Work Text:
He’s minding his own goddamn fucking business when Daryl is cornered in the kitchen and assaulted. It’s traumatizing. His assailant is relentless in the attack, but he fights back, and somehow manages to escape with his life and flee out the door to freedom.
Okay, what really happens is he’s trying to find something to eat so he doesn’t have to sit with all the Hilltop people (Hilltoppers? Hilltoppians?) at dinner when his irritating neighbor Abby enters the room, spots him, and asks, “how are you holding up, champ?” and that’s it, goodbye, he’s fucking done. Champ. Really. Now he’s a six year old who lost a T-ball game. Great.
He knows she’s just trying to be nice but after three weeks he can’t do this anymore. He huffs out something that vaguely resembles “fine” and storms out of the room, snacks forgotten, and stomps upstairs.
Daryl is not fine. That’s not the problem, though. The problem is that no one in this whole goddamn place seems to be able to acknowledge how not fine he is. It’s like he’s a chair with a broken leg, and no one can sit in it anymore, but people keep suggesting ways to fix it that aren’t going to work. Don’t worry, the leg is going to attach itself back on in no time! or maybe we can use something else to replace the leg and prop up the chair, like this machine gun, or maybe this isn’t even a chair, maybe it’s a table, or some weird kind of art piece, and it just needs to find itself through all the tragedy and pain.
Maybe the chair doesn’t want to be fixed. Maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe it just needs someone to say, wow, that chair is, like, crazy broken. It’s still definitely a chair, though. We’re not gonna dump it on the side of the road. Or something.
The first week he spent at the Hilltop he discovered this room on the top floor of Barrington House. He’s not sure what the original function of this room is, other than to house a window, because it’s not large enough to be an actual room but not small enough to be a closet. Now it appears to be storage, and some extra provisions and supplies are shoved against the wall. He found the room when he was trying to avoid Alex, the irritatingly nice nurse who kept pestering him by treating his injuries and giving him medication and his entire personality in general. Daryl had heard Alex calling his name from somewhere in the house, yelling that he needed to check up on him, and Daryl just bolted. He needed to check up on him? Asshole.
So he ran down a hallway, and then went down another hallway, and then he went up some stairs, and then he went down another hallway, and he was starting to feel like this was a chase scene in a Scooby Doo episode so then he ducked in a very inconspicuous door that he never noticed before and hid in there for a few hours.
No one found him there, so it became his official hideout spot. Whenever someone was looking for him, or whenever he needed to be alone, that’s where he found himself. It’s his third week at the Hilltop, and so far he’s learned that there is a lot less privacy here than Alexandria since it’s just one big house and a lot of trailers that anyone can just barge into. He was staying with Maggie and Sasha in a room in the house but people were constantly coming to talk to them, Maggie especially. But no one else seems to frequent this room, so that’s where he goes when he needs to get away.
Like now. This whole champ fiasco has really shaken him to his core. He rounds the corner and goes to the end of the hall where the room is and slips inside. He leans forward and presses his forehead against the closed door, the quiet already making him feel better. Then someone clears their throat.
He turns around comically slowly and hopes to god he’s just finally losing the last ounce of his sanity and is only hallucinating.
Then he sees Jesus. “Uh,” Daryl says, because he’s eloquent like that.
Jesus looks far less put together than Daryl has seen during the past three weeks. He’s running around pretty much every hour of the day, so they’ve only interacted a few times since Jesus hauled him all the way from the outskirts of the Sanctuary to the front doors of the Hilltop. But every time he’s run into the other man, he’s seemed completely levelheaded. Calm and neutral, like they weren’t gearing up for a war. Now, he actually looks upset – he’s sitting on the floor, his back against the wall opposite the door. There’s the big window that takes up most of the wall to his right that’s the only source of light in the room, and he’s leaning on his shoulder against it. His stupid giant cartoon eyes look red and wet and it makes the green of his irises stand out even more.
“This is my crying spot,” Jesus says. “Go find your own.” It’s probably the rudest thing Daryl’s ever heard come out of his mouth.
Daryl blinks. “This is my spot,” he states. “I’ve been comin’ here for the past three weeks. Only damn room in this whole place you can be alone.”
“Yeah. I know that. Which is why it’s my spot.” He says it like Daryl has the IQ of a bowl of oatmeal, which – jury’s out.
“Fine,” Daryl snaps, and turns to leave.
He hears Jesus sigh. “No, no,” he says. “You can stay.”
Daryl looks back over at him and chews his lip. He’s pretty sure Jesus wants to be alone, but Daryl also wants to be alone, and this is the only place he feels somewhat okay in the entirety of the Hilltop. “I don’t – you’re – ” upset, Daryl wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to do this. He’s never been that good at the whole comforting thing, especially not when he’s upset himself.
“Just sit,” Jesus says. “I have to leave in a minute anyway.” He sounds tired.
Daryl eyes him for a moment, mulling over his options, before going further into the room. He’s about to sit against the wall across from Jesus when he speaks again.
“Rules, though,” he says, and Daryl pauses. “One: You can only be in this room if you’re sad and pissed off. End of list.”
“You’ve met me, right?”
Jesus huffs a laugh and gestures before him for Daryl to sit. By the time Daryl’s settled Jesus is back to staring out the window. His expression is a little more schooled than it was a minute ago but it’s still not the neutral one he’s been seeing lately, his brow furrowed and his eyes hard as he stares out at the grounds before them.
He doesn’t look like he wants to talk but he also kind of looks like he wants someone to ask him what’s wrong. Daryl weighs the pros and cons in his head as he silently assesses the other man – on the one hand, talking, ew. Daryl isn’t a fan, especially about something dumb like feelings. On the other hand, they’re all in this together, and Jesus is basically running this place from what Daryl’s seen. He deserves to vent if he can put up with that used condom Gregory all day without losing his cool. On the other other hand, they don’t know each other that well. Maybe Jesus doesn’t want to talk to him. Daryl wouldn’t want to talk to himself if he was upset either.
He’s not sure what possesses him to ask. Maybe it’s the fact that every single person has been walking on eggshells around Daryl ever since he arrived here, broken and bleeding but free from the Sanctuary. Maybe it’s because Daryl wants to bitch himself, because if one more person tilts their head and asks “how are you doing?” in that tone he might just fucking lose it. Or maybe it’s because Jesus volunteered to go get Daryl after Dwight and Sherry got him out, and he dragged his sorry ass all the way back to this place with no complaining, and Daryl owes him. Or something.
Whatever it is, he’s saying the words before he can dwell on it further. “Why’re you pissed off?”
Jesus tears his gaze away from the extremely interesting window and focuses on Daryl. “Oh, you know,” he says flippantly, waving his hand around in a vague gesture that seems to encompass himself and Barrington House and all of the Hilltop and possibly the entire planet.
Daryl does know. “Givin’ you free range to bitch, man,” he tells Jesus.
Jesus looks at him for a minute and then exhales through his nose, apparently deciding that Daryl is as good of an outlet as any. Or at least a better one than staring out a window and pretending to be in a really dramatic music video. “Gregory still wants to roll over for Negan,” he mutters, like he’s ashamed of it.
Daryl’s not surprised. “Sounds like him,” he grunts.
“I know. Brand new information.” Jesus’s eye ticks and he goes back to his window. “I just thought that after all that’s happened, after listening to Maggie and Sasha about what happened, after seeing how bad you looked when you got here… maybe he would want to take a stand. For once. Guess not.”
He knows he should be focusing on what Jesus just said, but for some reason, all he really processes is “after seeing how bad you looked when you got here.” He’s weirdly, insanely grateful that he just said Daryl looked like complete shit when they stumbled through the front gates. Everyone has been… nobody lied and said that he looked good, but they all tried to focus on the positives.
At least you’re out of there now, and you can properly heal. It’ll happen in no time, Dr. Carson had said. All the Hilltop people that he encountered gave him well wishes for a speedy recovery, optimistic in a way that only people who have been inside walls for this long can be.
Maggie and Sasha were less sunshiney but tried to reassure him that they were glad he was here with them and that he got out of that place. Out of everyone, they made him feel sort of okay – well, he feels like guilt punches him in the gut every time he looks at Maggie, but he’s… working on it. They’ve talked. That’s what Negan wants, him to feel guilty. He still does, but the best he can do right now is know in the back of his head that he shouldn’t feel guilty, even if he doesn’t believe it. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
“I think he thinks we’re gonna be, like, Switzerland in this,” Jesus continues. “That we can just stay out of it and be on good terms with everyone and then you guys will fight each other until one or both of you are dead. And then we’ll just be cool with whoever wins.”
Daryl suspected as much already. “He tell you this or are you guessing?”
“He told me he doesn’t want to fight,” Jesus says.
“Can tell you one thing, if y’all stay out of the fight we sure as shit won’t be cool with you if we win.”
Jesus holds his gaze for a moment and then looks away, snorting. “Yeah. I know. Gregory probably thinks he’ll be able to talk his way out of it or something. He likes to think he’s really slick.” He rolls his eyes. “Dumbass.”
Daryl can’t even imagine sitting this one out. Their group was never like that. They were always on the front lines, charging forward, doing whatever they had to do to survive and protect what was theirs. But he has to remind himself that the Hilltop is different – they haven’t had a Governor, or a Terminus, or a Grady Memorial. Negan is the first and only, as far as he’s aware. They aren’t used to confrontation, not like this.
They’re both silent for a minute, Daryl doesn’t have anything to say in response and Jesus goes back to looking out the window. He stares down at the grounds for a while – Daryl looks, too, and he sees a few people milling around, the blacksmith in the forge, three people feeding some of their pigs. It’s been a quiet day, no one has gone out on any runs and the gates have remained shut all day.
After a minute Jesus takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose. “It’s going to be hard,” he says. “That’s why he doesn’t want to fight. He’s going to have to try, and trying is really hard. Especially when there’s no guarantee that you’ll win. He might die. I don’t know how to convince him that’s the reason we have to do it.”
Daryl thunks his head back against the wall. “Shit, man,” he says. “Next time just tell people you’re pissed ‘cause we ran out of toilet hooch again.”
Daryl hopes he knows it’s a joke, and Jesus laughs, knowing it was one. Some guy here really did make prison wine, but apparently he didn’t make it in his toilet, at least. “Actually wasn’t too heartbroken about that,” Jesus says, grinning. “Anyways, why’re you sad and pissed off? Or is it just because those are your two main personality traits.”
“Dick,” Daryl says. Suddenly champgate seems less important in light of Jesus’s problems. “’s nothing.”
“Is it because people keep giving you the comforting shoulder pat?”
“Yes,” he blurts. “Not so much the shoulder pat, though. It’s more of a…” He tilts his head and squints his eyes in what he hopes resembles The Look people have been giving him lately.
Jesus grins. “Oh, yeah, the sympathetic head tilt. I’ve gotten that one before.”
Daryl looks over at him. “When did you…?”
“A while back I was out on a run with a few people, shit went south, I was the only one to make it back,” he says. “Had to put up with that kind of stuff from everyone for a while. After that is when I started going out alone instead.”
“Oh.” Daryl didn’t really think about why Jesus went out alone. Even he went out with another person, most of the time, and Daryl has been cast as Loner Weirdo #3 in the high school play version of the apocalypse. There were times everyone went out solo, of course, but he didn’t realize Jesus went stag on all of his runs. Maybe it was easier for him, that way. “I’ve been there.”
“Yeah,” Jesus says, voice soft. “Anyways. They’ll stop eventually. They mean well, it’s just that people who haven’t been outside the walls much don’t really know how to interact with people who have when shit gets bad.”
“I know. Y’all are just too fuckin’ nice here,” he says, thinking about when they first arrived in Alexandria, about Aiden trying to punch Glenn in the face. “Bunch of assholes back in Alexandria.”
Jesus laughs. “You want me to be mean to you?”
Daryl rolls his eyes and snorts. “If you’re up for it.”
“If it makes you feel less comforted then sure.”
“Alright,” Daryl nods, assenting. “Hit me.”
“Look sharp, you dumbass.”
That startles a laugh out of Daryl and he stares incredulously over at the other man. “What?”
“I said look sharp, you dumbass,” he repeats. “Toughen up!”
Daryl raises his eyebrows over at him. “Wow.”
“Get it the fuck together! Even Judith is handling this better than you! Is it working?”
Daryl coughs a laugh, covering his grin with the back of his hand, and he realizes he can’t remember the last time he’s done this. “Uh.”
“Who uses a crossbow anyways? Use a regular bow and arrow like a normal person!”
Daryl drops his hand and just looks, unimpressed but grinning, over at Jesus. He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting up in response, both challenging Daryl and letting him know they’re on the same side.
It takes Daryl a minute to realize he’s seeing Paul right now, not Jesus, probably for the first time.
Now that he’s looking, though, he realizes he’s seen flickers before – the eyeroll and the sarcastic lilt of his voice as he said “do you even have any ammo?” while lying on his back in the grass, two guns pointed at him. The quirk of his lips and the lift of his eyebrow as he sat on the top step in the house in Alexandria, like he escaped just to prove that he could. Chuckling to himself as he leaned back in his seat, informing them that their world was about to get a whole lot bigger, somehow both smug and excited that he got to be the one to show them, like he couldn’t wait to go on this journey with them.
“How was that?” Paul asks, grinning. “You feel sufficiently insulted?”
“Oh, yeah,” Daryl affirms. “Completely aware of how dumb I am now, thanks.”
“Good, wouldn’t want you get the wrong idea about this interaction, because I’m definitely not here for any commiseration or anything.”
“Right.” Paul is still grinning over at him. Daryl glances away and stares at the floor, his face suddenly flushed.
He can see Paul in his peripheral vision staring at him for a few more beats before he looks back out the window. Both of them are silent, so Daryl uses the time to think about what a weirdo he is – getting pissed off and angry when people nicely ask about how he’s holding up, and laughing and feeling better when this guy he barely knows offers to be mean to him. God, a shrink would have a field day with him.
Maybe he just wanted someone to act normal, though. Like he wasn’t fragile like an egg or soft like a newborn baby’s head. Even if he was. He hates being the center of attention, hates when people make it all about him. There are plenty of other, actual important things for it to be all about instead of some bullshit like his wellbeing.
“Hey,” Paul says, startling him out of his thoughts. He glances up and Paul has gone back to looking at him. “It’s okay to feel like shit. If that’s how you’re feeling. You’re allowed to feel shitty for a while. Just… that’s valid.”
Daryl just stares at him in response, so Paul shrugs and continues. “I dunno. Having a positive outlook and healing are good. But you need to feel the other stuff, too, sometimes. I mean, I was having a fucking pity party for myself in here, so. Whatever gets you through it.”
His throat suddenly feels tight and he doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything, just nods. It’s not like he wants to feel this way, but he thinks this is just how he’s going to feel for a while, and that’s what’s been upsetting him. People have been focusing so much on how he’ll heal in the future that they’ve been ignoring his current, fucked-up, I’m-a-piece-of-shit state, and in order to move on from one to the other he still has to go through what he’s going through now.
He’ll get there. He will. But for now, it’s just… nice to have his feelings validated.
“Anyways,” Paul says when Daryl doesn’t say anything for a while. He stands, gracefully, using only his leg muscles to swing himself upright, not pushing off the floor with his hands. Daryl would give an arm and a leg to see him fall flat on his face, just once. “Time to get back out there,” he tells Daryl, looking down over at him.
“Right,” Daryl nods, looking up. “Uhm. Good luck.”
Paul smiles with little humor and steps over to the door. He puts his hand on the doorknob, but before he turns it, he turns and looks at Daryl again.
“And, look, I… I don’t know if this even means anything. But I’m going to be here. I’m going to fight. I promise,” he says. “No more being neutral.”
“It does mean something,” Daryl says, swallowing. Daryl is nothing if not a fighter, and he thinks Paul is, too. “You ain’t been neutral. Since the start, you’ve been out there with us.”
“Not all of us have been, though.”
“That’s not on you.”
“Yeah,” Paul grins, wryly. “It is. I was just doing my own thing. Thinking about me. But these are my people, and I need to rally the troops. We’re not gonna sit by and let you and the Kingdom handle this on your own because we’re too scared. That’s not who we are, and that’s not who we’re going to be.”
Daryl looks him up and down after he’s finished talking. He’s not in his usual ridiculous trench coat garb, and he’s wearing that white button down again. He’s got his giant boots on, too, and he looks… ready. For the war, for trying to reason with Gregory, for fighting, or maybe just for opening the door and going back outside, Daryl doesn’t know. Maybe all of the above.
“Okay,” Daryl says.
Paul nods to himself, like that confirms it. “Okay. Enjoy the crying room,” he says, grinning, and opens up the door and slips out.
He’s alright, that one, Daryl thinks.
He’s not that upset anymore, but he still stays in the room for a while, just because. He waits, turning over their conversation in his head as he sits. He looks out the window and he sees Paul, talking to a few people near the medical trailer. He’s Jesus, now, though, Daryl can tell from this far away. He can see it in his expression, the set of his shoulders, the way he’s carrying himself.
Whatever gets you through it.
Daryl stays in the room until he feels ready to open the door and go back outside, and then he does.