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If there’s one thing that can be said about Alexandria, it’s that the place is damn spooky at night.
Sure, it’s not like the Hilltop is the liveliest place after dusk, but there’s always something happening; there’s always a cow lowing or a fire going or someone crying out in their sleep. Quiet as they may be, the sounds are enough to remind Jesus that he isn’t the last person left on the planet, the last person still able to stare up at the stars and remember the days when they were too swathed in light pollution to see.
But Alexandria is different. He knows that there are people scattered among the houses, but it seems that as soon as night falls, everyone just vanishes. He can see a large section of the community from his spot on the porch, but there’s not a single light on in any of the houses. There’s no one walking through the streets or sitting by the small pond and it’s so quiet that when he takes a pull on the cigarette dangling between his calloused fingers, he can hear the paper crackle as it crumbles into ash.
“Spooky,” he mutters, just to hear something.
A few more moments pass by in almost perfect silence. He thinks about going back inside, maybe trying to get some sleep, but before he can coax himself to his feet, he hears a new sound, one that is just exciting enough to make him stay put.
Footsteps.
They come closer and closer, until they’re covered up by the creak of the front door swinging open. Jesus glances back over his shoulder, hoping that he’s not going to have to explain himself to Rick or Michonne.
Thankfully, it’s just Daryl, barefoot in ripped jeans and a plaid shirt that might have had sleeves at some point. The top three buttons are undone and his hair is a tousled mess, laying across his forehead and dangling in his eyes.
“What’re you doing up?” he asks, yawning loudly and scratching the graying stubble covering his chin.
“Never went to sleep,” Jesus responds, taking one last pull of the cigarette before stubbing it out on the step below him. “It was too hot in there. I don’t know how you can stand it.”
“You get used to it,” Daryl mumbles, nudging Jesus with his foot. He takes the hint and moves over, leaving enough space for the two of them to fit side by side on the top step. Their knees bump together once and Jesus stays still for a moment, gauging Daryl’s reaction from the corner of his eye. They haven’t touched once in daylight since Jesus became a tentative, part-time member of the Alexandria community; hell, Jesus is pretty sure he can count on one hand the number of times they’ve spoken to one another during daylight hours.
But whether it’s because of the darkness enveloping the community or the last remnants of post-sex hormones, Daryl doesn’t shy away from the contact, so Jesus lets his knee fall back against Daryl’s and clasps his hands in his lap, staring across the street towards the pond and darkened houses. The whole town is perfectly still in the moonlight; there’s not even a breeze stirring the trees. It looks pristine, untouched, but Jesus knows the reality. He’s seen the dried blood, a mixture of zombie and human, sprayed across the pavement. He’s seen the charred walkers still lingering beneath the surface of the pond, too stuck in the mud to pull out without their bodies crumbling into pieces.
This place may be quieter than Hilltop, but based on what Jesus has picked up from the others, it’s seen far more crap in the last six months than Hilltop has since the beginning of the whole mess.
(Notwithstanding Negan and his Saviours and their baseball bats, but they're gone now, shot in their sleep, their compound razed to the ground after being cleared of useful supplies. Jesus considers that night a necessary evil, but thinking about it still makes bile rise into his throat, even months after the fact.)
“Hey,” Daryl mutters, his gruff voice breaking Jesus out of his reverie, “what’s with this?” His fingers pluck at the leather vest draped over Jesus’ shoulders, one that definitely doesn’t belong to him.
“Right,” Jesus replies, reaching around to run his fingers over the wings appliqued on the back. “Couldn’t find any of my shirts. You did a damn good job scattering them.” Daryl snorts and scratches at the back of his neck, chin ducked towards his chest.
“Yeah, well,” he says, “I think that trenchcoat of yours is dangling over the couch. Maybe I’ll just steal that. Might need to cut the sleeves off first.”
“You are not cutting off my sleeves,” Jesus laughs. “I’ll find you one somewhere. You can do whatever you want to that one.” Daryl laughs as well, the sound more of a huff then anything, one that makes Jesus grin.
“What a fucking pair we’d make,” he replies.
“Still wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen since this all started."
“Me neither.” Daryl shifts slightly, just enough for his knee to brush against Jesus’. His hands are dangling between his legs and his muscular, bare forearms are draped along his thighs. For a moment, Jesus entertains the idea of reaching out and running one finger along the length of Daryl’s arm, tracing over the cords and veins and scars that mark him up.
He manages to restrain himself. He doesn’t want to ruin one of the few good things he’s had since the world went upside down, just by wanting too much, by being too damn eager.
Instead, he clears his throat and waits until Daryl looks at him, dark eyes nearly hidden behind his curtain of long hair.
“You can call me Paul, if you want,” he says. He’s unsure of why he’s saying the words now; all he knows is that he wouldn’t mind if Daryl wanted to call him something else, wanted something more than a stupid nickname that Jesus never intended to hold onto. Daryl stays silent for a few moments; his teeth gnaw at his lip, tearing at dry skin, grazing over still healing bite marks. Finally, just as a single drop of blood makes itself known at the corner of his mouth, he shrugs and turns his gaze back across the street.
“Thought you said your friends called you Jesus,” he mutters, scratching at the inside of his wrist, over a circular scar that looks like an old cigarette burn.
“They do,” he replies. Truth be told, he can't actually remember the last time someone else said his real name, the name he got from a grandfather he never met.
“Well,” Daryl says with a shrug, as if that explains everything. “‘sides, with hair like that, you don’t look much like a Paul.” Jesus laughs and sweeps his hair away from his face; it’s not that he meant for it to get so long, but having a date with a sharp pair of scissors just keeps falling further and further down his list of priorities.
“Speak for yourself,” he says, nodding towards Daryl’s hair. “Doesn’t that get in your eyes?”
“No.” It’s a blatant lie and it's topped off by Daryl jerking his neck, flicking his hair away from his face. Jesus could definitely tease him more about it, but for now, he leaves it be. He’s finally starting to get tired, which means he might be able to grab a few hours of sleep before they leave for the monthly trading trip to Hilltop.
“Guess it’s time to call it a night,” he says.
“Guess so.” Daryl shuffles through his pockets until he pulls out a battered pack of cigarettes. He flips open the top and there’s four smokes tucked beside a equally battered Zippo lighter.
“Think I can spare one more,” he says, tucking them back into the pocket of his shirt. “Want to split it upstairs? Kinda cold out here.” Really, it’s the furthest thing from cold and Jesus is sure that the upstairs bedroom is still borderline sweltering, but he knows a hint when he hears one. Besides, he recognizes the way Daryl refuses to meet his eye, the way he stares down at his hands like they're the most interesting thing in the world. Jesus tries to bite back his smile, but he doesn’t think he’s quite successful.
“Sure,” he replies. “Be up in a minute.” Daryl nods and claps a hand on Jesus' shoulder. It doesn't linger any longer than a few seconds, but that's long enough for Jesus to feel blood rush to the spots where Daryl's fingertips brush against his bare skin. After an all too brief moment, Daryl gets to his feet and heads back inside. Jesus turns back to Alexandria, which is still just as silent and still as it was only ten minutes ago, when Daryl first came outside.
He’ll have to do his best to be quiet when he goes back upstairs. In a place as quiet as this, sound (and news) travels quickly.
With that, he buries a yawn into his arm and gets to his feet to follow in Daryl’s footsteps, fingers already plucking at the vest's snaps.
Sleep can wait a little longer.