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“A day, a livelong day, is not one thing but many. It changes not only in growing light toward zenith and decline again, but in texture and mood, in tone and meaning, warped by a thousand factors of season, of heat or cold, of still or multi winds, torqued by odors, tastes, and the fabrics of ice or grass, of bud or leaf or black-drawn naked limbs. And as a day changes so do its subjects, bugs and birds, cats, dogs, butterflies and people.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
To arrive home sooner than Daryl was a rare occurrence, and one that Jesus did not take lightly. More often than not it was Jesus who entered the trailer past dusk, barely toeing off his boots before planting face first into bed, and Daryl who kissed his forehead, bullied him into at least peeling off his jeans, and covered him in a blanket. Jesus used every chance to repay Daryl with the same treatment, but sometimes went overboard. He learned quickly that Daryl was hot and cold when it came to physical contact; sometimes he sought touch like a leech, and other times he was cagey and distant. When he was tired and sore after a long day he preferred to languidly sprawl on the bed, but still desired closeness; Jesus found the solution one night by playing with Daryl's hair.
It was a strange revelation he didn't expect. Even though Jesus had seen Daryl emotionally raw and open in a million different contexts, the idea that he enjoyed something so quaint and almost childish felt paradoxical. Daryl had a penchant to mess with Jesus's hair, but to see the tension melt from his entire body once Jesus simply scratched his scalp was a whole different level.
“Daryl?” Jesus whispered.
Daryl grunted into the pillow, laying on his stomach in nothing but boxers despite the cold.
“You like that?” Jesus asked, grinning. Underneath the blanket, his hand traveled down Daryl's back and up again, to brush through the locks at the nape of his neck.
“Mmm,” Daryl said.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
“Hmph,” Daryl replied. “Stop talkin'.”
“Aye, aye.” Jesus raked his fingers through Daryl's hairline and back until his arm fell asleep. Thankfully, Daryl began snoring long before that point, but Jesus still felt bad, and settled with burrowing deeper under the covers and resting his hand on Daryl's hip.
It wasn't until the next week when Jesus had a chance to explore his findings further. Daryl was out training some of the younger, more restless members of the community while Jesus met with Maggie to discuss expanding Hilltop's trade. The meeting was shorter than Jesus expected it to be, partially because baby Hershel woke up from his nap and started wailing in the other room.
After helping Maggie calm Hershel down by letting the kid play with his hair—which was a hit with all infants—Jesus was left with so much free time he didn't know what to do with it. All of his offers to help around Hilltop were politely but resolutely shut down; it seemed everyone besides Jesus himself decided he needed time off. He briefly considered heading out to find Daryl and his group of misfit teens, but he didn't even know where they were in the forest, and by the time he found them they'd be finished with the day's exercises, anyway. Also, some of those kids were pretty rough and tough. Jesus wasn't scared of them or anything, but he didn't feel like putting up with their ire and name-calling and taunts that just crossed too many lines, was all.
And so Jesus ended up in his and Daryl's trailer, on their bed, with a stack of books beside him. In one of his letters to Carol, Daryl had mentioned Jesus's bookish tendencies, and upon her next visit to Hilltop she toted a fruit crate filled with new reading material. Jesus repaid her in kind, and thus Hilltop's post-apocalyptic book club with the Kingdom was born.
Daryl arrived home not soon after Jesus lit the bedside kerosene lamp. As usual, he bypassed a shower entirely and began divesting his clothes. Jesus continued reading, but glanced up a few times. Daryl was oddly quiet, shuffling stiffly, and kept his head down as he changed into Jesus’s lazy pants and white, long-sleeved shirt. Jesus felt the choice of outfit was purposeful, and didn’t comment.
“How was the breakfast club today?” Jesus asked once Daryl sat down next to him.
Daryl shrugged, eyes closed. His face was pinched as it was when he was truly stressed. Jesus set his book aside.
“Don’t stop,” Daryl said.
Jesus blinked, and picked up the book again. The Winter of Our Discontent. He’d never had a penchant for Steinbeck, but Daryl seemed to like him a lot.
“It’s Steinbeck,” Jesus said.
“I know,” said Daryl. He slumped lower in their bed and looked up at Jesus.
Jesus smiled. He began reading aloud. Some pages later, Daryl moved again so he laid on his side. Jesus continued reading until he felt the bed shift, and looked down to see Daryl had covered his eyes with a hand and his shoulders were shaking.
“Daryl.” Jesus dropped the book and laid so he was level with the other man. “What happened?” he asked.
Daryl remained silent. Jesus lifted his hand and tucked the hair covering Daryl’s face behind his ear, which made Daryl’s breath hitch. Daryl turned onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. “Y’know Trevor?”
“Yes,” Jesus said. Trevor was an antisocial fifteen year old who had just been brought to Hilltop with his father two months ago. He was invited to Daryl’s outings soon after his arrival.
“He was wearing a bandana round his neck,” Daryl said. “I figured he just thought you were cool or something. Don’t know why.”
“That’s a real mystery,” Jesus said.
“We saw some walkers,” Daryl continued. Jesus tensed. “Nothing major. Trevor had a close call, though. His bandana got snagged and came off. There were bruises on his neck.” Daryl talked now with urgency, as if racing to get the words out. “He was shaken up. I brought everybody back. Talked to Trevor out behind the gardens. Just looked at him, didn’t say nothin’, and he broke down. Him and his old man got into it last night. It wasn’t the first time, neither.”
“Daryl,” Jesus said, moving closer.
“Don’t,” Daryl warned.
Jesus stopped.
Daryl’s face contorted. “Trevor told me his mom made it pretty far. She was tougher than his dad. Except when she pulled Trevor away from some walkers, and they got her instead. His dad couldn’t believe it, that she’d let herself get bit. He blamed it on Trevor, started hitting him, and he got real tough after that. Trevor said it didn’t happen since they got here, but there was that Jack somebody pulled out at dinner last night. His old man drank too much, got sad, got angry about bein’ sad...”
Daryl fell silent, glaring upward.
“Can I touch your hair?” Jesus asked.
Daryl turned, surprised. Then he nodded once.
Jesus stroked his hair, twisting locks around his fingers intermittently. “We’ll talk to Maggie tomorrow,” he murmured.
“I had no idea,” Daryl said.
“Neither did your brother,” Jesus reminded. “It’s not your fault. You remember how Trevor used to be. Maybe it took him this long to be able to say anything. You’ve done well with him. With all of them.”
“They tell me a lot,” Daryl said.
“They trust you.”
Daryl finally rested his head on Jesus’s chest. “I wish I could take it away.”
“We’ll make it okay,” Jesus promised. “Go to bed.”
Daryl fell asleep as Jesus continued petting him. Even after that, Jesus didn’t stop until his hand started cramping. He knew once had Daryl laid down he’d have a sleepless night, but he was able to relax, watching Daryl’s tight expression smooth with deep slumber. Jesus picked up The Winter of Our Discontent and resumed reading. In the middle of the night, Daryl began grunting and twitching fitfully; Jesus simply played with his hair for a few minutes and he calmed down. He reminded Jesus of an upset dog surrendering to the touch of a kind hand for the first time.
Jesus dozed in half-unconsciousness until dawn, when Daryl awoke and immediately dressed. Jesus followed suit, and when they stepped outside the rest of Hilltop was still silent and tranquil, empty lanes between trailers glittering with dew, pale sunlight breaking through the early morning clouds.
In Barrington house, Maggie was still asleep in her room. Daryl charged in before Jesus could stop him and she jolted up in bed, grasping the gun under her pillow.
“What the hell, Daryl?” Maggie demanded, her hair disheveled and clothes creased with sleep.
Jesus glanced at the wall; Hershel remained quiet in his nursery.
Daryl stepped forward. “Trevor’s dad, what’s-his-name—”
“Shawn?” Maggie asked. “What about him—”
“He’s hitting his kid!”
Maggie’s eyes widened as Daryl relayed what Trevor told him. When he finished, she ran a hand through her hair and said “Okay.”
“We gotta get rid of him,” Daryl said.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“He’ll just tell you bullshit!”
“Then I’ll talk to Trevor, too. Separately.” Maggie pursed her lips. “You’ve done a great job, helpin’ all the kids. Really. They’ve changed so much.”
Daryl glowered. “I can’t help them if I can’t stop what’s happening to them.”
Maggie slid out of bed, padded to Daryl, and took his hand. “You listened to him. Trevor can spend the night with a friend while I figure this out, alright? He’ll be okay for now.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for telling me. Now, I want you to stay home today, or go out—but let me handle this alone.”
“What?” Daryl snapped. He stepped back from her hold. “What the hell?”
“You need a break,” Maggie said. “This is stressing you out.”
She looked at Jesus, who stepped forward and touched the small of Daryl’s back. “She’s right,” Jesus murmured. “We’ll talk to Trevor later tonight.”
Daryl glared at them both, then stormed out of the room.
Jesus didn’t go after him, knowing Daryl needed space. “I’m sorry,” he told Maggie.
She sat down on her bed and shook her head. “He won’t go start a fight, will he?”
“No. He knows you’ll take care of it. He’s mostly angry at himself, I think.”
“I feel bad,” Maggie confessed. “I had the idea for him to watch the kids.”
“He likes it,” Jesus said. “He cares about them. So much that it gets to him here and then.”
Maggie’s shoulders fell. “Poor Trevor. I had no idea.”
“That’s what Daryl said, too.” Jesus sat beside her. “Don’t beat yourself up if you don’t want him to do it either.”
Maggie grinned and nudged him. “You’ll watch him, right?”
“Of course.”
She sighed. “It’s nice having you look out for him.” Hershel started gurgling pre-screech, and she turned. “I have my hands full as is.”
He patted her knee. “I got it, no worries.”
She covered his hand with hers for a moment. “Don’t forget he looks after you, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jesus kissed her cheek, then left her with her son.
Hilltop was still inactive, but instead of standing out in silence Daryl had a way of melting into it. Jesus was experienced in locating him, though, and it wasn’t long before he found his partner having a cigarette in the gardens whilst donning a bag and crossbow.
Stray mulch and soil crunched under Jesus’s boots as he neared. “Heading out?” he asked.
“I’ll go nuts if I stay,” Daryl said. He flicked his cigarette.
“Can I come along?”
“Only if you behave.”
“Well, I was taught by the best,” Jesus said.
“Huh.” Daryl stepped forward. “This guy know a lot?”
Jesus tugged at one of Daryl’s belt loops. “He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met.”
Daryl reddened. “Nah.”
“He doesn’t think so, either, but it’s true.” Jesus smirked. “It’s weird. You remind me of him... He’s more of an ass, though.”
“Fuck you,” Daryl said. “Want breakfast before we go?”
“Nah. We’ll forage, like real men,” Jesus said.
Daryl put his cigarette out. “Suit yourself,” he said, and brandished a helping of granola and dried fruit from his bag.
“The hell’s that?” Jesus asked.
“Carol made it. I’d let you have some, but you’re foraging.”
Jesus crossed his arms. “Yeah, I am.”
“Need anything from the trailer?”
“I need only the clothes on my back and my rugged constitution.”
“Cool.” Daryl upended a handful of granola into his mouth. “Let’s go.”
Jesus rolled his eyes before walking ahead. Daryl swallowed, caught up, and linked their hands. Jesus glanced at him in surprise, but Daryl only looked onward as they strolled through Hilltop’s awakening center.
The forest was still shedding vestiges of winter: green buds sprouted along trees, chunks of ice floated down melting creeks, and cautious animals emerged from their burrows and dens. Plants were scarce, hiding from the early spring’s cold if alive at all, and Jesus eventually conceded defeat and sat beside Daryl on a boulder flanking the riverbank.
“Good effort,” Daryl said, and offered the rest of Carol’s trail mix
Daryl then spent a long stretch of silence watching the river water churn, and Jesus watched him, in turn. Daryl had a presence about him when he was surrounded by nature that nobody could ever contest, at least to Jesus’s standards. His entire personage softened to something animalistic and gentle. When he stalked through heavy underbrush without a sound his muscles flowed like those of a buck. When he bent to analyze a trail his blue eyes sharpened with knowledge and his senses rose to full attention, proffering a responsiveness to the environment Jesus might’ve considered inhuman if he hadn’t witnessed it firsthand.
Jesus liked this version of Daryl best, though, during moments of quiet when it seemed all other worries sluiced off him like rain; when he offered every ounce of his awareness to something so simple as a mid-morning river.
The crunch of leaves underneath fumbling steps shattered Jesus’s mood.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and picked up Daryl’s crossbow.
A walker ambled into his line of sight seconds later. Jesus sent a bolt through its nose, and it crumpled to the ground.
“I’m getting the hang of this,” he said, turning back to Daryl.
Daryl shouldered his bag and slid off the boulder to stride toward Jesus. “Yeah, shooting a walker four feet in front of you, that’s real impressive.”
Jesus sent him a sardonic glance, handing back the crossbow. Then he moved to inspect the walker. It was relatively fresh, its pallor skin still dutifully hanging onto the bone. He set his boot on its forehead and yanked the bolt from its skull, sending gore to splatter audibly.
“It’s different, isn’t it?” Daryl asked at Jesus’s shoulder. “No gun could ever compare.”
“Yeah,” Jesus agreed, staring at the bloodied bolt in his hand.
Daryl gently took the bolt from Jesus and wiped it with his omnipresent shop rag. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up from his ministration to pin Jesus with his razor-sharp blue eyes.
Jesus shrugged and kicked the offending corpse at their feet. “I don’t know. Seems like you can’t ever have a nice moment without it getting ruined, these days.”
“They don’t gotta ruin it,” Daryl said. He squinted at the bolt. “Maybe they’re just another part of it now.”
Jesus turned at the faint sound of more walkers in the distance.
“Let’s go,” Daryl said. He walked ahead and looked over his shoulder when Jesus didn’t follow. “C’mon.”
They found an old hunter’s platform high up in a tree, but its ladder was gone for any number of reasons. Daryl circled underneath it as the walkers’ moans neared. Jesus tested the give of an adjacent tree with his foot, then eyed the distance between its upper branches and the platform.
“Paul,” Daryl warned, catching the look in his eyes and the twist of his grin.
“Relax, I got it,” Jesus assured, and shimmied up the tree trunk. He crouched in its leafless canopy, toeing each step before inching forward, then let himself drop across the gap of space between the neighboring tree.
“Paul!” Daryl shouted.
“I told you to relax,” Jesus said, gripping the edge of the platform. He pushed off the adjacent tree and heaved himself upward, then popped over the side. “See?”
“And how am I getting up there?” Daryl asked.
“Just do what I did.”
Daryl rolled his eyes and raised the crossbow. “Take this.”
He chucked it up into the air and Jesus leaned over the platform to catch it, but nearly fell with its weight.
“I swear to God,” Daryl muttered, climbing onto the adjacent tree.
“It’s fine,” Jesus said and set the crossbow aside.
Once Daryl was level with the platform he frowned at the branches reaching across the forest floor, while walkers drifted out of the brush on the horizon and into view.
“Don’t look down,” Jesus advised.
Daryl glared at him, then slowly scooted forward, hands on the tree trunk.
“You have to let go.”
“I know,” Daryl said. He held onto a thick branch above his head as walkers began congregating below. “This was a stupid idea.”
“Probably.” Jesus appraised the branches growing above the platform and circled an arm around the heftiest one, then stretched over the edge of the platform and held out his other hand. “Throw the bag first.”
Daryl complied, and Jesus tossed it at the crossbow.
“Now just fall over and grab the edge,” he said.
Daryl sighed and looked down at the walkers, then up at Jesus, then at the space between them. “Shit.”
“I’m right here,” Jesus said.
“Not very comforting right now, Paul,” Daryl said. His body tensed like a coiled snake, and then he vaulted across the gap and scrabbled for a grip before Jesus fisted his shirt and hefted him over the ledge.
“Easy does it,” Jesus gasped, sagging against the tree.
Daryl laid on his back for a second. “That was dumb.”
“Thank my guns of steel,” Jesus said, smiling. He looked out at the forest, bare trees dotted with green, gray underbrush colored by patches of new growth Walkers began scratching at the tree bark below them, and he considered what Daryl had said. #Maybe they’re just another part of it now.
The man himself was still sprawled out on his back, boots hanging off the edge of the platform.
“This is our new fort,” Jesus decided, laying down next to him. “It’s our clubhouse.”
“Clubhouse, huh?” Daryl asked.
“Yeah,” Jesus said. “Maggie can come. Sometimes.”
“It is a pretty nice spot,” Daryl said.
He turned onto his side. Jesus tucked his hair behind his ear, then rested his hand at the base of Daryl’s neck, fiddling with the locks there. Daryl’s eyes closed, and his body relaxed as he exhaled.
“Everything’s going to be alright,” Jesus said.
Daryl sighed in content. “Right now’s good enough.”
Jesus smiled, pulling Daryl into his chest. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it is.”
An unabated breeze carried their scent, and soon the walkers followed in the opposite direction of Hilltop. Only Daryl and Jesus’s breathing filled the ensuing silence.