Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: For imorca because she tagged me on tumblr and literally just said: "Milton x Jesus, tho" and here we are because I am an entire trash can, apparently. Set in an AU where Milton escaped Woodsbury with Andrea in season three instead of staying, but lost Andrea before they could get to the prison and ended up on his own in the wild. Everything basically follows canon, but Milton is on his own until around the time when Team Family discovers Alexandria where in fix his comes across Jesus.

Disclaimer:Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore,

Scintilla

Chapter Three

He was warming his hands over the embers of his morning fire when a sudden rustling in the bushes to his right made him flinch. Sending him diving for his machete as his free hand fumbled with his gun. Leveling them up the same moment a man stepped slowly out of the brush. Hands raised and empty in the universal sign of peace – or maybe just surrender – that everyone, no matter where they were from, understood clear as day.

For a long moment, he just stared. They both did. Sizing each other up in a way that screamed predator to prey but with neither of them willing to admit which was which. Refusing to cave to the curdling fear rising quick under his skin. Sinking conflicted feelings right through the very heart of him. Vicious, like a knife-stab in the gut, the same time as he forced himself to swallow hard and rise to his full height.

Whatever happened, happened.

But he was past the point where he was going to just let it.

He was too dead to be afraid anymore.

He made sure that the man could see it as he stared right back.

Every inch of him ready to fight his way out of this if he made him.

But blue eyes met their equal when the stranger absorbed the sting and shifted in place, looking him up and down – curious.

It was out of character, but his lip curled up in a silent snarl all the same. A warning muted by the rush of the creek at his back and the dark tangle in the center of his chest where by all known measure, his heart was still supposed to be. But he didn't feel it. He didn't even feel the anger or aggression the act should have come along with. He existed somewhere above it. Floating. Unaffected.

He felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

But it was around that point that he realized the man's expression had changed. It was still cautious and half-closed. Only now there was more of an upward lilt to the stranger's lips than he figured had any right being there. Like he'd done his weighing and measuring and was now simply enjoying the view.

Hell, it was almost a smile.

He didn't return it.

Because honestly, all he could really process after taking in the man's long brown hair and flaring trench was how clean he looked. How he couldn't even smell the sour-stale of unwashed clothes or sweat. He was pristine. A stark comparison to the disgusting layer of dirt and gore that was still smeared across his skin from his run in with a large herd a few days earlier.

He'd tried to go around it, but the herd was too wide. Spaced just far enough apart that on foot, even going around it, one wrong move and it would be all over. So he'd taken a chance. He'd taken down a walker quietly and ripped it open. Disguising himself with their scent so he could pass through undetected. Just like Andrea had taught him when they'd been out together in the woods – before all this. She'd told him everything. About the quarry and Atlanta, how two of their group had taken a chance and ended up getting them out of the city just before the walkers had-

"Hello," the man opened, because he supposed that in the end, someone had to.

It should have been awkward. Maybe it was. But from his perspective the man was a single unending line with a big fat question mark attached. And out here, questions – strangers – people – were dangerous. The only thing that niggled doubt was that the expression and the tone didn't quite match someone that wished him harm. Rather, he looked almost genuinely friendly.

Which only made his lack of reply all the more pointed.

"Sorry if I startled you," the man continued, gesturing up at the gun that was still pointed at him with a gentle crook of his fingers. "There's no need, I'm a friend."

A friend?

He'd had friends once.

They were all gone now.

Andrea.

Phillip.

All of them.

Every single one was-

"Do you even have bullets in that thing?"

He didn't.

"If you make it necessary for me to pull the trigger you will surely find out," he said instead, coolly hard as he broke his silence with barely a beat in the moment's natural rhythm. Patently ignoring the stress-line fractures that carried the words. Voice hoarse and unsteady from months of disuse.

"Fair enough," the man remarked easily, head cocking almost playfully off the side. Almost like he'd said something amusing as the forest breathed – expanding and contracting around them.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly, discomfort trickling in as he kept the gun up – unwavering. He was a decent shot now. He could have been better, but his bullets had been limited from the start, even more so after that run in a few months back. He'd found a few boxes here and there, mostly empty. He'd told himself he'd always keep one as a spare. Not for the walkers. But just in case, only-

The man's lips quirked upwards again. Confusing him. He'd never been good with social cues, but even he could see this wasn't a situation that fit that kind of smile.

"A little company maybe?"

He stiffened, ready to say something in reply before the man's hands went back up to where they'd started. Placating.

"A minute to warm up? If you have some clean water, then I have food to share," the man offered, gesturing at the pack on his back as his heart beat finally started to slow. Hackles sinking slowly down before he finally nodded. Lowering his gun in increments as the man shrugged out of his pack and tossed it over for him to inspect. There were no weapons. Just a couple days' worth of supplies, some rope a can opener and an empty water bottle.

This was familiar.

Negotiated.

Fair.

A social contract with a clear beginning and end point.

He nodded again, returning the man's bag with a gentle toss. Indicating that he could approach as he slowly holstered his Glock. He kept his machete beside him as a precaution even as the man smiled again, rubbing his hands together as their breath rose in twinned plumes of misty-white in the cool morning air.

Still, given the situation, he had to admit it'd still surprised him when the man settled himself opposite around the fire and opened his pack. Willingly breaking bread with a stranger with no real weapon in sight.

Which is, of course, exactly what happened.


"What's your name?" the man asked as he handed him a tin of fruit with a pull-tab. The kind Phillip's wife used to pack in Penny's lunches before all this. Fruit cocktail. All natural sugars. He peeled the top off after a quick scan for any tampering, using his fingers to scoop out the sweet fruit. Doing his best to ignore his audience as his empty stomach burbled with eager-discontent at the hold up when he forced himself to go slow.

"My friends used to call me Jesus," the man offered, hands out like a parody of the crucifixion. Cheeks bulging with a mouthful of bread – fresh and smelling like every instance of home he'd never really understood the meaning of until that very moment.

"I'm not your friend," he pointed out, knuckling his dirty glasses back up his nose, the ghost of old neuroses rearing their head. Blunt truth melded together with a general misunderstanding of most social cues and an inherent awkwardness he'd never quite grown out of.

"No," the man agreed, scratching at his hat for a moment before he offering him a piece. Stretching over the glowing coals so he could take it with a minimum of effort. "But I'm open to giving it a shot. Are you?"

He raised a brow, accepting the chunk carefully. Finding it a strange choice of words given the situation as his free hand ghosted over his holstered sidearm like foreshadowing.

"Only if provoked," he deadpanned, adjusting his glasses.

It came out sarcastic.

And it took a moment to realize he'd meant it that way.

Fascinating.

He hadn't felt anything close to that in-

But his moment of introspection was shattered when the man laughed.

Full-bodied and honest.

"You have a pretty dry sense of humor for someone who's covered in blood," the man hummed, pleasant and easy in a way that immediately sent up warning flags in the back of his mind. "Though, I'm starting to get the impression that might just be you. It is you, isn't it?"

He frowned, feeling the dried blood and gore crack and shift across his face as the expression settled in to stay. Uncertain of how they'd gotten from where they started to where they were now as the man's humor threatened to be contagious. Honestly he wouldn't have known. Humor was so specific, branded and fashioned in a way that often curtailed it to the country of origin, culture, race, gender, creed, sexual orientation, etcetera that most of the intricacies of popularized humor had largely escaped him.

"That's great, just when you think everything good is dead, laughter – real laughter - sneaks up and surprises you in the weirdest of places, huh?" the man chuckled, more to himself than anything. Tucking a bit of hair behind his ear as he offered him another chunk of bread.

He took it mutely. Cycling through an unsteady reel of moments as he remembered being out in the field with Merle, smiling as the man had smirked and sung his duct-taped jacket praises the whole way back to town. Those quiet moments with Andrea, playing cards and getting beaten at crib every time, hyper-aware of her indulgent smile that only grew warmer by the day. Even that moment with Hershel – the man from the prison with his leg amputated just below the knee. Remembering that wide smile and slow building humor he hadn't been able to help but return despite the tension between their groups.

It seemed like years ago.

Decades.

"How about until we get there you can call me Paul. Paul Rovia," the man – Paul, apparently – offered, smiling again. Small and humble just like the origins of the name itself as a first remembered bit of Bible Belt trivia rattled through his mind's eye. "And yours? What can I call you?"

His hesitation was animal. Cautious and real before he took a chance and allowed himself the indulgence. Wondering half-heartedly if there was really power in saying one's name out loud. And that if there was, if he could tap into it somehow and be strong enough to end this before either Paul or the world in general disappointed him.

"Milton. My name is Milton Mamet."


A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There is more to come, stay tuned.