It’s been snowing for a while, now, so Daryl’s sequestered away in a corner of Barrington’s porch and watching flames dance over Paul’s skin instead of making a move. He tries to convince himself that it’s the cold that’s holding him back, not the cowardice, but his thumbnail’s caught between his teeth and the taste of copper’s flooding his mouth, and he knows the truth of it.
Maggie bumps him with one strong shoulder. “Y’know, he wouldn’t turn you down.”
Daryl does know that. Paul’s too good of a guy to be cruel about it, to laugh. Thing is, though, that knowing that and believing that... that’s two different things. “Hm.”
Maggie slides him a look that says you’re a dumbass, and only when he looks away with a flush on his cheeks does he notice Paul coming towards them with a toothy grin.
His heart doesn’t leap into his chest. It doesn’t.
Maggie shuffles off with some lame excuse of finding Glenn and making sure he doesn’t go headlong into one of the many piles of snow around Hilltop. Daryl doesn’t believe her for a second, and not only because he knows for a fact Glenn’s inside, but for the smirk on her face as she smacks him on the ass.
“Hey,” he says, soft, when Paul’s close enough to hear, and Paul grins at him.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Daryl swallows. Tells himself to calm down, Paul’s been doing this for god-knows how long, probably does it to everything.
“Fuck off,” Daryl snorts, instead of saying something pathetic like don’t say it unless you’re gonna do something about it.
Paul looks so good, haloed by flames and snow caught in his eyelashes, cheeks bright pink from the chill of the brisk wind. Daryl shoves his hands in his pockets to stop the need to touch.
Paul winks, leans closer, puts a hand over Daryl’s waist. Looks up at him through snow-wet lashes, lip caught between his teeth. “Dance with me?”
“What.”
He knows he sounds like a dick, like every stereotype all his family thought of him once upon a time, what with the way his voice closes off. It’s not like he doesn’t want this; he does, so much it burns to his core. It’s why he shuts himself off, even, because he’s read enough of Carol’s self-help books and had enough talks with Rick to know that this is self-destruction in its purest form.
Whatever. That’s not... Important.
Paul smiles, wider, squeezes a small hand over Daryl’s hip. “Dance with me? I know you’ve got it in you, Mr. Dixon.”
Daryl takes a shuddering breath, hides it with a grunt. “Why?”
“Consider it charity,” Paul thinks, and ouch, alright, that hit him where it hurts, “maybe I’ll warm you up some, yeah?”
Oh.
“Okay,” Daryl says, and Paul’s smile turns just a little wicked when he catches the way Daryl’s voice cracks, trembles on the single word response.
Fuck.
“Put your hands on me.”
Daryl obeys, knows he’s blushing, wonders if it’s immoral to cut Maggie just a little for dropping him in it like this. “Anyone’s gonna think you’re putting moves on me.”
He doesn’t have time to punch himself in the face. Paul ducks his head, shrugs.
“What if I am? Would, uh. Would you- say yes?”
Daryl considers everything. Abraham’s question about settling down, Rick’s concerned glances throughout the war, the way even Judith watches him like she’s not sure where he is even if he’s cradling her close.
“Yeah,” he settles on, and flushes when Paul leans in close, presses a kiss to his jaw, “guess I would.”
