Chapter Text
"What happened?" Rick bellowed angrily, making Daryl fight not to flinch like a scolded puppy as both men stood over a bloody, bruised Paul...Jesus- whatever stupid name this asshole was calling himself.
"He jumped me!" Jesus spit out angrily, as he glared over at Daryl.
"Asshole wouldn't cut the engine!"
"Because I was doing what was asked of me!"
"He tried to leave. Truck packed with our guns. Our ammo..." Daryl sputtered to Rick as he watched Jesus struggle to right himself. He used the back of his hand to wipe the blood that was pooling at his own split lip. Prick was fast he'd give him that, he thought begrudgingly.
"Yeah, I know! Weapons I asked him to take back to Hilltop!" Rick spit out angrily as he attempted to help Jesus stand. As soon as the younger man put weight on his ankle, he crumpled back to the ground in agony.
Daryl swallowed hard, the magnitude of his mistake settling in like a lead weight in his gut. His people were prepping to face Negan, the sooner the better to get the jump on him. His mistake might have cost them an able-bodied fighter that Rick was obviously counting on for the coming battle.
Daryl didn't trust Jesus. There was just something about the guy that got under his skin, right from day one. Rick knew this, and they'd already had words over it. Daryl had agreed to try where he was concerned, but instead he'd let his temper get the best of him and lashed out.
He'd fucked up.
Without thinking, he reached down to scoop the other man up in his arms, ignoring the threats and blistering curse words spewed at him as he did.
Jesus was slimmer than him but he was still much too heavy to carry far. Luckily, with the adrenaline still flowing from their scuffle Daryl managed to take him the short distance to their makeshift hospital with Rick hot on his tail.
"M'sorry, Rick," he mumbled after depositing Jesus on the nearest flat surface, leaving him in Denise's capable hands. "You know I don't trust the guy. When I saw him in that loaded truck I just snapped, " he confessed as they made their way to the outside porch.
"I know," Rick sighed, running frustrated fingers through his mess of salt and pepper curls. "I know you wouldn't have done that otherwise. Trust ain't easy to come by now, but the fact is, we need him. You need to fix this."
Daryl hung his head in shame. He knew Rick was right. He'd made the wrong call, and now his mistake might have put everyone at risk.
Denise cleared her throat softly behind them. Neither man had heard her approach.
"Well?" Rick asked worriedly.
"His ankle doesn't appear to be broken," she said, making Daryl gust out a breath in relief. She shot accusatory eyes his way at the sound. "But it's badly sprained. Tara's wrapping it now. Not to mention the multitude of contusions and..."
"But the ankle's the worst of it?" Rick interjected.
"Yes. He was lucky," she answered, still glaring daggers at Daryl.
"Alright. Patch him up as best you can. We'll bring him to our house to rest up."
Denise side-eyed Daryl as she answered Rick. "Do you think that's the best idea after what happened?"
"It was a misunderstanding," Rick began, but Daryl cut him off.
"It was my fault. I'll do what I can to make it right," Daryl insisted, holding the doctors wary gaze as he spoke.
"Ok," she replied hesitantly, nodding her head once. "He shouldn't bear weight on his ankle for at least a week. His leg should be kept elevated above his heart when he's resting. He should be given anti-inflammatory and pain medication as directed the first forty-eight hours, then as needed. Next week he can start on crutches but only for short bursts. If he pushes it, he'll only reinjure the sprain and he'll be back to square one or worse."
"Keep him still for a week, prop up his leg, give him drugs, got it." Daryl repeated abbreviated instructions back to her. She nodded again, but still looked anxious. He liked the doc, and she'd seemed to like him too, but looking at her expression now he figured that burgeoning friendship was probably shot to hell.
"I'll make sure to check on his progress," Denise added.
Rick thanked her. "I'll go talk to Jesus now, " he said. " Explain the situation. Hopefully smooth things over a bit. Daryl, you go ready the first floor guest room."
Daryl nodded and headed out, wondering how things got so screwed up so fast and most importantly, how the hell he was gonna stomach playing nice with this asshole for an entire week.
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Daryl was in the kitchen finishing lunch when Rick brought Jesus in. He could see them maneuvering up the porch from the kitchen window. The fucker was in a wheelchair for Christ's sake, making him look extra pitiful. Rick had to wheel him backwards to bump him up the few front steps to get inside.
He dropped his spoon into his half-eaten chili and listened to the sounds of his family as they greeted Jesus, welcoming him into their home. He knew he should go out there, say something, but he just couldn't face everyone yet. Instead, he busied himself scooping up a fresh bowl of chili for his new patient. He knew he had to apologize. Probably go better if he had food to go with it.
He found a cookie tray next to the oven and began awkwardly loading it up with the lunch when Rick walked in. "He's here."
"I saw. Getting him food now."
"Good. Hope there's an apology planned to go with all that?" Rick reminded him, pointing to the laden tray.
"There is," Daryl assured him. Then after a beat he added, "How's he doing?"
"Surprisingly well, considering," Rick said with a small smirk. "Much better than you'd be if the situation were reversed, that's for sure. Go on now. I cleared the room so you boys can chat."
Daryl glared at Rick as he shouldered past him with the wobbly tray.
Rick must have cleared not just Jesus's room, but the whole damn house because the place was suddenly deserted. Daryl didn't know whether to be grateful or not.
Forgoing a knock, he pushed the cracked door wide open with his shoe, so as not to jostle the contents of the tray anymore than he already was. He would have made a shitty waiter. "Hey," he grumbled as he entered the room.
Jesus's face was passive as he watched his attacker fumble to find a spot on the nightstand for the tray.
"Brought you lunch," Daryl said, pulling up a nearby folding chair next to the bed.
Jesus still didn't answer. Daryl sighed. It definitely could be worse. He could be sitting here with bleeding ears right now from a barrage of 'fuck you asshole's' raining down from the guy, but he wasn't. Daryl wasn't sure if the silence was better or not so he decided to just push on.
"Doc says you should be up and about in a week."
"On crutches if I'm lucky," Jesus interjected accusingly, finally breaking his silence. He hissed in pain and reached up to gingerly touch a swelling bruise at his hairline.
Daryl's tracked his movement, visibly wincing when he noticed the head bruise. "Looks like it hurts?"
"No worse than your face." Jesus retorted, his eyes smugly cataloging Daryl's facial injuries.
Daryl automatically reached up to press two fingers to his split lip and then ghost them over his bruised cheek and up to his black eye. He looked mangled for sure, but he'd had worse. He ignored the younger man's snide remark. He was trying to bury the hatchet, not start another fight. "Look man, I'm sorry," he offered.
"Are you?" Jesus asked, his tone cold as ice.
"Yeah, I am. I fucked up, ok? Didn't mean for things to get so out of hand, " Daryl admitted.
"Cause how I see it, you've been looking to start something since you brought me back here," Jesus said angrily.
"What'd you expect? You tried to steal our shit!" Daryl answered bitterly.
"I was trying to get supplies for my group." Jesus said through gritted teeth.
"By stealing from us!" Daryl said, his voice raising in anger.
"You two would do the same to feed your own group. I would've come back for you after," Jesus insisted.
"Sure you would've," Daryl sneered.
"It was my job. Scout for others and scavenge for supplies. You two pulled weapons on me, an unarmed man. Now despite that rocky start, I gave you a second chance because Rick is a decent man."
Daryl fought to keep his mouth shut. It rankled him to hear Jesus talk about Rick being the only decent one. What the fuck did he know?
And Jesus was still going. "Even after taking an enormous leap of faith, taking you to our settlement, securing your people with food and much needed supplies I'm still sitting here with a busted ankle, all because Rick can't keep his dog on a leash!"
"Sprained, not broken," Daryl grit out, glaring back at him, trying not to take the bait. It was a struggle when the man was so obviously trying to get under his skin.
"Just get out," Jesus muttered, attempting to shift his torso to turn his back on him.
Dammit, this wasn't how things were supposed to be going, Daryl thought frustratedly. He was supposed to be smoothing things out, not riling stuff back up. It was a hell of a lot harder than he thought, given the mouth on this guy.
Daryl saw the pained expression on the younger man's face as he struggled to position himself and fresh guilt lanced through him as he realized he'd apparently injured the man's shoulder as well. He remembered Jesus crying out when he'd dragged him out of the truck. No doubt that's when it had happened. Daryl winced at the vivid memory, and the undeniable evidence of the younger man's pain before him.
All of it, Daryl's fault. He should've checked with someone, anyone before he lost his shit and went ballistic.
"Here," he heard himself say, reaching for the wounded man before he thought things through. "Let me help you so you don't jostle that shoulder too much."
"Fuck off, Dixon!" Jesus snarled, attempting to fling off Daryl's questing hand. A cry of pain escaped him from the sudden movement.
Annoyed by the younger man's carelessness, Daryl moved in to fix the problem. "I know your shoulder's hurt," he said firmly. "Let me help so you don't make it worse." Without waiting for permission, he quickly grabbed the other man by his hips before he could pull away again. Daryl's hands pressed in tight to get a good grip, his fingers splaying wide and catching some skin where Jesus's shirt was rucked up a bit at his waist. The sudden feel of hot, firm, bare skin against his sent a shiver of sensation like a spark of electricity up his arms. Flustered, he moved his hands away the second he'd settled him in place, trying to forget the disturbingly pleasant feel of Jesus's abdominal muscles flexing under his thumbs as he'd shifted him.
Then he made the mistake of looking up at the younger man's face, mere inches from his own.
Jesus was rendered speechless by the unexpected manhandling. Daryl took in his shocked expression and felt the blood rush to his face. He quickly scooted himself back to the nearby folding chair.
"M'sorry. Just know how bad it hurts to move it," he mumbled, completely mortified.
"Whatever," Jesus finally grunted, the surprise still plain on his face. "Not the first time you've put hands on me today, is it? Least this time you didn't draw blood."
Daryl fought not to shift uncomfortably. He knew he deserved that from the man, and more probably.
Jesus's eyes locked with his as Daryl forced himself to keep talking. "I didn't know Rick told you to take the truck, ok? I saw you, ready to move out with an assload of our weapons and I just snapped."
Jesus was still staring at him but he didn't interrupt so Daryl kept on. "You're right. I thought the worst of you and I shouldn't have...considering all you've done to help."
Jesus broke their gaze and sighed. Daryl took it as he was at least listening. "It's my fault you're hurt, so I'm gonna see to it that you heal up right. Don't need you moving much so I'll bunk within ear shot on the couch for the night shift. There'll be others checking on you during the day.
Jesus studied his face for another moment before murmuring a sarcastic, "Yippee." Still, Daryl didn't think he was imagining that the man seemed less pissed when he looked at him.
Satisfied, he stood up to leave. He was just turning to go when he heard Jesus moving around again. Turning back, he saw his full lips pressed into a tight, grim line as he struggled inefficiently to maneuver himself closer to his just-out-of-reach food tray.
Daryl hesitated, but after another moment watching him struggle he marched backand grasped the tray off the nightstand.
He maneuvered the tray awkwardly, trying to avoid touching Jesus again. But his nerves betrayed him and the tray shook in his hands, the bowl of chili and drink glass rattling violently on the tin surface. In his effort to keep the contents of the tray from spilling, Daryl lost his balance and almost fell atop the younger man himself. He shot a hand out to catch himself while his other hand thankfully managed to keep the tray steady. His relief at his success turned out to be short lived.
"Umm," Jesus said after a moment, one eyebrow raised in question. "You want to move your hand now?"
Daryl looked down to find his palm planted firmly in Jesus's lap. He flushed red again as he realized just what body part he was touching. He yanked his hand back like he'd touched a sizzling-hot pan. Avoiding the other man's piercing gaze, he turned to flee.
Daryl was across the room with his hand already on the door knob when Jesus spoke up again. "I'll be done with this tray soon. You'll come back to get it? I'm going to need help getting rid of these clothes too."
Daryl swallowed hard. Take off his clothes? Fucking hell. "W-what?" he stammered, rattled even further by the shockingly arousing thought of stripping Jesus bare.
"Bring me fresh clothes?" the younger man repeated slowly, watching him with a contemplative, somewhat smug look on his face, like he knew something Daryl didn't. "What? You didn't think I was asking you to dress me, did you?"
"No!" Daryl shot back indignantly, his face flaming even hotter. He fled the room before Jesus could say anything else.
He wasn't quite out of earshot when he heard the younger man chuckling at his expense.
Asshole.