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.