Chapter Text
Daryl stayed where he was. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, the flare of the flame briefly lighting his face. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling up into the night air.
Paul didn’t think about it much after that. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just the fact that this was his neighbor and not some stranger anymore, but the hesitation never really formed.
“Hey,” Paul said, pushing off the wall.
Daryl turned at the sound of his voice, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he caught himself. His shoulders shifted, like he’d been pulled out of his own head, and then he gave a short nod. “Hey.”
As Paul stepped into the yellow wash of the streetlamp, he realized Daryl was wearing one of those faded, thin-collared punk rock t-shirts Paul had seen him in before, the black cotton washed out to a soft charcoal.
“That a friend of yours?” Paul asked, nodding toward the empty curb where the car had been.
Daryl took a slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes shifting back to the dark street as if looking for a way out of the conversation. “Rick,” he muttered, his voice even raspier in the cold. “Friend from back home. Georgia. He’s in town for some kinda work.”
The name clicked. Paul remembered Carol mentioning a 'Rick' during one of their brief chats about the rescue, but she’d never mentioned he was law enforcement. She’d probably just assumed Paul already knew the company Daryl kept.
“He’s a cop, isn't he?” Paul prompted gently. “I caught the badge when he got in the car.”
Daryl gave a stiff, almost reluctant nod. “Yeah. Sheriff’s deputy.”
They lapsed into a short silence, then into the usual easy questions they’d traded a hundred times before. Paul asked, Daryl answered, brief and to the point, his attention settling on the cigarette in his hand rather than the conversation.
“You have a lot to drink in there?” Daryl asked, his voice a low gravel, finally turning his head just enough to look at Paul.
“A few. Okay- Probably more than a few,” Paul admitted with a faint grin. “How about you? You hitting it hard tonight?”
Daryl gave a low sound that passed for a no, though the color rising in his cheeks suggested otherwise. Either he was lying, or the night air was colder than it felt. Paul doubted both, and let the thought pass with a flicker of amusement, not sure what else to make of it.
Paul stepped a little closer, his eyes catching the yellowing smudge on Daryl’s temple. “That bruise is looking better. Still giving you trouble?”
“Nah,” Daryl grunted, though he didn’t pull away from the scrutiny.
He raised his right arm to bring the cigarette back to his lips, and as the fabric of his sleeve hitched upward, Paul saw a flash of dark ink on the pale skin of Daryl’s inner bicep. It was jagged and intricate, peeking out from the shadow of the shirt.
Paul felt a sudden hitch in his chest. He tried to look away, but the combination of the alcohol humming in his veins and the quiet intimacy of the street made his gaze linger a second too long. He found himself wondering if there were more – if the ink trailed up over his shoulder or hid along the curve of his ribs.
Fuck, Paul thought, a wave of heat rising to his neck. Get it together. He felt a genuine sting of shame for staring, for letting his guard down so completely. He forced his eyes back to the pavement, trying to reclaim his professional composure, but it was a lost cause.
Daryl had turned back to the street, staring into the dark, and Paul couldn't stop himself from stealing one more look. He’d always known Daryl was in good shape – it was hard to miss the way he handled that bike – but seeing the way the muscles of his biceps moved under the shadow-casted light of the streetlamp was something else entirely.
Paul took a steadying breath of the cold air, trying to remember how to be a neighbor and not a man who was suddenly very, very interested in the tattoos he couldn't see.
Just then, the faint, thumping bass of the music bled out into the night air as the doors swung open. Tara stumbled out, shivering a little, her gaze scanning the sidewalk until it snagged on Paul.
“Jesus!” she barked, her voice carrying that melodic, slightly-too-loud edge of the truly hammered. “I thought you fell in the toilet or got kidnapped. We’re doing shots and you’re out here- Holy shit.”
She came to a dead stop, her eyes widening as they landed on the man standing next to Paul.
“Tara,” Paul said quickly, stepping toward her with his hands hovering, ready to act as a human guardrail if she tipped over.
She ignored him, her focus locked on Daryl, and swayed forward until she was standing directly in his personal space. “You must be…”
“Daryl,” Paul hurried to interject, trying to steer the conversation into safe waters.
Tara didn't miss a beat, her grin widening. “The hot neighbor!”
Paul closed his eyes, a sharp exhale of resignation escaping him. He could practically feel the weight of Daryl’s gaze snapping toward him. When Paul opened his eyes, he forced himself to look at Daryl, his face heating up in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Tara, this is Daryl,” Paul managed, shooting Daryl a look that screamed 'I am so sorry about every part of this.' He cleared his throat. “Daryl, this is Tara.”
“Nice to finally meet you!” Tara chirped. Before anyone could move, she lunged forward, throwing her arms around Daryl in a sudden hug.
Daryl went rigid, his arms hovering at his sides as if he’d just been tackled by a very friendly grizzly bear. He looked over Tara’s shoulder at Paul, his eyes wide and panicked, silently pleading for a way out.
Paul knew he should help. He really, truly should have stepped in. But as he watched Daryl – the man who usually looked like he could handle a riot – looking completely defeated by a five-foot-something drunk woman, the absurdity of it broke him. A bubble of amusement rose up in his chest, and he found himself struggling to suppress a laugh.
He stayed where he was, watching Daryl’s plight with a helpless grin. Paul caught Daryl’s eye and mouthed a silent “I’m so sorry,” but as he did, he saw a tiny twitch at the corner of Daryl’s mouth.
Tara eventually peeled herself off him, though she kept a hand on Daryl’s forearm to keep herself from drifting away. She leaned back, squinting at him with the focused intensity of someone trying to solve a complex math problem.
“You’re wayyyyy hotter than I imagined,” she informed him solemnly, her words slurring just enough to turn the ‘y’ into a long slide.
Daryl opened his mouth, his throat working as he tried to find a response that wasn't just a confused grunt. “I- uh...”
Before he could finish, Tara spun toward Paul. She lifted a hand to her mouth, theatrically cupping it like she was about to whisper a state secret, and leaned in. In a volume that was definitely not a whisper, she said, “He looks like he should be on a ‘Wanted’ poster. Like, in a hot way.”
Paul felt the heat climb from his collar all the way to the tips of his ears. He actually had to press his palm to his forehead, half-expecting his poor neighbor to bolt away and never speak to either of them again.
“Tara,” Paul groaned, though the sound was half-smothered by a traitorous, bubbly laugh he couldn't quite kill. “Please. Stop talking. Forever.”
Tara didn't have a filter on a good day; with four drinks – and probably a few celebratory shots Paul hadn't seen – in her, she was a live wire, sparks flying in every direction.
Daryl, meanwhile, looked like he was short-circuiting. The rose-pink flush on his cheeks had deepened into a frantic crimson. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the pavement, looking down at the hand Tara still had clamped onto his arm as if he’d never seen a human hand before.
“I ain't...” Daryl started, his voice cracking slightly.
Paul looked at Daryl, his expression a blend of genuine apology and hysterical amusement. “I promise she’s usually only fifty percent this unhinged.”
Just as Paul was preparing to evaporate into the pavement from pure humiliation, the doors opened again. This time, Denise stepped out, her expression a mix of exhaustion and concern.
“Tara,” she called, her voice the first note of sanity in the last few minutes.
She caught Paul’s eye and offered a tired, knowing smile, then looked at Daryl with a shy nod before moving in to scoop Tara up. “Okay, come on, Casanova. Let’s get you home.”
“She can crash at my place,” Paul offered, already mentally calculating if he had enough clean towels for a hungover Tara.
Denise shook her head, expertly maneuvering a swaying Tara toward the sidewalk. “Actually, my place is close to hers. I can um… drop her off on the way.”
“You’re driving her car, though, right?” Paul asked, glancing between Denise and the keys dangling from her fingers. “How are you getting home after?”
Tara, who had been leaning most of her weight against Denise’s shoulder, lifted her head like she’d just remembered she was part of the conversation. “She can crash at mine,” she said, voice bright with sudden certainty. “Duh.”
Denise faltered mid-step. “Uh…”
Paul watched the hesitation flicker across her face and stepped in before it could turn into something awkward. “Right. Of course,” he said, looking at Denise directly, giving her an out if she needed it. She hesitated another beat, then nodded, a little breath escaping her like she’d made a decision she was still catching up to.
“Okay,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
Paul moved to help anyway, more out of habit than necessity. Tara was cooperative in the loose, boneless way of someone who thought she was helping, and it took a bit of maneuvering to get her settled into the passenger seat. He made sure the door was properly shut before stepping back, hands lingering on the roof of the car for a second longer than needed.
Paul knew he was doing Tara a favor. He also knew exactly how this would end. By noon tomorrow, his phone would be a wasteland of missed calls, voice notes, and a barrage of all-caps texts the second Tara woke up and became conscious enough to function. He could already picture it.
Denise straightened and looked between Paul and Daryl, who had drifted closer without Paul really noticing. “Do you two need a lift?” she asked. “I can drop you both off on the way.”
“No,” they said at the exact same time.
“He lives with me,” Paul blurted, the words out of his mouth before he could catch them. The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. Daryl’s head snapped toward him, brow furrowing in confusion, while Denise’s eyebrows shot up, her hand freezing halfway to the door handle.
Paul felt the heat hit his face all at once.
“I meant- we live in the same place,” he rushed on, already backpedaling. “Like… the same building.” He gestured vaguely, like geography might save him. “Different apartments. Neighbors.”
“Sorry,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The embarrassment prickled under his skin. He tried, briefly, to blame the alcohol but he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for that to be convincing. He was just flustered. Unusually so. And he didn’t have a great explanation for why.
Denise’s expression softened, amusement creeping in as the tension dissolved. “Okay,” she said with a small smile. “Well- good night, Jesus. It was really fun tonight.”
She opened the driver’s door, waved at both of them, and slid into the car. Paul lifted a hand in return, aware of Daryl standing just a few feet away now, close enough that Paul could feel his presence without looking.
The engine turned over, headlights flaring briefly before the car pulled away, leaving the street quieter than it had been a moment before. Paul turned to Daryl, who was staring at the spot where the car had been, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“You didn’t bring the bike tonight?” Paul asked, nodding toward the empty parking spots.
Daryl shook his head, his hair falling over his eyes. “Nah. Walked down. Needed to clear my head ‘fore I got here.”
“It’s a nice night for it,” Paul said, a tentative smile finally breaking through his embarrassment. “Want some company for the walk back?”
Daryl looked at him, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before he shrugged and gave a jerky nod. So they stepped into stride together, their boots creating a steady staccato against the concrete as they left the muffled thumping bass of the night behind.
The walk back felt different than the walk to the bar.
For a while, neither of them said anything. Paul didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t tense or heavy – just there. Still, after a few blocks, he let out a content sigh and started talking, the way he always did when his thoughts got restless. Not because the quiet needed fixing, exactly, but because it felt natural to share it with someone else walking beside him.
Paul rambled lightly, letting the words wander wherever they wanted. Daryl listened beside him, matching Paul’s pace, grunting now and then, glancing over when something caught his attention, all of which Paul took as permission to keep going.
Paul shifted the conversation without thinking too hard about it. He asked about Cat – if he was doing okay, if Daryl visited him often. About Lonny, how often he was around these days. About Carol, careful with that one, keeping his tone light and curious instead of prying.
It felt like taking inventory, gently, of a life that ran parallel to his but didn’t overlap much – at least, not until recently. Daryl answered in short bursts, but they weren’t shut-down answers. There was a steadiness to them, a willingness Paul hadn’t expected a few weeks ago.
The city hummed around them, distant traffic and the occasional burst of laughter drifting from somewhere unseen. Paul kept talking, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, only pulling them free now and then to gesture before slipping them back again. Daryl walked beside him without pulling ahead or lagging behind, and that alone felt like something worth noticing.
The sidewalk pinched in around a row of brick planters, the path narrowing enough that they had no choice but to walk closer. Paul adjusted without really thinking about it, then felt Daryl’s shoulder brush his a few times. The contact, though light, sent a brief spark of awareness through Paul’s chest each time, the warmth lingered through the fabric of his jacket.
He was aware of Daryl in a way that felt new. The solid presence at his side. The faint smell of tobacco that still clung to him, softened now, mixed with cold air and something familiar. It hadn’t been that long since Daryl put the cigarette out, and the scent hadn’t fully let go yet. Paul found himself breathing a little deeper than necessary, then shook the thought off and focused on the conversation.
Somewhere between one block and the next, the talk drifted back to the people they’d left behind. Paul mentioned Denise, how she was the only one who could really wrangle Tara when she got like that.
Daryl made a low sound in his throat that seemed to mean yeah, even if he didn’t know them well enough to weigh in. He walked a few steps in silence before adding, almost offhand, “Rick’s kinda like that for me.”
Paul glanced over, surprised but careful not to make a big deal out of it. Daryl kept his eyes forward, watching the sidewalk. The explanation came in pieces, like he was deciding what was safe to offer as he went.
Rick had been there for years, he said. The one who stepped in when things tipped too far or when his temper started steering him toward fights that weren’t worth it. Someone who knew when to pull him back before he crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.
Paul listened, nodding along, letting the space stay open. He tried, without much success, to picture Daryl younger than this – less worn in, maybe louder, sharper around the edges. He wondered if the hair had always been this long, if the guarded way Daryl carried himself had been learned or earned over time.
It was strange how hard it was to imagine him as anything other than the man walking beside him now.
“He was… the only cop that ever gave a damn,” Daryl added after a pause. His jaw tightened slightly. He talked about how other cops had treated his family, how quick they were to judge, to push, to rough them up. He didn’t excuse his brother or his father, admitted they’d earned plenty of that reputation on their own, but the bitterness was still there.
It felt like something fragile, this small opening into Daryl’s past, offered without ceremony or expectation. Paul didn’t comment on it, didn’t try to smooth it over or ask for more. He just nodded, keeping pace beside him, holding the information carefully, like something that had been entrusted rather than shared casually.
By the time the sidewalk widened again, the space between them didn’t immediately return.
They walked another half block. Paul noticed how easy it was to match Daryl’s steady pace. His stomach chose that moment to remind him very clearly that bar pretzels and cold fries did not count as dinner. It twisted with a sharp cramp. Paul slowed down without meaning to, pressing a hand to his ribs as his hunger finally became a physical ache.
“You okay?” Daryl asked. He stopped, his brow furrowing as he looked at Paul.
“Yeah,” Paul replied, then let out a long sigh. “Just starving.”
“Didn’t eat much in there?”
“Barely anything. Just snacks. I was there for the alcohol, obviously,” Paul teased, hoping the joke masked the actual hollow feeling in his gut.
As they rounded another corner, a splash of golden light spilled across the asphalt. The air filled with the mouth-watering scent of toasted chilies and lemongrass. Paul stopped in his tracks, looking at the glowing neon sign of Siam Palace.
“Oh, thank god, they’re still open,” Paul breathed.
“That place any good?” Daryl looked at the fogged windows with a skeptical expression.
“Fuck yes. Well, I’ve had better, but it’s adequate for tonight. You like Thai?”
“Nah,” Daryl said almost too quickly. He seemed to feel the need to correct himself just as fast. “Never had it.”
“Now you have to try it,” Paul shot the other man a grin. He started walking backward toward the restaurant door, his eyes locked on Daryl’s face. “Your world is about to get so much bigger, Daryl.”
Paul wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, only that at some point between paying for the food and unlocking his apartment door, Daryl had followed him inside with a paper bag of takeout in hand.
It felt less like an invitation Paul had made and more like something that had agreed to happen on its own. Shoes were kicked off by the door, containers spread out on the floor in front of the couch because neither of them bothered with the table. They sat cross-legged on the rug, backs against the couch, the TV on mostly for background noise.
Paul talked. He knew he was talking a lot tonight, filling the space the way he always did when he felt comfortable and a little wired from alcohol and the relief of the night going well. Daryl listened, nodding now and then, making low comments at the screen when something caught his attention. Every so often he’d chime in, short observations, dry remarks that made Paul laugh harder than they probably deserved.
At one point, Daryl stood up without much explanation and disappeared down the hall. Paul heard the soft thud of a door opening and closing, then Daryl came back with a six-pack in his hand, one can already missing. He set it down between them and handed one to Paul before sitting back down.
Mici lingered nearby the entire time, circling, sniffing at the bags, clearly invested in the situation. She eventually settled between them, then, to Paul’s surprise, climbed right into Daryl’s lap. Not once, but more than once. Paul watched this happen with open disbelief, as if the cat had personally betrayed him.
“Okay,” he said finally, unable to let it go. “What’s your secret?”
Daryl glanced down at the cat, one hand resting easily against her back as he stroked her absently. “Dunno,” he said. “She’s just a good girl.”
Paul snorted, shaking his head. Not because he disagreed, but because it was never that simple with Mici. She was selective, demanding, and generally uninterested in strangers. Watching her purr in Daryl’s lap felt vaguely unfair.
As Daryl’s hand moved, Paul’s eyes caught on the skull tattoo on his right hand. He’d noticed it before, more than once, but this was the first time it felt natural to ask. “What’s the story behind that one?” Paul nodded toward it.
Daryl followed his gaze, lifting his hand slightly, then shrugged. “Got it when I was drunk one night.”
Paul laughed, accepting that answer at face value. He asked how many tattoos Daryl had after that, deliberately not mentioning the one on his inner bicep. Paul had, unfortunately, spent a good portion of the night trying not to look for it and he wasn’t about to announce that.
That turned into Paul telling a story about almost getting a matching tattoo with Maggie once, which led into how they’d met, which led into a broader explanation of his friend group. He heard himself talking and talking, the words spilling out the way they usually did with people he trusted. At some point, it occurred to him that this felt a lot like how he talked to his close friends.
The thought made him pause, just for a second. Then he looked over at Daryl, relaxed against the couch, Mici half-asleep in his lap, listening without looking bored or annoyed. That eased something in Paul’s chest.
Daryl was his friend now. Or at least, he hoped so. And judging by the way the night was unfolding, it didn’t feel one-sided.
They eventually cleaned up without much discussion, the kind of teamwork that didn’t need coordinating. Paul gathered the empty containers, stacking them carefully, while Daryl held the trash bag open. A few boxes still had food in them. Paul hesitated, then tucked them into the fridge, already knowing he’d be grateful for them tomorrow. When he turned back, Daryl had claimed the couch this time, stretched out with one arm draped loosely over his stomach.
Mici lingered for a few minutes longer before finally abandoning Daryl’s lap in favor of her usual corner by the window. She circled twice, settled, and was asleep almost instantly.
Paul checked his phone without really thinking about it and had to look twice at the time. 1:07AM. The hours had blurred together so fast that he hadn’t even noticed how late it’d gotten.
He glanced over to say something – some throwaway comment about what’s on the screen or maybe about calling it a night – and stopped short. Daryl had gone still at some point, head tipped back against the couch cushion, arms crossed over his chest. Fully asleep.
Paul watched him for a second, caught off guard by how different he looked like this. The tension he was used to seeing in Daryl’s mouth was gone, his brow smooth, lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks.
Paul told himself not to stare, then failed almost immediately. Up close, in the low glow of the room, Daryl was… well. Attractive. In a way Paul’s friends would absolutely clock and never let him hear the end of. Apparently, he had a type. Still, he knew it wasn’t just that. There was something else there.
Paul’s gaze drifted, unintentional at first, then not so much, landing on the tattoo along Daryl’s inner bicep. The dark ink curved with the line of muscle, half-hidden by the sleeve of his shirt. A ridiculous urge flickered through him: to reach out, to trace the lines with his fingers just to see how the skin would feel under the ink.
He froze, immediately horrified with himself. Paul pulled his hand back into his own lap like it had moved without permission and shut the thought down hard.
What the fuck are you doing, Paul? Get your shit together.
He blamed it on the two beers he’d had earlier, on the late hour, on a brain that always got a little loose when alcohol was involved. That was all it was. Just his mind wandering. Nothing else.
Paul willed himself to stay still, oddly aware of how quiet the room had become, like moving might break something. He turned the volume down a notch and stood carefully, turning off the overhead light and leaving only the soft flicker from the TV.
He sat back down on the couch, mindful of Daryl’s space, and let himself sink into the cushions. Paul watched the screen for a while without really following what was happening, the room calm and dim and still. At some point, without meaning to, his eyes closed with a tired sigh.
He didn’t notice when sleep took him.
Paul woke to the soft click of his front door, the sound cutting through the fog of sleep just enough to pull him back to the surface. For a second, he couldn’t place where he was. The couch felt unfamiliar under his back, his neck stiff from the angle he’d fallen asleep at. Then the light from the hallway spilled in, a pale stripe cutting across the living room.
Daryl stood in the doorway, half-silhouetted, bent slightly as he reached for his boots. The glow from the hall caught the edges of him but left his face in shadow, turning him into a familiar outline rather than a clear figure. Paul watched, still sluggish, still quiet, as if moving or speaking too soon might break something delicate.
Daryl must have sensed him stirring. He straightened slowly and turned. Paul couldn’t make out his expression, but he knew the shape of it anyway. The pause said enough. Their eyes met across the dim room and Paul gave him a small, tired smile without really thinking about it.
Daryl cleared his throat, the sound low and rough in the quiet. He lifted one hand in a brief wave then reached back to ease the door shut.
“Good night, Daryl,” Paul called out before the door closed with a muted click, and the apartment fell quiet again.