Just for Fun
Based on this post:
Tougher than the Rest (Non Zombie AU, meet cute)
Paul Rovia tries to visit his mom and sisters at least a few times a month just to say hello and let them know how he’s doing. Easy enough to do, and a nice bonus is that Decatur Cemetery is a great spot to go for a run. The historic section is beautiful, the paths are well-maintained, and it’s conveniently located a few blocks from the MARTA station. All he has to do is change into his running clothes before he leaves work, ride for a few extra stops, and meander down to the cemetery.
He says hello to Mom and the girls first; after more than twenty years and a fuckload of therapy he’s rarely made sad or angry by his visits. Usually it’s peaceful more than anything else. Usually.
On the occasions it’s not peaceful a run helps to clear his mind.
When Paul arrives at that familiar spot in the cemetery on the day his life changes forever there’s a man kneeling over Tricia’s grave. Paul slams to a confused halt; thinking for a split second this is a caretaker of some kind before remembering it’s past six and the cemetery workers have been gone for hours. Plus this guy isn’t dressed like a caretaker—his back is to Paul and he gets an impression of broad shoulders underneath a black leather vest with angel wing patches. Paul tries to figure out who the hell this guy could be; he is muttering something to the graves and laying a white flower in a mason jar in front of Tricia’s headstone, Mom and Katie’s already have one.
Finally he says, “Um. Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”
The guy jumps and clambers to his feet, spinning around and blinking. Paul’s eyes flicker over him automatically—hot, in a scruffy redneck biker way. Dark hair, narrow blue eyes, and nice cheekbones. The guy’s eyes widen and he freezes. His cheeks turn red and his eyes drop, fingers twiddling.
“Uh, sorry,” the guy says, “Jus’ payin’ my respects.” His accent has a twang of Appalachia in it, making Paul think of his grandfather for the first time in a years.
Paul folds his arms in front of him and raises an eyebrow. “No need to apologize, but I’m the only one who comes around here these days. Did you know my mom?” The guy looks anywhere from ten to fifteen years older than Paul, he could’ve been one of her students if he went to high school in the area.
The guy looks even more mortified. He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t meet Paul’s eyes when he stammers out, “Sorry. I…it’s kinda weird.” The guy flushes a dark shade of red and Paul thinks he’s fucking adorable. If he saw this guy in a gay bar he’d ask for his number, although he doubts that scenario was even within the realm of possibility. Paul’s dated enough guys to know that not everyone conforms to gay stereotypes but by numbers alone this man is probably straight. Even if he wasn’t Paul doesn’t think standing over the graves of his entire family is the best place to ask for a date.
“I’m Daryl,” the guy finally says, eyes darting everywhere but Paul’s face, “Um. Daryl Dixon. He fidgets a minute before blurting out, “My brother’s buried in Mountain View Baptist up in Salina.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul says automatically, before he realizes why the name of the cemetery sounds familiar. “Oh.”
Daryl’s eyes finally meet Paul’s own for a split second before continuing, “Merle died ‘bout five years ago. When I first started visiting I saw this grave next to his. Samuel Monroe.”
“Oh,” Paul says again. He knows where his father is buried but has never paid a visit, not even to piss on his grave.
Daryl looks at his shoes and mutters, “I felt bad for ‘im. Never saw nobody coming to put flowers or nothing on his grave. He was my age when he died, and I dunno…I was kinda messed up right after Merle passed. Started leaving a few flowers on Samuel Monroe’s grave when I went to see Merle, or stopping to clean it up sometimes. Included ‘im sometimes when I talked to Merle even, I know it sounds crazy—“
“I talk to my mom and sisters all the time,” Paul says mildly, “It’s not crazy.”
“Anyhow,” Daryl says, “My friend’s kid looked Samuel Monroe up on google when I told ‘im the story, and I saw…I found out what he did.”
“I’m sorry your brother has to be buried next to him,” Paul says sincerely.
“Well,” Daryl says, kicking at the ground, “I just felt bad, is all. Wanted to apologize to yer mama and them little girls, so Carl helped me track down where they’s buried.”
Paul doesn’t believe in love at first sight or even at first conversation. Something still blooms to life in his chest anyways that he can’t deny. Looking at this scruffy biker in his leather vest and battered jeans you would never guess he was the sort of man to leave flowers on a stranger’s grave. Never guess he was the sort of man who would go out of his way to apologize to the victims when he found out that stranger was a murdering piece of shit. Paul finds himself grinning, “You’re right, that’s weird. But it’s pretty cute too, so don’t worry.”
It comes out far more flirtatious than he meant it, enough that Daryl picks up on it, if the way the other man’s eyes widen when he looks at Paul again are any indication. Paul curses to himself, and begs the universe for Daryl to be cool or at least so guilty and embarrassed he could keep his homophobia in check.
Then Paul sees the way Daryl’s eyes flash over his body. It is one of the last hot days of the summer, Paul is wearing a sleeveless and fitted shirt for running, and while he isn’t vain he knows he looks good. Daryl mumbles something else, looking like he was going to spontaneously combust, and Paul figures what the hell. He has on his running shoes if he’s wrong about the way Daryl looked at him. “This is a long shot,” he says, “But are you gay?”
Daryl’s jaw literally drops as he stares at Paul, “I…what?”
“Are you gay?” Paul says patiently, “Because I am, and if you are I’d like to buy you a drink.”
Daryl goggles at him. His eyes flicker over Paul’s body again, all but confirming his stab in the dark was the correct one. Daryl’s eyes flick back to the graves, “You want to buy me a drink? Like…like a fucking date?”
“Yeah,” Paul says, “If you’re into guys, that is. If you’re not I’d still like to buy you a drink in a platonic way. I promise to behave myself.”
“Are you fucking with me?” Daryl asks.
“No,” Paul says. He’s not sure if he should laugh or start running.
Daryl looks like he’s trying to decide whether or not Paul is making fun of him, or having him on. Finally he swallows and drops his eyes, “I…yeah. I am.”
My gaydar is a thing of beauty, Paul thinks to himself, “So? Can I buy you a drink?” he frowns, “If you don’t have a boyfriend or anything like that.”
Daryl stares at him, then back at the graves, “Why would you want…”
“You’re hot and you seem incredibly sweet, if those flowers are anything to go by,” Paul says, nodding to the little white flowers in their rough mason jars. They look like wildflowers, something Daryl had picked himself to bring to a trio of strangers’ graves. Paul hesitates and says, “Sorry, I know asking you here is morbid as fuck.”
“A bit,” Daryl says dryly, raises his eyes to study Paul’s face, “Weird place to ask for a date.”
Paul shrugs, “The worst part of dating a new guy is figuring out how and when I’m going to tell him about this. A lot of guys lose interest after.”
“Sound like fucking idiots,” Daryl mutters, blushing everywhere.
“Well, I am kinda fucked up,” Paul says, “And some guys are scared I’ll take after my father. Can’t blame them; I used to be scared of that too.”
Daryl looks at him then, really looks at him. Finally he says, “I’m kinda fucked up too. My daddy…” he swallows and drops his eyes, “There was times I was scared he’d get carried away and kill me or Merle.” He looks up at Paul again, “Ok. Where’s good around here for a drink?”
Paul grins, “There’s a ton of places on the square we can check out. I’m Paul, by the way. Paul Rovia.” He’d changed his last name to his mother’s maiden name as soon as he’d turned eighteen, “My friends call me Jesus, though. Your pick.”
“Ain’t callin’ ya Jesus,” Daryl mutters, “Nice t’meet you.”
*********************
Three years later when they’re lined up at the courthouse to get married the adorable pair of lesbians ahead of them asks how they met. Daryl is too embarrassed for the truth and mutters something about “mutual friends” setting them up.
Not that far from the truth, Paul supposes.
