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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Affectionate is good. It's nice too, allowing him to nuzzle a little closer with a smile. It's still okay to be processing. He ducks his head slightly to press an idle kiss to Daryl's mouth before he settles again, perfectly content to stay here with him as long as necessary. "Necessary" being a given quantity of time in which he's just going to sort of cling to him, lazy and content and, most importantly, resting here with him.

It's important and soon enough they'll have to be getting up. For now: absolutely no plans to escape. After a while his free hand moves up to brush through his own hair--and stops partway so soon as he reaches a tangle, wearing an expression that can only be described as exasperated before his hand drops again. Whatever. Still not escaping, as tucking closer against his chest is far more important at the moment.

Daryl makes a 'hn' noise that might be a laugh. Still cradling him with one arm, he brings his other hand up to gentle brush through Jesus's tangled hair with his fingers-- if he snags something he stops and rubs his scalp a little. Is he helping or making it worse, that is the question. (No, he's helping.)

"Maybe you'll finally have to shave it off," he mumbles, even though he's still dutifully picking a knot loose. "Thinkin' about doing mine that way."

Jesus didn't know him when he had shorter hair, but it was alright, probably. Daryl doesn't have the patience to actually let somebody cut it properly, so if it goes, it's all going in one fell swoop.

This is, in fact, spoiling him. Jesus settles easily into the attention and even though the little snags don't even really hurt he's happy enough for the scalp rubs after. He cracks an eye open at the mention of shaving it off, speculating.

"Samson," is all he mumbles at first, like it answers everything. Then after a lengthy pause, he continues. "Besides, you'd look fine with shorter hair. I mean it when I say I look twelve without all of this. It's not a good look."

But it's joking, really. He shifts one hand though, running fingers through Daryl's hair once before settling them to rub just below the nape of his neck, thumb pressing in at pressure points idly. Slow.

A thoughtful noise as Daryl considers the prospect of Jesus looking twelve. (It's not that he dislikes the long hair or anything, he just likes giving him shit.)

"Fair. Leave it."

Daryl hasn't really considered the merits of sitting down and sorting out things like: where are you from, how old are you, is smoking a dealbreaker, etc. It doesn't fucking matter these days. All the same, he's aware that Jesus is younger than he is, and probably not by just two or three years. The last time he made a guess at his own age (using the admittedly uneven scale of how much has Carl and/or the baby grown that weirdly doesn't seem to match up, but what does Daryl know about kids), he was 45 or 46. Nearly 50, at any rate. What if Paul tells him he's twenty, or something. Christ. That's weird, isn't it.

"You're not like nineteen or some shit, are you?" he asks suddenly, lifting his head up.

"Damn right." About leaving it.

And then there's a silence. It stretches on a moment as Jesus pulls his head back to give Daryl an incredulous stare before choking on a laugh, having to take a second because it dissolves into a cough. "Never say that again, do I really look that young?" He sounds almost miffed, like the idea of being nineteen is awful because look, he grew the beard to stop having that problem.

"I'm thirty-three. Thirty-four?" A beat. "Somewhere in there, anyway. Nineteen, Christ."

"Fucked if I know," he huffs about whether or not he looks nineteen. Daryl rolls him onto his back and settles atop him, proprietary. "Younger'n me, anyway." And quit your whining about looking like a junior highschooler without #theaesthetic, Paul. Daryl kisses him.

"...I grew up in northern Georgia. You understand? I dunno how old anybody's supposed to look."

Deadpan. He doesn't make many references to his childhood, not even joking ones like this, but that's what it is: a joke. Northern Georgia is about as horrifyingly rural as it gets, with teenagers getting married and shit. There's no surer sign of how comfortable he is with Jesus, to say something like this.

Jesus rolls over easily and flops onto his back, only partially because he's still a little like an overcooked noodle from before. "I figured as much, which would be weird if I really was nineteen, but I think we're good." What with the thirties and all. He leans up a little to kiss back, resting on his elbows.

He likes this, the being this comfortable with him part. Joking references and being deadpan about it and look--it's still all about the little things that are definitely actually huge between them. "Luckily it's worked out all right then, huh?" He's taking it in stride, leaning up a little further to kiss him again.

"Yeah." Daryl kisses him. "It's worked out all right." Again. More than all right.

This morning feels good. Easy. Like this whole relationship (did he just think that word?) is an unsteady but enjoyable climb up a rough-hewn staircase, and they've hit a small landing. It's going to go to hell soon but this.. right now, this is worth more than Daryl can say. Can even identity to himself, honestly.

"Reckon I'm maybe forty-five, by the way," he says after a while of soft (and not so soft) kissing. Which puts their age gap somewhere between fifteen and ten years, which seems fine.

"Mmhm." Kissing is nice. Talking is nice too, but really they have time for both so why not.

There's something about all of this that strikes a chord in him that's never really been hit the way it is now: despite still being restless overall, nothing about their relationship makes him want to run, to disappear, which is... Well, it's safe to say it's been his wont over the years to not be so great with the maintaining. Maybe it's because they fit together so well.

Maybe it's because it's something unhurried and quiet in a world of rushing and cacophony. "Works just fine for me," he replies, nosing an idle kiss to his jawline this time. There are certainly far worse age gaps, anyway. Things like that get less important the older both people get, anyway. "Not too worried about it, anyway. Life's too short." Is that the worst joke ever? Probably.

Jesus didn't even exist yet while Daryl's mother was burning to death; he doesn't think about it. He doesn't even have to fight the impulse for this like that anymore-- when he's with Jesus, anyway. (You have to put it away, or it kills you.)

"Hmph." Worst joke, indeed. Daryl tips his head back, liking that kiss to his jaw, but he pulls back in to capture him in a proper kiss after. Too short. Not for him, for some reason. Hopefully not for Paul. Too short for Carl, who only got a few years of the real world, and for Judith who never got any. Maggie's baby, too.

This world is better than Daryl could have ever hoped for. Even with everything that's gone so, so awful. Even killing his brother, even knowing and losing Beth and Hershel and Abraham and Glenn. Even with being tortured. He would never have met Paul or anyone even like Paul before the end of the world.

What does that make him? Lucky? Damned?

"Paul." Just an exhalation.

Edited 2016-12-22 06:10 (UTC)

Definitely worst joke. They're all fighting for their lives and having children isn't something Jesus had ever considered in the first place (not from any ideas about the fact he's not attracted to women - he just doesn't feel like he's the fathering type), but here it feels unfathomable. He respects people that can do so and keep their children safe so much, but he knows he couldn't handle it. Maybe he could have before, but not now. He can't place that on a child. Life really is too short.

In a way, this world suits him more than the previous one anyway. It's not something he shares with anyone, and rarely even himself. But sometimes he thinks maybe Daryl is the same way. Maybe more than sometimes.

He returns the kiss when Daryl's mouth finds his, hand cradling the side of his neck as he leans up into it. He wants it to continue for ages but the sound of his name breathed out like that is just as nice and he threads fingers in the older man's hair again, head tipping so that he can brush his lips over his jaw again, his cheek, his temple.

"Daryl." Just as soft.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject