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Maybe he was being dramatic (naw, though, if anythin’ he was being pragmatic), but when Aaron and Eric invited Daryl to bring Jesus over for spaghetti dinner, just the four of them, Daryl's natural reaction was to threaten Jesus within an inch of his life.
"These are nice guys," Daryl said, or growled, as Aaron and Eric’s house came into view. “Don’t get all—” He waved a hand at Jesus, ‘cause that was about the only way he knew how to describe it. “Don’t get all you.”
Jesus’s too-big blue eyes went all surprised and innocent, which generally meant he was neither surprised nor thinking anything that would ever be considered innocent. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean,” he said evenly.
“Should turn around right now,” Daryl grumbled to himself.
He wouldn’t have even considered this if anyone but Aaron had asked him. Daryl had to admit to a soft spot when it came to Aaron. (Though, if Aaron was a soft spot, what was Jesus? Quicksand?)
Couple weeks back, Daryl had sought Aaron out. He couldn’t say what finally broke the camel’s back—All he knew was, the angrier he got, the more Jesus started grinning. The more Daryl avoided him, the more often the prick popped up. The fewer questions Daryl answered, the more Jesus asked, grinning like he couldn’t imagine a better pastime than pissing Daryl off. He was like a fly Daryl kept swatting at that wouldn’t relent, just kept flying at him anyway, taunting him, dancing around his ears, diving in close only to dart gleefully outta reach.
‘Course, that was only a figure of speech. Jesus was keeping himself well within reach. Sitting next to Daryl in the car on runs, knuckles just grazing Daryl’s thigh. When Daryl would jerk away, Jesus would bite his lips to keep from smiling. Then he’d appear right behind Daryl when he was on watch duty, so Daryl would jump and Jesus’s breathy chuckle would graze the back of his neck like a physical touch. Jesus would saunter backwards, his sheet of hair swinging like curtains caught in a damn breeze. And those eyes, constantly roving him, like there was nothing he enjoyed more than cataloguing Daryl’s every languid stretch and round-shouldered slouch.
Daryl would’ve hit the guy, maybe knocked him out, dragged him out of the Safe Zone, and strapped him up a tree just to squirm for a few hours, but ... for as flustered and pissed-off as Daryl was getting, Jesus’s attention, teasing and obnoxious and relentlessly amused as it was, was also making him a little ... fuzzyheaded. And fat-fingered. And hot around the collar.
After three frantic, middle-of-the-night, biting-down-on-his-pillow tugs that all ended with Daryl shuddering at the thought of Jesus’s mischievous, shit eating grin, Daryl decided to seek some expert advice.
Only, when he finally cornered Aaron in the empty pantry, Daryl couldn’t find the words. Forget words, he couldn’t find the syllables. He just kept rubbing his nose and looking off into the corner while he tried to form the thoughts crashing around in his head into a comprehensible sentence.
“Got a question,” he managed to grunt. Aaron nodded, his kind eyes all round and interested. He waited for Daryl to continue.
After a minute of his tongue drying up, Daryl realized he was waiting for himself to continue, too.
“Never mind,” he blurted, and turned around fast, shooting for the door.
“Wait—Daryl?”
He stopped at the threshold. His heart was pounding, but Aaron couldn’t see that, right?
He could see something, though, ‘cause the look Aaron fixed him with stared right through Daryl like he was made of glass. (Grimy, smudged, half cracked glass, but still.)
“If you’re ... asking,” Aaron said delicately, knowing full well his words were tacks he was spreading beneath Daryl’s feet, “I think you already know the answer.”
How the hell did he—Then, standing there with eyes squinted into slits, his face rigid and reactionless, Daryl remembered Aaron being present the day before, when Daryl walked into a room and Jesus, boots up on the table, sharpening a knife, said “Hello, darling,” in a cheery singsong voice—Daryl’s reaction was to knock into Jesus’s chair as he passed, making him nearly cut himself. Apparently, Aaron had read that as flirting.
Apparently, he’d been right.
Daryl hadn’t said anything to Aaron in the pantry. Just jerked his chin real fast and got the hell out of there.
He pretended, for about ten minutes, not to know what Aaron had been talking about. Daryl could be damn stubborn when he wanted to be. But then, rounding a corner and seeing Jesus strolling along by himself, no one else around, something within Daryl snapped. The glass cracked. He stomped right up to Jesus, jabbing a finger at him, and found himself growling, “You. You shut up.”
Then he had a hand on Jesus’s chest and was pushing him up against the clapboard siding of an unoccupied house. Jesus had the time to say, “Oh, hell yes,” and snatch at Daryl’s vest before Daryl smashed their mouths together and discovered the only sure-fire way to shut this pain in the ass prick up.
Not that this tactic would do any good tonight. No, ground rules had to be set.
"No shit while we're eating, alright?” he said as they mounted Aaron and Eric’s front porch. “You know damn well what I mean. Don't do nothing—nothing embarrassing."
To which Jesus raised his eyebrows and said, as though shocked, "Who, me? Embarrass you?"
Daryl felt he had the right to be on edge.
Eric let them in, directing them into the dining room, where Aaron was already laying out the meal. In the center of the table, a steaming bowl of spaghetti drenched in sauce (hard not to see that and think spilled Walker innards, but Daryl wasn’t about to point that out), plus a heaping garden salad (hard not to see that and think of the decades Daryl went without eating anythin’ green and turned out fine for it, but that was the kinda comment that would make Denise start following him around). The scene had the glossy, home magazine perfection Aaron and Eric’s house always radiated. Daryl noticed belatedly he and Jesus were tracking in dirt; he’d meant to scrape his heels on the doormat, but Jesus was pissing him off so much he'd forgotten. Ah, well. They were on their best behavior, but it wasn’t like they were putting on airs or nothing.
All smiles, Eric waved for them to sit down.
Jesus unfolded his napkin with a flourish and laid it with exaggerated care over his lap. He'd taken off his cap, so he was full-blown holy figure at the moment, hair brushed and shining, falling over his shoulders, beard trimmed, eyes wide and watchful.
Under the table, Jesus’s foot grazed Daryl’s ankle. Daryl moved his chair further away with an audible screech. Jesus snorted into his water glass, not even looking at Daryl.
"Smells great," Eric told Aaron, picking up the salad bowl .
"Thank you.” Aaron heaped a helping onto Daryl’s plate. (Maybe Denise had started following Aaron around, conspiring about Daryl’s diet. This dinner invitation would make a hell of a lot more sense, if so.) “God, though, I miss having meatballs.”
Daryl tensed, and looked through the hair falling in front of his eyes at Jesus. Mirth danced in Jesus's eyes, and Daryl braced himself--
But all Jesus said was, "And cheeseburgers," to which Eric groaned appreciatively and Aaron laughingly agreed.
"Remember steak?"
"And pork chops."
"Fried chicken."
Daryl stabbed his fork into his pasta. Maybe this would go all right after all.
As he and Jesus wolfed down their food a lot faster than Aaron and Eric (who kept sharing amused glances Daryl was pointedly ignoring), Aaron quizzed Jesus about Hilltop. He wanted to know everything about the community, how many people there were, how they found everyone, what they planted, who they traded with. He loved the idea of Alexandria joining this scattered web of communities, working together, creating a big ol' network of thriving, safe survivors.
"It’s the best way forward,” he said eagerly, motioning with his fork as he spoke. “This thing happened and we all got scattered, isolated -- now it's time for people to work together. Find each other. Rebuild the world."
Daryl wanted to grumble something derisive, but Aaron was looking so kind-eyed and earnest, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Jesus, on the other hand, was wearing a bittersweet sort of smile.
“It’s funny ... for the longest time, I held onto the idea that at any moment, a plane was going to fly overhead ... drop some chemical that would eradicate the dead, and army would roll through the streets, bringing back the government, the infrastructure... bringing back everything.”
Jesus stirred his spaghetti, before working a huge bite into his mouth. As he chewed, Jesus shrugged and said, “But ... this is it. Our old systems are gone. We’re pilgrims thrown onto the shores of the New World, expected to recreate civilization from scratch.”
The three of them fell into a contemplative, sad kind of silence.
Daryl noisily slurped up a noodle.
Jesus glanced at him from under his eyelashes. Begrudgingly, Daryl had to admit that that look, half amused, half feral, wasn’t so obnoxious.
By the time the spaghetti had dwindled to a few spills of sauce on everyone’s plate (save Daryl's, as he'd licked his clean with his fingers), Daryl had started to relax. He muttered a few answers to questions, even got up to help scrape the plates clean and wash them in the sink. When Aaron quietly mentioned they should do this again sometime, Daryl—well, he didn’t agree, but he didn’t exactly balk at the idea, either. Aaron knew him well enough to take Daryl’s silence as a reason to grin at him maddeningly.
He should'a seen it coming.
As they were slouching towards the doorway, Aaron and Eric telling 'em how much fun they’d had, how glad they were they came, Jesus wedged his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, flashed a split’s second sly grin at Daryl, and said with wide, innocent eyes, “Yeah. So. Call us when you want to do that four-way.”
“Ah, hell.” Daryl shoved Jesus through the door, as Eric and Aaron exploded into laughter. As Daryl dragged him roughly by the shoulder down the front steps, Jesus said in a carrying voice, “You only warned me about embarrassing you during dinner. You didn’t say anything about when we’d finished eating.”
Shoving Jesus, hard, Daryl stomped down the street, shoulders hunched. Beside him, Jesus practically bounced. He knocked shoulders with Daryl, satisfaction bubbling out of him. Daryl’s fuming silence gave way to passingly annoyed silence, which for him was damn near close to comfortable. He scrounged in his pocket for a cigarette and bit the end, flicking his lighter until a flame sprung to life.
“Good spaghetti,” he grunted. Jesus grinned at him, all satisfied.
“Yeah. We should have them over next time. Cook our kind of food. You know. Road kill and candy bars.”
Daryl snorted, and broke into a grin he tried not to give Jesus the satisfaction of seeing.