Chapter Text
Before
Their first meeting is about as far from a meet cute as it gets. Daryl wishes he could say that their eyes locked from across the room, and he just knew that Paul was the one, or that they both reached for the same cup of coffee at the same time and sparks went flying. He wishes he could say those things, but he is Daryl Dixon, and nice, romantic things don’t happen to him. No, there was no fairytale love at first sight, no moment of ‘ah-ha, I’ve found him, he’s the one.’ The reality of their first meeting couldn’t be farther from a fairytale, and is so much more fucked up than any love story has a right to be.
It starts like this:
Officer Rodriguez shoves at Daryl’s shoulder, making him lurch forward as he walks into the police station. He slams into Merle’s back, causing them both to stumble, but not fall. Daryl grunts, but doesn’t retaliate; he’s in enough trouble as it is, what with the fucking drug charges he’s facing thanks to Merle, he doesn’t need to go and make it worse by cussing out a cop, or worse, punching one. Merle, however, being the complete hothead that he is, doesn’t seem to share this mindset.
As soon as he’s recomposed himself, Merle lashes out, turning around and shouting, “Think you can put your hands on my brother, ya good fer nothin’ pig?” Two cuffed hands reach out and push Daryl aside—shoving Daryl around seems to be okay as long as he’s the one doing it, apparently—and then Merle is getting right up in Rodriguez’s face, spewing some racist bullshit. It goes from bad to worse real quick: the officer reacts almost instantaneously, hand immediately going for the baton strapped to his waist before Merle can even lift his hands to strike. Rodriguez brings the baton down in three quick blows against Merle’s knees. Merle hits the ground hard, groaning all the while.
And Daryl, well, Daryl knows he shouldn’t get involved, knows it’s going to end badly for him, but he’s a Dixon, and Dixons stick up for their own. He’d die before he let some cop get away with hurting his brother, no matter how much the dumbass deserved it.
Daryl runs at Rodriguez, aiming his shoulder at Rodriguez’s stomach, landing a perfect hit that sends them careening to the floor. Before Rodriguez has a chance to recover, Daryl brings both of his cuffed hands down on the man’s face. The cuffs hinder his ability to punch properly, but smashing them down against Rodriguez’s nose is just as, if not more, effective. Blood gushes out and covers Daryl’s hands as he once again slams them into the same place he’d just hit.
Rodriguez scrambles, tries to get up, but Daryl is planted firmly on top of him, knees on either side of his body, trapping his arms in place. Rodriguez doesn’t let that stop him, and he uses what little mobility he has to slam his fists against Daryl’s thighs. It doesn’t do much to hinder Daryl, who just continues attacking the officer.
“You’re one dumb sumbitch,” Daryl growls, "fer messin' with a Dixon."
He lift his hands again, fully intent on bloodying up the nice officer’s face as much as possible, but he’s yanked away before he gets the chance to strike again. He’s pulled up and away from Rodriguez, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and stomach. He kicks his leg backwards. His boot connects with a leg, hard, and the person holding him loosens his grip just the slightest amount. Daryl pulls out of the hold and turns, hits the cop in the face.
Daryl quickly scans the room. There’s a full on brawl happening in the station, with not only him fighting the officers, but other people as well. It seems that all of the crooks in the station joined in on the fight, eager to spill pig blood, to get one in on the guys who arrested them. He would enjoy it more if he didn’t know how absolutely fucked he is once it’s all over.
Someone shoves into him from behind, grabs ahold of his arms and holds him in place. He struggles against it, kicks his legs back, but it doesn’t deter the man holding him. The more Daryl struggles, the tighter the grip gets.
“Just when I think a Dixon can’t get any stupider, you go and prove me wrong,” the cop hisses in Daryl’s ear. “Can’t wait to see you locked up, trapped in a cage where you—”
The talking stops abruptly, and the hold on him goes slack, hands dropping away from Daryl’s arms. Daryl turns around, confused, and what he sees only serves to confuse him more. Standing there grinning is a man who looks like the damn Savior himself, a baton in his hand and a cop’s body at his feet.
Daryl barely has time to think “what the fuck” before he himself is struck with a baton in the knees. His body pitches forwards, first his knees hitting the ground, then his upper body as he is pushed down. His head smacks off the ground, causing lightning quick flashes of pain to spread through his skull. A loud groan escapes his lips, and all of the fight leaves his body. He presses his face against the cool tile, reveling in the relief it brings him. A booted foot presses against his back, holding him into place.
He can do nothing but watch as the man who helped him is put down in a similar fashion. He locks eyes with the long haired man, staring straight at him until it becomes uncomfortable and he has to look away. He glances around the rest of the station, surprised to see that the chaos that reigned just moments ago is over.
He’s hoisted up by the man who knocked him down, and is led to a holding cell near the back of the station. It’s nearly packed to the brim with people, all of them sporting nasty looking cuts and bruises from their own fights. Some have blood gushing out of their noses, others have split lips that have tripled in size and are steadily leaking blood, but the cops don’t seem to be in a rush to help them.
The cop shoves him towards a bench bolted to the back wall of the cell, the only remaining sitting space available in the whole cell. The four men already occupying the bench glare at Daryl as he’s forced by the cop to sit down.
“Sit. Don’t fucking move,” the officer says, his hand poised on the baton attached to his hip, “unless you want me to use this on you again.”
Daryl bangs his head against the stone wall of the cell, only to instantly regret it, as it sends a jolt of pain throughout his entire body. He closes his eyes, idly wondering where Merle is—if he’s in this cell, or is being held in another. He didn’t see him as he was being led back.
He lets his mind wander to how absolutely fucked he is. He was already going down for possession of a controlled substance, there was no doubt about that—even though it wasn’t even his fucking meth, his asshole brother had just stored it in the saddlebag on Daryl’s bike—but now he’s going to be facing aggravated battery charges as well. Not for the first time in his life, Daryl curses his piece of shit older brother.
A body pressing close to his startles him out of his thoughts, and he opens his eyes, only to find himself face to face with the man from before. The guy is smiling again, and he lifts his now cuffed hands in something that could be considered a wave.
“‘M Daryl,” he mumbles. Then, “Thanks. For, y’know. Helpin’.”
“Nice to meet you, Daryl,” the long-haired man says, still smiling. “I’m Paul, but you can call me Jesus.”