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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.
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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"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.
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(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.
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"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.
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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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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.
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"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.
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"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.
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"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.
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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."
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"...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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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No. He doesn't care. He cares about now.
No talking just yet. Daryl kisses him again and keeps on kissing him. Until their mouths are almost bruised and there's sweat clinging to hairlines and temples and-- until they should stop. Because, practically, there just isn't time, even if they weren't moving at this slow pace. Daryl presses their foreheads together, just breathing.
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But now is currently Daryl's mouth against his, kissing him breathless and by the time they stop both of his arms are around Daryl's neck to keep him as close as he already is, eyes closed and lips parted as he breathes. A single inhale shakes, just barely, but it evens out just afterward with a quiet sigh - he knows, logically, that there are so many things they need to get done today but he doesn't want to get up at all, much less go about everything necessary.
Not just yet. Soon.
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More long minutes pass by (not long enough) and Daryl would never call it cuddling, but there's not another term for just laying together, occasionally shifting to a more comfortable position, just holding each other and trading soft kisses.
Daryl's procrastinating. Interesting.
"Gotta get some food into you," he mumbles after a while, sitting up on one elbow. One hand is still splayed over the other man's hip even though his brain is saying Knock this shit off and start the damn day. He rubs Paul's hip with his thumb. "Rick'll be looking for us soon."
(Spoilers Rick is more likely to lock them in there but sure okay, Daryl.)
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When Daryl speaks and lifts up he cocks an eyebrow up at him as he lets his arms slowly slither their way around the older man's neck proper. He can say one thing but he still hasn't really moved and, well. "In a minute," he murmurs, pulling him down for another kiss, lingering there a moment longer. "Just a minute."
Or a few minutes. Look, he doesn't make the rules. Also he's pretty sure that is not at all what Rick is going to be doing. But. After that minute they can get up, sure. Partially because he is, in fact, really hungry now that he thinks about it.
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"Yeah.." Another minute. Another. Daryl feels on the edge of something, some action and frustration he doesn't quite understand but suddenly feels half-desperate to discover.
But they really don't have time.
Daryl makes a satisfied noise against Paul's mouth and then gets both arms beneath him, holding him secure as he sits up all the way and pulls the younger man into his lap.
"C'mon." One more kiss? (Fuck my life, he thinks.) "I'll go get us somethin' while you figure out what to do with the tumbleweed growing back there."
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He's almost disoriented when Daryl holds him and moves because he's so lost in his thoughts. But only almost and he settles there on his lap, returning that one more kiss. "Yeah," he echos, lifting up slightly on his knees and kissing him again (one more can't hurt), hands cradling his face. (Torment.) "Yeah," again, as he finally moves to swing his leg around so he can sit on the bed a minute and just scrub his face with his hand. "That sounds good. By the time you get back maybe I can get this mess on my head sorted out."
(Hopefully. But man, is he still distracted as hell.)
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Daryl is distracted too, this morning.
"Ayup."
All he has to do is shove his boots on before heading outside - clothes mussed from sleep and sporting bed-hair actually puts him looking about average, considering his normal appearance. This is good. Getting a breather in the cold morning air, taking stock of what's going on. Gives them both a minute and-- no, best not to think too hard about that, or he'll end up guilting himself. (If we survive this...) No sign of Rick, which is suspicious, but oh well.
He'd expected to have to put breakfast together himself, but someone's taken up the cause of spoiling Maggie again (good), so Daryl finds himself returning to the trailer with apple French toast with fried eggs. He grunts a 'hello' as he toes the door open.
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But dwelling on it isn't going to help him figure out how to let him know any better, so he focuses on his hair for the moment instead, picking through it carefully and meticulously. It's slower work than usual what with the lack of care he took with it the past night due to exhaustion but that's fine; it gives him something to focus on. By the time Daryl's nudging the door open Paul is coiling it all up into a slightly messy (#aesthetic) pile atop his head, ends tucked underneath. It's only partially because it looks awful down today. Why this.
Also by the time Daryl is fully inside the trailer he's gotten up, moved the couple of feet to the table, pulled one chair out for Daryl, then pulled out one for himself and settled into it with an elbow resting on the table and his cheek resting against his hand. Casual. So casual. "I forgot," he explains, "how hungry I was."
(Paul, you haven't eaten more than like an apple in two days, how do you just forget--)
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Right now they'll get to breakfast, as Paul seemingly teleports from one side of the room to the other. He thinks he hears the cartoony rattle of windowframes in his wake, even.
"Well you're in luck." Ya nerd. Daryl sets the over-laden tray down (the cause of spoiling Jesus reared its head while he was collecting, as everyone knows where he's been) and plunks into a chair himself. "Don't make yourself sick or I'll never hear the end of it." He grabs a fork.
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That said, maybe Paul 'immediately flirts with a man holding a gun to his face' Rovia is into rusted train wrecks. You don't know his life, Daryl 'confused about boners' Dixon. Or, well, you do now. Also his tastes. Enjoy.
"I do like being in luck." It's said with a hum as he settles in more easily with less openly faked relaxation. And really, he can't be faulted for kind of just. Grabbing his own fork and digging in. He's absolutely a nerd but also a hungry one, though he does heed the warning and offer a thumbs up in response to it. Yeah, definitely a nerd. He appreciates being spoiled, clearly. After a couple moments: "thank you." For... what?
Getting the food, fixing his hair, staying with him, being with him at all, the two words encapsulate a lot.
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