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Daryl had years of experience with pushing through exhaustion and hunger, of pushing away his body’s pain and sluggishness to get shit done.
To get food.
To get shelter.
To get supplies.
In this world, he couldn’t afford to not have that ability, but the trek from Negan’s compound to the Hilltop was stretching him thin.
For the most part, he moved like a hunter like he always had. In lifting his feet and stepping down, he made almost no noise. It was when his adrenaline began waning that vision blurred and he shuffled along, leaves and twigs crunching underneath him, alerting anything in hearing range of their presence.
He flinched at the hand gingerly touching his arm, gently leading him towards a particularly thick tree. Jesus isn’t an enemy, he forced himself to remember -- not anymore. This is the man who helped you escape. Who saved you.
He could hardly focus as he watched Jesus rifle through his clothes, from the pockets of his trenchcoat to the hoodie underneath to the ones on his pants -- even, he thought he saw, in his boots. Jesus whipped his head around, eyes alert and scanning for movement. When he felt satisfied, he handed Daryl a handful of breakfast bars.
“Take it slow at first, okay?” he said softly, easing himself down onto the forest floor across Daryl. “I’ve got some water, too.”
“Gotta get away first,” Daryl tried arguing, but Jesus shook his head.
“We’re almost there already, but you’re in no shape at all to keep going. I can take anything that comes close out. Let me take care of you, okay?”
Daryl took the food slowly, unable to shake his inherent distrust, but the look on Jesus’s face was so tender, so concerned, that he nodded, ripping open the first of several bars with trembling fingers.
“We’ll be home soon,” he thought he heard Jesus murmur. “We’re going home.”