fanficition cove

Originally written/posted: December 2018
Fandom: The Walking Dead (2010)
Pairing: Daryl/Jesus
Rating: T
Word Count: 3,866 words
Warnings: Recreational Drug Use (Marijuana), Shotgunning
Notes: Oh, TWD. I have quite a few unfinished TWD fic(lets) I may eventually clean up and post, but for now, have this. I fell quite hard for these two for a few months…almost eight years ago now, WTF. I need to sit on that… Also, this is probably dreadfully OOC. Sorry about that. Not 100% sure, since I haven’t reread this either…but.

This can go one of two ways.

Either Daryl will be totally on board with this, and they can chill out in a way that Paul knows he hasn’t been able to do in god knows how long, or Daryl will be decidedly Not Up For this, and they can instead crack open a few beers and shoot the shit like they always do. It’s a win-win situation. It always is with him.

Paul doesn’t wait another moment before he’s knocking on the attic to Daryl’s room. He leans against the wall, taking in the way the house around him feels no different than it did all those months ago, when Paul encountered Rick and Daryl for the first time and had to determine whether or not they’d be a threat to his people. It’s cozier, somehow, even though much of the residents from before have found different houses to live in, with the reconstruction and all.

He breathes out a sigh through his mouth, wondering if maybe Daryl isn’t in after all and he’ll have to try his luck another night. He’s just about to make his way back to the house small groundskeeper estate they let him stay in whenever he’s in Alexandria, when he hears shuffling of feet up above and the door swings upwards.

Daryl looks ruffled, he’s showered at least in the last two days, and Paul is an idiot and can’t help but stare at him. Every time he manages to catch a glimpse of the other man it’s like his heart explodes. It’s been that way from the beginning, though, ever since he caught a glimpse of strongly corded arms and the person they were attached to. Paul can’t quite help the smile that plays at his lips, and he nods towards the other man.

“Daryl,” he greets. “I was starting to think you weren’t here.”

“Was tryin’ to sleep,” is all the man grunts, though instead of telling him to fuck off, he backs away from the opening to let Paul have room to go up. Paul takes the ladder as soon as Daryl even takes one step back, and he dutifully grabs hold of the ladder, climbing his way to the top and pulling himself up onto Daryl’s floor.

Once he’s on his feet, he levels a grin at the other man. He’s only been up here a few times and it’s both less messy and more comfortable than he expects. Daryl’s found more blankets, or maybe started using the ones he’s had since the beginning. There’s a small folding chair off to the side, next to a circular window where a well-loved ashtray sits.

“I was thinking,” Paul starts, meeting Daryl’s eyes. “You in the mood to get fucked up?”

Daryl scoffs. “‘Scuse me?”

Paul reaches into his pocket, pulling out the little baggie of bud he’s been carrying around for a few days now, also letting the homemade pipe and a box of matches rest in his palm. He’s not sure if this is something he’d be interested in now, but he’s heard plenty of stories about his past with his brother before the fall, and knows the man at least wouldn’t cower in disgust. Like a little reefer is really the end all be all during the apocalypse.

“It’s been a fun couple of days,” Jesus says, sounding anything but. “What do you say? Want to get stoned out of our skulls?”

Daryl’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t immediately say no, which is what Paul had been expecting. “Not sure Rick ‘ould appreciate that shit around his kids.”

“They’re two floors down. We’ll open the window, whatdy’a say?” Paul asks again, and then shrugs, pulling out some of those beers he stashed on the very probable chance Daryl would say no to him in some way or another. “Or, we can get buzzed off of these beers I swiped from Hilltop a few days ago. Your choice.”

Paul lets his gaze linger on Daryl, the other man always seems to be boiling under the surface; anger has long been the blanket he curls up with at night. Paul let go of anger a long time ago, an emotion he held close throughout his misspent youth. Now, he’s less youthful but not enough so that he feels the need to hold onto it like he used to. The world has ended and Paul thinks it’s sort of funny that he really only managed to find himself afterwards.

“Sure,” Daryl says, eventually, and Paul’s head snaps up to meet the other man’s eyes. He’s frozen for a solid few seconds. Despite the vague answer, he can tell just from his tone that Daryl isn’t talking about the beer. With a grin, Paul heads for the folding chair closest to the window, looking around the space for something else for one of them to sit on.

“Here,” Daryl grunts, setting down a stool next to the chair. Paul grins, taking a seat on the stool and letting the other man have the more comfortable chair.

“Thanks,” Paul says, gratefully.

He settles into the stool, placing everything they’ll need in front of him, reaching out to undo the latch on the window so he can prop it open a little. The crisp, cool air feels nice on his overheated skin. He has no idea how Daryl stands it being so hot up here, but then again he is the one in a trenchcoat. He pats the chair next to him, dropping his supplies on the table in front of him.

There’s a rustling of fabric and the scrape of a metal chair on the floor as Daryl sits next to him. Paul smiles.

It’s not often they find opportunities like this, and it’s even less so when they manage to have the supply for it. Paul already pre-packed the pipe before coming over here, just in case, so he levels a look in Daryl’s direction, meeting the man’s eyes for a moment. It’s not often Daryl allows eye contact, and whenever he does it makes Paul’s stupidly hopeful heart burn at possibilities.

“When’s the last time you did this?” He asks, conversationally, curious more than anything. He offers the pipe and Daryl with a small smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Not since before the turnin’,” Daryl rasps after a few moments. The silence hangs between them for another handful, before he’s treated to the sight of the other man bringing the pipe to his lips, keeping a grip on it as he takes one of the matches, striking it. He cups a hand to stoke the flame. Paul’s own throat constricts while watching the way Daryl’s neck muscles tense as he inhales.

Fuck.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He never considered just how good Daryl would look like this, which was definitely shameful on his part. It’s not like he should be surprised; finding things Daryl does to be attractive has been a running theme since he met him. He’s never been happier to be wrong.

Paul startles when the pipe and box of matches appears in his field of vision suddenly, but he doesn’t hesitate to grab them, bringing the pipe to his own lips. He ignores the somersault his heart tries to do when it giddily notes where it had been just moments before. He strikes the match after a few tries; and he inhales, feeling the sweet burn at the back of his throat and crawling around his mouth.

It’s been a bit since he’s smoked anything, and the coughs that wrack through him would be more embarrassing if he couldn’t feel the weight of Daryl’s eyes on him. There’s something about smoking together that feels far more intimate than drinking together. Which Paul would know, since it’s not like they exactly shy away from it.

“Makes me feel like a teenager again. Using a water bottle pipe like this,” Paul says, around smoke. He passes them back to Daryl again.

“‘otta be honest, I ain’t never expected to be usin’ one again.”

Paul laughs. “Me either,” he says, eyes flickering from Daryl’s face to the glowing ember of the pipe in his hands. Daryl has nice hands. Calloused and capable of some truly awful things, but ones that are capable of extraordinary kindness. The way his hands tremble whenever he’s touching his family, like he’s scared the most simple of gestures still have the power to hurt. It breaks Paul’s heart.

There are a lot of things about Daryl that seem to have that effect on Paul. There’s no denying the man’s had a rough life. The apocalypse has been unfair to everyone, but part of him thinks Daryl may have suffered more than most.

Paul’s not quite starting to feel fuzzy around the edges just yet, but he’s getting there. He can feel it, just on the cusp, like he just needs that final push to hurl full speed right off the edge. The thought amuses him, makes his gaze steadier as he watches Daryl inhale again.

“Where’d ya even find this shit, anyway?” Daryl asks, voice a low, gravel drag over smoke.

Paul clears his throat. “Grabbing your stash isn’t really on the high list of priorities during impending doom. You’d be surprised how much I find in residential areas,” he says, laughing a little.

Daryl snorts. “Should’a met my brother, then. Merle always had ‘is stash on ‘im.”

Paul hopes it isn’t obvious how surprised he is to hear the other man talk about his brother, and he can’t help but feel a little warmed at the thought of Daryl opening up to him. Not that he wouldn’t normally, but usually getting the man to say more than two words about himself was like picking at wounds.

“You mean your brother was just hauling around a big stash of drugs?”

“Mhm. Had everythin’ from them fancy antibiotics to street shit. Saved our ass ‘lot durin’ early on.”

Paul smiled, taking the pipe and the dwindling box of matches from Daryl when they’re offered to him. The haze from the smoke clouding his lungs has only intensified; he’s well on his way to being truly stoned for the first time since the apocalypse began, and he’s less surprised than he should be that he’s sharing it with certain company tonight.

It’s no secret among their friends that Paul has a thing for Daryl, that he’s pretty much been sold on the guy since he pulled a gun on him. Of course, it isn’t Paul’s fault that gun was attached to very nice, muscular arms that practically bulged right out of the vest he had been wearing at the time. He was a man of simple pleasures.

Over the last several months of getting to know each other, though, Paul’s learned some things about Daryl that he’s not even sure the man himself has been aware of. He thinks he probably learned far more about Daryl in the hours he spent with him breaking him out of the Sanctuary more than anything else. There is nothing quite as heartbreakingly intimate as seeing a shattered man fight for his life.

The appeal hasn’t worn off, nor have his feelings wavered any since they first began sprouting. Paul was in far too deep now to even think about running away, and even if he still wanted to, well — as he’s found out. surviving this world alone isn’t very likely. Paul has spent his entire existence holding people at a distance. If there’s any time to throw that out the window he supposes it’s to save the world, or at least their small corner of it.

“Gettin’ lost?”

Daryl’s voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he can feel the telltale heat of a dusting of blush start to spread over his cheeks. He could easily blame his contemplation on the drugs, but Paul knows better than that. It’s how comfortable he feels around Daryl, despite — because of — his abrasive personality, that’s what really does him in.

Paul smiles, a bit apologetically and brings the pipe to his lips finally, striking a match. The smoke holds in his lungs for a long time as he passes them back to Daryl, eyes catching on the way the man places the pipe in between his lips. Daryl’s lips aren’t as full as Paul’s own, but he still can’t help the way he stares. They look rough, probably from the amount of time the other man spends chewing on them.

What Paul wouldn’t give to feel them against his own.

He averts his gaze once he realizes he’s definitely been staring a bit too long now, blowing a breath out his nose. Thinking about Daryl’s lips is dangerous, because now he’s thinking about how easy it would be to ask the man if he’d ever be interested in making this a little bit more fun. Paul’s only shotgunned a handful of times; usually the intimacy is enough to render the arousal that curls in his gut just at the thought obsolete.

Not not, however.

He can’t think of a single place he wouldn’t like to feel Daryl’s lips against him.

“This is the most relaxed I’ve felt since this all began,” Paul admits, and there’s laughter in his voice. The weed keeps his limbs and mouth loose, even through the dryness quickly suffocating the inside of his mouth. “Kind of messed up, huh?”

There’s a twitching of Daryl’s lips, like he wants to smile but can’t quite allow himself. It makes Paul’s heart ache so viscerally he has trouble breathing for a few moments. He can count the amount of times he’s seen anything other than a scowl on Daryl’s face on one hand. It makes each one that isn’t that much sweeter. “Nah,” Daryl grunts, “Whole world’s fucked.”

Eloquently put as always, and yet, once again, it brings a smile to his face. Wherein Paul is good with words, talking himself out of messes and possibly creating new ones — sometimes — Daryl is a man of few words. He doesn’t think the guy said more than six sentences to him the first month that he knew him. And it’s not like he says too much now. But somehow along the way they’ve managed to pick up talking to each other without words.

Silence isn’t as stifling with him around, not anymore.

“Good point,” Paul says. He doesn’t even know where the pipe ended up between them, until suddenly he does. Daryl’s pushing it into his hands, and when his eyes land on Paul again, they almost feel concerned. “I think this stuff might be stronger than I bargained for.” He admits. He feels loose and content in a way that only comes with some ridiculously good weed, stuff he hasn’t smoked in years.

Daryl seems to agree with him, because the man actually laughs. “Think yer a bit of a lightweight, Paul.”

He chokes on another laugh. He’s starting to think he’s about reached his limit, but it’s getting easier to ignore the voice of reason shouting at him at the back of his head. This is nice, anyhow, being here like this with Daryl. The handful of times they’ve had a few beers together don’t compare to this, though they were still good. Paul’s never been shy about taking every opportunity to be around him, anyway.

He’s not about to start now.

“Maybe,” he says, though it sounds more like a ‘yes.’ Paul doesn’t even try to stop himself when he blurts, “You ever tried shotgunning?”

So much for keeping it delicate.

Daryl’s gaze snaps to his, bright blue hidden behind curtains of his unkempt hair. Paul’s thought about brushing his hair an embarrassing amount of times, of pushing the hair back from eyes so he could actually see them clearly for once. He never will, of course. The other man doesn’t back down from his staring, and Paul doesn’t either.

“Nah,” Daryl grunts after a moment, and Paul feels the disappointment that curls in his chest when he averts his gaze like a knife. “‘Ever done that.”

Paul bites his lip, and he’s the one who averts his gaze this time. The answer doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, he expected as much. It’s not like he’s done it a whole lot either, just a handful of times with ex-boyfriends. His heart stutters when he realizes that he desperately wants to. He’s never been one to shy away with intimacy with Daryl, but he also never pushes.

“Ah,” Paul says, for lack of something better to say. The question sticks like molasses in the back of his throat, and despite wanting to let the words out, they’re too thick to leave. That’s probably a good thing; the question is much too selfish to ask.

Daryl’s gone quiet next to him, and Paul chances another glance at him. The man looks deep in thought, cheeks flushed just the lightest shade of pink, like he’s fighting embarrassment. He’s about to avert his gaze when Daryl shifts, and while he doesn’t quite meet Paul’s eyes at first, he comes closer.

“Why? You offerin’ or somethin’?” Daryl asks, and the question isn’t as rough or abrasive as it would’ve been a few months ago.

“Don’t worry, Daryl. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I was curious, that’s all,” Paul assures him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He needs to stop being so damn obvious, but now that’s the beast that is his feelings for Daryl Dixon has been released, it doesn’t want to go back in it’s cage. It’s not like Paul lets his feelings come to the surface often, it’s too dangerous to get caught up in his head like that, but every time it does… the way he feels about Daryl is near impossible to control.

Even with Daryl’s face half-shrouded in a dark blanket of hair, Paul can still see the way his eyes roll in annoyance.

“Don’t need ya babysittin’ me,” Daryl grunts, and gestures to the joint in Paul’s hand. “Do it.”

Paul nearly drops said joint to the floor at the conviction in the other man’s voice.

Still, he can’t help the way his eyes widen in surprise. He wasn’t expecting Daryl to actually suggest doing it, if he’s being honest, he always figured the man was too repressed. Paul could feel the tension and repression radiating off of him from the moment they met. It doesn’t seem like too many people have told the man how important it is to be vulnerable with yourself. Or maybe he’s simply bad at listening.

It’s probably the latter.

“You sure?” He can’t help but ask, despite the sneer he knows it’ll earn him.

Daryl delivers in spades. Paul has to smile, heart plopping dramatically in his chest. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“Alright, alright,” Paul says on a laugh, holding a hand up placatingly before bringing the joint to his lips again. It’s been a quite a few years since he’s done this. Luckily it’s as easy as breathing to his free hand around Daryl’s wrist, gently pulling the man closer to him. “Gotta get closer,” he whispers, fingers wrapped around the joint between his fingers as he inhales.

Daryl stares at him for a long second, eyes wide, pupils blown to hell as he watches him take a hit off the joint. It’s dwindled down to barely nothing now, but he thinks he can get another hit off of it if he’s fast enough; if Daryl likes this enough. It’s that thought that has Paul pushing forward the rest of the way so he’s leaning into Daryl’s space.

The man’s eyes are even more beautiful this close, his dilated pupils doing nothing to hide the vibrant clarity of them. He lets his free hand reach forward for Daryl’s chin, tapping it gently as he comes closer, hoping he gets the hint to open his mouth.

He’s close enough to feel the way Daryl’s breath stutters out of him at the moment, but he’s obediently opening his mouth for him a few moments later. He keeps his distance enough that they aren’t close enough for their lips to brush. They don’t need to be that close.

Paul watches as Daryl intakes the smoke. There’s a twisting sensation low in his gut, warmth steadily curling outwards in all directions. He ignores it as best he can, but he’s sure if it weren’t for the low lighting of the attic then Daryl could see how red the tops of his ears are right now.

He needs something to do with his hands, before he does something stupid, like push the rest of the way into Daryl’s space and capture his lips. His perfectly kissable lips that Paul hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since the moment Daryl threw a half-empty can of soda at his feet. That was also around the time that he was starting to think that maybe they weren’t that bad.

Paul’s grabbing what little’s left of the joint before the thought’s even finished, taking as much smoke in as he can. After a graciously long pull, he puts the roach out in the ashtray full of cigarette butts. He wonders if Daryl will call him out on not passing the joint, but instead, he feels a gentle pressure on the side of his wrist, like a flick, and then he’s surrounded by dirt and grime, and the scent of weed is even stronger now.

“Do ya mind?” Daryl grunts, voice rough from the pulls of smoke and the general fuzziness of being royally stoned.

Paul’s stumbling forward in an instant, and this time he can’t bring himself to care too much when their mouths brush against each other slightly, the barest hint of a touch that he knows will be the only thing he’ll be able to think about for weeks. His head is spinning in circles, and the drugs and Daryl are equally to blame. Daryl surges up to meet his lips, opening his mouth impatiently when Paul doesn’t do it himself. It’s barely been a few seconds and he feels like he’s hanging on by a thread.

It’s what spurs him back into action once again, at least, creating the slightest gap in between their lips so he can push the smoke through.

Nothing could prepare him for the broken groan that crawls out of Daryl’s throat, ever bit of a drag as the substance dissolving in his lungs. Paul’s frozen, feeling like an idiot as he pauses against Daryl’s lips, unable to bring himself to do anything other than stare at the man. Their faces are still close enough that even in the low light of the room, he can make out all of the man’s eyelashes, the little bits of facial hair scattered in patches he missed.

“Daryl,” Paul whispers. “I–”

“Nah. None ‘a that,” Daryl says, and without preamble, Paul’s treated to the beautiful sight of the older man leaning over him to press their lips together once again. Smoke is not a barrier they can hide behind this time.