For all Gregory boasted of his prowess and leadership, it was Jesus who called the shots. Jesus who served as puppetmaster, who pulled Gregory's strings whether Gregory knew it or not. He who everyone went to for help, for advice, for an open ear to talk to because in the Hellish world they were each thrust into an unbiased, impartial ear was hard to come by.
It was Jesus who listened to the people, who kept his mouth shut, who let others plan around him, who let himself be seen as a pawn in their games, but he never let anyone forget he wouldn't stand for anything he did not believe in, and if anyone ever asked him "why?", he shrugged and let them guess an answer for themselves.
Why? Because his fuse was rather long for someone barely even thirty years old.
Why? Because someone had to keep a cool, collected head or else they all would die.
Why? Because if he was going to be gifted the title of Jesus, he might as well uphold His values.
It was rare that he ever found himself shaking with fury, his eyes stinging with emotion because it was that reprehensible, that abhorrent, vile, repulsive–
Hours after their escape, after Daryl killed that Savior, after he was allowed a shower and a change of clothes and anything he wanted, Sasha joined Daryl inside a spare room of Barrington House and Jesus found himself raging.
He barely got inside his own room and started untying his boots before he shoved himself back up and began pacing. There was an itch under his skin he couldn't scratch, a burning in his veins he couldn't quite place.
Knowing it wouldn't help him at all, he forced one half-unlaced boot off his foot and hurled it across the room, the sound of it thudding heavily against the heavy paneling of the building. He reached for the starched blankets on the bed beside him, but as soon as he had his knuckles white-fisted over the cotton, a soft voice interrupted him.
"Look at you," Maggie said. "All righteous fury and untied shoelaces."
She entered the room with a slow enough pace to allow Jesus to tell her to get out, but when he didn't she stood in front of him and waited until he stood up straight and faced her.
He wasn't quite expecting her to reach her hands up and cup his face, her thumbs swiping away the furious tears that reddened his cheeks, or to pull him into her arms, but he accepted the gesture and let himself nestle his face in her neck.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I'm furious. I'm livid and I want to get them back, but I want to stay here and be here for Daryl, too–"
"Daryl can choose for himself who he wants to be with and what he wants to do," she said calmly. "We're going to take them down in due time, but we can't do that without everyone's head in the game. Yours, included."
He nodded into her skin, feeling all of a sudden like he was wrapped in his mother's arms again. "We'll avenge them," he whispered, the words muffled by their closeness.
She nodded silently.