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Daryl’s survived a lot of things.
The end of the world, for one. Starvation. The Governor. Cannibals. A solid handful of bullet and stab wounds that probably should’ve killed him. He’s slept in ditches, on concrete floors, in trees, in every kind of ruin the world could offer. He’s fought people crazier than the dead and somehow kept coming out the other side breathing.
After a while, Daryl starts thinking he can handle just about anything the world throws at him. Turns out that confidence disappears real quick when some pretty asshole in a beanie and a trench coat shows up and immediately becomes a pain in his ass.
It started out simple enough. The guy was annoying as hell. Everything he did got on Daryl’s nerves. Smiled too much. Talked too much. Kept sneaking up on him out of nowhere like some kind of damn cat. Half the time Daryl couldn’t tell if he wanted to punch him or shove him against a wall.
Daryl could handle being pissed off at somebody. Hell, most of his life was built around being pissed off at somebody.
The problem was that somewhere along the line, the irritation turned into something else.
Something worse.
Daryl’s still not exactly sure when it happened. Just knows one day he was rolling his eyes every time Jesus appeared in his line of sight and the next he was noticing too many things about the guy. The way he laughed. The way he moved. The way he always looked directly at whoever he was talking to like they were the only person in the room.
Daryl’s not stupid. He knows what a crush feels like. Knows because he’s spent the last several months trying to get rid of this one.
So far, no luck.
The worst part isn’t even the crush itself. Daryl could deal with that. Quietly suffer through it for a few years (if he can even live that long, that is), maybe die with the secret still intact, whatever.
The worst part is Jesus isn’t gay. Or at least Daryl’s pretty sure he isn’t. That’s the real kick in the teeth right there.
Daryl is. That part stopped being much of a mystery years ago.
At first, the only people who knew were Rick and Carol.
Rick because Daryl finally got tired of him trying to talk about women all the damn time and blurted out an, “‘M gay,” one afternoon just to shut him up. It worked. Rick had blinked at him for a second then went right back to skinning a deer like Daryl had just told him the weather.
Thank fuck for that.
Carol because she was a goddamn psychic. Daryl told her one night while they sat out on her porch in Alexandria after a particularly rough day. He remembered sitting beside her with his elbows on his knees thinking that if he got ripped apart tomorrow, at least one more person ought to know. Carol was his best friend. Family. It took damn near everything in him to scrape together enough courage to finally mutter it out loud.
And Carol had just looked at him over the end of her cigarette and gone, “Yeah, I know.”
Daryl had stared at her for a solid five seconds before going, “The hell d’you mean, you know?”
Carol just smiled into the smoke curling around her face. “Oh, Pookie,” she’d said, patting his knee, “I just know.”
Still pisses him off thinking about it.
Aaron and Eric found out too, though Daryl still didn’t know how exactly. One minute he was eating spaghetti at their place and the next Aaron was casually trying to give him dating advice over garlic bread.
The fuck?
After that, the rest of Alexandria figured it out sooner or later. Mostly because Daryl never showed interest in women and had the social skills of a damp rock whenever somebody flirted with him. Some people asked outright. Most didn’t bother. Nobody really cared either way. Life moved on. There were walls to reinforce and crops to plant and walkers still shambling around outside. Daryl being gay barely cracked the top twenty things worth worrying about these days.
Jesus, though? Jesus isn’t gay. The guy’s just friendly. One of those people who’s naturally good with others. That’s just his personality.
Which is a really stupid thing to sulk about because nobody’s dying. Alexandria’s still standing. Their communities’ connection has never been stronger. The world’s not ending any harder than usual. Life’s about as stable as it gets these days.
It’s just that Daryl’s over here dealing with his dumbass feelings like a teenage girl and he doesn’t know what the hell to do about it.
The afternoon’s hot enough that sweat keeps sticking Daryl’s shirt to his back. A few people move around the community doing whatever needs doing. Carol’s talking to some woman near the laundry line, all soft voice and harmless-housewife act again. Eugene’s talking somebody’s ear off from the watch platform.
Daryl’s halfway through driving a nail into the fence post when hoofbeats sound near the front gate. He straightens up automatically, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
Jesus rides in beside Maggie, sunlight catching on his hair for a second before he swings down from the horse in one smooth motion. Maggie says something to him that makes him laugh and Daryl immediately looks back at the fence, suddenly focused on driving that nail in the wood with too much force.
“Oh,” a familiar voice sounds from behind him. “He’s here.”
“Who?”
Daryl glances over his shoulder to find Aaron standing there with his arms crossed and the kind of smug grin that immediately puts Daryl in a bad mood.
Aaron looks past him toward the gates. “Your boyfriend.”
“Ain’t my boyfriend.”
“Could be.”
Daryl snorts, going back to hammering the nail into the wood. “Yeah, right.”
Aaron watches him for another second, amusement radiating off him. “And why exactly couldn’t it happen?”
Daryl pauses just long enough for the answer to feel obvious. Then he glances over at Aaron like the man’s lost his damn mind, because he has.
“Guy’s straight as a damn pole.”
The shit-eating grin on his face suddenly wears off. “Wait,” Aaron says slowly. “You think Jesus is straight?”
Daryl frowns. “Ain’t he?”
For a second Aaron just stares at him. Then something close to horror crosses his face before he ducks his head, laughing under his breath.
“The hell’s so funny?”
Aaron looks back up, still grinning, but softer somehow. “You really don’t know,” he says, almost to himself.
Daryl’s irritation spikes immediately. “Know what?”
Aaron doesn’t answer. Just lifts a hand to wave at someone and pats Daryl once on the shoulder as he walks away.
Daryl turns back toward the gate.
And fuck.
Jesus is heading this way.
The man’s whole face lights up warm and easy the second their eyes meet and Daryl’s stomach fucking swoops.
“Hey, Daryl.”
“Hey,” Daryl says before going back to nailing the fence because what else is he supposed to do? Get lost in those ocean blue eyes? No, thank you. He’s done that enough times already.
“Aaron was laughing pretty hard there. Was it a good joke?”
Yeah, Daryl thinks bitterly. The one about you being my boyfriend, which is more than fucking ridiculous.
“Nothin’ funny,” Daryl says aloud. He finally risks a glance up, intending to be dismissive, but he hits the wall of Jesus’s gaze instead. Those bright eyes move across Daryl’s face until they settle somewhere above it.
“You’ve got sawdust in your hair,” the man says.
Before Daryl can react – before he can even fully process what’s about to happen – Jesus reaches out. His fingers brush through the hair at Daryl’s temple, light as a damn breeze, flicking away the debris. He doesn't pull his hand back right away. His thumb brushes the edge of Daryl’s ear, where it peeks out of his hair, a movement so small Daryl might’ve imagined it if his entire body hadn't caught fire in response.
“There,” Jesus says softly, his voice dropping into the register that usually makes Daryl want to bolt for the woods. Still does. “All clean.”
Jesus finally pulls back, but he doesn't leave. He just stands there and looks at Daryl with a half-smile. “Maggie’s looking for the inventory lists. I told her I’d find you. But I’m in no rush if you’re still busy punishing that fence.”
Daryl swallows hard, his throat feeling like it’s full of dry leaves. He looks back at the fence, then at the hammer, then at the empty space where Aaron had been standing two minutes ago. You really don’t know, Aaron had said.
Know what? That Jesus was a touchy-feely straight guy? Daryl already knew that. He lived it every damn day.
“’M done,” Daryl mutters, dropping the hammer into his belt. He needs to move. He needs to get away from the smell of rain and the way Jesus is currently tilting his head like Daryl is some kind of interesting puzzle.
“Good,” Jesus says, stepping into stride beside him as Daryl starts walking. He doesn’t keep a respectful distance either; their shoulders brush, a repetitive contact that sends fresh jolts of electricity down Daryl’s arm. “Because I was thinking, after the meeting, maybe we could go over those maps. Just the two of us. I found a couple of spots on the last run I think you’d like.”
Just the two of us. Daryl keeps his eyes straight ahead, staring at the main house like it’s a life raft. He’s ninety-nine percent sure Jesus is just being a good teammate. A solid friend. A guy who wants to talk shop over a map.
“Maps,” Daryl repeats, sounding like he’s forgotten how English works. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”
Jesus chuckles out a warm, melodic sound that absolutely doesn’t make Daryl’s stomach flip. “Great. It’s a date, then.”
Daryl nearly trips over his own feet.
A date?
He looks at Jesus sharply, but the man is already waving at Tara across the yard, looking perfectly casual and entirely unbothered. He said it like people say it’s a plan or see you later.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't.
They end up going over the maps right after that meeting, right after everyone left the room to the two of them.
Jesus has the maps spread out, and he’s standing right next to Daryl, leaning over the parchment until Daryl can smell that maddening scent of rain and soap again.
Daryl stares at the map, trying to focus on the topographical lines instead of the way Jesus’s hair is brushing against his arm.
He keeps telling himself that the word "date" was just a joke – a figure of speech Jesus used because he’s a tease and Daryl is an easy target. That’s what guys like Jesus do. Because to them, the idea of it actually being a date is so ridiculous it’s funny.
"See this ridge here?" Jesus asks, his finger tracing a line on the paper. "There’s a clearing behind it. It’s got a clear view of the valley for miles.”
Daryl grunts, leaning in to see better, which is a mistake. It only puts him deeper into Jesus’s orbit. "Good for spottin’ herds."
“Yeah,” Jesus says after a weird pause. "But I think you’d like the quiet. It’s peaceful. There’s a lot of wildflowers there this time of year.”
Daryl frowns at the map. Wildflowers? What the hell do wildflowers have to do with security perimeters? He figures Jesus is testing him, or maybe just commenting on the scenery like a normal person.
"Peaceful don't keep you alive," Daryl says, his voice cracking a little.
Jesus lets out a soft sigh. For a fleeting second, his brow pinches, a flicker of what Daryl thinks looks like irritation crossing his face. He looks at the map, then back at Daryl, his eyes searching Daryl’s face with a frustration that Daryl can’t even begin to parse.
But then the irritation vanishes, replaced by a look of resigned amusement.
“You’re always so focused on staying alive,” he says. “You ever think about actually living?”
Panic starts to prickle under Daryl’s skin. He feels like he’s missing the punchline to a joke everyone else in the world is in on. He thinks about the way he spends his days. Is that what Jesus means? That he’s boring? That he’s just a tool for the community and nothing else?
“’M alive, ain’t I?” Daryl mutters defensively, his ears burning. “Keepin’ this place runnin’ means keepin’ people breathin’. That’s the job.”
Jesus laughs then, and Daryl studies him, his eyes narrowed, checking for any hint of a sneer or a mocking edge. He’s spent a lifetime being the butt of the joke, usually right before the punch landed, but he doesn't find it here. Jesus isn't laughing at him.
So what the hell is he laughing about?
Jesus straightens and turns around, leaning his hip on the edge of the table and facing Daryl. The shift in posture brings him even closer, closing the gap until Daryl can see the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
“I know you’re keeping everyone alive, and you’re doing a good job of it,” Jesus says, his voice dropping. “But that’s not what I was talking about.”
He stares at Daryl for a beat longer than Daryl is comfortable with, before he continues, “I wasn’t joking about the date thing, Daryl. I’m showing you the spots where we can–” he pauses, his head tilting as he seemingly tries to find the right words. “Somewhere we can hang out. Just the two of us.”
Just the two of us.
Shit. He said it again.
Daryl waits for the part where Jesus explains that "date" is just Hilltop slang for a tactical scouting session between two dudes who are definitely just friends. It doesn’t come.
“Hang out,” Daryl repeats, the words feeling like gravel in his throat. “Like... for work.”
Jesus lets out a breathy little laugh, and for a second, he looks like he wants to reach out and shake Daryl by the shoulders. “No, Daryl. Not for work. For us. To get away from the work.”
Daryl’s pulse is thundering in his ears now. Is he saying they should go on a– a real one? Like, with the flowers and the quiet and the...
No. Bullshit. Jesus is probably just bored. Or he’s so nice he thinks Daryl is lonely and needs a "buddy." Yeah, that’s it. He’s just pitying him.
“I ain't much for hangouts,” Daryl mutters, averting his eyes to avoid the intensity that is Jesus’s gaze. “Got a lot to do.”
Jesus hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Yeah? Like what?”
Daryl’s mind goes spectacularly blank. Like what? Like trying to quit being pathetic? Like quit staring at the way the light makes your eyes look like the ocean? Like quit thinking about how much he’d love to drown in them.
“The fences–” Daryl starts, grasping for the first chore he can think of.
“The fences will be there when we get back, Daryl. I promise.”
Jesus reaches out then, and instead of the usual quick pat, he gives Daryl’s arm a firm squeeze. It’s warm and grounding, and Daryl is internally screaming, his entire nervous system lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. He’s panicking, certain that if Jesus stays one second longer, Daryl is going to do something truly humiliating, like letting his knees buckle or some pathetic sound escaping him, or, God forbid, an “I love you” slipping out before he can stop it.
“Think about it,” Jesus says softly. He lets go, the absence of his hand feeling like a cold spot on Daryl’s skin, and starts toward the door. He moves with that infuriatingly cool confidence, leaving Daryl standing in the middle of the room, blushing like a total moron.
Jesus had just asked him on a date.
A date.
For maybe ten seconds, Daryl lets himself feel the dizzying surge of feelings. He wants to relish it – the way his heart is thudding so violently it’s bruising his ribs – but the high doesn't last. It can't. Because right on its heels comes the realization that he has been so horribly wrong all this time. It hits him harder and leaves him more winded than when Jesus had touched his arm earlier.
This means the guy isn’t straight.
He's into men.
He’s into Daryl, apparently, for fuck’s sake.
Everything’s so blindingly obvious now that it’s sickening. Jesus has been out here flirting his ass off for months, probably wondering if Daryl was brain-damaged or just pathologically rude. Meanwhile, Daryl – genius that he is – had taken one look at Jesus being vaguely friendly with a woman once and decided a guy that pretty, that good, had to be out of his league, out of his lane, and firmly heterosexual.
Daryl stands there, staring at nothing, absolutely mortified by the sheer force of his own stupidity. He’d spent the better part of a year convincing himself he was delusional, mourning a rejection that never even existed while the other man was busy trying to flirt him into the ground. He can’t decide what’s worse: that he genuinely missed every single sign, or that maybe he’d seen them and actively chose to ignore them because he simply couldn’t imagine a world where they could ever be real.
This is a catastrophe. This is a nightmare. This is the best thing that’s happened to him in years, and he absolutely hates it.
The embarrassment is so thick it borders on rage. One thought comes through his panic with crystal clarity, though: he is going to kill Aaron.
Daryl's going to find the man, and he’s going to kill him for not saying anything, and then he’s going to find the deepest hole in the woods and live there until he rots. Because there's no version of reality where Daryl survives this with his dignity intact.
"Bullshit," he whispers to the empty room. "Total fuckin’ bullshit."
Daryl couldn’t find a deep enough hole to crawl into, so he ends up on that date with Jesus instead. Naturally.
The walk to the clearing is a special kind of torture. Not because they’d decided, for some inexplicable reason, to leave their transport behind – Daryl’s bike and Jesus’s horse – and set out on foot, but because Daryl has been feeling like he can’t catch a full breath for the last thirty minutes.
He still thinks this might be a fever dream. Or maybe he’s already dead, and his brain is just playing one last nice movie for him before plunging into the big dark. That’s the only logical explanation for why he’s following a man through the woods to look at flowers.
Jesus leads the way, light-footed and breezy, talking about nothing in particular. He occasionally looks back over his shoulder as if to make sure Daryl hasn't bolted for the treeline, his eyes bright and far too observant.
Daryl follows with his crossbow slung over his shoulder like a security blanket, his fingers restlessly twitching and fidgeting with the leather strap until his skin is raw.
When they finally reach the spot, Daryl has to admit – internally, and with a great deal of resentment – that the asshole was right. It’s a small meadow tucked behind a ridge, hidden from the main road by a dense thicket of pines. The grass is high and speckled with those wildflowers Jesus was talking about, little bursts of yellow and white that look entirely too cheerful for the end of the world.
"See?" Jesus says, turning around with a flourish that makes his trench coat flare out. "Peaceful. And pretty. You like it?"
Daryl grunts, his eyes darting around the perimeter. He’s looking for threats because if he looks at the other man, he’s going to have to acknowledge the fact that the “pretty” he’s seeing has absolutely nothing to do with the flowers.
"'S alright," he mutters, his version of a five-star review.
"Just alright?" Jesus asks, his voice tilting with amusement. He steps closer, invading Daryl's space.
"View's fine," Daryl says quickly.
Jesus chuckles and drops onto the grass, leaning back on his elbows. He looks entirely too comfortable, his legs stretched out and his beanie pushed back just enough to show the pieces of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Daryl wants to wipe it away for him.
"Come on. Sit down." The man pats the grass next to him.
Daryl lingers for a second, feeling like a skittish horse, before he finally lowers himself to the ground. He sits cross-legged, stiff as a board, holding his crossbow across his lap like a shield.
"You know," Jesus starts. "I honestly wasn't sure you'd show up. I thought for a second there I might’ve pushed too hard."
Daryl’s ears start to burn. He picks at a blade of grass, refusing to meet the other man’s gaze. "Dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout," he lies.
Jesus shifts, crawling an inch or two closer through the grass. "I think you knew exactly what I was asking. I couldn’t have been any more obvious."
Daryl finally looks at him, another mistake. Up close, without the "straight-guy" filter Daryl had been using as armor, Jesus is terrifyingly attractive. Those blue-green eyes are locked onto his, searching, and there’s no irony in them now. No teasing. Just a steady gaze that makes Daryl feel like he’s melting into the dirt.
"Thought you were jus’ bein' friendly," he admits.
Jesus’s expression softens with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ve been a lot of things to a lot of people, but I don't think I've ever been that friendly with someone I wasn't trying to kiss."
Daryl stops breathing. He’s pretty sure his heart has actually ceased all function.
"Oh," he manages. It’s the most pathetic syllable he’s ever uttered.
Jesus laughs, though it’s a fond sound. "Yeah," he whispers. "Oh."
Daryl looks out toward the sprawling horizon, trying his best not to sit too long in the fact that he’s been blind to all of this for so damn long. How simple-minded. How oblivious. It feels almost insulting in hindsight, especially now, sitting in a field of flowers at the end of the world with the man he’s been hopelessly losing his damn mind over for months. That same man is currently looking at Daryl like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.
This is definitely going to kill him. And Aaron is still getting shot.
But then a soft breeze rolls over the ridge, the streaks of late-afternoon sunlight move through the field, catching Jesus just right.
Daryl watches it happen, stupidly still.
He watches how the light weaves through the man’s hair, turning the soft strands into threads of spun gold. Watches the way Jesus closes his eyes and tilts his head back to catch the warmth. Watches his skin gilded by the sunset, glowing with a warmth that makes the rest of the world look grey and hollow by comparison.
Daryl decides, with a finality that doesn’t feel like panic for once, that if this is his end, then so fucking be it.