The Lady Winchester

Daryl & Jesus -> “It’s not your fault, Daryl Dixon. So come on, stand up and fight for them.”

“Season 8 here we come” 

“Fuck.”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh, a small thing, coming from him.  It was almost breathless as it fell out of his mouth. He was too tired to give anything more to it. 

Currently, he lay underneath Daryl  Dixon, who was struggling to hover over Paul as he rode out the last few seconds of his climax. Presumably, Daryl didn’t want to crush Paul and collapse. Paul’s legs were shaking with exhilaration, wrapped tightly around Daryl’s hips, and it was quite the effort for both of them to undo themselves from the other. 

Daryl turned over and lay on his back, not touching Paul. That was pretty routine. It was how these things went. Daryl would come into Paul’s trailer at night, capture his lips in a kiss, and everything that had happened during the day would fall away. Daryl was always on top.  Daryl never took his shirt off. Daryl barely spoke. They usually exchanged good-natured conversation afterward–they would talk about the days to come, or sometimes, if Paul really worked Daryl enough in bed, and the archer was feeling a little more at ease, Paul would get Daryl to talk about anything really. It came and went, their conversations, but Paul realized he could get a lot more out of Daryl in the day than at night after something so intimate. 

Paul didn’t really know what they were to each other. They spent nearly every day together, going on runs, taking watch, eating dinner with Rick and Michonne. When they were alone in the woods or in the car, Paul would test Daryl’s patience with him, but Daryl kept surprising him. Daryl allowed Paul to give him casual touches alone, a hand on a knee, a bump of shoulders, a hand ghosting over another. Once even, Paul had kissed him on the cheek. Daryl had called him an asshole, but it was said while he was biting the inside of his cheek, trying to hide a grin. 

Paul really, really liked him. 

This was the seventh time they had slept together, and he was not sure as to whether or not he should put a stop to this. He was falling, falling deep, and he was losing himself to this man. Every time they kissed, Paul felt pieces of himself come undone, and soon there would be nothing left of him. 

Paul breathed in, nerves fluttering in his chest. He was staring hard at his ceiling. “Daryl, I–”

“Paul.”

Paul?

Paul snapped his gaze over to Daryl, turning on his side so he could look at Daryl. Daryl wasn’t looking at him. One arm was on his chest, and his expression, from his profile at least, looking a little concerning. He was contemplative, like he had tasted the word in his mouth and wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“You never called me Paul before.” he whispered. 

Daryl sighed softly. “Yeah. I know.” he closed his eyes, and Paul didn’t say a word. He was desperate for so much more, so, so much more, but this was a line he was scared to cross. It had always been Daryl and Jesus, Jesus and  Daryl, two comrades, two people who just worked well together. 

Daryl and Paul was something different. 

Daryl opened his eyes slowly, and now he was decisive. “I…I don’t like what this is,” his voice was struggling–Daryl was trying to change his tone from his normal growl to something softer. Meanwhile, Paul was trying to pre-mend his upcoming broken heart. This was not the start of a sentence that he wanted to hear. 

“Daryl, it’s fine, I can-”

“Ya know,” Daryl snapped, and then he shook his head. “For once would you just shut up?” but he struggled once more, trying to keep his tone light. Daryl seemed to resolve something and turned on his profile, Paul trying to steady his heartbeat. They were both lying on their sides now, blue eyes staring into blue eyes. 

Daryl moved closer, and their noses bumped. Paul couldn’t help but grin. Daryl tentatively, grabbed Paul’s’ hand in his, as though it was a new and foreign concept to him and raised it to his face, settling it there. Daryl’s eyes closed, the tension in his shoulders was gone, and he exhaled, like Paul’s touch was curing him. 

Paul’s heart broke. The moonlight came in from the windows and stretched across Daryl, highlighting his features. He looked so serene, so innocent, like he bore no scars and committed no sins. 

“I want…” Daryl paused to open his eyes. He kept his hand over Paul’s. “I want somethin’ different now, with you. Not just this.” 

Paul was shocked. He knew he looked it too, he couldn’t help himself. “You want to be boyfriends?” he blurted out, his voice coming out high and breaking the tension in the room. 

Daryl flicked Paul on the forehead for nearly yelling in his face. “Yeah, ya shithead.” he said adoringly, and Paul would not forget the way Daryl’s lips curled into a smile, or how he moved their hands down to his lips so he could kiss them. Paul wanted to cry. 

“I…” Paul smiled. “I would like that.” he moved closer, crushing their hands together and kissing each of Daryl’s cheeks. “Jesus, I would love that.”

“You’re Jesus.” Daryl whispered, correcting him.