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Chapter Text

Sweat dripped down Daryl’s forehead, sticking his bangs to his skin. It was only spring, but the temperatures had soared already and Daryl knew they were in for a scorching hot summer. He finished fastening the chain around the vending machine, giving it a tug to test it. Turning, he stepped out of the way and signalled Rick to start the van. The engine revved and Daryl used his forearm to wipe away some of the sweat from his brow. It mostly served to smear the sweat around, but at least it stopped dripping into his eyes. 

The vending machine tipped, landing with a loud crash and then a shriek as the metal was dragged along the cement and onto the asphalt. Rick cut the engine and Daryl was already kicking the broken glass out of the way to get to the prizes inside. He reached for one of the cans of orange soda, turning it over in his hand and inspecting it. 

“Lot of work for a few snacks,” Rick said gazing down at the mangled mess of metal, glass, and plastic.

“Nah,” Dary said, dismissively as he tucked the can directly into his backpack. He’d keep one separate from the rest, make sure it made its way into Denise’s hands instead of the inventory.  “Weren’t no trouble at all.”

In all honesty, he would’ve shoved his hand down the throat of a walker to pry a can of orange soda from the bastard’s chest if that’s what it had taken to get it. The blossoming love between her and Tara made his own chest ache with a loss that was painful and profound. 

“Carl’ll be happy,” Rick said, grabbing a packet of sour candies to set aside.

“Mhmm. Here,” Daryl reached in and picked out one of the candy bars. “Michonne likes these. God awful nougat whip bullshit.”

“Why d’you think I’ll see Michonne before you do?” Rick asked, though he accepted the proffered candy readily enough.

“You n’ her are the entire police force in Alexandria,” Daryl said. “And you live with her. Only time you ain’t with her is when we’re outside those damn walls.”

Rick laughed, and nodded. “S’pose that’s true.”

“S’pose,” Daryl scoffed. He was eighty percent certain Rick and Michonne weren’t screwing around, but it was only a matter of time. The way those two had been dancing around one another almost gave Daryl secondhand embarrassment. Though, he was hardly in any position to be judging, given his past. 

But that was a trip down memory lane he’d rather skip. 

“Better get these into the van,” Rick said, the end of his sentence punctuated with a grunt as someone barrelled past, knocking into him from behind. 

Both Rick and Daryl had their guns raised and safety off within the second. The interloper’s hair was longer than that of a certain someone Daryl had been desperately trying to keep buried deep inside of him, but the shade was the same and Daryl couldn’t help but see the familiar traits he longed for in every random goddamn stranger. The disappointment when it was someone else never hurt any less with time.

“Hold up, there,” Rick instructed, cocking the gun in his hand. The click of it sounded loud in the relative quiet and it drew the man to a stop.

“Sorry,” the newcomer said and Daryl’s breath caught in his throat, his entire body freezing as the man slowly turned to face them. “I was running from the dead.”

Those eyes. He could see barely anything except those eyes, bundled up as the man was, but Daryl would know them anywhere. He still saw those eyes every night when he closed his own to beg for sleep that rarely came. He was haunted by them, a ghost he couldn’t outrun. Daryl stopped breathing altogether, his arm wavering as he slowly lowered the gun. Beside him, Rick shot him a worried glance, but Daryl’s own eyes were locked on the man in front of him. Those piercing blue eyes he’d know anywhere.

Slowly, the man raised his hand to pull at the bandana covering the lower half of his face. “Daryl?”

“You two know each other?” Rick asked. His gun was still raised and aimed at Paul, but his body was starting to relax. 

“We should do,” Paul answered, sparing a darting glance back at Rick before locking eyes with Daryl again, looking hesitant, like he didn’t know what to expect. “Considering I’m his husband.”

“You - “ Rick looked at Daryl, bewildered. “You’re married?”

“By accident,” Daryl hurried to state.

“Happy accident,” Paul piped up with feigned cheer. His bright tone was easily belied by the hurt Daryl could see in his eyes. “Although, the fine state of Georgia doesn’t recognise it.”

“Ain’t recognised here, either. Goddamn Virginia,” Daryl grumbled.

“Ah,” Paul grinned, his posture relaxing. “But step a toe over the line into D.C…”

“Ain’t the point,” Daryl snapped. “None of that shit matters no more.”

“You’re married,” Rick repeated, his gun was lowered at his side now, but he was looking at Daryl with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’re married to…”

“Jesus,” Paul helpfully supplied. 

“Paul,” Daryl corrected, biting his name out.

“My name’s Paul Rovia,” he said, looking at Rick and spreading his arms out like the ridiculously over the top showboat he was. “But everyone calls me Jesus.”

“Everyone don’t,” Daryl vehemently disagreed.

“You don’t,” Paul corrected. “Are you everyone, Daryl?”

“What - “ Rick looked between them. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“You were gonna steal our shit,” Daryl accused, his fingers twitching around the grip of the gun in his hand.

“In fairness I didn’t know it was you,” Paul replied. His hands were still raised, though now they were held palm out in front of him in mock surrender.

Daryl’s eyes only narrowed at his words. “You were gonna steal our shit.”

Paul sighed, with a shrug, his arms finally dropping back to his sides. “Yeah, I was gonna steal your shit.”

A guttural sound tore from the depths of Daryl’s throat and he lurched forward. Paul took two hasty steps backwards before he took off running, Daryl hot on his heels. Dodging a lunge from Daryl, Paul swerved, zig zagging across the cement before taking a sharp turn around the side of the building. Daryl lost ground, but he saw Paul launching himself at the chain link fence at the rear of the property and surged forward. Daryl’s hands closed around Paul’s ankles and he pulled hard. 

Paul grunted, kicking back at Daryl. His boot connected with the side of Daryl’s head, but his fingers slipped on the fencing. Daryl took the opportunity to wrap his arms around Paul’s legs, and pull until they were both tumbling to the ground. Paul twisted as they fell, landing with Daryl in a headlock. It was inevitable, Daryl always knew a fight with Paul was one he couldn’t win, in every sense, but it stopped him from fleeing off into the wilds and leaving Daryl again. 

“Daryl,” Paul said, his body pressed against Daryl’s, wrapped around him. Daryl went limp in his arms, but Paul didn’t let go. He knew better than to give Daryl an inch when he was in a fighting mood. Daryl couldn’t blame him for not knowing Daryl wasn’t looking to fight. Not really. 

“Alright,” Rick’s voice came from a few yards away, though Daryl couldn’t see him. “You better step away from him right now, hands in the air where I can see ‘em.”

Daryl could feel Paul’s sigh; the exhale of air ghosting across his cheek and cooling the sweat on Daryl’s skin, leaving it somehow more heated in the aftermath. Paul's nose brushed against the side of Daryl's face, his touch lingering as Paul took another slow, steadying breath before releasing Daryl and stepping hastily away, hands raised once again.

“Now,” Rick said, sparing only a quick glance towards Darryl to ascertain that he was alright before returning his careful gaze to Paul. “What should we do with you.”

“Should tie you up like the damn rustler you are,” Daryl said, though there was a lighter lilt to it now than there would have been only a handful of minutes ago. 

“I suppose it is my turn,” Paul replied. “Though we should probably establish a safe word this time. You spent the first week of our blissfully wedded lives with your wrists chafed to hell.”

Rick looked like he was struggling to keep his face composed. Daryl was grateful for the effort.

“Are we gonna have a problem here?” Rick asked.

“No,” Paul said, at the same time Daryl said, “Yes.”

Paul and Daryl turned to look at one another in unison. 

“You ever been anythin’ but a problem?” Daryl asked.

“Have you?” Paul shot back.

“I really wasn’t expectin’ to handle a domestic dispute on this run,” Rick said. “C’mon, we’re gonna hash this out inside. Get outta this damn sun for a while.”

The sound of rapidfire gunshots filled the air and Rick turned, looking in the direction it was coming from. But Daryl turned to his husband, reaching out to grab him firmly by the wrist before he could bolt.

“If you wanted to hold hands all you had to do was ask,” Paul said, breaking Daryl’s grip far too easily, but sliding his palm against Daryl’s and entwining their fingers instead. Daryl warred too long internally over the urge to shake the touch off and the desire to cling to it, and Paul took it as a victory, squeezing when Daryl’s fingers twitched, as if sharing the same fear as Daryl; that the other man would slip through his fingers and be lost again.

“There trouble you need to tell me about?” Rick asked, looking at Paul with the expression of a man who was reaching the end of his tether.

“No.” Paul had the decency to at least look contrite. “I put some firecrackers in one of the metal garbage cans on the other side of the building. A distraction.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, turning his body towards Paul’s. “So you could steal our shit.”

Rick motioned with the gun for them to move their dog and pony show onwards and the three of them made their way inside the building, already emptied of the sorghum inside.

“I told you, I didn’t know it was you,” Paul said. “I didn’t recognise you with that haircut. Or the dye job. I suppose it really is the end of days if Daryl Rovia is experimenting with haircare.”

Daryl made a warning sound in the back of his throat. That name drop was targeted. Paul was always a goddamn shit about it. He dropped to the floor, dragging Paul with him by their joined hands.

“Daryl Rovia?” Rick repeated, far too curious for Daryl’s comfort as he leaned back against the closed door. “You took your husband’s name?”

“It’s Dixon,” Daryl ground out, even more irritated by the smug delight radiating off of Paul beside him.

“Not according to a certain legally binding document sitting at the Town Clerk’s Office in the fine city of Stamford, Connecticut,” Paul said.

“And I ain’t dyin’ my hair,” Daryl added, for good measure.

“Really? Because the last time I saw you your hair was blond,” Paul said. “Either you were bleaching it then - which I know you weren’t - or you’re dying it now. The dead are walking around snacking on the living and you’re out here raiding stores for box dyes. Is this how you pictured your forties? Is this a midlife crisis? You already rode a motorcycle so you’re covering your greys instead?” 

“Don’t got grey hairs -” 

“Right, because you’re dying them,” Paul cut in.

“- and I ain’t in my goddamn forties.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Give it, what, three more months? You’ll be celebrating the big Four Oh.”

“Your birthday’s comin’ up?” Rick asked and Daryl hunched down over himself 

“Can’t keep a damn thing to yourself, can you?” 

“How am I supposed to know what you have and haven’t shared?” Paul asked. “It’s just your birthday.”

“Don’t need no one makin’ a fuss,” Daryl said. 

The facade dropped from Paul’s face, revealing something soft and far too intimately familiar. “You deserve the kind of people who make a fuss over you, Daryl.”

“I don’t know how any of this happened,” Rick said, motioning between the two men sitting on the floor. “But you need to come to some kind of agreement because we’re either letting Jesus here run off free into the wind or the three of us are gonna be taking a very cosy trip back home. Now, I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m not drivin’ three hours in a cramped van cab while you two fight it out.”

Paul looked at Daryl and Daryl stared down at the mud flecking his boots.

“So,” Rick said, reaching for the door. “I’m givin’ you twenty minutes to sort this out and then we’re leavin’. Together or separate don’t bother me, but we’re goin’. You hear?”

“Yeah,” Daryl muttered, picking at his shoelace. 

“Jesus?”

“We’ll sort it out.”

“Good,” Rick said. “I’m gonna go pack the rest of the ending machine into the van. Processes whatever this is.”

The door shut with a sharp, decisive sound, leaving Daryl and Paul alone in the old sorghum barn. Yellowed light filtered in from the large, high windows running along the side of the building, discoloured from time and disuse. The entire place smelled musty, and Daryl could feel the dust coating the inside of his throat and lungs with every inhale.

“I missed you,” Paul said, his voice quiet and more fragile than Daryl had ever heard him. And that was all it took for Daryl’s face to flush red. His throat was tight and every breath was agony. He could barely hold onto the anger that was sparing him from dealing with the tangled and overwhelming mess of his relief and his grief, his shame and his guilt.

“I thought you were dead, you prick,” Daryl said, clenching his teeth together as if he could fight back the tears that were already coming. His throat constricted painfully tight and he was crying. Hot wet tears streamed down his face, and his entire upper body rocked with the force of his sobs. He could feel Paul enter his space, pushing through Daryl’s personal bubble like it was never there, their knees knocking together and Paul’s legs leaving streaks in the dust–covered floor. Paul reached out to wipe at Daryl’s tears and Daryl batted his hands away, flinching, but it only gave Paul pause for a second before he was reaching out again. Thumbs swiped at the tears leaving thick tracks down Daryl’s face before Paul's hands were in his hair, on his shoulder, guiding him down and pulling him closer until Daryl’s face was buried in his neck. He couldn’t help but reach out, his arms wrapping around Paul’s lean frame, clutching his hands into the smooth leather of Paul’s coat and holding on as he sobbed brokenly against Paul’s skin.

Paul didn’t speak for the longest time. He simply held onto Daryl, letting him wet Paul’s neck with his tears and leave streaks of snot against Paul’s collar. Daryl’s hands were fisted in the back of Paul’s coat and Paul’s hands were rubbing soothing circles against the back of Daryl’s leather vest. After a few minutes, Paul shifted, nudging his way between Daryl’s spread knees, making himself more comfortable.

“You know,” Paul murmured against Daryl’s hair. “I must have imagined our reunion a million times and this is nothing at all what I was picturing.”

“Yeah?” Daryl mumbled against the damp skin of Paul’s neck. “What’d you picture?”

Paul made a small noncommittal sound. “Maybe a few less barbed words. Definitely a lot less clothing.”

Daryl snorted and wiped his face against Paul’s shirt, smearing more tears and snot into the fabric. 

Paul sighed. “You’re cleaning that,” he said.

“This mean you’re comin’ home with me?” Daryl asked. Any other time he might have been mortified by how small his voice sounded.

Paul pulled back until he could cup Daryl’s face in his palms. “Good luck getting rid of me.”

Daryl let out a shuddering breath and tilted his head forward until their foreheads touched. They stayed like that, holding each other and breathing each other’s air into their lungs until Rick came to collect them.

Chapter Text

Daryl woke with a painfully familiar pounding behind his eyes and a shrill screeching in his ears that echoed inside his skull. His mouth was dry and tasted like stale death. His face was warm and after struggling to crack his eyes open he was met with a blinding glare from the sun peeking through the blinds. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut again one last time before prying them open, blinking blearily at his surroundings. 

All he saw was beige. Beige walls, beige curtains, beige goddamned ceiling . He didn’t know where he was. He’d been couch surfing with some of Merle’s acquaintances and not a one of them had beige anything. The paint here wasn’t peeling, either. The room didn’t reek of weed and booze, grime and sweat from a dozen or more transient strangers. It was unnerving.

The screeching finally stopped, and that was when Daryl realised it was a landline telephone. Even in its absence, the piercing trill echoed in his ears and rattled around his already sensitive skull. The peace was short lived, however, and barely twenty seconds later the phone started ringing again, shrill and piercing. Daryl’s muscles ached but when he tried to roll over to reach for the damned thing and pull its plug from the wall, he found that he couldn’t move far enough. Trying again he realised his hands were bound to the headboard and one of his feet was tied to the bottom bedpost. He thrashed in a panic, twisting and turning and doing little more than tearing at the skin around his bindings but he couldn’t stop.

Beside him someone groaned and Daryl went suddenly still, immobilised like a rabbit trying to avoid the detection of a predator. The mattress dipped and Daryl’s heart started pounding. All the pain in his head and his body took a backseat as Daryl thrashed anew

“Stop moving,” the man beside him complained, sounding just as ragged as Daryl felt, albeit without the terror. An arm planted itself on the mattress beside him and all Daryl could see of the man was pale skin and far too much hair. Daryl bucked wildly when the man moved to climb across him, pulling at the restraints so hard the metal started cutting into the soft skin of his wrist.

“Please,” he begged. “I’m just trying to make the ringing stop.”

Daryl paused, letting the man reach across him to lift the phone handle from the cradle before slamming it down again before dropping the receiver on the nightstand in a clatter. With a groan, the man collapsed on top of him, his chest hitting Daryl and knocking the air from his lungs.

“The hell’d you do to me?” Daryl rasped out.

“What?” came the muffled response. It took a moment, but he finally shifted, lifting his weight with one hand and pushing his voluminous hair away from his face with the other. His beard was neatly trimmed, his skin clear, and his eyes a brilliant blue, ringed as they were with red.

Daryl tugged at the restraints again, the metal clanking as it pulled against the wooden headboard.

“Ah, sorry.” The man frowned, looking hazy and confused. “I’m sure we had a very lovely night together, but we should do it again sometimes when I’m not blackout drunk. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t leave my partner chained up. Not unless he specifically asked, anyway. But if we ever had a safeword I really don’t remember it.”

Daryl froze again. Between his clouded memory, the jackhammering pain in his skull, and the rising panic, he managed to work out the implication in his bedpartner’s words. Bedpartner.

“I ain’t no goddamn fag,” Daryl spat out, pulling at the handcuffs again with renewed vigour. They dug into his wrists so deeply he was certain he could feel blood dribbling from the wounds. “The hell’d you do to me?”

The man winced, shifting until he was sitting on the mattress beside Daryl’s hip. He massaged his fingers into his temples, groaning. “Look,” he said, eventually. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t my hotel room and I don’t remember how we got here. So I’m no more equipped to answer your questions than you are.”

Daryl’s breathing was ragged and loud. He could hear his blood rushing, filling ears like white noise.

“We definitely didn’t fuck,” the man said, after a moment of contemplation. “If that makes you feel any better.”

“The hell -”

“You’re still dressed. And, yeah, it’s technically possible. But I guarantee you I wouldn’t have cuffed your hands to the headboard before unwrapping this.“ He ran a finger down Daryl’s chest, tapping at one of the closed buttons on Daryl’s shirt in emphasis. Daryl couldn’t breathe for a moment and then he thrashed again, determined to get free, even if it meant breaking a few of his own fingers to do it.

“Sorry, bad joke. Your virtue is uncompromised and we’re both in the same boat, here, alright?” the man said, sounding tired and far too reasonable. “I’m Paul, by the way. Though my friends call me Jesus.”

He looked expectantly at Daryl, who only narrowed his eyes in response. He wasn’t going to call this prick Jesus, and he certainly was sharing personal details and pleasantries.

Paul let out a huff of a breath “Look, just sit tight and I’ll get my lock picks.”

“Lock picks? You a godamn thief?”

“Sometimes,” came the airy and evasive answer.

Daryl raised his head to watch Paul clamber off the other side of the bed. He was shirtless, his long hair falling over bare shoulders and, worse than that, he didn’t have pants on either. Paul’s jeans had been discarded on the floor, and Daryl watched as he picked them up, his long, deft fingers rummaging through the pockets. His ass was covered by black cotton briefs, which was the only relief Daryl felt about this situation. And then Paul turned around, a small leather roll in his hands, and instead of his ass Daryl was now faced with the bulging black fabric covering that prick’s prick. Daryl hastily looked back up to the ceiling, swallowing thickly around a lump in his throat, his face growing inexplicably hot. 

But turning his attention to the ceiling had little effect when the next thing he knew Paul was straddling his chest. His knees were touching Daryl’s armpits as he started working a pick into one of the locks.

“Get your damn dick outta my face,” Daryl snapped, turning his head away as far as he could, too aware of how close Paul’s crotch was to his face. 

Paul looked down at him with an amused, if chiding expression. “It’ll just take a few seconds,” he said, the words punctuated with the click of the lock opening. 

Daryl barely got a chance to feel the relief at having one of his stinging wrists freed when a sharp rapping sounded against the door. The pair of them barely had a chance to turn their heads towards the door when the door lock made a mechanical whirring sound and the door pushed open.

A man dressed in the sleek black uniform of a hotel staff stood in the open doorway. His eyes widened for a split second as he took in the scene before him, but his features quickly smoothed into something disinterested. 

“Excuse me gentlemen,” he said, in a tone that matched his bored expression. “The front desk has been trying to reach you.”

His gaze slid from Paul, his thighs around Daryl’s chest, to Daryl who still had one hand cuffed to the headboard and his ankle tied to the bedpost at the other end of the bed.

“You’ve exceeded checkout time. You have thirty minutes to vacate or you’ll be charged for an extra night,” the man said, eying the bed with barely disguised irritation. “And any damages to the room you’ve already made.”

“We’ll be down in a minute,” Paul said. Daryl didn’t know how he could sound so calm. He sure wasn’t. He’d never wanted to punch his way out of a situation so much in his entire shitty life.

The man gave them a curt nod and left. The door snicked shut and the lock gave another mechanical whirr as it engaged, then Daryl and Paul turned to face one another again. Paul gave him a tentative, commiserating smile.

“Let’s just get you untied, check out, and then we’ll never have to see one another again.”

Daryl grunted a vague sound of agreement and let Paul lean over to work the other cuff open. The second his wrist was free, Daryl shoved Paul to the side, knocking him off of chest to land on his back on the mattress. He didn’t seem to mind the manhandling, lying sprawled out on the mattress, his messy hair fanned out around him and a small smile on his lips while Daryl pulled himself up into a crunch to reach for the laces binding his ankle.

“You don’t move, you can foot the bill,” Daryl said, looking at Paul surreptitiously while he picked at the knots. 

Paul laughed, a quiet breathy sound and reached his hand up to rub at his forehead. “Yeah, I’m getting dressed,” he said. Though he was slow to move and make good on that claim.

“Looks like someone took a good swing at you,” Daryl said, when Paul stretched, his eyes catching on the faint purpling of a large bruise beginning to form under Paul’s ribs on the right. 

Paul looked down, dropping his jeans on the bed to reach down with hesitant fingers to prod at the injury. He swayed on his feet, his face paling. And then he was hurrying towards the bathroom door. It didn’t even shut behind him and Daryl saw him fall to his knees in front of the toilet, heaving up whatever he’d consumed the night before. 

Daryl scoffed.

“Lightweight,” he muttered. Then, finally, the knot pulled loose and he felt a rush of euphoria at being completely unbound again. Even the sound of vomit splashing into the toilet bowl felt like a kind of victory. The faucets were running by the time Daryl located his missing boots. Of course the lace was his and with a grunt of irritation Daryl sat down to thread it back through the eyelets where it belonged. He now knew where his ankle binding had come from, but that still left another mystery unanswered.

“Where’d these come from anyway?” Daryl asked, picking up one of the handcuffs and looking at it speculatively, as if the answer might materialise if he just looked at it hard enough. 

“Ah,” Paul answered, pausing on his way back into the room, looking the picture of guilt. “So… those are mine.”

Daryl raised an eyebrow at him. “You just carry cuffs ‘round with you?”

“I need them for work,” Paul answered, leaning down to collect his wrinkled white shirt from the floor, pulling it hurriedly over his head, his muscles flexing. Daryl looked away, eyes drawn back to his boots.

Dary’s eyes narrowed on suspicion and confusion. “You a criminal or a cop?”

Paul’s lip twitched as he pulled on his pants. “I find those two often go hand-in-hand, don’t you?”

“That don’t tell me why you chained me to the goddamn bed,” Daryl said. 

“Yeah, about that…” Paul said, running a hand through his hair, coming it out with his fingers. “This bruise is from you.”

Paul motioned towards the injury slowly starting to colour against his pale skin. Daryl was a little impressed with himself, to be honest. “Got you pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, looking at him, clearly amused. “Your apology is duly noted. I got a brief, hazy memory of it when I poked at it. Sense memory, I guess”

“And then you ralphed.”

“And then I ralphed.” Paul nodded. “But, uh, I remember being very, very drunk and you woke me up. Screaming about something. A nightmare. You said a name. Meryl?”

Daryl paused. “Merle,” he said, quietly. “My brother.” 

Paul nodded, accepting the explanation as it was. “You wouldn’t wake up and you might have hurt yourself so I…” Paul made a gesture that encompassed the handcuffs and the bed.

“Tied me down so I wouldn’t hurt myself?” Daryl asked, not sure how to feel about that. Being at the mercy of a stranger. He could have done anything and Daryl had enough scars to bear. “Or so I wouldn’t hurt you?”

“Both,” Paul answered, soft and honest.

Daryl grunted, looking sharply away. “Don’t be expectin’ no thanks.”

“I’m not,” Paul said. “Just like I’m not expecting an apology for my ribs.”

“Good,” Daryl said. “Five minutes from now we leave this room and none of this shit happened. Don’t know you, you don’t know me.”

“I can live with that.”

Paul reached past Daryl to swipe the handcuffs from the rumpled sheets. He patted himself down, then looked around, his eyes landing on something on the nightstand. Keys, Daryl realised, as Paul picked them up, listening to them jangle obnoxiously. Daryl dropped his feet to the ground. He patted his own pockets, finding his only possessions: a trailer key, a lighter, a half empty packet of cigarettes, a crumpled twenty, and a rag. He was ready to go and he headed towards the door.

“Wait,” Paul said, his eyes on a piece of paper he was sliding off of the nightstand. Daryl swayed on his feet, not sure he cared enough to stay with this guy a single second longer than he had to. But the way Paul’s eyes widened and his face paled even more had Daryl slowing. He cast one last hopeful glance at the door, before moving to Paul’s side.

“What now?” he snapped. 

Paul looked up at him, his eyes so wide Daryl thought they might pop right out of skull. If your name’s Daryl I think we might have gotten married last night.”

Daryl let out a sharp breath. His hands felt numb and his fingers were clumsy when he snatched the paper from Paul’s lax grasp. He read it over once, then again, trying to get his eyes to focus. But no matter how long he stared at the certificate it still gave him the same information. And that was definitely his signature at the bottom. He’d signed it. He’d signed himself off to the goddamn stranger in a gay wedding. It looked legitimate, too. SIgned and witnessed and bearing the stamp of the Town Clerk’s Office.

“I ain’t -” Daryl started, his voice rasping out, painful and quiet.

“A goddamn fag,” Paul finished for him, his voice tense. “I remember. That doesn’t change the fact that we’re married. To each other.”

“That ain’t right,” Daryl said. “Ain’t even legal.”

“It is in Connecticut,” Paul said. 

“Pansy-assed goddamn Connecticut.” Daryl stared down at the paper and made a strangled sound. He hadn’t just up and married a man. No. He’d also given up his own family name. According to the law he wasn’t even a Dixon anymore. 

“Daryl Rovia,” he muttered, horrified.

Paul made a face. “Welcome to the family, hubby.”

“Don’t,” Daryl snapped, though the word sounded embarrassingly scared to his own ears. The way Paul’s features softened in response told him Paul had heard the fear in it too.

“It’s not a big deal,” Paul said, reaching out tentatively. His fingertips brushed Daryl’s wrist and Daryl flinched violently away.

“It’s not a big deal,” Paul repeated, still gentle, but a little firmer and he reached out again. This time his fingers grasped the marriage certificate and slowly pulled it free from Daryl’s fingers. 

“We went n’ got hitched,” Daryl said. “How ain’t that a big deal?”

“Well, you’re straight, right?” Paul asked, and Daryl reared back as if struck.

“Already told you - “ he snapped, but Paul only rolled his eyes raising a hand in a quelling gesture.

“Right,” Paul agreed. “So in a same-sex marriage I’d figure one of us being straight would be grounds for an annulment, right? We’ll just head back down to the Town Clerk’s Office and get it sorted out.”

The door lock whirred again and the same staff member pushed the door open, fixing them with an unimpressed look. “You need to vacate now or I’ll be forced to call security to escort you down to the lobby.”

“We’re on our way,” Paul assured. “We just got married last night, okay?”

“Congratulations,” the man said, somehow having even less enthusiasm about the news than Daryl himself. “The same rules still apply to you. Out. Now. Or I’ll call security and you’ll have to pay for another night.”

Daryl and Paul shared a quick look, before Daryl turned and left, pushing past the man in the doorway and barrelling out towards the stairs. The stairwell door shut behind him and Daryl breathed a sigh of relief, making his way slowly down until he reached the ground floor. He stepped out into the lobby to see Paul stepping out of the elevator. Their eyes met from across the room and Paul shrugged, giving him an awkward smile. Daryl only turned and headed for the desk, pushing past the person waiting in line to speak to the receptionist first. 

Behind him, Paul was apologising to the woman Daryl had bulldozed past, and in front of him the receptionist was fixing him with a tight smile that told him just how little she thought of him.

“Sir, you need to wait your turn,” she said, with cheer so fake and a smile so plastic it could single handedly destroy an aquatic ecosystem.

“I gotta check out,” Daryl said. “‘S only gonna take you a minute.”

“Great!” the receptionist smiled wider, so toothy he could see her gums and her distaste for him. “Then you won’t mind waiting while I serve the patron behind you.”

“It’ll only take another minute,” Paul said, gently, leading Daryl away with a hand on Daryl’s bicep. Daryl let him shift them to the side a few paces before shrugging away from Paul's touch.

“Just wanna get this done,” Daryl grumbled.

“We will,” Paul said, leaning his back against the long line of the reception desk. “This will only add a couple more minutes to the wait.”

Daryl grunted, he wrapped one hand around his wrist and squeezed at the torn and tender flesh, feeling the sharp shooting pain and letting it fade back into a dull throb.

Paul watched him with so much  concern in his eyes that Daryl had to squeeze at his wrist again to deal with the burst of shame he felt.

“‘S bullshit,” Daryl rasped out, dropping his wrist so that he could raise his hand to his mouth and biting at the thumbnail instead. “Dunno how this could even happen.”

Paul reached out tentatively, his hand resting on the bare skin of Daryl’s upper arm as if attempting to offer comfort. Physical touch had rarely provided Daryl with any comfort in his life, but forced himself to remain still, quashing the urge to move away.

“I don’t know either,” Paul said. “I can’t imagine why…. But we’re gonna get it sorted out.”

Daryl nodded. He bit down on his nail again, tearing it down so far it stung almost as much as his wrists. 

“Just a bad drunken night,” he said. “Gonna set it to rights.”

“That’s the spirit,” Paul said, clapping him on the shoulder and looking away to the side. “Hang tight and I’ll check us out. We’ll head straight to the Town Clerk.”

Chapter Text

They stepped out the door and stopped abruptly, wincing away from the blinding glare of the sun. Daryl’s pounding head kicked up an enthusiastic new rhythm and he turned, ducking into the shade of the alley to the left. Paul staggered after him, groaning pitifully.

“Don’t puke again,” Daryl said, chancing a look at him through slitted eyes.

“I don’t know what we took last night,” Paul said, leaning against the cool brick of the hotel’s exterior. “But this isn’t a normal hangover.

“Could be. Maybe you just ain’t been drinkin’ right,”  Daryl said, mostly to be obstinate.

“Maybe we should go to the hospital, get checked over.”

“You got hospital money?” Daryl asked. “Insurance? ‘Cause I sure as shit don’t.”

“Yeah.” Paul’s sigh transitioned into another groan and he leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees.

“Shit,” Daryl muttered, reaching over to pat awkwardly at his back. “Don’t go pukin’.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder,” Daryl said and Paul laughed, a short bark of a sound that was quickly over, replaced by his laboured breathing. Daryl patted him ineffectually on the back a few more times for good measure. There was a muted buzzing sound that Daryl had heard earlier in the lobby. It stopped for a few seconds before starting again.

“Why’s your ass keep buzzin’?” Daryl asked.

“Cell phone. It’s on silent,” Paul said.

“You ever gonna answer it?”

“I’m kinda busy right now trying not to ruin my shoes,” Paul pointed out. “Besides, I thought you wanted to focus on getting that annulment as soon as possible.”

Daryl squeezed his eyes closed again. His head throbbed painfully and the thought of Paul vomiting made his own stomach clench unpleasantly. “Town Clerk don’t close any time soon,” Daryl said. “Don’t sound like whoever it is callin’ you’s gnna quit tryin’ anytime soon.”

Paul’s groan sounded agreeable so Daryl left him to it. He focused instead on trying to dim the pain in his own skull and quell the roiling in his guts.Beside him, Paul was still hunched over, but he reached into his back pocket and withdrew a cellphone. The tiny screen glowed blue for a moment and Paul winced, flinching back from the light.

Paul made a startled little sound, pressing at the arrows on the keypad. 

“What?” Daryl asked, squinting down at the cell. Between the angle, the distance, and Paul’s goddamned hair he couldn’t actually see anything, but he couldn’t help but look anyway.

“Just. Hundreds of messages,” Paul said. “I’m not usually so popular. But. Hang on, an old friend’s been trying to call me. I was doing a little work for her yesterday. It’s one of the reasons I came up to Stamford.”

“You’re not from here?” It hadn’t even occurred to Daryl before then that he might not even be a local. 

“No,” Paul said, fingers still clicking away. “I travel a lot for work. I had a big job that brought me up this way, and I try to take on a few smaller jobs in the area if I can. Gotta make the money stretch, otherwise it’s not always worth the travel. Hang on, let me just call her back.”

Daryl leant back against the wall. The rough scratch of the bricks was softened by his shirt and vest, but still noticeably there. He slid down a fraction just to feel the ragged press of it against his shoulder blades, itching across the raised scars underneath his clothes.

“Yeah,” Paul was saying into the receiver and sneaking a quick glance at Daryl. “We’re fine… Well, we’re upright, anyway … We, uh, need to get to the Town Clerk’s Office, but I’m sure we can stop by on the way.”

Paul shot him another questioning glance and Daryl grunted. He didn’t want to delay their annulment a single second longer than necessary, but he also had no idea where the hell the Town Clerk’s Office even was.

“Hey,” Paul said, turning to look at Daryl as he slid the cell phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that. My friend, Casey, says we were both at her bar yesterday. She, uh, heard we might’ve gotten ourselves into some trouble. Would you mind if we stopped by on our way to the Town Clerk?”

Daryl could admit, at least to himself, that some small part of him wanted to know what the hell had led to him marrying this man. But a larger, much more dominant part of him desperately didn’t want to examine those reasons at all. He worried that he wouldn’t like the answer he got. And besides, there was a reason he’d taken his first step outside of Georgia in all his thirty-seven years of life. He needed to get back on task. But then, he didn’t exactly know where he was or where the damn Town Clerk even was.

“You know where the office is?”

“Yeah.” Paul nodded. “I asked reception while I was checking us out. Casey’s bar is on the way.”

Daryl grunted, pushing off from the wall. “Might as well find out what hell’s goin’ on.”

–

The sign on the door said ‘closed’ in a fancy, curling red script, but it opened without issue when Paul pushed on it. The inside was dark, dimly lit by the overheads and the single, glazed window facing the streetfront. There were several booths lining the walls. The bench seats were covered in vinyl that looked both old and in good condition, like their upkeep was taken seriously. There were a smattering of small, tall tables around the otherwise open floor space with long-legged stools resting upside down the tabletops. The bar itself spanned along the back wall, racks of drinks stacked neatly up to the low ceiling. Daryl had been in Stamford for all of three days and while he didn’t recognise this establishment it looked so very familiar and it felt like he’d been there before.

There was a burst of pain behind his eyes and for a split second Daryl was seeing the memory of people crowded around at the various tables. The silent air was filled suddenly with the loud, ringing hubbub of a dozen conversations happening at once over the backdrop of shitty alt rock playing low over the speakers. Even the strong smell of alcohol felt like it was stronger, brought into sharper focus in one powerful second of clarity. He could see Paul, sitting on a stool three down from the end and wearing the same clothes he was wearing right now, looking even more attractive when he wasn’t pale-faced and recovering from a rough night. The Paul in his memory turned his head and gave Daryl a quick once-over before going back to his drink. As quickly as it started it was over, and Daryl was back to the present, a ringing in his ears and a sharp stinging in his brain.

There was a woman behind the bar, tall and wiry, but Daryl could see the strength in her arms muscles as she wiped down the counter. Daryl got the distinct impression that she wouldn’t be afraid to throw down if the situation called for it. Her hair was short and her face was worn but unlined, the kind that could belong to a hardened twenty-something or a forty-something or anywhere in-between. He couldn’t tell how to read her, but Paul made a bee-line for her, and when she looked up at him her face softened in fond relief.

“I was getting worried about you,” she said.

“Yeah,” Paul said, shooting a quick look over his shoulder at Daryl who followed after him at a more hesitant, almost reluctant pace. “It’s been a confusing day.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, giving him a tight smile and tossing the rag to the side. “What do you remember?”

“About yesterday?” Paul asked, pulling up one of the stools to sit on while he slumped over the bar. “Not a whole lot after lunch. Just… flashes. Memories of memories. What little I do remember is all hazy.”

“So you don’t remember going to The Vault last night?”

Daryl’s brow furrowed. “The hell’s that?”

Casey looked up at him for the first time since they’d entered. “It’s a nightclub just outside the city. Interesting clientele.”

“Why would we go there?” Paul asked.

Casey shrugged. “You didn’t say. But I pulled some strings with Damon and got you in. But, uh, he called me, around midnight, said it looked like someone had slipped something in your drinks. He called a taxi, shuffled you off to a hotel to sleep it off. I paid the charge but I’m sorry, it’s coming out of your pay, Jesus.”

“Yeah, that’s…” Paul let out a sigh. “That’s fine. You’re telling me someone slipped something in our drinks last night?”

“That’s what Damon told me,” Casey confirmed, looking sympathetic. “You were both out of it, barely holding it together. And your hubby here was starting to cause a scene.”

Daryl bristled. His breathing came in sharp and ragged suddenly and his jaw dropped open ready to say something - anything.

“You know about the marriage?” Paul asked.

“Uh, yeah?” Casey laughed. “You texted an announcement to pretty much everyone in your contacts list last night. There was a photo and everything.”

It felt like the floor had been ripped out from under his feet. The world around him swirled dizzyingly, everything a blur. Daryl staggered forwards, his hands clumsily smacking against the table. His fingers clenched around the wooden edge of the bar top, holding onto it like it was a lifeline in a raging storm. 

“Hey, you alright?” Casey asked, and then Daryl could feel Paul turning towards him as well. 

He swallowed thickly around the sharp tang of bile in the back of his throat. “Fine,” he rasped out. “Who’d you tell?”

Paul paused, then his fingers started clicking away at the Nokia again. “Oh, shit. All my friends. My employers. Corporate business owners. Several people in, uh, four different police departments. I’m never going to get any government contracts again.”

As Paul spoke, the world slowly stopped its terrifying spin. They wouldn’t be anyone Daryl knew. Of course they wouldn’t; he and Paul hadn’t known each other before yesterday. Paul’s hand on his arm made Daryl flinch back to awareness.

“Woah, hey, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Daryl said again. “Just comin’ down from whatever was in those drinks. You sure we were drugged?”

“Sorry,” Casey said. “Damon was pretty sure. One of the bartenders tipped him off about it, but it was too late to do much more than pry your drinks from your hands. Someone,” she emphasised, looking pointedly at Daryl, “refused to go to the ER so they packed you off in a cab to go sleep it off at a hotel where Damon knows some of the nightstaff. Got a discount on the room, but man, they sure know how to charge.”

“Oh no,” Paul murmured, staring down at the small square screen of his cell. 

“What now?” Daryl grumbled. 

“Alex,” Paul said, an odd tone to his voice. 

“Oh, hon,” Casey made a face. “You need to block his number.”

“I can’t just - “ Paul let out a frustrated huff of a breath. “I’m keeping things amicable for our friends. You know I won’t win in the divorce, so to speak.”

“What I know is that you undervalue yourself a little too much,” Casey said.

Paul only stared morosely down at the screen. 

“You’re going to the Town Clerk’s, you said?” Casey asked, swiftly changing the subject, and Paul nodded. Casey made a face, her gaze shifting from Paul to Daryl and back again “Maybe you two should take a few minutes to clean up first. We’ve got a bathroom around the corner, Jesus knows where it is. We’ll be opening for lunch soon, how about I cook you up a hangover meal?”

“Yeah, Paul said, dropping his phone on the counter, and tapping Daryl in the wrist again. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Daryl followed Paul to the far side of the room and down a short hall to the restrooms. If he’d had any doubts that this place wasn’t a dive, then they would have been lost just by looking at the clean restroom. Not only had the place seen a fresh mop in the last year, but every surface was clean enough to shine. There was framed artwork on the wall and no graffiti scratched into any of the pristine surfaces Daryl could see. He made his way to the basins and splashed some water on his face.  Looking up he caught sight of himself in the mirror and ducked his head away. He looked like shit. More so than usual. He made a half-hearted attempt to scrub up, mirroring Paul’s own attempts at the basin next to his.

There was water dripping from Daryl’s stubble down his neck, leaving a wet patch along the collar of his shirt. But he followed Paul back out into the bar without bothering to even try and wipe some of it up. Wasn’t much point, he’d learnt over the years. You clean up only to get dirty again a minute later. Casey was already making her way over to one of the booths, plates balanced  on her arms, so they followed her over and slid into seats opposite each other.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still doing the vegetarian thing,” Casey said, and Paul winced. 

Daryl could only snort. Of course this damn hipster-looking prick didn’t eat meat. Probably looked down on people who did, too. 

“Yeah, uh, I kind of went off the rails during the whole… Alex thing,” Paul admitted, his entire demeanour changing into something tense and hurt.

“Alright, well, you’ve got a plate of carne asada fries, hash browns, and some black bean quesadillas, just in case.”

Paul thanked her and Daryl gave her a nod, punctuating the action with a grunt. Casey smiled, still a little tense, but kind, and made her way back to the bar, pulling out menus and napkin holders to start organising the tables. Daryl looked at the steaming hot food in front of them, his stomach flip-flopping. But he was hungry, too, so he hooked a finger over the lip of the plate and dragged the fries in front of himself.

“You’re just taking all the fries, huh?” Paul asked, picking up a quesadilla.

Daryl hummed around a mouthful. “Savin’ you from ruinin’ your diet.”

Paul huffed out a quiet sound of amusement, burying his smile behind the tortilla.

“So kind of you,” he said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, chewing away.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, after several long minutes. “I don’t know why I sent that picture to… well, to literally everyone I know. I can’t imagine you would have consented to it.”

“Ain’t nobody I know.” Daryl frowned. “You really gonna lose your job over it?”

“Maybe,” Paul said, running a hand over his face and looking exhausted. “I have a lot of business contacts listed in there, and a drunken marriage announcement is not particularly professional. Stands to reason some of them aren’t exactly accepting, either, so I could lose contracts.”

Daryl’s frown deepened, his stomach turning. The food sat like rocks in his stomach and he chewed at the inside of his cheek, turning that information over in his head.

The cell phone buzzed again and Paul picked it up, his entire face going taut as he read the message.

“Your, uh, your folks gonna have a problem with it?” Daryl asked.

“Hmm?” Paul looked up, distracted. He blinked at Daryl for a second, then shook his head as if to clear it. “No, uh, I don’t have any parents to worry. Orphan.”

“Sucks,” Daryl said. He picked at the skin around his fingernails. “My mom died when I was a kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, placing the Nokia down on the table again. “I know how hard it is.”

Daryl shrugged, and shovelled some more fries in his mouth.”There’s worse things.”

Paul sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. Daryl looked up from his fries, taking in the pathetic picture Paul made, slumped over his equally depressing half-eaten bean wraps. Slowly, Daryl reached across the table and slid the phone in front of himself. Paul looked up, their eyes meeting. There was an unspoken question there, but Paul didn’t dissuade him. He poked at the keypad experimentally. He’d used his share of burners when the occasion necessitated it, but he hadn’t had much money or use for cell phones before. Daryl skimmed back through the messages until he reached the photo that started it all. It was grainy and low quality, but both he and Paul were clear and distinguishable. They were at the nightclub, Paul was grinning widely, his mouth open slightly as if caught in the middle of a laugh. Beside him, Daryl was smiling too, a look that felt so foreign to him that it took Daryl a moment to even recognise himself. In the image he was in profile view, sitting beside Paul and holding a bottle of beer. The mouth was pressed to his lips as he took a long pull, the bottle tilted on an angle that suggested he was most of the way through. 

There was an odd feeling in his chest, something warm and suddenly constricting. Daryl had to look away. He scrolled down through the recent messages instead.

What the hell is this?

Is this a joke?

You can’t be serious with this, Jesus, after everything we went through??

Who the hell even is that? I know every guy you know and I don’t know him.

Did you really get married?

I can’t believe you’d do this to me.

Oh wait yeah I can actually

You never gave a shit about anyone but yourself

Does your husband know what you’re really like?

“I don’t know what to even say to him,” Paul said. 

"Sounds like a real great guy." Daryl grunted, rolled his shoulders. “Want me to tell him his dick’s too small?”

Paul laughed, startled more than humoured. But he was smiling, at least. “Thanks for the offer, but…” Paul sighed, leaning his head on one hand. “I should be the bigger person. Tell him it was a drunken, spur of the moment deal. Or not say anything at all. It’s not like I owe him an explanation. Not after…”

“Not after what?”

“Look, I… After my parents died… It wasn’t easy. I grew up in a group home. And I’m trying to grow from it. But I still take those experiences into my relationships. Colleagues, neighbours, friends, boyfriends. I get along well with people but I can’t let myself get too close.”

Daryl was quiet, not even picking at his food anymore.

“Alex was… I tried. It was messy, but it was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling really connected to someone else. More than just physically..” Paul shrugged, looking away. “It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. He needed someone who could meet his emotional needs. And he found him. Wes. A friend of a friend.”

“He left you for this guy?”

“Yeah. I mean, they started seeing each other before I even knew about it. But it’s not like I didn’t encourage it. I’m a wreck. And as messy as our relationship was, Alex isn’t - he’s not a bad guy. Not really. He deserved to have that, everything I couldn’t be for him.”

Daryl was quiet for a moment. He placed the cell phone down and slid it back across the table towards Paul “Sounds like a shit head.”

Paul laughed, shaking his head again. All it did was encourage Daryl.

“He made his choice, that’s on him,” Daryl said. “That asshole’s s’posed to care about you but he don’t care enough to even ask if you’re happy.”

And Paul had looked happy in that photo. Radiant and jubilant and all those big words Daryl never had use for. Even Daryl himself had looked surprisingly jovial. None of it made sense, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on that now. Now, Paul was looking at him as if he was seeing something beyond the surface of him, and Daryl shifted awkwardly in his seat but he didn’t look away. There was a silence between them that lingered, charged with a tension Daryl couldn’t quite get a read on. 

So he ducked his head and went back to his meal. Opposite him, Paul ate his way through the rest of the quesadilla, chewing mechanically, a distant look on his face. When his plate was empty, he downed the rest of his glass of water and picked up his phone. He typed out a message and hit send, before placing the phone back on the table. 

“I’m going to get a refill,” Paul said, picking up his glass. “You want one?”

Daryl grunted around a mouthful of hash brown, holding his glass out to Paul. their fingers brushed as Paul took it and Daryl swallowed thickly, almost choking on the food.

“You okay?” Paul asked, looking at him with concern.

“Fine,” Daryl rasped out, sucking his fingers into his mouth to distract himself. Paul licked his lip and looked away.

“Yeah, I’ll be right back.”

Daryl watched Paul’s retreating back. Then his gaze dropped to the phone. He couldn’t help the curiosity he felt and, after a moment of thought, he picked up the phone and looked at the most recent message.

I’m happy and you’re happy with Wes. Everything else is behind us.

Chapter Text

“You better watch each other’s backs,” Casey warned, watching them from the doorway of the bar. She flipped the sign on the door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ while she was there. “Whoever slipped you those drugs didn’t want you remembering something.”

“We’ll be careful,” Paul assured her, raising his hand in farewell as he and Daryl stepped out onto the street.

Daryl’s stomach was full to bursting. Most days he didn’t eat enough to feel content and he’d over eaten, unable to resist a free meal when he didn’t know when he’d next get food. Especially in a city. But he’d overeaten to the point where it hurt just little and the satisfaction of a good meal was heavily tempered with the twinge of nausea.

“One thing we know is that we were drugged after we got married,” Paul said, and Daryl couldn’t help but flinch at those words. “So we need to figure out what happened in between to get us on someone’s shit list.”

“Figure out how to undo it first,” Daryl said. 

Paul looked at him from the corner of his eye. “You know, being married to you isn’t exactly a dream come true for me, either. But I’m pretty sure even an annulment takes time.”

Daryl hunched his shoulders, shooting a wary glance at the other pedestrians around them, though no one seemed to pay them any mind. Aside from the occasional look of distaste. Daryl was used to that, though. It was always worse the further into civilisation he ventured.

“Faster we get that started the faster it goes away,” Daryl said. “Can’t - I can’t have this hangin’ ‘round.” 

It wasn’t far from the bar. They only travelled four blocks and there it was. The building took up half the block and looked like it might have been an architect’s idea of modern a good few decades ago. The glass front to the building and the large white columns before that had enough wear on them that it was obvious the structure had weathered decades. Daryl felt suddenly uncomfortable, but he he followed Paul inside the large glass door, looking at the signs pointing them towards the Clerk’s Office at the very back of the large, sprawling building.

Inside, the small air conditioner on the far wall was rattling and gurgling with the laborious task of pushing cool air into the room in short bursts. Despite being a large room, it was decidedly stuffy, despite the best efforts of the struggling air conditioning unit. That might have been in part due to how busy it was. The room was bustling with people. Each chair lining the walls was already occupied, and the open space in the middle of the room was filled with people milling about. Across the room, the long counter was being manned by three different staff members, but they seemed to be making little headway through the waiting crowd. The air was filled with the shuffle of feet, the ringing of phones, and dozens of voices blending together in disorienting buzz in the background. Between the dizzying crush of bodies, the humid, cloying air of the room,  and the endless chatter, it felt like the room was suffocating Daryl.

“More wood panelling than a log cabin,” Daryl muttered, eying the decor critically, distracting himself.

Paul hummed a sound of agreement, a distant look on his face. “This feels familiar.”

Daryl shrugged. “‘Parently we were here yesterday. Should be familiar.”

And Paul was right, Daryl could feel something tickling at the edges of his brain. An itch he couldn’t scratch. In the distance a filing cabinet slammed, and it jolted Daryl into action. With a grunt, he pushed it aside and pushed forward into the crowd.

“Woah, Daryl,” Paul said, rushing to catch up. He put a hand on Daryl’s arm to stop him, but Daryl jerked away from his touch, bumping into someone else in the process.

“The hell’s your problem?” the guy asked and Paul stepped between him and Daryl. 

“Sorry, it was an accident,” Paul said.

“It happens again and I’ll catch your boyfriend outside,” the man snapped back. 

Daryl scoffed, eying the man up and down quickly. “You enjoy gettin’ your ass beat? Shove it, I don’t got time for you.”

He stalked off farther into the crowd, leaving Paul behind to smooth the ruffled feathers of some idiot who wasn’t worth the breath. Shouldering his way through the crush of people, Daryl picked the nearest clerical officer and veered towards her. There was a woman speaking to her, flustered and visibility agitated. Her face was flushed red and sweat lined her brow as she shook a handful of papers at the clerk whose name tag Daryl briefly noted read ‘Amy’. Daryl nudged the woman to the side,  just hard enough to make her stumble and gasp as papers fell from her hand.

“Hey!” she snapped

“It’s an emergency,” Daryl snapped back, before leaning on the counter and looking at the startled, wide eyes of Amy. His shirt was clinging to his chest with sweat and he was finding it hard to breathe. All of it made him more and more aggravated by the second.

“Sir? What are you - “

“I’m so sorry,” Paul interrupted. Daryl made a sound of protest as Paul physically hauled him back from the desk. “We were here yesterday and we just have a few things we need to clear up.”

“Clear up?” Amy asked, looking between them. “I remember you from yesterday. I - I’m so sorry. I thought I’d fixed everything up yesterday. Can you please just let me finish serving this lady here and I’ll be right with you?”

“I’m not waitin’” Daryl’s voice was almost a growl. His patience was all but gone and he was close to truly snapping.

“We’ll wait,” Paul said, raising his voice over Daryl’s. Daryl didn’t realise how strong he was until Paul was moving him easily off to the side.

“Damn it, Paul.” Daryl stepped back until his back hit the wall. It barely put a few inch of space between them in the heady heat of the room. Daryl’s vision was swimming. He was suffocating.

“You were going to give the poor kid a heart attack,” Paul said. “She’ll be finished up in a minute and she’ll do a better job of it if she’s not actively having a panic attack.”

Daryl grunted, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head up, desperately trying to suck in a breath of fresh air. His lungs seemed to be working overtime, heaving in the thick air of the room, making them feel like they were full of lead. Paul was watching him. He could feel Paul’s gaze like a physical touch. The scrutiny  made his teeth ache. 

“Alright, Mr and Mr Rovia,” Amy called them over a few minutes later. Daryl had been so stuck inside his own head he didn’t even notice the time passing. What can I help you with?”

“So we have this, uh marriage certificate,” Paul said, pulling the document from his back pocket and unfolding it on the countertop. 

Amy’s eyes widened, looking from Paul to the paper, then up to Paul again/ “Oh, no. I’m so sorry if I didn’t explain this properly yesterday. This isn’t official at all. It’s just a commemorative certificate from your ceremony. It’s not a legal document and you can’t use it as proof of a legal marriage,” she hastened to explain. “It’s only a memento. Display purposes only.”

Daryl sucked in a deep breath. The relief was dizzying.  

“A copy of your official marriage certificate has already been prepared and mailed to the address on file,” Amy said with a smile. “I felt so bad about all the mistakes I made with your application that I made sure to get the paperwork processed and the official certificate sent out first thing.”

Daryl’s face went white, an icy cold feeling of dread pooling inside his chest, spreading through him until all he could feel was complete and inescapable foreboding. . “Which address?”

Amy frowned, looking between him and Paul. “Um…”

“We were living separately,” Paul explained, the lie falling so easily from his tongue it sounded sincere. “Old fashioned values.”

“Right,” she looked uncertain, but didn’t push it. “The address we have is three oh three…”

Daryl didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t need to. The relief was so intense it washed out every other sense in his body. By the time he tuned back in, Paul’s hand was on his arm, guiding him away. Daryl didn’t even put up a token protest, feeling dazed and disconnected form his own body as Paul led him through the crowd.

“You okay?” Paul asked, pushing him down into an empty seat by the door.

“I’m fine,” Daryl grit out between clenched teeth.

The look Paul gave him was long and searching. The sombre and pitying look on his face told Daryl he didn’t buy that for a second. “What was that back there?”

Daryl’s breathing was ragged. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and bit down hard on his thumb knuckle until the pain pushed everything else away.

“Nothin’.”

Paul didn’t speak, but his eyes spoke volumes. Daryl kicked at the leg of the chair, causing a ruckus that had Paul manhandling him with that surprising strength out the front door. The sunshine hit Daryl like a brick, but the good kind. He sucked in lungful after lungful of air, leaning forward as his body rocked with the shock of it. Paul’s hand was on Daryl’s shoulder, but the touch was oddly grounding. He wanted to push into the feel of it and instead he wrenched himself away, moving around the front of the building to slip into the seclusion of the alleyway, taking comfort in the privacy it allowed.

Paul followed a few seconds behind him. When Daryl came to a stop, leaning back against the building, Paul remained a few steps away, putting some space between them. Paul didn’t speak. He watched Daryl and he waited with a calmness that seemed to roll off of him in waves and settle over Daryl’s own skin, sinking into his pores.

“You don’t got family to disappoint. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout no one findin’ out you got yourself hitched to another man,” Daryl rasped out. “I do.”

Paul was quiet for a while. Almost too long. “Your family would react badly to the news,” he said, eventually.

Daryl scoffed. “Puttin’ it lightly. Don’t matter if it ain’t real. Don’t matter that I didn’t mean to. It happened. That’s it. Tarred myself up somethin’ awful over a goddamn piece of paper I don’t even remember signin’.”

“They won’t understand,” Paul said, slowly. Daryl could feel every muscle in his body tighten reflexively. “Even if it was a mistake. Even if you didn’t choose it.”

“They won't understand,” Daryl said, his voice rough and reedy, the words as fragile as spun glass. “Never have.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and weighted. Daryl coughed, shifting his weight between his feet and looking anywhere but at the man he’d married. 

“Won’t get a chance to even get the words out,” Daryl said, the quiet words puncturing the silence and splitting it wide open like a raw and aching wound. “Not that it’d make a damn lick of difference.”

Paul’s brow furrowed as he looked at him, his eyes too understanding. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Daryl shrugged, looking away. “Get this shit squared away. Annulment means it ain’t never happened, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much the gist of it,” Paul confirmed with a carefully neutral expression on his face.

“We get this shit sorted no one’s gotta know it ever happened.”

–

Amy sent them off with a printout of information about qualifying for an annulment and a promise to book them in for a meeting at the courthouse as soon as they could pay the administration fee.

“The hell we gonna get four hundred dollars for the fee?” Daryl muttered, dragging his feet as they walked under the bright midday sun. The pale cement of the sidewalk seemed to glow as it reflected the glare back up at them. 

“More than that,” Paul said, looking down at the papers in his hand. “We have to pay for all the meetings and additional processing fees after that. And I don’t think we’re even going to qualify for an annulment, so we’d essentially be throwing that money down the drain.”

“The hell?” Daryl asked, leaning closer to peer down at the papers in Paul's hands. 

“Not without admitting to fraud, anyway,” Paul said. “And then that would be a whole ‘nother problem.”

“I ain’t stayin’ married to you,” Daryl said, imbuing the words with the very depths of his disdain for the entire concept of being wed to Paul.

“We might have to get a divorce.” Paul cringed.

“No,” Daryl said, shaking his head. His thumb found its way between his teeth again and Daryl bit down hard at the bony knuckle. “No. This needs to stop existin’. Divorces got records n’ shit attached. I don’t - I can’t - this needs to disappear.”

“I know,” Paul said, sympathetically. “But this might be the only option, unless you want to be Daryl Rovia going forward. No one will know you’ve got a marriage or divorce on file unless you tell them or they go digging for it.”

“Keep our mouths shut about it, that’s the plan?” Daryl raised a sceptical eyebrow at him.

Paul shrugged. “I promise to stop bragging about it to everyone I’ve ever met. And we can go our separate ways just like it never happened.”

Daryl heaved a frustrated sigh. “Whatever. Need to get the cash first anyway. So where’re we goin’?”

“The Vault,” Paul said. “We went there last night. Maybe one of the staff saw or heard something useful that might tell us why we got married in the first place or what we got mixed up in that ended in us being drugged.”

–

“There’s my truck,” Daryl said, stopping next to the blue pickup. It was parked on the street and, with a grunt of irritation Daryl snatched the ticket that had been tucked under the windshield wiper/. “Forty goddamn dollars.”

“That’ll be another fun trip to the Town Clerk’s Office,” Paul said. Daryl fixed him with a look of pure irritation. 

Daryl opened the door and shoved the ticket inside on the dash. He’d deal with it later. His headache was coming back with a vengeance now. The throbbing in his skull grew into a pounding rhythm that made him wince.

“You don’t lock your doors?” Paul asked.

Daryl slammed the door shut. “No point. Ain’t nobody stealin’ this piece of shit. Keys’re in the sun visor too.”

Paul only looked at him from the corner of his eye as he turned and headed for the door to the club. It was set back from the pavement and sunken, a concrete staircase leading down to it. Paul banged his fist against the door and, when no answer was immediately forthcoming, he pulled out his phone. He winced down at it, and Daryl could see that he had hundreds of unread messages. Ignoring them, Paul found the contact he was looking for and hit the call button. They heard the ringing on the other side of the door, getting closer until the locks clicked and a man, Damien, Daryl assumed, opened it.

“God, you’re impatient,” Damien said, by way of greeting. “Good to see you two didn’t drown in your own vomit during the night.”

“Thanks for taking care of us,” Paul said, and Damien stepped out of the way to let them inside. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you so soon,” Damien said, leading them into the surprisingly brightly lit room. “I figured once you slept off the drugs you two would make the most of your honeymoon.”

Daryl made a strangled sound.

“We got kicked out by the hotel,” Paul said and Damien made an understanding sound. 

“Sorry, man, that’s a shit way to spend your wedding night.”

“It’s not how I ever thought my night would go,” Paul said, somewhat evasively. 

“I guess you’re here about this, then?” Damien asked, picking something up from under the counter and tossing it on the bar. A phone. It looked cheap, like the kind of prepaid cell phone you could pick up at a gas station. Daryl and Paul stared down at it.

“Do you know why we had this?” Paul asked. Damien looked between them for a moment, before leaning forward, his elbows on the shiny red bar top. 

“Your brand spanking new husband hired you to pickpocket it from the newest drug dealer on the block.”

There was silence for a moment, then, “Ain’t no spankin’,” Daryl said.

“Any idea why you would want me to pickpocket a drug dealer?”

Paul turned to look at Daryl. Daryl met his gaze and his breath caught. The memory hit him with a painful burst of light behind his eyelids. He remembered Paul last night. A drink in his hand, laughing loud and bright, like he meant it, the look on his face somehow brilliant even in the ambient lighting. Daryl could taste the memory of beer on his own tongue. And it was as if the floodgates opened, pieces of memory rushing to the forefront of his mind with a pulsating throb of a migraine. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rasping out. “I remember.”

Chapter Text

The interior of the van’s cab was a sweatbox. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and there was hardly room for Daryl to stretch his legs out in the footwell without adding Paul’s legs to the mix too. The van rumbled down the road, bumping over so many potholes Daryl was convinced that Rick was deliberately hitting them. Each time, he and Paul were jostled and he had to wrap his arms around Paul to keep him from slamming his head into the roof or falling sideways onto Rick. The last thing they needed was to crash out here.

“Your thighs are firm as ever,” Paul commented, shifting in Daryl’s lap. 

“Yeah and your ass is still bony. Quit squirmin’.”

There was a tension clouding the stuffy air in their uncomfortable metal cage. Paul had always managed to get under Daryl’s skin as easily as breathing. His proximity had always set off a thrumming of nervous energy under Daryl’s skin. It had taken him a long time to realise it was attraction. It had taken far longer to admit that to himself, let alone anyone else.

Paul sighed, squirming again. His ass rocked against the front of Daryl’s jeans in a way that was going to cause an entirely new problem if he didn’t cut it out. He wouldn’t survive if he popped a boner sitting next to Rick  

“We’ve been driving for an hour, I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

“Yeah?” Daryl asked, pressing Paul tightly against his chest with one arm and pinning his thighs with the other. “You be more comfortable if I open this door and throw you out?”

“And what, make me run alongside the van? Cling to the roof for the next two hours?”

“Could tie you to the trailer hitch and drag you the rest of the way,” Daryl suggested.

“Maybe Rick will be willing to swap places with one of us,” Paul countered. “He looks like the kind of guy who can hold a partner tenderly without complaining about their ass.”

“I’m an excellent cuddler,” Rick agreed, sounding far too amused. “But I don’t make it a habit to step in between a couple.”

“Except that time you did,” Daryl pointed out, remembering the absolute shitshow that had resulted from Rick’s obsession with Jessie Anderson

“Except that time I did,” Rick agreed, some of his humour fading out of his voice. “Definitely doesn’t make a man want to go for a repeat.”

The silence was so loud it was nearly deafening. Nothing but the rumble of the engine and the steady thumping of Paul’s heart under Daryl’s palm. They made it an entire two minutes in blissful, stilted silence before Rick had to open his mouth and fill it again with more inane chatter.

“So, you two been married long?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Paul said, tracing patterns into Daryl’s arm just to be annoying.. “Technically, we’ve been married for two and a half years.”

“Technically?” Rick asked, shooting them a quick look. His tone had been casual, but his face was inquisitive. Between his wide eyes, head-tilt, and curly hair he looked like a labradoodle who didn’t know where the tennis ball you pretended to throw had gone to, but he was doing his darndest to find out.

“Didn’t even get to have our one year anniversary,” Daryl explained. He turned his face to the window, as if looking at the same boring old scenery would make him less trapped in this situation.

“No,” Paul said, shifting again. He twisted in Daryl’s hold just enough to look at him, despite the awkward angle. “We missed out on that.”

“Seems like you get another chance to do it right,” Rick said. “I know what it’s like, findin’ family you thought you lost. 

“Lot’s changed in two n’ a half years,” Daryl said. He knew as soon as the words were out that he’d just exposed the vulnerability he’d been trying to bury. They’d barely had a chance back when the world was the regular variety of shit. After all this time apart, after how much the world had changed and they’d had to change with it, how could they possibly still fit together? He still didn’t understand how Paul had fallen for him the first time around. What if everything that they’d been through in the interceding years was too much ground for them to reach across.

“Not that much. Not how I feel about you,” Paul said, his voice quiet and low, mouth so close to Daryl’s ear that his lips brushed against his skin. ‘I thought about you every day”

Daryl swallowed thickly. His breath hitched and he could feel his skin heating up. Inside his chest his heart was thundering at a breakneck pace, like the hooves of a racehorse tearing down the track, so fierce and loud that if Paul couldn’t hear it, he could almost certainly feel it against his back. The words seemed to sink below Daryl’s skin and get swept up in the rush of his blood flow, pumping through his heart and travelling to every distant corner of his body until it became a part of him.

 “That ain’t changed for me either,” he said, finally, the words rough and low, barely louder than a whisper. He could feel the sharp intake of Paul’s breath as much as he heard it, and he felt Paul's relief in the slow, steady exhale of air against his skin. Paul’s nose bumped against Daryl’s cheek as they hit another dip in the road, and Daryl’s arms tightened around him. When they steadied, Paul pressed his lips in a featherlight touch against the side of Daryl’s face, so light Daryl could pretend it didn’t happen. 

He didn’t want to pretend. Not anymore. Not for the longest time.

Daryl turned his head, slowly. Paul’s beard brushed against his stubble and that small friction was enough to set his skin alight. That one small action shouldn’t have felt as deeply erotic as it did, but Daryl could feel the tingling in skin all the way to his groin, a tight warmth unfurling in his lower abdomen. His breath was shaky as he finally manoeuvred enough to press his own lips to Paul’s jaw, feeling the tickle of soft, wiry hair against his chapped lips. It wasn’t light, as Paul’s had been. His mouth met Paul’s skin in a kiss that was soft but firm: an unmistakable declaration. 

Rick cleared his throat. “Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about when we get back. I can make the rounds, get the family out of the house so you can…. talk . Do whatever it is you need to do to get reacquainted.”

There was humour underlying Rick’s words, all amusement and no rebuke. RIck’s confusion had quickly turned to giddy delight over this sudden revelation. And while Daryl was grateful for his positive reaction, he wasn’t looking forward to how completely insufferable Rick was going to be.

“Don’t make this weird, man,” Daryl muttered.

“Then save your necking for when we get out of the van,” Rick said around a laugh. “Or at least wait ‘til I’m not in here with you.” 

“Where is home, anyway?” Paul asked.

“The Alexandria Safe Zone,” Rick said. “It’s a fully self-sustaining community. I’d give you the sales pitch, but Aaron’s better at it than I am.”

“Have you been there long?” Paul asked.

“Alexandria’s been up n’ running for survivors since the outbreak. But we only made our way here a couple months ago.”

“A couple months,” Paul murmured. “All the distance between us, I can’t believe we ended up so close to each other again, let alone manage to run into one another.”

“Serendipity,” Rick said.

Daryl’s face scrunched up. “That boring-ass movie?”

“You’ve seen it?” Rick asked, looking at Daryl with raised eyebrows. 

“Lived with this prick for nearly a year,” Daryl said, poking at Paul’s arm. “Suffered through every goddamn movie John Cusack’s so much as farted near. Obsessed.”

“I’m not going to apologise for having taste,” Paul replied, twisting his arm to poke Daryl in return.

Rick hummed out a sound of agreement. “And you shouldn’t apologise. Can’t believe there’s anyone lived through the 80s made it through without havin’ a little bit of a crush on the man.”

Daryl made an undignified sound.

“But you’ve only been here a couple of months?” Paul asked, directing the conversation back where they’d left it.

“Yeah,” Rick agreed. “Met Daryl, some of the others, down in Atlanta. I take it you n’ Daryl weren’t together when it all went down.”

“We weren’t,” Paul agreed. “We live in Virginia but Daryl went down to see his dad and I was up in New York City for work.”

Rick let out a low whistle, and Daryl’s heart dropped, reliving the same rush of terror and anxiety he’d felt when the news reports had come in. The panic he’d felt when he finally reached a place with cell reception only to find dozens of missed calls and a single voice mail from Paul. 

“We were campin’ out. Huntin’,” Daryl said, his voice reedy. “Didn’t know anytihn’ was even wrong ‘til some asshole came and took a chunk out my old man’s neck. Thought he was drunk at first. Wandered out in the woods off his tits on ‘shine or somethin’. When I finally got close enough to a town for my phone to work it kept tellin’ me your number was outta service.”

Paul squeezed Daryl’s hand tightly before slowly relaxing his grip.Daryl dropped his head down to rest his forehead against Paul’s shoulder.

“All the flights were down, the streets were… I’m sure you can imagine.You could barely move through the streets for all the vehicles everywhere. People were running, screaming, eating each other. It was chaos. I was trying to get out of the city on foot, took a few tumbles, fell into the Hudson. I got picked up by a group on a yacht, but by the time they fished me out of the water my cell phone wouldn’t switch on anymore.”

“Virginia’s a long way from New York,” Rick said.

“Nowhere near as far as Atlanta,” Paul said. “I would have kept heading down to find you,but I didn’t know where in Georgia you were heading. I figured you might have tried to come home.”

Daryl felt a hot wave of shame wash over him. Rick was finally silent. He knew just as well as Daryl did that he’d never tried to make his way to VIrginia. It was only the chance encounter with Eugene that had them all joining his mission to head that way. But Paul wasn’t half stupid. Daryl knew he got it, felt the change in his muscle tension.

“You weren’t coming home,” Paul realised. “I… You thought I was dead, I get it.”

There was a lump in Daryl’s throat so thick he could hardly breath around it. He couldn’t speak, and he didn’t know what he would even say if he were able to. There was a loud bang and the entire van careened wildly slamming Daryl and Paul against the passenger side door, before Rick got it back under control. The van creaked and clunked as it rolled to a stop in the middle of the road.

Daryl looked at Rick who was looking at the two of them in turn.

“Better go see what’s wrong,” Rick said. “Probably time we all stretched our legs anyhow.”

Paul barely waited a second before he had the door open and was leaping out. Dust was still swirling in the air when Daryl stepped down from the cab, slamming the door shut behind him. The air was already thick and dry with humidity and Daryl could feel the scratch of dust inside his throat with each inhale. On the other side of the van, Rick was wiping sweat from his brow using his forearm. Daryl ignored him and pointedly refused to look over at where Paul was doing a quick walk of the perimeter. He got to work inspecting the vehicle for damage instead.

“Front tyre’s blown,” Daryl said, calling over to Rick, who was rummaging around the supplies in the storage compartment, looking for any tools or equipment.

“We got a spare in here,” Rick called back. “And a jack.”

“Gonna need a wrench, too,” Daryl called back.

“You think I never changed a tyre before?” Rick asked, amusement in his voice as he slammed the doors to the cargo bay closed.

“Pass it here,” Daryl said, holding his hand out out expectantly. 

“I got this,” Rick said, nodding his head towards where Paul was walking along the treeline by the roadside. “You got a conversation needs havin’.”

“I’d rather the tyre,” Daryl said. Rick only gave him an expectant look. Daryl grunted, shrugging his crossbow further up his shoulder before stalking off. He’d barely made it three steps when Paul started walking backwards towards the van. A few paces later he was turning and jogging towards them. 

“We’ve got a problem,” he said, keeping his voice low  as he approached Daryl. 

“Walkers?” Daryl asked.

“In the trees,” Paul confirmed, turning his head to look in the direction he’d seen them. “I can’t tell how many, but the amount of movement I saw, I’d say there’s at least two dozen.

“If we’re quiet they might pass,” Daryl replied, though he didn’t feel particularly hopeful. The tyre blowing hadn’t exactly been quiet. They’d already rung the dinner bell on themselves. 

Paul shook his head. “They’re already heading this way.”

“Goddamn herds,” Daryl grumbled. “Rick, man, you better put a rush on that tyre change.”

A bolt fell to the ground with a soft metallic sound. “Yeah, I’m workin’ on it,” Rick said. You think you can slow ‘em down?”

“You got a gun,” Daryl said, nodding at the revolver hanging from Paul’s belt. “You finally learn how to shoot one?”

“I did,” Paul said, drawing the weapon from its holster. The Ruger was beaten up, dinged and nicked and its dark brown grip was liberally coated in lighter-coloured scratches across its surface. “But it’s been out of ammo for a good six months now.”

“The hell you still carry it around for?” Daryl asked, drawing his own revolver. With his hand around the barrel he held it out to Paul. “‘S pretty much the same as yours. Got five shots left. Make ‘em count.”

Paul grasped it by the grip, nodding to Daryl as he accepted it. The rattling groans of the dead were drifting across the stilted air towards them, audible now and growing louder by the second. It was a rising chorus of the starving, desperate and unyielding. Dozens of swaying shadows were making their way between the maze of trees ahead of them. Behind them, Rick was grunting as he twisted at the old bolts, and Daryl spared him a quick glance to check his progress before swinging his crossbow around, cocking and loading it.

“Six bolts?” Paul asked, not looking at Daryl, but falling into silent step beside him as they moved slowly and cautiously towards the rising cries of the dead.

Daryl grunted. “Reusable.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “But you’ve got to retrieve them first.”

Branches cracked and leaves rustled, accompanying the endless rattling wails. Louder and louder until the first swaying forms stepped out from the shadows of the forest and into the bright, overbearing heat of the sun. One of the walkers stopped, its limbs swaying backwards, the feathered end of a bolt protruding from its forehead, before its body collapsed onto the dusty road.

“You gonna help or you gonna sit back and watch?” Daryl snapped, his voice coming out harsher and more brusk than he meant. It wasn’t Paul he was mad at.

“I never got to see you on a hunt,” Paul said. “Forgive me if I want to take a moment to see my husband in action. Besides, you wanted me to make my shots count.”

And then Paul was firing, the revolver deafeningly loud, but his shot hit true and the walker twisted as it fell, landing in a tangled pile of its own distended limbs. Five shots and rang out and five walkers fell. Daryl’s bolts were spent and the walkers were still coming, staggering out of the treeline and lurching towards them.

“I’ve seen you throw down,” Paul said, raising an eyebrow at Daryl. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take care of the rest myself?”

“Some of us don’t waste time on fancy moves,” Daryl countered, throwing his crossbow over his shoulder and drawing his hunting knife instead. Paul only smirked at him, casting an almost playful look over his shoulder as he took off at a slow run to meet the herd head on.

It was beautiful in a way Daryl could appreciate. Paul fought like a whirlwind of violence, ruthless and efficient and never slowing down. He spun from walker to walker, stabbing and kicking as he turned again and again, his coat and his hair fanning out around him as he moved, drops of blood flying through the air as he pried his knives free from skull after rotting skull. It was fierce and it was brutal and it shouldn’t have been half as arousing as it was. 

Daryl slammed forward into one of the walkers edging up behind Paul, driving his knife down through the back of its skull and turning to take care of the next one before the first body had even hit the ground. It was a blur of yellowed teeth snapping towards his flesh, bony fingers grasping, pulling, trying to draw him towards their open, gaping mouths. The fetid stench of decomposition filled his lungs and stuck to the back of his throat with the dust, so thick and rotten he could have choked on it. And then, suddenly, it was just him and Paul, breathing heavily in the middle of three dozen corpses, their motionless, rotting bodies intertwined and their thick, dark blood colouring the dirt in blobs and spatters like an expressionist painting. His gaze met Paul’s. His eyes seemed to burn into Daryl with more intensity than the sun above them. There were several bodies littering the ground between them. It felt like a cavernous divide.

“Water?” Paul asked, breaking Daryl out of his reverie and slamming him back into the swirling mixture of feelings he’d briefly left behind. 

“In the van,” Daryl said. “Got a whole vending machine of drinks in there.”

“Thanks,” Paul said, tossing the spent revolver towards him. Daryl snatched it out of the air and stood on the spot in the middle of carnage, watching Paul walk away once more. Slowly, Daryl started to move, stepping over limbs and torsos, prying his bolts free from the spongey, decaying skulls, the action accompanied by wet squelching sounds and thick strings of clotted, oozing blood. 

By the time he reached the van again, Paul was leaning against the side of the hood, next to Rick, who was now sitting on the ground, wrench beside him as he took a sip from a can of warm soda. Daryl went the other way, pacing along the other side of the van. His hands were shaking and his insides were a churning mess of guilt and shame and relief and the slowly spreading heat of his libido stirring to life again after years of dormancy. 

Daryl clenched his hands hard enough that if he’d had fingernails left he knew he’d have cut right into his palms. It was almost overwhelming, everything he was feeling seemed to build up in a turbulent storm inside him, twisting and spinning and picking up speed until it came pouring out of him. Daryl pulled his fist back and slammed it into the side of the van. He hit it hard enough for the metal to warp, however fractionally, under his swing. It didn’t do enough so he swung at it again. And again. His knuckles split under the force of it, blood seeping from the broken skin.

“Daryl?” 

He hadn’t even heard Paul approaching. A hand shot out to hold his wrist, preventing him from punching the van again. Daryl went still under Paul’s touch, unable to bring himself to do anything more to hurt him. He’d hurt him plenty enough already.

“You were out here the whole time. You were…” Daryl let out a sound of frustration and agony. “I didn’t even - You were lookin’ for me and I just gave up. I gave up and I didn’t even - only came this way by chance. Weren’t even my call. Been here weeks n’ I never tried to head back to our apartment.”

“You had every reason to think I was dead,” Paul said, gently, reasonably. His hands were gentle when they moved to settle on Daryl’s biceps, and Daryl let Paul manoeuvre him until Daryl’s back was to the van. “The message you left me. I thought…” Daryl swallowed and his saliva got stuck in his oesophagus.

“I know. It makes sense that you wouldn’t come home when you thought I’d died already. You never were one for sentimental trinkets,” Paul said, his voice quiet and unreadable. Daryl hated when he did that. Switched everything off to make himself appear completely neutral. Hated seeing him close off like that. 

“Thought I heard you die,” Daryl corrected. 

Paul’s carefully blank expression shattered in an instant. The hands that had been holding onto Daryl’s biceps shifted, pulling him closer until Paul’s arms were wrapped around him and Daryl was curled around him, his own arms trapped at his sides.

“Couldn’t,” he said, but cut himself off. His voice was breaking and Paul didn’t need to see his face or feel Daryl’s tears start to soak into the soft collar of his shirt to know without a doubt that Daryl was crying. “Couldn’t come back and look at all your shit and know you weren’t comin’ back.”

“Chance brought us together the first time. Chance kept us together after,” Paul said, his hand rubbing soothing circles into the back of Daryl's leather vest. “We still found our way back to each other. Even when you thought there was nothing to find here but ghosts, you came, and we found each other, purely by chance, one more time.”

Slowly, Daryl raised his head. He looked into Paul’s eyes, so close to his face that it almost made him go cross-eyed. His arms seemed to move of their own accord, rising to brush the hair away from Paul’s face. 

“Your beanie looks stupid,” Daryl said. 

Paul barked out a startled laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Daryl couldn’t stop himself anymore. He leaned forward and did what he’d been wanting to do since the day Paul left for New York. What he’d been wanting to do for a long damn time before then, if he were being honest with himself. His nose bumped against Paul’s cheek and he pressed forward with too much force, their teeth clacking painfully against each other. But Paul’s hands only pulled him closer, urging Daryl to keep going, sucking Daryl’s lower lip between his and biting down. It sent a shiver running through Daryl’s body and it felt like he was falling into Paul, a headfirst tumble into an exhilarating unknown. 

Daryl’s fingers carded through Paul’s hair before finally gripping the stupid beanie and tossing it aside. Regrettably, that move caused Paul’s mouth to leave his mouth long enough to say, “Hey! I like that cap.”

“I knew you’d have to come up for air sometime,” Rick said. His voice was casual, but when Daryl turned his head to find him Leaning his hip against the front of the van watching them, he could see the shit-eating grin on his face. “Tyre’s been fixed a good several minutes. If you’re done here we can get home. Get yourselves a bed instead of a van parked next to a pile of rotting bodies.”

“I’m not gonna say no to a bed,” Paul said. His hands slid across the back of Daryl’s shoulders and down his arms to rest at his elbows. “Come on,” he said, his voice going soft as he spoke to Daryl. “We can pick this up later. With a bed.”

Daryl snorted, but let his hands fall away from where he’d been clutching at Paul’s hair and followed him to the passenger door. Paul opened the door and motioned him in. 

“Don’t see why I always gotta be on the bottom,” Daryl grumbled, lingering in the doorway.

In the driver’s seat, Rick choked on air. There was a loud, dull sound as he hit the steering wheel with his palm, wheezing until he caught his breath. Paul shrugged, tearing his eyes away from Rick to handsily urge Daryl back into the tight confines of the cab. 

“You can’t let me enjoy being the little spoon for once?” Paul asked. “We can switch things up tonight, but I’ll be suffocating under those broad shoulders if you sit in my lap here. I’m not saying that wouldn’t be my ideal way to go, but I’d like a little more time together first.”

Daryl sighed, loud and longsuffering, before resigning to his fate and climbing back into the passenger seat.

Chapter Text

Saturday January 31, 2009

The sun was setting behind them as the truck bounced over the uneven road, rattling along the last stretch of the drive home. The air was crisp with the late winter chill and Daryl was both relieved and disappointed to be heading back to the trailer with Merle after three weeks in the woods making the most of deer hunting season. On the one hand it had been good getting out and hunting. Their dad had headed off with his drinking buddies to hunt somewhere else, which spared Daryl from having to walk the tightrope of de-escalating the tension between Merle and their old man. But as much as he was grateful to get home and sleep someplace where he wasn’t freezing his balls off, he wasn’t looking forward to being trapped in a confined space with Merle. His brother’s personality pushed at the edges of the small trailer, filling every corner of it and testing its boundaries. And when their father finally returned… 

Well, they were coming home with a buck strapped down in the truck’s bed, which was some consolation.

The sky behind them was ablaze with bright oranges, reds, and yellows that Daryl could see in the mirror as he sat with his arm hung out the open window, catching the cold breeze. Ahead of them was dark blue, the world already muted with shadows and slipping deeper towards an inky blackness by the second. Suddenly, the trill of a siren blared to life and the road in front of them lit up with whirling red and blue lights of a patrol car.

“The hell you do now?” Daryl asked, looking at the spinning lights and scoffing.

“Nothin’ they can get me on,” Merle replied, pulling over begrudgingly. “Been out in the middle of nowhere for three weeks. They gonna bust me on trafficking from last month?  Don’t seem fair.”

“You think shit’s ever been fair?” Daryl muttered, rubbing his fingers together anxiously and the doors of the cruiser opened and the crunch of boots heralded the approach of the two sheriff’s deputies.

“You know, I did rather notice it ain’t,” Merle replied, before winding his own window down and giving a mock salute to the deputy standing there. “Evenin’ officers. There somethin’ i can do for you?”

“Yeah, you can put your hands where I can see ‘em and step out of the truck.”

“C’mon now Deputy Harris,” Merle crooned. “That any way to treat one of your regulars?”

“Step out of the truck Merle,” Harris said. His voice was firm and there was a tic in his jaw that had Daryl on edge, expecting trouble. The other Deputy had made his way around to the passenger side, on hand resting on his hip holster. The threat was clear.

Merle’s eyes narrowed, even as he raised his hands slowly in the air and reached through the window to open his door. “You gonna tell me what this is all about, officer?”

“We’ve got a warrant for your arrest,” Harris replied. “So step out nice and easy, turn and place your hands on the roof.

“The hell am I s’posed to’ve done this time?”

“You’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.”

“Murder?” Merle's eyes were wide when Harris turned him around and pressed him against the side of the car. Daryl was staring back at him through the window, his own eyes narrowing.

“Don’t play dumb,” Harris said, whipping his cuffs out. “You got too high, left a trail a mile wide, Merle. You’re sloppy.”

“When?” Daryl asked, reaching to open his own door. “When’s he s’posed to have killed someone?”

“Stay in the car! Hands where I can see ‘em!” The other officer was pointing their Glock right at Daryl and with a grunt of frustration, Daryl sat still in his seat, hands raised uselessly. “You make one move and you’ll be joining your brother in lockup.”

“Last Monday,” Harris supplied. “I doubt you can read well enough to check the papers, but it made the news every night this last week.”

“We’ve been out huntin’ since the start of the damn month,” Daryl said, insistently. “I’ve been with him the whole damn time.”

“Unless you think I can be on the other side of Georgia and kill someone out here in the time it takes my brother to take a crap on his own, then I got an alibi,” Merle helpfully added.

“Christ, Merle, you ain’t helpin’,” Daryl muttered.

“Yeah?” Harris asked. “We’ve got evidence, you got the word of your brother. Hate to break it you boys, but the word of a Dixon hasn’t ever counted for much. I guess you can bring that up with your lawyer, though, Merle. Now, unless you got something a little more substantial to prove you were out of town… You have the right to remain silent…”

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Merle said, giving Daryl one last, wide-eyed look before he was being hauled away. “I wasn’t even in town! I was out- "

And then Merle was being dragged over to the cruiser and tossed roughly into the back. It took a hell of a lot to ruffle Merle. And Merle was ruffled. Daryl sat in his uneasiness until the cruiser’s lights had long since disappeared and he was left sitting in the shadows of the night alone.

Eventually he got out of the truck and made his way around to the driver’s side. His skin was frigid with the cold, icy to the touch and covered in goosebumps. The engine sputtered slowly to life, struggling against the wintery air, but it rolled forwards easily enough. Daryl wasn’t sure what was going on, or what he could do, but he knew Merle couldn’t have killed anyone, not when he and Daryl had been all the way down in Bulloch county, more than four hours drive each way, when the crime supposedly took place.

Thursday February 26, 2009 

“Cutter’s up n’ left town,” Daryl said, holding the receiver to his ear as he fished in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter.

“Has he now,” Merle said, far too casual on the other end of the line. His voice sounded odd and far away, and Daryl was acutely aware of the fact that their call was being recorded.

“So’s the rest of your old crew, Merle. The hell’s goin’ on?”

Daryl leaned against the clear wall of the bone booth, cracking open the door so he wouldn’t smokebox himself.

“Askin’ the wrong guy, little brother,” Merle said, sounding distracted.

“You had a fallin’ out.” Daryl took a quick drag of his cigarette, holding it in his lungs before exhaling, letting soothe him. “You said it was on good terms.”

“You know me, I’m a people person,” Merle said, his voice crackling over the line. “They wanted to get into the firearms business. Now, I love a good weapon as much as the next guy, but I’m in this for the high. Ain’t no reason to go courtin’ a felony charge for naught.”

“You don’t think that’s some strange timin’, them all leaving right after there’s a murder you’re arrested for?”

Merle’s silence spoke loud as a shout.

“Merle,” Daryl said, insistently. 

Merle grunted on the other end of the line. “Might’ve taken a little extra from their stash when the boys n’ I parted ways.”

“Christ’s sake, Merle,” Daryl groaned, pressing his fist to his forehead. 

“Wha - c’mon now,” Merle protested. “I deserved a little compensation for all the years I worked for them. Least they could do was pay me out.”

“You stole from  ‘em.”

“Stealin’ ain’t stealin’ when you’re takin’ from a thief,” Merle countered. He sounded so reasonable that Daryl knew for certain he was dribbling shit. “And they owed me. I was just takin’ what I earnt.”

Daryl sighed. He took another drag of his cigarette. Then another. Smoking quietly and wasting their allotted call time away.

“Lemme get this straight,” Daryl said. “Cutter n’ the gang were gonna get into firearms tradin’. You piss Cutter off n’ not a month later a body turns up dead. Shot with an illegal firearm. And Cutter’s gang have all mysteriously fucked off outta town while all the evidence points right back to you, even though you were on the other side fo the state at the time. And that don’t seem like it might be connected? Might not be somethin’ to mention?”

“Fat lotta good it’d do,” Merle said, then, sounding somewhat subdued. “They ain’t gonna do shit and we both know it. Don’t care if I did it or not they just want to shut the book and plump up those case closure stats. My free public defender ain’t hardly gonna do shit to change that.”

Daryl took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping the but to the floor of the phone booth, crushing it under his boot.

“There anyone in your old crew you haven’t pissed off?”

Merle hummed in thought. “Little Joey.”

Daryl scoffed. “Cutter’s brother? Kid’s barely outta diapers.”

“That’s the one,” Merle confirmed. “Pipsqueak and a pushover. Kid’s a little momma’s boy. Lean on him and he’ll crack.”

“Gotta find him first.”

Merle grunted out a non-committal sound. “If you don’t, I’m sure I’ll be out early on good behaviour. Praise be that prison overcrowding, huh baby brother?”

And then the phone clicked and the line went dead. Daryl stared at it for a long moment before hanging the receiver back in its cradle.

It took months. 

Daryl watched the news. He fished the old newspapers out of his neighbours’ recycling and sifted through to find every article he could about the murder. It was all vague and useless as shit. He asked around but most he could find was that Merle’s old gang had moved up north. But Daryl couldn’t give up the hope that Little Joey knew something that would get Merle off that murder charge. So he packed a bag with a change of clothes and headed north.

He stopped in a few places, sleeping in his truck off the backroads to avoid cops, or couch surfing with old acquaintances of Merles. Old army buddies on hard times or people he used to get high with. Everyone Daryl knew mostly only tolerated him on behalf of his brother. He paid his way with the last of Merle’s stash, kept to himself and listened as the drugs and the booze loosened their lips. Everyone knew near abouts everyone else and that’s how he found out Merle’s old crew had been heading up to Samford. It didn’t take too long after that for Daryl to find his way to the city. But by them it was already September and Merle’s trial was looming on the horizon.

Tuesday September 22, 2009

He found Cutter by accident. Daryl didn’t know anyone in Samford. Didn’t know anyone Merle knew up that way, either, to try and coax out a free place to sleep or some information about where to find anyone Merle used to run with. He spent Friday night using some of his dwindling cash to get drunk on cheap beer at a run down bar on the outskirts of the city. And that’s where he saw Ray. 

He was part of that same crew Cutter ran, and he was sequestered at a table in the back, dealing drugs like old times.Daryl tailed him,. Daryl tailed Ray for two days before he led him to a warehouse by the Long Island Sound. And that’s where Daryl found Cutter. Daryl slumped down in his truck watching that warehouse for days. He saw every member of Merle’s old crew and a few new ones. With the notable exception of the one damn person he was hoping to find. There was not a single trace of Little Joey anywhere. 

So Daryl started following Cutter. The man led him all over the damn city but not to his own brother. The more Daryl followed Cutter, the more intent he was to find Little Joey. He was so close, he knew it. But the more Daryl followed Cutter, the more he realised he might well be fished out of the sound, bloated and nibbled by fish, if anyone caught him poking around.

He found himself at a bar, as he too often did, albeit a fancier one that he’d usually frequent. He was too tired. Weary to the depths of his soul and frustrated at being so close without being able to do the one thing that might get Merle’s neck off the chopping block.

There was a man, two stools down from him at the bar. Daryl had seen him when he’d first walked in, spinning on his stool as the door opened. He gave Daryl a once-over when Daryl stepped inside, bright blue eyes sparkling in the ambient lighting and a smirk on his lips. Then he returned to his own drink, laughing at something the bartender said when she stopped to pour him a refill. His hair was too long and between that, the beard and the leather jacket, he looked like a right prick. He looked good, in a ‘hipster asshole who thought he was too good for everyone else’ kind of way. 

Daryl hated him on principle. Daryl could barely tear his attention away from him

Daryl hunkered down on his own stool and paid a frankly ridiculous amount of money for two fingers of whiskey. It was good whiskey, but now he was down to his last twenty with no idea where his next pay day might come from, let alone when it would come. He tried to savour it, letting his eyes wander as he sipped it slowly. 

Hippie shared a long look with the bartender and then he was up, moving across the small lunchtime crowd. He was jostled in the milling crowd and bumped into someone. He raised a hand, gently pressing it to the man’s chest before moving away, mouthing words of apology that were too far away for Daryl to hear over the din. And then he circled back to the bar, sliding a set of keys across the table to the bartender.

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, following the movement. The hippie must have felt Daryl’s gaze on him, because he looked up, locking eyes with him. He looked entirely unconcerned at the scrutiny and that only made Daryl’s eyes narrow further. Hippie looked him over again, his gaze travelling down the length of Daryl, before roaming back up to meet his eyes. There was something there, in those icy blue depths. Something like interest. Something like an invitation. 

Daryl hopped off his stool and moved down the bar, sitting next to the man in question.

“See something you like?” he asked, and Daryl frowned.

“You two runnin’ a racket?” Daryl asked, tilting his head towards the bar tender.

“Excuse me?” The man’s mouth was still curled in a smirk, but there was an expression on his face like the accusation was unexpected.

“You’re a pickpocket.”

“Sometimes,” the man agreed. “I’ve stolen a few hearts in my time, not that I’m bragging.”

“Stole that man’s keys too,” Daryl said.

“I did steal that man’s keys too,” he agreed. “He’s a regular and he’s too drunk to drive. Casey asked me to help make it a little easier to stop him from getting out onto the road.”

Daryl scoffed. “What, you’re some sort of good samaritan thief?”

“A regular Robin Hood,” he agreed, easily, with a smile, holding one arm out in a broad, theatrical gesture. “I’m Jesus.”

Daryl’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “No you ain’t.”

“Alright,” Jesus conceded, letting his arm drop and moving to rest it on the bar. “I’m Paul. But everyone calls me Jesus.”

“No they don’t,” Daryl protested and Paul gave him an amused look.

“How would you know?” Paul asked, and his words sounded so much like a laugh, his expression was filled with some kind of fascination, and it grated on Daryl’s already thin nerves.

“You’re a thief.”

Paul did laugh then. It was a silent, open-mouthed huff of air that seemed to surprise him.

“When the occasion calls for it.” Paul flicked his gaze to where the bartender - Casey - was watching them with curiosity. “Why? Do you need something stolen?”

Daryl bit at the inside of his cheek. He looked down at his glass before looking back up at Paul. The other man was watching him with interest.

“Could you lift a phone from someone’s pocket?”

“Depends on where they’re keeping it,” Paul replied, not breaking eye contact as he raised his drink to his lips and took a sip. His throat bobbed with the action and Daryl couldn’t help but have his eyes drawn to the long line of Paul’s neck.

“Back pocket,” Daryl answered.

Paul nodded, leaning one elbow on the bar and resting his hand against his fist. “I’d have to check them out. The tightness of their pants, any jackets or other obstruction can make it harder to pick a phone up without them noticing. People tend to notice when Something’s sliding across their ass cheek.”

“But you could do it.”

“I could do it,” Paul said, and it didn’t sound cocky so much as confident. Daryl relaxed a fraction, reaching for his whiskey. 

“Why?” Paul asked, and Daryl choked on his drink.

“Why?”

“Robin Hood, pickpocket for good, remember? So, why do you need a phone lifted? Cheating partner?”

Daryl made a face, his nose wrinkling and his frown deepening. “No. Pretty sure he killed someone. Framed my brother for murder.”

Paul’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. His lips parted and his back straightened, his arm falling back to rest across the bar top again.

Daryl raised a hand to his mouth, biting at his nail. And then he told him. He told him about coming home only for his brother to be arrested. About the scraps of information he had pieced together. 

“My brother… He ain’t a great guy,” Daryl said, feeling his throat tighten. “I know that. But he’s all I got. My life might not mean shit, but this shit’s all I know. And he didn’t do it. Ain’t even possible ‘less he can be on two sides of the state at once. If I can just get his phone there’s gotta be a number in there for Joey, or even their momma. Be enough to find someone I can convince to tell the cops the real story.”

Paul nodded, short and slow. “You’re making it really hard to say no.”

“I can’t pay you,” Daryl admitted and Paul’s sombre expression lifted instantly, letting out a loud bark of laughter that had heads turning towards them. Paul ducked his head, looking sheepishly up at Daryl from under his lashes. 

“Well, how’s a man to resist an offer like that?”

Chapter Text

“You’ll do it?” Daryl asked, not entirely believing it and feeling a little skeptical

Paul shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a sucker for a good cause and some sad baby blues.”

Daryl fidgeted, shifting in his seat and picking at the skin around his fingernails. “When, uh, when can you…”

“Do you know where he is?” Paul asked.

Daryl shrugged. “Been followin’ him for a week. Got a good idea.”

Paul reached for his drink, downing the rest in a long pull. Daryl watched his throat bob with each swallow until Paul set the empty bottle down on the bar again.

“No time like the present,” Paul said, sliding off his stool. He gave a quick wave to Casey and waited for Daryl to lead them out onto the street.

“You’re good to drive?” Paul asked as Daryl motioned him to the truck. 

“Only had one drink,” Daryl said, climbing in and jamming the key into the ignition. 

The drive was quiet, and Daryl was grateful for it. Paul seemed to be completely at peace with keeping his mouth shut while they sat and observed the quiet exterior of the warehouse for more than an hour. Just watching and waiting. But as content as Paul seemed, Daryl was on edge. He stared at the warehouse door from the relative safety of a side street down the block, but while his eyes were on the target half his mind was on the company beside him. It was nerves, he knew. Stress at having a stranger in such close proximity. Anxiety over whether or not this would help get Merle released.

He was putting a hell of a lot of trust in a complete stranger who was doing him a favour and that didn’t sit right with Daryl. 

Finally, the warehouse door opened and Cutter stepped out onto the street, a hand fishing into his pocket for his keys. Daryl sat up straighter in his seat, his hands moving to grip the steering wheel preemptively. 

“That’s him?” Paul asked, the first words he’d spoken since they’d hopped into the truck.

“Yeah,” Daryl said.

“Thank the fashion cycle for making baggy pants trendy again,” Paul said. “Should be an easy one, we just need a bit more of a crowd.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see where he’s goin’,” Daryl said, waiting for Cutter’s car to peel out onto the road before turning the key in the truck’s ignition/ He followed slowly, keeping his distance. His truck was distinctive enough that Daryl was surprised he hadn’t caught any trouble from Cutter or his crew yet. But he wasn’t about to start counting his chickens before they’d well and truly hatched. Things could go sideways at any moment. He knew that.

Cutter pulled into the last available parking spot on the street and Daryl slowed at the corner, letting Paul out to tail him while Daryl found a parking spot of his own. It only took another minute, but the walk back to where he’d left Paul was longer. There was little foot traffic on the street and that left Daryl feeling unsettled. He’d known Cutter most of his life, it’s not as though the man wouldn’t recognise him if he saw him.

“He went into the County Clerk’s Office,” Paul said when Daryl caught up with him, leaning against a light pole across the street.

“The hell’s he here for?” Daryl muttered, mostly to himself.

“Maybe he’s registering to vote,” Paul said, with disinterest. “Maybe he’s got a new dog. What does it matter? We just need to wait until he comes out and then get close enough to do a bump and grab.”

“It’s a big buildin’,” Daryl said. “What if he goes out a different way?”

Paul sighed. “Then I guess we pick this up tomorrow instead?”

“Nah,” Daryl said, with a sharp shake of his head. “I’m gettin’ this done. C’mon.”

Daryl stormed across the road, ignoring the traffic. He didn’t wait for Paul to catch up, but he knew when Paul did, could already sense his presence before he fell into step beside Daryl as he wrenched the office door open.

Inside, the Town Clerk’s Office was cool, the air conditioner hummed in the background, working hard to pump cool air into the otherwise stuffy room. The interior looked like it hadn’t been updated since before Daryl had been born; wood panelling and an unfortunate orange-tinted paint on every wall. Even the chairs that lined two sides of the room were old high-backed wooden monstrosities, a homey brown but unupholstered and uncomfortable. Nothing designed to keep anyone lingering longer than necessary.

And there was Cutter, waiting in a short line  to speak to someone at the counter. There were too few people in the room to provide them with any cover, and Daryl grabbed Paul by the arm, dragging him over to a pair of empty seats. He sat down, shifting as he tried to find the least uncomfortable position on the painfully hard chair. Meanwhile, Paul leaned to the side, grabbing a couple of leaflets from the display and shoving one into Daryl’s hands to help hide his face while they kept an eye on Cutter.

Their silent observation lasted long enough for Cutter to reach the counter, and then someone stopped in front of them. Daryl looked up from over the top of his leaflet on claiming Veteran services and looked into the eyes of a young woman. She was dressed in office clothes and a name badge was pinned to the front of her blouse, but she looked far too young to be in any position of merit.

“I’m so sorry, but if you don’t have business here I have to ask you to leave.” The receptionist, whose gleaming name tag informed everyone that she was called Amy, looked down at them. Wisps of hair frizzed around her face, no longer constrained by the lopsided bun her hair had been pulled back into and it only added to the air of stress that was floating around her like an aura. Daryl hunkered down, slumping further into the chair. He wasn’t leaving without finding out what was going on, but it wouldn’t do to attract unwanted attention. His gaze slid past her to where Cutter was still talking to the clerk at the desk.

“No, we, uh,” Paul started, sharing a look with Daryl. 

The receptionist’s eyes widened and she gave a sharp intake of breath. “Oh! Are you the couple who called earlier?”

“Couple?” Daryl’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“Um, yes,” Paul said, giving Daryl a significant, quelling look. “That’s us.”

“What - “ Daryl started, but Paul elbowed him in the side, disguising the move by leaning forward and changing positions, resting one arm over their shared armrest. 

“We’re the couple who called earlier,” Paul said, the words sounding so completely normal that Daryl might have believed them himself if he didn’t know for a fact that Paul was pulling it all out his ass on the fly.

Daryl was ready to protest, but Amy’s posture loosened immediately and she gave a breathy, relieved laugh. “Oh thank God. I’m so sorry for the mistake with the paperwork. Your marriage licence is all ready to go. I just need to fill in your details again.”

“That’s it?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” Amy agreed, leading them over to the desk. 

The second her back was turned Daryl grabbed Paul’s arm, head bent close to whisper harshly in Paul’s ear, “The hell’re you doin’?”

“I’m getting us a reason to stay here and not attract attention to ourselves,” Paul murmured back. He laid a hand over Daryl’s where he was gripping Paul’s arm and pried his fingers away with surprising strength. Daryl grunted, feeling even more on edge than before. Something terrible was about to happen and Merle would go away, possibly for the rest of his life.

Even with Paul between himself and Cutter at the desk, Daryl turned sideways to avoid him catching a glimpse of Daryl’s presence. 

“I’m so sorry about all this,” Amy said, and she truly did look sincerely apologetic. “You won’t be expected to wait another sixty-five days to use the licence. You’ve already done the waiting period and the error was all mine.“

“That’s great, thank you,” Paul said, and Amy laughed again.

“God, you’re so nice. No wonder he’s putting a ring on it.” Amy gave a hesitant, shaky smile in Daryl’s direction. He just ducked his head and cast his attention away. 

“Gotta lock me down,” Paul replied easily and the two of them shared another small laugh.

Daryl’s entire body went tense and rigid. 

“It’s my first week,” Amy admitted, “and I made a mistake. A huge one. I can’t undo that, but I’m going to make it up to you, first of all by refunding your fifty dollars fee. Is cash okay?”

“Cash is great, thanks,” Paul said, taking the proffered notes from Amy before Daryl could do more than start to raise his arm to reach for them. 

Daryl made a sour face at him and Paul leaned in close, his lips a hair’s breadth from the shell of Daryl's ear. “I’m taking it as compensation.”

Daryl huffed, leaning back so that he could look in his eyes. “Said you’d do it for free.”

“That was when it was a simple lift. Now we’re waist-deep in bureaucracy and risking your mark recognising us because you couldn’t wait outside for twenty minutes. Compensate me.”

Daryl groaned, but capitulated, letting it go and turning again, avoiding Cutter’s field of vision as best he could.

“You guys are so sweet,” Amy crooned at them, shuffling some papers and handing them over to Paul. “I’m really happy we could fix this up and I’m really sorry I messed up your wedding.”

“It’s fine,” Paul answered, his own fake sincerity seeming to draw Amy in. Daryl had to roll his eyes as she all but melted under Paul’s attention. “You’ve sorted it out for us now. Honestly, we were only going to have a courthouse wedding anyway. Eloping,” he explained, reaching a hand out the rest on Daryl’s arm.

“Oh, that’s so romantic,” Amy smiled, ducking her head before looking up again. “Please, if you can just fill these forms in I’ll get your license taken care of straight away.”

“We really appreciate it, thank you, Amy.”

Amy was pink-cheeked and flushing when Paul led Daryl back to their seats.

“Hide your face,” Paul said, as Cutter was directed into a small office off to the side. Daryl complied, peeking out from behind the paper to watch him go. At least he could see that there were no other entrances or exits for Cutter to take from there.

Paul started filling out the form, barely pausing to think as he jotted down carefully printed responses in each box. There was an amused little smirk on his face that told Daryl he was treating this like some kind of joke. 

“Hey, honey, do you have a middle name?” Paul asked, tapping the end of the pen against his lips and looking at Daryl with wide, questioning eyes filled with mirth. Daryl frowned at him before leaning over to peer down at the clipboard resting on Paul’s knee. 

“You’re fillin’ in our real information?” Daryl asked, incredulous. There was a spark of irritation flaring to life inside him, a simmering feeling building under his skin that made his whole body begin to feel itchy.

“Yeah?” Paul shrugged and Daryl gave him a significant look. Paul scoffed in reply, shaking his head. “It’s not like it matters. It’s not going to get filed. We’re not taking the licence to a court and getting married. You can buy a licence and never follow through. It won’t even be on the public record. We’re fine, relax.”

Daryl let out a heavy breath, but he did sit back in his seat. 

“Now, what’s you’re maiden name, because you’re taking mine after the wedding, sugar plum.” At Daryl’s blank stare, Paul pressed the clipboard into his hands. “Just fill in the blanks.” 

Daryl grunted, but he did as he was asked. Oddly, it was strangely comforting to fill in the little boxes of information. A simple, grounding activity that took the edge off some of his nerves. The second he was done, Paul snatched the clipboard from his hands, and headed for Amy at the desk. Daryl kept his eyes on the office where he could just glimpse a sliver of Cutter’s jacket through the drawn blinds.

“Perfect!” Amy beamed at them and she took the clipboard and checked over the details. “It’s so lucky you came in when you did; we actually have an officiant onsite right now. They’ve got a free time slot, it must be fate!”

“Uh,” Paul started, but all he did was give Daryl a panicked look and let the tiny receptionist bustle them down the hall.

Daryl’s stomach roiled. “Wait, no - ” he grabbed at Paul’s arm, but Paul only rested his own hand over the top of it, giving Daryl’s hand a reassuring pat.

“It’s fine,” Paul whispered, though he sounded like he was still trying to convince himself of his own words. “Just go with it. We’re not really getting married. We’ll just play along until we can get out of here. We don’t want your old friend to recognise you and I don’t want to be arrested for fraud today.”

Somehow, Pauls’ words didn’t do much to reassure him. But what could he say? They were already in too deep, and the last thing they needed was to blow their cover. He couldn’t help Merle if he was in jail himself.

Amy was still gushing as she led them through to one of the small offices and introduced them to the officiant. The woman seemed pleasant enough, but when she held her hand out to Daryl he didn’t reach for it, instead turning his head to try and burn a hole in the side of Paul’s face with the strength of his gaze alone.

Paul was talking. The officiant was talking. Papers were being stamped and signed. Daryl didn’t hear any of it, the sound seeming to drain out of the room, nothing but a muted hum of noise in his ears. And then Paul’s hand was on his arm and Daryl snapped back to the present, the room suddenly pulling back into focus.

“I know it’s not very romantic, but you’re welcome to share your first wedded kiss as husbands, if you like. The officiant gave them a friendly smile and Daryl’s eyes widened with panic. Paul’s eyes darted to Daryl before turning back to the officiant.

“We’re a bit shy about public displays of affection,” he said, his hand squeezing the meat of Daryl’s arm.

“That’s quite alright,” the officiant said, giving them a nod. “Well, I’m glad I could help out, but I’m finished for the day. Congratulations, gentlemen.”

And with that she was gone. Daryl turned and looked at Amy, the witness to their blessed union. She was grinning at them, her hands clasped together in front of her as she practically vibrated with excitement. 

“I’ll get this paperwork all sorted out,” she promised, handing Paul a piece of paper. “Here’s your certificate. It’s not, like, real or anything, but it’ll look great if you frame it and hang it up somewhere. Maybe get some professional wedding photos done? Anyway, I’ll fix up the paperwork and get it formalised and legalised and everything for you! Thank you so much for letting me a part of this after everything I put you through.”

“Uh, no problem,” Paul said, looking down at the certificate and then over at Daryl. For the first time since their acquaintance he actually looked spooked. Daryl could relate.

Cutter was gone by the time they stepped out of the office and out onto the street. It felt at once like the entire endeavour had been a bust.

“Paul,” Daryl said, his voice rising with panic and irritation.

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul waved him off, his face slipping into something detached and serene.

“We just signed a marriage certificate,” Daryl reminded him, as if the idiot had somehow forgotten. As if that fact could possibly slip his mind.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t meant for us,” Paul reasoned, carefully folding their commemorative certificate up and sliding it into his pocket. “The real couple will show up to get their licence fixed, and ours will be invalidated. We didn’t pay and we didn’t complete the requisite waiting period. Once they see it there’s no way it’ll stick.”

“And the fraud?” Daryl pressed.

“A simple misunderstanding,” Paul said. “We called earlier about a marriage licence. How could we know we weren’t the couple she was talking about? A simple error of miscommunication. We’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like it,” Daryl said, frowning deeply. Everything about him felt unsettled.

Paul made a face. “Would you be freaking out like this if I were a woman?”

“I ain’t freakin’ out,” Daryl vehemently denied. “And yes.”

Paul hummed thoughtfully, and Daryl’s eyes darted to him, then away, then back again as if he couldn’t help but be drawn to the man.

“What,” Daryl ground out.

“Nothing,” Paul said. His shrug was casual, though his eyes were sharp and assessing. “You’re just full of surprises. 

Down the street, Cutter’s car pulled out into traffic and Paul grabbed Daryl’s wrist. “Come on, if we can catch up with him we can get the phone.”

“And the marriage?” Daryl snapped.

“Something we’ll be laughing about tomorrow,” Paul said, with a small, amused smile.

Daryl let out a breath.

“Besides,” Paul said as they took off at a run towards Daryl’s truck. “Worst case scenario we pop in and get an annulment. This’ll be nothing more than a funny story by the end of the week.”

Daryl grunted as he ran. Paul was probably right. There was no way this mishap would hold up under any amount of  scrutiny. Even the marriage certificate tucked away in Paul’s pocket wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.

–

“How’re we gonna get in there?” Daryl asked, as he and Paul walked away from the club’s entrance. The bouncer was still watching their retreating backs, even as he allowed another small cluster of well-dressed if scantily clad people inside.

Paul sighed, tapping away at his phone before raising it to his ear. “Luckily for you I know some people.”

Datyl’s eyes narrowed, and then, Paul grinned. “Hi Casey,” he said into the phone and Daryl rolled his eyes. He didn’t know people so much as he knew one bartender. Still, it seemed to be enough. The door to the club opened and a man dressed entirely in black, with a white cloth thrown over his shoulder leaned out and spoke to the bouncer. Paul waved over at him and, seconds later, they were being beckoned inside.

The music hit Daryl like a brick wall. It was loud and it was throbbing, Daryl could feel it in his bones, jarring him, rattling his teeth and pounding inside his skull like something trying to burst free from its bone cage. There were bodies everywhere, dancing in the crowd or scattered among the tables around the far edge of the room. And it was a damn big room. Then the door shut behind them and the light from outside cut, plunging them into a sea of darkness, punctuated only by thin, roving lights from the ceiling, not illuminating anywhere near enough.

Daryl was plastered to Paul’s side as he led them through the writhing bodies. Too many people were touching him. Hands, hips, chests, pressing against every part of him the air was so thick he could barely breathe. Daryl was ready to jump out of his own skin when Paul deposited him on a stool at the far end of the bar. It was still so loud he could barely think, but it was dark and secluded and, once Paul’s hands left him, no one was touching him anymore. It was enough to let Daryl breathe.

Paul shouted something in Daryl’s direction, but he couldn’t hear it. Then he was pushing his way into the crowd again. Daryl tried to keep track of him, but he disappeared far too quickly, swallowed up by the dark and the undulating sea of bodies. He couldn’t say how long he sat there, and then a beer was placed in front of him. Daryl looked up and the bartender gave him an awkward smile. 

“It’s on the house,” the bartender said. 

Daryl frowned, but he’d never been in any position to turn down a free drink. He’d never been in a position to turn down free anything. He took a sip, and then another. It helped to give him something to do while he waited. It felt too much like everything was in the balance. 

He was starting to worry that Paul wasn’t coming back

A cheap cell phone clattered to the bar in front of him and Daryl looked up to see Paul sliding onto the stool next to his own. Paul reached over and plucked Daryl’s drink off the table, downing the rest of it himself. But Daryl’s eyes were on the cell phone, and he reached out and picked up before rising out of his stool.

“You’re leaving already?” Paul asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked up at Daryl. 

“Got what I came for,” Daryl replied, with a frown. 

“Sure,” Paul agreed. “Or you could let me buy you a drink to celebrate. I’ve got fifty to spare now.”

Daryl hesitated, looking out into the crowd. He bit his lip, then looked down at Paul. 

“Your old friend’s busy dealing on the other side of the dancefloor. Just avoid the restrooms.” He was still watching Daryl with an open, patient expression on his face. Daryl tucked the phone into his back pocket and took his seat again.

“Only ‘cause you’re buying,” he said, and Paul laughed.

One drink turned into two turned into three turned into four when Paul admitted he also lifted a few loose bills while he was procuring the phone. Somehow they went from sharing a quiet drink, to Daryl asking Paul to show him how he managed to pick a pocket without anyone noticing. Paul had dragged him to his feet then, their drinks forgotten on the bar top and Paul demonstrated how he could talk, use his other hand to touch at him, to distract from the feeling of his fingers dipping so lightly into Daryl’s front pocket that he didn’t even feel his lighter slide free. Didn’t believe it even with Paul holding it up in front of him, until he patted his own pocket for good measure.

It made him like the guy just a little.

Somehow that led to Daryl spilling his guts about Merle and how worried he was to lose him again. Which led to Paul sharing about his break up. Daryl didn’t know what to do with that. He’d never been in a position to console someone who actually cared when someone bailed. 

“Guy was screwin’ someone else when you were still together,” Daryl said, feeling his words slur just a little too much. He could taste the words on his tongue. “S’posed to wait for the sheets to cool before you fuck around with someone else.”

“Yeah, well, he and Wes are happy and I’m…” Paul waved a hand to encompass some ephemeral concept that Daryl wasn’t entirely privy to. 

“Married?” Daryl asked, and he could feel the hint of a laugh in his voice. Paul was right, it did seem funny now, with time and booze between them and the situation. 

Paul laughed and choked on his drink. Daryl reached over an thumped on his back until he could breathe again. 

“Thanks,” Paul rasped out. “You know, it would piss him off if he thought I’d gotten married. Didn’t think I could commit, you know?”

Daryl grunted. “Sounds like an asshole.”

Paul hummed, picking up his drink again. “Maybe. He wasn’t exactly wrong though.”

Daryl shook his head. “You should tell him.”

“What?”

“That you got hitched. Ain’t a lie, really. Rub his nose in it,” Daryl said. “Don’t gotta know it’s not gonna be officially filed. Let that prick stew in it for a while.”

Paul shook his head, then he laughed. “Yeah? C’mon, hubby.”

“C’mon what?”

“Take a wedding photo with me. Like Amy said to.”

Daryl scoffed. “Don’t think seein’ me’s gonna help make him jealous.”

Paul paused, tilting his head to the side as he looked at Daryl. It felt suddenly too hot, and Daryl shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny.

“We won’t see each other after tonight,” Paul said. “Maybe I wanna remember the husband I had for an evening.”

Daryl took a long drink from his beer.

“Yeah, alright.”

“Alright?” Paul asked, already pulling his phone out. He fumbled it, making Daryl snort as he watched Paul with a hazy curiosity. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt for the first time like things were going to work out.

“Least I can do,” Daryl said. “‘Sides, it's probably the only weddin’ photo I’ll ever be in. As the groom, at least.”

Paul shook his head, looking like he wanted to contest that, but he didn’t speak to it. 

“You got married?” The man who’d let them in asked, standing on the other side of the bar.

“Damien!” Paul said, smiling broadly, and reaching across the bar to clap him on the shoulder in greeting. “Thanks for letting us in.”

“It’s hard to turn Casey down when she asks for a favour,” Damien said. “I guess I should offer the happy couple a drink on the house.”

“This is my husband, Daryl,” Paul said, and when he turned to face Daryl he looked so happy. If he weren’t in on it himself, Daryl might have believed that Paul was actually ecstatic about being wed to someone like him. Paul winked and Daryl buried a laugh behind his beer bottle.

"Will you take a photo for us?” Paul asked, holding his phone out, the camera already on. Damien rolled his eyes but accepted it. He fiddled with the angle, looking down at the tiny screen. The flash was bright and it left Daryl blinking past white spots. When they cleared he saw Paul cradling his phone and staring down at the picture on the screen. 

“We look happy, right?” he asked, and Daryl leaned over his shoulder to see, his hand moving to cup Paul’s as he angled the screen better. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice seeming to get stuck in his throat, the words rasping out. Because they did look happy. And Daryl was suddenly hit with the strange realisation that this was the only photo he had of himself. Hiding a smile behind a drink and sitting next to a man he’d met a few hours ago and accidentally married in a shitty office in goddamned Connecticut. A man who was going to use that picture of him to make his ex-boyfriend jealous.

“You gonna send it or stare at it?” Daryl asked. He was feeling loose and bold even as he lingered in Paul’s space. He hadn’t felt like this in longer than he could remember. Maybe he hadn’t felt like this before at all. Almost free.

“Gonna send it,” Pauls said, his words coming out a little sloppy. His fingers fumbled as he squinted down at the screen, thumbs tapping away. “Fuck, my fingers keep slipping.”

“You’re a damn lightweight, then,” Daryl said. The crowd had shifted over to surround them, people vying for the attention of the serving staff. But there were two flutes of Champagne resting on the bar as promised, and Daryl leaned forward to drag them towards Paul and himself.  He took a sip and made a face. He’d never tasted Champagne and now he could definitively say he didn’t care for it. He drank the rest anyway, feeling the bubbles settle in his stomach to mix with the rest of the booze. 

“I think it’s sent,” Paul said, and then he frowned. 

“Nah man, regret shit when you’re holding your head over the toilet bowl,” Daryl said, clapping a hand on Paul’s back, squeezing the muscle of Paul’s shoulder under his palm. “We’re celebratin’.”

Paul grinned, taking his own flute of Champagne. And Daryl could picture the way Paul seemed to glow, everything around him slowly bleeding away in a haze, and then he couldn’t remember anything else at all.

Chapter Text

“You remember?” Paul asked, eyes wide.

Damien gave them a look before pointedly making his way further down the bar. The air was filled with the dull sound of bottles clinking against one another, the smell of alcohol was thick and sharp. Daryl looked up from the phone in his hands to Paul. 

“Yeah,” Daryl rasped out. He watched the apple of Paul’s throat bob as he swallowed.

“What do you remember?”

“Everythin’,” Daryl answered. “Or nearabouts.”

“Things are still… a little fuzzy for me,” Paul said, hesitantly, dropping his gaze to the cell phone. “You hired me to swipe this?”

“Yeah.” Daryl nodded, his eyes dropping back to the cell phone, sitting like a heavy weight in his hand. “Needed to find someone my brother used to know. Someone who can tell the cops who really did it.”

“Your brother’s in jail,” Paul said, slowly. There was a crease between his brows as he concentrated on drawing up the memory and Daryl felt the odd urge to reach out and smooth that crease away with the pad of his thumb. He resisted, but his arm had already twitched upward as if to follow through. 

“He didn’t do it,” Daryl said, feeling immediately defensive.

“The alibi,” Paul blinked, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain before blinking them open again. “The hunting trip. He couldn’t have done it.”

Darly let out a long, slow breath. “Cops wouldn’t dig any deeper. Merle’s a regular down the station and he ain’t exactly the type to make friends. They’re happy as hogs in mud to put him away and not have to get off their asses to do their actual damn job.”

“They had evidence?”

“Some bullshit about fingerprints, a personal item.” Daryl shrugged, running a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Wouldn’t let loose any details, but even if my brother went off the rails and was gonna kill someone he wouldn’t leave shit behind. Merle might be a dumbass but he ain’t stupid.”

“You think finding this guy will help? That the cops will listen if you bring out a witness?”

Daryl shrugged, his fingers clenching around the cell phone. “It’s all I got.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

Paul hummed. “Of course I offered to do this for free. I’ve always been a sucker for a cute guy with a sad story.”

Daryl could feel his entire face going hot. “I ain’t -” he choked his own tongue.

“Take the compliment,” Paul said. “You’ve already put a ring on it.”

Daryl sputtered again. “Didn’t put a ring on nothin’.”

“Semantics. Come on, are we switching this phone on or not?”

Daryl swallowed thickly and unfurled his hand. He flicked open the flip screen. Nothing happened. With a frown, Daryl felt along the sides with clumsy fingers until he found the power button. He pressed it and the screen flashed blue for a second, an empty battery signal popping up on the screen before going blank again.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Paul said. Daryl raised her head, their gazes meeting.

“You got a charger?” Daryl asked. 

“Not one that’ll fit this phone,” Paul said, and Daryl could feel his stomach drop. “Looks like we’re taking a trip to the mall.”

Daryl groaned, but he got to his feet and shoved the phone into his pocket.

—

The mall was bright. The lights above them reflected off the white tiles under their feet and Daryl had to squint past the glare, his eyes irritated. He stuck to Paul’s side, ducking his head to avoid having to make eye contact with the people moving around, the people staring at him, knowing how out of place he was in his dirty, torn clothing and his rough looks. He didn’t need to see any more mothers pulling their children closer to themselves when he walked by. If Paul noticed, he didn’t say anything, just led them casually up the escalator and towards one of the numerous, too-bright stores. This one was pumping music from its speakers, loud and throbbing, and the glass display windows were filled with television screens all playing different things, the images flickering rapidly from one scene to the next.

He stopped just before the threshold, coming up short. Paul was a step ahead of him, but he paused too, twisting at the hips to look at him. The security guard was eying them already. Eying Daryl, anyway. Daryl’s fingers twitched at his sides. Paul shot a glance towards the interior of the store before turning his attention back to Daryl. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and handed over a pair of sunglasses. When Daryl didn’t take them, Paul made a face that was some mixture of fond amusement and opened the arms to slide the sunglasses onto Daryl’s face himself. 

“Alright,” he said, fingers lingering on the sides of Daryl’s face for just a moment longer than necessary. “You want to come in with me or would you rather wait out here?”

Daryl shrugged, shifting his weight again. The security guard was slowly walking towards them and he took a step backwards away from the store.

“Alright,” Paul said, again. He reached out and cupped Daryl’s elbow, his hand moving to rest between Daryl’s shoulder blades as he turned them both, guiding Daryl over to an empty bench next to a sad, fake potted palm. 

“You still got that twenty?” Paul asked, not waiting for an answer as his fingers slid into the front pocket of Daryl’s pants, coming back with some crumpled bills. “Phone?”

Daryl grumbled incoherently, but slapped the burner into Paul’s open palm.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Paul promised, nudging Daryl until he slumped down on the bench, legs spread.

Daryl watched him leave, his eyes catching on Paul’s broad shoulders where the leather of his jacket pulled tight. His hair was spilling down his back and Daryl couldn't explain why, but his fingers itched to grab hold of it, to grasp those strands in his fist and tug . He looked away, slumping further down in his seat, biting at his thumb while he waited.

“Great news,” Paul said, stopping in front of him and shaking Daryl’s last remaining cash in front of his face. “I sweet talked the sales clerk and he’s charging the phone for us. You can buy us a drink while we wait.”

Daryl grunted, but got slowly to his feet. He fell into step beside Paul, their elbows bumping as they walked through the artificially lit stretch of mall towards the food court. 

“Your hair looks stupid,” Daryl blurted out, prickly and defensive. He winced, feeling a burst of embarrassment the second the words were out of his mouth, but it was mostly hidden behind the dark lenses of his borrowed sunglasses.

Paul huffed out a quiet sound of amusement, turning his head to look at him, his eyes sparkling even through the dulled lenses shielding Daryl’s vision. “That’s harsh coming from a man who looks like he cuts his hair with a Bowie knife and no mirror.”

Daryl huffed out an amused sound of his own, though he could feel the heat in his cheeks. 

Paul fixed him with a long, lingering look and shook his head, eventually tilting his chin up, eyes to the ceiling as if communing with God himself. “Of course you cut your hair with a Bowie knife.”

“Ain’t no reason to go dropping cash on a haircut,” Daryl muttered.

“Maybe for you,” Paul said. “You’re lucky it’s oddly charming on you. Fits the whole vibe you’ve got going.”

The question was on the tip of Daryl’s tongue, but it didn’t make it past his lips. He didn’t know if he wanted to find out what vibe Paul thought he gave off. He kept his mouth shut and let Paul lead the way to a small stand near the set of escalators at the other end of the mall. Disappointingly, Paul’s idea of a drink was less alcoholic and more…froofy smoothies.

“What do you want?” Paul asked, and Daryl looked up at the bright green board, squinting at the dozens of stupidly named drinks. He frowned.

“Is there anything in particular you don’t like?” Paul prodded.

“Don’t like this,” Daryl said, feeling his hackles rise again as the cashier blinked at them. Her smile was too wide and painfully fake. She definitely wasn’t being paid enough for this shitty job, Daryl knew.

Paul only rolled his eyes, giving Daryl’s arm a pat. “Well, you can’t go wrong with pineapple.”

Paul made his way over to the counter, greeting the cashier with a wide, sincere-looking smile that Daryl knew was just as fake as the cashier’s. Daryl was still frowning at the board when Paul shoved the freshly made smoothie into his hand. It was cold, filled with crushed ice that swirled around inside the large, plastic cup. Condensation was already beading on the outside of the cup, droplets catching on his fingers. It was pink and yellow and there was a large clear straw poking out from the domed cap. Daryl eyed it with distaste.

A bright blue cocktail umbrella dropped down into the top opening next to the straw and Daryl looked up at Paul who was watching him in return. Paul took a long sip of his own drink, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked, and Daryl made a strangled choking sound that turned rapidly into a cough.

“Just try it,” Paul said, thumping him on the back. “It’ll help clear your throat and fight off the threat of scurvy.”

“Ain’t gettin’ scurvy. Good Lord,” Daryl muttered, but he did take a sip. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him, though he couldn’t bring himself to meet the other man’s gaze. “Could do with a shot or two in here.”

He shot a quick look at Paul, who’s mouth had twitched into a smirk. “When we wrap this thing up for you and your brother and I'll take you out for brunch, get some celebratory mimosas.”

Daryl scoffed. “Brunch,” he muttered, rolling the word around in his mouth like something foul. “Should grab a drink tonight. Real one.”

“That’s incredibly tempting,” Paul said. “But with our track record… I’ve got work in the morning, anyway.” 

“Yeah. Got some pockets to pick, huh?”

“Pockets to put,” Paul corrected. “I’m put-pocketing for the police actually. It’s a whole… awareness campaign they’re doing in town. I’ve got some damage control to do since my drunken wedding announcement…”

“Shit,” Daryl said. “They gonna fire you?”

“No,” Paul said. Then after a moment of consideration, shrugged. “Probably not. I should check my phone, in case they’ve tried to contact me… But at worst I’m sure I’ll just… never hear from them again.”

“You don’t wanna check your phone?” Daryl asked, taking another sip of his drink. It wasn’t something he’d choose, but he was acclimating to the taste. And the hell did he know? He might be on the road to scurvy. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten an orange.

Paul made a face. “I don’t really want to see how many more messages Alex has left since breakfast.”

Daryl swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling thick. That was his fault, he knew. He’d been the one to convince Paul to take the stupid photo and to rub in his exes face. He couldn’t square that away. He didn’t want to think about it. 

“You want, I can sort him out,” Daryl said, shifting awkwardly with Paul’s eyes on him. 

Paul hid his mouth behind his cup, but Daryl could see the hint of a smile forming on his lips. “I might take you up on that.”

Daryl grunted, feeling oddly pleased. They didn’t speak any further, but they made their way back to the electronics store. Paul ducked inside and returned with the half-charged phone. Paul huddled close as Daryl flipped it open. He frowned down at the screen. Using the arrows to awkwardly scroll through the different text conversations. 

“What is that, some kind of cypher?” Paul asked. 

Daryl sighed. “Yeah. Dumbass Cutter. Same code we all used when we were kids, thinkin’ we were the shit. Gonna have to sit down and write it out. All this shit to get this far and he’s given me goddamn homework.”

“It’s getting late,” Paul said. His body was still pressed up against Daryl’s, though his face had tilted away from the phone’s screen to look at Daryl instead.

Daryl only grunted in agreement, flipping the phone closed.

“Do you… have a place to stay?”

Daryl looked at him, Paul’s face far too close to his own for comfort. Daryl turned his head away quickly. 

“Been campin’ in my truck,” he admitted. 

Paul nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected and didn’t have any judgement about it. “I’ve got a hotel room. Two doubles. It’s paid for another two nights if you want to crash with me? We have to keep in touch to get the ball rolling on the divorce process anyway, right?”

Daryl tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat. He stared down at the almost empty drink in his hand and took a desperate sip. Clearing his throat or buying time, he couldn’t say for certain. Daryl sucked at the straw until all he got was an empty gurgling sound as he sucked up air from the bottom of the cup. He took a step away from Paul to toss the empty cup into the trash, but he paused, awkwardly for a moment. With a moment of hesitation, he plucked the blue umbrella from the lid before tossing the plastic into the trash can. Turning back to Paul, he dropped the umbrella into the top of Paul’s cup, still half full in his hand. 

“Yeah, alright,” Daryl said.

“Alright?”

“You got a pen n’ paper in that hotel room?”

“If I don’t I’m sure I can ask reception for one.”

“Then let’s go.”

–

When they climbed into Daryl’s truck, Paul gave him rough directions towards the hotel. Then, with a pained look, Paul slipped his own cell phone out of his pocket, groaning as he pressed at the buttons. 

“Alex again?” Daryl asked, briefly glancing away from the road. 

“No,” Paul said, then shook his head. “I mean, yes, but I’ve missed a call from the PR liaison for the department.”

Despite his casual tone, Daryl could hear the undercurrent of worry in his voice. He felt a churning in his own gut, guilt he didn’t want to lay claim to. Paul was the reason they were now legally hitched to one another, but Daryl was the reason they’d stepped foot inside the County Clerk’s Office. Daryl was the reason Paul was involved at all.

Maybe it was Merle’s fault. Or Cutter’s. Maybe if he went far enough back the blame wouldn’t touch him or Paul at all.

“Do you mind if I…?” Paul looked at him, raising the phone in explanation. 

“Nah,” Daryl said, looking back to the road ahead. “Gotta earn that hotel room or we’ll both be sleepin’ in the truck tonight.”

“Cosy,” Paul said, already dialing the number.

“Just tell me if I’m goin’ the wrong way,” Daryl said, and Paul hummed out an affirmative sound before breaking quickly into a bright, “Hi Susan, I’m sorry for getting back to you so late.”

Daryl let Paul’s voice fade into white noise as he focused on navigating down the still-foreign streets of Samford. There were setbacks. This marriage being one of them. But it felt for the first time in months as though he was actually closing in on a solution to Merle’s problem. If he could just find Little Joey’s contact details in Cutter’s phone. And convince Little Joey to confess to the cops. And get the cops to actually listen to that confession…

Beside him Paul gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, uh, the marriage is going well, thanks. I’m sorry about the announcement. I know that was unprofessional … Right, very exciting … Oh.” Paul shot a quick look at Daryl, his eyes wide with panic before he glanced away again. “I’m not sure my, uh, my husband would want to be involved in that, but I’m happy to attend if you… Yeah, of course, that sounds great. Thank you.”

There was the beep of the ‘call end’ button being punched and Paul let his head hit the headrest behind him. 

“Should I pull over?” Daryl asked, when Paul was silent for too long. “We sleepin’ in the truck tonight?”

Paul turned his head, blue eyes bright and unnerving. 

“No,” he said. “We got offered a job, actually.”

“What d’you mean we?”

“You and me,” Paul explained. “A, uh, very public community outreach between the city's police department and some local LGBT support centres. It might surprise you to learn that the police aren’t looked at fondly within the community.”

Daryl snorted. “Ain’t never been a cop worth knowin’. ‘S like bein’ an asshole’s a role requirement.”

“Yeah, well, it’s going to be highly publicised so I figured you probably wouldn’t want your face plastered over the news in relation to a big queer event for the gays.”

Daryl bit the inside of his cheek. His skin was heating. He could feel the flush travelling all the way down his chest, leaving him feeling itchy inside his own skin.

I, uh.” Daryl bit down at his cheek again, gnawing at the tender flesh. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Paul said. “I’m going. It’ll give me another two nights in the hotel and I can’t exactly turn down the extra pay.”

“They want you to… put pocket there too?” Daryl asked, his brow furrowing.

Paul snorted, a small little sound that didn’t come out anywhere near as harshly as it felt when Daryl did it. 

“Cute fluff piece about a gay man and his partner who travelled interstate to elope,” Paul said, rolling his shoulders before slumping down in his seat. “I can adlib a romantic story for the paycheck, get some promo behind the marriage equality debate.”

Daryl hummed. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but he could sense that his reaction meant something that might make or break their odd little allyship. 

“Good cause,” he settled on. He kept his eyes plastered straight ahead, but in the periphery of his vision he could see the way Paul’s head snapped around to look at him.

“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “It is.”

“Some shit’s worth lyin’ for,” Daryl said, coughin to clear his throat. “Spin ‘em a good one. Just.. don’t go plasterin’ my picture to it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Paul said, so vehemently that Daryl didn’t doubt the sincerity. “I know it would have a real, negative impact on your home life. I wouldn’t do that to anyone.”

“No mentionin’ my family name, neither,” Daryl said.

He could almost sense the small smirk on Paul’s lips. 

“You’re a Rovia now, aren’t you?”

“Fucking Christ,” Daryl muttered. He’d somehow managed to forget about that part. 

Paul only huffed out another quiet laugh, and directed him to turn at the next intersection.

Chapter Text

“I’ve just got to stop at the desk,” Paul said as Daryl trailed through the hotel doors behind him. “Susan said she had something waiting for me.”

Daryl slowed, lingering by the red couch in the expansive reception area. He watched Paul head over to the desk before letting his eyes trail over the room. It was hardly upscale, but it was far from the hole-in-the-wall type of establishment Daryl was more accustomed to. Half the motels he’d dragged his brother out of were pay-by-the hour. By contrast this place might as well have been the Ritz. Daryl picked at the skin around his thumbnails, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, as he looked around, feeling increasingly out of place.

Movement by the desk had Daryl’s head snapping in that direction, to see Paul heading over to him. He was cringing as he approached, not meeting Daryl’s eyes.

“Why d’you look like they cancelled your room?” Daryl asked, frowning.

“Kind of the opposite problem,” Paul said. He tapped Daryl’s wrist with the pad of his index finger, before he started a slow walk towards the elevator. Daryl frowned, feeling like he was watching a man walk to his own execution.

“The hell’s that even mean? They give you more rooms?”

Paul sighed, jamming his finger against the ‘up’ arrow several times before stepping back from the doors, staring at the slowly changing numbers. “The, uh, the PR department are giving me an upgrade.”

Daryl frowned, his brow furrowing. “Awful antsy over an upgrade.”

Paul finally looked at him as they stepped inside the elevator and the doors slid closed. “The upgrade is a congratulations on the, uh, whole marriage thing.”

The apple of Paul’s throat bobbed nervously as he swiped his keycard and hit the button for the floor number. The elevator lurched into motion and Daryl’s feet stumbled before he balanced himself. There was a moment of realisation, followed very rapidly by a surge of panic.

“It - they ain’t putin’ us up in the honeymoon suite.”

“They don’t have a honeymoon suite,” Paul replied. His eyes fixed on the steadily rising numbers. “But, uh, my old room had two double beds.”

Daryl grunted. He raised a hand to his mouth, biting at his thumb. His teeth sunk hard into the flesh, champing down on the nobbly bone. “You, uh, you worried I’m gonna take a swing at you again?”

Paul’s head whipped around to face him, eyes wide, just as the elevator let out a ding and the doors slid open. Paul hesitated before stepping out, and Daryl lurched away from the back wall, following in his wake before the doors could close again. 

“No,” Paul denied, though his hand moved, as if subconsciously, twitching towards his ribs where Daryl knew there was a purpling bruise under Paul’ shirt. Daryl could remember so clearly the vicious pride he’d felt that morning when he’d learned he’d clocked Paul one, drugged and in the throes of a night terror or not.

“I, uh,” Paul licked his lips, his eyes scanning the room numbers. “I just figured, it’s been a bit of a tumultuous marriage so far. I don’t know if it can withstand sharing another bed.”

Daryl swallowed, his stomach twisted itself into knots. “They got a floor. I can sleep there.”

“I promised you a bed.”

“Been sleepin’ in my truck,” Daryl reminded him. “Floor in this place’s probably better’n my bed at home, besides.”

When he was out hunting, sometimes Daryl would spend days, even weeks, sleeping in the dirt outside. For some reason he didn’t want to let that slip. He was already feeling wound tight and he’d let too much of himself out in front of Paul. People didn’t usually care much for what Daryl had to say and he was certain he was already toeing the line of wearing out his welcome where Paul was concerned.

Paul was quiet for a moment and Daryl trailed after him. The hallway was long and wide. The walls were well lit, lights making segments of the cream-coloured walls look a golden yellow, and the carpet was a spotless beige that Daryl dragged his feet across. Realisation hit him that Paul might well no longer want to share a room with him at all. Daryl stumbled to a halt, his boots looking like dark stains against the pristine carpet. 

“I can jus’ take that paper n’ pen,” Daryl said, as Paul drew to a stop, looking from the cardboard sleeve holding the room keys and back up at the gold-plated numbers on the door. He turned his head to look at him when Daryl spoke, and Paul’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, tiny wrinkles creasing his skin.

“What do you mean?” Paul asked. 

Daryl shifted his weight between his feet, looking away. “I got my truck. Don’t mind sleepin’ there if - if you.” Daryl swallowed, his throat clicking, unable to push the rest of the sentence out with his clumsy, reluctant tongue.

Paul frowned for a second, before his features smoothed out again. “I’m not worried you’ll hurt me.”

He slid the keycard through the slot at the door unlocked with a soft, electronic whirr. Paul pushed the door opened, but paused when he realised Daryl was still stood in place a few paces behind him, unmoving.

“Daryl,” he said, slowly, turning towards him. “If I was worried about that I never would have left the hotel with you this morning, let alone gotten into your truck. I definitely wouldn’t have spent the day with you and invited you to stay the night.”

“Wouldn’t mean to,” Daryl said, digging his boots into the plush carpet. 

“You were drugged out of your mind when it happened,” Paul said, gentle and even. “So was I. Even then, I still managed to tie you down. It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Daryl frowned, then, his body swaying. “The hell you worried over, then?”

Paul leaned back against the door, his body holding it open, pressing it against the wall inside the room.

“I thought, given everything we’ve been through today and your family background, the, uh, one bed situation might be a bit… intimate… for comfort.”

Paul’s gaze met his own, but despite how well-crafted his mask of placidity was, Daryl could see the edge of something underneath. He could see the fear and uncertainty bleeding out from under the corners. Daryl’s frown deepened.

“Ain’t some shrinkin’ violet,” Daryl said, his hand moving towards his mouth of its own desire, before he forced it back down to hand awkwardly at his side instead. “Don’t matter none if you’re…” Daryl gestured broadly, as if he could encompass the very concept of sexuality in the wave of his hand.

“You had no problem calling me a fag this morning,” Paul said, cocking his head to the side, his hair falling across his shoulder. 

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, his head feeling too full and too loud. He’d been so messed up he could barely remember anything from that morning, except the panic that had filled every inch of him.

“Weren’t talkin’ ‘bout you when I said it,” Daryl muttered. He took a step to the side, half turning as he hunched over himself. 

Paul sighed, giving him a look that was both profoundly sad and understanding. “If you call anyone a fag, you’re calling me one too,” he said, his voice gentle but finite.

The words hit Daryl like a boulder plummeting from a great height down into a lake: everything inside of him was suddenly rocked and displaced, even the stillest, untouched parts of him felt the ripples of it, if not the waves. 

“I know this marriage fiasco has a lot more baggage to it for you. It’s personal in a way it isn’t for me,” Paul continued, while Daryl was still preoccupied trying to settle his own brain. “I don’t want this to be too much. I don’t want it to feel like you’re being backed into a corner here.”

“I don’t.” Daryl shook his head. He couldn’t deny the anxiety he felt at being tied to another man in legal matrimony. He couldn’t deny the sheer terror that lanced through him at the thought of his family getting wind of it. But that wasn’t Paul. He might be far removed from the kind of person Daryl had ever willingly spent any amount of time with, but Daryl had actually started to kind of like the guy. He’d actually started to find this mess fun, somehow.

“Would’ve stayed down in the truck,” Daryl said. “If I didn’t wanna be here.”

Paul was still for a moment, but the tension in his face relaxed. He swallowed, visibly, and nodded. “Alright. Guess we’re checking out the honeymoon suite.”

“Thought you said there weren’t no honeymoon suite,” Daryl said, falling far too easily into step behind Paul, following him over the threshold. For just a moment, he had the absurd thought that one of them should be carrying the other through the door. But it was silly and fleeting, and he shook his head to clear it away.

“There isn’t,” Paul said, leading the way down the short entrance hall and out into a large, open kitchen and living area. “This is a suite for our honeymoon, though.”

Daryl grunted, his gaze drifting across the room, taking in the full kitchen, sit-down dining area, the two plush couches and the massive television. Floor to ceiling curtains covered two of the walls and Daryl already knew they’d open to wide, expansive views of the city. There was a gift basket on the table and Paul made a bee-line for it, Daryl following more sedately, keeping some distance between them. Still, he leaned in curiously as Paul tore open the cellophane wrapping. 

“Chocolates,” he said, holding the box up for Daryl to see. There was a rustling and a clinking as Paul fiddled with the other object poking out of the basket. 

“Booze?” Daryl asked, when Paul raised the bottle out of the bucket where it had been chilling. Icy cold water dripped down the surface and over Paul’s fingers, travelling down his wrists.

“Champagne,” Paul replied, settling it back into the ice. “Not the cheapest kind, either.”

“Them cops must really like you.”

Paul hummed out a non-committal sound. “Or they’ve done something really shitty recently. Probably the reason they’re doing that LGBT outreach. They need the good publicity. I wouldn’t be surprised if this gets mentioned in that fluff piece they’re asking me to do.”

Daryl made his own small sound, looking at the condensation beading along the neck of the bottle. Paul was already reaching for the folder lying on the table. He flipped it ope, eyes scanning the pages quickly before snapping it closed again.

“Speaking of that job,” he said, stepping away from the table. “At least I’ve got another day to read all of this.” 

Paul kept walking, taking the turn down another short hallway of the living area, opening doors as he went. Daryl didn’t bother. He didn’t even make it out of the living room.  Instead, he moved towards one of the large couches and threw himself across it. He looked up when Paul returned, but didn’t move to sit up.

“Two bathrooms and we’ve got a washer and dryer,” Paul said, sitting on the arm of the chair. He placed a shiny pen and a full, A4 pad of paper on the couch cushion by Daryl’s feet. “There’s a study, too, but it’s not half as comfortable as this room is.”

Daryl grunted, shifting the arm that had been flung over the armrest behind his head, letting it settle over his chest for a moment, his hand smoothing at the fabric over his heart. He say up with a groan, his boots hitting the floor.  

“It’s a one bedroom suite,” Paul confirmed. “One bed in that bedroom.”

Daryl grunted again, shifting until his ass was comfortable on the couch cushion. “This couch is comfier than any bed I ever had,” he said, and that was painfully true. It might even be too soft for him to sleep, unaccustomed as he was to softness.

“I’ll bring you out a pillow and one of the extra blankets,” Paul said, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna run out, pick up something for dinner. You in the mood for anything in particular?”

Daryl shrugged and bit at his thumbnail. He didn’t even know what options there were nearby. “I’ll eat anythin’. I, uh, dunno how much…”

Daryl cut himself off. After the smoothies earlier he had less than ten dollars to his name. He eyed the gift pack still resting on the table. “Could just… eat some of them chocolates they left you, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s mine is yours,” Paul said, offhandedly, as his hand delved into one of his pockets and pulled out a thin wallet, quickly poking through the contents. “Chinese okay?” 

Paul looked up at him when Daryl didn’t answer, sliding the wallet back into his pocket. “Anything you like? Anything you don’t like? It’s on me.”

Daryl bit at the inside of his cheek. “Anythin’s fine.”

Paul looked at him for a long moment that felt unduly heavy. Daryl’s leg twitched.

“Alright,” Paul said, eventually, turning to make his way towards the door. “You get started on that cypher before the phone dies again, and I’ll be back soon.”

Daryl’s teeth sunk down hard on the inside of his cheek. The burst of pain was sharp and bad enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

“I -” he said, butting himself off.

Paul paused by the door. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look anything other than quietly patient as he simply waited.

Daryl swallowed thickly, almost choking on his own saliva. His throat contracted painfully. “Don’t like them little shrimp things,” he said at last.

Paul huffed out a quiet laugh. His head dropped, looking at the ground before his gaze rose. His head was still lowered, and he looked at Daryl from under his lashes, the angle obscuring some of his features from Daryl’s view.

“Noted. I’ll be back soon.” Paul stepped outside, his fingers drumming against the door for a moment. “Don’t drink all the champagne without me.”

The door clicked shut and there was a whirring sound as the lock activated. Daryl looked at the bottle of champagne sitting in the ice bucket on the table, then down to the paper and pen lying on the couch beside him. Daryl shifted, fishing the cell phone from his pocket and turning it over in his hands. 

In the end he didn’t get straight to decoding the phone’s messages. He went and poked through the rest of the suite in Paul’s absence. It felt simultaneously easier on his own and like he was doing something illicit. He ended up in the shower. His clothes were so thick with grime they could have walked themselves to the washer. Daryl’s body underneath wasn’t much better. 

The water was hot. Actually hot. Not the kind of lukewarm you might get in summer, even with the water heater gone. Actually hot. The room filled with steam quickly and Daryl opened the various bottles lined up along the basin. He gave them a curious sniff, coughing at one, and blindly grabbing for the tiny packaged bar soap nestled next to the faucet instead. His skin turned pink under the heat of the spray, and Daryl scrubbed at his skin, sluicing away the layers of sweat and dirt that had accumulated over the weeks since he’d set out on this venture to clear Merle’s name. When his body was clean he ran the suds from the soap through the short tufts of his unkempt hair.

When he stepped out of the shower stall, he felt raw. His feet left wet puddles on the oversized mat and across the tiled floor where he stood. His clothes went straight into the washer. They’d even been provided with their own detergent to use and daryl tipped in two of the packets, hoping they’d come out clean enough. Some of that grime was so deeply ingrained into the fibres it would never leave. Daryl poked at the buttons until the machine rumbled to life. He took a step back, adjusting the wet towel around his waist and looked towards the open bedroom door. 

By the time Paul got back, Daryl was hunched over at the table, his body wrapped up in a fluffy white robe. The cell was laid out on the table and Daryl scratched away at the notepad, slowly transcribing what he could, sorting through the message threads one at a time, trying to find the right person.

“Hey,” Paul said, dropping the takeout bag onto the table and going to the kitchen for silverware. Daryl only grunted in reply. The smell of the food had his stomach rumbling and Daryl tore his eyes away from the tiny screen to look at the crinkled plastic bag and the containers he could make out through the semi-transparent plastic. 

“Did you make much headway?” Paul asked, dropping into the other seat, He placed a bowl in front of Daryl before reaching between them to start pulling containers from the bag. 

“Not enough,” Daryl said, pushing the cell phone, pad, and pen aside. “The dumbass code ain’t the half of it when ain’t none of us can spell for shit. Mightn’t even know what half them words’re s’posed to be even if they were spelled right.”

“I can take a look, if you want? Between the two of us we might be able to work it out.” 

The containers made a cracking sound as Paul peeled the lids off, setting them out across the table. There was an array of dishes Daryl had no clue about. The only thing he knew was the fried rice, and something that was noodle-based.

“Help yourself,” Paul said, already doing so himself. “I got a few different things to share. Nothing with shrimp.”

Daryl picked up his fork and reached for the closest dish. Meat in a red sauce so bright it was almost luminous. It smelled like a hundred restaurants he’d walked past, and, when he bit into it, it tasted even better. He reached out and dragged the rice closer, scoping some into his bow before spearing another round, fried ball of meat dripping red onto the white marbled table top.

“‘S a lot of food,” Daryl said, speaking around a full mouth of half-chewed food. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Paul said, looking at him from across the short distance. “And leftovers solve the hassle of having to go out again tomorrow night after work. We’ve got a refrigerator now, so we might as well use it.”

Daryl grunted and they ate the rest of their meal in silence. He ate more than he probably should have, but between this and the breakfast they’d had at the bar, Daryl had now eaten better in one day than he’d done in several months. He was almost regretful when they packed the food away, but his stomach was full to the point of being painful again. And he was guaranteed at least one meal tomorrow; that was something to look forward to.

Paul cracked open the champagne when he came to sit next to Daryl, dragging the chair around the table so they could both look over Daryl’s chicken-scratch writing on the notepad.

“Thought you weren’t drinkin’,” Daryl said. “Y’got work n’ all.”

“One glass isn’t gonna hurt,” Paul reasoned. He poured himself a glass, the bubbles fizzing. “The rest will keep for another day. You want some?”

Daryl shook his head. He wouldn’t be taking any more complimentary drinks from anyone any time soon. 

“I like the new look, by the way,” Paul said, his lip twitching as he looked at the thick, fluffy robe.

Daryl grunted, flicking the phone open again. “Got shit to do.”

Paul hummed, leaning in and picking through the lines of deciphered lettering.

–

It was late when they turned in. They’d found it. The address where Little Joey was staying. They'd found a hundred weird messages besides and Daryl suspected they might find something in there that could exonerate his brother, if he had time to comb through it all. But as it stood, Daryl was going to track down Little Joey in the morning, see if he couldn’t reason with the kid. Or, failing that, threaten him well enough to cow him into rolling on his own flesh and blood.

Daryl threw himself down onto the couch, his body bouncing before sinking into the plush cushions. His robe spread as he landed, and Daryl was still covering himself when Paul returned, pillow and blanket in hand.

“Uh,” Paul said, eloquently. He blinked, his eyes briefly on Daryl’s hands where he was hastily covering himself with the sides of the robe, before his gaze snapped up to meet Daryl’s own eyes. “Sorry. I’ve got your…” he raised the pillow and blanket before setting the blanket at the end of the couch and passing the pillow into Daryl’s hands.

Daryl grunted out a thanks, stuffing the ridiculously soft pillow behind his head before he leaned back. He threw his arms over the armrest behind him again, settling in.

“‘Night,” Daryl said, his voice rumbling out. He yawned, wide enough to make his jaw crack, and he rearranged himself slightly, wriggling his body against the cushion.

“I’ve got to leave early,” Paul said. “But I put your room key on the table.”

“G’luck,” Daryl said, feeling his tongue starting to feel heavy in his mouth, his speech slurring with exhaustion. “Puttin’ pockets n’ shit.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. Daryl’s eyes were closed, but he could hear the smile in Paul’s voice. There was a rustling sound, material moving, and then the blanket settled over Daryl’s body. 

“Goodnight,” Paul said, his footsteps fading until the closing door of the bedroom cut off the sound.

Chapter Text

Paul was being quiet. His movements were careful and deliberate to minimise the noise he made as he puttered around in the kitchen getting ready for the day. Daryl didn’t get up.He didn;t so much as stir. He was content to stay lying there, sprawled across the couch, face buried in the softest pillow he’d ever known. Daryl heard the door open and close, and still, he remained determinedly unmoving. 

It was only the sun that got him up. The persistent shining through a slit in the curtains that perfectly hit his closed eyes, burning the back of his eyelids bright red. Daryl groaned and sat up. He buried his feet in the short, soft fibres of the carpet and rubbed a hand over his face, as though in doing so he could scrub the sleep from his body. When he finally stood, his robe fell open and Daryl scratched at his abdomen before tying it haphazardly closed again. 

Daryl fished his wet clothes out of the washing machine and dropped them into the dryer. He listened to the sound of the button clasp on his pants clanging against the inside of the tumble dryer as he made his way to the bathroom. He hesitated as he stepped back into the hallway, his head turning towards the open bedroom door. It felt like an intrusion, but he moved towards it anyway, his feet moving without any conscious decision having been made, until suddenly he was standing at the bedside, shucking his robe and crawling into the tangled mess of bedding Paul had left behind. 

It wasn’t like Paul was using the bed anymore. The cleaning staff would give Paul fresh sheets anyway. Any trace of either of them would be washed away and replaced. It had gone cold in Paul’s absence, and Daryl buried his face in the plush, down pillow, splaying himself across the bed and taking up more room than he’d ever done in his life. But that only lasted a minute, before he crossed his arms on top of the blankets, pulling them tightly around himself. He breathed in, slow and deep, and sunk back into a much-needed sleep.

The high-pitched beeping of the tumble dryer roused him. The electronic green numbers on the digital clock on the bedside showed it was just after nine. Daryl grunted, blinking his bleary eyes and stretching out across the bed again, taking one last moment to enjoy the transient luxury before he lost it. He had places to be. If he knew Little Joey, and Daryl unfortunately did, then it wasn’t likely the kid was even awake yet. But Daryl didn’t want to miss his opportunity.

He stepped into clean and wrinkle-free clothes for the first time in longer than he could even remember. They were still warm and Daryl had forgotten how good that felt. Clean skin and warm clean clothes. A luxury he rarely had care or opportunity to indulge in. Like all good things, it never lasted. The leftovers wouldn’t last long, either, Daryl though as he nuked a bowlful of crispy fried pork and little else.

He ditched his bowl, dropping it into the dishwasher with a clatter, and moved to the table to fetch the notepaper with Little Joey’s address scrawled onto it in a mishmash of his and Paul’s handwriting. He paused when he saw it, though he couldn’t say why. The top page of the notepad now had a quick note from Paul. It only listed where he’d be for work and his cell number in case of an emergency, but it made something in the depths of his chest burn to see it. Daryl ripped the page from the notepad and, along with the piece that held Little Joey’s address, stuffed it into his pocket.

–

The house, when he found it, was a small, run down dump of a place. The short picket fence was chipped and splintered, and barely visible, buckling under an overgrown lawn, the grass now taller than the pickets. There was a cement path split with huge cracks that led up to the front door. One of the front windows had no glass and a cheap square of chipboard had been hammered over it to cover the hole.

The neighbourhood was by no means quiet. The dog across the street was barking its head off at the presence of Daryl’s truck, and down on the corner a group of kids were playing ball in an abandoned lot. The sounds of barking and laughter and shouting filled the air and Daryl slunk down in his seat and settled in to watch. It didn't take long for Daryl’s legs to start cramping up and, after another furtive look around the street, he gave in and got out of the truck.                                                     

If anyone was around they didn’t pay him any mind as he hopped the short fence and started wading through the long grass. Some unseen animal startled as Daryl made his way through the lawn, setting off a hurried rustling and disappearing into the distance. It gave Daryl pause, but only for a moment, and then he was plowing his way through the grass once more, heading for one of the side windows. He cupped his hands around his eyes to block out he glare as he peered through the glass. He could see the kitchen, small and galley styled, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, the wallpaper was sun-bleached and fading, and two of the cabinets he could see were missing their doors.

Slowly, Daryl made his way around the house, pushing his way through the old broken furniture and other debris littered throughout the grass. The only other window he could get a clear look through showed an older woman - Joey and Cutter’s mom, he knew - sitting on a couch, oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Daryl curled the house once more before going to the back door. The old wooden steps creaked under his weight as be made his way up the stoop. His hand curled around the door handle and, to his surprise, it turned easily, allowing him to push it open. 

It was dark inside and the air was thick and stuffy. Daryl could feel the dust in the air with every inhale, could taste it in the back of his throat. Daryl picked his way down the narrow hall, his feet landing carefully, testing the boards before putting his entire weight down onto them. The first door was a dilapidated old bathroom with stained tiles and the inescapable smell of mould, but the second door he tried yielded immediate results. The bedsheets rumpled and the person under the covers threw them off at the sound of the door creaking open on its old hinges. 

“I’ll be up in a minute mom,” a tired voice said, the words coasting on a groan. Bleary eyes blinked at Daryl before widening almost comically, his jaw dropping. “Oh, shit.”

Little Joey scrambled out of bed. His flailing legs tangled in the bed covers and he fell to the floor with a dull thump. It didn’t take him long to get his feet under himself again and launch himself towards the window, fingers hurrying to unlatch it and pushing it open wide enough to hop out. Daryl was quick, but as he reached out to snag Joey’s ankle all he got for his trouble was a kick to the chest, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. His fingers went lax for only a second, but it was enough for Joey to slip from his grasp and take off running through the yard. 

Daryl followed him through the window, a little slower and a lot less clumsily. And then they were both running. It was aggravating and cathartic all at once. They were running through the thick grass, dodging around the chaotic mess of detritus abandoned therein. Darly could feel his breathing quicken and his heart rate pick up. And, as much as Daryl was annoyed about the entire situation, as much as he was constantly aware of the axe hanging over his and Merle’s heads, how that axe could very much fall if Little Joey slipped through his fingers, Daryl was relieved to finally be doing something. He was finally taking all the pain and anger and guilt and whatever else was festering inside of him all these long months and letting it loose, feeling it burn away with every pounding step as he sprinted after Little Joey.

The fence at the back of the property wasn’t as low as it was at the front, and though Little Joey still cleared it easily, he fumbled the landing, his bare feet hitting the uneven ground in the laneway behind the house. It was stupid and it was a risk, but Daryl reached the top of the fence and used it to kick off, launching himself across the distance, his arms outstretched. Little Joey let out a panicked shriek as Daryl tackled him to the ground. It was jarring and knocked the wind out of them both. Joey squirmed and Daryl pushed him down harder into the dirt.

“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with, man, I swear!” Joey cried, his words muffled and slurred as his face was half-mashed into the dirt and gravel.

Daryl grunted, pressing down harder for good measure. “Didn’t do what, huh, Joey?”

“Shit man, I didn't even wanna be there, okay? This whole stupid thing was Cutter’s idea, I just wanted to get high and hang out, man, you know I gotta look after mom.”

“You saw what happened?” Daryl pressed, trying to rein in his anger and the rising hope that he was finally getting the answer to Merle’s problem.

“Yeah, man, I was there, alright? But I didn’t do shit all, I swear.”

“I let you up, you don’t try runnin.”

“Got nowhere to go. Mom can’t manage on her own, I gotta get back soon and you know where we’re at.”

“Spill your damn guts or I'll spill ‘em for you,” Daryl warned, though he let go, getting to his feet and stepping away.

Joey squeezed his eyes closed, his ragged breath sending up a small flurry of dirt into the air.  Slowly, he dragged himself up to his feet as well. He shot a look at Daryl before ducking his head, unable to maintain eye contact.

“You gonna start talkin’?”

The words were enough to make Joey visibly flinch. “It was just s’posed to be a B&E. Some of the profit we’d been savin’ from the business grew legs and Cutter was pissed as hell, man, you know how he gets. Got the idea in his head we could go big time, move up from drug running and get into weapons dealin’. That guy weren’t even s’posed to be home.”

“So you shot ‘im.”

“It was all Cutter, man. We were all freakin’. But he said he could make it go away. Merle’d screwed him over, the cops’d eat it up. We had some of his shit he’d left behind. All he had to do was set the scene, make it look halfway convincing, you know?”

“‘Cause the pigs wouldn’t dig any deeper.” Daryl let out a frustrated huff of breath. He crossed his arms to stop his hands from fidgeting. “Not if it’s Merle.”

“Yeah,” Little Joey agreed. He at least had the decency to look pitiful. It wasn’t enough.

“You saw this? Saw ‘em fuck up the scene?”

“Nah man.” Joey’s head shook emphatically. “I ran after the dude bit it.”

“But you saw enough to help clear Merle’s name, let ‘em know they got the wrong prick.”

“I can’t, man. Look, I’m real sorry your brother’s taking the hit for this, but if Cutter goes down so do I. We moved up here ‘cause we got family, but they got real jobs man, barely makin’ ends meet. They can’t look after ma, and she needs someone around. If I’m in lockup, she ain’t gonna make it through.”

“I’m real sorry ‘bout your momma, but you shoulda thought about her before you went n’ helped kill one guy and frame another,” Daryl volleyed back.

“What d’you want, man?” Little Joey asked, raising his arms to the side and looking defeated. “‘Cause I ain’t got nothin’. Someone’s gotta be here for mom, but her sister’s got her own family and Cutter’s still got his head up his ass thinkin’ he’s gonna be some kingpin out here when he’s already steppin’ on toes with the local dealers. Be lucky if he don’t wind up behind bars or sleepin’ in the Sound, the way shit’s goin’.”

“Don’t give two shits about your family when you’ve screwed mine over,” Daryl said, taking a step closer and watching the panic wash over Little Joey as he took a couple of hasty steps backwards. “You got any proof that Cutter did it?”

Little Joey swallowed, shrugging his shoulders. “Got it on video.”

Daryl felt like his entire brain short circuited. “The hell you just say?”

“We, uh, we got the whole thing on video,” Joey repeated. He shuffled uncomfortably, sweat starting to bead on his brow.

“You made a video of a B&E turned murder?” Daryl couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice or off his features.

“Cutter wanted to keep a record of his rise to infamy,” Little Joey explained. “Tell his story.”

Right,” Daryl said slowly. “And you still got this video? Didn’t destroy it?”

“Nah, it’s at the warehouse right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Daryl said, emphatically.

“I can help you get it tonight,” Little Joey said. “But you gotta let me wipe my prints off it. I’m not in the video and I’m not goin’ down for this shit. I didn’t sign up for murder.”

“Whatever,” Daryl said. “So long as it gets Merle out.”

“It will,” Little Joey assured. 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “You even think about rattin’ me out - ”

“I won’t! Shit, man, Cutter’s screwin’ everything up for us. Better you beatin’ down our door than the other dealers he’s pissin’ off. You get your brother out, I get mine put in, it all evens out, yeah? We’re all better off. Ma too.” 

“Fine. Warehouse is usually empty after noon.”

“You know about the warehouse?” 

Daryl scoffed, staring him down.

“Right. Uh, anyone’s been there overnight they’ll be packed up and gone ‘round lunch. Gonna have to keep an eye out ‘fore they come back.” Little Joey scratched at the prickly hairs covering his neck and Daryl turned to leave, taking barely two steps down the alleyway, gravel crunching under his boots, when Joey coughed, adding, “But, uh, Cutter knows you’re in town.”

Daryl paused, turning back to Little Joey. 

“Sorry, man. If you were tryin’ to lay low it didn’t work. Cutter’s seen you. Told us all to keep an eye out. Thought maybe you’d come to rain down some vengeance or somethin’.”

“He said to watch out ‘cause I might be here to kill y’all, and you left your door unlocked?”

Little Joey shrugged, looking sheepish. “I woulda outrun you if I’d’ve had my sneakers on.”

Daryl sighed internally, rolling his eyes. It was going to be a long day, he could feel it. 

–

He had a good couple of hours to kill and Daryl could have done near about anything with the time he had. But, he knew where Paul would be. That alone was somehow enough to have him driving towards the inner city. Even in the crowd, and the broad expanse of area Paul had said he’d be working, it didn’t take Daryl long to find him. He couldn’t fathom how Paul managed to slip so unobtrusively between so many people, how he could go unnoticed when Daryl could do nothing but notice him. Every single movement Paul made drew Daryl’s eye like he couldn’t help but appreciate the way he simply existed in a space. But there he was, moving through the crowd, occasionally bumping into someone, and barely getting more than a glance in return. How anyone could see him and not be somehow mesmerised made no sense.

Their eyes met and it felt like the world went still for a second, while everything inside Daryl shifted. And then Paul’s gaze shifted and he resumed winding his way through the crowd. But Daryl was still there, glued to the spot and reeling all at once. He’d never felt like this about anyone before, and he’d barely known Paul three days. But then, he’d never been married to anyone before either. Or met anyone who’d gone out of their way to help him. For free, no less. 

“You gotta stick around here?” Daryl asked, when Paul came to a stop, brushing his shoulder against Daryl’s. “Or you got free rein?”

“I’ve got an area I’m supposed to work,” Paul said, stepping around him to clear the sidewalk. His gaze flicked over Daryl from head to toe, assessing, for a moment. “But it’s the kind of job I can work from the juice bar. You want anything?”

“Goddamn juice,” Daryl muttered.

“Juice should be easy enough to find in a juice bar,” Paul said, his fingers trailing along the inside of Daryl's wrist. Somehow Daryl could feel the after effects of that light contact all the way to his toes. “I’ll even damn it myself, if I have to.”

Daryl rolled his eyes but fell into step, letting Paul lead the way. It wasn’t until they’d ducked under the shade of the bar’s awning, drinks in hand that Daryl rehashed what had happened that morning.

“You’re gonna break into a warehouse full of drugs and weapons, when the gang who owns those drugs and weapons recently murdered someone and they’re looking for you?” Paul raised an eyebrow at him.

Daryl shrugged, looking out at the people milling around. “‘S the long n’ short of it.”

“And you trust Little Joey? He could be handing you right to the guy who set your brother up.”

“He’s a dumbass,” Daryl conceded. “But he ain’t the same kinda dumbass as his brother.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Paul said, carefully conversational, like he knew the eggshells he was walking all over. “I might just be the light fingered gentry they trot out to demonstrate how easy it is to be pickpocketed in public spaces, to make people a little more aware of themselves and the world around them, and I might have put what little in I’ve got on the line with that photo, but I’ve still got an in, Daryl. You’ve found what you needed, let the cops take it from here.”

It didn’t matter how lightly Paul was treading, Daryl could feel those eggshells cracking all around him. 

“You think I’m gonna trust any of those pigs to do jack?’ Daryl asked, his entire body felt prickly and he could feel the urge to move coursing through him. He barely refrained from launching into motion, pacing a hole in the sidewalk like he wanted. Anything but stand there, still, and listen to this.

“You’re gonna have to trust them enough to hand the evidence over anyway,” Paul pointed out. “You might as well let them take the risk, while they’re at it.”

“Can’t,” Daryl refuted, with a firm shake of his head. “You wanna help, you could come with.” 

And until the words were out of his mouth, Daryl didn’t realise how much he was hoping for that, how much he wanted to spend more time with Paul no matter what kind of a risk it was, how much he wanted Paul to feel the same way. 

“I…” Paul looked away, his gaze fixing on something in the distance, but his eyes were unfocused, unseeing. “I want to help you, Daryl. I do. But I can’t. Not like this.”

And just like that, Daryl felt his stomach plummet. It was only the droplets of condensation forming on the outside of his cup, the cool rivulets they tracked over his fingers, that kept him present.

“I’ve gotten into my own share of trouble in the past. Small things, mostly. And I’ve made mistakes. The kind that fuck up your life for years . I’m not a P.I. and I don’t know anything about drug running. I… I want to help you Daryl, but I’m still just a delinquent kid still trying to figure out how to keep afloat. What I’ve got isn’t much. I show businesses how to reduce shrinkage. I get to do entertainment events. I teach kids karate classes and a women’s self defence course on weekends. It’s not much, but I like it. For the longest time I didn’t think I’d ever have something good. I’ve come close to losing it already. I can’t. Not when there’s another way.”

“I already lost everything. Ain’t gonna stop ‘til I get my brother back,” Daryl said, already taking a step back, putting some much needed space between them. “Only asked you to swipe the phone. You’re off the hook. No need to go putin’ your neck on the line for my dumbass brother.”

“I’d put my neck on the line for my dumbass husband, though,” Paul said. 

Daryl swallowed, looking away. He hadn’t been there long, but he’d seen how much Paul seemed to enjoy the work, how good he was at it. That could all be lost if Daryl’s venture got them arrested. Paul had already risked a lot getting the phone for him. Probably lost some work because of that photo. One that never would have been taken if they’d not met that day. Or if Paul had turned him down. And, Daryl was coming to realise, Paul had never turned him down. Not for anything he’d asked. And he knew, then, that he’d already asked too much. And soon - far too soon - they’d be divorced. They weren’t anything more than temporary. They were never meant to last.

“And if one of us was arrested, well, I guess there’s always those conjugal visits to look forward to.”

Paul’s smile was loose, but the lines around his eyes were tight. Daryl could see it for what it was: a dumb joke to mask his own concern. But it hit too close to what Daryl might actually want from him, and so far from what they’d ever actually be. He could let it go. He could laugh it off.

“This is your fault,” Daryl said, instead. He immediately felt like an ass, but he couldn’t stop. It was too late.

“Uh, excuse me?” Paul looked at him, incredulous, his lips thinning in disapproval.

“Bein’ my husband. You wrote our real names on that form. Could’ve put down a fake one.”

“You know, my memory might be a little hazy still, but I’m pretty sure you wrote your own details in there. You could have written a fake name.” Paul sighed, turning his head away for a moment, collecting himself. “I thought it would be funny. I honestly didn’t think it would go this far.”

Daryl was silent for a moment, his eyes dropping to the floor. The tiles were lightly scuffed but so brilliantly reflective it had to have been buffed recently. 

“Yeah, well, so long as this shit stays in Connecticut. Can’t have this followin’ me. Can’t have you…” Daryl shrugged, letting out a grunt. The drink sloshed in his hand and sticky juice dripped down his wrist, leaving an itch on his newly-dampened skin. “Can’t have this thing with you followin’ me home.”

Paul looked at him for a long, weighted moment. Daryl could feel the way Paul’s gaze assessed him. He fidgeted, fingers twitching so much he almost let the drink slip from his hand. 

“You can’t have me following you home because you don’t want to see me again, or because of what people will think?” Paul asked, at last. Daryl felt the question like a punch to the chest. He stared down at the bright blue curly straw winding out from the top of his drink and felt his stomach churn.

“Because - and this might be the trauma bonding we’ve experienced talking  - but marital status aside, I feel like we’re on our way to being friends,” Paul continued. It was only then that Daryl realised they’d come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, people moving around them like a rushing river around a steadfast boulder.

“Ain’t like any friend I ever had,” Daryl mumbled.

“Is that a bad thing?” Paul asked, his voice careful, too gentle. Like Daryl was being handled with kid gloves. 

Daryl swallowed, almost choking on nothing again. “No,” he admitted, his voice rough and low. “Ain’t a bad thing.”

Paul was quiet for a moment, long enough that Daryl glanced up at him, their gazes catching. 

“We’ll fix this thing up for your brother, get the divorce process started,” Paul said. “After that, if you never want to see me again, that’s fine. I don’t want to make things difficult for you with your family. But if you ever find yourself outside of Georgia again…”

“Thing is,” Daryl said, slowly, unlocking the words like a secret best kept deep inside his throat. “I don’t think I can walk away from this. From you.”

Paul’s eyes were piercing; sharp and precise and they dug right down into the very heart of him with one look. Daryl could feel it like a raw wound, like the kind of pain he wanted to tumble headfirst into. 

“Do you want to walk away?” was Paul’s only question. 

Daryl’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding so ardently he could feel it in his entire body, could feel the thumping of it swelling to a crescendo inside his ears. “No,” he rasped out.

“That’s all I need to know,” Paul replied. His eyes were filled with an intensity that made Daryl squirm, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. 

Paul took a large gulp of his drink and Daryl found his eyes following the movement of Paul’s lips, watching his throat work. He felt warmer than he should in such mild weather.

“I have to get back to it,” Paul said, and Daryl dragged his gaze back up to Paul’s lips, lingering there far too long before finally rising to meet Paul’s eyes. Paul was watching him back, something curious now in the clear depths of blue. “I have to give a talk at the end of all this. Usually I like to start these things by doing a few quick grabs and, when I reach the podium, ask if anyone’s missing their watch. But that doesn’t always go down well with an audience full of cops.”

“Can’t hardly think why.” 

Paul grinned at him, and Daryl could feel his own lips twitch in response.

“You’ve got my number,” Paul said. “You don’t owe me anything and I know I’m not your keeper. But if you go through with this - if something goes wrong - just let me know and I’ll send in the cavalry.”

“I got it handled,” Daryl said, brushing him off. 

Paul paused, his agile fingers drumming a rhythm against the side of his cup. “I can call it off. Tell them I had an emergency and back you up out there.”

It was tempting, in the same way everything about Paul was. He’d never met someone so difficult to resist in all his years.

“Nah,” Daryl managed, eventually. “I got it covered.”

“You’re sure?” Paul asked. His eyes held a mixture of curiosity and concern as he reached out, the pads of his fingers brushing over Daryl’s wrist.

“‘M sure,” Daryl replied. “You got work to do. And that stuff for tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Paul agreed. Taking a half a step back, his hand falling to his side. “But if you get in a jam…”

“I got your number.”

Paul’s palm was warm where it squeezed Daryl’s shoulder, and it left a wave of shivers across Daryl’s skin when that palm ran down the length of his arm, stopping to rub at the sensitive skin at the inside of his wrist. 

“Yeah, you do,” Paul said. His voice was low and his eyes were intense as he met Daryl’s own. Daryl could feel it, the urge to sway back into Paul’s space, and he countered it by taking a step back, moving away instead. Paul’s hand fell away from him and, after a long, protracted moment where it felt like their eyes might burn right through one another, Paul turned, moving back into the stream of people walking past.

Chapter Text

Once they were seated, the van started without issue. They drove in a straight shot down the road, following the dip of the valley until the walkers were no longer visible in the mirrors. Nothing around them but trees on one side and open sprawling fields on the other. Daryl wound down the window and immediately regretted it when the wind whipped Paul’s hair directly into Daryl’s eyes and mouth. With a grunt of irritation, Daryl reached up and started gathering the wild, whipping tendrils of hair that were waving erratically around Paul’s head. 

“You got a tie or some shit in one of them pockets?”

Paul made a thoughtful little sound. “If only someone hadn’t thrown my beanie out on the road,” he said, all pleasant and very pointed about it.

“You got a tie or you want me to cut it off.” It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Still, Paul shifted his hips, his fingers digging around. Soon, Paul’s fingers were running through the hair over his skull, gathering the loose bits Daryl had missed. Their hands bumped together, and then Paul was pushing Daryl’s hands gently out of the way. He leaned forward and twisted his hair up into a bun before tying it off.

And then Daryl was met with the problem that was the appealing line of Paul’s exposed neck. He had to shift his head to avoid being smacked in the face with a ridiculous bun anyway, so it made sense to duck his head down and press the tip of his nose to Paul’s neck, breathing in the thick and heavy scent of his sweat. Paul only leaned back into it, shifting to lay his head back to give Daryl more room. And Daryl could feel the beads of perspiration that dripped from Paul’s hairline roll down his neck, waylaid by Daryl’s nose. It tickled his skin, but it was a solid reminder that Paul was alive and warm and well and in his arms. Daryl didn’t know how he’d manage to let go again.

“I gotta ask,” Rick said, turning his head away from the road to look at Daryl. “Did Merle know?”

The cab went silent. Paul went carefully still in Daryl’s lap, no longer moving for the first time since they’d gotten into the van. Daryl turned his head away, looking out the window instead, as if there was any salvation out there for him. He worried his thumb over the stubble below his lip before biting at the nail, tearing it so low it stung painfully.

“I take it you met him?” Paul asked, after a minute of stilted silence.

Rick made an affirmative sound. “I had the pleasure, very briefly. Got the impression he might not take too kindly to a, uh, same-sex union.”

Daryl couldn’t do much more than try to swallow down his own pain. It left his throat feeling too tight.

“No,” Paul answered in his stead. “It wasn’t exactly safe for Daryl’s family to know about me. About us.”

Rick made another small sound, somehow managing to convey sympathy and understanding without words. Daryl sighed, turning away from the window. He closed his eyes, pressing his nose behind the shell of Paul’s ear and taking a long, deep inhale against his neck. The scent of him was steadying in a way Daryl had never understood but had missed like a lost limb. Paul’s hand came to rest on Daryl’s, twining their fingers where it rested over Paul’s chest.

“You waited ‘til we were drivin’ just to ask that,” Daryl said, when he felt settled enough to form words again. “Could’ve done it while we were out stretchin’ our legs.”

“I’ll admit,” Rick said, slowly. “I thought my best bet would be to ask when it was harder for you to run away.”

“I don’t run away,” Daryl muttered.

“Yeah you do,” Paul and Rick said in unison, before sharing a quick look with one another. 

Daryl grumbled under his breath. He shifted his legs, feeling Paul’s entire body move with it before they got comfortable again. “Merle knew,” he admitted.

“What?” Paul asked. He turned in Daryl’s lap as much as the space would allow, but it didn’t allow for much at all. “He found out? Was it someone in prison? Cutter?”

“No, uh,” Daryl grunted, clearing his throat. “I told ‘im.”

Daryl could hear the shift in Paul's breathing. More than that, he could feel it. The rise and stuttering fall of his chest under Daryl’s palm. The angle made it difficult to meet eyes, but they did, and what Daryl could see was wonder radiating out Paul with such sharp precision he could almost hear the tumult of questions that were undoubtedly swirling around inside Paul’s mind. But he didn’t voice them. Daryl knew better than to believe Paul wouldn’t voice them. He knew the second they had even a sliver of privacy, Paul would be looking for answers.

Rick made a small non-committal sound and nodded, his head bobbing ridiculously for a moment.

“Can’t imagine that was an easy conversation.”

“It weren’t,” Daryl grunted out. He wanted to hunch down in his seat, but all that did was rock Paul’s ass against his groin even more. “Was a goddamned shitshow.”

“But you mended things,” Rick prompted. “The two of you were close when we first met.”

“Had a fight about it. ‘Not a day later, I heard the voice message. Thought Paul was dead.” Daryl huffed out a small sound, fingers twitching against the side of his cheek where he could feel the ghost of the memory of Merle’s fist cracking his jaw. 

Paul’s movements were slow. He was projecting them carefully in case Daryl spooked or he wanted to reject the touch. Daryl closed his eyes and let it happen. He could feel Paul’s bare hand against his jaw, his thumb making a soothing gesture along the line of Daryl’s stubble before he captured Daryl’s fingers in his own. The touch was a simple one, but Daryl could feel it all the way to his chest. He could feel the burn of tears sitting hot behind his eyes.

“You were gone,” Daryl said quietly. “Without you none of it - none of it mattered. Was easier to – “ 

Daryl shrugged a shoulder, unable to finish the sentiment.

“It was easier to go back to following him around,” Paul said quietly. “It was easier to go back to the way things were before I showed up.’

Daryl’s skin was hot, burning painfully, and his throat was so tight he thought he might choke from the inside out.

“Didn’t have anythin’ else left. Couldn’t - couldn’t lose him too.”

“You never should have had to lose him,” Paul said, softly. “Whether I was in your life or not.”

Daryl didn’t know what to do with that. He’d known for a long damn time that everything about his existence was predicated on falling into line with someone else’s expectations. You step out of line, you get beat. Or, worse, you get left behind. The day he’d fully realised that his life didn’t matter was one he could remember vividly, even amidst the haze of drugs and drink. The sharp pain of the sucker punch landing in the soft part of his gut, the wheezing terror of not being able to breath. He could hear Merle’s braying laugh as he wretched, vomit pouring from him while he still couldn’t get a single breath in. He could remember the rough scratch of the frayed old carpet when he’d fallen to the floor, how it itched against his skin. The foul stench of mildew and old rot somehow overpowering the sharp, sour tang of his own bile still choking from his mouth. He could have died while Merle laughed, the fight he was having with the dealer already over and forgotten while Daryl blacked out on the ground.

He’d never known what to do with Paul. Paul who kept rearranging things to make room for Daryl to exist alongside him. Who treated Daryl like he mattered. And then the group. The family he’d made. The way they’d asked his opinion like it mattered, laughed at his jokes like they found them funny. The way they always shifted around each other to make space. The implicit understanding that each and every one of them would have the others’ backs. Slowly, he’d grown too used to actually mattering. He still didn’t know what to do with it.

The van’s cab plunged back into a deep silence that continued for the rest of the drive. Stifling as it was in the van, Daryl didn’t know if that was better or worse than the prospect of getting out of the van and onto the populated streets of their home. When the walls of Alexandra appeared in the near distance, the apprehension truly set it.  The gate rattled as it rolled open, and everything would have felt absurdly normal, entirely mundane , if not for the weighty presence of Paul’s body atop his own.  

Rick was already out and greeting the group who’d been on gate duty by the time Paul opened their own door. Paul didn’t seem fazed at all by the situation. Nothing about the prospect of meeting an entire community of strangers, of being the subject of their gawking and gossip seemed to concern him at all. It was Daryl. It was Daryl whose hands were still clutching at Paul’s body, holding him close and in place that slowed their exit. Paul humoured him for a minute, but with the click of the door unlatching all of that was broken. 

Paul didn’t speak, but he turned his head, eyes meeting Daryl’s as he leaned, his arm still outstretched and holding the door. With a grunt, Daryl slowly released his hold and Paul jumped down from the cab, turning on the blacktop to wait for Daryl to clamber out with far less elegance.

“You’ll have to introduce me,” Paul said, so casual and easy, as he clapped a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. The touch lingered, fingers massaging into the muscle there before settling. “We should help unload this haul, though. Make a good first impression.”

He went to take a step, but stopped when Daryl didn’t move with him. There were voices. Rosita and Abraham, he recognised, their footsteps already headed towards the van to check out the supplies they’d brought back and get it all taken down to Olivia for her to inventory. Paul stepped towards him and Daryl found himself leaning back against the van, his head falling if only to avoid the look in Paul’s eyes.

“Daryl,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “You don’t have to introduce me.”

Daryl shook his head, pressing back hard against the van, hearing the metal warble under his weight.

“Barely got a chance to… Didn't hardly get time to sort all this out and now everyone else’s gonna be in our business and I don’t – “

“Hey,” Paul’s hands were firm and strong as he held Daryl by the biceps. He ducked to look up at Daryl, hunched over himself as he was. “We’re good. Now that I’ve found you, you’re not getting rid of me again.”

“Ain’t had to do this shit before. ‘Cept with Merle.”

Daryl took a slow breath, feeling the smooth, hot metal of the van pressed against his back. It had heated up enough from hours spent under the sun that Daryl could feel it burning his skin through his vest and shirt. The exposed parts of his shoulders and arms would be reddening even as he stood there, he knew. Paul’s hands moved, shifting to cup Daryl’s jaw in his hands. Slowly, he moved Daryl’s face until his hair no longer obscured his face from Paul’s view.

He’d known what Merle’s reaction would be when he’d told him. Daryl had turned the possibilities over in his mind a thousand times before deciding to do it anyway. That whatever the hell new thing was burgeoning between his on-paper husband outweighed the fall out. He’d expected it and he’d prepared himself for it. But when he’d left the gates of Alexandria this morning he hadn’t been expecting to return home with a husband and a very public coming out.

“You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to. I don’t expect you to.”

“I ain’t –” Daryl huffed, biting at the inside of his cheek. “Ain’t ashamed. That don’t mean I wanna chat about it with every nosy goddamn nancy in this place.”

“These are your people. Your friends. Family. They’d have to know by now that you’d rather bite off your own tongue than share personal details about yourself.” Paul’s smile was small and sombre, but his eyes were so very bright. Paul pressed the pad of his thumb to Daryl’s lower lip, running it along the crease. “But we’ll see if we can’t get these tight lips to loosen just a little.”

Daryl breathed heavily out of nose, catching Paul’s wrist in his hand and moving it away from his mouth. On the other side of the van he could hear Abraham and Rosita coming to a stop and the back door unlatching. 

“Saw you brought home more than just supplies,” Rosita said. 

“Who’s the new guy?” Abraham added.

Daryl squeezed his hand tighter around Paul’s wrist and moved. He lurched forward, dragging Paul along with him, out past the back of the van and out into the open area at the front of Alexandra. 

“Looked like you had a cosy ride home,” Rosita said, her eyes dropping straight to Daryl’s hand where he was gripping onto Paul. 

“Give me a few minutes,” Rick said, “and I’ll clear out the house. Give you some privacy, see if I can’t pick you up some supplies from inventory on the way.”

Daryl raised his middle finger and kept moving, dragging Paul behind him. 

“Not even gonna help with the supplies?” Rosita’s voice was dry, but he knew her well enough to hear the interest underneath her words.

“Got some place else to be,” Daryl said.

“Who the hell’s the new guy?” 

“Hi, I’m Jesus!” Paul called back, with a broad wave, stumbling when he slowed and Daryl didn’t. Daryl grunted, and Paul quickened his pace doing a quick skip to catch up. 

“So,” Paul said, as Daryl hurried him down the street, ignoring the looks of the various passers by. “If we’re not going to your place, where are we going?”

Daryl didn’t answer, only steered them down street after street of picture perfect homes. Each of them far nicer than anything Daryl or Paul would have ever hoped to so much as rent back when the world was normal. Paul was looking, taking it all in. The houses, the lawns, the clean and finely dressed people walking down the sidewalks like they were extras in a feel-good commercial for multivitamins. Daryl took a sharp turn and pulled Paul up the stairs onto a porch. Stopping in front of the door, Daryl jabbed his index finger against the doorbell. The bell hadn’t even finished chiming when he thumped his fist against the door instead.

“Can we use your guest bedroom?” Daryl asked, point blank, when Aaron opened the door. 

Aaron’s eyebrows shot up so high they almost connected with his hairline. He looked from Daryl, to Paul, and back to Daryl again.

“Sure?” he said, his voice rising at the end in uncertainty. “Come in.”

Daryl still had a hold on Paul’s wrist and he dragged him across the threshold and past Aaron. The door shut behind them and then Aaron was turning to face them again. 

“Sorry, we haven’t met,” Aaron said. “You must have just joined us today?”

“Got here about five minutes ago,” Paul confirmed. “I’m Jesus.”

“Jesus,” Aaron repeated, his eyes not getting any less wide. If they opened any further, Daryl was half certain they’d bear witness to his eyeballs popping clean out of their sockets.

“Christ. His name’s Paul,” Daryl interrupted.

Paul nodded, resting a hand on Daryl’s shoulder that felt annoyingly placating. 

“But everyone calls me Jesus.” Paul turned to look at Daryl, his eyes sparkling and his smile both fond and amused. “Except you.”

“Right,” Aaron said slowly. “Sorry if this is rude, but I get the impression you two have met before.”

Daryl grunted, a tired, frustrated sound. He raised Paul’s arm between them. “Husband,” he said, watching Aaron struggle to rein in his reaction to that news. Paul wiggled his fingers in greeting.

“... Your husband?”

“‘S what I said,” Daryl said, curt and irritated.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Paul said. 

“Likewise,” Aaron said, still looking poleaxed. “And you need my guest bedroom because the bedroom you’ve got at your house is…” 

“You wanna try havin’ a private conversation in that house?” Daryl asked. He watched the emotions flicker across Aaron’s face with an idle fascination. Rick and Carl were both surprisingly adept eavesdroppers with not nearly enough of a concept of personal boundaries and everybody knew it.

“Good point,” Aaron conceded. “Well, uh, I’ll leave you to it. Help yourself to anything you need. I’m heading out for a while, but I’ll be back in about an hour unless you want me to… steer clear for longer. There’s, uh. There’s lube in the master bedroom, but if you want condoms –”

“Christ’s sake,” Daryl grumbled. “Why’s everyone think we’re tryin’ to screw. We just gotta talk.”

“Well, hey now, let’s not take screwing completely off the table just yet,” Paul protested, though Daryl could hear the laugh in his voice as he said it.

“You ain’t helpin’.”

“Agree to disagree, hubby.”

Daryl’s entire face screwed up. “Don’t.”

“That’s fair. We can do better than ‘hubby’.”

“Quit talkin’.”

“I thought that’s what we came here to do.”

“Alright,” Aaron cut in, stepping around them. “I’ll just..” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the door. He ran a hand through his hair, tousling the waves. “I owe Eric a kitchen remodel now.”

The door closed behind him and suddenly Daryl and Paul were alone again. All the eagerness and adrenaline that had pushed Daryl to hurry them all the way there, disappeared the second they were alone.

“He’s cute.” Paul said, turning away from the door to look at Daryl again.

Daryl bit the inside of his cheek, turning things over in his head before he gave Paul’s arm a gentle tug.He let go and lead the way to the staircase, Paul falling into step beside him like he belonged there. “Steady down, Casanova, he’s married.”

“So am I, in case you forgot.”

“Yeah, but he’s a sight more serious about it than…” Daryl sucked in a breath, shooting a look at Paul. There was a resigned expression on his face, slipping slowly behind a blank mask.

“We weren’t serious. And we didn’t take it seriously because it wasn’t meant to last longer than a divorce would take.” Paul stopped, his foot resting on the top step as he looked at Daryl. “I never wanted anything serious, and then I found myself getting serious about you.”

Daryl swallowed thickly. “C’mon,” he said, taking another step down the hallway, his boots leaving dirt on the clean, beige carpet, towards the guest bedroom.

Chapter Text

It hadn’t been a long day, but it sure as shit felt like it had been. He was back, truck parked in the same alley he’d spent so much time holed up in before meeting Paul. Staring at the warehouse again. This time with company. And not even close to the company he would have preferred.

“They’re takin’ their sweet time in there,” Daryl grumbled. His elbow was resting on the door, and his fingers were settled in front of his mouth.“Thought you said they’d be out by now.”

“Hey, man, they usually are,” Little Joey replied. “It’s been a while since I’ve been around. Maybe they got more people ‘round since Cutter saw you’re in town.”

Daryl grunted, eyes fixed on the warehouse, looking for any sign of movement.

“Can’t we just put some music on?” Little Joey asked. He didn’t even wait for a response, reaching across Daryl to try and start the engine. Daryl smacked his hand away before pressing his palm to Joey’s chest and shoving him forcefully back against the passenger seat where he belonged.

“Fine! Whatever, man.” Little Joey threw his hands up in surrender. 

“Shut up and pipe down.”

It took another five minutes, but that was longer than Daryl would have liked, stuck in the truck waiting. Then the door to the warehouse opened and two of Cutter’s crew left, locking up behind them. Daryl barely waited until they’d turned the corner and disappeared from immediate sight before he was out of the truck and crossing the street. Joey was running after him, throwing the hood of his sweatshirt over his head as he jogged towards the warehouse. 

“You got a key?” Daryl asked, his gaze roaming over the facade of the building.

“Don’t need one,” Joey said and, before Daryl could even react, the kid had already picked up a cinder block from the ground. Daryl watched it sail through the air and smash through the front window with a crash loud enough to wake the dead. Daryl grabbed a handful of the back of Joey’s sweatshirt and yanked him back, turning and poking a finger into the kid’s chest. 

“There’s people around,” Daryl said, urgent and irritated, but keeping his voice low. 

“You think anyone out here gives a shit?” Little Joey asked, pushing past Daryl. He poked his arm through the hole, barely avoiding the shards of glass around the outside, to unlock the window and pull it open. “Ain’t like we’re gonna sit down for a nice cold glass of tea. Get in, get gone, right?”

Daryl grumbled, but spared only a quick, cursory look around the street before climbing inside after Joey. There were old couches and armchairs pushed around one corner of the large room. Stuffing poked out from the faded and torn fabric in dulled shades of orange and green and brown. The floor was littered with bottles and a portable cooktop was sitting on the ground, surrounded by some sketching-looking cooking equipment. Daryl bypassed it, heading for the crates. 

He felt like a detective. Not one of the ones from some old noir, cool despite their flaws and always prepared for something to go awry, a quip loaded and ready on the tip of their tongue. More like the Hardy Boys; cool, maybe, if you were a dweeb in elementary school. 

“Feel like goddamn Nancy Drew in this shit,” Daryl grumbled, shoving loose filler out of the way as he rummaged through the crates.

“That’s fuckin’ gay,” Little Joey informed him. 

And Daryl knew from experience that his father had agreed with that sentiment. Daryl had read a couple of the books one summer. The library had been one way to keep away from home when it was raining. The librarian was kind. Didn’t complain about the rain water he tracked inside, and, after the first day, she even gave him some change to buy a snack at the newsstand outside. She’d talked to him, listened like it wasn’t a burden to hear him speak. She’d picked out book recommendations to keep him busy during the day and set him up with a card to take one out on loan. No one paid that much attention at home unless Daryl made too much noise or was in the way, or he was being beat. Will Dixon was too absorbed in himself and his own moods to go rummaging through Daryl or Merle’s things. He wouldn’t have cared if they’d been running a cartel out of the back bedroom, would have only taken his cut and called it rent. 

But he cared that he found Daryl reading a book with a girl on the cover, and not the pinup kind, either. He’d cared about the name ‘Nancy’ in bold font above her, too. Daryl had gotten a lashing with the lamp cord, because it was closest, but it wasn’t anything Daryl hadn’t gotten used to. What had actually hurt wasn’t having the book ripped from his hands, either, nor being smacked across the face with it. It was watching his father toss the book into the kitchen sink and drop a lit match on top. 

None of the things his father had ever tried to beat out of him had ever truly left Daryl. They were carved into the scars on his body, and he had buried them deep inside the damaged skin. They had been buried under new skin, a rough layer between Daryl and the outside world. Unseen beyond the ugliness that raised them, tarnished him inside and out. A mark for every way he was wrong. For every way he’d never be right.

“Fuck off,” Daryl said, slamming a cover down on another crate of mismatched firearms. “The hell’s this camera?” 

“Got it!” Little Joey crowed, pumping a fist in the air. Daryl moved across the room towards him so fast his feet barely touched the ground, and then he snatched the camcorder from Joey’s hands, poking and prodding until it played back the recording. 

“Gpddamn dumbass son of a whore,” Daryl muttered. Cutter really had recorded the break and enter and the murder. Cutter really had kept the footage. Daryl was grateful for stupidity, but damn…

“Hey now that’s my momma you’re talkin’ about,” Joey said, though he didn’t seem too concerned. 

The wail of sirens in the distance started approaching far too close to be a coincidence and Daryl was already in motion, casting a quick glance around as he made his way towards the window. 

“Told you people were watchin’,” Daryl snapped. But there wasn’t anything to be done. Joey looked like he was five seconds from wetting himself as it was, and Daryl wasn’t sticking around. He slid out through the window, camcorder still in hand, and turned long enough to make sure Joey was clear before he took off, racing back to the truck. 

He had the engine turning over within seconds and then he was gone, reversing out of the laneway even as Little Joey ran towards him. 

“Oh, fuck you too, prick!” Joey shouted after him. Daryl felt a moment of guilt, but it was fleeting. Joey only stopped, darting a glance around, before taking off again. If nothing else, he might distract the cops long enough for Daryl to slip past unnoticed. 

He slowed the truck, driving just under the speed limit and watching the patrol cars speed past, sirens wailing and lights flashing. No one stopped him, no one even paid him any mind, and Daryl navigated through the streets back towards the hotel. It wasn't that he wanted to wind up in cuffs himself, but it felt anticlimactic after all the anticipation building up to this moment. He had the evidence now. The camcorder sat on the passenger seat, small but so very significant. The key to getting the murder charge dropped. They key to getting Merle released. Soon he’d be headed back home, setting it all in motion.

But as Daryl unlocked the door to the hotel room and placed the camcorder on the table beside Cutter’s burner phone, he didn’t feel the sense of relief he’d been expecting. He wanted to get back and bail Merle out. It’s what he’d come all this way to do. But despite that, a part of him didn’t want to go home, either. Wanted to drag this out a little longer. And he couldn’t help but feel awash with guilt and shame at that very thought.

He needed a drink.

After a moment of indecision, Daryl wrote a note to Paul telling him where he was headed. And then he left.

–

Daryl didn’t have much money left, but he went to one of the shitty dive bars on the fringes of the city limits. Two cheap as shit beers in, he was feeling a little less wrung out, a little looser in his limbs. He left his empty bottles on the table and headed for the back door, slipping out into the darkened alley. 

He didn’t think he’d been there that long, but apparently it had been long enough for the sun to set. Daryl watched the street lights flick on, out in the distance, beyond the mouth of the alleyway. He dug out his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. It felt like a relief just to set the cigarette between his lips, to feel it clinging to his skin, the anticipation of the smoke almost as good as smoking itself.

He slid the lighter back into his pocket, taking a long, deep drag of the cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs like a warm wash of relief, before being cast back out into the cool evening air, curling from his lips and trailing off into night. The door beside him opened and the hair on the back of his neck prickled immediately, his muscles tensing in anticipation. 

“Well if it ain’t the youngest Dixon,” an all-too-familiar voice greeted him. Daryl took another drag of his cigarette before looking over, taking the time to steady himself. It had been a couple hours since the warehouse had been raided. Daryl had been absurdly lucky already, it stood to reason that luck was all running out now.

“Cutter,” Daryl said, the closest thing to a greeting he was willing to give. 

“You’re an awful long way from home, a man can’t help noticing.”

Daryl grunted, watching the ember burn away at the tip of his cigarette. “Could say the same to you.”

Cutter let out a sharp bark of laughter. It was a sound that was all edges and Daryl could almost convince himself that he could feel it, could barely hold back the flinch as the sound sliced its way into his ears and lodged somewhere painful behind his lungs.

“Heard your brother’s gotten himself into some trouble.”

He was goading. Daryl knew he was goading. Cutter wanted a reaction and Daryl struggled against the urge to serve that reaction up on a silver platter. He squeezed his hand into a fist, knuckles turning white as he willed the rest of his body to relax, to wait it out, treat it with the patience of a hunt.

“Ain’t hardly news. Merle’s always in trouble.”

“You came here tryin’ to clear that piece of shit’s name, it ain’t gonna happen.” His voice was conversational on the surface, but the hard line of threat was there, audible underneath the easy tone. “Might try remindin’ him he brought it on his own self the second he stole from us.”

And that was hardly news to Daryl. Merle claimed he’d taken what he was owed, but then, neither Merle or Cutter would ever see eye to eye on the legitimacy of that claim. It didn’t matter, either way. Right now he needed plausible deniability so he could take the evidence he had back down to Georgia. Having Cutter’s entire crew on his ass would more than likely end with him in hospital, if he were lucky. Rotting away in some unfamiliar cemetery if he wasn’t.

“Ain’t spoken to Merle in a long while,” Daryl said, which wasn’t even a lie. It had been months since he’d last contacted his brother.

“Uh huh.” Carver gave him a calculating look. “You expect me to believe you showin’ up here after what went down between us n’ your brother is some kind of coincidence?”

“Don’t rightly give a shit what you believe.” Daryl took another steady inhale from his cigarette, feeling it settle him, smoke spilling from his lips in a slow gust. 

“But you give a shit about Merle,” Cutter replied, those sharp, mean eyes assessing him. 

“I ain’t his keeper. And we don’t hardly see eye to eye on everythin’. You know the both of us enough to know that.”

“I know the both of you enough to know you’ll do most anything for your trashbag of a family. Don’t matter what kind of issue you got with it, you throw in more’n you ever step off, if it’s what Merle wants. Doubt you even know how to think for your own self without him callin’ the shots.” 

Carver turned, finally, to face Daryl properly. His arms crossed over his chest and in this new position he stood like a barricade between Daryl and the door, between Daryl and the street. “What’re you here for if not him?”

Daryl took another quick puff from the cigarette. It was already burning down close to the filter and he’d barely had a chance to savour any of it.

]“Got married,” Daryl said, the truth falling out of him so easily it made his pulse jackrabbit, panic coursing through him and flooding his body with adrenaline It seemed to throw Carter off, at least, his stance shifting, his arms loosening where they still crossed his chest.

“You got married,” Cutter repeated, the words slow and dubious. “And what, y’all came all the way up here to Connecticut just to tie the knot?”

Daryl shrugged with a casualness he didn’t even remotely feel. He let the embers of his cigarette burn at his fingertips before flicking the butt to the ground. “Couldn’t do it back home. Family wouldn’t approve. Cuttin’ ties n’ all that. AIn’t getitn’ involved in Merle’s shit no more either. Cleaning up my act.”

“Some piece of pussy turn your head far enough you’d turn your back on your family?” Cutter fixed him with a skeptical look. “You tellin’ me you went straight?”

“I wouldn’t say straight, exactly,” Paul said, stepping out of the shadows behind Cutter, backlit by the distant street light. He’d moved so quietly and inobtrusively that Daryl hadn’t even noticed him evntering from the mouth of the alley.

Cutter turned, looking Paul over, he scoffed, even as Paul pushed his way past to slow to a stop in front of Daryl. He didn’t voice it, but there was a question in Paul’s eyes, checking in on him. Daryl could only shrug a shoulder in response

“You’re the prick from the club the other night,” Cutter said, eyes narrowing.

“Sounds like me,” Paul agreed amiably, turning again so that his side was to Daryl and he could face Cutter head on.

“And who’re you claimin’ to be, huh? The best man at Daryl’s little wedding?” Cutter scoffed. “Thought you’d’ve taken the hint after I spiked your drinks. You just can’t seem to help yourselves can you? I wanna know what you think you’re doin’ here and I wanna know what you’ve done with my cell phone.”

“We don’t have your phone,” Paul said, a sharp glint in his own eyes that was barely muted by the otherwise congenial expression on his face. “But you sure did ruin our wedding night.”

“Your wedding night?” Cutter’s face twisted in shock and disgust as his gaze shifted between the two of them, finally putting the implications together.

“The Vault, right?” Paul asked. “We’d just been married and went out for a drink to celebrate. Someone roofied our drinks. It really put a damper on the whole occasion. Guess we’ve got you to thank for that.”

Cutter turned his attention back to Daryl, his face contorted. “You tellin’ me you’re a filthy cocksuckin’ fag?

Daryl wasn’t looking at Cutter, he’d turned his own attention back to Paul, their eyes locked and their bodies turning towards one another. 

“Seems that way,” Daryl replied, watching the minute changes in Paul’s face at his words. The twitch at the corners of his mouth, the way it made his cheeks round out just a fraction. The slight widening of his eyes and, more than that, the look deep within them. The kind of look a man could get lost in just as surely as Daryl had gotten lost in the woods when he was nine. He didn’t think he’d find his way out of Paul’s gaze quite so easily.

“You’re tryin’ to tell me you’re not here to get revenge for your brother, you just happened to wind up getting gay married in the same damn city we moved to?” Cutter’s voice cut through Daryl’s thoughts, effectively shattering the moment.

“I’ve been up here for work,” Paul said. “It made sense to tie the knot now, when we’d already be somewhere that legally allows it.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’m a goddamn pillow biter too, huh? Sounds about as likely.” Daryl didn’t need to look at Cutter to hear the sneer in his voice. He didn’t need to look at him to hear the snick of a switchblade flicking open, either. “Should end this here n’ now.”

Daryl could feel Paul’s reaction to that before Paul even shifted his body. Daryl knew it was a fight, and one that Paul would win in the short term, but it’d never leave either of them alone after. Before Paul could so much as take a step closer to Cutter, Daryl grabbed him by the wrist, tugging sharply. Paul let him. Paul let Daryl reel him back in. Paul let Daryl reel him in until their chests connected and Paul’s palm was resting heavy and warm over Daryl’s pec. There was not a single doubt in Daryl’s mind that Paul could feel the thundering of Daryl’s heart beneath his hand.

Paul was looking at him, that impossibly cool expression sliding across his face. But he couldn’t cover the look in his eyes, the question there, the challenge. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow, one hand sliding up Daryl’s chest, up his neck, to cup his jaw. And those eyes were so intense they could have knocked the very air from Daryl’s lungs just as sure as an suckerpunch. From the corner of his eyes he could just barely see Cutter hesitating in uncertainty, but Daryl barely paid him much mind, except to keep aware of the proximity of that blade.

“Don’t give a shit what it sounds like to you,” Daryl said, and he ducked his face closer to Paul’s until his nose was brushing against Paul’s cheek. He felt the breathy huff of Paul’s silent laugh ghost over his mouth and then suddenly their lips were touching. And if Daryl had thought he’d been knocked breathless by the look in Paul’s eyes, then he was in cardiac arrest from the feel of his lips against Daryl’s. 

It was soft and chaste, at first, just the brush of lips against lips. And then somehow, amidst the dizzy spinning of Daryl’s mind, it deepened into something more open, more urgent. Daryl’s entire world tipped on its axis at the sweep of Paul’s tongue. He could hear the sounds he was making, could feel the moans reverberating through his chest and licked from his mouth, sucked from his very tongue. 

He was distantly aware of Cutter’s voice saying, “Fuck this bullshit,” but Daryl could barely get his brain to process it. Could barely get his brain to process anything but the warmth of Paul’s body against his, the thundering of his hear, and the racing of his every nerve, lit up like an electrical board and surging with an energy he could only pass back to Paul in the squeeze of his hands against Paul’s waist, the delirious slide of his own tongue against Paul’s.

When Paul pulled away, Daryl was still dizzy with it. His breathing was as shaky as the rest of his trembling body, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Paul’s lips, shining under the faded street lights in the distance. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to forget who he was, where he came from. To forget his family and all his scars. To lean in and press their lips together again, to feel his pulse thundering inside his ears  To tumble headfirst into the heady rush of Paul against him, slipping past every barrier Daryl had spent so long building and now wanted nothing more than to raze them to ground, to revel in the way every part of him seemed to come alive in the ashes of everything he thought he was. 

“Cutter’s gone,” Paul said, and Daryl swallowed thickly, blinking stupidly.

“What?”  His voice was barely more than a rasp, scraping its way out of his throat and over a suddenly dry and clumsy tongue.

“Cutter,” Paul repeated. “He left a while ago. I could still break his wrist if you think it might help.”

“How would that help?” Daryl’s brow furrowed. He shook his head, as if that would have any hope of clearing it.

Paul shrugged. “It might be therapeutic.”

Daryl shook his head again, squeezing his eyes closed as if that might help in some way. It didn’t. He wanted to say something, or to just lean in again and see if Paul would let him kiss him again, if Paul might let him explore more than just his mouth.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Daryl asked, instead. 

“I was worried. I was doing my thing, and a call came in about something happening down by the waterfront. I know I joked about those conjugal visits, but I’d rather not be strip searched every time I have to see you.” Paul gave him a small smile, but his eyes were sombre. “Well, it might be fun every now and then, but every-”

“Jesus Christ , quit talkin’,” Daryl groaned. 

“Tell me you wore gloves,” Paul said, serious again. Daryl could only flick his gaze away, head down. He brought his hand up to his mouth, biting at one of the nails.

Paul’s lips flattened into an unimpressed line. “Tell me you at least wiped your prints off whatever you touched in that warehouse.”

“I ain’t dumb enough not to,” Daryl said. Though he hadn’t remembered not to do that. His prints weren’t on file at least. He hadn’t kept his nose clean, but he’d kept his head down enough to avoid ever being picked up by the cops.

Paul looked at him for a long moment, and Daryl was certain he could see right through him. But he didn’t push the issue. 

“You came lookin’ for me?” 

“Yeah. I would’ve been here sooner, but I went by the warehouse before I went back to the hotel and saw your note.”

“You went to the warehouse? Thought you didn’t wanna get involved.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if you’d still been in the warehouse when the police arrived . Forgive me for being a little concerned.”

“Concerned? We’ve known each other three damn days.”

Paul looked at him, his face soft but inscrutable. “Those three days have made an unexpectedly huge impact, though, haven’t they?”

Daryl was quiet. He couldn’t have spoken at that moment even if he’d wanted to. His throat constricted far too tight for anything but a thready breath of air that wasn’t enough to fill his lungs.

“It’s meant a lot to me, at least,” Paul said. And Daryl couldn’t say what it was, but there was a vulnerability in his tone and in his eyes that set Daryl even more off-kilter.

Daryl swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rasping out. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Daryl didn’t know if Paul felt any differently after their kiss. By all rights he seemed entirely unaffected, as though it were  something that happened everyday. Or as though it had never even happened at all. But it was near abouts all that Daryl could think about. He looked at Paul and he knew, in exacting detail, what his lips felt like against his own, he knew what Paul’s tongue felt like against his own. And it should have been revolting. It should have disgusted Daryl to his very core. 

But, despite the churning sick feeling in his stomach, Daryl felt an aching sense of yearning to do it again. And again. To never stop.

The air felt thick and charged with electricity that the hair on Daryl’s neck and arms standing up as he followed Paul into the elevator. And yet Paul didn’t seem to even notice, punching their floor button before leaning back against one wall, twirling the room key around his index finger, ankles crossed as they waited. A familiar buzzing sounded, but Paul didn’t even react, despite it emanating from his back pocket. Again. And again.

“Your ass is damn popular,” Daryl pointed out, after listening to the continuous buzzing for far too long.

“That’s what all the guys say,” Paul replied, with seeming disinterest as he fiddled with the keys. The doors slid open and Daryl followed Paul out into the corridor, boots leaving light indents in the plush carpet. 

The buzzing continued on and off all the way to the door and, when Paul didn’t seem even slightly inclined to reach for his phone, Daryl did instead, sliding his fingers into Paul’s back pocket and pulling it free. Paul only turned his head to look at him, so close Paul’s arm was brushing against Daryl’s chest. Any closer and their noses would brush too.

“How d’you turn off the damn buzzin’?” Daryl asked, poking at the buttons and opening the messages instead. “Christ’s sake. Someone called Wes has been messagin’ you at least a dozen times. That important?”

“He’s Alex’s boyfriend,” Paul explained, pushing the door open and holding it for Daryl to pass through alongside him. “So I guess that depends.”

“On what?” Daryl asked, turning to watch Paul toss the key carelessly onto the counter.

“On whether you think that’s important,” Paul replied.

Daryl huffed out an amused sound, and Paul shrugged as he threw himself down on the couch. The room had been cleaned and the pillow Daryl had used the night before had been removed, packed away in the closet again, he supposed. Paul tilted his head back over the armrest and slung an arm over his eyes.

“What’d he say?”

“What am I your secretary now?” Daryl grumbled, but clicked the conversation open.

“You’d look great in a button down and blazer, if that was you fishing for compliments,” Paul replied, his arm slowly dropped to his side and he sat up, making room for Daryl to sit down beside him on the couch.

Daryl skimmed over the messages, frowning. 

“I kinda meant aloud,” Paul said and Daryl flicked his ear, smiling when Paul ducked away, hair flying.

“That smile was worth it,” Paul said, and Daryl’s lips downturned again as he stared down at the messages, clicking through from one to the next.

“Seems to be apologisin’ on your ex’s behalf,” Daryl frowned as the phone buzzed in his hands, startling him. He fumbled with it, fingers grabbing at it hastily and hitting half the buttons on it in the process. But he didn’t drop it. 

“Nice save,” Paul said, watching him with mild amusement. “Another message?”

“Uh,” Daryl stared down at the screen which now had a little phone icon staring back at him. “Shit.”

“Jesus?” a muffled voice emitted from the phone’s speaker. “Can you hear me?”

Paul gave Daryl an unimpressed look. He could only shrug in reply. It wasn;t like he’d meant to. They’d done plenty enough things between them over the last few days that neither of them had meant to. What was one more?

Paul sighed, shifting like he was going to take the phone from Daryl’s hands and face the music of whatever awaited him on the other end. It was a conversation he probably needed to have, but maybe one he wasn’t ready for. It definitely wasn’t one he looked pleased about, leastways. And Daryl found him raising the phone to his own ear instead.

“Paul’s busy,” he said. The shout at the other end of the line had him jerking the phone away from his ear in alarm. He shot a wide-eyed look to Paul whose lip was twitching, hands raised palms-put in front of him as he gave a small shake of his head. Daryl got the message: he’d made this bed and Paul wasn’t about to be the one to lie in it. 

“Are you him?” the voice asked again, and Daryl had to double check the name on the phone to see that the person he was talking to was Wes. 

“Am I him?” Daryl asked, brow furrowing.

“The husband.” 

“I -” he looked to Paul for help but found nothing but wide eyes and a barely concealed smile looking back at him. “Yeah, I’m the husband.”

“I told you he wasn’t screwing us around,” Wes said, and Daryl frowned, confused, until another muffled voice muttered something he couldn’t quite discern through the speaker. “Alex!”

There were the sounds of a scuffle and then someone else’s voice was in Daryl’s ear, more excitable than Wes had been. “Tell me it’s not a joke.”

“The hell would it be a joke for?” Daryl asked, feeling vaguely offended. Though he hardly had any right to: their marriage might not have been a joke, but it was an accident. He couldn’t see himself ever making a joke out of this accident.

“Okay, good.” There was a pause. “And you’re not messing with him, either? You don’t know how unprecedented this is for him. If you’re just going to break his heart -”

“The hell’d I do that for?” Daryl’s brow furrowed even further, feeling a twinge of disgust at the implication. “‘Sides, it ain’t like I’d wanna get on the wrong side of him. I know he can throw down. Still chafin’ from those goddamn cuffs.”

The sound that hit his ears was something Daryl could only describe as a shriek. He winced, wrenching the phone away from his ear, cursing. Paul laughed. It was a quiet sound, but loud enough for Daryl to hear it. It was a nice sound, breathy and light and unburdened. Daryl’s chest ached to hear it again.

“Please,” Alex said, after a moment. “I know he’s there with you. He doesn't have to talk to me, it’s fine. I get it. But can you tell him… Tell him I’m happy for him? Tell him I’m happy for both of you.”

Daryl paused, swallowing thickly, his throat feeling suddenly, inexplicably dry. 

“I’m happy he found someone he doesn't feel like he has to hide himself from,” Alex continued, voice going a little softer. “It’s all I ever wanted for him.”

“Yeah, I -” Daryl swallowed again, his tongue feeling far too clumsy in his mouth. “I’ll pass it on.”

“Hey,” Paul said, voice soft and quiet as he leaned in towards Daryl. “I’ve got it.”

Daryl moved the phone away from his ear but didn’t hand it over, hesitating. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ve put it off long enough,” Paul said. He looked tired, but not resigned as he might have even a day ago. “It’s time.”

Slowly, Daryl passed it over to him. Paul’s hand covered Daryl’s for a moment, and they both paused. Daryl took a moment to savour the touch before sliding his hand away. Paul got to his feet. He pressed the cell phone to his chest, meeting Daryl’s eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

Paul shrugged a shoulder, looking away. “For being here. For being you.”

Daryl swallowed. His stomach flip-flopped in an almost sickening somersault.

“I’m just gonna go out on the balcony for a while,” Paul said, already stepping towards the doors. 

Daryl grunted in acknowledgement. Paul wanted privacy, he didn’t need to be told outright. It wasn’t the kind of talk that needed an audience. The glass door snicked shut behind Paul, and Daryl could have turned on the TV. He could have flicked through one of the books or magazines under the coffee table. He could have done near abouts anything, but instead he found himself watching Paul as he leaned against the railing outside, the wind catching his hair and making it dance, the dotted lights of the city lighting up the skyline beyond him.

His fingers twitched. He wanted a cigarette but he didn’t have any left. He didn’t have the money to buy any more, either. He’d have to pick up a job or two real soon if he wanted to eat anything he didn’t have to hunt or forage for himself. Stopping all the way back to Georgia would slow him down, but he’d need to find enough odd jobs to at least cover gas for the journey. What was left in the tank wouldn’t make it a quarter of the way.

When Paul came back inside he collapsed on the couch beside Daryl with a groan, letting the cell phone drop onto the cushion between himself and the arm rest.

“That good, huh?” 

Paul sighed, tipping to the side until his forehead pressed to Daryl’s shoulder. It only lasted a few seconds before Paul pulled slowly away again, but they were a great few seconds.

“We’re friends. Things are weird right now, but we’ll get through it,” Paul said. “He thought I was being a dick. Rubbing his nose in it, with the whole, ‘getting married’ thing. An off colour joke that didn’t land. I can’t say I blame him: it’s more likely than me realistically finding someone I'd willingly commit to. Or someone who’d actually stick it out through all my issues.”

Daryl made a small, non-committal sound. His wrists were still red and raw from where Paul had cuffed him too tightly to bed, and he knew the bruise he’d given Paul’s ribs would still be tender and purpling. And even then they’d stuck by one another. He couldn’t imagine anything Paul could do that would drive him away all the easily.

“Gonna get that Champagne,” Daryl said, getting to his feet. “Might as well drink it while it’s good.”

Paul hummed out an agreeable sound, his eyes slipping closed. Daryl didn’t bother with glasses; he just grabbed the bottle from the refrigerator and popped it open, taking a swig straight from the bottle as he made his way back to the couch. If he sat down close enough for their thighs to press together in a firm line, then he’d claim until his dying breath that it was unintentional. 

“Is that all for you or are you planning to share?” Paul’s eyes were on him, amusement curving his lips upwards. “God knows I could use another drink.”

Daryl passed the bottle over, and Paul accepted it gratefully. Paul raised the bottle to his lips and Daryl’s eyes followed the motion as he swallowed again and again, his throat bobbing with it. It was a herculean effort to wrench his eyes away from the sight. And he felt an odd sense of guilt he couldn’t explain. At his staring. At the pain Paul was going through. Because Daryl couldn’t explain his drunken urge to take that photo with Paul, but if they’d never taken that photo, half the shit between Paul and Alex never would’ve been stirred up and made worse. Daryl bit at his fingernail, hunching down in his seat. 

“Sorry. ‘Bout all the trouble.”

“Me too,” Paul said, lowering the bottle and looking at him in commiseration. “It’s not your fault. I… I should have stopped so many times.”

“Weren’t just you,” Daryl said, quietly. 

Paul sighed, slumping down in a mirror of Daryl’s own pose and passing the bottle over for Daryl to take a sip. 

“I keep screwing everything up.” Paul’s eyes were closed and, for a moment, Daryl questioned whether he’d had enough to drink to slip past tipsy and right on into maudlin. 

“What’d you screw up?” Daryl asked, and Paul cracked one eye open to fix him with a significant look.

“Besides gettin’ us hitched, I mean.”

Paul sighed again, and he tilted his head over the back of the headrest. Daryl could help but look at him, from the corner of his own half-lidded eye.

“You know, sometimes you fuck your friends and it’s great. Sometimes you fuck your friends and it makes everything weird.”

Daryl grunted, shrugging a shoulder. “Wouldn’t know.”

Paul turned his head, some of his hair ruffling and clinging to the couch, sticking to it from the static. His eyes were piercing, and Daryl shifted his legs, suddenly uncomfortable. He felt suddenly bare and exposed, though he couldn’t tell what Paul might be seeing. But Paul only shrugged, his lips quirking in a wry smile, and Daryl took another hasty sip of the Champagne, as if it might hide the vulnerable pieces of him somehow.

“Well, friends with benefits can be great. If everyone’s on the same page. And it did work, for a while. I’ve never been good at letting people get close to me. Not emotionally, anyway. And Alex hasn’t ever met a boundary he didn’t try to push. The closer he got, the further I pulled away. The more I pulled away the more he pushed. We were terrible for each other. Wes is good for him.”

“Weren’t they screwin’ before you two even called it off?”

Paul made a face and plucked the bottle from Daryl’s hands, taking a quick swig of his own.

“It was over. I… I thought if I put enough space between us, he’d stop pushing and we could go back to the arrangement we had.”

“The one where you fuck each other and don’t fuck each other over?”

Paul let out a small huff of a breath. “Not in so many words. Both of us can be asses. Alex is just a little louder about it. We brought out the worst in each other towards the end there, and I’ve been avoiding everyone since the falling out. I was relieved to get out of town for a while. I guess… I saw it as not just losing the benefits , but losing my friend too. And most of my friends are his friends, so I lose them by default, too. 

“But you haven’t lost shit,” Daryl said, voice low and quiet. “Or they wouldn’t be tryin’ to check in on you this damn much.”

Even on the outs, Paul’s friends were still checking in on him. No one would miss Daryl if he up and disappeared entirely. No one would even notice, except maybe Merle. Once he got out of the clink anyway, he’d be sober and lucid enough to notice Daryl’s absence after a while. Daryl wondered if, when they went their separate ways, Paul would think about Daryl at all. If he’d want to check in on him, if he were able to, same as his own friends had been doing for him.

“It’s been a wild few days,” Paul said. “It’s hard to believe it’s almost over.”

Daryl grunted. “Got what I needed.”

Cutter’s cell phone and the camcorder were still sitting there on the table, ready to go. It was a relief, in many ways. But at the same time, Daryl felt strangely reluctant to go. He wanted to drag his feet even though Merle was relying on him.

“I guess you’ll be off tomorrow?” Paul asked. 

“Guess so. Gotta get this squared away. Clear my brother’s name.”

“No reason to drag it out,” Paul said, his voice going quiet. 

Daryl didn’t have an answer to that. Instead, he watched Paul’s eyes slipped closed again, the neck of the Champagne bottle held loosely in his hands, the body of it  resting against his thigh. He could never seem to help but look at Paul, as if everything he did were somehow fascinating beyond compare. Daryl couldn’t understand it, didn’t fully know the whys, but it was a fact he couldn’t ignore. 

“How do you feel about pizza?” Paul asked, snapping Daryl out of his thoughts .

Daryl shrugged, his thumb nail somehow finding its way between his teeth and the bit at it, tearing at what little was left of it, until the sharp sting of pain there seemed to muffle some of the other feelings swirling around inside of him. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him and, after a moment, he managed to mutter out. “‘S your dime anyway.”

But Paul didn’t move. He didn’t respond. Daryl could feel his gaze like a heat searing through his flesh and muscle, like he could burn his way through to see the tangled mess of everything underneath.

“You liked those pork balls, right?” Paul said, after a minute.

Daryl was surprised enough to look over at him, then, their eyes meeting.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet and hesitant.

“I’ll be back in twenty. See if there’s anything good on TV?”

There was something in Paul’s eyes that Daryl couldn’t read, no matter how much he wished he could. When Paul’s fingertips brushed at Daryl’s wrist, he felt his entire body go still, waiting, anticipating something, though he wasn’t sure what. It never came. Paul’s face softened before seeming to close off, and then he was gone, grabbing the room key from the counter and walking out the door.

The marriage certificate was still sitting there on the table, neatly folded.  Daryl hesitated for a long moment before slowly reaching out and. He smoothed the creases out as he unfolded it. There it was. His name next to Paul’s. His new name there, next to Paul’s. Matching. And Daryl let himself wonder what it would be like, if he could live that life, if he wasn’t a Dixon and everything that entailed. If he could trade the trailer park he’d lived in most of his life for the apartment Paul lived in. If he could drag out these three days he’d had with Paul until they became a lifetime. If he could be Paul’s.

And, he realised, he wanted to be the kind of man Paul might actually take home. He wanted to be a braver man than he was. But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t. Because no matter what lies they’d spun and what roles they’d played over the last few days, it didn’t change anything. Daryl was nothing more than a redneck drifter, without so much as a penny to his name most days. And Paul wasn’t interested in commitment. He’d lost his last boyfriend because of that fact and Alex had to have been a better prospect than Daryl.  

He folded the paper carefully again and looked at the cell phone and camcorder beside it. He had to get back to Georgia. Back to his brother. Back to his old shitty life of getting by. Paul would forget about him, and Daryl… Daryl would deal. He always did.

Chapter Text

The truck rumbled over the smooth blacktop of the highway, vibrating through Daryl’s body in a way that rattled his teeth and made his ears itch inside. It would have been jarring if it weren’t so comfortingly familiar. A road sign for Pennsylvania passed by overhead as he drove. He was almost out of New Jersey. Daryl tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel, his teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. It’d only be another ten hours or so before he was back in Georgia, ready to hand over the camcorder that was sitting so innocuously on the passenger seat. He was so close to getting home and getting Merle out of police custody. 

He’d be so much farther from Paul and whatever strange thing was unfurling between them.

And that could only be a good thing. He’d let the guy get in his head. He’d let Paul distract him in ways he’d never known before. Being around him would complicate everything; being around him could ruin everything important in Daryl’s life. He’d already complicated it.

Daryl rolled his shoulders and his shirt tightened across his chest with the motion. Except it wasn’t his shirt. He’d seen Paul’s t-shirt crumpled on the bathroom counter when he’d been getting ready to leave, taking his complimentary toothbrush and absurdly tiny bottles of body wash with him. And he hadn’t been able to resist ripping his own shirt off and putting Paul’s on instead. He’d give it back when they could file for that divorce, he told himself. Though even Daryl didn’t buy that.

He bit down hard on the soft flesh inside his cheek until his eyes stung and he tasted the tang of blood against his tongue. He barely shot a look over his shoulder before his hands were yanking the wheel to the side. The blaring of car horns filled the air with a deafening racket as Daryl veered sharply across two lanes to take the nearest offramp. The cacophony followed him as he pulled his truck over onto the shoulder of the road and cut the engine. 

Daryl’s fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel and his forehead dropped forward to rest against the foam cover. He took a long, deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly. After a minute he sat back, letting his eyes drop closed, his head pressing back against the torn material of the headrest. Slowly, he raised his hips and slid his hand down into one of his pockets, pulling out his battered packet of cigarettes and lighter. 

The first inhale of the cigarette was enough to take the edge of the jittering of his nerves. Daryl reached for the crank to wind the window down, letting the smoke slowly filter out of the cab and into the still, warm air outside. By the time the cigarette had burnt down to the filter, Daryl was feeling more settled. Still, he let it keep burning until the embers bit at the tips of his fingers, skin burning. Daryl watched it, for a long minute, savouring the hot aching pain, before pulling out the built-in ashtray and stubbing it out.

His fingers throbbed when he wrapped his hands around the wheel again. Turning the ignition, the truck rumbled to life again, and Daryl found himself on the road heading north.

–  

It was getting late into the afternoon when Daryl arrived back in Stamford. The peak hour traffic was starting to congest the city streets with schools out and the office day ending and Daryl had to circle back to the outskirts to find a place to park that didn’t have a meter. He could hear the commotion from two city blocks away: the event being set up and a slowly gathering crowd in the streets around it. Daryl didn’t hold out much hope of being able to find Paul in the hubbub, but there was a pulling in his gut, like a harpoon had been pierced right through him, reeling him in towards the mere hope of seeing Paul again.

The square was being opened just as Daryl approached and the entire thing looked like an explosion of colour. Daryl had never seen so many rainbows in one place in his life. And it wasn’t just the stock standard rainbow flag he’d seen slapped on things more and more frequently as the years passed. There were flags in a multitude of colour combinations that must have meant something, though Daryl wouldn’t even know where to start guessing.

People were milling around, starting to pour through into the city square. Daryl watched them pass him by. He looked at the crowd, at the swirls of vibrant colour. He listened to the sounds of chatter and laughter rising up into the air. He couldn’t bring himself to follow them. Couldn’t bring himself to step inside the swirls of garish colour with the throng of people. Paul would be in there, but as much as Daryl felt unerringly compelled to find him, to follow him, to see him one last time, he couldn’t. Walking into the celebration felt too much like making a declaration he didn’t want to admit. Not in the confines of his own mind, and certainly not in front of so many people, strangers though they might be.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Paul said. Daryl startled, turning to find Paul moving to his side, looking surprised, but happy enough. 

“Ain’t a big fan of crowds,” Daryl replied, evasively. He stuffed his hands under his armpits and took a look out at the busy, swirling mass of people. 

“I noticed.” Paul’s smile was small and oddly fond. His eyes skimmed over Daryl from head to toe, then back up again. “Is that my shirt?”

Daryl shifted awkwardly, unable to meet Paul’s eyes.

“Got sauce all down mine,” he said, as though he’d ever given a single damn about how stained his clothes were. As though his shirt wasn’t just as fine as it had been the day before. As though there hadn’t been a washer in their hotel room even if it hadn’t.

“It’s good to see you,” Paul said, something fond in his expression, even as he turned his head to take in the scenery. “Your truck was gone: I thought you’d left for good.”

“I had,” Daryl admitted, watching Paul’s hair fan around him as he whipped his head back to look at Daryl. 

“You came back?”

Daryl shrugged, shifting under the scrutiny. “‘S your big day n’ all.”

Paul was silent for a long time - for too long a time. Daryl could feel the pressure of each passing second ticking away between them.

“Well, then we should make the most of it,” Paul said. But he paused, leaning back and looking at Daryl’s ass.

Daryl made an indignant sound, shifting uncomfortably. And then Paul’s hand was on his ass and Daryl jumped.  

“The hell, Paul?”

“Just tucking that rag of yours away,” Paul said, giving Daryl’s back pocket a firm pat when he was done. 

Daryl was, if anything, more perplexed. “The hell for?”

“It means something you don’t understand, but some of the people here might,” Paul said. “So unless you’re planning on cruising while you’re here…”

Daryl choked on air. He made a strangled sound before coughing. “No, I - fine.”

“Fine?” Paul asked, eyes raised.

“Do I wanna know what it means?”

Paul’s lip twitched and he looked away. “Probably not.”

“Alright,” Daryl said, looking at the crowd and the swaying colours everywhere. “The hell do people even do at a place like this?”

“Let’s find out,” Paul said, his hand sliding easily into the crook of Daryl’s elbow. It was both simple and the most difficult thing Daryl had ever done to let Paul lead him into the fray. But he went, falling into step with Paul as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing. 

Paul looked collected. He looked so at ease. Paul was comfortable with who he was, Daryl realised, while Daryl had never truly been comfortable in his life. He’d always been a square peg everyone had tried to jam into a round hole, but Daryl never fit, no matter how much he tried to shave off the sides of himself to make it work. And there were pieces of Daryl now tearing their way free from somewhere deep inside him, slashing through his organs and muscle to slice their way up through his skin. It would leave him a bleeding, vulnerable mess, he knew. 

“I know it isn’t really your scene, but you deserve to have a good time, too.”

Daryl’s eyes lingered on a group of people dancing, wild and carefree. They looked ridiculous. It was enough to give Daryl a taste of secondhand embarrassment for the shame none of them seemed to be feeling. It made him feel just a tiny sting of envy, too.

“You wanna dance?” Paul asked, raising a questioning eyebrow at him.

Daryl scoffed, waving a dismissive hand and turning away, trying to distance himself from the very notion. 

“They got any drinks at this thing?”

“They’ve got water,” Paul said, motioning to a stall nearby handing out bottled waters. Paul’s face shifted to one of mirth as he broke out into an audible laugh at the expression that crossed Daryl’s face. “What, you were expecting the city to shell out for an open bar?”

“Cops’d make their revenue on public intoxication alone,” Daryl pointed out. It would have made sense, really. The institutions of power were always ready to help grease each other’s hands. 

“There’s a bar around the corner,” Paul said. “We can grab a drink if you want.”

Daryl worried at the inside of his cheek with his teeth. “It’s your scene. What were you gonna do at this thing?”

Paul’s grin was so wide Daryl could see his teeth. 

“I was thinking about dancing, actually.”

Daryl rolled his eyes. “I ain’t stoppin’ you,” he said, making a shooing gesture. “And I ain’t gonna wander off while you’re entertainin’ yourself.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed slightly and he tilted his head, his hair falling across his shoulder at the motion. “I’m not leaving you to sit on the sidelines.”

“Ain’t never danced a day in my goddamn life and I ain’t starting now.”

Paul’s eyes roamed over him, appraising, and Daryl felt his skin heat up until he felt unbearably hot even in the cool evening air.

“I think you’ve got more moves than you know,” Paul said, voice suddenly soft.

Daryl swallowed. He felt like his skin could burn right off of his bones. “Yeah, well, I ain’t findin’ out here.”

Paul leaned back, making a small conciliatory sound. His arms crossed as he turned, surveying the crowd. 

There were stalls for everything from crafts to social services support information, from leatherworks to information about the LGBT+ liaison training the local PD was undertaking. 

“It won’t be enough,” Paul said, as they passed. And Daryl thought it was a grim outlook for someone who was shilling the company line and making a dime off of that very venture. 

“It’s payin’ for your hotel room,” Daryl pointed out, arching an eyebrow.

“And my rent for the month,” Paul agreed, leaning into Daryl’s side to let a group of people pass by them. “I hope it helps, but I can’t see it making a significant change to a deeply ingrained toxic work culture.”

Daryl grunted. He hardly disagreed. There wasn’t a seminar or outreach program in this world that would get the local sheriff’s department to see his family as anything short of degenerate criminals. No need to test for guilt when it came to a Dixon; it was already assumed. Though, Daryl realised, with a flip to his stomach, he wasn’t really a Dixon anymore…

That thought was too overbearing and he turned his attention to the crowd instead. It was overflowing with people. Couples, families, gaggles of teenagers, none of whom knew how to do anything quietly. There was a whole lineup of carnival games that made Daryl internally flinch for a moment, wondering if it was a dig, to say that outreach with the gay community was little more than a circus. But Paul seemed unperturbed and it was a hit with kids who clustered around the booths in droves. 

It was loud. Unbearably so. Daryl could feel the sound in his teeth. Then, as they passed a cordoned off area marked with large plastic orange bollards connected by strings of multicoloured flags, wisps of coloured dust started to fill the air. Paul ducked suddenly and something smacked into the side of Daryl’s head. Purple powder exploded around his face and Daryl had to squeeze his eyes shut against it. When he blinked his eyes open, coughing out the dust in his lungs, Paul was laughing. 

“The hell,” Daryl started, twisting to look over at where the projectile had come from. His eyes landed on the shrieking crowd gathered beyond the bollards, running and dodging even in the tightly packed space, as they threw balls of brightly-coloured paint dust at one another,

Paul reached out, running his index finger down Daryl’s face, from the corner of his brow and down his cheek, all the way to the stubble on his jaw before pulling away. He held up his finger for inspection, showing the thick green paint powder coating the pad of his finger. 

Daryl made an aggrieved sound and moved, dislodging Paul’s hand from his elbow as he went, stalking across the short distance towards the enclosure, Paul following at his heels. Daryl reached over the flimsy barrier and grabbed two balls of coloured powder from one of the large tubs. 

“They’re supposed to stay inside the designated area,” a bored teenage boy informed him, not even a flicker of care or interest in his tone or expression.

“It look like it’s been contained to your designated area?” Daryl asked.

“Daryl, what -” 

Daryl turned, hands raising as he went, and pressed an orange ball down on top of Paul’s head. Dust exploded everywhere, coating Paul’s hair and leaving licks of colour framing his forehead.

“Daryl,” Paul said, his lip twitching with amusement.

Daryl only brought his other hand around and smacked it against Paul’s ass, green dust spraying everywhere.

“I’m far from complaining,” Paul said, staring into Daryl’s eyes, body so close Daryl could feel the heat radiating between them. “But you should buy a guy a drink first.”

Daryl scoffed, giving in to the impulse to squeeze Paul’s ass just a little and smearing the coloured powder in a little more before letting go. 

“You grabbed my ass first,” Daryl pointed out, like it might make them even. Like it might absolve him of his actions.

Paul tilted his head to the side, a puff of orange dust stirring up into the air around them. He took an incremental step closer, leaving their chests touching. Daryl could feel his face going red. He could feel the splotches of red spreading down his neck to his chest where it was touching Paul’s own. 

“Get in the ring,” Paul said, voice so low it had a heat pooling in Daryl’s lower abdomen and setting off a tingle in his lower spine. There was a challenge in his words and in his eyes and Daryl felt a thrill run through him like a full body shiver. 

“‘S for kids,” Daryl said. There were plenty of adults in there, some more grown than even he was, but it wasn’t the kind of thing Daryl could do without hanging up his dignity for good.

“You won’t dance…” Paul said, arching an eyebrow. “Afraid to be too colourful?”

“Ain’t afraid of nothin’,” Daryl said, he fisted his hand in Paul’s shirt, watching the other man’s eyes widen, his grin widening too. There was something sharp and far too enthralling in his eyes and Daryl had to turn away, yanking Paul with him to the entrance.

Paul was fast. Daryl knew that, but seeing him grab the full pouch of ammunition and swirl off into the crowd was impressive, even if it was also irritating as hell. Something smacked into the side of his arm with an explosion of blue and Daryl whipped around only to see it was a stray hit from a group of kids running past, lobbing balls of coloured powder in every direction as they ran. 

And then two more of them landed on his back. The shirt he’d stolen from Paul bore the brunt of the spatter, but it sprayed out across Daryl’s hair and the back of his arms as well.. Daryl spun around just in time to have one land against his chest, colour spraying up over his neck and chin. Paul was grinning at him, his hand twitching over the open bag as if about to reach for another one.

Daryl didn’t think. He simply moved on instinct, lunging forward. But Paul spun away, slipping through Daryl’s fingers and darting off into the crowd. Daryl could do nothing but give chase, dodging between other patrons, trying to keep an eye on Paul’s hair, the easiest part of him to pick out a crowd, as he ran through clouds of multicoloured powder. The noise that had been almost overwhelming to his senses only moments ago seemed to fade to white noise as his eyes tracked Paul’s every move as darted and served through the crowd.

Daryl didn’t even reach for the paint powder himself. He just ran, eyes on the infuriating prize until he managed to snag the back of Paul’s jacket. Paul turned into the touch and it threw Daryl’s momentum off. They tumbled to the ground and, despite Daryl hands on him, Paul easily managed to twist them as they went, letting Daryl take the brunt of the fall, his back hitting the ground, Paul falling on top of him. Paul’s hair fell like a messy canopy around their faces and it felt suddenly too intimate, too private despite the very public place. 

“You caught me,” Paul said, his face barely more than an inch from Daryl’s own. “I like the enthusiasm.”

“You’re gonna like this too,” Daryl said. He watched Paul’s eyes widen, his lips parting, and then Daryl slapped a powder ball down onto Paul’s shoulders with each hand, sending up a flurry of coloured dust into the air.

Paul laughed, rocking back onto his haunches, sitting on Daryl’s hips for a moment and looking down at him. “You got me.”

Daryl wasn’t entirely sure he had. But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t quite figure out what the right thing would be, or which of his thoughts even bore giving voice to.

“Alright,” Paul said, getting to his feet and holding out a hand to Daryl. “Let’s get that drink.”

Daryl found himself sliding his palm against Paul’s and taking the help he didn’t even need, letting him haul Daryl up like his considerable weight was nothing, until they were standing flush together once more. They didn’t even try to navigate their way back to entrance, simply ducking under the line of bunting instead.

As they walked, Paul’s hand warm and firm in his own, Daryl couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about coming back. Soon, he’d be back in Georgia. He’d get Merle back and everything would go on as it had been for his entire life. But he could have this. If only for a few days he could have these handful of moments where he could be something different. Something he might have had, if only he’d been born to a different life. 

Chapter Text

Daryl was brought to a stop when they neared the bar. The mirrored wall of a building on the corner let him catch sight of them: both liberally coated in bright splotches of coloured paint, hands still joined. But it wasn’t that. Or, it wasn’t only that, which had Daryl’s feet stuttering to a halt. It wasn’t even the bright, carefree look on Paul’s face, goddamn resplendent as he looked in that moment. It was the small smile on his own lips, barely perceptible but so uncommon it stood it out like a sore thumb for its rarity. 

And just like that, the smile, small as it had been, was gone. Fallen under the weight of his own heavy thoughts.

“Hey,” Paul asked, brought to a standstill as well. His hand was still warm in Daryl’s own. The touch was soft and it felt so unfathomably easy just for a moment. Soft and easy in the way touch had never been. Not in Daryl’s living memory. And Daryl yearned, for one long protracted moment, beneath the pounding in his chest and the roar of blood in his ears, that he could simply have this. Because he could see, from the other groups and couples around them, that they didn’t even stand out. Two men holding hands would get the shit kicked out of you where Daryl was from, but right there, no one gave them so much as a second look. They were just more people in a crowd.

“Something wrong?” Paul’s voice cut clean through Daryl’s thoughts, and he shook his head to clear them.

“Nah,” Daryl said, with one final shake of his head. “Just need that drink.”

But he didn’t let go of Paul’s hand until they got there, Paul leaving him at a table outside to hold their seat while he went in to order. With Paul gone, Daryl felt lost. Untethered. He didn’t know if he could take the things he’d started wanting in this handful of days with Paul and somehow reconcile them with the person he had to be if he didn’t want to lose everything he’d ever known and the only family he had.

He didn’t know why he was even torn up over it when, by rights, a near stranger shouldn’t outweigh his own flesh and blood. 

A beer bottle was set down on the table in front of him, breaking clean through Daryl’s train of thought. He stared down at the bright pink umbrella poking out from the mouth of it and snorted, turning his head to look at Paul as he slid down onto the stool beside Daryl.

“I thought you might get a kick out of a little garnish,” Paul said, setting his own drink down. Something in gradients of red and pink in a tall glass.

Daryl grunted and plucked the umbrella out, finding it spared though a slim wedge of lemon. Daryl bit down on it, sliding the toothpick base of the umbrella away as he sucked at the bitter citrus. When he was done, he dropped the rind to the table top. 

Paul sipped at his drink, eyes on Daryl. There was something there, like Paul was seeing something in Daryl that was worth watching, something that was worth paying attention to. Daryl dropped his eyes, reaching for his beer and raising it his lips to take a few desperate gulps. But once his beer bottle hit the table again, Daryl couldn’t stop his eyes from straying to the side, seeking out Paul again.

It could be so easy. It could be so easy to let himself fall headfirst down into Paul. He knew it could. If not for the entire world outside of this city.

“Paul!” A cheerful woman’s voice interrupted, both of them turning to see who it was. Daryl didn’t recognise her. She was tall and seemed friendly enough, despite the tight hairstyle and severe bun pinned to the back of her head. The business suit made a strong contrast to Daryl and Paul’s head-to-toe colour explosion. 

“Susan, hi,” Paul replied, his own face lighting up in what Daryl could tell was an expression carefully crafted for PR, but still seemed to flow with a genuine warmth.

Daryl frowned, the name suddenly ringing a bell. “The boss lady?”

Susan laughed, her eyes wrinkling at the corners  as she turned her attention to Daryl. “Head of Public Relations,” she said, with a laugh in her voice. “I usually go by Susan. You must be the husband we’ve all heard so much about.”

Daryl whipped his head to look askance at Paul.

“Only the kindest and vaguest of details,” Paul said, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Nothing identifying.”

Daryl felt some of his sudden tension dissipate at the reassurance.

“Of course,” Susan said, her hand reaching out in a quelling gesture. “Paul was very firm about the need to de-identify you, and we take that very seriously.”

“Thanks,” Daryl said, stilted and awkward. “And for the, uh, room.”

“Of course,” Susan said, with a kind smile. “Paul’s done us a big favour agreeing to the interview on top of everything else. And the city of Stamford is dedicated to maintaining a positive relationship with all its constituents.”

Daryl’s gaze slid to Paul. He knew then, that Paul had calle dit right: there had been some kind of fuck up, some kind of scandal and they were trying to cover their asses.

“It’s nice to see you,” Paul said, casual but still pointed enough to nudge a response.

“I would have left you to your night. I know you’re off the clock,” Susan said, with a small grimace. “But I had one more favour to ask, if you don’t mind?”

“What’s the favour?” Daryl asked, jutting his chin in her direction. He grunted when Paul kicked at his calf.

“I wanted to ask if you’d pose for a few photos to go with the story we’re putting together?”

“Oh, I’m kind of,” Paul gestured to his general disarray.

“I did notice.” Susan laughed, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Actually, that’s why I’m asking. I think it’ll look good, with the rest of the even in the background.”

Paul looked at Daryl for a moment, raising his eyebrows in question. “Would you mind?”

“Oh, and I know you don’t want your face shown,” Susan said, looking to Daryl, “but you’re welcome to join us; even hop in a photo or two. I’m sure we can capture something that doesn’t show any identifying features.”

Daryl looked at Paul and shrugged. “I’ll come watch.”

–

Watching was a mistake. 

The poses Paul was directed into were cheesy; exactly the kind of thing he’d expect from some kind of magazine shoot. Daryl might have felt some secondhand embarrassment over the entire thing, if not for the fact that Paul looked absurdly good doing it. Daryl’s pulse was racing and his skin was hot and it took him far too long to realise the reason for it was simply looking at Paul. He couldn’t even begin to fathom how something like looking at someone would be enough to send his body into the early stages of adrenaline rush. 

He’d never wanted anything more than he’d had in his life. He’d accepted his lot and he knew he wasn’t deserving anything other than the scraps he lived on, scraping by with odd meals and the scraps of familial affection he got from Merle. He hadn’t needed anything more than that. Or maybe he’d never let himself think he might actually get more than that.

It was like his brain was too wired to think, acting on instinct because he found himself stepping forward when the small crew started resetting the portable lighting rig, to step into Paul’s space. There were splotches of colour in his beard, barely a patch of him that wasn’t coated in that dusty paint, and he should have looked ridiculous - he did look ridiculous - but he was also Paul.

“Daryl?” Paul asked, his voice quiet despite his surprise as Daryl’s head bowed, leaning into Paul’s space.

But Daryl couldn’t speak. He could only lean his forehead to Paul’s, his hands settling lightly on Paul’s waist, terrified that Paul might push him off, might pull away. But Paul only looped his arms around Daryl’s neck, one hand burying in the short tufts of Daryl’s messily cut hair. 

Daryl hadn’t known many physical touches in his life that hadn’t hurt. This was no exception. But it hurt in a terrifying new way. The pain was all inside of him; an agonising, suffocating knowledge that it would end and that he would never have it again.

“Are you okay?” Paul’s voice was soft and low and Daryl’s breathing stuttered like he forgot how to pull air into his lungs for a moment.

Daryl didn’t have an answer for that. And, when he slit his eyes open just a fraction, he could see Paul’s eyes staring back at him, too close and too bright. Everything about Paul was too much and not enough at the same time. Daryl didn’t know how to handle that, all the tangled feeling wrapped into undulating knots inside of him. Because somehow, when Paul looked at him, Daryl was starting to feel alive and lifelessly still at the same time. His heart was pounding thunderously, relentlessly, inside his chest and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get a gasp of air into his lungs if he tried, but none of the pain in it mattered if he could eek out one more moment together.

There was the sound of the camera shutter going off. Maybe it had gone off a few times already. But Daryl couldn’t bring himself to care. He clung to Paul and the moment for as long as he could, trying to suck every last drop from it that he could, because in a moment’s time he’d be going back to a drying mouth and an endless thirst that would never be slaked.

The photographer let them go through and delete any photos of Daryl that he wouldn’t be comfortable seeing published somewhere. And Daryl couldn’t even weigh in on any of it. He had to let Paul remove any photos that showed too much of Daryl’s face, or caught one of his tattoos. Daryl was too entranced, staring down at image after image and seeing so much there that he didn’t want the world to see, so much that he was uncomfortable seeing himself. Because it was harder to deny, when it was flicking, frame-by-frame in front of his eyes. 

Even when his own face wasn’t visible, Paul’s was. And, somehow, that was worse. 

There was a squeezing pressure around Daryl’s chest, constricting tighter and tighter and making it near impossible to get enough air into his lungs. Daryl’s eyes stung and it felt like there was something sharp in his blood, slicing its way through every vein in his body as it circulated, pumped in a relentless onslaught through each part of him.

People around him were talking but Daryl’s ears were ringing too loudly to hear them. All Daryl knew was the final picture in front of him: too colourful and too intense, the look in Paul’s eyes that Daryl wished he could believe was so much more than it ever could be. Daryl wished he could believe that maybe Paul would look at him like that and mean it. Even if it could never last.

“Hey,” Paul said,when they’d finished reviewing the shots. His voice was low and quiet, and he turned his head towards Daryl, so close his nose almost brushed Daryl’s cheek. “Do you want another drink before we head off?”

“Yeah, Daryl said, scratching at his jaw. “Gimme a minute. I’ll catch up.”

Paul leaned back just a fraction of an inch, his eyes searching Daryl’s. “Alright. I’ll grab you a beer?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, his voice rasping out. As Paul stepped away, Daryl felt himself reaching out, but he let his arm fall back to his side. 

Still, he couldn’t help but watch Paul walk away. Couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off of him. And then Paul looked at him from over his shoulder, coming to a sudden stop in the street. He turned and they stood, several yards separating them but Daryl felt like it was nothing at all. Paul shifted and there was a phone in his hand and he raised it in question. Daryl cocked his head to the side, but shrugged. The phone obscured Paul’s face for too long and Daryl didn’t know what Paul was seeing that he wanted to capture, didn’t know why he would let him. But there was something there in the suggestion that Paul would want to keep some small part of Daryl that had him held in place.

When Paul lowered the phone, his eyes were on Daryl, and Daryl felt the intensity of them like a hook sunk between his ribs. Someone walked through the space between them and Daryl felt the rest of the word snap back into place sharp and jarring. By the time Daryl blinked, Paul had turned, hands stuffed into his pockets, and headed into the bar.

Daryl ducked his head, shifting his weight between his feet, the knuckle of his finger slipped between his teeth. He bit down on it, hard enough to send a throb of pain through his entire hand to the wrist. And the he moved, walking over to Susan and the photographer. He lingered awkwardly to the side, his hands on his hips, then crossing his arms, before coughing to get their attention.

“These photos look great,” Susan said, with a warm smile. “Thank you. I know it was out of your comfort zone. And please thank Paul again for me. He really didn’t have to do all this for us at the last minute. 

“Yeah, uh, I’ll let him know.” Daryl looked to the side, then back again, moving a half step away then back again. 

“Did you want to go over the photos again?” Susan asked. “Make sure there wasn’t anything else you didn’t want being published?”

“Nah, ‘s fine,” Daryl said, running a hand through his hair and sending up a puff of multicoloured dust. “Just, uh, wanted to know where I can find ‘em when you…”

“Oh!” Susan shifted, digging through the handbag hanging from her shoulder. She pulled out a small metal case and flicked it open. Pulling out a crisp white business card, she handed it over. “Here. If you just send me an email or call my office I can send you and Paul a copy.”

Daryl took it, his fingers leaving blue prints over the white card and black text. 

“Thanks.”

He raised the card in small salute before moving away. He flicked it between his fingers before finally stuffing it deep down into his pocket and following in Paul’s stead. Paul was just paying for their drinks when Daryl caught up to him by the bar. The crow was thick, bodies pushed closely together and Daryl found himself pressing up to Paul just to avoid them. They were close enough that Daryl could feel the buzzing of Paul’s phone in his back pocket, and then Paul was turning, his ass sliding across Daryl’s front until they were chest to chest. Paul leaned in closer, mouth to Daryl’s ear and all but shouted over the din, “We should find somewhere to sit.”

They didn’t find anywhere to sit, but they stood by one of the walls, shoulder to shoulder and sipping their drinks, just watching the crowd slowly grow around them as people moved from the festival in search of other things. Daryl’s mouth felt so dry that he found himself drinking too much too quickly. He was feeling the small buzz from the beers, the bigger buzz from Paul’s body so close to his own. And, when Paul’s cell phone went off again, Daryl found himself sliding his hand over the curve of Paul’s ass as he reached in and pulled the phone free. 

His fingers fumbled with it, strangely clumsy all of a sudden. Paul was watching him with an expression Daryl couldn’t meet. He could only slap the phone against Paul’s chest and let him take it. He tucked his traitorous hand under his armpit and down the last remains of his beer. Daryl could feel it when the weight of Paul’s gaze left him. But though it made something in his chest release, it didn’t make it any easier to breathe. 

“It’s Alex,” Paul said, the light from his phone screen making his fingers and his face seem to glow. 

Daryl grunted, tapping his pinky against the side of his beer bottle. “What’s he want now?”

Paul flicked him a small glance before looking back down at his phone. “He’s just asking about you.”

“What’s he wanna know?” Daryl huffed, looking at the ground and feeling suddenly, painfully defensive.

Paul stared at the side of Daryl’s face for a long minute, before holding the phone out, waving it under Daryl’s nose. “See for yourself.”

Daryl shot him a look before slowly curling his fingers around the phone. When he looked at the screen he poked through the recent messages.

When are you bringing him home?

Give something to work with here

A better photo at least. We want a better look at the guy you married Jesus

OMG you’re actually married. We need to throw you a bachelor party!

When are we meeting him??

Daryl frowned. With a small glance to the side, seeing Paul was pointedly watching the people around them, Daryl started poking around. He found it, after a minute, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he opened the picture Paul had taken of him. 

He hadn’t understood what Paul had seen in that moment that made him want to capture it. Daryl still didn’t understand, looking at it then. But there was something sharp and warm in his chest at the knowledge that Paul had wanted to. And Daryl knew he shouldn’t do it, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from going back to those messages from Alex and poking around until he could attach the photo and send it. 

He clicked out of it as soon as it sent, feeling both a heady rush of strangely vindictive joy and a deep ripple of shame in the act. All he could do was slip the phone back into Paul’s pocket and wait for him to finish his drink. 

Paul was eyeing him with an intense curiosity, but thankfully didn’t speak. He only sipped his way to the bottom of his glass, not even trying to conceal the way his eyes were on Daryl the entire time, as much as Daryl was pretending, however poorly, not to notice. When Paul gripped Daryl’s wrist in his hand, Daryl let Paul lead him towards the exit, abandoning their empty bottle and glass on a table as they passed by.

The air outside was cool and it hit Daryl’s overheated skin like a slap. The night wasn’t winding down, people were still crowding the streets, laughing and talking, music playing, and Daryl let Paul lead him through it all, back towards the street from where they’d entered the festival. And none of it mattered. Everything seemed to fade away into the background. Daryl’s entire world narrowed down to the warmth of Paul's hand around his wrist. They slowed when they exited the festival, the world around them suddenly darker for the reduced street lighting and Paul let go, slipping his hands into his pockets instead. 

“Gotta head off,” Daryl said, taking a half step towards the direction he’d parked his truck.

Paul frowned, taking a step after him. “You’re going back to Georgia? Right now?”

Daryl shrugged. “Would've been there by now if I hadn’t -”

He cut himself off, looking away. He would’ve been back home in Georgia by now if he hadn’t damned his brother, his own flesh and blood, to another night in a jail cell just to spend a few more hours with Paul.

“It’s late. You want to come back to the room?” Paul asked. “Might as well make the most of the last night we’ve got it.”

Daryl met Paul’s eyes for a moment. There was a question in them that Daryl couldn;t bring himself to answer. And then Paul’s phone buzzed again, startling them both.

“The offer still stands,” Paul said, gently.

“You ain’t gonna answer that?” Daryl asked instead, motioning towards Paul’s ass.

“I can guarantee you it won’t be important.”

“Your friends aren’t important?”

“Not as important as getting you rested up before you go making the long drive back to Georgia.”

Daryl grunted. He bit at the inside of his cheek. Because as much as he knew he needed to get away, to get back to help his brother, to put some space between Paul and all these feelings that wouldn’t go anywhere, he wanted to know what Alex had to say about that photo.

The phone buzzed again and Daryl's eyes dropped to Paul’s crotch, as if he could see right through him to the message that would be sitting there inside of the phone in his pocket. 

“You want to know what Alex is saying,” Paul said, slowly. Daryl shifted his weight between his feet, looking away. “When you were looking at my phone before, you sent him something. You want to know what he’s got to say in return.”

“Don’t give a damn what he thinks,” Daryl denied.

“So if I said you can read whatever’s on my phone if you give me a ride back to the hotel you wouldn’t take it?”

Dayl bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Paul fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed it into Daryl’s hand. 

“Lead the way to the truck,” he said, and Daryl found himself complying. 

“And while you’re driving me back to that nice, comfortable suite, consider that offer to stay another night.”

Daryl grunted, keeping half his attention on navigating their way down the darkened streets, and half his attention on the phone. Reading through the messages, Daryl found himself stumbling over his feet. 

“Everything alright?” Paul asked, looking from Daryl down to the screen he was still staring at. Paul sighed. “If he said something -”

“He, uh, he wants to know why you’ve been hidin’ the hottie and - “ Daryl choked on his own tongue and his face flushed with heat. Red-faced and mortified, he slapped the phone against Paul’s chest, desperate to get the words out of his sight and, God willing, out of his mind. 

Their fingers brushed when Paul raised his hand to catch the phone. His face was an impenetrable stone of indifference as he read over the messages himself. 

“Sorry about Alex. I’d say he wouldn’t have sent that if they knew you were reading it, but that’s not even remotely true,” Paul said, clicking at the little downward arrow. “Oh. They’ve invited us for drinks when we get back…” 

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t going back with Paul. He was going back home to Georgia. To his brother. To his old man. To people who couldn’t even know about any part of this.

Paul sighed. His eyes slipped closed and he tilted his head back, face to the ceiling. “This is really gonna be one step forward and three steps back when I go home alone and tell them I’m getting a divorce.”

Daryl felt his chest constrict painfully. “Truck’s over here,” Daryl said, motioning towards the next street. They crossed the road, the traffic almost non-existent in the back streets.

Paul was already sliding into the passenger seat before Daryl could walk around to the driver’s side. Daryl watched him through the windshield as he picked up the bag and the camcorder still sitting on the seat.

“Take it to the cops here,” Paul said, when Daryl opened the door. “I know them, kind of, and there’s one or two I’d trust enough to handle this properly.”

Daryl scoffed. “Great odds.”

But Daryl knew that if he took it back to deputies in his home county they’d just as likely ‘misplace’ it to save the work. He chewed at the inside of his cheek

“You dumb piece of shit,” a voice said and Daryl turned in the open doorway only to feel a sudden, sharp throb of pain in his side. Daryl looked down to see the handle of a knife jutting out from him. 

“You weren’t lyin’ about being a fag, but you still came up here to save your asshole brother,” Cutter said. “Don’t see why since he’d beat the shit outta you for bein’ a pillow biter -”

There was a loud, sharp snapping sound and Cutter’s voice cut out into a pained cry. His wrist was in Paul’s hand and Daryl watched in detached awe as Paul spun, twisting Cutter’s arm up behind him and slamming him into the side of the truck. The ease with which he slipped those cuffs Daryl was all too familiar with around cutters hands an kicked out the back of his knees had Daryl’s breath going heavy. Or maybe it was the war, blood spilling out of him from around the knife’s blade. Daryl looked down at the sight of it, fascinated.

“Leave it in,” Paul said, voice firm and urgent as Daryl’s hand closed around the handle protruding from his flesh. “No, Daryl don’t - “

And Daryl knew better. He really did. But his head was swimming and there was something inside of him that shouldn't be there; unyielding and wrong, and the hot pulsing of agony was enough to make his eyes sting with tears. He pulled the knife free in one sharp awful motion. He felt the warm rush of blood spilling from him in a torrent. He could hear Paul’s voice, could almost feel his hands against skin that felt too numb. But the world was spinning so much he could barely see but for a swirl of colours before everything went black.

Chapter Text

They came to talk, but the second the bedroom door closed behind them they were both painfully silent. Paul didn’t look at Daryl, he simply moved into the room, unable to stop himself as he made himself acquainted with the new surroundings. Daryl stood next to the door, shifting his weight between his feet. He slipped the tip of his thumb between his lips and bit at the already blunt nail there. His teeth sunny into flesh instead of nail, hard enough to sting, sending a small, sharp shock through his system as he tracked Paul’s movements with the same intense focus he gave to prey on a hunt.

Paul’s own gaze roamed over every inch of the room bar the patch that Daryl was occupying, giving undue interest to every aspect of the bland decor that had come with the house. “Aaron’s a close friend, is he?”

Daryl felt his lips pulling downward, his eyes narrowing as he continued to watch Paul making a slow progression around the room. Paul’s voice was casual, but in that pointed way that Daryl knew far too well by now was feigned disinterest. 

“He’s a good friend,” Daryl said, slow and more than a little annoyed at the topic, in no small part due to Paul’s sudden interest in Aaron that was eclipsing their own reunion. “Didn’t bring you here to talk about Aaron.”

Paul paused, his fingers in the middle of trailing over the smooth wood of a freestanding set of drawers on the far side of the room. He turned his head as if to look in Daryl’s direction, but their eyes never quite met. 

“How good a friend?”

Daryl’s brow furrowed and he let out a frustrated breath. “Paul.”

“It’s been a long time,” Paul said, turning to lean against the drawers, his hands gripping the moulded edge along the top. “You thought I was dead. It gets lonely. We all have needs. I’d understand if you found comfort in someone else.”

Daryl’s eyebrows shot up so high they could have touched his hairline. The realisation of what Paul was suggesting hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him and leaving his head spinning for a second. “Ain’t been fuckin’ Aaron.”

Paul looked at him for the first time since they’d entered the room, the blue in eyes piercing and sharp, distant and cold in ways that were jarringly foreign to Daryl. For the first time in a long damn time, Daryl felt like he couldn’t begin to read him.

“Maybe you should have,” Paul said. “I might have, if I were in your shoes.”

Daryl made a frustrated sound and shook his head, his hair falling across his face at the motion.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t you,” he snapped. He took one step forward and watched the subtle tightening of the muscles in Paul’s shoulders. Daryl reared back, half-turning. He ran a hand through his hair, making the scraggly mess even more ruffled and unkempt. “Don’t care if you fucked your way across the state, Paul. Don’t care if you wanna walk right out that door and try for a goddamn threesome with Aaron and Eric I’ll still be here waitin’ here to finish what we started when you’re done.”

Paul was quiet for a moment. He turned his attention back to the drawers, lifting the lid off a small metal box. He peered inside before setting the lid back in place. When he turned back to face Daryl again, his features had softened into something more familiar. Daryl felt the tension ease inside his chest at the sight. 

“I’d at least vie for a foursome,” he said, the faintest twitch of amusement pulling at the corner of his lips. 

Daryl rolled his eyes. “You done?”

“Not even a little.” Paul shrugged, dropping his head as if that could possibly hide his amusement, hair spilling over his shoulders. Daryl wanted to cross the room, to push Paul’s hair behind his ears again, to see his face more clearly, to feel his finger brush against the soft skin of Paul’s cheeks as he did it. But he couldn’t. So he ran a hand through his own hair again instead.

“Quit fuckin’ me around,” Daryl grumbled, but it was half-hearted at best. Paul raised his head and Daryl watched the smile slide so easily across Paul’s face, full of mirth.

“But you’re so very fuckable.”

Daryl huffed out a sharp breath. He looked away before darting a glance back at Paul. “Ain’t hardly like you to get jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Paul refuted, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly at the suggestion. “I’m curious. I’m interested in what you've doing. Who you've gotten close to.”

Daryl let out a snort. “You got commitment issues and jealousy issues?”

Paul made a face. “I don’t.” He frowned, fingers drumming over the windowsill. “Not usually. I guess you’ve always been an exception for me.”

There was a lump in Daryl’s throat so thick he could barely swallow around it. His pulse picked up, racing in an instant, and the sweat that was beading across his body felt suddenly itchy.

“You really never… In all this time? Not with Aaron? Not with anyone else?” Paul said. And, when Daryl blinked, Paul was closer, taking slow, deliberate steps towards him. It wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even a swagger. But there was some small hint of a threat in it, maybe more of a promise. 

“Didn’t give a shit about any of that before you. Didn’t care to think about anyone after, neither.” The words felt like they were scratching his throat up as he said them, his too-thick tongue fumbling them from his mouth and out into the air between them.

Paul swallowed and Daryl’s eyes fixed on the slow slide of Addam’s apple down the length of his throat. “See, now, that’s the kind of thing that would have had me running for the hills if it was anyone else saying it.”

“Yeah, well,” Daryl shrugged, his arm raising, reaching out between them. He paused, arm outstretched. If he just unfurled his fingers he could brush the leather of Paul’s coat. He lowered his arm instead. “You were always my exception too.”

He didn’t even see Paul move. In the time it took Daryl to blink, Paul went from being just out of reach to pressed up against him, his body all but pinning Daryl’s against the wall, his lips on Daryl’s lips, sucking and licking and Daryl opened for him, his head spinning as he tried to keep up, to match pace, to chase the heady rush of Paul so intimately close, so alive. It wasn’t the first time, but it had never been enough. He’d thought the last time was long since behind him, an impossibility until now, living up to his nickname in more than just looks by somehow resurrecting himself from the dead just to slide his thigh between Daryl’s spread legs and slip his tongue between Daryl’s parted lips. 

Paul’s hands fisted in Daryl’s hair, just firmly enough to feel like the good side of painful. Daryl couldn’t hope to hold back the moan the feel of it dragged out of him, pouring from the depths of his chest and licked clean from his mouth by Paul’s tongue. Daryl had to wrench his head back, Paul’s hands the only thing stopping his skull from connecting with the wall behind him. He took a ragged gasp of air and felt his entire body lurch forward, staggering against Paul, teeth scraping at Paul’s jaw, bristles of beard hair tickling his tongue. He gripped Paul by the hips and walked them backwards until they hit the bed and then Daryl was fumbling with the buckles over Paul’s hips.

“The hell you need so many damn belts for,” Daryl complained, finally unclasping the first belt and tossing it viciously to the side. It hit the wall with a clatter before landing with a dull thump against the carpet. 

Paul laughed, his own fingers working open Daryl’s belt with ease, moving on to the button and zip of his pants. “It’s practical.”

“Don’t hardly feel practical right now,” Daryl countered. 

“These days, I’m usually trying to prevent prying hands from getting through my clothes,” Paul said, punctuating his words by slipping his hand inside the soft cotton of Daryl’s underwear. 

“Pain in the goddamn ass,” Daryl said, wrenching the other belt away emphatically. 

“The best pain in the ass you’ve ever had,” Paul said, tugging down on the elastic waistband of Daryl’s underwear until his cock was freed, already half hard and growing firmer in the heat of Paul’s hand before he’d done anything more than give it a few encouraging strokes, far too dry and nowhere near enough. 

The sound of the zipper teeth on Paul’s vest tearing open with the force of Daryl’s pull filled the air, sharp and irritating and making the insides of Daryl’s ears itch. He had to bat Paul’s hands away to shove the vest over his arms, followed by his shirt. Paul didn’t miss a beat, reaching for the buttons on Daryl’s shirt in turn, deft fingers working each one open in rapid succession. With Paul’s chest bare Daryl couldn’t resist the urge to lean in, mouthing at the long line of his neck and pushing him back onto the mattress as he reached blindly for the clasps on Paul’s pants. He sucked and nipped at the flesh there, tasting Paul under his tongue, feeling Paul’s hands pawing at his shirt and vest in a futile attempt to to unclothe him. Daryl’s arms were busy: one bearing his weight as pressed Paul further down onto the mattress and the other tugging at the waistband on Paul’s pants..

Paul bucked his hips upward, rocking their groins together and making it easier for Daryl to finally tug his pants out of the way. And Paul had had the same revelation, giving up on trying to take Daryl’s shirt off and instead palming Daryl’s ass cheeks as soon as he could nudge Daryl’s pants further down his hips. When Paul rocked his body up against him again their bare cocks brushed together between them, so much better than the friction of fabric that it punched the air from Daryl’s lungs, leaving him gasping against the damp patch he’d made on Paul’s neck. 

Daryl’s mouth never left Paul’s skin even as he kicked his boots off, hearing them drop from the edge of the bed to the floor and Paul helped shuck his pants and underwear, letting them join the boots. Paul’s hands were on his ass again, his knee raising to get Daryl closer, the already bared parts of their bodies finally meeting again. Daryl ran his hand down Paul’s leg, over his clothed, raised knee, to his boot. His fingers searched for the knot on his laces and, with a grunt of frustration, Daryl tore his mouth away from Paul and leaned back just far enough to inspect the state of Paul’s boot.

“The hell?” he asked, staring down at where the laces wrapped around the bottom of Paul's pant leg.

Paul pushed himself up onto his elbows, and Daryl gripped the tangle of laces in his hand, using them to raise Paul’s leg higher in the air in emphasis.

“So the dead don’t get my ankles,” Paul explained. 

Daryl made another sound of frustration. “The hell kind of fiddly little knots you done?”

“It’d kind of defeat the purpose if they came undone easily,” Paul pointed out, batting Daryl’s hand away and letting his leg fall before drawing his knee closer to his chest, one hand already reaching for the laces. “Gimme a second, I’ll get them off. You could go grab that lube Aaron mentioned while you wait.”

“Jesus goddamn Christ, I don’t got time for this,” Daryl muttered, smacking Paul’s hand out of the way.

Paul was laughing when their mouths met, and Daryl was convinced that he could actually taste the joy as they kissed. Beard hair and stubble rubbed together, ticking the hairs on Daryl’s chin and scratching at bare skin. He didn’t need to look to know that Paul’s skin was turning red from the friction. With Paul’s legs bound by the pants trapped around his thighs, the angle was awkward, with Paul’s hand palming his ass again, his other hand reaching between them, holding their leaking cocks together, Daryl couldn’t care about anything else. He had the sudden sharp realisation that at some point Paul had spat onto his own hand, because Daryl could feel the cool slickness of it easing the friction as he pumped their cocks together, and then his entire world shrunk down to the feel of Paul’s body under his, the hot tangy scent of sweat and sex filling the air around them, clouding his already foggy mind.

Blood rushed around inside of him, hot and fierce as it coursed through his veins, pooling deep in his abdomen. His nerves were lit like a racing fire under his skin and they urged his hips into sharp little thrusts into Paul’s hand, against Paul’s cock, wet and leaking, so much slicker than it had been even moments earlier. He was swallowing Paul’s quiet moans on every exhale between the too-short brushes of their lips, and each puff of breath from Paul’s lungs, each ragged vocalisation, was confirmation that he was alive, he was there, they were as close as two people could be and still Daryl wanted more, wanted their bodies to sink into one another, connected and tethered for however brief amount of time it could last.

Paul licked his lips and Daryl felt the brush of Paul’s tongue against his own lip. That was all it took for to urge their lips together again, Daryl’s teeth sinking down into the plump flesh of Paul’s lower lip, pulling at it before releasing, licking an apology on it afterward and tracing the shape of Paul’s breathless smile. Daryl couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, watching the flutter of Paul’s lashes from up close instead, a sight he didn’t think he’d ever see again. His bangs brushed against Paul’s face, lanky and damp with sweat. Paul’s eyes cracked open and the thin slit of sparkling blue there had Daryl’s hips stuttering.

Paul’s hand was keeping an even, urgent pace, but there was little rhythm to the thrust of Daryl’s hips. There was nothing but the desperate, erratic rocking of his body as he chased the intoxicating slide of flesh against flesh, the feel of Paul’s cock twitching against his own, the taste of Paul’s breath, the feel of his lips, the thundering of his own pulse in his ears, until Daryl was choking out a cry against Paul’s open mouth, hips snapping and his thigh muscles clenching as he came, Paul’s fingers clutching at the softer flesh of Daryl’s ass the entire time, so hard Daryl knew he’d feel the imprints of his fingers long after they parted.

Daryl’s arms were shaking with the effort of keeping his body raised when he wanted to give in and collapse on top of Paul. But Paul was still working his hand between them, still had Daryl’s cock there, spent and flagging against his own, hard and firm and twitching. Daryl swallowed thickly, then again, gasping against Paul’s lips at the overstimulation, his nerves racing and overloaded, the pleasure teetering on the edge of too much, and then Paul was rocking up against him, chasing that friction, his muscles taught and then he was spilling against Daryl’s abdomen, their come smearing together under Paul’s hand, still stroking them both through his own aftershocks.

Daryl’s head dropped to Paul’s collar and he let his weight fall onto Paul where he was laid out beneath him, knocking a breathy laugh from Paul’s lungs. Paul’s fingers relaxed their grip on the meat of Daryl’s ass cheek only to relocate to the messy tangle of his hair instead, fingers scratching soothing lines against Daryl’s scalp. Daryl felt the rise and fall of Paul’s chest underneath his, their sweat-slick bare skin pressed together, hot and sweaty, the thick smears of come turning watery between them. 

Paul wiped his sticky hand on Daryl’s shirt, where it hung over both of them. Daryl grunted but didn’t protest. He took a moment to rub his forehead against the damp, sweaty skin of Paul’s collar before scraping his teeth against the skin, feeling the jut of Paul’s collar bone under his teeth. Fingers stroked at Daryl’s hair, holding him close, as if Daryl had any intention of moving away. If he could crawl into a moment and live in it forever, he would have preserved it in time, unbreakable and unending.

Eventually, hips shifted beneath his own and Paul’s fingers tugged firmly at Daryl’s hair, urging his head up until their eyes could meet. He tracked the motion of Paul’s tongue darting out to wet his lips, wanting to follow that motion with his own tongue, to follow it back into the warm embrace of Paul’s mouth, to drag out this moment for as long as the world might allow.

“Tell me there’s running water in this place,” Paul said, rolling his hips again, the sticky slide of their skin emphasising the reason behind the request.

Daryl grunted out a vaguely affirming sound, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Paul’s chest shook underneath his, jostling their bodies. His fingers resumed their slow massage against Daryl’s scalp and Daryl let out a breath against Paul’s damp skin.

“We’ll have to move at some point,” Paul said, and Daryl could hear the smile in his voice. “Your friends might want their guest room back.”

Daryl let out another grunt, acknowledging the words but not addressing them. They’d have to move, he knew. He could feel their skin starting to stick together already, and he didn’t want an audience for their walk of shame to the bathroom if Aaron and Eric returned. But he didn’t move. He took a long, deep breath, the scent of sweat and sex filling his nostrils, swirling into his lungs, and let himself be content to feel Paul’s body underneath his own, their breathing slowing to match a sedate pace. They needed to talk, but they could do that later. This was a greater need. They were together. They were alive. The rest of it could wait.

Chapter Text

There was red behind Daryl’s eyelids, searing and uncomfortable. He squeezed his eyes tighter against it, but it did nothing to soften the pain. And there was pain, he realised, slowly. Somewhere beyond the feeling of being swathed in a giant cotton ball, there was a dull aching that became harder and harder to ignore. He tried to shift his body, to roll away from it, or to find the source, he didn’t know, but it proved an impossible task: his limbs were sluggish and heavy, impossible to raise.

Daryl heard the groan he made without even feeling it leave his throat. When his eyes blinked open they were gummy and the world was a bright white that hurt his eyes more than redness had. He squeezed his eyes closed and blinked a few times to try and clear them. He sucked in a sharp breath when his eyes focused on Paul’s blurry form sitting at his bedside. Daryl opened his mouth, cottony and strange, and closed it again.

“Hey,” Paul said, voice quiet and filled with concern. He leaned forward, hands disrupting the sheets beside Daryl’s arm.

Daryl grunted. He licked at his lips, but even his tongue felt dry. It also felt far too thick for his mouth. 

“You alright?” Daryl asked, his voice strained and rough. 

Paul’s expression softened even further. 

“You’re the one in the hospital bed,” he reminded Daryl. “I’m fine. Had to give a dozen statements to the cops. I thought for a minute there I might be charged with assault too, but it’s been handled.”

Daryl grunted again. He lifted a heavy hand and dropped it clumsily atop Paul’s. 

“Eyes’re gummed to hell,” he said. He watched Paul’s expression change through the haze in his own vision, until Paul leaned even closer, his fingers pressing Daryl’s eyelids closed before running over his eyelashes. It was gentle, so gentle it made Daryl’s chest ache and his eyes sting despite the tenderness with which they were being treated.

“There,” Paul said, his voice softer than even the haze of drugs could make Daryl’s body feel. “Is that better?”

Daryl took another sharp breath, but he couldn’t seem to push the right words out. His tongue was too heavy and clumsy for the seemingly simple task. He swallowed so thickly it made his throat ache worse than his side did. It was only then that memory came back to him, the reason for his pain, for waking up in what he was slowly comprehending was a hospital bed.

“Cutter,” he said, his tongue and teeth clicking over the sounds.

“Cutter’s in a holding cell downtown,” Paul said, his hand tightening over Daryl's, squeezing hard enough that Daryl could feel it over the wash of drugs in his system. “The camcorder’s been taken into evidence. It’ll make its way down to Georgia and the doctors say it’s going to be another week, at least, before you’re out of here.”

Daryl huffed, his head lolling to the side, his eyes sliding half-shut as he watched the curves and lines of Paul’s face. There was concern there, and care. Daryl yearned for it, that taste of affection. He yearned for it and didn’t know what to do with it, all at once.

“Can’t stay here,” Daryl said. He tried, he tried so hard to push himself up. But what small distance he managed from the effort was undone by Paul’s hand on chest, guiding his body back down against the mattress. And Daryl, Daryl was too weak and pathetic to fight against it. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to fight against Paul’s hands on him, when that was all he truly longed for. He didn’t want Paul’s touch to leave him.

“You’re in no shape to be walking out of here,” Paul said, his hair brushing against Daryl’s arm, distracting him. “The knife missed everything important. It’s the blood loss that’s causing most of the problems. You shouldn’t have pulled it out.”

“Can’t hardly afford to pay for this,” Daryl said, reality slamming into him hard and fast. “Gonna keep rackin’ up more debt the longer I’m in here.”

Paul huffed, looking away for a moment before returning his gaze to meet Daryl’s. He tilted his head to the side and Daryl’s eyes were drawn down to the small, wry smile gracing his lips. “I suppose it’s lucky we’re married, after all.”

Daryl felt his brows draw tightly together.

“You’re covered by my health insurance,” Paul explained. “Although it took a few phone calls to get them to push through the paperwork and acknowledge that fact.”

“Never meant for you to get wrapped up in this,” Daryl said. “Just wanted that phone.”

Paul shrugged. “I guess I can’t help getting involved when it comes to you.”

Daryl couldn’t speak. He could barely think. His throat felt tight and his skin felt far too hot.

“Besides,” Paul continued, “who doesn’t want the chance to be a part of something bigger than themselves?”

Daryl scoffed. “You think fixin’ my messed up shit’s some great cause?”

Paul watched him for so long it made Daryl want to fidget, if only his body were capable of cooperating. His entire arm twitched instead.

“I think,” Paul said, slowly, his words feeling carefully weighed before he spoke them. HIs hand still rested, warm and heavy, against Daryl’s chest, like an anchor keeping him still. “I think being with you these last few days might be the biggest thing I’ve ever been a part of.”

Daryl couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t respond. He could only stare, lost somewhere in the strangely vulnerable look in Paul’s eyes. He’d been fine. Before he’d met Paul, he’d been fine. He’d accepted his lot in life. He had long since adjusted to his expectations. And now… Now. Now Daryl had all these wants he knew he couldn’t have, and his lot in life was suddenly so much more difficult to sit back and accept.

He opened his mouth. To say what, he wasn’t certain. Most of his thoughts he couldn’t bear to give voice to. Couldn’t bear to let them out into the world only to be rebuked. To wound him, to tear his insides up more than Cutter’s knife could have hoped to. His mouth slipped open anyway, but whatever his drug-softened impulses might have dropped out into the world between them was cut off by the privacy curtain pushing open. 

Paul’s head turned at the intrusion, but Daryl was slower. It was a fight to turn his gaze away from Paul and redirect it towards the nurse even as she checked his chart and adjusted the I.V. hanging beside his bed. It took Daryl far too long to realise he’d missed half of what she was saying.

“He’ll need someone with him for a week after he checks out,” the nurse said, speaking over Daryl and addressing Paul like Daryl wasn’t even there. Although, given the fizzy state of his mind, that might not have been a bad call on her part.

“I can take some time off,” Paul assured her. “At least until he’s gotten the all clear.”

“Don’t need a babysitter,” Daryl butted in, feeling raw and rubbed the wrong way over the implication, over the mere fact that he was being spoken over entirely, as if Paul were his keeper.

“Yes you do,” the nurse said, fixing him with a stern look. “You’ll need a babysitter until we’re certain you’re recovering well, that there weren’t any complications, and we can be sure that you haven’t picked up an infection.”

“You were stabbed,” Paul emphasised. He squeezed the hand that was still holding Daryl’s. “Everything is moving forward with your brother’s case. You don’t need to do anything right now. The footage on that camcorder should clear his name, but it’ll still be weeks before he’s released.”

Daryl grunted, but some of the tension he’d been holding drained from his muscles and he felt his body sag against the mattress. He knew it was true. He’d seen far too often just how slow that long arm of the law could be. It took far too long to get anywhere, when it came to the so-called justice system, and it always seemed to slow down to a staggering crawl whenever a Dixon was concerned.

“Visiting hours ended two hours ago,” the nurse said, snapping Daryl’s attention back to the present. She finished jotting down a note, then hooked the clipboard back into place at the end of the bed, before looking expectantly at Paul.

“I know,” Paul said, ducking his head before raising it again to give her a sheepish look. 

The nurse sighed, looking over her shoulder towards the door, before turning her attention back to him. “I’ll get two servings of dinner sent up. But you have to go home tonight. Policy is policy for a reason, and those puppy dog eyes won’t get you that far.”

Paul nodded, low and deferential. “Understood.”

The nurse left and, with the closing of the privacy curtain and then the door, the room was silent for a long time, save for the steady beeping of the monitoring equipment around Daryl’s bed.

“You don’t gotta stay,” Daryl said, eventually, though he wanted Paul to. More than that, he wanted Paul to want to stay, even if that was far too much to ask, let alone expect.

Paul’s eyes felt far too keen, too knowing, when they were directed at him.

“I’ll stay until they drag me out,” Paul said, twisting around to reach for something on the bedside table. He raised the remote control when he found it. “Let’s see what channels they’ve got.”

–

Daryl had spent more nights on his own than he could count. Usually it was preferable to the company he might otherwise have, and often it was in far less comfortable places than a shared room in a noisy hospital. The only other patient in his room was two beds away and blessedly silent to the point Daryl could almost forget there was someone else there. But he couldn’t sleep. He felt cold with the full-body loneliness that came with Paul’s absence, herded out of his room after a dinner Paul had demolished and Daryl had barely picked at. 

They’d started weaning him off the painkillers, but he was caught in the middling stage where he was still impacted by the drugs in his system and hit with the resurgence of the pain at the same time. Daryl was so tired his eyes itched, and the warm, throbbing ache in his side had him gritting his teeth long before the nurse had him trying to get on his feet to try and walk. She was older and matronly and surprisingly strong for her age and build, but  he didn’t hold out hope that she could take his weight if he collapsed on her.

“The sooner you can do this the sooner you get to leave,” she kept reminding him. 

He’d heard it enough times that he wanted to shout. He wanted to rail and yell. He wanted to fall back onto the hospital bed or stagger his way out the front door of the hospital, gown flapping open over his bare ass the whole way. Anything to make it end.

“Yes ma’am,” he said instead, through clenched teeth as he took another begrudging, agonising step. It rankled. It rankled how difficult such a simple task was. But with each step he could feel his skin and muscles pulling around the carefully stitched wound. A hot, lancing pain that travelled through his nerves, stinging all the way to his toes, to his teeth and his eyes. 

“You’re vertical today.”

Daryl tried to turn so fast it was only the nurse’s hands on his arms that prevented him from slipping over in his ass in the corridor. When he got his bearings, Daryl turned, slowly, to see Paul standing there,a backpack slung over his shoulder and  a takeaway coffee cup in each hand. His hair was loose, the tips brushing his shoulders, and Daryl’s eyes were drawn to the dip of the vee in the neck of his shirt.

“No caffeine,” the nurse said, her voice clipped. 

“It’s hot chocolate for him,” Paul said. 

Her eyes narrowed, but she accepted his words with a curt nod. “If he can make it back to his room in one piece we can talk about discharging him into your care.”

Daryl grunted, taking another step, pushing himself onwards. “Then what the hell’re we standin’ ‘round here for?”

Daryl’s side burned, but the pain wasn’t the problem. He was woozy from the painkillers. They knocked him on his ass just as sure as if they’d given him a tranquiliser meant for a rhino instead of a man. His legs shook with the effort of staying upright, but he pushed himself to take step after step, determined not to spend another night in that hospital bed. Though, he wasn’t sure what he’d do once he was out.

Paul kept pace with them as they made the laborious trek down the corridor to Daryl’s room. Daryl’s feet cleared the doorway and he pushed himself away from the nurse to stagger his way towards the bed unaided. He groaned as his hands landed on the mattress, bearing the bring of some of his weight. The shift in his posture made the wound compress, his muscles stretching in a different direction, and he hissed a sharp breath in through his teeth. 

“I’ve brought a change of clothes,” Paul said, from somewhere behind him. Daryl took another breath and opened his mouth to respond, but the nurse beat him to it.”

“He needs to be checked over by the doctor before we can give him the all clear,” the nurse said, already working to reattach the I.V., his next course of fluids and drugs dripping slowly down into the tube. “Drink your hot chocolate, get some rest. Once he gets the green light you can bring him down to the counter and we’ll get your husband signed out.”

She lifted Daryl’s hand to clip the heart oximeter back onto his finger and then she was stepping away. “Don’t push yourself too hard, Mr Rovia. Recovery is a journey.”

By the time Daryl realised that she’d been talking to him, that he was Mr Rovia, not Paul, she was gone. Daryl breathed in and out. His side stung and he reached, fingers fumbling as he pushed the fabric of the gown away to find the dressing underneath. 

“Woah, hey,” Paul said, setting the drinks down and moving quickly to Daryl’s side. He laid a hand on top of Daryl’s, stopping him before he could run his hand over the dressing. “What’s going on?”

“Hurts,” Daryl said. “Wanted to make sure it weren’t bleedin’.”

“If you keep twisting like that you’re definitely going to pop a stitch,” Paul said, firm but gentle. His fingers closed around Daryl’s hand and pulled it away from the wound. “Let me help you.”

Daryl let out a long, steady breath. He nodded, short and quick, and Paul helped turn him around, getting him back into bed. Carefully, Paul peeled his hospital gown away from the bandaged area, exposing his side and the paler skin of his thigh as the material bunched over Daryl’s crotch, preserving whatever minute shred of dignity Daryl might have left. Paul’s fingers skimmed across Daryl’s abdomen, making Daryl’s skin tickle and setting off a fluttering inside his chest. A sudden increase in the speed of the beeping heart monitor drew both their attention, and Daryl felt his skin heat a painful, hot red. Paul ducked his head, gaze returning steadfast to his inspection of the dressing. 

“There’s no bleeding,” he said, looking up to meet Daryl’s eyes, his hand resting on the soft skin of Daryl’s lower stomach. Even in the haze of pain and medication he could feel a different warmth stirring under his skin from the contact and he grit his teeth when the traitorious heart monitor picked up its pace once again.

With a pained sound, Daryl popped the clip from his finger and the monitor flatlined. Paul made a face, his lips thinning in rebuke, but his eyes were sparkling with a humour Daryl felt too hot-skinned to handle. 

“I’m pretty sure you need that,” he said.

Daryl huffed, but didn’t protest when Paul picked up the oximeter in one hand and took Daryl’s hand in the other, clipping it back in place. His touch lingered, and Daryl knew the beeping he could hear on the monitor was still too fast, faster than the resting rate he’d gotten used to listening to in the background of his days. He clenched his teeth together, but Paul didn’t mention it, just dragged the visitor’s chair over and slowly raised the bed until Daryl was sitting comfortably enough to accept his drink.

Daryl took the proffered cup, and he could feel the heat of the beverage through the cardboard. He sniffed at the opening and frowned before taking a hesitant sip. A part of him had expected to taste coffee, despite Paul’s assurances to the nurse. But the hot, sweet taste of chocolate hit his tongue instead. He shot a look at Paul, who only raised his eyebrows and raised his own cup to his lips. Daryl swallowed. It was just on the wrong side of too hot, but he took another sip, then a gulp.

When there was nothing left, Daryl set the cup aside and bit at his fingernail instead, pressing himself back against the pillows.

“So, after we see the doctor, I’ll sign you out. Then I guess you’re stuck with me for another week.”

 “Sorry,” Daryl said, the word feeling foreign and wrong on his tongue. “‘Bout all the trouble.”

“Me too,” Paul said, looking at him in commiseration, his fingers tapping at the side of his coffee cup. “It’s not your fault. I… I should have stopped so many times.”

“Weren’t just you,” Daryl said, quietly. 

Paul sighed, slumping back down in his own seat.

“I keep screwing everything up,” Paul’s eyes were closed and Daryl wished they weren’t. He wished he could see whatever expression Paul was concealing behind those closed lids. 

“What’d you screw up?” Daryl asked, and Paul cracked one eye open to fix him with a significant look.

“Besides gettin’ us hitched.”

Paul sighed, eyes slipping closed again as he tilted his head over the back of the headrest. Daryl knew the countless ways he’d screwed up. What was his life if not a snowball of all his screwups, growing larger and larger as it rolled downhill, collecting more and more mistakes as it went. Not the least of those was somehow falling ass over head for this man he’d just met. The way a part of him wanted to ruin his entire life in the vain hope that Paul might not grow bored of his company after a few too many days together. Would that be worth losing his life and his family over?

“I guess I got myself in a little too deep,” Paul said, eventually. 

Daryl could help but look at him, from the corner of his half-lidded eye. Daryl could never help but look at him. He couldn’t help but look at him and want. He wanted to tell him he’d go wherever Paul went. He wanted to not only look at Paul’s mouth but feel it against his own again too, hotter and deeper and longer than he already had. He wanted to be the kind of man Paul might actually take home. He wanted to be a braver man than he was. 

But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t. Because no matter what lies they’d spun and what roles they’d played over the last few days, it didn’t change anything. Daryl was nothing more than a redneck drifter, without so much as a penny to his name most days. And Paul wasn’t interested in commitment. He’d lost his last boyfriend because of that fact and Alex had to have been a better prospect than Daryl.  

“I cancelled my flight,” Paul said, and Daryl squeezed his eyes closed, giving his head a small shake to clear it. “You need someone to stay with you and I figure you won’t want to leave the truck behind.”

“No,” Daryl said, his voice low and rough.

“So,” Paul said, with a shrug. “I guess the question is: your place or mine?”

Daryl could have choked on his own tongue. A coldness washed over him, icy from his head to his toes. 

“Can’t - “ Daryl cut himself off. He couldn’t turn his head away, so he closed his eyes instead. “Can’t take you home.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend back in Georgia do you? A secret wife?” Paul joked, though Daryl could see the nervous tap of his fingertips against the cardboard cup. “Because I’d hate to be a homewrecker.”

“My old man,” Daryl said, biting at his nail and tearing a strip from it. It cut low enough to send a lancing sting of pain shooting all the way to the knuckle.  “My brother when he’s not in the pen. They, uh…”

“You said they weren’t exactly tolerant,” Paul said, sombre and understanding. “They wouldn’t need to know about the marriage, about me being gay. They wouldn’t need to know I was there at all, if it would be safer for you.”

Daryl’s throat was tight and he could feel a jolt of panic at the thought of what Paul going back to his crappy trailer would mean. The steady beat of the heart monitor spiked for a brief, painful second that drew Paul’s eyes to the screen and made Daryl flinch.

“Ain’t possible,” he rasped out. “I live with my old man. He wouldn’t need to know you’re a fag. Lookin’ the way you do, you’d be lucky if you only ended up in the hospital.” 

“And if they knew we were married?”

“Don’t matter if it’s consummated or not,” Daryl said. “Be worse for both of us.”

“Matching ‘His and His’ gurneys at the morgue?”

Daryl’s expression told Paul his joke hit too close to the truth to have any humour.

“You could always move in with me for a while,” Paul offered. 

“Virginia?” Daryl made a face.

Paul shrugged. “It’s for lovers.”

Daryl didn’t answer and the moment was broken by the doctor coming in. It passed in a blur, his physical examination, the indignity of getting dressed, Paul’s carefully averted eyes as he helped Daryl pull on his pants. It felt heavy, suddenly, weighed down with a weight that might sink him entirely. He was bullied into a wheelchair, and even the exuberance with which Paul pushed him down the corridor, running down the empty span of it to the elevator lobby at a speed that had Daryl white-knuckling the arms, couldn’t break him out of it. It wasn’t until they reached the familiar pale blue of Daryl’s truck that the moment seemed to crack open, something familiar and lighter underneath. 

“No heavy machinery,” Paul said, when Daryl reached for his keys. 

Daryl made a frustrated sound. “It ain’t heavy, it’s my truck.”

“A truck is heavy machinery,” Paul replied, holding the keys in his outstretched hand, keeping them out of reach. “A VW bug is heavy machinery.”

Daryl groaned. His side ached and his brain itched far too much to put up a fight. He took a clumsy, half-hearted punch at the door of the car and let Paul help him around to the passenger side. Darly almost snapped when Paul pulled the seatbelt down for him, but kept it in, biting at the inside of his cheek. 

“Do you want some of your painkillers?” Paul asked.

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, they mess me up. ‘S why I can’t walk right.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the blood loss, Daryl,” Paul said, not unkindly, though there was a look on his face that suggested he was humouring Daryl more than anything.

“Don’t want ‘em,” Daryl said, and Paul nodded, giving the side of the cab a pat before stepping back. He had a moment of peace when Paul closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. And then it was just the two of them, side by side in the small, enclosed cab. Paul twirled the keys around his index finger. 

“So, where to?”

Home, Daryl wanted to say. He needed to get back. Even if his brother was still in lockup, even his old man hadn’t even noticed either of them were gone, he needed to be there. It was family. It was what he knew. He needed it. He needed them. 

“Heard Virginia’s alright this time of year,” Daryl said, and Paul smiled, small and lopsided and enticing.

“It’s definitely got its benefits,” Paul answered, turning the key in the ignition.

“Just for the week,” Daryl said. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was trying to convince Paul or himself of that fact.

“Just for the week,” Paul agreed. “Then you’ll be fine to leave on your own.”

Daryl grunted, and turned his head, looking out the window.

Chapter Text

Paul brought the truck to a stop in an empty parking space in front of an apartment complex. It was a drab building constructed of brick and cement, dotted with inset balconies and small windows. Daryl could tell just from looking at it that the apartments would be dark inside, even during that day, the meagre light from those small windows fighting against the thick brick and low ceilings. The sun had long since set, however, and orange light glowed from a random assortment of windows.

“This is it,” Paul said, as if that weren’t abundantly clear.

“Figured,” Daryl grunted out, his throat feeling hoarser after the long drive. The last rest stop had been far too many miles back. His abdomen throbbed, jostled for too long by the ride in a way that could not hope to be eased by the less effective prescription medication he’d been sent away with. “Got a knife to the gut, not a concussion.”

“Yeah, sounds like you could use a sleep,” Paul said agreeably.

The door creaked when Paul opened it, the truck’s balance shifting when Paul exited. Daryl bit back the groan and tipped his head back against the headrest. His hand was pressed to the place where the gauze patch was adhered under his shirt. It wasn’t a surprise when the door opened, but Daryl lolled his head to the side at the sound. His eyes found Paul’s, and everything seemed to stop for a moment. A stillness washed over him, the entire world narrowing down to the blue of Paul’s eyes, the slight discolouration, something like a faded copper in there, like thin bands of wire frozen beneath ice. There was something in the way Paul looked at him, in the intensity of his gaze, that made the back of his neck itch.

Slowly, Paul reached his hand out towards him and Daryl let out a huff of a breath. Daryl turned in his seat, wincing against the burning in his side, and lightly batted Paul’s hand away with his own.

“Can get outta my own damn truck,” he grumbled.

Paul made a small, amused sound, ducking his head and turning to the side, making room for Daryl. “I’m sure you can. But can you get outta the truck on your own without falling on your ass?”

Daryl grunted, both an acknowledgement of Paul’s words and a dismissal all at once. Gritting his teeth together, he tore his hand away from where it had been resting over his wound and reached for the dashboard, his other hand gripping the seat as he inched his way out the open door. He inhaled sharply as his feet reached for the ground, the muscles of his abdomen stretching for the first time in far too long. Pushing himself out into the cool night air, Daryl’s legs wobbled. Hands reached for him, taking his weight and helping him to lean against the side of the truck. Daryl had half a mind to push Paul away again, weaker than he’d ever felt in the other man’s presence and standing in front of his home, uncertainty clawing at him from the inside and threatening to tear him apart.

“I’ll get our bag,” Paul said. He had one hand on Daryl’s hip and one on his arm, making sure Daryl was steady and stable, leaning against the side of the truck before he moved a scant few inches away to lean over the side of the truck’s bed to retrieve his overnight bag. Paul shouldered the bag, and Daryl felt a shooting pain inside of his chest at the knowledge he didn’t have anything except the clothes on his back, the truck, and his crossbow. His meds and the payment of his hospital bills were reliant on Paul. Even the clothes on his back were Paul’s since the emergency services crew had cut Daryl’s own clothes from his body at the scene.

Still, he let Paul shoulder the bag, bearing its weight on one side, and taking the brunt of Daryl’s weight on the other. His life wasn’t worth much, he knew, if it was worth anything at all. And, near strangers as they were, Daryl knew in his very bones that Paul might actually give two shits if Daryl bled out on his floor, that Paul would actually call for help instead of simply laugh while Daryl wheezed for breath. It didn’t make sense, but he knew it was true, nonetheless.

Daryl turned his face towards Paul, his nose brushing Paul’s hair as the other man punched in a code by the door. There was an obnoxious, extended buzzing sound before a loud, clunking sound cut it off. Paul pushed the door open with one hand, and started turning his face towards Daryl, pausing only when the motion caused his cheek to brush against the tip of Daryl’s nose. The angle was awkward, but their eyes met. Daryl’s head was cloudy and he took a few short, ragged breaths in and out through his mouth. Despite it all, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“I’m on the third floor,” Paul said, apologetically.

Daryl grunted. Taking a steadying breath, his eyes squeezed closed, finally cutting off the sight of Paul’s eyes, and he turned his head away. A dizzy rush washed over him, a feeling like the entire world was spinning and throwing him off balance. The bitter taste of bile hit the back of Daryl’s throat, and he swallowed against the rising burn of it.

“Walk up?” Daryl rasped out when he could manage words. He took another low, ragged breath, his fingers clutching at the door frame with one hand and curling into the soft fabric of Paul’s hoodie with the other.

“No, there’s an elevator.” Paul said, and when Daryl slit his eyes open a fraction again, he saw the wince of apology on Paul’s face. “But it’s old. More than a little temperamental. It’s not a smooth ride and, to be honest, I don’t know if it’ll be any less painful than walking up three flights of stairs with a healing stab wound.”

Daryl let out another grunt and they stepped inside the entryway in a jumble of limbs, the door pressing closed behind them with a definite and almost foreboding sound. With the exit closed behind him, and the unknown lying ahead, the reality of the moment finally hit Daryl with a clarity and certainty it hadn’t carried before. Above them, the overhead fluorescent light flickered and an electrical buzzing sound filled the otherwise quiet air. As one, they staggered over towards the elevator. Each step jostled Daryl’s side, pinching and pulling at the torn muscles and tender flesh, not dulled enough by the painkillers that were starting to wear off again.

Paul jabbed a finger at the call button, pressing it three times in rapid succession, as if hitting it with urgency would somehow speed up its arrival. For all Daryl knew, maybe it would. Old buildings had their quirks, just as sure as people did. There was a distant thrumming that grew steadily louder and louder until the elevator clanked to a halt and the doors opened in front of them. They stood motionless in front of the open door for so long that the doors began to close. Paul thrust an arm out, wedging it between the metal, making it register the obstruction before rattling open again.

“I don’t usually take this thing,” Paul said, sounding apologetic once more as they shuffled awkwardly inside the small, cramped space. It smelled unpleasantly of old cheese and used gym shoes. Paul helped Daryl lean up against the wall before he pressed the little number three on the panel, watching the numeral light up with a dull yellow glow.

“That bad, huh?” Daryl asked, his fingers clutching at Paul on one side, and pressing to the smooth metal wall on the other.

“I would have walked you up if I wasn’t half as concerned about one or both of us falling down the stairwell. We’ve made it this far, it’d be kinda embarrassing to bleed out in that concrete prison before we even made it through my front door.”

Daryl swallowed around a lump in his throat. Even over the stench of the elevator itself he could smell the scent of Paul’s shampoo, the mingling of their body odours from their extended road trip. The moment was normal in the kind of way Daryl wanted it to be average. Something they might have, something they might do on a regular basis, a small part of a bigger life, leaning against one another in the elevator and making light of their problems, going home together in a place that might have space for Daryl to exist, even if it was only a small corner carved out for himself. A space Paul might let him have, might welcome him to take.

Paul’s eyes were on him, too intent, too focused, and Daryl choked on a breath as the elevator lurched suddenly into motion. It groaned as it rocked in its juddering and slow ascent. Daryl’s teeth and bones felt like they might vibrate out of his skin and he bit down far too hard at the inside of his cheeks as the ride jostled him about, shaking him up and inflaming the pain in his side until it was a constant, unending agony, the kind he couldn’t push to the back of his mind.

“Shit,” Paul murmured, his mouth so close to Daryl’s ear.

His hands were on Daryl, warm and firm and supportive. But it wasn’t enough to ease any of the pain. Daryl could taste the bitter metallic tang of his own blood inside his mouth, the inside of his cheeks stinging, though not enough to detract from the sharp stabbing ache that was radiating out from his wound. There was a heat behind Daryl’s eyes, and a wetness spilling down his cheeks that took him far too long to even notice. He wanted to push Paul away, to hide the shame under the swinging of his arm, but Daryl was too injured to follow that urge through with more than a small flinch, that only had Paul pressing closer, his entire face a picture of concern that left Daryl uncomfortable for the care he didn’t deserve. It felt like a century had passed in torment when the elevator clanged to a stop, both Paul and Daryl gripping at each other as they tried to maintain their balance.

“Sorry,” Paul said, as they gingerly shuffled out of the elevator and into a darkened hallway, lit by overhead lights spaced too far apart. It left too much room for shadows to build in between, and didn’t do nearly enough to conceal the signs of age and wear on the building’s interior. “We’ll just take the stairs next time.”

“I’m fine,” Daryl grit out through clenched teeth. He’d been through worse. Life was nothing but suffering occasionally punctuated by the quiet in between. Daryl clenched his teeth, took a slow, shallow inhale through his nose and pushed forward, his boots dragging over the well-worn carpet. It wasn’t far to Paul’s door, and the pair of them staggered inside. It was dark and Paul reached to the side, flicking a switch that had the light blinking on and Daryl turned his head, eyes squeezing shut against the sudden brightness.

“I know it’s not much,” Paul said, letting the bag drop to the floor by the door. “But it makes the tour quick.”

Daryl blinked through the glare, squinting his eyes to see a small boxy kitchen to his left. Straight ahead was a square of space that had an old box TV on a stand, a coffee table, a threadbare couch, and some mismatched chairs jammed into the space, with little room to walk around.

“Come on,” Paul said, guiding Daryl towards the hallway, a slim corridor set between the cramped living spaces. “Let's get you to bed.”

There was a rush of something heady and almost sickening that rocked through Daryl at the words, his palms suddenly sweaty and his chest even tighter, more constricting than before. Daryl squeezed his eyes closed again, letting out a shaky breath, but he let Paul bear his weight and guide them both towards the hall. Daryl’s shoulder hit the corner and he grunted, teeth biting down on his lip as the stinging in his side racketed up to a searing burn of pain. The hallway was a short one, and it was dark enough to be a relief after the bright lights of the other room. Paul brought them to a stop at the end of the hall, only a few paces in. There was a door on either side, and Daryl’s brow furrowed.

“Bathroom’s on the left, if you need it,” Paul said, tilting his head.

Daryl took a moment before turning his own head in that direction. It had been a damn long drive. He slid his arm slowly off of Paul’s shoulder., turning towards the bathroom door. Paul’s hand stayed on his hip, firmer for a moment and bringing Daryl to a stop.

“Uh, are you sure you can manage?” Paul asked and Daryl almost tripped over his own feet. He caught himself with a palm against the wall, the sound of flesh hitting plaster was too loud in the dark, quiet space.

“Got stabbed in the guts, not the hands,” Daryl rasped out. “Can still piss on my own.”

Paul was quiet for a moment, and neither of them moved.

“Alright,” Paul said, his hand dropping away from Daryl’s waist, leaving him feeling colder and suddenly lost without the warm firmness of his touch. “Shout if you need anything.”

Daryl grunted in acknowledgement and pushed his way into the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him. It was cool inside, the tiles seeming to shine with shades of grey and blue in the light that streamed in from the streetlights outside. Daryl only had to take two steps to reach the toilet and that was enough to have him momentarily reconsider Paul’s awkward offer a moment earlier. His legs weren’t cooperating, shaking and sore, still recovering from the blood loss and several hours on the road. But the room was tiny and Daryl braced himself on the wall behind the cistern as he relieved himself. His head dropped and the room spun around him. The last thing he wanted was to collapse mid-steam, leaving Paul to find him on the floor soaked in his own piss. Daryl pressed his forehead to the inside of his arm and breathed in and out, inhaling and exhaling until finally everything seemed to settle again.

When he staggered out of the bathroom, Paul was waiting. There was a pause, a moment of hesitation before Daryl gave in to the need to lean into Paul’s space, as much for the necessity of physical support as it was for the constant, growing desire he was increasingly losing the ability to fight against. He turned his head, pressing his forehead to Paul’s hair, his nose brushing against Paul’s ear. Being weak wasn’t something Daryl was unused to. He’d always been expendable even to the people he was closest to. He’d clawed his way through life and made himself capable of surviving on his own, and to have to rely on the mercy of someone else didn’t stick well.

Daryl felt prickly in his own skin, something far removed even from the searing pain that lanced through him as Paul started to move, helping Daryl along towards the door on the opposite side of the hallway. Daryl’s eyes squeezed closed, his forehead still pressed to the side of Paul’s head, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured with each agonising step. Each breath was painful, and it was barely even a respite to stop walking, his muscles pulling and straining as he was sat down on the edge of the bed. Daryl bowed his head as Paul slipped out of his space, focusing on each inhale and exhale, trying to regain power over his own, too weak body.

“Your pills,” Paul said, breaking Daryl’s concentration, jarring him.

Paul’s hand was warm and soft as he took Daryl’s hand in his own. He unfurled Daryl’s fingers with so much care, the world seemed to spin again around him, and pressed a small assortment of pills in Daryl’s palm.

“I can get you a glass of water,” Paul offered, but Daryl simply raised his hand to his mouth and swallowed the pills dry. He grimaced as the hard pills hit his throat and he had to swallow several times to get the lump of medicine to go down.

Paul sighed, though Daryl couldn’t bring himself to look at the other man. The exhaustion of the last days hit him so hard his body wavered, his eyelids feeling insurmountably heavy. Daryl closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he felt groggy. There was a pillow under his head, though he didn’t recall lying down, and his feet were cold, his boots missing and his big toe poking out from a hole in sock. The room was quiet and still, empty of life except for himself. A sound left him, confused and pained, though he couldn’t explain it and hadn’t intended it. Everything around him seemed hazy, even as the light peeked in around the closed blinds and lit the wall around the window, pushing back the shadows around it. Thoughts slid through his mind but he was too clumsy to catch onto them, slipping through his fingers like fish through water. The door creaked open and Daryl’s dry mouth felt suddenly drier when he saw Paul stepping into the room, slow and cautious as if it weren’t his own bedroom, as if were instead a private space he was intruding on.

“Where’d you go?” Daryl asked. His tongue was thick and heavy, clumsy in his mouth, and it left his words slurred.

“The couch,” Paul told him, his palm coming to rest on Daryl’s chest, pressing more and more firmly until Daryl let Paul guide him back down to lie amongst the pillows. “As much as I’d love to stay up and watch you sleep, I kinda wanted to get some shut eye myself. I was driving for several hours, if you remember.”

Daryl smacked his lips. His mouth felt strange and too dry, like it had been filled with cotton wool, like it wasn’t even his own mouth anymore. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he even had teeth, or if they’d gone missing during his nap, until his tongue bumped against them.

“Should sleep here,” Daryl said, the words falling out of him, easy and thoughtless. “‘S your bed.”

“The couch is fine,” Paul replied, his palm sliding over Daryl’s chest before dropping away. “The last time we shared a bed it wasn’t exactly gentle.”

“‘S different now,” Daryl slurred. He raised his arm, watching his hand waver in the air between them before sending it in Paul’s direction, his loose fist bumping against Paul’s chest.

“It is,” Paul agreed, looking away, Daryl watched him fiddle with the pill bottle sitting atop the stack of books towering at the bedside. “You’re on a whole lot of drugs right now. Maybe we should see how different things are when you land. And, speaking of drugs, you’re not due for another couple of hours. Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

Daryl grunted. He let his eyes slip closed, trying to take stock of himself. “Fee like I got stabbed,” he offered up, succinctly. “And someone crammed my mouth full of them… them gauze patches.”

Paul made a small sound of acknowledgement. “You want some water?”

Daryl wanted to tell Paul that he wanted him to stay. The words didn’t quite make it from his mouth, coming out choked and in a garbled string of consonants he couldn’t make heads nor tails of. He doubted Paul was any closer to deciphering the intent behind them.

“I’ll get you some water,” Paul said, getting to his feet. “And I’ll sit with you until you go to sleep again.”

Daryl’s gaze followed Paul as he slipped out of the room again. His tongue darted out to try and dampen his dry lips, but it didn’t do much. He took a long slow breath and his eyes slipped closed again, falling back into the haze of his own mind.