Archive of Our Own ^beta

There's a knock on the door.

Things have been different at Hilltop since Maggie's fist smashed into Gregory's jaw. She, Sasha, and Enid had settled into the spare room in Barrington, fitting seamlessly into the community despite Gregory's posturing. There were a few colonists who didn't quite approve of the new arrangement, inviting outsiders in so easily after the display with Ethan they had witnessed Maggie be an accomplice of, but there were no outright hostilities. The deal with Alexandria remained a secret, as did Maggie's presence at Hilltop… or Maggie's existence in general, it seemed.

Jesus had found Sanctuary at Sasha's request, hitching a ride on one of the vans set to cruise to Negan's main base. It was a smart idea. As it turned out, he hadn't been the only one to have it. And riding with Carl, the headstrong child of one Rick Grimes, was just… Well, it was an experience, that was for sure. He had been amiable to Jesus, the suspicion of their first meeting on the stairs completely vanished, but the kid had no qualms about making things clear: no matter what Jesus said or did, he would not be leaving Sanctuary with him. It was that simple. But his short time with Carl outside the walls of the Savior's base had been illuminating.

For starters, Carl was the first to point out Daryl in his prison garb, all sweat and dirt and what looked like dried blood covering his pale skin and dusty too-big clothing. Gone was the Daryl he'd met on the road, Angel wings plastered to his back and narrow blues full of anger and distrust. Jesus wouldn't have recognized him even with the knowledge that Maggie had choked out to him, that Negan had taken Daryl to become one of his and that she had no clue what had become of him. But Jesus had seen it, gaze settled on the body Carl had pointed to, and he'd been resolute in his decision to try and help by coming back for him eventually. If there was even enough time for that.

Carl had also been the one to inform him about Father Gabriel's lie. They'd told Negan that Maggie had succumbed to her complications after watching Glenn breathe his last breath. Jesus had been more than relieved in hindsight, hiding the two women from Simon and Gregory's unforgiving hands without even knowing the added danger to them. It was something they would have to be careful of in the future.

When he'd returned the information to Sasha, he'd still been reluctant to divulge it. Not telling Maggie was just a recipe for disaster, but Sasha had been insistent. And so had Jesus. If Sanctuary’s location was not for Maggie's knowledge, then perhaps it could be for Rick's…

They'd set out together not much longer, telling Maggie they were going out to scout, to replenish all the supplies Simon had lifted from them. She didn't question it, knowing that Sasha had been desperate to pay their way so that Gregory couldn't say shit about it. It was just that scouting and scavenging happened to not be the only objectives on their agenda.

Jesus hadn't seen Rick since he'd left Alexandria after the raid on the satellite station. All of them had thought they'd dealt with the threat, that the initial agreement of their deal had been fulfilled and that they could continue on in a friendly manner with their communities aiding each other’s survival for as long as possible. But the man he'd faced then, cocky and determined and powerful, did not look like the man he'd met with Sasha. This one had been tired, resolute with his "choice" to comply under Negan's order, and just plain sad. Broken from the losses they'd witnessed in that clearing, the loss Jesus had seen through the bodies brought back to be buried; the loss he'd seen with his own eyes on a different day in a different dilemma, but still with the same result. Only worse. So much worse.

The two trouble makers that had chased Jesus through a field for a truck of supplies seemed to no longer exist, replaced with lesser shells of themselves. And that nagging voice inside of Jesus had told him that no matter what, he needed to try and help. He had to. And so he would.

The whereabouts of Sanctuary had been slept on for days, thought about and chewed on, over and over again. Sasha understood that just knowing for now had to be enough; they couldn't very well do anything with no real weapons at Alexandria or Hilltop, with numbers that couldn't even begin to compare with Negan's. Not yet, not with Daryl's fate hanging in the balance. But that last part, Jesus was sure he could remedy.

He'd geared himself up, readied his mind for the challenge he was determined to overcome. When he asked Sasha one last time if she really wanted to join him rather than stick close to Maggie behind the safety of walls, she'd looked at him as if she couldn’t believe the question and said: "You're risking your life for someone you hardly even know, Jesus. I'm the one who should be asking you to stay behind. But I'm not gonna do that. We need each other right now and Daryl needs us. So… let's go."

They'd gone in with ideas and hopes of stealth, but still prepped for an inevitable fight on the way out. However, things very rarely ever go according to plan… because the moment they had reached the outskirts of Sanctuary had been the very same moment Daryl had tried to punch Jesus's lights out. Again. The solace this time was that he hadn't actually known it was Jesus, had been running on fumes of adrenaline and self-preservation and had assumed that anyone in his path was either a dead foe or a living one. Luckily, Jesus and Sasha were neither.

Daryl had escaped on his own. Well, not entirely on his own. He begrudgingly cited the help of two people named Dwight and Sherry, Saviors that seemed a little less loyal to their leader than most. They'd set some sort of distraction that not only allowed Daryl to escape his cell but to escape Sanctuary all together, leaving him to fight with what Jesus assumed to be his bare hands in order take possession of a knife and gun. Anything to get him the rest of the way out. He was in one piece, sure, but that piece hadn't been looking so good. Pale and bruised. Dirty. Something feral in his eyes, but with something far sadder than what he had seen in Rick's taking predominance. Daryl had been weak, too, and ended up passing out as Sasha drove their vehicle the long way ‘round back around to Hilltop.

Things had been as smooth as they could have, given the circumstances.

Gregory nearly popped a blood vessel the moment he laid eyes on Daryl. Jesus almost felt bad for the former leader, seeing him in such a conniption. But his sincere sympathy went to Maggie and the way her eyes welled with tears when she spotted Daryl; the way he shrunk back from her crushing embrace without pulling away entirely, unable to cut the connection he clearly felt discomfort over. She all but wailed as she collapsed against him, relying on him to hold her up and yet not even caring when he failed and they both hit the dirt beneath them. Daryl himself couldn't even keep composed. Jesus's watchful gaze caught sight of the fresh tear streaks, the way his sensitive eyes scrunched shut far tighter than necessary as his hands fluttered repeatedly to her back and then away again, as if touching her burned. Jesus had attributed it to being overwhelmed and overcome after everything he and they had been through.

But it didn't get better.

Daryl had stayed for weeks at Hilltop, refusing Jesus's offer to sleep in his trailer; refusing Maggie's offer to stay with her, Sasha, and Enid in Barrington. He kept to himself, camped out at night in Doctor Carson's medical trailer or roaming Hilltop's busy grounds during the day. He rarely spoke, rarely ate… Jesus had been present when Maggie had begged for him to eat more than just a sandwich, to better rebuild his strength, but Daryl couldn't do it. He'd said he didn't feel like puking up his guts anymore, which led to Maggie asking what the Saviors had been feeding him… Jesus himself felt sick just hearing Daryl utter the words dog food.

The more Daryl stuck around, the more Jesus thought of him. And when he closed his eyes at night he could see nothing but the painted picture his mind drew up of Daryl at Sanctuary, locked away and beat up and forced to eat food unfit for human consumption, lest he starve. He'd been treated worse than an animal and yet… and yet, being around them -- around Jesus and Sasha and Maggie, most of all -- seemed worse for him than anything else.

He watched it all in a blur. Rick trucking to Hilltop on his own, unwilling to put anyone else in danger because he refused to stay away from Daryl any longer. They had hugged, too; Jesus could tell that, while still strained, it had appeared more relaxed than Daryl's embrace with Maggie. And that, at least, gave him some relief.

Daryl seemed to stick close to Jesus on instinct, having been the only familiar face at Hilltop aside from his own people, which Jesus noted that Daryl seemed to be avoiding. He zeroed in on him if they were both present in a conversation, walked alongside him even if that meant they were several feet apart, and he'd seek only him out to ask if he'd just tell Maggie to let him leave the walls for longer than ten fucking minutes. Jesus had been flattered that Daryl seemed to think he had a close enough bond to persuade Maggie -- closer than Daryl's own with her at this point -- and even more flattered that Daryl seemed to trust him enough to complain about feeling locked up again.

"You can leave whenever you want, Daryl. Just let me know. I'm sure Maggie will ease up if I'm with you. She's just worried."

"I don't need a fuckin' babysitter, Rovia!" he'd grunted roughly, refusing to use the moniker that nearly everyone at Hilltop referred to him by. "Need some fresh air. Too many damn people 'round here, suckin' up all the oxygen."

"Should I have Maggie tell them to stop breathing, as well?"

Daryl had rolled his eyes at that, still pissy, but he hadn't taken it the wrong way like Jesus had assumed he would. He hadn't stomped away, but rather leaned himself up against a pillar of Barrington, staring down at his bitten and torn nails while Jesus watched him curiously.

After a long moment of sucking on his thumb and ignoring Jesus's intense gaze, Daryl had looked up, squinting in the afternoon sunlight.

"Tell her to stop worryin'. It's a waste of time."

"It's not a waste, Daryl. You're important to her."

"Yeah, well, wha'da you know."

"Probably more than you're assuming,” he’d said with a little bit of a grin. Testing. “If you want to sit down and talk-"

"Pass."

"Well, if you want to sit down and have dinner with me instead…"

To Jesus's surprise, Daryl had hesitated. He looked at Jesus with his bottom lip sucked between his teeth, his messy hair hanging in front of his face so that his eyes were barely visible through their slits. Only after a strange ten second set of silence did he finally shake his head.

"Nah. M'good."

Their conversations afterward hadn't been much better, but they had been more productive, little by little. Daryl was intriguing, to say the least. Every look they shared seemed to be deeper than just a cursory glance or a curious gaze whenever one talked. There was something mysterious behind it, something far too interesting, and it was starting to drive Jesus crazy.

If Jesus ever explicitly flirted with Daryl, he was sure it was mostly an accident. He could never quite help himself. And Daryl didn't catch it at first, probably because not even Jesus realized that his tone had turned teasing or his words had become perhaps a little too suggestive. But when the light bulb above his head did switch on, when his eyes narrowed suspiciously and his teeth began to gnaw at his lip in what looked a little like murderous thought, Jesus could pretend that this was just the way he was. Daryl didn't know any better; hell, more than half of Hilltop didn't, either. Out of everyone around, so few knew the distanced face behind the facade. So few truly knew the real him. Not Gregory, not Maggie, and not even Alex who had sworn up and down to Jesus that he had loved him.

And Jesus hadn't planned on Daryl being the one to see him for all the flaws and insecurities he desperately tried to hide, to see him as more than a negotiator and a scout, as more than helpful, but… well, there was still that saying about things very rarely ever going according to plan. And this certainly hadn’t.

When Jesus pulls the door of his trailer open, his eyes skitter across the tense form of Daryl. He's standing there, arms for once covered by a thin sweatshirt, though that Angel vest is still long gone. His hands hold two large jugs of clear liquid that Paul can easily assume isn't water.

"Daryl. Hi," he breathes out, nose scrunching with slight confusion. His lips twist with a smile when Daryl's chin rises and his narrow eyes meet Jesus's wide ones.

"Hey," he replies, although it sounds more like a grunt than an actual word. And then he shakes the jugs, drawing Jesus's attention to them once more. "Hooch."

"Larry's moonshine? Really?"

"Said I seemed the type to enjoy it. Wasn't gonna tell him otherwise."

Jesus steps aside, opening the door wider, allowing Daryl access to come through. His eyes drift over the form of his back, the tight fabric over his biceps contrasting with the loose hang of his jeans in the rear. A stained rag hangs from the pocket and Jesus remembers that he'd carried a red one there, the first few times they'd seen each other. It must have been lost to the Saviors as well.

Shutting the door into the frame, Jesus turns to watch Daryl set the jugs atop the table, his thumb nail going back to rest between his teeth. It's unusual for Daryl to visit him in his trailer. He's only done it once before, in fact, and it had only been to return some of the clothes he'd lent him after Rick had brought some from Alexandria. He hadn't even stepped inside though, not even when Jesus offered. But here he was now, standing in the middle of Jesus’s space with two jugs of alcohol that he was probably intending for both of them to drain. Paul isn't sure if he should be worried by the implications or flattered by the sudden attention.

"What's the occasion?" he asks casually as he steps closer, crossing his arms loosely over his chest but keeping his body positioned toward Daryl.

When the older man turns to eye him properly, Jesus can spot a little bit of shyness in his expression. A little hesitation. It's unexpectedly sweet and Paul tries hard not to smile at the sight of it.

"Too many people screwin' around out there, actin' like this's all some kinda game. I get it, why she threw it all together, just don't feel like kissin' ass." Daryl leans down against the table, pulling his hand from his mouth to clutch at the edge. He looks Jesus in the eye. "I ain't the only one, either."

"Yes, well… I just-- I thought I might turn in early for the night."

"I'll go--"

Jesus leans forward, holding his palm out to Daryl but not touching him. The gesture is effective in stopping Daryl from pushing the rest of the way from the table to the door.

"No, don't. I'd rather sit up with you for a while. If I’d seen you out there then I probably would have invited you over anyway, even if you never accept."

He's teasing, a little; keeping it cautious, his smile light and what he hopes is approachable. He can never tell what works best with Daryl, what makes him comfortable. Not much, so far. Maybe that's what liquor's for.

"Made sure no one saw. Like I said, didn't wanna be dragged in."

Jesus nods as Daryl shrugs. Reaching a hand up to his face, he curls some hair behind his ear, Daryl's line of sight following the movement. Then, he gestures towards the jugs.

"You want to get drunk?" Jesus inquires. "I don't think that's a great idea."

"Haven't had a lot of them lately, anyhow," Daryl murmurs. His gaze drops from Jesus, landing on his own boots, watching as his foot lazily scruffs against the floor. "This ain't gonna be the worst of 'em."

His natural instinct is to question Daryl, to try and find out what he means. He has a feeling it has to do with that night in the clearing, the one that seems to haunt Daryl every minute of every day. But it's none of his business, he won't push, and if Daryl wants to drown his worries for the night then Jesus could at least allow him that. Joining him wouldn't be a burden, anyhow. The stress just keeps piling, piling, piling and Jesus has had no release for it, despite the renewed efforts of Alex. But he doesn’t want to think about that now. And he might as well take this chance, one that has been ever-so-thoughtfully presented by Daryl.

Stepping closer, perhaps a bit farther into Daryl's personal space than strictly necessary, Jesus grabs a jug from the table and holds it up to his eye.

"Do you trust this?"

Daryl snorts.

"Your guy made it. You tell me."

"I know he's not trying to poison us. I've just never had… this type of alcohol before."

Daryl grabs the jug from Jesus's hand. He pulls the cork out and takes a whiff, one eye closing at the strength. Jesus winces.

"This ain't for the taste," the older man tells him. "That's all you gotta know."

"Great."

Daryl takes the first swig, his face twisting as the burning fluid slides down his throat. Jesus watches with a mixture of disgusted amazement and sympathy. But Daryl doesn't need the latter. He swallows the alcohol with a gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, offering some to Jesus.

"Bottoms up, asshole."

He sighs. Quirking a brow in acceptance, he tilts the jug to Daryl in a mock toast and then presses the neck of it to his lips, gulping an unhealthy mouthful in one go. He nearly spits it straight back out, the putrid taste too strong and unexpected. But he swallows it down as quickly as Daryl had, with only slightly more trouble, and begins to cough once his throat is clear. When he lets his eyes open, he's greeted with a tiny smirk on Daryl's lips. The unfamiliar stretch of his mouth in such a pleasant way highlights the dark, slowly graying scruff on his chin and jaw, the little mole diagonal to the corner of his lips. His eyes look softer, too. Or maybe that's just from the haze of unshed tears obscuring Jesus’s vision.

Daryl pats him on the back, coaxing the worst out of him. It's far gentler then Jesus had been expecting, more of a rub than a slap. He can feel the warmth of Daryl's palm through the thin fabric of his shirt and huffs a breath through his nose at the unexpected contact.

"Not bad," Daryl says gruffly, pulling the moonshine from Jesus's hands. "You'll get used to it. But you ain't gonna need much, lightweight."

"I can keep up, Daryl. Don't worry."

"Guess we'll see, huh?"

Jesus narrows his own eyes at Daryl, a smirk playing at his lips now, too. He pulls the jug from Daryl’s hands and turns on his heel, lowering himself down onto the couch. Daryl plops himself right into the spot next to him, leaving barely any space between their thighs.

What might possibly be kerosene invades his mouth once more.

He's not drunk, okay? He's just a little fuzzy. And warm. And Daryl staring at him with his mouth hanging open is both hilarious and embarrassing.

Paul snorts a laugh -- Daryl had just spoken, hadn't he? Or was that the Daryl-voice inside his head? -- and covers the side of his face with his hand, twisting his wrist to scrub his fingers down across his temple.

"Stop," he insists, voice stuttering with laughter.

Daryl's snort is a lot louder than his had been, startling and even more amusing.

"I ain't doin' nothin', you prick."

"You're staring at me."

"You stare at me all the damn time."

"That's different!"

"How?"

Paul laughs again, leaning back against the couch cushions. He shakes his head to push his hair away, fingers locking together as his arms stretches high above his head.

"Because I like looking at you?"

Daryl leans back against the arm, propping one leg up, his slowly swaying knee slotting between the cushion and Paul's side.

"So?” he mumbles. “Maybe I like lookin' at you, too."

"Really?"

"I said maybe."

"Alright." Paul leans even farther back into the sinking sofa, tucking more hair behind his ear and peeking at the man in front of him with heavy eyelids and a crooked smile. "I'll take maybe. But it's still different."

Daryl hums. His attention draws away from Paul, swooping around their small surroundings. He twists on the spot to get a better look, no doubt catching sight of the dishes on the counter, the basket of folded laundry in the corner, the almost-neatly stacked pile of books and mismatched cd's that he'd found over the course of several runs scattered around. Paul takes a moment to sip at the second jug Daryl had gotten up to take from the table some time ago, both of them leaving it untouched even after they'd finished off the full first one. He feels a little too warm and hopes the numbing burn will take the edge off the other edge.

Daryl stands and halfway stumbles across the room, dropping into a crouch to check out the books on the floor. Paul stares at his back, drawing the missing wings inside his mind. And when he gets bored of that, which is fairly quickly, he shuffles atop the cushions until his legs are criss-crossed and he's leaning precariously forward in a very important study of Daryl's broad shoulders beneath the stretched plaid fabric of his sweatshirt.

After a spell of watching him gently sift through the stack, lifting books one after the other after the other, Daryl finally settles on one. He lifts it to his chest, using the other hand to place everything back in a far messier order, and then pushes himself into a standing position. Paul swears he hears some bones pop.

When Daryl retakes his position next to Paul, he can more clearly see what he'd chosen. Where the Red Fern Grows. He'd skimmed through for the first time in years just a couple weeks prior. 

He cocks his head at Daryl, curious by the choice. Daryl meets his eye once before staring down at it timidly, weighing the little book in his hands as if it were a hefty weight.

"Merle used to read this to me."

"Merle?" Paul inquires, keeping his voice hushed and light. He's never heard mention of this name before, but it's not hard to guess who this person might be.

Daryl inhales deeply, a wry smile twisting at his lips.

"My piece a shit brother. Think he stole it from some neighbor kid. Read it to me 'cause I was too young for it. Or too stupid, that's what he used to say. But he'd sit up sometimes and read this dumb book, so I'd hear him 'stead of the yellin'. I thought it was a'right. This kid goes out, gets some dogs, runs 'round with 'em and has a good time. Thought maybe I could do somethin' like that some day. But the fuckin' dogs die at the end, right? And so I guess I started cryin'. And Merle was such a shithead, he started laughin’ at me. Said I was a fuckin' baby, I could never do nothin' like that, not on my own. But he said that he could and that he'd take me with him, if he ever did. I just remember… we were kids, he didn't mean what he said then, probably didn't even ‘member later. But the day he ran off and left me behind, I thought a this… Looked for it, couldn't find it nowhere. Must'a taken it with him. Woulda burned it if he hadn't."

"Do you want to burn that one?"

Paul's quiet words startle Daryl. He looks up, more earnest than Paul has ever seen him, and shakes his head.

"S'yours."

"Well, I'll give it to you. And then you can do whatever you want with it."

"Won't change nothin'."

"It doesn't have to, Daryl. Not everything has to go beyond making you feel better, you know? I think you deserve this. Come on."

Paul untangles his legs, lunging into a stand, but Daryl's hand pulls him down again. 

"Sit your ass down, Rovia," he says with a chuckle. Paul smiles at the sound, so pure and unfiltered. He feels dopey, just grinning at Daryl like this. He can't imagine what he looks like. "What d'you think we got drunk for? M'good now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, hippie. Settle down."

Paul wiggles, stretching his legs out in front of him. His hands rest against his lap.

"You never call me Jesus."

"Nope."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Nah.

"Then why-"

"Said your friends call you that. We ain't friends."

Paul's eyebrows furrow as he takes in those words. He feels himself frown. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected that.

"Don't fuckin' pout.”

Paul touches his mouth on instinct, as if trying to smooth the frown away on Daryl's command. The older man watches him unblinkingly. Paul shakes his head.

"If we're not friends now, then I would like to be."

"Why?"

"You want a specific reason?"

Daryl shrugs a shoulder at Paul's question, stretching behind himself to drop the book onto the floor. Paul mimics his shrug, bu Daryl doesn’t look to see it.

You're interesting, he could say. You make me laugh. You make me think about something other than survival. I never knew I had an interest in the ruggedly sexy "I don't give a shit" type, but here you are. And here I am…

"I just… I just like you."

"A'right."

Alright.

It's silent for a while, muffled noise from outside the trailer window reaching the back of his mind. The forefront of his attention is still occupied by Daryl, who is busy digging into his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, shaking a single stick out and placing it between his thin lips. He doesn't even try to light it up.

"Do you need some matches?"

Daryl shakes his head, strands of hair sliding against his cheekbones. The bags under his eyes appear even more pronounced than usual, making him look puffy, but the blue is vibrant above them, twinkling in the dim light. He tilts his head down, chin to chest, and stares at his hands. Paul can see little round scars littering his skin.

"Don't smoke in trailers," he murmurs. Nothing more follows.

There's a story there, Paul is certain of it, but he doesn't ask. Instead, Paul's urge is to reach forward with both hands, slowly and gently tucking Daryl's hair behind his ears like he'd done with his own strands. Daryl looks him in the eye, dropping his gaze after a beat, his shyness returning to make him think better of keeping such intense contact going. That's when Paul's expression turns tender, his fingertips ghosting across Daryl's temples. The older man hunches closer at the touch. Paul chuckles breathlessly.

"You smell like tobacco and alcohol," he says quietly, desperately willing for Daryl to look him in the eye once more.

"I just drank a shit-ton. You forget already?"

"No, no, I mean… like rubbing alcohol."

Daryl huffs, lifting his head too far back, staring down at Paul from over the tip of his rounded nose.

"Yeah, probly taste like it, too."

It sounds like a challenge to Paul's inquiring mind. Does Daryl taste like the moonshine they'd downed? Does he taste like stale cigarettes? Like toothpaste? Does he taste like something Paul will never want to let go?

He leans forward on an impulse, pulling the cigarette away and tossing it somewhere to the side to be forgotten, and then he presses his plush lips softly to Daryl's dry ones. It's just a touch, lingering and bold, but not forceful. Not assuming despite acting without thought. He pulls away just as quickly as he'd pushed forward, two sets of wide eyes locking on one another. And Daryl looks as if he'd been carved from stone, damaged on the way to this moment, but still frozen in wonder. Frozen in beauty. Unconventional. Stunning.

Paul's face scrunches, not having gotten a true taste of Daryl like he'd been hoping. He needs more. He's back in with a brush of lips seconds later, curling his fingers around the back of Daryl's neck, holding him close as their mouths part together.

It's a proper kiss when his eyelids slide closed, body humming with warmth and electricity the more pliant Daryl becomes beneath his ministrations. Paul tilts his head a little to the side, deepening the kiss, licking into Daryl's mouth with unusual timidity. He had been right about the cigarettes and the alcohol, but there's an undertone of chocolate too, he's certain of it. And beyond that, Daryl mostly tastes like Daryl, so inherently himself that Paul can't even begin describe it. There are no words.

The kiss is a little too wet, a little too clumsy, a little too deep for something this new. But it's good and it's right and Paul only pulls away because his lungs start to burn without oxygen. He's gasping for breath while Daryl's chest heaves, his eyes still closed as Paul looks over his flushed features. He's aching to go in for more, to pull Daryl to him and never release him. It’s crazy. It's hypnotic.

"A little bit," he says at last, voice breathless and uncertain. What had he been talking about, anyway? All he can focus on is the way Daryl’s scruff tickled his lips.

Daryl sucks in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. His irises are like the depth of the ocean and Paul is about to drown. His voice sounds thick when he says, "Yeah, you taste the same. But you smell like strawberries. You got strawberries?"

What? Paul laughs. He allows himself to slouch into the cushions again, his head beginning to swim.

"No, unfortunately. Unless you'd like to eat my shampoo. Do you like strawberries?"

"Maybe. Sometimes. I ain't picky."

"That's good… Hey, you kind of look like a strawberry."

Daryl's mouth curls down in confusion, his teeth showing through his parted lips. His eyes narrow even further beneath furrowed brows. His cheeks are rosy. Paul thinks it's adorable.

"How the fuck you mean?"

"Your face is all red," he replies matter-of-factly, swirling his index finger in a big circle all around the front of Daryl's torso. A little lower than where he'd been aiming, but still relevant to his point.

But Daryl knocks the hand away, gripping Paul's slender fingers with his thicker ones, wrapping them around each other and squeezing tight. He doesn't let go, Paul's brain informs him. Don't let go.

"So's yours, jackass." He says it far too lately, but there’s a surprising amount of conviction behind it. Paul grins fondly.

"Yes, but you're cute. Like a little strawberry."

"You're the little one. And I ain't cute, ya prick."

"I think Paul actually means small in Latin, so I'll give you that, but you're still wrong about not being cute."

"You're the cute one."

"Thank you."

"No, that's not--"

Paul dissolves into a fit of giggles, the hand not in Daryl's coming up to form a fist in front of his mouth. Even despite his own delight, he can hear tiny amused huffs coming from Daryl. His heart thunders against his ribcage.

And then it really hits him, as he feels Daryl’s calloused fingers with his own… He'd kissed Daryl. Just-- without even a second thought, he'd leaned right in and kissed him. Twice, technically.

"I think I kissed you," he blurts out, uncertain as to why Daryl hadn't even said anything about it or hadn't blinked or tried to punch him or leave the trailer. He's drunk too, sure, but he has enough sense to be looking at Paul as if he’d suddenly gone insane right in this moment.

"You that smashed? Can't remember what you did five minutes ago?"

"It's been more like three."

"Whatever."

"But…" he trails. And here's the big kicker. "But what did you think?"

"'Bout what?" Daryl questions.

He draws his hand up to his face, bringing Paul's with him as if he'd forgotten they'd been linked in the first place. Instead of shaking him off, he drops their hands back to his lap and uses his left one to rub at the scuff on his chin.

Paul's brow quirks skeptically, his insides churning with alcohol induced sickness. And also nerves. A lot of swirling, butterfly-type nerves.

"About me kissing you, Daryl," he huffs. "Now who has the memory problem?"

"I… I'unno. Shit. S'okay, I guess."

Paul's reasonable ego deflates a little, but his heart swells at the same time. Daryl thinks Paul kissing him was okay. That's a step up from the “awful” he'd been expecting.

"Alright."

"I mean… got nothin' to compare it to."

"What?" Paul shifts in one fluid motion-- Or as fluid as he can expect in his addled and rattled state. He nearly falls into Daryl, but the older man simply props him back up into position, their hands still twined as if they had been glued together. "Really? I can't decide if I'm not surprised or if I'm very surprised."

"And I can't decide if I should hit you or hit the road."

Ah, there it is. The threats he makes and never keeps. Paul can imagine Daryl being very much a man of his word, but every time he threatens to string him up a tree or knock him flat on his ass, he never actually goes through with it. Not that Paul would let him, but an actual attempt would be amusing, at the very least. But still…

"I think you should stay. I'll get you some blankets. I'll help you make up the couch--"

"I mean… goin' back to Alexandria."

Oh. Paul cocks his head at the interruption, blinking a few times to try and clear his mind. Had that been the reason Daryl had come to him? Not just to get away from the party outside, but to discuss with someone more objective than Maggie about what Daryl's next move should be? Paul wishes they weren't having this conversation while drunk, but perhaps this was the only way Daryl would allow it.

"Is that what you want?" he asks. He hopes none of the disappointment he's feeling is telegraphed through his voice.

Daryl shrugs, scratching at his nose.

"Maybe," he grumbles. "Maybe it don't matter what I want. But I can't keep avoidin' Maggie."

"Then don't."

"It's my fault. Bet she didn't tell you that, huh?"

Paul shakes his head, confusion no doubt written all over his features.

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't there. He said straight up… I didn't listen. After he-- after Abraham, he got in front of Rosita, started yellin' at her to take a look. Shoved that fuckin' bat in her face. I couldn't take it. Wouldn't. So I got up and punched the asshole in the face. It didn't do nothin', didn't make me feel better. Only made him mad and made things worse. And then he-- Glenn…"

The pain and sorrow twists Daryl's face into something Paul can barely look at, his heart breaking at the sight and the sound of his words being broken by a sob. Maggie hadn't told him this. Neither had Sasha. None of them talked about that night, only just to say that the rest had gone back to Alexandria, that Maggie needed the doctor, that Daryl had been taken. They didn't need words when they had remnants of their loved ones to bury.

"I thought--" Daryl tries to get out, his voice cracking with emotion. "Thought it would've been me. Shoulda been me."

"You wanted to die?"

"No. I dunno. Just didn't care if I did or not."

"What about now?" Paul whispers, wrapping his other hand atop his and Daryl's, sandwiching them together. "Do you care now?"

"I'm here," Daryl states. Paul doesn't miss the sniffle. "Glenn's not. Can't waste that. Can’t."

"Listen, Daryl. Maggie wants you here--"

"You dunno that."

"I do," Paul insists, leaning his head closer until Daryl gets the hint and looks at him. "She loves you. What happened out there... Negan wanted a reason and you gave him one. I won't say it's not your fault because I know you feel it is. I know I would feel the same. But their deaths are on Negan, Daryl. Their legacies, what they left behind? That’s on you. It’s on Maggie and Sasha and Rick and anyone else they loved. Don't throw that away on guilt. Because the only person who blames you is yourself. Maggie wants you here. And I want you here, too."

"Why?" Daryl demands, finally yanking his hand away from Paul as he puffs up with anger he's far too tired for. "Why the hell you act like you care all the damn time?"

"I already told you--"

"Oh, right. You wanna be my friend," he mocks, kicking his legs out to settle heavily in front of his body.

"Even though you're being stupid right now, I think you're very intelligent," Paul bites out, rubbing at his wrist nervously. He'd thought about this earlier, the reasons he liked Daryl, and now they were about to spill out of his mouth in semi-drunken, over-emotional, stressed-out form. "I also think you're funny and interesting and compassionate. I've seen your loyalty, your bravery, I've seen how much you care. And it doesn't really matter that I think you're attractive beyond these qualities, but I do all the same. I just… I think you're a good person, Daryl. I know you are. And I hope you know that, too."

The two of them sit there, twisted and hunched on the couch, unable to decide if they should be looking at each other or anywhere but. Paul's feeling a little lightheaded at this point and the inside of his mouth doesn't taste much like Daryl anymore.

Someone passes by the trailer window, an unintelligible voice conversing with someone else. It fills the rest of the silence for a moment, as quiet and incessant as a ticking clock. But then that too disappears, and Daryl sighs. His question is unexpected, almost innocent.

"You want me to stay?"

"I would like it if you did," Paul admits, watching Daryl carefully. "But if you want to go back to Alexandria, I'll take you. You shouldn't be alone out there."

"Don't wanna be. That's why I came to see you. Um, Paul…"

His lips part in surprise at the use of his name. Not Jesus, not Rovia, not one of the many things Daryl had gotten accustomed to calling him whether it was appreciated it not. No. Daryl had said Paul. And Paul had started feeling like Paul the moment Daryl sat on the couch beside him.

The quiet utterance of that one personal word has him feeling as if he'd already sobered up and was now spiraling deeper into drunkenness all over again. The topic of conversation had made things more serious but he'd still been drifting on the inside, giddy and twitchy and sad all at once. And now Paul can feel himself smiling, unable to clamp down the unexpected joy that comes with Daryl whispering his name.

His hands have a mind of their own. They reach out to touch Daryl's face, to cup his jaw. When his mouth slots to Daryl's, the muscles in his stomach constrict with desire.

Daryl isn't very responsive in the physical sense. He doesn't push Paul away or pull him closer, doesn't alternate his hands anywhere other than his fingers getting tangled up in Paul's hair or gripping handfuls of his cotton shirt. He doesn't lean closer when Paul pulls back for breath, isn't tethered. But he is not unaffected. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, little puffs of breath caressing Paul's nose and lips. Tickling. Tempting. Daryl clings to Paul, his body relaxing as he's gently guided backwards, allowing half of Paul's weight to bear down on his own, one leg slotting between two while the other rests at his side. The tight hold of Daryl's posture loosens considerably under Paul's far more experienced, albeit equally inebriated, kisses. And his lips, now wet and supple, never cease in their slow movements.

“You want me here,” he breathes, like he can’t quite understand it, won’t ever get why.

“I want you.”

“Uh, kay…” And he says that like he doesn’t believe but will trust Paul enough in this moment to accept it.

He shifts, arching his back, propping his chin up as Paul’s body looms above his, his hair draping around them. Even as Daryl’s gaze casts shyly away, they guide their mouths to meet, short brushes of lips on repeat.

"Itches," Daryl murmurs against Paul's jaw, his fingers yanking at the hair that makes up his trimmed beard.

Paul huffs a laugh, eyes and mouth and nose crinkling with mirth, and lifts his head, his breath readying an apology. But he doesn’t get the chance to utter one. Being unable to speak due to Daryl's mouth roughly blanketing his own is more than a little alright. It's fucking amazing.

It takes a while for Daryl to get comfortable, to work himself up to gripping Paul's hips, his hands spreading wide and spanning farther up his waist, further settling Paul's body atop his own as they recline across the entirety of the couch. Paul's fingers toy with the buttons at the front of Daryl's shirt, unhurried but not undecided in their goal of popping them open while he feeds Daryl hungry kisses and Daryl responds in kind. A wild animal moving off an instinct he’d never known he’d possessed, unsure but keen to figure it out. To learn with Paul, maybe even for Paul.

There's something of a whimper being dragged from Daryl's throat, one that bolsters Paul, prompting him to pepper kisses all across Daryl's jaw and neck, his nose pressing to Daryl's shoulder when he pauses for a much needed breath. He's aching to get back to it, though, especially when he feels Daryl's teeth scrape the sensitive skin of his ear. He chuckles in the same moment that his body shivers.

But then, within the manner of minutes, it all comes to a screeching halt when Daryl begins to snore. 

Lifting himself up from the spot he'd been resting against Daryl's shoulder, Paul looks down at his sleep-blackened face with wide eyes, his mouth breaking out into a grin even as the lines of his face remain soft with total and complete admiration. He'd never had a guy fall asleep on him while in the middle of making out, that was for sure. And it seems like such a Daryl thing to do that Paul can't even bring himself to feel any form of annoyance. He lets out a sigh instead, yawning as Daryl's snores fill the room. Then he drops his head for a moment, readying himself to climb up and off, to drape a blanket over Daryl and then probably fling himself onto the bed and bury his head under the pillow…

It never happens.

His first thought is "oh shit, I screwed up" when his eyelids crack open and his pupils get burned by the rays of sunlight streaking through the window. His second thought has something to do with trying to hold his guts in as he scrambles off of Daryl's sleeping body in a race to the toilet.

It feels as if his insides are trying to claw their way up through his throat, utterly rejecting all the shitty alcohol he'd gotten drunk off of just hours ago now that he was sober and miserable.

He retches into the bowl, his whole body feeling like it just might collapse right then and there. It doesn't help that his head feels as if it's been slammed into a vice, the pressure slowly increasing until he's certain something might crack at any moment. Even the sound of his own harsh breathing is piling the cringe on top of the wincing. Paul has never had a hangover like this before. He's starting to think Larry and Louie might have done something terribly wrong during the process of making their shitty moonshine, possibly poisoning them even after he'd been so sure to the contrary. Fucking Larry. Paul hopes like hell that Daryl will be just fine. No one deserves to feel this way.

Another wave of nausea hits him when he moves to slouch against the wall, flinging himself forward once more to cling to the toilet as he spews forth the liquid that refuses to mesh with his system. The only form of relief he gets is when he feels his hair being gently gathered up, pulled away from his face and shoulders to be held in a messy knot at the nape of his neck.

Daryl.

He groans by way of greeting, smacking his forehead against the lid. Daryl's hand is full of Paul's hair and he keeps it that way until Paul's back hits the front of Daryl's knees.

"Here," he grunts, voice scratchy, low, and still full of sleep.

A towel is thrust into his face, taken from the back of the doorknob and soaked in the sink. Paul grabs it sluggishly, wiping at his forehead and mouth. He'd jump in the shower right then and there if he didn't feel like Pestilence itself.

He peeks over the fabric after several minutes, eyes barely open due to the whirlwind inside his head, but he can see Daryl standing there in the shadows of the little bathroom. The fingers of his right hand pick at the nail on his thumb while his left hand toys with the frayed bottom of his sweatshirt. Daryl resolutely does not look at Paul. His stomach drops further.

Paul knows what happened last night. Some of the details might be a little fuzzy, but there's no way he could forget. Daryl had opened up to him; drunkenly, but sincerely. He'd spoken of his brother, of his guilt, of his uncertainty of where he should go next. But there had been a lightness to him, too. He'd smiled at Paul, laughed, touched him. They'd kissed. Oh fuck, did they kiss. But now Daryl was standing in front of Paul, looking for all the world like he had no hangover but was still about to be sick, and Paul was sure that Daryl would bolt any second. And then any progress they had made toward becoming friends, or whatever the hell this thing between them was, would vanish. Paul desperately does not want that.

"What happened?" he croaks, burying his face back into the damp towel.

"What d'you mean?"

"Last night. Clearly I gave myself alcohol poisoning, although you seem to be doing just fine."

Daryl snorts, light and careful. Cautious.

"Feels like I got a fuckin' tractor crashin' into my brain. You ain't the only one who feels like shit."

"I'm sorry."

"S'whatever. But… you don't, uh…" Daryl clears his throat, shifting his weight. Paul leans his head against the wall and waits patiently. "You don't remember nothin', huh?"

"No," Paul lies. "Why? Did I do something stupid?"

"Nah."

Interesting…

"Okay. That's good."

"Yeah."

Paul spends another few seconds just watching Daryl's face, looking away when their eyes meet. He reaches out to close the toilet lid, reaching to flush its putrid contents out of their existence, and then he tosses the towel to rest upon the seat. He tries to pull himself up, his current coordination skills not matching the usual fluid control he has over his body, and so Daryl stretches to steady him. Paul runs his fingers through his hair, combing it away from his face. If he felt like looking for one of his elastic bands then he would put the mess up, but he can't even bring himself to concentrate that hard on one simple task.

"You got food?" Daryl asks as he keeps a watchful eye on Paul.

"Yes." He nods slowly, careful not to jostle his pounding head. "Help yourself."

Daryl trails out of the bathroom, leaving Paul alone in the cramped space. He inhales deeply and lets it out slowly, turning the faucet on to splash his face. He takes a moment to brush his teeth, too; eager to get that acrid combination of tastes from his mouth. Even after he's finished, he gives himself a moment to recuperate without having to look Daryl in the face knowing they'd had their tongues down each other's throats and having to pretend like it never happened.

Shit. Screwing up is not something he's used to.

The sight Paul is greeted with is Daryl rummaging around in the kitchenette, dropping a plate of bread and fruit onto the table next to a big glass of water.

"Eat," he orders, nodding down to food.

Paul's face twists with discomfort. That's the last thing he wants to do right now and Daryl knows it.

"Go on," Daryl urges, his own mouth full of stale bread. "And drink all that water. But slow. Don't need you tossin' that up, too."

Begrudgingly, Paul pulls the chair out, perching himself on it as comfortably as he can. He takes slow sips of water and nibbles on his meager plate of food, at least thankful that Daryl wasn't trying to feed him a heap or something heavier.

Daryl finishes his bread at the counter, but then hesitantly plants himself onto the seat across the table, his own half-empty glass of water in hand. His thumb runs across the condensation, the measured movement capturing all of Paul's attention. Paul sighs and brushes his hair back again.

Daryl doesn't move or speak until Paul finishes off both the food and the water. He's never been so touched by something so unnerving as having Daryl's full attention directly on him in a stunningly awkward moment.

"Do you want somethin'?" Daryl asks, breaking the tension. Paul's brows furrow, so he clarifies, "From the Doc. He's got pills. Could get you one."

"Ah, no. That's alright. I'll be fine."

"Kay. S'just… you got drunk 'cause of me, so--"

"No." Paul shakes his head, emphasizing the word. "I got drunk because I wanted to. With you."

"Right… and that's all you remember? Gettin' shitfaced and nothin' else?"

Paul licks his lips, keeping his gaze steady on Daryl's. His heart pitter-patters a little, but he keeps calm. Easy.

"Everything is just… hazy. I'm not used to losing control like that. Why? You said I didn't do anything stupid--"

"You didn't," Daryl interrupts, far too quickly to be casual about it. Sitting alone with Paul for this extended amount of time seems to be making him antsy. He stands, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. His thumb flies up to his mouth. "M'gonna go."

"Fine… I'll-- I’ll see you later, then?"

Daryl nods at the question, which Paul hopes is sincere. He knows that they spoke of Daryl possibly returning to Alexandria but he's not sure if the events that led up to possibly convincing him to stay would hold much weight anymore.

Daryl lifts the chair with one hand, dropping it back into place without the irritating scrape, and then turns to stride towards the door. It's light outside but just barely, probably only a few hours past dawn. Paul stands as the door opens, grabbing his plate, shuffling over to set it on the counter. But then his eyes land on the jugs at the end of the couch, one empty and knocked over while the other is still upright and a little more than half-full.  

"Oh, wait--"

He hears Daryl's footsteps lumber back into the trailer, pausing just past the doorway. Paul hurries to the couch, lifting the jug still containing the moonshine he never wants to even look at again. He holds it out for Daryl to see, giving it a little shake.

"You might as well take this," he says. It's a fleeting thing, but he swears he sees a little smirk grace Daryl's lips.

Daryl meets Paul near the table to take the unwanted object from his hand. The brush of callused fingertips against Paul's own has his tongue pressing nervously against the inside of his mouth.

Daryl's eyes flicker from Paul's, down to his lips and then back up again. High on his cheekbones is dusted pink, Paul swears it, and he has to tell himself not to say a damn thing. But then Daryl's gaze bounces over to the side, landing and lingering on something of interest on the floor.

It's the book from last night, the one Daryl had said his brother used to read him when they were kids. He'd seen it in the pile and went out of his way to pick it up just to tell Paul about how much he wanted to burn it.

So Paul grabs it from the floor, turning it over in his hands, smoothing out the crumpled paper cover. Then he offers it to Daryl, realizing his mistake only after Daryl's face scrunches in what can only be a mix of anger and confusion.

Fuck. Paul had been so focused on not mentioning the kissing or the potential of Daryl staying at Hilltop that his unusually jumbled brain forwent the calm in order to offer the form of comfort Daryl didn't want to ask for.

"You don't remember, huh?" Daryl growls. "Fuckin' bullshit!"

"Daryl, look--"

Daryl spins around and passes the table, glass jug clanking against wood, and he storms toward the door in a huff.

"I'm sorry--"

"You coulda just said!" Daryl barks, halfway in the doorway and halfway out. "You coulda, but you had me sittin' there like a fuckin' fool and you were lookin' at me the whole time, knowin' you knew--"

"Knew what, that I kissed you? Yes, okay, that wouldn’t exactly slip my mind, drunk or not. But did you really want the truth? You wouldn't even look at me back there. And I figured that if you wished you could forget, then I might as well try to. I meant what I said about wanting to be friends. I was just-- I was just trying to give you a way out of the rest."

Daryl backtracks into the trailer, finally closing the door, shutting them away from the rest of the world, together. But he doesn't take any steps to close some of the distance between them, just stands staring at the wall, his fingers turning pale as they grip the handle of the jug.

"The rest," he intones. It's not a question, even though Paul knows Daryl doesn't understand. He's not asking; he's demanding Paul tell him what it means. No bullshit. Only, he's not really ready to face that aspect yet.

"That's not… important right now. I didn't know how to bring it up to you, so I didn't. And I'm sorry."

"Well… me too."

Paul chuckles humorlessly. He can't help but trace the non-existent wing pattern on Daryl's back again.

"There's no reason for you to be sorry."

Daryl turns to face him, then. Huffing through his nose, his head tilts just slightly to the side, reminding Paul of a puppy or some kind of wolf cub; lost and innocent, the tough exterior stripped away. He doesn't know Daryl like he wishes he could, like he wishes he might still some day. He really, really wants that.

"You weren't the only one doin' dumb shit," Daryl says quietly, voice like gravel. Forced out.

"I thought you said I didn't do anything stupid."

"Well, guess I lied, too." He scratches at the sparse hair on his jaw, keeping his eyes level with Paul's chest.

"And I guess we can call it even, then."

"Was already even," Daryl counters. "You did what you did and I did it right back."

"You mean kissing?"

Paul definitely doesn't mistake the redness in Daryl's face now. Even with the distance between them, the light from the window illuminates half of Daryl's body, painting him in pale yellows and blushing reds and piercing blues. Paul can't hide the smile that comes at the fact that Daryl can't even say the word.

"Yeah. Whatever. You said it don't matter."

"No, I said it wasn't important right now. I think we'll have to talk about it eventually, but just…" Paul ambles forward, placing his forearm on the back of the chair closest to Daryl. He lowers the volume of his voice to something just for them, even though they're already alone. "I meant what I said."

"'Bout bein' friends."

"Yeah. And…" Paul's starting to make himself flustered now. What's he even trying to do here? He said they wouldn't talk about it, but here he is, bringing it up, and Daryl actually looks as if he's interested in hearing whatever it is he has to say. "And-- And I…"

"And," Daryl mimics, rotating his shoulders. Paul rolls his eyes to the other side of the room.

He doesn't need to start blushing now; that's the last thing that should happen. He's had experience in this, before and after. Alex had even lived with him, for a while, until they'd broken apart. Jesus had been too absent, physically and then emotionally, too worried and cautious. Alex had wanted him and he thought he'd wanted Alex, but it had drifted. Jesus couldn't commit. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to. He wouldn't. Just like being a leader, being alone with someone else without his guard up was just not for him. Not then. 

But with someone like Daryl… The opposite of Alex in every way. Prickly and reserved, angry and snide, a smart-ass that felt too much and told himself he deserved too little. He was rugged and dirty and wild. Nothing but trouble, just like predicted. The only thing Daryl had in common with Alex was that heart of gold, that desire to help people at any cost. And maybe it was a little fucked up for Paul to care so much about a virtual stranger, to feel a connection or a spark or whatever the hell it was that had been going on between them far before what had transpired that previous night, what might have even cultivated when Paul saved Daryl from being chomped on and then got punched for his efforts. But the fact that it was Paul to Daryl, not a scout or a peace keeper or one of the few people at Hilltop who could offer solid and knowledgeable protection; not Jesus, but just Paul, a prick or a hippie or a ninja or an asshole or sometimes all four at once… The only word he can think of following this whole experience is intoxicating. And that's exactly what it was, what it is.

The fear should be what might happen if it becomes more than that. But he's not afraid yet. He's just… nervous, and that in itself is strange, but he knows he isn't the only one. 

"I meant it all, okay? Just so you know."

The nod he gets from Daryl is barely more than a jerk of his head as he fumbles inside his pocket, pulling that pack of cigarettes out like he'd done last night. He stares at it, then puts it back without even thumbing the flap back. Paul doesn't know if that means he's planning to stay a little longer or if he's just not in the mood. With the same hand, he gestures to the couch.

"Don't know what happened after… You were on me, then you were gone, hackin' up a lung. Don't know 'bout in between."

"Right, well… I was kissing you--" Already, Daryl's rubbing the back of his neck. "--And you fell asleep. Right in the middle of it. I didn't even know until you started snoring in my ear."

"Man…" Daryl grumbles, waving his hand through the air. "Just-- Shuddup!"

"You asked."

Sensing the end of their moment together is coming to an end for real this time, Paul sighs and closes the rest of the distance between them, standing too close and yet feeling like it's still not close enough. He holds the book out for Daryl to grasp, locking eyes with him as its pulled from his hand timidly. Daryl clears his throat.

"Hey, um, was thinkin'… you goin' on a run soon?"

"Yeah." Paul nods, trapping a strand of hair behind his ear. "Probably in a couple of days."

Daryl chews on his lip, taking in the words. His shoulders relax on an exhale.

"Maybe I can come with."

"To go to Alexandria?"

"Nah. Just to go. Help, y'know?"

Paul smiles, suddenly feeling a smidgen of shyness himself. Daryl wanting to go on a run with him, just the two of them alone together, well… maybe it means that they're okay; that they're friends. Maybe it's means something more. He doesn't want to look too far into what's already teetering on the edge. He's content enough now to wait and see where this goes, if it does at all. To see where Daryl might take him and where he might take Daryl. Where they could lead each other.

"I'd like that," he chooses to say. Because he doesn't know any other words that could be so right in this moment. It can be simple, if they let it.

"Thanks." Daryl jerks his chin. He holds the book to the flannel across his chest, smooth skin and sparse dark hair peeking out through the crooked row of unbuttoned buttons. Had Paul done that? He remembers trying to, at least. "See ya."

"See you."

With a jug of moonshine in one hand and a battered copy of Where the Red Fern Grows in the other, Daryl manages to open the door, stepping out into the sunlight. Paul's lips are pressed together tight, a smile pulling at the corner when Daryl locks eyes with him one last time from over his shoulder.

Then the door clicks shut and Paul is left inside his little trailer, alone with his thoughts.

He wipes down the plate he'd eaten off of and puts it away, filling his glass up with water again but leaving it in the counter with only a sip taken. He leaves Daryl’s glass there, too, just for now. He needs to shower, to lay back down, to talk with Maggie and Sasha when he gets the chance. If he's lucky, he might even see Daryl again. It could never be too soon.

Paul headed back to the bathroom, the pounding in his head more of a background thought, but he stops just as his foot is about to step on a lone cigarette. The one he'd pulled from Daryl's mouth before he'd kissed him.

Smiling to himself, Paul lifts it from the floor and examines it, then presses it carefully into his pocket. A little memento from what could possibly, maybe hopefully, be the beginning of something new.

There's a knock on the door.

Paul pulls his beanie over the top of his head, adjusting it into the perfect position, and slides his fingers into his leather gloves.

The knock sounds again. Impatient. Paul smirks.

"Paul! You're burnin' daylight!" Daryl's muffled yell calls through the door.

"You can come in!"

The door opens immediately and Daryl steps inside, as geared up as he can be without the vest and the crossbow he'd told Paul had been stolen from him by the same jackass who had helped him escape. It was and still is his favorite weapon. Paul would give anything to see those arms shoot a bolt. Maybe he could even get the bow back for him, if he pulled out all the incredibly stupid and most likely dangerous stops. Preferably before this whole thing with Negan blows up again.

"You ready?” Daryl asks. He waves a scrap of paper in the air. “Got a list from Maggie."

"Good." Paul adjusts the daggers at his belt, grabbing a large duffel bag as he passes the table to meet Daryl by the door. He smirks when he catches the older man glancing at his mouth unwittingly. "This is gonna be fun."

"If we ever get goin', maybe." The backpack hanging from Daryl's shoulder gets shrugged farther up his back, the sleeves of his sweatshirt shoved up his forearms. "C'mon."

Daryl heads out the door first, Paul on his tail. Then it shuts behind them both as they step out onto the ground of Hilltop, trekking to the gates with matching strides. They're on their way now. And they’re on it together. It’s a really good start.