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."
no subject
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."