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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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.

He thinks about saying something. Something honest, but does he have anything honest that isn't bleak, or ugly? Does Paul even give a shit about his life before? ... Does Daryl give a shit about his? Fuck knows the kind of people he's encountered has taught him that there's more 'bad' in the world than just the kind he lived with.

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.

In a world like this, now is most important. Now is what they get and the past means so fucking little except for in the way it shapes how they handle things now. But it all does feed into now in the end. Everyone has ghosts and demons, it's just some only got theirs after things went bad and some started getting them far before. What you make of that now is what informs how your future (short, long, messy no matter what) unfolds. Maybe in some tiny space in the recesses of his mind, Paul cares.

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.

Not just yet.

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.)

He cherishes these long minutes even though they really aren't long enough in the least. His hands are rarely still as they lay there, fingertips trailing over Daryl's back, his shoulders, his arms (don't look at him like that). He's not blind to the procrastination either but selfishly he's happy to let it continue, to keep him essentially lured in with this sort of comfortable stasis. Nothing doing.

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.

Never in his entire life has Daryl thought about spending the whole day in bed with someone-- and it's ridiculous to think about it now seeing as this, this moment right here, is probably the most physically passionate they've been. But he thinks about it anyway. He thinks about the way he loves how this feels, the way Paul makes every nerve ending in him do things he frankly only thought he'd ever half-experience in daydreams he's long stopped having. They could. He could ask Paul to show him and he's sure that would go fine, no matter how shy Daryl's been. It's a little mind-blowing to think he trusts him so much.

"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."

Paul thinks about it. He does rather often even if he tries not to because he really is content with however long it takes and thinking about it too much just ends up in being frustrated with himself - and sometimes (often) it's like a slow and pleasant torment to be so close to him. And sometimes he has to take a breath, take a second, because he's not the one setting their pace. This morning though, this is worse than most. All he wants to do is drag Daryl down against him and keep kissing him, getting out of bed be damned. A flighty thought, one he knows he won't push.

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.)

Frustrated with themselves for different reasons. Daryl has plenty of moments of berating himself for not being normal about everything, of being aware Paul is sidestepping his own desire in favor of Daryl's comfort, and it makes him feel-- well, he's not sure. 'Inadequate' seems like too trivial, textbook of a word, when the reality is something more 'like everything about him is defective and abnormal, should perhaps just give up on this out of sheer embarrassment'. And yet he knows Paul wouldn't let him do that. He knows Paul wouldn't let him try to just 'rip the bandaid off' either.

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.

As much as Paul wants so many things, the fact of the matter is he's not some teenager in which this kind of thing is a desperate end-all be-all deal-breaker "I need this or I'm going to die." (You're not like nineteen or some shit, are you?) To be frank, he would be fine - perfectly content - if they never actually progress past this. It's stupid but he doesn't know how to convey that without saying it in some kind of embarrassing way - laying curled against Daryl with his head tucked into the crook of his neck is just as good as breathing out shaking against his mouth. (It's great they both want it, but it just means that he's fine waiting for the right time. Seriously.)

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--)

Nobody should have to give anything up in a relationship (!), he reckons, and sex is an important aspect of these sorts of alignments - even if the important aspect is 'deciding we're not having any', communication is just a thing. Daryl knows that much. He also, you know, wants to, and while he thinks Paul probably deserves someone a bit less of a rusted trainwreck than Daryl 'confused about boners' Dixon, they're here and together so-- it'll get there. They'll get there.

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.

Both verbal and non-verbal communication are things, and they have the latter down pat by now, the gentle give and take of each of them being able to figure out where the other stands at specific moments without saying anything at all. Verbally too, to an extent - and while Paul is good at talking in general he still sometimes finds himself unable to put what he wants to say into proper words. He's working on it. Something something words are hard. Born from being such a loner usually, probably. In any case they seem to be doing all right so far and so long as they keep communicating, they'll be fine.

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.

Daryl eats, his table manners what they always are, though he goes slow, makes sure Paul is actually eating the protein bits of it and not just the sugary apple bits-- though between the two of them there won't be anything left. Even before the apocalypse he'd had too many run-ins with starvation to ever leave a plate with leftovers on it, but it's even more of a sticking point now.

Thank you.

His gaze flicks up at him for a brief moment, eyes mostly hidden. Daryl doesn't need to ask for what; he gets it. He gets it enough that Paul doesn't need to say it, actually.

"I know."

For all his insecurities and unsteady movements forward and back, Daryl's good at sticking to a decision once he's made it. Like a fighting dog getting its teeth in. (That's all he is sometimes, just some old, abused dog whose only skills are violence and heeling behind the one feeding him.) He's in it for as long as Paul will have him, and whether it's foolish of him or not, he trusts the guy. And he doesn't think he's being taken for granted.

Daryl steals a viable slice of cooked apple from far into Paul's side of plate territory, eats it, and loudly licks the remains of sugar and grease off his fingers after. Maybe someday, in addition to sorting out boners: table manners? (Sex is probably more of a realistic goal.)

Paul is indeed eating the protein bits as well - he's eating quite a lot for such a small dude, honestly, though it's understandable with all the exercise and also Lately. He's glad he doesn't have to elaborate for Daryl - he'd known he wasn't going to need to, but still. It's nice to have that kind of understanding. It's not one he's had often and he's happy it's with Daryl even if his table manners are some kind of awful.

The way he smiles at Daryl is almost shy for a moment, which is possibly hilarious all things considered, but he ducks his head to go back to his breakfast afterward so it's easy to miss.

"Hey." That's his apple, jerk. In retaliation he reeaaches across to snag a piece of egg from Daryl's side and eats it, settling back afterward and tossing a clean but well-worn cloth napkin at him. He doesn't actually care but still, there you go. Napkin across the table. Man, but food is great.

Super great. "Okay, now I feel one-hundred-percent." Which is very clearly a joke because while he's clean and fed, there's still a bone-deep tiredness clinging to him around his eyes. It's fine, though. They all have years worth of sleep debt to contend with. "Have we been summoned yet?" Wry.

(Rick is not searching up and down to call them in right now right now, Daryl.)

What is this napkin assault. Daryl looks down his nose at it, then across at Paul with narrowed eyes. Sometimes it's painfully obvious when the hamster wheel is turning in his head, mulling over something that requires either a real answer or a yes-or-no sort of immediate action. Presently, something like that is painfully obvious.

After a moment--

"Naw," he says about Rick, as he rests both elbows on the table so he can reach out and snag one of the other man's hands. He pulls it closer, by some miracle not hesitantly or with any kind of self-conscious waiver, and licks his thumb into his mouth. Followed by his index finger. This is what he thinks of your dumb napkin, alright, this is a superior method and-- and some other shit, too; there is absolutely no smoldering suggestive eye contact, because then Paul would probably have to assume he was in a coma having a fever dream (also Daryl would die), but it sure is something. Something Daryl can't actually believe he's done by the time he lets him go. Behold: your hand is clean.

He's not the sort of guy to turn red, but there's a bit more color on his cheekbones than usual.

Anyway.

Daryl takes a bite of something with his fork.

Oh my god.

Okay, so, it's a good thing that Rick isn't looking for them yet and also that they're sitting at the table because Paul kind of thinks he's going to die right here maybe, or like also maybe he really is having a fever dream in a coma but he also thinks he's awake and he's really glad there's actually no eye contact because it's bad enough that his breath sort of catches in surprise (just once) without Daryl seeing how his eyes widen a little too.

He's done this to himself he thinks, fingers of his other hand curling once against his knee before smoothing out again. Yeah. Okay. He can just. Sit here a while. It's fine? This is fine.jpg. When Daryl lets go of his hand Paul just kind of lets it settle on the table, suddenly angry that he's tied his hair up because it means there's no way he can hide behind a curtain of it. So the fact that he's a little embarrassed (and yes, a little turned on, and kind of embarrassed about being a little turned on, fucking sue him) is plain as day since even his handy beard can't really cover the fact he's flushed minutely.

(Why's a guy got to be so pale? Surely being out in the sun so much should have given him some baseline color.)

Right. Back to food. Look how interesting it is? Delicious. Probably not going to give him a boner what are you doing to him Daryl Dixon. He takes a bite.

(#suffering)

He looks cute with his hair tied back.

(Fuck.)

The lack of reaction makes Daryl wonder if he's made a mistake. And then he thinks What the fuck reaction was I hoping for, realizing that he had nothing at all in mind and hadn't considered a reaction one way or the other; Paul always takes his cues from Daryl, anyway, and Daryl didn't react. So. Uh. Maybe Daryl could react. Or he could just die in this chair. Dying in this chair sounds like a solid option in his head, because he's more turned on than he knows what to do with (he thinks?? we did mention the rust thing, right, it's not like he's even jerked off since well before the end of the world, while we're in TMI territory), also he's already dying of embarrassment so might as well finish the job and just spontaneously cease to exist. It'll be easier for everyone.

You sleep in the same bed and made out for hours earlier some part of his brain screams. But he remains frozen long into the 'definitely super awkward' stretch of time. Until he isn't.

Daryl reaches forward again. He curls the fingers of one hand around Paul's wrist, though this time he doesn't pull him forward. He looks at him, though, stormy blue eyes peering at him-- parts shy and nervous, but well-aware of what he's doing, too.

Edited 2016-12-23 06:27 (UTC)

Please do not actually die in the chair, Daryl.

Now, the lack of reaction on Paul's part does not in fact reflect how much he desperately wants to react and held back because, yes, Daryl hadn't reacted. So really that silence is spent with equal parts trying to relax and also feeling pretty damn guilty even though that was definitely purposeful, that isn't fair but then life isn't fair, is it? Life isn't fair and it's not fair that he's just sitting here really, really turned on (more than we, as a narrative element, have previously let on) and looking at Daryl and trying to not feel awkward or make him feel awkward but then there's a hand at his wrist and he glances from it and back to Daryl's face, brows knitting together once

before he leans over the table, that same hand pressing flat against the surface of it while his other one catches Daryl by the collar and drag him in for a kiss that's already almost bruising from the start. Yeah, okay, that's a reaction. Not a beautiful movie-perfect scene of shoving shit off a table and climbing onto it, but. Reaction. This kiss is brief because he still doesn't want to press too hard but his breath still shakes as he pulls away. The hand at his collar smooths out, up the side of his neck, around to his nape, nails scraping across the skin as he presses their foreheads together. Then he kisses him again. It's the most outright aggressive he's been, really. So there's that.

Something in Daryl shakes loose, just a little. Just enough. And as Jesus kisses him a second time he gets up - because how do you even navigate this sitting, or with a table, he doesn't have those kind of skills - and pulls the other man up with him. His brain makes an effort to say his name but it never happens, because he's kissing him, rough and desperate, clutching him close. They're both hard and while maybe that's not a first, not really, it's definitely the first time they've been pressed against each other and kissing frantically.

It's dizzying and he feels drunk but much, much better, and this is a turning point, he knows, whatever line they were idling on stepped clean over. He--

Bangbangbang.

Daryl almost jumps out of his goddamn skin. The door.

Rick asks if they're up.

it's a long time until february

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