, slow and methodical.

“I genuinely,” Paul gasps through heaving breaths, “don’t know how we did that.”

He glances at the massive pile of bodies surrounding them, numbers easily reaching into the forties, and Daryl chuffs out what might be a neither, if one were listening particularly hard and were inclined to interpret it that way.

He rummages around in one of the sacks of goods they’d grabbed, throwing a granola bar at the archer. He catches it with grace, tears the packet open with his teeth. “Did good, though. Not bit.”

“Not bit,” Paul agrees. Not that there hadn’t been a couple close calls, but Paul will tell Daryl that when they’re home and safe, he thinks. Daryl tends to get a little -edgy, about close calls, all trembling hands and misplaced anger.

There’s a couple of teeth-shaped marks in the leather of his coat. He uses Daryl’s distraction with the food to try and brush them out with his blood-caked fingers.

He’s casting his gaze around, just making sure they’re definitely alone, when Daryl pipes up, voice a little breathless still but mostly back to normal.

He’d been smoking less, lately, but the last few days Paul kept finding him stalking around Barrington, a haze of smoke pouring out of his mouth, or propped against the trailer in the evening; cigarette caught between his teeth.

No wonder he’s still a little breathless.

“You got a bit, uh,” Daryl says, moving in close, ducking his head to lock eyes with some part of Paul’s skin that must be dirtied with blood, “blood.”

Paul reaches a hand up to touch his skin, but his fingers come back clean.

Daryl huffs impatiently, and before Paul can really process what’s happening, his fingers are tilting Paul’s chin up, his other hand coming up to wipe away the gore with the rag he’s always got in his pocket.

Paul feels his throat bob, eyes fluttering. Daryl’s fingers are rough on his skin, but so very delicate. Gentle and kind. He spits in the rag and then goes back to Paul’s throat, knuckles brushing up against a spot that makes him shiver.

Daryl’s hands still over his skin, stroking gently, before he seems to realise what he’s doing and he jumps back. Cheeks red even in the dark, eyes darting everywhere except Paul’s face.

Paul takes in a trembling, ragged breath, feeling so desperately off-kilter his limbs don’t feel like they belong to him. He can feel the dampness of Daryl’s spit on his throat, and it should be gross, should be disgusting, but instead all he can think about is Daryl’s mouth, teeth brushing along his jugular, tongue tasting him, one calloused hand holding his head steady.

“Thanks.” Paul’s voice comes out a little cracked, and Daryl just gives him a jerky nod and ducks into the truck, pulling himself up through the sun-roof and landing cross-legged on the roof.

“I got first watch,” he grumbles out, and Paul feels disappointment curl in his guts even though he saw this coming, “get some sleep.”

“Okay.” He sighs. “Alright.”

+++

Daryl nudges him awake at some point past midnight, shaking Paul’s foot and moving back out of his space like Paul’s going to give him the plague.

He rubs at the sleep caked in his eyes and nods at Daryl as he slips past him, and blinks in confusion when Daryl doesn’t climb into the truck for his own sleep.

“Can’t,” Daryl explains, when he notices Paul’s expression, “went around to a building a couple minutes ago, saw a group of the dead. Figure we stand our ground then get out of here, somewhere less open.”

Paul climbs on top of the truck, smooth and agile even though his body is still lazy with sleep, and sees what Daryl means. “You say that’s, what? Twenty?”

Daryl climbs up next to him, knife flicking between his fingers in a move Paul knows that he learned from him. “Mhm. Didn’t wanna risk it, not with how dark it is.”

Paul unholsters his gun, his knives, and slides on a couple of knuckle dusters Daryl brought him back from a run one time, months back.

Daryl raises a brow. “You plannin’ on going MMA?”

“Since last time I tried to fight someone, I lost,” he gives Daryl a nudge in the ribs with one elbow, and Daryl smirks. “No, but never hurts to have a little extra insurance. Speaking of: why the fuck are you only in a vest? Do you want to get bit?”

Daryl shifts in place, knife rolling off his knuckles like water before his thumb catches it and spins it back into a steady grip. “Easier with the bow. And, y’know.”

“What?” Paul asks, soft, keeping his eyes on the slowly approaching dead, “you just want to seduce me with your arms, Dixon?”

Daryl startles, knife dropping into his lap. He grabs it again before he responds. “I figure… In a group, somethin’ goes tits up, could distract some of them with me. Let them have a feast.”

Nausea swells in Paul’s gut. “Don’t-. Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Daryl asks, ducking his head, eyes flashing through his hair, blue and curious.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t live, knowing you died for me, like that. None of us could, I don’t think. I’d rather fight them off and lose together than-than see you just torn to fucking pieces like a piece of meat, God. Don’t-. How can you not get that you mean a lot to people?”

Daryl swallows, loud and heavy. “Would rather die for you, than-. Shit!”

“What is-!”

In the distraction of talking, the walkers had gotten closer than they’d even realised. They’re already close to the truck, a couple feet away and snarling, stench hitting Paul’s nose like the reverse of an air freshener.

And in the confusion, Daryl’s leg is caught in the grip of a heavy-looking walker, trying to sink its teeth into his thigh.

Paul scrambles close, and starts punching. The walker tries to snap at him, and he almost gets grabbed at some point, but his vision clouds over as its head explodes, the only thought in his head: save him save him save him he’s worth saving save him.

“...Paul!” Daryl’s shout drags him out of his rage, and his hand clamping down on his neck and hauling him back across the cold roof gets him refocused.

Paul cracks his neck, and dives forward, this time with knife in hand. He takes down three, four, five before Daryl has even managed to come back across the truck, and then there’s blood streaking across asphalt and glowing red-brown on Daryl’s skin.

Paul’s breath catches in his throat, chest heaving, as he jumps onto the solid ground of the parking lot they’re in, letting himself get surrounded for a moment before he swings out.

Uses one walker as springboard before sliding his sword through two at once, dodges seamlessly as Daryl fires his bow at a roamer that got too close.

Daryl slides onto the ground, too, then, taking out walkers two at a time as they turn towards him, knives gripped in both hands. It doesn’t take long for him to get through the small cluster, and he and Paul take out the few remaining dead together, back-to-back. A team.

Paul doesn’t realise he’s sobbing until the dead are all gone, piled on top of one another, and he crumples to the ground with weak knees, jaw trembling with the effort to keep his breathless whimpers locked up tight.

“Man, really didn’t-.” Daryl turns towards him, and his eyes go wide, rushing over. “Paul. Paul? Are you okay? You’re not- you’re not bit, you-.”

Paul thinks about those dead hands on Daryl’s legs, the way his entire being froze up, the pounding of his fist as it struck the walker’s skull. Thinks about Daryl talking about leaving himself as bait to save his family, to save Paul, thinks about all the ways in which Daryl is a good man, a kind man, and launches himself at him before he can convince himself it’s a bad idea.

Daryl staggers back, but Paul curls tighter. Face into his neck, taking in his sweaty scent, the deep musk he knows so well these days. His legs catch around Daryl’s waist, and it’s testament to how fucking stupidly strong Daryl is that the only thing that makes him sway is the shock.

“Paul,” Daryl whispers, voice shaky, “Paul, are you okay?”

Paul looks at him, his gore-streaked face, the terrified edge in his eyes, the way his jaw trembles like just seeing Paul cry is enough to set him off, and says, “I want you.”

Daryl jerks against him, eyes blinking. “What?”

“I don’t-. I.” He takes a steady breath, realises how tightly he’s clinging on and lets his legs drop back to the ground, even though his muscles are weak and shaking. “Don’t die. For me. Or for anything. Don’t die. Don’t-. I can’t deal with it, I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

“Paul.”

“Please, don’t leave me please-.”

“Paul.”

“I need you I don’t know who I am without you-.”

“Jesus.”

Paul jerks his head up just in time for Daryl’s mouth to press against his, hands around his jaw, cradling and trembling, so safe even in the anxiety of the night.

Paul whines, weak, and leans close into him, fingers curling in that stupid leather vest, opening his mouth against Daryl’s tongue, tasting tears and Daryl and blood.

It’s so good, deep and warm, Daryl’s teeth pulling at Paul’s lip before he dives back in, sliding one thick arm around his waist and keeping him close, like the idea of being separated scares him just as much as it scares Paul.

The kiss is everything he’s wanted for months, maybe since the moment they met outside of that grungy gas station. This gentle desire, the strength in Daryl’s arms as he keeps him pressed against the truck, the devouring of his life.

“Paul,” Daryl sighs, like a prayer, a benediction, “Paul. Paul.”

“Please,” Paul whispers, “just let me have- this, please. Please. Once, one time, please.”

Salt invades his mouth, his tears rolling once again, and Daryl holds his face and presses kisses to the skin of his cheeks, to his forehead, the tip of his dripping nose. Like none of that matters, like it doesn’t matter that Daryl’s straight and doesn’t like men, that he’s in love with someone else. In this moment, breathing each other’s air, the only thing that matters is he can taste the granola on Daryl’s tongue.

“Only once.” Daryl sighs, thumb stroking over Paul’s bottom lip, calloused skin catching on smooth. Paul’s breath goes ragged, tongue sliding over the thick calluses on Daryl’s thumb, and Daryl strokes his jaw with his other fingers.

“I know.” Paul whispers. “I know you don’t want me, like that, it’s fine. I just-. I need you, right now.”

Daryl’s eyes blink, slow and lazy, like a content cat, and he laughs. Low and soft, lips dragging up against Paul’s jaw. “Pretty boy. Pretty boy, you think I don’t need you?”

Paul’s stomach swoops. He tangles Daryl’s hair between his fingers and holds him close, holds him steady. Home. Home home home.

“You don’t-. You’re straight.” It’s tremulous, like if he voices it Daryl will suddenly realise this disgusts him. That Paul disgusts him. And when they finally get back to Hilltop he’ll move out and leave and go off somewhere, just hide in a swamp like a lonely little hillbilly, belongings tied to a stick and all.

Instead, Daryl rolls his eyes. “Rick said, y’know. That you just didn’t get it.”

“What?”

“Wanted you, Rovia, since the second I goddamn saw you.” Daryl takes a deep breath. “Been wanting you so long. Moment I met you, pretty boy, your goddamn firecrackers and your stupid as shit jokes. I’m gay, dumbass. I’ve been-. Been tryna show you how much I wanted you but every time you just acted like it was normal. Walked ‘round naked in front of you, got off near you, said your name.”

Daryl looks him in the eye, smile curling his mouth, beauty mark never such an apt name. “I heard you. Just... want you, too. Been loving you.”

Paul’s throat aches, burns, his entire body trembles, hands shaking curled in Daryl’s sweaty hair. “I’ve loved you so fucking long.”

“Sweetheart,” Daryl murmurs, and leans in for another kiss, “you got nothing on me.”

“I maintain that you weren’t very straightforward- unf!”

“Stop talking,” Daryl says, breathing into Paul’s mouth, pressed chest to chest, “stop talking.”

“Okay.” Paul laughs, soft and so fucking light. “Alright.”

+++

They stop kissing, at some point. Paul’s not sure when, exactly, but he knows that once Daryl moves far back enough that they can both pull a full breath, the sky’s lightening up in a shot of purple-blue.

“We should,” Daryl gasps, mouth swollen, marks along the soft skin of his throat. They match the shape of Paul’s teeth. “Get goin’, look for that pharmacy Tara mentioned. She said they had a few boxes of supplies that might be good for us. Kept it locked up so’s we could check.”

Paul leans back against the car, hands still shaking a little. He watches Daryl’s throat bob, the dark rings of blue his pupils have yet to swallow, lips kiss-bruised. “Mhm. How far is it?”

“The roads the way they are…” Daryl trails off, eyes going distant as he taps a rhythm against Paul’s hip. “Couple hours, give or take? Closer to Alexandria than Hilltop.”

“Good.” Paul smirks, sliding one hand up Daryl’s shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin like he’s wanted so long. His breath hitches, chest rumbling under a groan. His nails scratch softly at the light dusting of hair at Daryl’s navel, and Daryl’s mouth drops open in a needy little whine. “We need to check in with them, anyway. I want to check in with Aaron, see if he’s used to that prosthetic yet, and I know you’ve been wanting to see Jude.”

Daryl’s mouth widens in a sweet smile, and in that moment he doesn’t look like a fighter. He looks like a happy man, content to his very bones. “Wanted to check with Carl, too, see if he’s thought any more about making that move to Hilltop. Wanna make sure his dumbass doesn’t pull any Rick-level stunts. That, and Enid’s been talkin’ about him so damn much I almost want to get him laid.”

“You’re the weirdest uncle anyone’s ever had, I think. Also, that is the worst thing you’ve ever said.” Daryl smacks him in the gut with teeth bared, but Paul just drags him close by his belt loops and rocks forward on his toes. He lets his teeth brush Daryl’s ear, breath blowing hot against his ear. “They’ve still got that house set up for you, right?”

Daryl swallows. “What for?”

Paul’s fingers slip between Daryl’s heated skin and his jeans.

“Oh.” A soft, hitching breath. “I… Christ, I think so.”

Paul pulls back, shoving Daryl away with one hand and watching the way Daryl’s lip curves around a pout. “Let’s move, big boy. We’re wasting daylight.”

“I fuckin’ hate you,” Daryl says, but he still settles one thick palm over Paul’s thigh when they climb into the truck, so Paul doesn’t take it too personally.

+++

Daryl was right: Tara did lock it up tight. The sun’s fully up by the time they pull onto the curb by the tiny building, and Paul squints against the yellow light as he examines the doors.

From the looks of things, it’s empty inside, but it never hurts to be sure, so they both lean against the glass and thump a few times against it with balled fists.

After a few minutes, Daryl grins at him and gets to his knees.

Paul tries not to think about… things, but is only barely able to accomplish it.

Daryl easily slides the numbers of the lock around until the padlock clicks open, and he unravels the chain and wraps it around his wrist. Seeing Paul’s raised eyebrow, he says, “Tara left me a note.”

Paul catches the padlock as he throws it. 69-42-00. “I miss her.”

“Me, too,” Daryl agrees, and swings the doors open with one twisting pulse of his incredible biceps. Paul doesn’t drool. It’s a near thing. But he’s counting it as a win.

He still runs his gloved hand over his arm as he passes, though. He’s only a human, and not even a particularly restrained one at that.

If anything, Daryl’s lucky he didn’t pin him up against the door and suck him off.

The thought alone makes his mouth water, so he pulls his hand back and starts wandering the aisles.

Most of the goods are gone; he packets a couple boxes of sanitary towels, tampons, condoms and painkillers, but other than that he’d be lucky to even find a damn energy bar.

Daryl whistles from the other side of the cramped space, and Paul moseys his way over, sliding a bottle of lube into his jacket pocket as he goes. Just in case.

Daryl’s waiting outside a locked door, knife in hand, when Paul slides up to his side and pets his hip.

It keeps taking him by surprise, the fact he’s allowed to do this now. To touch, to hold, to love as deeply as he has been so quietly for so long, but now as loud as he can project it.

“Think it’s clear, but,” Daryl nods at him, “figure it’s better to be ready.”

Paul pats the condom box he’s got stashed in his pants. “You’re telling me.”

Daryl gives him a blank look. Shakes his head. “Can’t believe I’m gonna have sex with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Paul reminds him, even though his voice goes a little strangled at the thought Daryl’s been actively thinking about it.

“Nah, I’m gonna.” He raps a fist on the door, ear pressed close to the wood, and nods when he hears nothing. “Should be good.”

Paul does the honors, and takes a deep breath of relief when he sees the boxes and boxes of testosterone. “God, I didn’t realise how fucking stressed I was about it ‘til now.”

Daryl hums behind him, sliding his hands around Paul’s hips and then picking him up, placing him down a couple feet to the left. Paul squeaks.

“You were in the way,” Daryl explains, and Paul usually tops, is usually the ones pulling guys apart like wrapping paper, but Christ if the thought of Daryl holding him against a wall and fingering him stupid doesn’t make his knees tremble.

“Fuck you,” he sighs, because he is a capable and strong gay man and also kind of a fucking moron where it matters. “Do we take all of it? I feel bad for it, you know, if there’s other people who might need it.”

Daryl gnaws on his lip. “How much d’you use a month?”

“200 milligrams every two weeks,” Paul says, “you?”

“Same, actually.” Daryl kneels down, searches through the boxes and then leans back, hair brushing against his shoulders as he gazes up at the store-rooms little skylight. “We’ll take half. Same with the needles, syringes, swabs. Leave the rest here. If we run out in a few months and this stash is still here, we’ll leave a couple month’s doses and take the rest.”

Paul shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

He slides his rucksack over his shoulders, dumping it by one of the most crammed boxes. “You think anyone could figure out how to make it at Hilltop? Or any of the communities?”

“Think Siddiq’s been working on it a couple months,” Daryl says, carefully stacking packets of syringes into his own bag. “Asked him before I came to Hilltop, if it was possible, y’know. I dunno how close he is. Could check in with him when we get there.”

“Anything’d help.” Paul rocks onto his heels. “It’s-. Stupid, I know, since we don’t even know how long we’re going to be around, but the idea of going without makes me feel sick.”

“Not stupid.” Daryl rubs his knuckles against Paul’s shoulder. “Hey. I get it. We’re not gonna run out. This stash’ll last us both a while, we’re good ‘til then, at least.”

“Yeah.” Paul takes a breath, shakes his hands out. “Yeah, I know. And it’s not even like I’d lose anything that important to me, it’s just…”

“Siddiq’s good,” Daryl tells him, and his face is so kind and gentle that Paul’s stomach flutters like a kid with a crush, “it’ll be fine. Gotta be.”

“Gotta be,” Paul repeats to himself, and shoves more needles into his belt loops after he’s filled up his bag. “Gotta be.”

+++

Alexandria looks almost looming at night.

With its high, steel-reinforced fences, the McMansions, the sharpened sticks shoved through car seats along the road for almost a mile, there’s something foreboding about it.

Right up until they pull through the gate, and Rick whistles from the guard post.

They’ve been driving all day, stopping near houses without any of the communities’ marks on them, picking over anything left. They’d managed to find a fair amount of cans and seeds and even some lumber from a house-extension left behind. And a stupid amount of lube, which he figures will be helpful for someone, even if it’s not him. Or.. Or Daryl. Christ.

“Look who it is,” Rick calls, slinking his way down the ladder with a cheshire cat grin, “Daryl Dixon.” He gives Paul a glance. “Jesus.”

His tone is oddly cold, and Daryl sighs by his side. “Brother.”

Rick presses a hand to Daryl’s neck and presses their foreheads together, and Paul knows there’s nothing there, but good lord that’s very homoerotic.

“Good to see you.” Rick tells him, and Paul watches with wide eyes because. Straight men (? Possibly straight men? Considering his recent failures at seeing Daryl coming on to him, he’s not about to make assumptions) are fucking bizarre.

“You, too, man.” Daryl pats him on the hip and then leans back against the truck, hand stroking Paul’s thigh absently.

“We’ve got some seeds for you,” Paul adds, when Rick gives him a glance like he’s just shit in his cereal, “since your gardens are coming along.”

“Mhm,” Rick huffs, “thanks.”

Paul cuts his eyes to Daryl, confusion curling in his guts. Have I done something wrong?

Daryl shakes his head, pushes off the warm metal and pats Paul right on the ass, like a fucking heathen.

Heat spreads through his guts.

“Y’all can sort the seeds and shit out,” Daryl says, and starts walking off, “gotta talk to Carl ‘bout somethin’.”

Traitor.

Rick looks panicked, for a short moment before his face smooths back out into its usual grumpy-murder-mask. “He’s in the house, helping ‘Chonne.”

“Got it.” Daryl flips them both the bird and then traipses off, hips swinging like he knows just how much of a dick he’s being and could not possibly give less of a shit.

“Seeds,” Paul says. Swallows. He opens up the trunk and searches for the box marked ALEXANDRIA in Daryl’s chicken scratch. He hefts it up onto one hip and then passes it off, all while Rick looks at him like he’s evil. “Hey, uh. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but have I pissed you off somehow?”

He honestly can’t think of any way in which he could, since it’s been weeks since he’s even been near Alexandria, let alone actually talked to Rick. Unless you count reading over letters dropped off by runners, and Paul doesn’t.

Rick sniffs. “You know what you did.”

Paul feels wholly out of his element, here just inside the gates of Alexandria in the dark of the evening, like he’s part of a conversation he has never once had. “Um.”

Rick darts forward, terrifyingly close from a man Paul has seen absolutely dripping with blood more than once, and Paul gulps. One blunt finger pokes into his chest. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Jesus. Daryl’s a good man, he’s my brother, he deserves to be happy. Don’t go stringing him along like you have been. F’you ain’t planning on doing anything then tell him, he’s in too deep for your bullshit.”

Paul blinks. Blinks again. Calmly takes the box of seeds back and places them on the truck hood. “I’m doing what now?”

Rick snarls, teeth bared like a wild fucking animal. “Actin’ like you like him, constantly flirtin’. You’re an alright guy, but you do fuckin’ anything to hurt him and I’ll gut you and hang you up as a fucking example.”

Paul rubs his hand over his face. “I fucking hate Daryl.”

This, for some unpredictable reason, makes it worse. Rick gets right in his face, eyes bright, jaw tense and fists balled at his side. “Stop fucking with him.”

“We’re dating,” Paul sighs, and Rick pauses. Moves back just a little, cocks his head to the side as if to say proceed. “I thought he was straight, thought he knew about my feelings for him and was messing with me, but that’s-. That’s not the case anymore, okay? I l-really really like him. Really. And I’ll go until my fucking dying day trying to prove that’s true, to him and to anyone else. He is a good man, and I want to be with him as long as he’ll have me.”

“Oh.” Rick clears his throat. “Huh.”

“Yeah.”

Rick hauls the box of seeds back into his arms, like the world’s longest game of pass the fucking parcel, and even in the dark Paul can tell he’s a little embarrassed and blushing. “Sorry, for uh.”

“Threatening to stab me?” Paul cocks an eyebrow.

“Uh. Hm. Yeah.”

“It’s fine.” Paul pats Rick’s arm, “I’d do the same. Just, uh… I would prefer not to get cut up into little pieces and used as walker bait before I ever get to treat him right.”

Rick bobs his head. “That’s, uh. Fair enough.”

“Or fuck him right,” Paul adds, since Rick had been a little bit of an asshole and he loves being a shit, “you know, all night long. Do you have a spare room, or…”

“Stop!” Rick groans, slapping at him, “God, I’m sorry, please don’t talk to me about that. Jesus. Fucking-. There’s a spare house going, Daryl knows where it is. Just. Never talk to me about my brother getting fucked again.”

“Oh,” Paul says, “well, we might take it in turns.”

Rick turns on his heel and starts absolutely booking it, almost running with those bow legs of his. “I try to be nice, I try to be fuckin’ supportive, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Thank you, Rick!”

“I never wanna see you again!”

Paul cackles until someone peers out of a window at him and tells him to shut up.

+++

Aaron’s house is lit up from the inside, golden and pretty as he wanders around the living room, and Paul knocks three times on the door before it opens up.

There’s vomit on his shirt and a kid cradled in the crook of his arm (Gracie, he’s pretty sure), and the other sleeve of his shirt hangs empty by his side, clearly having been gnawed on by a drooling baby. “Jesus!”

Paul drags him into a hug, careful not to squash Gracie, and grins. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been alright,” Aaron tells him, “come in. It’s, uh. A mess. I’ve been trying to teach her how to paint.”

Paul squints at the massive blue smudges over the wall. Aaron sighs.

“I got,” he says, and puts Gracie down in her little cot with a soft look on his face, “a little overzealous.”

“No,” Paul laughs, “I think this is a very good design choice, actually.”

Aaron brushes through his hair with one hand, kneeling by Gracie’s side and pressing a kiss to her wispy blonde hair, eyes absolutely lit up with adoration. “She’s my rock, I think. Although. It would be nice to not constantly have vomit in my hair.”

Paul holds back from giggling, but only barely.

He leans over to give Gracie a tiny high five, holding one chubby hand up with his own, and absolutely does not tear up at how fucking tiny she is. So, so small.

He follows Aaron through to the kitchen, stepping over plastic toys and plush bears and paint tangled into the carpet, and leans back against the counter when he finally gets there. Aaron takes a gulp of water right from the tap, letting it trail down his beard and his shirt, and Paul hides a smile behind his hand.

“You know,” Paul begins, “I’ve been pretty okay, too.”

“Yeah?” Aaron’s voice is a little breathless, probably from just deepthroating almost a litre of water, but he looks happy about it.

“That thing we talked about…” Paul trails off. “With Daryl.”

Aaron cocks his head, and then his hand slaps right to his chest, mouth dropping open. “No fucking way.”

Paul feels a little giddy, which is stupid. It’s not like it’s any more real just talking to Aaron than it was talking to Rick about it, or even Daryl himself, but… He’s been wanting so long, and besides Maggie, Aaron was the only one who truly knew the extent of it.

“We were on a run -oh, he’s here, by the way, he’s talking with Carl and probably distracting Judith-, and there was a close call and I… lost my shit. I just started battering this one walker until it was pulp with my bare hands, and then after there was a small herd and we fought it and I couldn’t stop fucking crying, because I’m an idiot and gay.”

“Mhm.” Aaron’s leaning back against the counter with his one arm, looking so happy to be alive that Paul has to take a moment to squirm some of his own excitement out of his body. “Keep going.”

“Anyway, then we made out.”

Aaron gasps.

“You can’t just skip to the making out!”

“We also talked about our feelings, and whatever, but it turns out I was an idiot for thinking Daryl was ever a heterosexual, because he’s… Extremely good. At kissing men.” He takes a moment. “Did anything ever happen between he and Rick? They’re just… intense.”

Aaron snorts. “No, I don’t think so. Rick’s oblivious and only has eyes for Michonne, and if Daryl did have feelings for him I don’t think he ever said anything. But… right? The forehead touches.”

“The forehead touches!” Paul exclaims, because seriously what the fuck is that homoerotic shit, “like, I know I love him, and I know he maybe feels the same way, but part of me wanted to just be like… Do you two need some room…?”

Aaron cackles, nodding almost violently. “I’m telling you, the way they looked at each other when I found them almost made me uncomfortable. I don’t think Rick even gets how gay of him it is, which is somehow worse and better.”

Paul snorts, shaking his head. The way Daryl and Rick had reacted all those months ago when Daryl got free of the Sanctuary, that hug and the way they were both crying… Even after seeing Rick and Michonne in all their naked glory, that was one of the most emotionally intense things he’s ever encountered.

“Anyway,” Paul says. “Your arm. How’s the prosthetic doing?”

+++

By the time Paul’s stopped quizzing Aaron about his arm, Daryl’s just stepping out the door of the Grimes’ household. Or, attempting to. There’s a tiny, blonde-headed limpet clinging to his leg and whining relentlessly at him as he tries to go, and Paul watches from a house down with a grin spreading across his face.

Daryl looks up and sees him. “Paul. Help me.”

“Hm.” He shrugs, “you remember how you left me to Rick’s shovel talk and threats on my life, earlier?”

He spins on one foot and leaves, heading for the spare house Rick pointed out, much to Daryl’s apparent horror and chagrin.

Paul grins and waits on the porch for Daryl’s stomping footsteps to close in on him.

“That’s cruel,” Daryl tells him, pressing his mouth right to the junction of Paul’s throat, nose brushing his jaw. “Real goddamn mean.”

“Yeah, well.” He turns in Daryl’s embrace, pressing a light kiss to his stubbly cheek. “Rick threatened to gut me and then hang me up as an example.”

Daryl closes his eyes tight. “God. Sorry. He’s a goddamn embarrassment. I jus’-. He knew, ‘bout my feelings for you, so…”

“And what would those feelings be, Mister Dixon?” He asks, one hand sliding up under Daryl’s shirt, stroking over soft skin.

“Hm.” Daryl takes a shuddering breath. “Lust an’ loathin’, right now.”

“You know what? I’ll take it.” He drags him close with one hand in his hair, mouth pressing hot against Daryl’s, toes curling in his boots. “I’ll take you, too.”

Daryl’s eyes blow black. “Get in.” He shoves Paul when he doesn’t immediately move. “C’mon. Get the fuck in, man.”

Paul laughs and obeys, but only because he knows exactly how to rile Daryl up within an inch of his life.

Payback’s a bitch.

They stagger up the stairs, hands trailing skin as they stumble into empty picture frames and each others’ mouths, and Paul giggles when Daryl wraps an arm around his waist and swears as he trips up a step.

“Graceful,” Paul mocks, and Daryl nips at his earlobe before pushing him up the last few steps. Paul just knows his eyes are on his ass, can feel the weight of his gaze, and smirks.

Just as Daryl steps foot onto the landing, prepared to walk into the bedroom set up to their left, Paul pulls his shirt over his head and kicks his boots off, flicking the bathroom light on.

“What’re you…” Daryl huffs, coming up close behind him as Paul starts in on unbuckling his belt, quick and efficient.

“I want a shower.” Paul shrugs, giving Daryl a glance. “Is that a problem?”

“I thought-.” Daryl wrinkles his nose. “Man, you don’t wanna do this right now I don’t mind, but just say that, yeah?”

Paul strokes one hand over the curve of Daryl’s lovehandle, turning his face into his throat. He smells of sweat and warmth and leather, smoke caught up in his hair like a rabbit in a trap. “Did I say that?”

Daryl swallows as Paul’s nose brushes his adam’s apple, chest hitching underneath Paul’s hand. “No, but.”

“You know what they say about assuming, Daryl,” Paul whispers, and grazes his teeth along the sparse hair over his chin, “get in the shower, handsome.”

Daryl blinks, eyes blown black, and whimpers. He practically runs into the shower, tugging off his shirt and vest as he goes, leaving them on the cool tiled floor. He kicks his boots off and sets them next to the stall for easy access before shoving his jeans down his legs. “You comin’?”

“Hopefully, in a minute,” Paul says, watching the way Daryl’s thighs jiggle as he pushes his boxers down, “just enjoying the view.”

Daryl’s ears go pink and he flips him the bird. “Fuck off.”

He’s fucking gorgeous like this, and it makes Paul want to salivate and drop to his knees in equal measure. All tanned skin and long-healed scars, tattoo spanning over his right shoulder, stomach soft from finally getting regular meals.

Paul steps up behind him, drags his fingertips over his spine, and rests his head at the top of Daryl’s back, breathing him in. “How’d I get this lucky?”

Daryl shivers. “Not luck. You’re a goddamn idiot who can’t take a hint.”

Paul pinches his nipple. Daryl hisses, hips bucking, and Paul arches an eyebrow into Daryl’s smooth skin before reaching past him for the showerhead.

“Can you wash my hair?” Paul asks, and Daryl gives him a confused glance, flicking the heat up and leaning his head back into the heavy spray.

“Why?”

“Well,” Paul shrugs, and sinks to his knees. Daryl stares down at him with hooded lids, throat bobbing. “I’m about to have my hands full, is all.”

“Christ.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Paul teases, before running his tongue over the head of Daryl’s dick where it peeks through a thatch of dark hair.

Daryl’s fingers curl tight in his hair, and Paul hears his shaky little breath we he leans into the shower wall. It reminds him, vividly, of that night, Daryl sinking slick fingers into himself and moaning his name.

“You good with me inside you?” Paul asks, because he knows that it’s one thing to fuck yourself and a whole other can of worms to let someone else do it.

“Please,” Daryl whispers, mouth falling open as Paul’s hand cups his thigh, massaging the frankly impressive muscles with palpations of his palm. “God, Paul, been wanting this for-.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Paul takes a breath, swallows deep. Presses his mouth to Daryl’s dick, hot and warm and wet. Daryl’s leg twitches under his grip, but he doesn’t do anything more. “I’ve been wanting to do this, too.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Mhm.” Paul taps his hip. “Pull my hair hard if you want to stop. And just use conditioner.”

Daryl’s trembling, but he nods and reaches back for the bottle of conditioner anyway, fumbling with it in his wet grip. The run-off from the shower keeps trailing down Paul’s skin in rivulets, and it’s making him shiver just a little, warm but not quite warm enough.

When Daryl’s squeezed out a bit of conditioner into one calloused palm, Paul leans back in and tastes.

Daryl’s already soaked, dripping into the dark curls and making them glisten, and Paul presses his mouth right to the warm folds and moans. He shuffles forward, keeping his nose pressed against Daryl’s dick as he tongues at his dripping entrance, at his slick folds. He’s the perfect mixture of salty-sweet, umami, and Paul knows, abruptly, that doing this for the rest of his life still won’t ever be enough.

His fingers curl against Daryl’s inner thighs, stroking sweet and steady as Daryl collects Paul’s hair in one loose fist and starts working the conditioner in. The touch makes Paul’s back arch, rumbling in his chest. God.

How long has he wanted this? Months? A year? Since the moment Daryl pointed a gun in his face, sweat matting his hair to his face and arms on show?

It feels too good to be true, but it’s real; the sharp pinpricks of pleasure as Daryl works knots out of his tangled strands speak for that.

Paul presses a kiss to the head of Daryl’s dick before sucking it into his mouth, keeping his lips tight and warm and tonguing at the foreskin, rolling his tongue into his nub as he does. Daryl’s knees tremble, and he lets out what might be a word, but Paul’s too busy tasting him and swallowing, rough, the sweet slick pooling between his thighs.

He parts Daryl’s folds with the tip of his tongue, and watches Daryl’s eyes flutter closed as he slides one finger inside of him, right up to the hilt. He’s so fucking tight, warm and wet and Paul can’t wait until they’re back home and he can fuck him like he deserves, with love and gentle, unrelenting pressure. He curls his finger, just slightly, until Daryl yelps and then melts above him.

“God, Paul,” he whispers, and strokes over the tip Paul’s ear as he does. “Gotta, shit, gotta get that out your hair.”

Paul moans against him, thumb gripping the firm edge of Daryl’s cock, grinning lasciviously when he moves up into it, hips twitching back and forth like he can’t figure out where to go, impaled on Paul’s finger as he is.

“Wanna turn ‘round?” He asks, licking Daryl’s come off his tongue. “Start washing yourself, I’ll stay down here.”

Daryl makes that noise again, a whimper that’s almost breathless and keening, so much lighter than he’d ever expect from a man as frequently covered in blood as Daryl is.

Daryl starts scrubbing over his skin with the cheap body wash in the dish, and Paul slides a second finger inside him just to watch his shoulders ripple with the jerk of movement.

They shuffle for a moment, and eventually Paul’s back is facing the spray and he’s getting pummelled by the water, running down his back and through his hair.

Paul crooks two fingers inside of Daryl and brushes teeth against his dick, lets his mouth fill with saliva before he focuses in on his dick again. It’s thick, red and aching and Paul twitches where he sits, because. Fuck. He knew Daryl got meta, but there’s gotta be nearly four inches there now he’s properly hard, and he can’t help but think what it’d be like if Daryl fucked him.

If he pressed inside of Paul, twitching and shaking because it’s so intense and so good, moaning wordlessly with the pressure of it.

Paul uses his mouth to make an approximation of it and gets rewarded with Daryl swearing and grunting, rough and lust-filled. He rolls his tongue up against the salty, smooth skin, and Daryl trembles as he fucks into him at the same moment, not rough but almost.

“Please,” Daryl whines, and it almost sounds like a sob, “please, Paul.”

“You wanna come in my mouth?” Paul asks, and then slides a third finger inside, spreading them slightly just to see the way Daryl’s spine arches like out of a fucking porno. “Gonna use my mouth, darling?”

“God.” Daryl whimpers, stroking over one of his nipples and gripping Paul’s hair, pulling him in close. “Can I-.”

“Fuck my face,” Paul tells him, and takes Daryl’s dick in and sucks his tongue around it as he crooks his fingers, and feels slick gush over his wrist, his arm. Figures Daryl would be a squirter. He moans, buries his face in Daryl’s sweet folds, tonguing around his fingers where his fingers disappear inside of him, nose brushing the tip of his dick and making him shake.

He’s so wet he can feel it slicking his own thighs, and all he wants is Daryl, warm and hot and heavy on top of him, grinding needily and breathless with want.

He pushes in, faster now, arm working hard to hear the slick noises Daryl makes, the way he goes incoherent and whines, begging like all he wants is to be split apart on Paul’s dick, not just his fingers.

Paul thinks longingly of the strap-on hidden in the trailer at Hilltop, with its soft leather harness and the dildo he uses with it, thick and curved to make whoever he uses on absolutely fucking lose it.

“God,” Paul hisses, and drops his left hand to stroke at his dick with two fingers, “wanna fuck you so bad. Wanna see you fall apart, wanna make you come so hard you soak me to my shoulders.”

“Paul,” and there it is, his name on Daryl’s devil tongue, breathless and wanting, exactly like that night. Paul crooks his fingers, rubs, tastes the come that gushes over his mouth as Daryl comes, whole body twitching and curling in on himself as he does it. There’s so much, slick and thick and fucking incredible, and he sucks Daryl through it with all the love he’s got in his body.

By the time Daryl’s stopped squirting, his thighs are shaking around Paul’s head and he’s sobbing, chest moving up and down and eyes squeezed tight against the pleasure. “God. God. Fuck, Paul, please.”

He slowly pulls his fingers out, watching the way his entrance pulses and his hips move towards Paul’s hand, like all he wants is to be full. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Daryl.”

Daryl trembles harder. Paul slides to his feet, ignoring the ache from the shower floor, and presses his mouth to Daryl’s throat, stroking his hip sweet and gentle until he stops quaking. “I love you. You know that? I’m so lucky to see you like this.”

Daryl curls into him, body covering Paul’s like a shield, mouth pressing almost desperately to Paul’s own. He’s languid and loose with his orgasm, but there’s fierceness behind it, teeth nipping at Paul’s bottom lip and a hand sliding between them to stroke over Paul’s aching dick. He hisses at the touch, sensitive as he is, and rolls his hips against Daryl’s palm.

The water cascades around them, clean and warm and good, washing away soap suds and Daryl’s come. Which, honestly, is a shame. Paul could live with the taste of him on his tongue, could easily go through life with Daryl’s slick in his beard.

Daryl rubs soap over Paul’s shoulders, his throat, down his back and over his ass and Paul bites his lip at the thought of Daryl fucking him like that. Daryl’s thumb catches on his hole, and he whimpers and buries his face into Daryl’s muscled shoulder as he cleans him there, too, gentle and sweet even while Paul’s gut burns from it.

“Love you,” Daryl says, and Paul finally realises that’s what he’d been saying when Paul had been sucking him off. Garbled, but obvious now he knows what it sounds like without the haze of pleasure. “Love you love you love you.”

“Baby,” Paul whispers, and strokes sweetly over Daryl’s cheek, the freckles there, the light stubble. “God, I’m yours. I’m all yours.”

“Can I,” Daryl asks, shaking his head and snorting, “christ, feel like I’ve been through the wringer. Can I do your shot?”

Paul blinks, cheeks heating. “Are we at that stage in our relationship?”

Daryl laughs, smacking his ass with the flat of his palm. Paul twitches. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees, “and yes to that, too. Anything you want.”

“Thought,” Daryl starts, nose wrinkling and avoiding Paul’s eyes, red over his cheeks like Paul hasn’t just been wrist deep in him, “might suck you off after.”

“Are you sexualizing my transition?” Paul asks, face serious.

“Oh, my god.” Daryl sighs. “D’you want your dick in my mouth or not?”

“I do! I do, I’m sorry, I’ll behave.”

“Unlikely,” Daryl snorts. “Prick. Get in bed. I’ll sort it out.”

Paul obeys, crosses the landing and then flops onto the bed on his back, hand reaching between his legs to touch his dick. It’s been so fucking long since he’s gotten laid, even longer since he’s had anyone do his shot for him.

It always seemed intensely intimate in a way sex wasn’t, trusting someone with something that important. But he trusts Daryl with his life. He’d trust walking into battle with nothing but a nail file if Daryl were at his back. The least he can do, after all the shit Paul’s done (like thinking Daryl was a heterosexual. Gross.), is let him do this.

Besides. He’ll get a blowjob out of it, too, so.

It’s a win-win.

Daryl comes back in with his arms full. More than that, though, is.

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

Daryl’s got his vest on over his bare chest, stomach peering through, along with the trail of hair leading from his bellybutton to his crotch, and Paul swallows, squirming. Out of all the fantasies he thought he’d be getting to live out, this wasn’t one of them.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “You just fingerfucked me so hard I squirted, an’ this is sexy?”

“Well,” Paul murmurs, making grabby hands as Daryl sets the supplies next to Paul on the bed, “that was sexy, too, but this was unexpected.”

Daryl drags Paul to the edge of the bed, large hands on Paul’s bare hips, and Paul hopes to God Daryl can’t see how embarrassingly wet that gets him. Judging by the smirk on his face, though, he’s not that lucky.

Daryl turns to business, then, though. Opens an antiseptic wipe with his teeth, cleans over Paul’s thigh, peels open a syringe and attaches a blunt needle to it for drawing up.

He takes a moment to open the vial before he slides the needle in, tilting it to draw the oily liquid up properly. Pulls the blunt needle off, twists a sharp one on, and flicks the syringe with one blunt nail to get rid of any bubbles.

It’s weirdly sexy, watching Daryl do it. So competent and used to it, by now, that he doesn’t even have to think about it.

He shuffles up closer to Paul, and his traitorous dick twitches at the proximity but goddamnit, this is not something to be squirming over. He doesn’t fancy tensing up and then ending up with an aching thigh for days, thanks.

Daryl spreads his fingers in a V over Paul’s thigh, stretching the skin taut. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees, and focuses on steady breathing and not losing his fucking mind just because a handsome redneck is between his legs, “go ahead.”

Paul barely feels it. He’s too busy focusing on Daryl, the way his eyes go laser-focused and his tongue peeks out between thin lips. The furrow in his brow from concentrating. Daryl pulls the needle out slow, keeping his fingers apart and then putting the syringe in the little sharps container, before he massages over Paul’s skin, strong and warm.

There’s not even a spot of blood, and Paul smiles and thumbs Daryl’s lip. “Thank you.”

“S’alright,” Daryl tells him, stroking over Paul’s hairy thigh once more to make sure he doesn’t lump up. He sucks gently on Paul’s thumb, tongue darting out to lick his nail, and Paul’s breath catches just a little bit. Fucking tease. “Got some other business to attend to, though.”

Paul swallows. He’s once again hyper-aware of just where Daryl’s sat, framed by Paul’s thighs and mouth only a few inches from finally setting on his dick. “Well, if you mu-shit!”

Daryl’s tongue flicks over the tip of his dick without so much as a how-do-you-do, drool trailing down over Paul’s folds and soaking him even further. He moans, too, like this is the best thing he’s ever experienced; Paul’s dick in his mouth, tongue tasting his slick, surrounded on all sides by Paul.

“So good,” Paul murmurs, and tangles his fingers in Daryl’s newly clean hair. “So good, Daryl. Look at you.”

Daryl buries his face deeper, and Paul bucks his hips into his mouth, grinding on his tongue and hissing. Daryl takes it without a flinch, easily sucking over Paul’s hole before moving to his dick again to suck it tight between his lips. He bobs his head, too, and it makes heat spark in Paul’s guts. He’s not as big as Daryl -he’d been getting a consultation for meta mere days before the world fell apart-, but he’s still pretty proud of it.

Daryl swirls his tongue over his dick, sucking eagerly and whining, swallowing again and again as if he’s drooling so much the alternative is just soaking Paul down his calves. The thought’s hot, and he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling because otherwise this is going to be done far quicker than he really wants.

He strokes over Daryl’s ear, his jaw, feels the smoothness of his skin under his palm and thumbs over his eyebrow. The scar that slices through it from a block Judith threw at him in a fit of toddler-sized rage. His stomach tenses as Daryl thumbs over his hole, like a question.

“Not right now,” Paul says, “I don’t mind it, but.”

Daryl takes his thumb away without hesitation, no offense in his expression, just unfiltered understanding.

Paul forgot how good it is to be with someone who knows, who gets exactly what he’s feeling and who’s been through the same thing. He’s only been with cis dudes since the world fell apart, and none of them were awful people (he wouldn’t’ve fucked them, if they were), but it’s different to being with Daryl, to being with any other trans man.

Instead, Daryl slides one hand around to his ass and strokes the soft flesh, fingers creeping close to his hole, and Paul holds back a moan but only barely. Daryl smirks, sucks on Paul’s dick harder, and then swipes some of his slick onto his fingers before bringing them back to his ass. One finger slowly fucks into him, and Paul’s eyes roll back a little.

It’s somehow dirtier, using his own precome as lube, and it makes the sparks in his gut burn that much brighter.

“So good,” Paul sighs, swallowing. He arches his back into it when Daryl slides his finger in right to his first knuckle.

.

Daryl sucks on his dick, teeth grazing over the head where it peeks out from his foreskin, and at the same time curls his finger, and Paul’s done. He’s so worked up that’s all it takes; one goddamn finger and Daryl’s mouth sucking him sweet and pretty. He rises up and down, fucking himself against Daryl at the same time he rubs his dick against his tongue.

Daryl keeps going through the aftershocks, not stopping until Paul comes back from the wave of pleasure and squirms, legs kicking gently at how sensitive he is. “Gorgeous,” Daryl tells him, and Paul covers his face with one arm, laughing a little breathlessly.

His stomach jumps when Daryl trails a hand up it, scratching at his skin with blunt nails. “You’re so good with your mouth.”

Daryl grins at him, teeth poking over his lip. “Lotta practise.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “Come here.”

Daryl obeys, crawling on top of him like the world’s sexiest predator, eyes blown black and mouth red and puffy. “You look good when you come.”

“Can’t believe you got one finger inside me and I was fucking finished,” Paul sighs, but watches Daryl with adoration in his throat anyway. He’s slick on his chin, glistening from Paul’s juices, and Paul leans up and tastes it. Not as good as Daryl, but then. Nothing’s as good as Daryl. “I promise I’m better, normally.”

Daryl huffs a laugh, nudging his head into Paul’s palm when he cradles his cheek. “Sure you are.”

Paul pouts, but can’t keep it up for long. Daryl’s too pretty on top of him, heavy and strong and stupid-fucking-hot, like a furnace. “I’ll fuck you properly, when we get back home. Make your legs weak.”

Daryl smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paul slides his thumb into the wet heat of Daryl’s mouth, rocking a little bit into his thigh where it’s tucked between his legs when he sucks. He’s not up for another round, but lazy grinding is something he can deal with. “Anything you want.”

Daryl looks down at him, blue eyes intense and warm. The entire ocean locked in his face, the world strapped to his back; his very own Atlas. “Lucky I only want you. However I c’n get ya.”

Paul grins, ear to ear. Swallows the butterflies flooding his throat. “Yeah. I really fucking am.”

Daryl kisses him, and it doesn’t matter that they’re miles from Hilltop, that their trailer is vacant right now and waiting for them. It doesn’t matter how long it’s taken them to get here, to this moment, to skin-touching-skin, to hands trailing over scars. It doesn’t matter what they’ve seen, or done, or will have to do to protect the ones they love, to protect each other.

The only thing that matters is that they got here, and they’re not going to let it go. Not without a hell of a fight.

+++

Daryl is a fucking nightmare to live with.

Paul doesn’t know why he even allows it to keep happen, besides the obvious; they’re friends, and the only thing he wants until he dies is Daryl pressed against his side. And Daryl wants the same, if all those notes he leaves around the trailer are anything to go by.

(“You’d like this-DD.” “Thought of you when I saw it -DD.” “Brings out your eyes-DD.”)

He cleans, he cooks, he hunts, and he touches Paul like he’s something holy and sacred.

Paul’s an idiot. But he’s an idiot in love with a good man.

And, anyway.

Daryl’s an idiot, too: he loves him back.