It was their routine and he didn't question it. Times were tougher as of late, the war had begun and they'd lost comrades to Negan and his men, too many. The first time it had happened was when they'd dragged their bloody, wounded group back to Alexandria, after the.. incident, at Negan's base. Daryl had claimed the spare room in the house Jesus had taken up residency in when they'd gotten back, he wanted to be alone from the group for a while, he couldn't face the pain, well that was how Jesus saw it. His house was the least occupied with it being just him and a suspected mouse that he'd had heard under the floorboard, so as Jesus dragged his sorry self back to his guest home, the weight of the world pushing the man into a literal slouch, his blood stained hair fell in his face in the silent darkness, he didn't question when Daryl followed him home, equally stunned and sombre.
He didn't question it when he finally moved from his seat on the floor of the shower, to find Daryl had dragged the pillow and sheet from the spare room into Jesus' and taken up camp on the floor, in the corner. He knew neither of them would sleep, just lie there in the hauntingly calm night air, driving themselves mad with the day's recollection, playing it over and over again in their heads. He didn't question his own actions as he swung his legs gently onto the floor, walking over to Daryl's shaking body in the still room and pulling the man to him, holding him in his arms as he fell apart; fingers digging into the thin fabric of Paul's shirt. He sat like that for what felt like hours as Daryl's body wracked uncontrollably, he lowered him to the floor after some time; maybe he'd get some sleep now, only staying to curl up on the cold wood at the briefest whisper of Stay.
He'd woken up, face half-stuck to the boards to find Daryl had wormed out of his grasp at some point in the night and decided to figure out which room he was going to stay in, and that was that.
Nobody was the same after that night, an air of darkness hung over the group as they tried in vain to recover some semblance of normality within the walls of Alexandria, the physical injuries and wounds were healing - just about, but the emotional implications of the night were ripped-open raw every day, and it would be a long time before they could heal from that.
The next time it happened Jesus had been stirred from his uneasy sleep to, Daryl hadn't slept in his room since the first night, and they'd never spoken about why he upped and left him on the floor. Whilst the crying outbursts had subsided, Jesus had found the night terrors to be much worse, the first time he'd sat bolt upright in a cold sweat as he heard the panicked crying, following the noise to the next room down, to Daryl wrapped up in his bed sheets, sweating profusely and nearly wailing in his sleep. It had sent a stab to his heart hearing the noises, watching the stoic hunter cry like a frightened child. He sat with him, stroking his hair away from his face until he'd finally relaxed. Daryl was thrashing this time, arms wrapped up in the thin cotton sheets, his brow furrowed and eyes clenched shut as he fought whatever terrors his mind had conducted that night. Jesus had repeated his motion, sat on the bed next to the older man soothing his unconscious state with cold fingertips, as he began to breathe at a regular rate and stopped cocooning himself in his bedding, Jesus got up to leave but he was stopped by a hand on his wrist, he'd looked down in surprise to see Daryl peering up at him through puffy eyes, just one word again, 'Stay,'
In the night Daryl became vulnerable, in the heavy silence of the early hours he sought comfort that Jesus gave willing gave, it left the man disheartened from the stark difference to the morning when he'd wake up and the hunter would be gone, either gone on a early supply run, or to cover somebody's watch shift, whatever reason he'd fed to Rick before Jesus had woken up. He never stayed.
It pained Paul to think of it, whatever this was. He was sleep deprived with a hollow feeling since that night. He noticed the looks Daryl would give him whenever he made an attempt to speak, almost like he was blaming him somehow for what happened. If you hadn't shown up then they'd still be here. It stung at his eyes as he stroked the older man's hair softly. It became routine, second nature to crawl into Daryl's bed in the dead of night, to curl up behind him and caress the tears away. He wished the feelings hadn't became a thing, that made the whole situation harder in his head, he'd barely spoken to Daryl since before all of this, not that they'd had particularly thrilling conversations beforehand, but now he just got spiteful looks and comments that ebbed away at him. He lay there unable to sleep as his fingers traced across Daryl's bicep, he'd grown to feel for the man, spending hours memorizing the lines and creases on his face as he'd slept, admiring the beauty on the surface as his unconscious form relaxed into his touch. Revelations stung his eyes in the dead of night, he wondered if the feeling went both ways.
More tragedy and pain struck the group with relentless brutality, picking them all apart as Negan tore into their already shattered lives, they were putting up a damn good fight, Rick was making sure of that, and everyone trusted this man's word that they'd make it through all of this, back to pseudo-normality again. They'd make it, Paul knew, just not all of them. It was a pipe dream for every comrade of the war to come out on top unscathed, but that didn't make it any easier when one more light was stamped out.
Daryl's heart was breaking as he clung to Jesus, it wasn't even night this time when they'd fallen through the gates of Alexandria, covered in blood with ashen expressions. Jesus hadn't been there, but heard their arrival, heard the screams of anguish. Knew it was bad when Daryl had made a bee-line for him, collapsing them to the ground as he broke apart. So he slumped on the floor, tears rolling down his face as he tried to comfort the hunter, "I'm so sorry," he'd whispered like a mantra. Paul had handled depression in his former life, but nothing prepared him for the pain that the new world caused, the sadness and desperation of the last of humanity.
Paul didn't question it as they'd sat in the dim living room that night, lit up with a few church candles, as they stared at plates of food they suddenly weren't hungry for, he didn't question Daryl's motives as he'd pressed his mouth against his, the small pressure that blossomed under hesitant hands and hushed affirmations. Paul felt the first bit of happiness in his heart for longer than he cared to think about as Daryl's fingers held the back of his neck gently, tongues dancing lazily as they explored. He didn't question anything as he straddled the older man's waist in the darkness, as moonlight spilled into the room, he lost himself in the sensations of their naked skin together, the soft moans and choked out cries, the sound of his name on Daryl's lips as he grasped desperately at the younger man's hips. He thought of it to be bittersweet bliss as they curled up together in the hazy room, limbs intertwined as Daryl's head lay on his chest, fingers intertwined in his damp hair. As Paul's eyes drifted shut, he didn't question if he'd be there when the sun rose.