iesus | it's a long time until february

it's a long time until february

It's supposed to be a three-day run. Supposed to. Jesus has lists as long as his arm and he knows he's only going to find the tiniest bit of it. He can't go out further yet; he has to stay close and they can't spare anyone else to go with him. That's not the problem: he's used to going alone. It's just that he hates coming back disappointing. Disappointed. There's nothing to be done for it.

He starts off with a pharmacy. Vitamins. Some powdered antibiotics: kid stuff, low-dose and bubblegum flavored and expired. Saline. No other medical supplies, no pain medications, no stronger antibiotics. Sometimes he runs his hand across his abdomen and feels guilty for how much they had to use to save him. Today he doesn't. Today he presses on. A supply store is just as bad. A few small pocket-knives hidden under a counter disappear into various pockets, slipped in deftly like a magic trick. So far, everything's fit on his person.

There's no food, not really, but he didn't expect any. Growing will have to do as it has so far.

After his mediocre haul Jesus stays off the roads. It's been two and a half days, holed up at night and eating apples and jerky as he moves. He presses through wilderness quick and quiet. A few groups of the dead but it's not much of a problem, silent dispatches, nothing too much. Nothing too much until it is too much. A group too large to take out on his own that he tries to sneak by. A group he almost gets away from before one under a pile of leaves snatches his boot and knocks him down.

Stupid. Reckless.

Lucky for him there's a small cabin - almost a shack really - that he's close to and he gets to it before he gets eaten alive. It looks like it might've been nice, some time ago. He thinks that as he passes through the front door, finds no good place to hole up, and back out the back. He sees that the back porch is rotted through. Closes the door again. There's no fucking thing in this place that can help him. At least they can only filter through the door a few at a time.

There's a bump in the tattered rug.

There's a bump and he rips up the damn thing and why is there a trap door in this shit-hole but he takes the opportunity and opens it. Nothing but darkness. Hopefully he won't be murdered by spiders. (How familiar a thought.) The slamming on the door is getting more insistent so he slips down, closes it behind him, turns on his flashlight. It's not a crawlspace, not a basement, not even a survivalist's cache--

No, it's definitely that last one. There's no food, no medical supplies, but there's, well. "God bless rednecks," he mutters, which is probably kind of hilarious, considering. He can't leave though. That's the problem. He's stuck under there another day and a half waiting for the dead to forget about him, to clear out. They do, eventually, except for a few. A few he can deal with. So he does, then drags two large military duffle bags out of the hole.

Jesus is small and fast but relies on those rather than outright strength. He's way more encumbered than he's been lately and he has to be silent - he can't be found by anyone whether they're dead or alive. It takes him longer than a day to get back. Almost five days total and the gates open for him almost immediately and someone is hugging him because they thought he was dead, you're never late, what happened, what did you find, and he's exhausted and hungry but all he gives is a hoarse mutter. Where's Daryl.

Turns out he's in a meeting with Rick. Rick, who's here at Hilltop, who isn't out doing something else. Even better. They're in the house proper and taking up Gregory's space pointedly. Jesus would move faster if he could but by now he just trudges to the house and inside. By the time he gets there someone's probably already told Rick and Daryl that Jesus hasn't been eaten or murdered but he pushes the door open anyway. He hasn't let anyone take any of his load from him, but he drop the bags on the floor there in the doorway of the room they're in even though they're filthy. Hell, he's filthy. He drags his half-mask down around his neck, finally remembering it.

"I found guns." Well, that's nice, but they don't have any-- "and ammo." Oh.

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Daryl has no idea how he got to this place in life. He's supposed to be the one out there - hunting or tracking, on a run or just plain fucked off. He's not the one who stays back and handles shit at 'home', he doesn't have the head for it-- might when there's not a war brewing, but he's too fucked up about it to be as useful as Rick seems to think he is. He's restless and angry and all he wants to do is kill people, honestly, and he's pretty sure that makes him nearly as bad as the people he wants to kill, but he doesn't rightly care anymore. Daryl was never meant for the world before - just the remnant of something ancient and unevolved, a part of humanity that should have atrophied long ago. He can deal with the ugliness of the world now because his world has always been ugly, and if he has to be worse so that the family that's accepted him can live on in the world after then that's fine. No matter what Rick says, what Aaron says, Daryl has no place somewhere like Alexandria.

When this is over he'll-- he doesn't know. Maybe he'll be dead. He could die for Rick and his family and be satisfied.

He thought, anyway.

Daryl genuinely isn't worried when Jesus leaves for his run, even though it looks like it'll be a rough one. Rick, unsolicited, says he doesn't actively worry about Michonne, either. ('Either', like Daryl had said something, which he didn't.) Says it's freeing and comforting to be able to trust somebody that way. Daryl points out they trust their whole group like that, and Rick just looks at him with this exasperated-patient-fond look until he realizes Daryl's not going to elaborate and sighs. And that seems to be it, until Jesus doesn't show back up when he's supposed to.

Everyone stares at him. Expects him to react. Days go by and a few people seem to be suspicious of him for not reacting. (How can he be fine, he hears someone ask, and doesn't stick around to discover what Maggie answers.)

Dawn on day five and he still hasn't voiced a concern, but he leaves anyway. Gets about two miles out before Michonne catches up. (Harlan ratted him out. Prick.) The argument is one-sided and mostly Daryl yelling. He's not even sure what about. He doesn't know where the fuck Jesus is and chances of finding him by following the path he had tentatively mapped out are less than zero, because if he was on that path he wouldn't be this late. But she talks him down and holds his head in her hands and doesn't say anything else. Daryl doesn't say anything else, either, even when they get back.

So. Yes. He's there with Rick in the house when Jesus rolls in, but they're not talking or planning because Daryl hasn't said a fucking word.

And--

"I'd say that's worth a detour," he mutters around Rick's more sensible and grateful debriefing. Like he wasn't worried.

(Because he wasn't. Even if Michonne is staring at the back of Daryl's head like she can burn a hole in it with laser-vision.)

Edited 2016-12-20 04:21 (UTC)

"Sorry." He's so fucking tired. Rick is talking to him, asking what, where, how--he nods, pays attention. "A shit-hole cabin. Nothing inside it but broken down furniture and a trap door." While he's talking he drops to sit on the floor with his knees drawn up but still alert. "I'll mark it on the map, but there's a lot of the dead around it. Got stuck under it for..." He pauses, frowning. "Don't know how long I was under it. Sorry, I--" He doesn't even really know what day it is. He doesn't tense when he talks about being under the house, but something flits briefly across his face. "Guns were there. I waited until the dead left."

It's a lot all at once. "Came back here right after. Had to go slower with the weight."

He scrubs a hand over his face once before looking up at them again - his eyes settle on Rick a moment as said debriefing comes to an end, but it lingers on Daryl. He doesn't seem disoriented, just tired and strained. "Sorry," he repeats for a third time. Like he hasn't brought them things they so desperately need.

(That's not what he's apologizing for.)

Daryl mutters something that sounds like Shut up but could also be indistinct grumbling, who knows. Why are you apologizing, guy. Anyway, Daryl steps up and bends over so he can manhandle Jesus back to his feet and begin to shove him in the direction of the living area of the house. Unfazed, Rick just says We'll talk more once you're rested as they leave. Good work.

"How's this for a first," he says once they're in the bathroom. Daryl turns the shower on to give it a second to heat up (it's a miracle it doesn't pour out ice cubes to be honest what with hell freezing over and all, Daryl Dixon being the one bullying somebody into a shower) and sees to pulling the layers of battered faux-uniform off of him. "You hurt anywhere?"

Jesus will have to check in with the doc soon, he knows, but there's no reason Daryl can't handle any scrapes he might have. After that ... time, in Alexandria, he's been reading more books. Harlan's been good about it. Encouraging, even.

Jesus lets himself be manhandled. He leans on Daryl - not a lot, just a little - and looks to Rick again. "Of course." Then it's off to the bathroom, clearly, and even there he just kind of lets Daryl fuss over him, too. He does help shrug off his coat, vest, takes off his hat, mask, and gloves. By the time it's his shirt he's shaking his head. "No, I'm fine. Really. I just need some rest."

He doesn't look hurt either, nothing other than the usual cursory bruises and little scratches that come from this kind of thing. For a moment he stills before he reaches out to grasp Daryl's shoulder, touch his neck. It's almost like he's making sure he's real. Solid. Actually standing here with him. Since he is something in Jesus relaxes minutely. He leans on the counter a moment, takes off his boots without toppling over, eyes the shower like it's the best thing he's seen in his life. He feels disgusting.

"I feel like I could take a nap in there," he says of the shower as he works at the rest of his clothes - he's sore all over and just. Look. "For a week."

Please do not sleep in the shower for a week, Paul.

This mother hen routine isn't something Daryl's practiced at, so it's probably a little funny to watch him frowning at Jesus, poking around at him, grumbling about bruises. He holds still when he's clutched at, one hand on the other man's middle-- and realizes he doesn't know what to do or say, because he's an idiot. He went through hell and brought them back something that could very well result in a turning point, and Daryl's not going to get weird about it by saying something as useless as They thought you were dead.

"S'bout how long you were gone," he observes, and stands up so he can help him into the shower cubicle. Daryl would give him his privacy, but the man literally sank to his knees in exhaustion already out there. He does step back and lean against the counter, though, arms crossed over his chest.

"Holler if you're gonna pass out in there." (Please.)

Edited 2016-12-20 06:17 (UTC)

Maybe a little funny, maybe a little sweet. He lets all this grumbling and poking happen. Daryl's touch calms him even if Daryl doesn't know what to do from here. "A week," he mutters, sounding unsettled but not incredulous. "I knew it was too long, but..." He shakes his head a little. "Damn."

Once he's in the shower he stands under the spray for a few long moments, head down and eyes closed. "Will do," is a soft murmur. (Promise.) It's another couple of moments before he finds the wherewithal to actually wash up. It's not terribly long before the grime is gone for the most part but then he has to wash his hair. Right. That takes a little longer because even know he's thorough with it and it's long and he has to rinse it properly and basically the point here is he doesn't just magically have such fantastic hair.

Eventually though he does turn off the water, leaning his head on the wall with a couple slow breaths. (He's fine, Daryl.) Then he's stepping out and groping for a towel so he can dry off, a wet curtain covering most of his face. Right. One towel for drying his body, another for fussing at his hair with - fuck you Gregory, he'll use two if he wants - and he just kind of stops once he's passably dry, looking and feeling a little lost before snapping back to attention. "Didn't bring clean clothes in." Blandly. Time to put his gross clothes back on.

It's not a surprise. You lose time out there - nobody knows what year it is, not really, much less months and dates. (Beth did.) Mostly because when you're fucked up and out in it, things like day and night stop mattering. When everything's grey and rotten time doesn't seem to exist.

Daryl eyes him when he has to take a moment (was the steam too much?), but doesn't make a move or comment since he doesn't wobble. It's about all the eyeing he does, too, having stared sullenly at his feet for the duration of the shower. Which is probably fucking ridiculous, but Daryl feels like now's not the time, somehow.

"Hmph." He steps reaches out and rubs the towel on Jesus's hair. "I'll be right back. So's you don't soil your knickers."

And how's that for ninja speed, ducking out of the bathroom before Jesus can strangle him or something. Anyway, he's back quickly, pointedly with what the younger man uses as pajamas when he's got the opportunity instead of a proper change of clothes. The shit he had on out there gets hauled into a pile, which he's going to chuck wherever's appropriate.

Yeah, sitting around waiting for the dead to pass isn't really conducive to knowing how long you're out. But it's normal, expected. He just hadn't realized how much time he'd spent under that house. But it's fine now: he's back. He's probably not actually going to go out for a while, in part because he's going to need a minute but mostly because he's going to be fussed at. So much fussing.

It's a moment in which he appreciates the consideration, as ridiculous as it may be. He leans into it when Daryl rubs the towel though before lifting it enough to look at him with the most deadpan, unimpressed look he can muster. Not strangling, but definitely sassing. By the time Daryl gets back he's basically dry and his hair is just kind of damp and messy. He's leaning on the counter and the fact it's pajamas isn't lost to him as he takes them and gets dressed. "Cute, very cute." The comment, not the pajamas.

Now it's Jesus' turn to look kind of like a sulky damp cat. Instead of focusing on that though, he moves over to the older man, arms wrapping around his torso and hands hooking back over his shoulders from behind before his forehead drops to rest against him in the vicinity of his collarbone. It's not desperate, just something tired and quiet. He breathes out slow, decompressing.

Edited 2016-12-20 07:44 (UTC)

Everything Daryl hasn't said - that he should have - is evident in the way his arms come around the other man. Welcome back. I missed you. I was worried. I wish I'd gone with you. Thank you. He holds him close, possessive and protective in a way he rarely is. Daryl curls one hand around the back of Jesus's neck, nose pressed against his temple, and just. Stays like that for a while. He's back, in one piece, not bit or sick. That he brought guns and ammo with him isn't anywhere near Daryl's head, and that'd shock him if he could spare a thought-- since when is this him?

"Paul." Softly. Daryl rubs his other hand up and down his back and presses a barely-there kiss near his ear. "C'mon."

It's naptime for all ninjas.

He doesn't have to say it out loud because this here - this here and the way he's been acting - tell him everything. Jesus knows without being told and that's important, that he already knows how to read between the lines and hear unsaid things. His breath only shakes once as Daryl holds him, real relief finally flooding through him. It's probably funny: it's a different kind of fear than he'd ever had on runs before. He knows why even if he still has a little trouble quantifying it.

When Daryl speaks, Jesus finally nods slightly. The kiss makes him smile and he lifts his head, looking at him quietly before giving him a proper kiss, light but lingering before he nods again. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

Murmured. A nap is going to be great. "Stay with me," is a continuation of said murmur while they're on the way back to his trailer, before they're even out of the house proper. He knows he doesn't have to say it, but he does anyway.

Sometimes verbal confirmation can be a nice addition.

"Yeah."

Of course he's staying. Jesus doesn't know that Daryl's been up for ages, doesn't know he left to look for him and came back before he got anywhere-- he will know, because someone's sure to tell him, but for now Daryl's not saying shit. All he's going to do is make sure Jesus gets some goddamn rest, because he looks as beat as Daryl's ever seen him. And, some voice in the back of his head chimes in, you've missed sleeping beside him.

Alright. That, too.

Daryl herds him into bed immediately once they're back inside. He pries off his shoes, sets aside the belt with the knives on it, and wastes no time settling in and looping one arm around the younger man. Warm and breathing and a little damp (his hair's going to be hilarious) and such a fucking relief.

"I knew you were alive."

Jesus has missed sleeping next to him too. Later when he's up and about again he'll talk to other people and they'll tell him things that will let him piece together exactly what happened when he was gone. For now he drops into bed as soon as he's urged to, watching Daryl do the shoe and knife belt thing. So soon as he's close enough Jesus tucks in against him, resting against his chest and letting out a slow sigh. It's like a final release of tension and he's just boneless there, arm around him and fingers grasping at the back of his shirt.

"Good." His face isn't visible when Daryl speaks but he smiles faintly anyway, then lifts his head to blindly press a kiss - somewhere, like his jaw or cheek or something, his eyes are closed. "I knew I had to get back in one piece or I'd never hear the end of it."

That much is relatively lighthearted, but when his voice drops into something that's half a sleepy rumble, it's more somber. "A couple times I thought I might not," he admits, "but in that 'business as usual' way. Mostly I just thought about getting back." To Daryl specifically, which isn't said aloud but is held in his tone. "So it was the only option. Stay alive."

"Mm." Yep. Only option. Daryl's not lying-- he knew Jesus would be alive, because he'd be alive, but his heart couldn't decide if he thought he was just taking his time out of stubborn determination or if he could be injured. Captured, too, would be an option, and again: couldn't decide if Negan would be eager to show that off right away, or keep Jesus locked up to use like an ace up his sleeve at a later date.

Doesn't matter. He came back, and he's okay. Daryl tilts his head down, noses along his cheekbone, steals a soft kiss. Settles in again.

"When I met Rick," he starts after a while, soft, like maybe Jesus is asleep already, "I'd been out hunting for the group I was with. Came back, found out my brother'd been ... acting like my brother, and he'd pissed Rick off so bad that he left him handcuffed to a pipe on a rooftop in downtown Atlanta." Daryl relates this calmly, like it's a perfectly normal anecdote not full of utterly insane events and people. "I was an asshole about it but Rick still went back in there - me, him, Glenn, fella named T-Dog. You'd have liked him. Glenn mastermined this whole thing to get us through the city..." he trails off for a minute. "...Anyhow, we finally get up there and all that's left is the handcuffs, a pool of blood and my fuckin' brother's hand."

#dixons

Moving right along:

"So, we looked around for a bit, but couldn't find him, and these wannabe gangster eses grabbed Glenn and it was, you know, one of those days. I figured Merle," his brother, obviously, "was dead. And then-- like, damn near a year later he turns up workin' for some lunatic running a settlement, knife strapped to his missing hand. Him and another woman who'd been with us before, Andrea, who we also thought had died." A beat. "Round about then we met Michonne."

(WHAT THE FUCK @ YOUR LIVES, DARYL.)

"...Point is, even if you'd been gone for ages, shit just has a way, sometimes. I wouldn't have given up expecting you to roll back in someday."

The light kiss is returned with a pleased hum. He's quiet otherwise because Daryl is telling him a story. A story full of some of probably the most insane shit most people have done in this entire apocalypse. Surely someone has done some more crazy shit but it's no one they know. A knife hand. Right.

The way he's quiet with his breathing so even, it may seem like Jesus is definitely already asleep. He's not, of course. He's listening and processing and noting that this is a lot for Daryl to be telling him. About past shit (no one talks about the past), Glenn (too raw), his brother (people don't talk about dead family either). The only real evidence that he is still awake is that the hand at his back has started tracing idle patterns through the fabric of his shirt. Nothing in particular, just nonsense movements of his fingers in a way that's quiet and affectionate.

A part of him thinks it's bitterly funny that he doesn't have stories like this. There are bad things in them, sure - very bad things - but there are also people in ways that he hasn't had an analogue for in a very long time. It's hard to put down roots, to grow a family, when you're constantly on the move. This is the most settled he's ever been. It's the most settled he's ever felt. It's something he doesn't know how to do with, sometimes. Being close enough to people for it to hurt beyond the cursory pain that friendship still brings, to be close enough to someone like Daryl to get this kind of consideration, this kind of, well, opening up.

It means a lot to someone like him, who's only barely not some kind of drifter. For Daryl to have that kind of faith in his survival means even more.

There's a moment's silence before he lifts his head, looking right at him for a moment and this time his gaze is less playful than most times, still soft but something more serious. He kisses him soundly, the hand at his back grasping fabric again tightly while the other moves up to cradle the side of his neck. When he pulls away it's to look at him again (fond, affectionate--).

"I love you," he says, and it's unwavering and decisive. When he continues it's nothing panicked or trying to backpedal, just something calm and almost indescribable. "It's probably obvious and it's all right if you don't," giving him an out, because, well. It sure is a thing to just up and say to someone. "But I just wanted you to know."

Daryl thinks he doesn't hear him right at first, and goes through an odd few seconds of embarrassment over thinking he'd heard that to a kind of low-level hybrid of confusion and panic. The look on his face isn't upset, just puzzled-- a hunting dog who's been given a command he doesn't understand. Like maybe he's dumbly fighting the instinct to check over his shoulder and see who Jesus is really speaking to.

Obvious?

What exactly are the markers for that sort of thing, that it should have been obvious? Has anyone ever loved Daryl before? His mother, he thinks, when he was very small and she was still alive. But he only remembers it in an indistinct haze, because thinking too hard about it reveals too much of the memory to be wishful thinking. What did he think he and Jesus were doing, then, if not leading up to something like this? He considers the pairings in their odd group, and he considers the ones that crumbled; never in a million years would he expect to be someone who was counted in that number, a normal person capable of experiencing those emotions but, more significantly, capable of inspiring that in someone else.

Daryl hadn't questioned it when Glenn and Maggie became what they were so fast. Anyone could tell. And in this day and age, why wait? As much shit as he gave them - or Beth and her brief revolving door of boyfriends at the prison - he could never begrudge it. The world is so awful. Daryl is used to the bad parts, though. He never needed to try and make it better because he can endure, he's used to it. What-- what the fuck is happening, honestly. What did he do to ever earn this. He's sure he hasn't. But he can't even argue that Jesus is misdirecting or trying to find solace the only place it might be available. Why, though?

Rough fingertips trace the side of the younger man's face. Daryl is difficult to read sometimes, but the way he just seems to not understand has to be clear. He pulls Jesus in closer, his grip almost too hard, too desperate to hold onto him. It's all right if you don't. No it isn't. And Paul is an idiot.

It is clear in both Daryl's initial reaction and how it continues to move through slow steps. But Daryl is still here, and touching his face, and holding onto him. His heart twists in the same way it does whenever he thinks about him, sees him, lays with him like this anymore - he doesn't wonder if he's made a mistake because he doesn't think he has. There's no mistake in the action of loving Daryl Dixon, and he wouldn't deserve to if he questioned it for even a second.

The hand a his back smooths out again, palm flat and thumb rubbing slowly even as he burrows close. He's not hiding against him, not worried, not scared. It's probably stupid he's so calm and unruffled, though the fact that Daryl is so confused about the concept of being loved is, he thinks, one of the worst things he's seen in his life. He leans into Daryl's hand, eyes closing a moment, comfortable, trusting. (Loving.)

His other hand was still at the side of his neck but it slips to rest at his nape as he tilts toward him for another kiss, this one soft. Not tentative - it lingers a long moment - but soft. Then he just looks at him quietly, smiling softly. He's not bothered at all by the way he's being held. Finally he presses their foreheads together, content with their closeness.

"I love you," he says again. He sounds just as sure of himself as the first time.

In a way it's devastating to hear. Daryl doesn't know how to react-- he doesn't even have any theoretical media-typical notions floating in his head, and he doesn't want to do or say the wrong thing. Daryl doesn't know how he feels, either, because he's not sure what the fuck love is. Is it what he felt when he saw Carol outside Terminus? Is it what he felt when Rick called him his brother? Or is it everything that makes those moments feel like anything at all?

He hopes it's alright that he doesn't have fuckall to say right now. He's overwhelmed and this is some shit to process-- it's not fair to Paul, but fuck, life's not fair. Nothing about life before or after is ever going to be fair.

Daryl kisses him suddenly - not soft at all but with the kind of passion he normally always holds back on. He has one arm around him, his other hand holding his face, and there's nothing elegant about it, practiced only in what he's learned between the two of them. When he breaks to suck in a breath it sounds shuddering, like maybe he's crying, but he's too close for Paul to see his face-- and Daryl apparently intends to keep it that way, because he kisses him again and then all but crushes him against his chest after, pressed too close for even light to slip through.

He's not budging. Paul might as well sleep.

It is alright that he doesn't say anything. He knew it would probably be a lot, maybe even too much, but he's been desperate to say it before and he knows that no one is untouchable and someday they're all going to be dead but he had to say this first, to make sure that Daryl knows that Paul loves him. Daryl's actions speak louder anyway, from the way he treats him and everything he's ever done for him to sometimes just the way he looks at him. It may not be fair Daryl can't say anything back but hell, Paul can see how much Daryl cares right in front of him whenever they see each other.

It's enough for him while Daryl processes it. It will be enough forever if it has to be.

There's a slightly-surprised inhale when Daryl kisses him so suddenly but he returns it in kind - he holds back usually too, out of respect for comfort and boundaries but now seems the best time to pour everything he has and feels into it. His hand shakes as it moves to cradle his face but only the tiniest bit, still so soon as it's against him. This tells him what words aren't. He stays close between kisses, completely unmoving, definitely so close that his eyes couldn't focus on him even if he tried. And he kisses back again, thumb rubbing his jaw, curved against him.

And he doesn't mind the way Daryl's holding him either, pressed so tightly against his chest that now he can't even really open his eyes. He breathes and that shakes too, but he feels a sense of security that he doesn't actually know he's felt since even before everything went to hell - maybe since childhood, when everything was safe and nothing was dangerous. When he really and truly felt invincible. He may not feel invincible now but that's not the point. The point is he's burrowed against Daryl's chest and he can relax utterly and yes, fall asleep.

The point is here feels like home.

In the morning, Daryl wakes first - not unusual, since he's such a light sleeper. (He calls it hunting instincts, but really, it's the product of a lifetime of abuse; it's a survival method.) He's still holding Jesus close. For a moment it feels like an ordinary day (ordinary lately), and then the events of the evening before settle in his head.

Huh.

He runs his hand over the back of the other man's head, from the top of his skull to his nape, and his fingers end up caught - if gently - in his tangled hair. Daryl almost laughs. Jesus is normally so meticulous about it, and he was so wiped out last night all he did was wash it and give it a cursory rub down with a towel before they fell into bed. Very carefully, Daryl strokes parts of it back, though he doesn't dare poke at the more rat's nest looking areas for fear of waking him unpleasantly.

(I love you.)

Daryl's a much different person in this life - this world. The next world. Is who he was before something that still matters? Is he a liar if Jesus doesn't know? Something in him twists to think about the fact that the number of people who even have an inkling of who he was before has dwindled so sharply. From that first camp outside Atlanta it's just him, and Rick, Carl... Carol, who isn't here, and may never be again. He thought Glenn would make it forever.

He should have.

It's a testament to just how exhausted he was that he didn't do anything for his hair past that - he needs to deal with his beard too, but the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Should've probably since now there's going to be a horrifying mess to deal with but he'd understandably had other things on his mind at the time. The way Daryl treats him carefully works - Jesus sleeps a little longer, both burrowed into and curled against his chest, breathing even and slow.

When he does wake it's slowly - he hasn't felt this comfortable in ages even though his joints and muscles are screaming in protest now that his body's had time to process everything that's happened to it in the past few days. Even awake he stays put a while longer because it feels nice. When he does move it's a slight shift like he's going to lift up onto his hands to look at Daryl properly but he ends up flopping back down instead with a noise that sounds vaguely like uuughhhhh. Man, he's sore as hell. Just going to. Lay here a while.

Knowing or not knowing what Daryl was like before all of this - he'd like to know, certainly, and to share the same information with him - it doesn't matter. It doesn't for most people really with the way things are now. It's not who you were, it's who you are. (He wouldn't think Daryl a liar for not telling him, in any case.) It's still strange to think about there coming a time when there may be no one left that knows what you were like before it all.

"Morning," he finally mumbles when he's cognizant enough to realize he should say something. He remembers what happened last night, but it's not something he's going to breach at the moment. Best to uh. Give it a minute, probably.

Daryl recognizes that uuughhhhh, but just stays where he is for the time being. Let him drift back off, if he wants to. He keeps on carefully fiddling with his hair - lucky Daryl's pretty good with his hands. (Ha ha.. ha.)

"Mornin', Rapunzel." This is the man you love, apparently. "C'mon, roll over." Daryl nudges him until Jesus cooperates and lies face down - shoves his hair up out of the way somewhat less gracefully than he's been doing for the past while. But then he's up on one elbow and smoothing a hand down Jesus's back, up again, finds what he decides is the right bit, and presses in with his thumb and knuckles to either side of his spine until it pops. He continues on with that, rubbing and finding anything that seems particularly stiff and pressing in until it gives, and then just rubbing gently after.

Long enough with the hair fiddling and he might've fallen back asleep, honestly. But he's pretty happy overall to be awake even if he does feel kind of like human garbage physically. They've all had worse. Pain means you're alive or something.

"I'm better looking than Rapunzel," he retorts mildly before doing what he's told, rolling over to lay on his stomach with his arms as a pillow and his head tucked down in the space they've made. He's quiet until the first time his spine pops and then he grunts softly, both affirmation that it was a good spot and encouragement to keep going. Which was obviously unnecessary as now he's just laying here with his fingers flexing a little because sure each pop hurts but in the best possible way really.

He feels a little boneless again and eventually a muffled "thank you" escapes from the vicinity of where his face is. Then he stretches his arms out flat against the mattress in an idle stretch, head turning and dropping to the bed so he can look at him properly.

Boneless is good. Daryl leaves one hand against his back, just a warm weight. He doesn't know why but it feels vital that he be touching him - like Jesus might slip away into the aether like the sometimes-unreal being he is if Daryl doesn't keep him anchored. That's how all the old, original fairytales went, right? You get something nice - the princess is rescued, or there's a love confession - but everyone dies. The little mermaid let herself be tortured for love, for the sake of having a soul, and turned into nothingness in the end anyway.

(Maybe lighten up a little, Daryl.)

"Sleep good?" It's going to be a long day coming up. Daryl expects most of it's going to be spent cleaning and sorting the boon Jesus dragged back, all the while planning. It's too good of an opportunity: they're going to have to move on it, and soon. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. Jesus isn't going to get much downtime.

And the prince got his eyes dashed out by thorns for the sake of Rapunzel, then wandered for months until they were reunited and she restored his sight with her tears. Balance. The weight of Daryl's hand is soothing too and when he sighs, it's something more content than anything else.

"Yeah," he murmurs with a nod. He's trying not to think of what his hair must look like, for the record. And he really did sleep well - he feels far more rested than he had before (though not fully, that would take a lot longer) and even if he only gets today he'll probably be fine to move out so long as he spends most of today without much activity. Sorting, cleaning, and planning are all fine. He knows he's going to get food shoved at him too, which is more than fine.

Eventually he shifts again, looping an arm around Daryl's shoulders. "I feel better," is a little clearer, and the way he says it is important. Better, not good or great or ready to run out right now. For someone else he might've put up a front for a while, but here he's just. Better.

"S'good." Better is a step in the right direction, and all anyone can ask for. Daryl leans in and nudges their foreheads together in a move that might almost be cuddling if he had a bit more finesse. He's being more affectionate than usual, but not only has Jesus been gone for nearly a week, The L Word happened. Daryl is still processing a lot of that, but even so, he can't fight the overwhelming desire to just be here with the other man. What's it going to look like when they leave this room? Is shit going to be different? Probably not, he thinks. But it still feels alien.

Not in a bad way.

Anyway, hopefully Jesus wasn't in a hurry to get up, or anything, because Daryl isn't letting him escape for a bit.

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