Archive of Our Own

The air was thick and muggy, but the gentle breeze took some of the edge off the heat, cooling the sweat that coated his skin. Daryl swayed on his feet, his cock pulsating against his calloused palm as he pissed into the underbrush. Daryl listed to the side and cursed as piss hit his boot and the cuff of his pants. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, the world seeming to sway gently around him even with the absence of sight. Daryl gave his dick a shake before tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them closed again. He made a face as he shook his hand off next, wiping the rest on the leg of his pants: they’d taken a hit already, a little more wouldn’t make lick of difference.

He was tired. A bone deep longing for slumber that was only tempered somewhat by the booze in his bloodstream. Enough time had passed since he’d been kicked out of the bar, his keys confiscated, knuckles bruised and lip bloodied for his trouble. Daryl’s tongue darted out at the memory, licking at his split lip, tasting dried blood and letting the sting of it help to open his eyes again. He just had to stay upright long enough to make it home. Or at least to somewhere a little better than the muddy banks beneath the shitty old bridge across the river. It was splintered and weatherworn and so close to the water below it that flooded a dozen times a year. Daryl couldn’t say much about himself, but he’d like to live his life never having passed out drunk in the litter of condom wrappers and empty fast-food packets that were embedded into the mud around the base of the bridge.

Trudging slowly across the clumps of grass and half-dried mud, Daryl made his way towards the bridge. Then he’d just have to walk through town and up the damn hill and he might be home not long after dawn, if he was lucky. Daryl had just started clambering up the small rise towards the road, when the bright glow of headlights lit up the area in long, stretching beams. Tyres ground quietly over the asphalt, the engine little more than low rumble even in the dead of night. The engine didn’t cut out, but the car came to a stop in the middle of the bridge. Whatever their business was, it was hardly any of Daryl’s concern and, by the time he reached the road and the edge of the bridge, a man was stepping out of the car.

In the dim offset of the car’s high beams Daryl could see it was some prick in a polo shirt. A moment later, the guy reached back into the vehicle and retrieved an old sack. Plenty enough people tossed their trash off the bridge and into the river. It was hardly legal, but Darly had never given two shits about legality, and he wasn’t a goddamn snitch. Daryl wouldn’t have given him a second look or more than a passing thought if it wasn’t for the way that the bag in his hands seemed to squirm of its own accord. He raised the bag over the railing and a quiet, high-pitched mewling carried across the night air.

“The hell you doin’ out here, huh?” Daryl asked, his body tensing as changed directions, moving towards the other man. 

“None of your business,” the guy called back, not so much as looking in Daryl's direction. Instead, he swung the bag as he moved closer to the side of the bridge.

“Hey,” Daryl shouted, lurching forwards. “The hell’s in that bag? It’s movin’.”

“Yeah,” the guy agreed. “And it’s none of your fucking business.”

He was too close to the side of the bridge, arm lifting the bag up, ready to swing it over the railing. Even as Daryl ran, powered by a sudden surge of adrenaline, he knew he wouldn’t make it in time. His breath huffed out of him, hot and painful in his own nostrils and he lunged, his hands gripping the man by his stupid blue polo shirt. But it was too late. The hand holding the bag let go and the bag and its contents plummeted down into the river, the splash of its impact hitting the water a fraction of a second after Daryl landed on the ground, nothing but the polo-shirt-prick’s body to cushion his fall.

“The fuck’s your problem you filthy redneck?” The guy – little more than a kid, Daryl realised – said as he squirmed under Daryl’s weight, not unlike the bag had done in his hands only moments earlier. “It’s not like it was a goddamn baby or some shit. They were only cats.”

Daryl drew back, but only to drive his fist down on the kid’s face. He could feel the cartilage crunching under his knuckles as a warm gush of blood coated his fist.

“You broke my fucking nose!” The kid screamed, wriggling and squirming and rolling in his attempt to get away. 

“I’ll break more’n that,” Daryl snarled. 

“You love the damn strays so much go fish ‘em out then,” the kid said, blood coating his teeth and tear tracks glimmering under the car’s headlights. “Cats are probably fine dining for your people, right?”

Daryl drove his fast down a second time, his seething, anger-clouded mind rejoicing in the pained cry it elicited. But he found his head whipping around, wondering, suddenly, if it was all too late. He got to his feet, body still slightly off-balance, but he made it to the side of the bridge. The current was slow and it only took a handful of seconds for him to spot the dark shape of the sack bobbing in the river. He barely gave it a thought at all before he was climbing over the railing.

“The hell is wrong with you, you freak?” the kid cried, somewhere behind him, but Daryl no longer cared. He pushed off from the bridge and dove into the water. 

It was cold and dark and Daryl surfaced gasping for air. He paddled, keeping himself afloat as he twisted and turned, looking for the sack in the water. The current wasn’t fast, but it was dark and deep and the weight of Daryl’s boots and the alcohol in his system slowed him down, his already exhausted body fighting to keep his head above the surface. Small waves smacked across his face making it hard to breathe and, with a grunt of effort, he started swimming in earnest pushing himself through the water with the flow of the current until finally he could see the shadowy shape of the sack tumbling and rolling in the water ahead of him. Pushing himself harder, Daryl’s body started to ache, but as his fingers caught the edge of the sack, the hessian rough between his fingers, the pain was replaced by something close to euphoria, and he swam towards the opposite shore from the one he’d just left. 

Daryl’s hands and knees sank into the slippery mud of the riverbank as he hauled himself and the sack up onto relatively dry land. Opening his mouth, Daryl expelled half a mouthful of grainy river water onto the ground between his hands. Coughing helped clear his lungs, but his throat burned with the action of his throat.  The bag was still squirming, tiny paws batting helplessly at the waterlogged material. Pushing himself up to sit, Daryl pulled at the string holding it closed until he could gently ease the contents of the bag out onto the muddy earth beside him. Four small bodies tumbled out. 

They were small, but not tiny, big enough that they could move around on their own, big enough that maybe they might survive this, Daryl hoped. They were scraggly and drenched, their bodies thin and their wet fur clinging to the tiny frames. One of them was crying, that pitiful, high-pitched mewling sound that would have gotten on his nerves in any other situation, the others were in varying phases of lethargy, and Daryl realised that, now that he’d pulled them from the water, he didn’t know what to do next. At the very least, he knew he couldn’t leave them, or they’d die a slower death than if he’d left them in the water. 

He’d seen a lot of creatures die. He’d caused enough of those deaths himself. But there was a difference he could feel far too sharply between the nature of survival and the careless cruelty in front of him now, the kittens shivering and helpless. One of them, still mewling, looked up at him with its scraggly fur and too-large eyes and, with a groan of pain, he scooped the four tiny bodies up with the sodden bag that had almost become their coffin. Daryl held them to his chest as he pushed up onto his feet again and hurried towards the town and the one veterinary clinic he knew in passing.

The breeze that Daryl had been so grateful for only a few minutes earlier felt suddenly like a curse. He kept moving, his wet socks squelching in his equally wet boots, the material sticking uncomfortably under his toes. Claws pricked at his skin even through the material of his shirt and Daryl tried to tell himself that it was good, that it meant they might make it, if he could just find a vet to get them the rest of the way back to health. He staggered down the old streets, illuminated only by the sparse streetlights, passing businesses and storefronts, all of them locked tight during the night hours. Until finally he found the vet clinic. 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed as he read the sign outside stating their opening hours were 8AM to 6:30PM. Daryl bit the inside of his cheek, shifting the undulating mass of kittens in his arms. Just to the side of the sign was a small piece of paper taped to the inside of the glass. An after-hours emergency number. Daryl memorised the phone number, muttering the digits under his breath as he hurried back up the street he’d just walked down to reach one of the few remaining payphones. Shifting the kittens in his arms again, Daryl dug into his pocket for some loose change and dialled. 

It rang for far longer than Daryl thought any emergency line rightly should, before a tired voice finally answered: “This is Paul Rovia.”

“You the vet?” Daryl asked, his words brisk and clipped.

“Yes, do you have an emergency?”

“Kittens.” Daryl swallowed thickly. He tucked the handset between his ear and his shoulder, using both hands to get a better grip on the animals in quest. “Someone tried to drown ‘em. Threw ‘em in the river.”

“There’s an extra fee for after-hours call outs,” the vet – Paul – explained, starting to sound a little more alert than he had when first answering the phone.

Daryl’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting painfully together. The kittens in his arms squirmed, their claws scratching at him and getting caught in the wet fabric of his jacket. He looked down at their pathetic little forms, wriggling around and making small, pitiful sounds.

“Hello?” Paul said, his voice cutting through Daryl’s thoughts. “Are you still there? I need you to confirm that you’ll accept the extra hundred-dollar fee.”

The urge to ask just how much this whole thing was going to cost was on the tip of Daryl’s tongue. He didn’t even know if he had enough money for the call out fee, let alone whatever else the vet would charge to finish the job Daryl had started, trying to save some lives that didn’t deserve a torturous death. Daryl ground his teeth together again.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Just get here.”

“Wait at the door, I’ll be there in fifteen,” Paul replied, and the line went dead. 

Daryl didn’t even bother setting the handset back onto the hook, just dropped it, letting it bungee downwards on its spiral cord, swinging around from the momentum as Daryl secured the kittens in his arms and headed back towards the veterinary surgery.  It didn’t take long, and Daryl left carefully cradling the wet, squirming kittens to his chest, claws scratching and poking at him, as he waited. At least they were still moving.

It felt like far longer than the promised fifteen minutes had passed when a hideous little green car turned into the small parking lot out front. Daryl watched with unease and trepidation growing as the door swung open. He didn’t know what he expected a veterinarian to look like, but he probably wouldn’t have guessed the messy bun or the jeans.

“You the vet?” Daryl called out, clutching the kittens a little righter, his body curving over them as if he could shield them from more harm. “You’re wearin’ a tank top.”

“Yeah,” Paul called back, keys jangling in his loose grip. “I am. You woke me up. It’s an emergency, right? Do you want me to waste time buttoning a shirt or do you want me to get to work?” 

Daryl grunted, his nose wrinkling. Paul’s eyes dropped to the wet hessian sack in Daryl’s arms, at the wriggling forms of the kittens pressed between the hessian and Daryl’s chest, as he slid his key into the door lock. Flicking the light on as he stepped inside, Paul ushered Daryl through the doorway. He locked the door behind them before leading the way past the reception desk, down a hallway, and into one of the examination rooms, flicking the light switches on along the way. Each room was clean and carefully put together, the pristine white walls and floors glowing eerily under the bright lights. Daryl felt strangely disconnected from his own body as he trailed after Paul into the examination room, everything neat and bright and scrubbed gleamingly clean. The rooms were so tidy they didn’t seem like real places: they didn’t seem like places that were used, that were lived in. 

“Put the kittens on the table,” Paul instructed as he slipped a blue scrub shirt on. 

Daryl stepped forward on legs that felt suddenly tight and unwieldy and carefully laid his precarious bundle onto the table, the wet hessian sack covering the metal surface, and the kittens spilling across it. There was a weight pulling at his shirt and Daryl looked down at the scrawny little kitten, grey and black fur sticking out of thick, damp tufts, its eyes too large and sad. He reached down with fingers that felt too thick and clumsy and pried its claws from where they were stuck in the fabric of his shirt and carefully set the scraggly little creature back down onto the table with the rest of its litter. 

Gloved hands picked one of the kittens up from the surface of the table. Daryl hadn't even seen the veterinarian get the gloves out, too caught up in his own damn head to pay enough attention to his surroundings. He was checking the kitten over, fingers moving and poking in precise, practiced motions. Daryl dropped his gaze to the rest of the kittens sprawled out on the table, their breathing laboured and, in the case of one kitten, alarmingly undetectable. Darl reached out, his fingers brushing against wet fur. Its body was cold, but they were all cold. He couldn’t see the rise and fall of its chest; something so painfully pronounced in the other kittens. He’d seen his share of death: it didn’t faze him, he told himself. Though the constricting ache in his chest made it hard for him to believe himself.

“You look like you jumped in after them.”

Daryl grunted looking up at the vet. Paul was still focused on the kitten in his hands, checking it over before setting it carefully onto a padded mat. Daryl’s brown knitted together. 

“Someone threw ‘em off a damn bridge. What was I gonna do, just walk away? Let ‘em drown? ‘S a shit way to die.”

Paul did look at him then, his eyes piercing blue and indecipherable. “I just meant you’re wet. There are towels in the cupboard behind you, far left, if you want to dry off.”

Daryl’s arm twitched at his side, and he stared at Paul as the man went back to checking over the next kitten in line. Finally, Daryl turned and moved to the cupboards lining the wall. 

“I saw you’ve gotten a few scratches,” Paul added, as Daryl dropped down into a squat to pull out one of the neatly folded towels. They smelled of detergent and the lingering scent of dog. “You should probably wash up while you’re near the basin. There’s antibacterial soap on the counter near the faucets.”

“I’m fine,” Daryl bit out, getting to his feet and running the towel over his hair, wiping at his neck. 

“You’re fine right now,” Paul replied easily. “You might be a little less fine if you wind up with an infection. You don’t know where these kittens came from or what they’ve been exposed to.”

Daryl huffed out an irritated breath but after stopping to watch the vet work for another long moment, he grunted and turned towards the basin. There were scratches up and down his arms and Daryl pumped some of the hand soap into his psalms, rubbing it over his skin and sucking in sharp breaths as he agitated some of the deeper scratches, the soap bubbles turning pink with his blood. Daryl rinsed the soap from his arms, more water soaking into the ragged cutoff sleeves of his shirt, and hesitated. Shooting a look over his shoulder, he saw the vet was focused, head down and carefully feeling at the abdomen of one kitten. Slowly, Daryl flicked open the buttons on the front of his shirt and got to work cleaning the scratches that covered his chest, tiny pinpricks of blood bubbling up from the damaged skin.

There was something stuck to his chest. Dirt, he thought at first, until it moved. Daryl grunted and flicked the bug away with his fingers before continuing to scrub at himself. He patted his skin dry when he was done, but drying himself was a largely pointless endeavour when he had to button his wet shirt up over the top of his newly cleaned and dried skin anyway. Abandoning the used towel on the counter, Daryl took a breath before he turned around to face the scene on the examination table again. 

“There’s some nasal discharge, and they’re all experiencing some respiratory distress. I want to set up an incubator for these three. At least for a few hours. I’ll monitor them and see how they’re going.” Paul paused, his face flickering with emotion before smoothing out into something carefully empathetic. 

“‘S fine. Whatever.” Daryl shook his head. “What about…” Daryl’s voice was scratchy and his arm twitched upwards, motioning to the lone, unmoving body laying sprawled on the heating pad. 

“I’m sorry,” Paul said carefully, gently. “He was gone before you got here.”

It was just some dumb animal. He didn’t know it. He couldn’t be attached to it. To him. To the unnervingly still little bundle of wet, mottled ginger and black fur. He wasn’t going to think about what might have been different if he’d moved faster, or  if he hadn’t stopped to beat the snot out of the kid who’d thrown them off the bridge. He wasn’t going to think about the terror of struggling in the dark, of breathing in terrified desperation and choking on lungful after lungful of gritty water. Daryl wasn’t going to think about it, even if those thoughts clawed at the edges of his mind, his own hands curling into fists, blunt fingernails pressing hard into the meat of his palms.

“I want to set them up with some IV fluids too,” Paul said, his words dragging Daryl out of his own mind, and drawing his eyes away from the limp little body on the table, small as a squirrel but not fit for a meal. “I just need you to give the okay.”

“Why you keep askin’ me?” Darly asked with another shake of his head. “You know better’n I do.”

“Yeah, but you’re footing the bill for it,” Paul reminded him. “I need you to agree before I do anything.”

Daryl swallowed thickly. He’d gotten paid the day before. Shit pay for a job no one wanted, and he’d already managed to drink a good portion of his cash-in-hand away. Daryl didn’t know how much a veterinarian cost, but he didn’t doubt it would be more than the soggy bundle of bills in his back pocket could cover. It felt far too late to back out now, after all he’d gone through to make sure the pathetic little creatures didn’t drown in a sack in the river. Daryl bit the inside of his cheek and wondered how hard it would be to run out on the bill, once he knew the little things would be okay.

“Do it,” Daryl said, with more confidence than he felt.

The vet was quiet in response and, when Daryl glanced at him, he found sharp blue eyes piercing into him. Paul’s gaze was so intense, Daryl felt like an insect pinned to a board. He fought the urge to squirm under eyes that were far too discerning until finally Paul nodded and moved to fetch the equipment he needed.

It wasn’t cold in the office, but Daryl felt a shiver run through him as the door closed behind Paul. His clothes were wet and stuck to his body in ways that made him itch and chafe. The blaring glow of the overhead lights felt unnatural; Daryl could feel in his aching bones that it was too near midnight for a light so bright. Despite the booze in him Daryl felt far too sober and even more exhausted, a bone-deep weariness slowly overtaking him. He wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion and wake up somewhere different. Rubbing at his eyes with his callused palms, Daryl took a deep breath that did nothing to steady him.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze landed on the heating pads. The kittens still clinging to life were sprawled out on top of the pads, wriggling and squirming, their fur still damp but fluffed up, as though Paul may have dried them off a little when Daryl hadn’t been paying attention. One of them was still mewling. Daryl could tell from its grey fur and stark black markings that it was the same one that had been crying out since he’d spilled them out onto the muddy riverbanks. If only one of them survived, he’d put his money on that one. Though, this entire venture had been a bet he couldn’t pay off.

The door pushed open and Daryl flinched. If Paul noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it, simply started setting up the incubator and the IVs, the kittens barely putting up any type of protest. They were pliant and pathetic, and Daryl didn’t feel like he was any better than them: just as much a product of shitty circumstances and at the mercy of someone or something out of his own control.

“You’re planning to keep them?” Paul asked, not so much as pausing or looking up from what he was doing. 

Daryl almost choked on air. “Nah,” he rasped out. “Ain’t never had a pet. Don’t know how– don’t got the setup for one.”

Paul only nodded, carefully lifting one of the kittens, changing its position as he checked it over. “Taking them to the shelter, then?”

Daryl shrugged a shoulder, swinging his arm at his side before crossing his arms over his chest instead. “Guess so.”

“You’ve gone through a lot of trouble to save them just to give them away,” Paul said, off-handedly.

Daryl bristled, his muscles tensing and his body going taut. 

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. I think it’s commendable,” Paul said, with a small shake of his head. He did look up at Daryl then, finally, their eyes meeting. There was a sincerity in Paul’s eyes that made Daryl feel uneasy, ashamed. “Most people wouldn’t go through half the trouble you have.”

Daryl swallowed around something chokingly tight in his throat. “Yeah well. Most people are assholes.”

Paul ducked his head, but he wasn’t fast enough to hide the upward curve of his lips.

“I can’t say for sure, but they look to be at least several weeks old,” Paul said, his eyes still on the kittens, his hands stroking over their fur on movements that seemed, for the first time, more caring than clinical. 

“What’s that mean?" Daryl rasped out, the exhaustion weighing on him more and more with each passing minute.

“It means they’ve got a better chance than if they were any younger,” Paul replied. He exhaled, slow and steadily. “And they’ll probably need their core vaccinations, if they…”

Paul didn’t need to finish the sentence, Daryl knew well enough that they may not pull through. Daryl nodded, a sharp, brusque motion of his head.

“You won’t have to pay for them,” Paul assured him. Daryl barely held back a scoff. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be paying for more than enough anyway. “If you’re taking them to a shelter, they’ll be able to get them up to date. But I’ll print out a report you can take with you, so they know what we’ve done here, what their needs might be moving forward.”

Daryl dropped his gaze to the kittens lying in the incubator and tried to make himself feel like he’d done something worthwhile. He didn’t know if he believed he had or not.

“Sounds like you’re kickin’ me out. This mean we gotta settle the bill.”

Paul’s nose wrinkled before his features smoothed out again. “There’s not much else we can do here. I’ll be here to monitor them, but you should go, get some sleep: you look like hell.”

Daryl snorted. That was an understatement on the best of days, he knew, and this was hardly the best of days.

“Did you want us to take care of this little guy?” Paul asked, voice going soft as he bowed his head towards the unmoving body of the deceased kitten, a small towel covering its body like a shroud.

Daryl paused, taking another slow breath. “You gonna charge for that too?”

The look on Paul’s face might have been genuine apology, if not for the twitch of amusement on his lips. “Sorry.”

Daryl grunted. “I’ll take care of it,” he said and reached out. His fingers hesitated just for a moment before he finally picked the body up, still wrapped in its makeshift shroud. He’d taken care of it this far; he could finish the job.

“Alright,” Paul said, all amusement gone. There was nothing left in his features but exhaustion and something almost unbearably sad. “Let’s get this squared away.”

They made their way back to the reception area and Daryl shifted his weight between his feet . His gaze kept sliding to the glass door, his feet itching to run. He’d worked his ass off doing manual labour for two weeks and he knew he’d be out every last dime if he stayed. But he hadn’t dove into a frigid lake, fought against the current and dragged his ass and four cats all the way through town in the middle of night just let them all die now just because some vet wouldn’t treat them without the promise of Daryl’s hard-earned cash.

“All good?” Paul asked, from behind the computer on the other side of the desk.

Daryl looked at the door, at the eerie amber glow of the streetlight outside, and he knew Merle would smack him upside the head and kick his ass besides if he knew what Daryl was going to do. 

“Yeah,” Daryl replied, turning to face Paul again. “How much?”

The bill slid across the counter and Daryl felt his stomach drop, his pulse speeding up as he caught sight of the number printed out. Holding the bundle of kitten in the crook of one arm, Daryl dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled, wet bills. He slapped them down onto the counter and fished the remaining bills from his pocket, smoothing them out when he was done. 

“Should almost cover it,” Daryl said. He could hear the edge in his tone, getting defensive almost begging for a fight.

Paul looked at the bills, then his gaze slowly travelled up the length of Daryl’s chest to finally meet his eyes. Daryl’s arm twitched at his side.

“It’s going to cost more,” Paul said, careful but firm. “Once we know how long they need to be in the incubator the staffing costs for monitoring them–”

“I’ll get the rest,” Daryl snapped, cutting him off.

Paul looked at him for a long moment. Daryl’s chest itched from the inside out and his nerves were on fire, the urge to just bolt out the door or to jump across the desk and start swinging kept rising and Darly didn’t know which direction he’d wind up taking.

“I can’t give you a discount.”

“Don’t expect any goddamned handouts.”

“I can’t give you a discount because I just work here,” Paul replied. “I’m stuck following the owner’s policies. But I’ll cover the emergency call out fee and the IVs if you can handle the rest.”

Daryl’s body felt jittery and too heavy all at once. It was a tempting offer for someone who didn’t have much to their name. He ground his teeth together. “Said I don’t need any goddamn handouts.”

“You went so far out of your way to help these little guys keep their lives,” Paul said, slow and gently. “Let me go a little out of my way to help them too.”

Daryl swallowed thickly, but gave a short, sharp nod in agreement, if only because he didn’t want to hit up a damn loan shark over some mangey cats. He pushed the crumpled bills across the desk towards Paul and, taking one of the pens from the cup on the desk, he gingerly filled out his details on the papers provided to him. 

Paul deposited the money in the register and handed Daryl a receipt in exchange for the completed form. Daryl stuffed the receipt into his pocket, feeling the paper grow soggy within seconds. Paul’s brows furrowed as he checked over the details.

“Daryl Dixon?” he asked, looking up at Daryl. “You forgot to fill in your contact number.”

Daryl shrugged, looking away. “Don’t got one.”

“Alright,” Paul said after a moment, setting the paperwork aside. “That’s okay, just promise me you’ll come back today. After 12 would be good, but before two: I’ll be finishing my shift  by then and you won’t want to deal with Dr Grosvenor.”

“Yeah, uh.” Daryl shrugged, meeting Paul’s eyes again. “I’ll be back before two."

“Good,” Paul replied, his head tilting fractionally to the side. “I hope I’ll have good news for you.”

Daryl shifted the tiny weight in his arms and headed for the door. He hoped there’d be good news too. Though he’d learnt from a very young age that good news was a rare thing.

–

The sun was up before Daryl made it home, his feet sore and his legs aching. Still, he didn’t stop; grabbing a rusted old shovel, mud so deeply encrusted onto the blade it would never be fully clean again and dug a hole just past the line of trees out behind his trailer. It was a small hole, but deep enough. It felt strange to lay the tiny body in it, to cover it with dirt. It wasn't something he’d ever had occasion to do before, and the only thing he could liken it to was the memory of his mother’s funeral, shovelling dirt onto her cheap pine coffin in the ground. He’d never been back to see her grave. Staring at the small mound of overturned earth, he wondered if maybe he should have. 

It wouldn’t make a damn lick of difference, he told himself. She’d still be gone, rotting away under the ground whether he was there or not. He couldn’t change anything. Not for her, not even for the mangy sack of kittens, even though he’d tried. Trying never got him anywhere good. Daryl dug the toe of his boot into the softened earth and turned. The shovel felt heavy in his hands, a fair greater weight than it should have been, and he trudged his way back to the trailer. The door hinges groaned noisily as he pulled it open, slamming it behind him with enough force to make the trailer rattle on its blocks. He didn’t even take off his shoes before he fell, face down onto the small, single mattress, and let his exhaustion drag him into a deep sleep.

It felt like only a second had passed when Daryl woke, but his head was hazy and his eyes were gummy: he had to rub them clear. He blinked under the bright beam of sunlight streaming through the broken blinds, squinting his eyes as he pushed himself up to sit on the mattress. His bones and joints protested, and his muscles burned at the simple movement. The room was stuffy and warm, and Daryl’s clothes had finally dried, though they reeked something awful. It was only then, with the memory of pushing himself through the river water, that Daryl remembered the events of the previous hours. 

The sun was bright and he grasped clumsily for the old clock that should have been on the small shelf by his bed. His hands only found an old, crushed beer can and a novel with a torn cover and stained pages. With a grunt of effort, Daryl swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached down, his hands bumping at various detritus until he found the cord of the clock and tugged. It dragged across the old carpet squares from its hiding place under the bed, until he could pull it up into his hands. He fumbled with it, almost dropping and catching it again, until he could finally read the glowing red numbers on its face.

“Shit.” His voice was hoarse and ragged as it tore itself from his throat. Tossing, the clock to the side, Daryl scrambled to his feet. It was already past noon, and his truck was still sitting in the parking lot of the bar he’d been at the previous night. He’d be lucky to make it to town on foot, and he’d wanted to pick up his damn truck first.

Daryl’s clothes had dried crusty and uncomfortable and he was caked in flaking mud. The discomfort was the only reason he headed for the shower; he didn’t care what the stupid vet with his piercing eyes thought of him. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him and, as he scrubbed the dirt and grime and the stench of river water from his skin and hair, he shook the thought of those eyes and the curve of those lips from his mind. It wasn’t so difficult when scrubbing his skin seemed to set off an itching over his chest and arms. Daryl scratched at himself with blunt nails as he washed, leaving long red marks in his wake.

He found clean clothes bunched up on a chair. They didn’t look much better than the clothes he’d just shucked, but they were soft and smelled only of stale cigarette smoke, the same scent that filled his entire trailer. Silverware rattled as Daryl pulled out the drawer in the kitchen as he passed through on his way to the door. He hesitated only for a moment before he reached for the small stash of cash Merle had left in his care when he’d been sentenced last, wrapped in plastic and taped to the underside of the drawer. Merle would have his hide if he found out Daryl had spent it. Daryl would have to claim that he’d used it buying the company of women. Whether Merle believed him or not, it was near about the only thing that would get him off the hook easiest. He’d still have to pay him back.

Daryl took the bills from inside and slammed the drawer closed again. The vet had said he’d cover the rest, and Daryl hoped he was as good as his word. 

– 

Walking more than an hour on foot into town was hell on muscles that already ached. By the time Daryl trudged his way to the bar his joints were stiff and his muscles felt weak. He hadn’t had anything besides booze in the last 24 hours, he was slowly realising, and even the alcohol had been far too long ago. Not for the first time, he wondered what in the hell he was doing, wasting good money like this, on some mangy strays he was just going to pass off onto someone else anyway. It’s not like anyone had ever done the same for him.

Still, as he neared the bridge where it all happened, Daryl saw the smeared stain of red from the kid’s blood on the asphalt and felt another small rush of rage run through his tired body. He could still feel the assortment of tiny scratches on his skin, could almost feel the tiny weight of the kittens’ bodies in his arms, could almost see the look in the vet’s eyes, the insinuation that maybe Daryl had done something commendable for once in his ill-lived life.

He kept walking. He walked on the road, moving to the grassy elbows when vehicles wanted to pass, until finally he found himself at the rocky drive to the bar he frequented. Gravel crunched under his still-damn boots as he made his way up the drive and through the parking lot. His truck was still there, tucked along the far side, under the shade of some old trees. Daryl turned his head away and headed for the door.

The place hadn’t been open long, but there were already a couple of patrons tucked away in the booths, one more on a stool at the bar. The man behind the bar was red-cheeked with a wiry white beard sticking out at all angles from his chin. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Daryl.

“You’re startin’ early. Thought I’d get a few hours peace before I had to see your sorry face ‘round here again.”

Daryl grunted, coming to a stop at the bar. “Just gimme my damn keys back, Dave.”

The old man squinted at him, brown eyes shimmering under thick grey eyebrows as he scrutinised him. 

“Good lord, man, you think I ain’t sobered up by now?” Dary snapped, waving his arm in frustration. The clock behind the bar said it was already two. If Daryl didn’t haul ass he’d miss Paul entirely.

Dave only sharpened his look. “I’ve known you n’ the rest of the Dixons long enough to know you probably ain’t only been sleepin’ it off.”

Daryl exhaled heavily, his nostrils flaring. “Ain’t had a damn drink since you kicked me outta this shithole. Now you gonna gimme my goddamn keys or have we got a problem, huh?”

Dave’s lips thinned, but he reached below the counter to pull out a set of familiar keys. “Don’t you go hittin’ my fence on the way out. Your brother still owes me for the sign.”

Daryl didn’t dignify that with a response, just reached across the bar to snatch the keys from Dave’s hand. He turned to leave, throwing his middle finger up as he went. The sun was hot and bright outside. And Daryl paused in front of the door, blinking passed the glare. His eyes watered and his skin burned, but he stepped back down onto the gravel and made his way over to his truck.

Anticipation gnawed at his inside for the duration of the short drive. His foot sat like lead against the accelerator, and he had to wilfully force himself to ease it up. He didn’t have the time or money to get pulled over. He didn’t have the time or money for what he was about to do, either. Daryl pulled into the parking lot out front of the veterinarian practice and cut off the engine. He sat in the car, feeling the humidity and heat steadily grow around him, his skin beading with sweat. Eyes locked on the front door of the clinic, Daryl bit at his thumbnail, the cash sitting like a burning weight in his pocket. He was cutting it too close, he knew. Maybe if he could just let the time pass, he could forget about it. He’d done more than his fair share and the kittens could be someone else’s problem. They could be Paul’s problem. 

Daryl wrenched the door open and stumbled out of the truck. He pulled the door to the clinic open, setting off a motion detector, a loud electronic doorbell announcing his presence. There were three people sitting in the waiting room, two with dogs at their feet, the other with a covered crate perched precariously on her knees. Daryl stalked past them, ignoring the dog pulling at its lead to sniff at his boots as he went. There was a young woman sitting behind the reception desk and Daryl frowned down at her, coming to an awkward stop where he'd stood several hours earlier.

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking up at him with a carefully polite expression on her face.

Daryl shifted his weight between his feet, feeling suddenly as if all eyes in the room were on him. 

“I’m here to see, uh, Paul,” he said, awkwardly. He couldn’t remember what Paul had said his last name was, back when he’d answered the phone.

“You mean Dr Rovia?” the receptionist asked, her brows furrowing ever so slightly. “Do you have an appointment.”

Daryl’s frown deepened and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his chest and arms starting to itch again. “No. Yeah, maybe. I dunno.”

The receptionist eyed him cautiously as she clicked at something on her computer screen.

“He told me to come by,” Daryl clarified. “About the… the cats. Kittens.”

“Right,” she said slowly, raising the phone to her ear. “I’m just gonna call him.”

It took less than 30 seconds of hushed whispering into the receiver before she was hanging up again. The prickling at Daryl’s neck grew into something too significant to avoid, his body tensing in anticipation of a fight he couldn’t imagine would happen in the waiting room of a veterinary clinic.

“Take a seat,” the receptionist instructed. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

Daryl fidgeted on the spot, but, slowly, forced himself into motion. Giving a wide berth to the other occupants of the room, Daryl bypassed the seats and headed for a display of animal food, toys, and medicines. None of it mattered to him, but it was something to do that didn’t involve slumping down in an uncomfortable plastic bucket seat with a group of anxious pet owners. He picked up one of the toys, a scratchy little thing, vaguely shaped like a mouse, made of twine and a long tail of synthetic feathers. He could make something better, he was certain. He hunted enough birds that he could make it with real feathers, too, not let it go to waste. 

“Daryl?” Paul asked, his voice breaking through Daryl’s distraction. He dropped the toy to the shelf, setting off the jangling of something filled with tiny bells, and turned. Paul’s hair was up in a bun, neater this time, but with a few short strands hanging loose at the back of his elegant neck. His scrubs were clean and he was wearing a full set this time, rather than just the hastily thrown-on shirt. Daryl hadn’t realised just how dry his mouth felt until he was looking at Paul again. There was no moisture left in him and his tongue felt so heavy and useless he could only grunt in response.

“Come with me,” Paul instructed and Daryl found himself following without a second thought or a moment’s hesitation, trailing behind him through the side door and down the same hallways they’d taken that morning, somehow different now, in the light of day.

“I’m glad you came,” Paul said, turning towards him even as they walked. “You had me worried for a minute there.”

Daryl grunted again, trying to will saliva to form in the mouth. He swallowed painfully, his throat clicking. 

“Wait here, I’ll bring them in,” Paul said, leaving Daryl alone in the same small little room as before. There was another sad, plastic bucket seat in the corner, the same as the ones in the waiting room, but Daryl ignored it, looking over the odd artwork and spartan furnishings he hadn’t had half the mind for on his last visit. It took him tilting his head to the side and squinting to finally place the picture on the back wall as some kind of bird, though no bird he was familiar with, and Daryl had hunted and eaten just about every type of bird you could legally kill in the state of Georgia, and laid eyes on the rest.

When Paul returned, he was carrying three, squirming kittens in his arms: no IVs, no incubator, no oxygen masks, just a squirming armful of life. He set them down gently on the table and they faltered to their feet, shaky but mobile, picking their way across its metal surface until Paul had to catch one in his hands and turn it around before it could stumble right off the edge. 

“They’re alright?” Daryl asked, his voice hoarse.

“They seem to have recovered from the near drowning. But they’re not out of the woods just yet. They’ve got fleas and a bad case of worms. I mean, a really bad case of worms: hookworm and tapeworm. I don’t know if they’ll make it. It’s a waiting game right now,” Paul explained, his voice almost unbearably soft. There was something in his eyes that made Daryl’s chest squeeze painfully tight, and he had to look away, staring down at his hands instead, clasped between his knees.

Paul exhaled heavily, setting his clipboard aside. “I know you said you can’t keep them, but if the local shelter has any space for cats, they probably won’t take them in this condition.”

Daryl swallowed again, his throat constricting. “What’ll they do?”

“Hookworm is contagious, it will pass on to other cats, dogs, humans, they can’t take the risk. The no-kill shelter outside of town will turn you away,” Paul replied. He hesitated, fingers scratching at the head of one of the kittens, a soft purring sound filling the room. “The other shelter will probably euthanise.”

Daryl scratched at the skin around his fingernails, his eyes locked on Paul’s hands as he petted the kitten, another of its siblings stumbling over to get some attention.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, and he actually sounded genuine. “This isn’t the news I wanted to give you. But they’re fighters, if they’re given time there’s every chance they’ll pull through. I’ve given them a bath, applied a topical treatment for the fleas and they’ve had a dosage of worming medication, but they’ll need more in a month. The IV fluids will have helped with the hookworm, but they should get another checkup before then. I wouldn’t wait longer than a week: we’ll need to see if they’re responding to treatment, and if their heart and kidneys are holding up.”

Daryl exhaled heavily. He didn’t know what he would do if the shelter wouldn’t even take them. That had been his entire plan. He knew how to kill shit, not keep things alive. Least of all something so tiny and in need of actual care. 

“Look,” Paul said, carefully. And when Daryl did look up from Paul’s long fingers to meet his eyes, there was something complex on his features. “My boss will not be okay with me telling you this, but there’s a shelter two towns over with their own fully staffed clinic. Let them know this is a rescue case and they’ll charge about half the price for the checkup.”

“If the shelter can’t take ‘em,” Dary said, turning the words over slowly in his mouth, “I gotta look after ‘em for a week?”

Daryl placed his hands palm-down on the table, the cold from the metal seeping into his skin.

“Maybe a month,” Paul said, with a wince of sympathy. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for. “But I’ll write down the address of that shelter with the discount clinic for you. They’re pretty big: they might have a foster carer available who’d be willing to take them.”

Something soft bumped against his forearm and Daryl dropped his gaze to find one of the kittens rubbing its face against his skin. It was purring so strongly that Daryl could feel its body vibrating with it when it rubbed its side against his arm before circling back around to mash its face against him.

“Yeah.” Daryl stood up straight, lifting the kitten into his arm as he moved. “Guess I’ll… do that.”

“Let me get you one of our old crates. On the house,” Paul said. “Make the journey a little more comfortable for you.”

Daryl scooped up the kittens while Paul fetched a small, plastic crate. He tucked an absorbent pad in the bottom before helping Daryl transfer the kittens inside, his gloved fingers brushing against Daryl’s arms and hands, distracting him and making the job significantly more complicated than Daryl thought it needed to be. When the kittens were safely contained, Paul walked him back out to the reception.

“All done?” the receptionist asked, her fingers already clicking away at the keyboard. “We can settle your account now if you’re ready? Cash or card?”

Daryl set the carry case on the desk and pulled the bills from his pocket. “I got nine hundred.”

The receptionist took the bills from Daryl’s hand, quickly flicking through them, as if he might have lied, or as if the extra few hundred might have snuck in there without him realising. 

“That’s not going to cover–” she started, but Paul cut her off, a credit card in hand.

“The rest is going on this card.”

The receptionist frowned up at him, her brows furrowing again. “That’s your card.”

“Daryl is paying eight hundred in cash,” Paul said, and Daryl’s eyes widened, “and he’d like to pay the rest on this card.”

The receptionist hesitated for a second, before taking the card from Paul’s hands. 

“You’ll just need to enter your PIN, Mr Dixon,” she said, giving Paul a pointed look before turning the eftpos machine towards him.

Paul accepted it without a word, quickly punching in his number. The receipt printed out, curling over itself until the receptionist ripped it off. She was still looking at Paul, her eyebrow raised when she asked, “And will you be wanting a copy for your records, Mr Dixon?”

“Sure,” Paul replied, punching the green button himself. 

The receptionist tore off the second receipt and turned away, collecting a piece of paper from the printer. She stapled the receipt to the paper and handed it over to Daryl. 

“I’ll just grab a copy of the report,” Paul told Daryl, before turning to the receptionist. “It should be in the printer tray in room three, Mandy.”

She eyes him for a moment before sighing and getting up from her seat. When the door closed behind her, Paul grabbed a notebook from the desk, tearing off a page. He grabbed the mouse with one hand, clicking a couple of times before typing. A moment later, he picked up a pen and started scrawling a message on the paper. “I’m just giving you the name and address of that clinic. Hang on, I’ll jot their number down too, just in case. If you have any trouble.”

It looked, for a moment, like Paul was about to say something else. But then the moment passed and Mandy was walking back through the door. She thrust the stapled pages towards Daryl and he took them. Daryl dithered for a moment, his eyes meeting Paul’s. There was an almost electric charge in the air between them, and there were words Daryl couldn’t voice stuck to the inside of his throat. Their gazes held for far too long until finally, Daryl tore his eyes away and turned, walking out the door and back to his truck.

–

The front left wheel on the shopping cart kept veering to the side every three steps Daryl took as he pushed it down the aisle. It was enough to have him gritting his teeth. He didn’t usually frequent that side of town: he stuck to the places where he didn’t stand out as much. Not to mention the price difference: they probably considered themselves too good for dollar stores. Daryl wouldn’t have even bothered, but he’d been over that way for work, needed to pick up a few things, and didn’t want to make another detour on his way home. A large box of wet food already filled the front of his car and Daryl pushed it a little further, stopping in front of the kitty litter, his eyes roaming across the packaging and the prices.

“They hide the cheaper option on the bottom shelf,” a strangely familiar voice said from behind him and Daryl felt his entire body go still. “I’m not an expert, but I think this one’s actually better than the name brand. And it doesn’t have that weird smell. I think they’re trying to mask the odour of cat pee, but it’s not a better smell than cat pee, you know?”

Slowly, Daryl turned. He hadn’t seen Paul in the four months that had passed since he’d taken that dive off the side of the bridge in a drunken rage. He’d thought about him. Thought about him maybe a little too much. But he hadn’t run into him again. Not until the pet aisle of a store that was probably cleaner than any place Daryl had ever lived. His hair was down, which was jarring in the oddest of ways, long hair spilling down over his shoulders. But his eyes were the same, clear and bright and far too interesting, just like his lips, curved into a small, patient smile. It was almost infuriating. 

“You an expert, huh?” Daryl replied, but he dropped down into a squat to pull out the bag of litter Paul had motioned to.

“Something like that,” Paul replied easily. He turned his head, gaze roaming over the contents of Daryl’s shopping cart even as he hefted the large bag into it. “So, I take it things went well at the shelter?”

Daryl grunted. “Could say that.”

Paul nodded into the silence that followed. Daryl didn’t quite know what to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away, either.

“Did they all…?” Paul trailed off, the question obvious for how he left it hanging incomplete.

“Two of ‘em made it,” Daryl replied.

“Oh.” Paul’s face went through a quick flurry of emotions Daryl couldn’t keep up with. “Two is… Two is good. They’re good?”

“Yeah, uh, they ain’t so bad.” Daryl scratched at the side of his nose. “You, uh, you wanna come see ‘em?”

Paul’s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up and Daryl immediately felt like a dumbass for even thinking he should ask.

“Yeah, sure, right now?” Paul replied and Daryl froze, suddenly uncertain.

He coughed, finally moving as he shuffled his feet, and looked away. “I mean, you probably got shit to do…”

“Just let me put the milk back in the refrigerated section and I’ll come with you.”

“Nah I’ll, uh, get the milk. If you don’t need it I’ll get it. Been meanin’ to pick up some stuff.”

By the time they got through the checkout Daryl was already regretting his decision. By the time they finished fumbling about in the parking lot before they got into Paul’s car, leaving Daryl’s truck behind, Daryl’s nerves were on edge, his entire body prickling with it. He directed Paul to take the turn away from the good part of town, something sick squirming inside his stomach as he mumbled directions, watching the houses become more run down with each passing minute. He shot look after look in Paul’s direction, but any thoughts he had about the quality of place they were heading didn’t show on his face: he retained a perfectly neutral expression that did nothing to quell the discomfort tangling up Daryl’s insides. The car bumped over the change in road texture as they turned off into the trailer park, and Daryl felt himself bracing for whatever judgement might come.

“It’s the last one up the back,” Daryl directed, gesturing with his hand, and Paul slowly brought the car to a stop. 

“I’ll give you a hand with your stuff,” Paul said. The door swung open and the car groaned as he got out. It took Daryl another moment before he pushed his own door open and stepped out.

Paul was already holding the oversized bag of litter in his arms when Daryl reached the trunk. He picked up the cat food and the milk and led the way to his trailer’s door. He had barely made it two steps inside when a ball of fur came racing towards him, rushing right past and jumping up onto a cupboard, racing across its surface before turning and jumping back down onto the ground.

“That’s Cat,” Daryl said, setting the milk and cat food down onto the table. “Close the door or she’ll take off. Goddamn pain in the ass, that one.”

He heard the door shut and saw it in the change of light. Daryl gave himself a second before turning around and taking the litter from Paul’s arms, their bare forearms sliding together for a protracted moment before Daryl stepped away.

“You said there were two?”

Daryl grunted. “Fleaball don’t like new people. She’ll be hidin’. Won’t see her ‘till food’s out.”

“Fleaball and Cat, huh?” Paul asked, dropping down onto his knees to catch Cat as she came close, picking her up petting her head.

“Yeah, well, they’re cats, had a damn lot of fleas,” Daryl muttered. He found his hand moving towards his chest, he could almost feel the itching bites that had plagued him for the first few weeks after bringing the kittens home. “The, uh, the other two’re outside. Buried ‘em by the trees.”

"No, I like it. Very descriptive," Paul said. "You're good with them."

Daryl’s head snapped to look at him. But no matter how much he scrutinised the smile on Paul's face and the laughter dancing in his eyes, Daryl couldn’t find any hint of malice there. 

“Tried my best,” Daryl replied, haltingly. “Buried the-- buried the other two under the trees out back. The shelter gave me some shit for free, told me how to look after ‘em. Was gonna take ‘em back when they were healthy…”

“And now?”

Daryl shrugged. “Pains in the ass, sometimes but they ain’t bad.”

That wasn’t even the half of it. For the first time in his long life, Daryl actually had a steady job, just to keep food in their damn bowls and litter under their asses. Paul settled in, making himself at home on the couch and Daryl shuffled around, putting things away. Eventually, he opened the cat food and suddenly there were two cats twining around his legs and mewling in obnoxious desperation while he filled their bowls. When he’d set them on the ground and looked up, he found Paul watching him with unabashed interest, his smile small but genuine. Daryl felt his cheeks heating and turned away, taking the trash to the garbage can.

Daryl wondered, idly if he could get comfortable with something like this, with someone else in his trailer, taking up space, playing with Cat and Furball, drinking his shit beer and watching TV together. He stole a look at Paul and considered it might not be as bad as he’d once thought. He hadn’t been a pet person before, either, and that had changed. It had changed so much and all of it for the better.

It was too short a time before Paul said he needed to get back and then they were both back in Paul’s car driving to the store where Daryl had left his truck and Paul still needed to pick up milk. They drove in silence, except for the rumble of the engine and the low sound of the radio playing songs Daryl didn’t recognize. There was a strange sense of dread and disappointment building inside of Daryl, growing stronger and more prominent as they approached the store, until finally they pulled into the parking lot, Paul’s car stopping in the space beside Daryl’s. The engine cut, but neither of them moved to leave.

“You know, I wanted to give you my number that day at the clinic,” Paul said. He looked casual and unaffected as he looked out the windshield, except for the tightness at the corners of his eyes. 

Daryl watched him closely for a long minute. “How come you didn’t?”

Paul exhaled heavily and shook his head. There was a smile on his lips, but it was a rueful one. “It would have been incredibly unprofessional.”

Dary snorted. He looked away before darting a quick glance back at Paul.

“And you said you didn’t have a phone,” Paul added. “I’d be kind of a dick if I expected you to go get one or walk down to a payphone just to speak to me.”

Daryl made a non-committal sound. “Might’ve called.”

Paul sucked in an audible breath. “Yeah?”

Daryl shrugged. “Might’ve done. Be a pain in the ass walkin’ all the way down to the payphone.”

Paul ducked his head, the fall of it briefly obscuring his smile. “Any way I could change that ‘maybe’ into a ‘definitely’?”

Daryl bit at the inside of his cheek, then sucked at it instead. “Wouldn’t say no to dinner.”

–

Morning light drifted through the break in the blinds, landing directly on Daryl’s face and making the world behind his eyelids glow red. Despite the chill in the air, Daryl felt warm. He had grown used to waking up warm, the cats curled up on top of him, their breathing and movement no longer enough to wake up. There was a cat curled up over his feet, he could tell, but the body pressed up behind his, the knees pressed behind his own, the arm slung across his waist, the hand curled against Daryl’s chest, the gentle puffs of breath against the back of his neck, were all Paul. There was no need to get up, so Daryl didn’t, comfortable as he was and reluctant to move. He shifted his arm, his hand covering Paul’s, and buried his face in the pillow to hide from the long arm of the rising sun.

When Paul eventually woke, it was signalled with his leg sliding against Daryl’s, his forehead pressing to the back of Daryl’s neck, and a small, breathy sound that might have been a groan or a laugh. His arm tightened where it was pressed to Daryl’s chest, and he mumbled against Daryl’s spine, “Your cat’s eating my hair.”

“Be one hell of a hairball she’ll cough up,” Daryl replied.

Paul’s hold on him tightened for a moment, pulling Daryl’s back flush against Paul’s chest. He could feel the firm press of Paul’s half-hard cock against his ass and Daryl resisted the urge to rock back against it, turning in Paul’s embrace instead, until they were facing one another. He took a moment to appreciate Paul’s half-lidded eyes, the wrinkle of his nose, and the small upward curve of his lips before Daryl reached passed the messy array of Paul’s hair, fluffed up where it had come loose from its bun, and pried the cat away from where it was holding onto the remnants of Paul’s bun with all four paws, her claws and teeth out. 

“Goddamn it, Cat. That ain’t how we treat a guest,” he grumbled, lifting her away to set her on the floor. He took a second to reach out and grab one of the little rolling balls with a bell inside of it and push it across the floor. Cat tore off after it, rolling onto her back with the ball clutched carefully between her paws. She batted at it before rolling again. The ball went flying and she tore off after it, chasing it out into the living area.

At their feet, Fleaball stretched her paws out before settling into the folds of the blankets again. Paul’s arm snaked around Daryl’s waist again, pulling him back down onto the mattress with him. His hand slid up Daryl’s arm and then down over Daryl’s pack, rubbing over the muscle, his thumb flicking at Daryl’s nipple.

“I don’t have to be at work until ten,” Paul informed him, thumb circling Daryl’s nipple, light but insistent, and Daryl licked at his lip. 

“Yeah, well, some of us gotta be at work by eight,” Daryl replied. 

Paul laughed, a quiet, breathy sound. 

“I think we’ve got time,” he said, pushing himself up on his elbow so that he could lean over Daryl and replace his fingers with his lips. Daryl’s skin was wet when Paul tore his mouth away, his skin going cold when the air hit it. 

“I’ll make you a coffee while you shower,” Paul promised. He didn’t wait for an answer before dipping back down to kiss at Daryl’s nipple, his tongue swirling over it, then his teeth grazing it. Daryl exhaled and sunk his hands into the tangled mess of Paul’s hair and hung on for as long as he could.