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The first time he had met Paul, he’d drawn a weapon on him. Paul stole his truck, his food, and that fucking vending machine.
The second time they’d met, Paul had socked him in the gut and thrown him back into the wall of the truck. Even tied up he’d been a threat. It was only the inequality of arms that leveled the playing field. Rick should have made the fucking knots tighter.
The third time, if it counted as a third, Daryl had blackened his eye and donkey-kicked him out of the driver’s seat seconds before that behemoth of a vehicle had rolled to a murky death in the lake.
Every interaction had been an adrenaline rush of uncertainty, physicality, and more than a little anger. Early negotiations between the Hilltop’s representative and Alexandria had been curious, almost pleasant, for the rest. Daryl stood against the wall, observed, and sniped at “Jesus’” every remark, distrusting him. It wasn’t just for the thievery—that was commonplace and necessary now. It wasn’t for the lie about Hilltop, either. Daryl would have liked him even less, somehow, if he’d been honest about where his unarmed settlement stood.
It was the trickery. Fire crackers in a trashcan, clinging to the roof of the truck, playing nice and rescuing Daryl from a fatal walker bite a second before continuing to scrabble with him over the contents of the truck. Daryl hadn’t been keen on any of that—someone who lied so easily through his actions wasn’t knowable. That must be why Paul went by Jesus—living under a mask made him harder to get at. To know.
Daryl hadn’t wanted to get to know Jesus or Paul for most of the War. He wouldn’t stay out of his way—Paul ought to be doing that for him—but he didn’t seek him out for much of anything. In the interest of their alliance, he’d work with the man now and again, tolerate his presence when Maggie needed him to (he’d do anything for her), but just being around him raised that buzzing warning signal in the back of his head. Stepping in stride with the shorter man made the hairs on his arms prickle despite the humidity. Carrying on conversation (if it could be called that), turned his usual noncommittal grunts of assent or disagreement breathy, like snarling. He was immediately angry as soon as that little shit strode into his personal space, a radius that expanded considerably for Paul alone.
Laying explosive line outside of Oceanside had made his blood boil. It wasn’t over Sasha. He wouldn’t have done what Paul had done, but the woman could take care of herself. She knew what she was asking. It wasn’t wrong of Paul to have given her help—knowing Sasha, she would have gone right ahead and done it anyways. Rosita was no different.
When they found Dwight, Daryl just about lost it, fury and self-preservation propelling him forward. He’d forgotten Paul or anyone else was in the room at all. When he’d remembered, realized, he’d hated him more for having seen it. For guessing at what Dwight must have done. For seeing what it had done to Daryl.
There were people more worthy of his hate and energy. Hell, there were allies he just plain disliked and mistrusted. But only Paul ever got his blood up. It felt like waiting for another sucker punch, anticipating its arrival every time they passed each other.
Paul gave no hint that he was plotting anything. To the contrary, he made himself useful, absent when needed, and was disgustingly chirpy in the morning. Too helpful to trust. He brought Daryl meals. After the Saviors had taken Carson, he’d dragged some foot-ball star of a nurse into the barn and made Daryl sit still for an examination and clean stitches. He’d pocketed Lucky Strikes and Marlboros on runs and passed them off to Daryl the same way he’d pass rations. Paul was just ignoring the fact that it was a gift, a risky gift, when the Saviors had called dibs on anything shy of home-rolled cylinders.
Daryl hated that. He hated him. And he didn’t know why.
But the little shit was good for Maggie. After Sasha’s death, he was there. He kept Gregory in check (not that Maggie needed help there) and served as a sounding board. He was closer to her than Daryl could get, and that part, he didn’t mind. But Daryl still hated him.
He hated their run-ins. Having to pass him in the too-narrow attic halls of Barrington, having to show him how to do basic repairs on motor vehicles, or remove supplies that had been improperly tied down. He hated how fucking grateful Paul was, how he never looked embarrassed about being unable to do something, or wanting to learn to do it better. He hated that cheerful smile every time something went right, as though the majority of the world wasn’t shit. He hated that bleeding-heart that advocated for working together, for peace, once they’d defeated Negan. And he hated him even more for making them prisoners rather than making them dead, which was what they’d earned. Paul held his ground every time.
Daryl stayed at the Hilltop with Maggie. He taught the others to lay traps and hunt. Paul followed him out occasionally in the beginning, to learn. When occasionally turned to daily, becoming part of the hippie’s morning ritual, Daryl began to hate all that smooth-talking.
When they were checking the traps, Daryl asked Paul how many times it would take before he understood how to bait and clean a trap.
“I think I do understand now.”
“Then why th’hell’re you trailin’ after me every day?”
“This is the only time you’ll talk to me.” Paul sounded self-assured, calm. Brazen.
“Don’t got nothin’ to say to you.”
Paul hmmed. “We have a lot in common. You did decide to stay here, after all, rather than going back to Alexandria.” At least the little shit had learned to heel-toe his feet and keep quiet. He was probably still stinking up the place with cheap shampoo—no rabbit would come until it rained. Daryl tied the last victim of the rope trap onto his belt after a quick field-dressing. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him.
“Plenty’a folks ain’t goin’ back there. Not while he’s alive.”
“I know.”
“Don’t sound too happy.”
“Of course I’m not happy about it.”
“Took so many of ‘em prisoner.”
“Yes. They surrendered. Negan didn’t—couldn’t. It would never have worked.”
Daryl grunted, letting up a bit at that. Of course Paul was on their side. He was with Maggie.
“Why ain’t he dead, then?”
“Because Rick made a call that wasn’t his to make.” Paul reached to hold the lever of the old rusted trap down, helping Daryl untangle the mess a poor squirrel had made of it. There was pity on his face then too—for a fucking squirrel. Daryl didn’t get it.
“Gonna help us fix it?”
“I’ve said so, haven’t I?” Paul reached out to touch his arm, and Daryl jerked back.
“Don’t.”
“Wait, then.” A quiet voice. “Show me how to dress it. I haven’t learned that part yet.”
“Basically a knot. Oughta know it by now.” Daryl did slow—it was something worth learning—and showed him how to prep the viscera after slicing a drop-point blade through the belly. Paul did the next two, fingertips grimed, no complaints.
They traced the perimeter of Hilltop before checking a handful of other trap sites Daryl had planted, just in case. A few had captured walkers, and most of the rest were empty. While Paul was handling the writhing mess of a bisected walker with one blade, he dodged the spray of it and freed the trap. “We can disinfect it, set in the fire.”
Daryl shrugged. They walked on. He spotted heart-shaped tracks in the soil and squinted, dusting his hand across the dirt. Fresh. Another ten yards yielded scat and deeper, muddier tracks. He was nearly swinging his bow around and off his shoulder when Paul spoke again.
“You should sleep indoors, you know.”
“What?” The hiss that accompanied it signaled silence.
“You’ve been sleeping in the loft. Sometimes the empty part of the bell tower. There’s space for you.”
“Not with them here.”
“My trailer’s empty now.”
“Nah.” Daryl swung the bow around and began following the tracks again. “Too crowded.”
“Maggie and Enid are in Barrington.” Paul pointed out. “It’s only me.”
“Yup.”
“That stings a bit. Is there a reason you’d rather sleep on damp wood and hay than room with me, and the only functional shower stall in the settlement?”
Daryl turned to tell him it was the same reason he didn’t want a tag-along hunting. Paul never shut the fuck up. Never stopped offering him stuff, or making small-talk, or nagging him about the injury that had more than healed over. He was too fucking noisy. Cheery. Helpful when he didn’t need to be. Daryl stared him down, finding those Bambi-wide eyes observing him calmly, the man’s stance relaxed, weight shifted to his left side.
He must have been staring too long. Paul’s gentle smile tipped downward in uncertainty. Daryl noticed that because he couldn’t stop watching the man’s lips.
“Daryl?”
Too fucking pretty.
Daryl dropped the bow in the same moment that he lunged, pinning Paul back to the smooth bark of the elm and crushing his mouth in half a kiss, half a biting snarl. He expected to be dropped, maybe catch a gut-punch, but in that moment he thought it was worth it. It would shut Paul up.
Instead, the strong hands that flew to his chest in defense stopped there, curling in fists about his shirt and pulling him forward. Daryl tasted well water, crushed mint, and stale chewing gum. Paul freed a hand and dragged it through russet hair, guiding him without stopping, trying to gentle him down. Daryl was reminded of the way Paul patted at horses and sweet-talked them. He jerked, giving one narrow shoulder another hard shove, and twisted away from his mouth. Their beards dragged briefly, and he couldn’t decide how normal or not-normal that feeling was. His teeth landed at Paul’s neck, just beneath his ear, and he clamped down harder than he’d meant to (he wasn’t thinking enough to mean anything). The cry that it produced startled him. A yelp, but not quite an injured sound. Daryl braced for a response, nose still in long hair, breathing hard. Instead of moving away, or making Daryl move away, Paul brought both hands to his shoulders.
Daryl couldn’t look at him, or past the fast-blooming bruise on the side of his neck.
“Daryl.” There was no question there. Just acknowledgment. His breath caught when he spoke again. “I think you should stay. With me.”
He shoved him back against the tree, snatching up his bow and scanning the area. That deer was long gone. Daryl couldn’t remember exactly how he got home, or whether Paul came alongside or after.
--
There was no trickery, here. When Daryl brought his meagre few belongings from the loft to the trailer, he found Paul on the sofa, Sasha’s sofa, with a book half-finished splayed on his chest.
“Did you bring ice?” He asked innocuously, glancing at Daryl’s worn haversack.
“The fuck for?”
“The massive bite on my neck?” Paul’s mouth twitched up in a smile, and Daryl was redder than he could guess at. He felt it, flaming up to his forehead.
“Go getch’a some,” he muttered, setting the bag down and trying to recall whether the medical trailer’s cooler was still functional.
“Or you could wait. Make one trip.” Paul set the book on the coffee table, leg half folded under him.
Daryl watched him, strong limbs half unfolding, splayed casually on the sofa and sinking into the divots. There were lots of places he’d like to bite Paul. Press his face, breathe the scent of him. Taste his mouth again. “Why?”
“Well. Are you going to leave any more?”
Daryl was.
They rearranged themselves wordlessly; Daryl kept his mouth occupied, if only to prevent the yammering, and Paul teased the roof of his mouth with a dexterous tongue. He managed to undress Paul without removing many of his own clothes, and there was no protest. Slim hands glided up beneath his shirt anyway, opened the front of his jeans and cupped him directly. Daryl bucked and groaned into his mouth, biting his lower lip and drawing blood by accident, then shifting to do the same to his collarbone. Paul tilted his head back and let him.
They were on the bed. Paul was, at least. Naked now, soft hair spilling off to one side as he shoved the only pillow beneath his hips with a breathy “here.” He had his cheek on the bedding, chest to the mattress, and Daryl liked the full rise of his ass, the thick thatch of hair on his thighs just below, and the way they trembled when he gripped too tightly.
He’d never fucked a man, or anyone else, sober, and Paul neither asked nor made assumptions. There was oil that reeked of eucalyptus, and then murmured instructions that broke off into sharp gasping when Daryl’s fingers curled, explored. Paul shoved his legs apart and rocked back. Even when he wasn’t talking, he was unquestionably clear.
Daryl thought it must have hurt him. Initially, Paul seized up like it did, gripping the sheets and giving quick, harsh breaths into the worn quilt. He felt like a vice, and Daryl held still until some of that tension abated and the whites of his knuckles became pink again, like the rest of him. He felt good. Better than. Smooth, hot, tight. Daryl wondered what his mouth would feel like, his hands, the bristled side of his cheek. He bent carefully to kiss a naked shoulder, the curve of his tricep, the sweat at his nape. He wanted to crawl under Paul’s skin and have him. But he waited until the gentle easing of pressure around his prick.
He fucked him into the sheets. Enough that the metal frame of the small bed scratched the wall. Enough that he felt the cheap, over-starched sheets burning the shit out of his knees. Enough that Paul whined, wide eyes rolling back and flickering closed every time Daryl paused mid-stroke. The trailer was quiet, and so was the evening air. All he heard was the rough echo of their breathing, the slide of skin on fabric, and the occasional thump of the bedframe on cheap plaster between them and the metal wall.
He tried to grip Paul too, but couldn’t get the rhythm or balance of it down. Practice, his mind advised nonsensically. As if they would have practice. In his fumbling, two fingers scraped Paul’s sac, and the sudden yowl that produced made everything hot and tight all at once. He thought Paul was drooling into the bedding, muscled arms tensing and relaxing with whatever cadence Daryl established.
When he came inside him, Paul was whining softly, rocking his hips into the bedding and trying to shove a hand beneath him. Daryl couldn’t think much past the maddening sound of Paul on the cusp of orgasm. That soft moaning sounded like pleas, or gratitude.
Ignoring the mess he’d made, he pushed at Paul’s shoulder instead, knowing what he was going to do almost by instinct. If he’d had time to think about it, he wouldn’t have.
On his back now, he was flushed all over, a pretty pink hue. Daryl eased over him, meeting hungry kisses and gripping at the stiff, slippery line of his prick. Paul keened into his mouth, wide eyes pinched shut. Once, twice, and then he was shuddering hard and slicking Daryl’s forearm and his own chest, clinging hard to him as though he’d become locked into place. Daryl bit his neck again, tenderly, until his hold eased up and they both slid into each other, damp and saturated in the smell of sweat and come. Paul’s hair was all over the place, face flushed in a way that made blue eyes brighter. Daryl thought he must look like a speedbag, even if he felt better than he had in a decade.
Wriggling close, Paul pressed a now chaste kiss against his mouth, soft, bruised lips teasing gently at his. “Two ice packs.”
--
Daryl wasn’t certain whether he was meant to stay in the trailer after that, but he did. For a full, agonizing day, he wasn’t certain whether he was meant to kiss Paul again, or would ever get to touch him again. But he did.
They went to bed early the third night, and Paul let him take. They were kept on night watch the fourth, but in the early hours of the morning, Daryl pinned him over the arm of the sofa and listened to the whimpering half-stifled by the flat pillow. By the end of the month, they’d come to know each other’s bodies well. Daryl found that he wanted now suddenly more than he had, cumulatively, in his entire life. He also found that Paul knew more than he’d let on and shared selflessly. Daryl fucked him against the wall of the trailer in a way that made his lower back ache the next morning. He let Paul into his lap and kissed dark bruises onto his chest, the worst of them being an open-mouthed bite mark just over his heartbeat. He found out what Paul’s mouth felt like. His beard. He tried to reciprocate without choking and failed, but Paul seemed to like what he did with his hands just as well.
In those first few weeks, he was embarrassed by his lack of know-how, by the fact that he’d fucked a woman exactly two times and twenty years ago. By the fact that he’d wanted to touch men, taste them, but never had the balls to try it.
“Did you have other lovers, before?”
“Told ya I didn’t fuck guys.” Daryl was trying to find air when he dropped onto the bedding. Paul, yoga-breathing, remained on his back, legs still folded halfway up in that lotus half stretch that had made him shout seconds ago.
“I know. I meant partners. Did you have sex before?”
Daryl pushed an arm over his eyes to blot out the early sun. Shit. Nearly time to get up. “Yeah.”
Paul hmmed, fingertips tracing his arm, content.
“Twice.”
Wide eyes blinked open at him, rounded fully. “Twice?”
Daryl prickled, sitting up halfway. “Yeah.” He challenged Paul to tease him.
Instead, he received a long, thoughtful hum.
“Couldn’t have guessed. Honestly, I figured you had been a bit of a Casanova, and the basics just…translated.”
Daryl snorted.
“I mean, you knew how to touch me. Or figured it out pretty fast. Maybe you’re just a natural.” He twisted around and hooked one leg over Daryl’s, drawing close as if to sleep. Daryl squeezed the muscle of his thigh appreciatively. He was being sweet-talked and didn’t mind it this time.
“Stop.”
“Mn’kay. No more fawning outside of sex.” Paul vowed, eyelids heavy. “Can’t be held accountable for what I shout in the heat of the moment.”
“Aright.” Daryl peeled away and out of the sheets, washing himself in the basin hastily before dressing. Paul was still limp where he’d been left in bed, hair a bird’s nest on the pillow. But those sleepy eyes followed every movement.
“You’re incredibly sexy.” Paul murmured.
“Thought you just said---”
“It’s just the truth! And you act like you don’t even know it.” Paul clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before rising to dress too. Daryl kissed the bruise on his shoulder before leaving.
--
Paul was still a runner, and Daryl was still responsible for home defense. But without the Saviors taking half of what they owned, the need for scavenging was less. Paul was home more. Daryl often ran into him halfway through a chore—too often. He knew the little shit had planned it. Coming down off the roof and finding him in the attic, or nearly smacking him in the head with the bulkhead doors of the root cellar. If they were alone, reasonably expectant of privacy, Paul would squeeze his wrist or kiss his naked arm. After the first few months, he started brushing his fingertips over bare skin more openly. It was less contact than Daryl maintained with Rick, but startlingly more intimate. And Paul would try to neutralize it by asking something casual, as though he wasn’t touching him in the same way he did right after they had sex.
People noticed. Daryl didn’t care. Paul showed him sympathy, asked if he wanted to keep it quiet for now. In case. More of that bleeding heart shit, but this time he appreciated the offer. He wasn’t embarrassed (who could be embarrassed of Paul?), but didn’t want the teasing. So he said no, he didn’t give a fuck what people thought, and that night before bed Paul kissed his temple at the dinner table before clearing their plates. Daryl was left to his own devices to drain the surge of blood and heat from his face later.
They continued to check traps in the morning. Daryl taught Paul to hunt. To keep quiet when he did. Paul developed a series of hand signals for silent communication, introducing a particularly filthy one the week after harvest had kept them both too busy and fatigued for intimacy. Daryl had kissed the smug smile off his face, but a half-hour later it was back. Satisfied. Certain.
The first year that cycled out past the end of the war brought with it celebration. Daryl’s string of pheasants was at the center of the feast. Paul darted through the buffet to snatch up acceptable rations from Carol’s contributions—raspberry cobbler—and passed them to Daryl that evening when they sat perched on the roof.
Talk of the failed Sanctuary was natural. The collapsed bridge. Rick’s increasingly poor temper, and refusal to release Negan. But they knew one another’s minds on the issue, and re-hashing it in privacy helped no one. They didn’t have to talk at all, but Daryl found himself pleased when they did. Paul’s conversation wandered down a different lane this time.
“I thought we could build a library.”
“Ain’t that what’s blockin’ the front door?” There were at least six towers of volumes in their trailer now, not counting the overflowing bookshelf.
“Well, maybe that’s part of it.” Paul smiled. “I thought about organizing them. Putting them in Barrington, for everyone.”
“Sure leave a lot more foot space.” Daryl agreed, scraping the bowl clean of berries and licking it off his two fingers. Paul blinked at him, quiet for a moment.
“Huh?”
“Said it would make more space.” He gave his arm a shove at the staring. “Stop.”
“Sorry.” Paul said it in the least contrite manner possible. “And yeah, it would. We need one anyways, for the school.”
“Mhm.” Daryl murmured agreement. “Where you wanna put ‘em?”
“The study?”
“Sounds right.” He accepted Paul’s half-finished bowl with a murmured thanks and ate it too. It wasn’t lost on him that the wide gaze sweeping the grounds three stories below swiveled back to watch him clean the dish.
“This is a good day.” Paul murmured thoughtfully, reaching to place a hand over Daryl’s where it lay flat on the mansard shingles between them. “It’s been a year. We’ve been out of war, and away from starvation, for a year.”
“Got lucky.”
“Very lucky. But we worked for it, too.”
“Lost too many.”
“Yes.” He agreed quietly. “But we made sure what we won was worth the loss. You know they’d think it, too.”
Daryl though Glenn would. He’d be proud to see that tiny wailing pink baby in Maggie’s arms. To know none of the food meant for Herschel would ever fill Savior coffers.
“It’s been almost a year since you kissed me.” Paul said out of nowhere.
“How d’you even know?”
“Because I remember. It was fall like this. A little later.”
“So?”
“So, maybe I’m happy about that too.”
“Why?”
“Because I like what we have.” Paul spoke patiently, turning so gradually that Daryl almost failed to notice. “Because you’re one of very few meaningful relationships I’ve ever had. The only partner.”
Daryl made a face at ‘partner,’ and Paul laughed.
“I mean it. Some days, I’m so happy that I feel guilty for it. Like I lucked into the happy ending so many others didn’t get.” The wind pushed his hair against his face, and he shoved it back behind one ear. “I want to make you that happy.”
It was an odd thing to hear. So confining, startling, that Daryl wondered if a rogue gust had sucked the breath right out of him. It felt like a blow to his sternum; he almost leaned forward in reaction. “What’dya mean?”
“Just that. You deserve to be happy. I want to be part of that.”
Daryl frowned, face pink. At this height, no one would see it. Paul leaned in and kissed him softly (they’d see that, he knew), tasting like raspberry and mint.
“Y’already are, Paul.”