Chapter Text
Daryl feels the hard bristles of straw poking into his back but hardly notices. He and Dog found a blanket used for horses that makes things a little more comfortable. Nothin' to complain about, not bein' up here in the loft anyway. Daryl strokes absently at Dog's head, which had come to rest on his thigh maybe an hour ago - whenever it was that he'd started starin' at the roof of the barn rather than catching his usual fragments of sleep.
Paul was dead.
That shouldn't be his only thought right now. Ain't useful, being angry like he was in the cellar with that girl. Anger won't fix what's happened, anger won't bring him back. Anger ain't even what he would want for Daryl. But anger's always been the first place he runs to and he's still so damn angry he can feel it, a sourness scraping against the back of his teeth.
He remembers losing Rick, the hollowness in his chest. The need to be gone and away - to disappear from world. His death is an open wound that's done nothing but fester for years. He sees it, sees it in everything. His brother is gone and that pain gets carried around his neck every day. Maybe one day, when he finds him out there, his body wasted away to nothin', he'll believe he's really gone. He'll leave that behind him, like he's left so many people he was never meant to outlive.
No, this is different.
Paul was different.
Daryl's not sure when Jesus became Paul. Stupid nickname, he'd always thought and used it only when necessary. It seemed even stupider when he slipped, called him Paul to his face and Daryl saw his gaze go all curious and bright. That was Paul. Or maybe it was a different Paul, his long hair tied up into a bun, his face curved into a mischievous smile as he sits at the edge of Daryl's camp and spouts praise over whatever books he's brought along this trip. Maybe it was earlier, Paul looking at him with those wide, too-understanding eyes as he asks if Daryl wants to shower before seeing anyone else.
Or maybe it was that last time he'd seen Paul, over a year ago, a cautious look of hope on his face as he sat next to Daryl. Didn't care that most of his answers came in dry replies or that at Daryl was as unclean as he'd ever been, didn't care that Daryl hadn't done anything like that – not with, not with anyone. Paul just sat close, running on about things Daryl can't even remember, until things gets quiet and he leans close.
Too close, not close enough, close enough to touch, close enough to hear an intake of breath – Paul's or his own, fuck if he knows - as he gets closer.
Daryl remembers vividly the moment that he broke away. He pulled back, staring hard at the trees around them. He pretended like he couldn't see Paul re-settle himself, a mask of indifference out of the corner of his eye. Pretended like the heat in his body was from the fire. Pretended like he had no idea what was about to happen.
He knew. Of course he knew but hell if he wasn't half the asshole he should've been. Too fuckin' cowardly. Too full of whatever shit he'd been born into, the shit that told him that that wasn't him. Too broken to let anyone get close. Too screwed in the head to be good for anyone. Too trapped in his own bullshit to be good enough for Paul.
Didn't matter now.
He was fuckin' gone, wasn't he?
He's in a casket buried six feet under, rotting away into nothing.
Daryl closes his eyes and buries his fingers into the fur at Dog's neck. He feels gentle licks at his fingertips and breathes in.
“Good dog,” he mumbles as the first tendrils of sleep drag him under.
-x-
Without opening his eyes, Daryl knows immediately that something is different.
The irritating stab of hay in his back is gone, replaced by something soft. There's also the smell – the unmistakeable smell of barn is gone, replaced by something flowery and artificial. Wherever he is now, it ain't where he went to sleep.
Daryl sits up and freezes.
He's in an apartment. He's sitting on a couch in an apartment nicer than he's ever seen, much less slept in. It's night but he probably wouldn't know it without the window facing outward into the street. Daryl gets up and walks toward it cautiously. He can hear car engines as traffic – fucking traffic – passes him by and the street is lit up like a damn Christmas tree outside. No sign of walkers. No blood or rundown buildings. No sign of apocalypse at all.
“What the fuck.”
Daryl's confusion is cut short by the sound of keys rattling on the outside of the door. Daryl braces himself, automatically reaches for his knife before realizing for the first time that he's not wearing the clothes he fell asleep in. In just a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, he's got nothing to defend himself with.
The door opens and Daryl feels breath stutter to a halt.
Paul.
This Paul is entirely different from the corpse he buried just earlier today. Unlike the bloodless face he'd seen after Paul had been stabbed, unlike the lifeless body he'd held in his arms at Hilltop...this Paul is very much alive. His perfect face and bright eyes leave Daryl shaken with the thought that he was never supposed to see him again.
This ain't real.
It can't be.
Paul grins at Daryl, his long hair swinging as he adjusts the brown paper bag in his hand to pull out his keys and shut the door.
“You fell asleep on the couch, didn't you?”
Daryl blinks . “Uh, what?”
“Uh-huh,” Paul says, making his way into the adjacent kitchen. He puts the bag he was holding down on the counter and briefly smirks up at him. “That clueless look only works when I haven't caught you a hundred times before.”
“I'm not-”
Still smiling, Paul waves him off and starts putting things from the bag up into cupboards. With his back turned, Daryl reluctantly closes his mouth. The apartment feels smaller with Paul moving around the kitchen; small but lived in, like Paul belongs there.
He notices details he hadn't before. Several picture frames hang on the walls: one of the two of them in front of a cabin the woods, another of them next to a restaurant, this version of himself giving the camera the bird. There are little things that Daryl doesn't recognize, knickknacks on the table behind the sofa, books overflowing on the bookshelf to pile in front of it, but also things he does. The fletching from one of his bolts, his boots laying haphazardly by the front door, his jacket hanging from the coat rack on the wall, wings still in tact on the vest that hangs beside it.
This place ain't just his, it's theirs.
“I know I'm a little late but I actually have a good excuse. You know how Glenn and Maggie have been trying to find a new babysitter for Hershel? Well, I was talking to Michonne about it and it turns out that Enid, Carl's girlfriend, has been looking for a little extra money. Apparently she's really good with Judith, so I gave them a call. Rick wasn't too excited about it because he doesn't want to leave his teenage son alone with his girlfriend-”
Fuck, that hurts, burns in his chest like he's swallowed hot coals and they're just now burning their way to his core. Glenn and Carl and Rick, long gone from this earth but flowing so casually out of Paul's mouth. Like it wasn't anything, like that's just the world that was. There are a thousand questions Daryl could ask to explain what's happened but all that comes out is, “Rick?”
“Yeah, big surprise. I don't think it's the girlfriend thing so much as the would-rather-watch-paint-dry-than-see-another-art-exhibit thing.” Paul looks over his shoulder and gives Daryl a pointed look. “ You two have that in common.”
Art exhibit. He's worried about a damn art exhibit.
The idea is so surreal, it sends a wave of nausea over him.
“Anyway, good news is that Tara, Rosita, and Sasha can drive up with Glenn and Maggie and Rick and Michonne can meet us at the gallery. Then, we can all walk to dinner after.”
Paul finishes emptying the bag of groceries and closes the last cupboard door, flattening the bag onto the counter before taking in Daryl's face. He looks down at the floor and tucks his hair behind one ear. Paul blinks up at Daryl from beneath full lashes, his turquoise eyes only complimented by his wry smile.
“I'm just saying. It'll be nice to have everyone together again, right?”
Daryl struggles to form a response, his tongue heavy and throat dry.
“Yeah,” he croaks after a moment, “s'nice.”
Paul's expression changes, his eyebrows pulling together and his lips pressed together in thought. He steps out of the kitchen toward Daryl. Before he is able to think, Paul is in front of him, reaching out towards him. This Paul has no hesitation in entering his space, takes no thought in the way their thighs brush together and his arm ghosts over Daryl's waist. It's all Daryl can do not to shudder as a hand cups his neck.
That shudder overtakes him when Paul presses his mouth against Daryl's. Daryl had imagined that kiss too many times to count, too many thoughts he'd pushed away into the parts of his mind he never wanted to explore. This is not what he imagined. Where he'd thought desperation would pull into fevered embrace, this kiss is slow and familiar; where he though he'd be clumsy and overwhelmed, he feels himself sinking into every touch, mirroring it and unable to resist chasing Paul's mouth when he pulls away. Paul kisses him like he's savoring it, like he's saying hello and I missed you all at once. He kisses like they have all the time in the world and, for all he knows, they do.
They break away eventually and Daryl keeps his eyes closed. He clings to Paul for several long moments, feels Paul's forehead press against his own and he wants to sob with relief. Maybe this is a dream, maybe this is a fucking nightmare and he'll see Paul's dead body again, lifeless in the middle of a graveyard – he's seen everyone in his nightmares, Merle, Hershel, Beth, Denise, Glenn, Abraham, Sasha, Rick, too many faces, too much blood, and he tries to scrape the images from his eyes but, in his dreams, they run wild – but this is here and now. Paul is alive now, warm and safe and in his arms.
So fucking alive, Daryl thinks, blinking his eyes open. He's struck mute by the way Paul's eyes stare questioningly into his own. So goddamn beautiful.
“You alright?” Paul asks, stroking the skin beneath his fingers. “You seem quiet tonight.”
Daryl shakes his head.
He feels light-headed, like he's taken somethin' and the high has only just set in. Every muscle in his body is loose and his eyelids are feeling heavier and heavier, even as he tries to blink them open. Paul smiles like he can see right through him. With Daryl leaning into him – Paul holding Daryl up with little effort – he probably can. Daryl buries his head in Paul's shoulder, runs a hand along his back and tries not to tremble when he finds the spot that is still whole and untouched.
“You should go to bed -- our actual bed, not the couch this time,” Paul teases.
Daryl pulls back to glare at Paul even though every inch of him wants to stay exactly where he is. “Nah, don' need ta.”
“Daryl, you're practically asleep on your feet.”
Paul's face as he laughs at him leaves his chest feeling tight. He wants this to be real, wants to keep Paul here with him as long as he can. He wants to hear more about Carl and Rick, wants to see Paul's smile as he talks about art exhibits, even though it sounds boring as shit. He'd gladly spend hours talking about art if it means not waking up to a world so Goddamn empty.
If only he could keep his eyes open.
“M'fine,” Daryl mumbles and feels like a kid as he represses a yawn. He rubs his eyes with one hand, pressing hard enough to see flashes of light at the back of his eyelids. He opens his to see Paul raising an eyebrow at him. “Yer here.”
“And I'll be right behind you,” Paul says quietly, looking fond but exasperated. He pushes at Daryl's shoulder, turning him around and pointing towards a dimly lit hallway where he can see the frame of an open door. “Go. I'll be in a couple minutes.”
Daryl moves forward without thinking. He walks through the open door and into a darkened room, reaching blindly for a switch on the wall. He finds it and hears a click as bright light flips on from the ceiling fan. The room is small, much like the rest of the apartment, but the bed looks comfortable, more comfortable than anything he's slept in the past few years.
There are two bedside tables that read distinctly as belonging to each of them. The left is Paul's, two books stacked crookedly next to a hairbrush and pieces of scratch paper with a few dates written on it and a crudely drawn stick figure kicking out at them. On the right is Daryl's, bare except for a lighter, his cigarettes, an old fashioned radio alarm clock, and a small greenish blue pebble.
Daryl finds himself huddled tight under the covers, staring at that rock until his eyes slide shut.
His eyes don't open again, not even when he hears the sounds of movement in the kitchen grow quiet and the door to the bedroom creaks open. By the time the other side of bed dips, Daryl can feel the sharp prick of hay through his shirt. He hears Dog let out a soft bark. When he opens his eyes again, he's back in the barn.
Paul is dead. There's still a girl in that cellar that needs talkin' to. Dog looks anxious as he stares at the stairs leading down from the loft.
There's work to do.
Daryl picks himself up and shakes away any dreams of people long gone and kisses that he'll never have.
He'll move forward. That's what he does, after all. Just keeps moving forward.