It escaped absolutely no one the fact that Jesus was so quick to throw away his life. It was clear in everything he did: the way he threw himself so quickly into impossible suicide missions; the way he fought with his hands and his feet, up close and personal; the way he had a crazed, manic sort of expression in his eyes after particularly serious scraps with the walkers.
They couldn't quite tell if he did have a death wish or if he was just an adrenaline junkie or if it was both, but at the end of the day the result was the same when he came back to the Hilltop or to Alexandria with a limp, blood and dirt smeared across his face, matted inside his beard, usually supporting an arm or a rib or his neck because he managed to come just shy of killing himself on a run.
He tried not to let anyone see him when he came back like this, though. The shame welled inside his gut like tar if he thought about the looks on Maggie's or Rick's faces, when they realized the extent to which he fought to keep from feeling so vacant, so numb.
So he crept inside the gates of whichever community was closer and snuck into places he knew he had privacy in: his own room in Barrington house, Abraham's old house in Alexandria.
(That was the other reason he would never be able to live with himself if Rick and his group found him out. The wound left by Abraham's departure was still too fresh, still had salt thrown in with every single passing day, and Jesus squatting inside his home with no one else's knowledge would only exacerbate their pain.)
This time when he jumped down from Alexandria's fence, he stumbled and landed on his back, wincing as the stars overhead mocked him. He tried to sit up, stand up, get away from that spot, away from any prying eyes and well-meaning bystanders. He tried but to no avail, until slowly a shadow stood above him.
It shouldn't have surprised him to see Daryl Dixon. If anyone managed to still be awake, fully dressed, fully aware of their surroundings at what must have been four in the morning in the dead of summer in the apocalypse, Jesus figured it would have been him.
Daryl held out one hand and Jesus took it slowly, allowing Daryl to heave him into a standing position before letting go and watching Jesus stand there, immobile and impassive.
"Well?" Daryl grunted.
Jesus shook his head, fighting the nausea that surged forth at the sudden movement. "Well, what?" he countered, blinking furiously.
"What're you doin' here?" Daryl demanded. "You know we ain't got a doctor. You do. At the Hilltop."
"This place was closer," Jesus said, not actually lying, though Daryl could see right through him.
"And who're you gonna go to?" he asked. He crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. "Our doc is dead."
At Jesus's silence, Daryl heaved a heavy sigh and looked up and down Jesus's body, the gesture methodical and calculated. Then he sighed, turned around slowly, and began walking once more towards his home. "Let me help you," he grunted.
Jesus, his adrenaline slipping and too tired to argue or fight with him, nodded.