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 Five

A scientist, huh?" Gregory drawled, looking exceedingly uninterested when he refused to rise to the bait and tell the man what he wanted to hear. That he was grateful to be accepted. That what they'd managed to build here was nothing short of remarkable. That he must be a 'truly capable leader' to maintain all this. "Well, we can certainly use one of those."

His eyes narrowed, half folding into the dark hollows underneath when the man leaned in and gave him a barely perceptible sniff. Expression disapproving as a rankled shudder surged through him like muted rage.

"But why don't you get yourself cleaned up, hmm? Then we can talk. It's a chore keeping things clean around here. You understand," Gregory posed before turning back to his study, dismissive. "Jesus will show you around."

He'd liked being clean once.

He didn't remember what that felt like.

But he did know it had been important to him at some point.

He used to be fastidious.

He'd had rituals.

Things that needed to be done before he could leave the house for the day.

His life had been neat.

Ordered.

Precise.

His bare feet curled in his boots, socks long since worn through and repurposed elsewhere as he allowed his mind to cycle back. Remembering introductions. New faces. Haunted eyes. Piece-meal stories and near-hostile stares.

Had they been like this in Woodsbury?

So dismissive of other people's pain?

Of what they'd gone through – survived?

By the time he looked up, Gregory was gone. Study door clicking shut like the end of a sentence. Leaving him surrounded by a treasure trove of history he normally would have had a million questions about, but now just felt numb.

Because the hard truth was, he wasn't the same person he'd been before all this.

Being on his own.

Fighting.

Surviving.

It'd done something to him.

Changed him.

He was a finished product now.

Smoothed out.

Mature.

Hardened.

And for the first time in his life, his social backbone cricked tight in the aftermath of Gregory's tone. He hadn't survived for months on his own to put up with a prick like that for a leader. That wasn't who he was anymore. It wasn't who he wanted to be. He was done hiding behind civility, even if it meant relative safety and three solid meals a day. He'd already lived under one tyrant. He'd supported him. Made excuses for him. Tried to reach him when no one else was willing to try. He wasn't going to put himself through that again.

His lips firmed into a singular, slashing line as the creak of an antique chair issued from beyond the thick mahogany doors. Highlighting the divide the man clearly enjoyed perpetuating. Momentarily deaf to everything else as the sound of Phillip's disingenuous laughter rippled through the air around his head like an errant ghost.

It was only Paul's steady presence at his back that kept him from walking away completely.

"Hey," the man muttered, like he knew, gesturing off towards the spiral staircase. Piling on the words before he could change his mind. "Come on, I'll show you to the showers."

It was coaxing, but he allowed it.

Everything being equal, he imagined it would be nice to be clean again.


The water was hot.

That was all he really registered at first.

It was judgement and rebirth and a sense of newness he hadn't expected after he'd peeled off his layers and stood fully naked in the elaborate bathroom for the first time in months. It was warm and steady and there was already steam rising like low-lying fog. Misting across mirror on the opposite wall until everything but his shadow was erased.

It seemed appropriate.

He felt disconnected.

Disconcerted.

Like none of this was real.

Like the world was a step ahead of him and he was struggling to make sense of the blur.

He hissed – flinching full – when the spray hit him. Curling into himself like it was a blow he had to get used to as he gripped the plastic edges and felt his way near-sightedly towards the dials.

But he didn't turn the temperature down.

He cranked it up.

He made it hurt.


The next thing he was aware of was coming back to himself sitting cross-legged on the tiles at the bottom of the shower. Contemplating the thick metal of the intricate claw bathtub on the other side of the room through the gap in the curtain as it stuck plastic-slick across his bare legs. It reminded him of the one at his grandparent's house he'd always been fascinated by but never once used. And neither had his grandparents, come to think of it.

Instead, it had existed solely as a vanguard to old-fashioned frivolity everywhere.

Useless and out of time.

He stayed under the spray until the water ran cold.

Even then he didn't reach up to turn it off until his teeth started clacking.

The best part was that he didn't feel guilty about it at all.


He swiped his palm over the mirror.

Cutting a path through the steam as he rediscovered himself.

Allowing it for the first time in a long time.

He didn't question it when his gaze eventually strayed downwards. Lingering on the towel wrapped half-hazard around his waist and the ribs he couldn't remember being so visible since he'd been thirteen and fledgling-thin.

He'd lost weight.

Got lean.

He'd gained runner's definition where there hadn't been anything but gentle flesh before.

But he was also marked.

Scarred.

The outside reflecting the inside, he supposed.

He nearly upset the towel around his waist when a gentle knock echoed through the carved-oak doors. Lunging instinctively to where he'd left his machete as his bare feet threatened to slip across the slick tiles. He didn't even have time for a shirt before Paul opened the door and stuck his head through the crack. Giving him the fish-eye about the machete before choosing to ignore it completely.

"Oh good, I thought you'd melted down the drain by now," the man said with a grin, holding out a small pile of clothes. "Here, you can change into these. Give me your old ones. You'll get 'em back, I promise. Chelsea is already on my ass to bring them down to the wash. She is a seamstress – the only person that knows what to do with a needle around here actually – and she is already itching to fix them up for you. Is that alright?"

He nodded, fingers scratching idly through the stubble on his cheeks and chin he'd been too drained to tackle in full. The beard was gone thanks to a pair of trimmers that'd been set beside sink. But he hadn't had the energy for the rest. And really, perhaps that was the point. He wasn't the kind of person who shaved every morning no matter what anymore. It was one thing he'd gotten over quick on his own. If he was being honest, he used to have something of a nervous tick when it came to down to it. Fastidious and almost hyper conscious of the itch against his skin.

He'd never liked the feeling of his own rough.

Now- well, he figured he was just used to it.

Paul made no effort to hide his gaze as he watched him collect his clothes. Holding onto the corner of the towel just in case as he crossed to the door and handled him the bundle. Nose twitching at the reek of them as dried blood fluttered down to coat the white tiles like powder rain.

"Great, get dressed and I'll be right back to show you where your room is," the man told him, softly bright before he paused in the middle of pulling away. Long hair swinging forward, air-drying from his own shower and filling the room with a pleasant scent that was on the tip of his tongue when it came to giving it a name. "Oh, and I gotta say, for a guy who was covered in guts the first time I saw him, you sure as hell clean up nice."

Paul was gone before he could reply. Leaving him blinking into the empty room as his towel finally lost its fight with gravity and puddled around his ankles. Trying to figure out what had just happened as the ghosts of old insecurities threatened to regain their tracks in the dried out ruts that criss-crossed through his mind's eye.

He shook the thoughts away in favor of ripping open a new package of briefs and pulling on a washed out pair of jeans. Stomach rumbling as he spared a glance at the door every so often as the clean scent of the man lingered.

He had a feeling there was going to be a lot of similar exits like that in the future.


"I had your dinner sent up," Paul explained, indicating to the tray of food on the small bedside table. Perhaps the only normal looking piece of furniture in the entire room. Which featured, amongst other things, a closet big enough for him to lay down sideways and a giant four-poster bed he wasn't entirely sure what to do with. Guest quarters until he could be assigned something more permanent. "I figured you wouldn't be up for twenty questions. The others mean well, but it's been a while since they've seen anyone new. They don't exactly get out much."

"Not like you?" he returned, eating slowly – carefully.

Anyone that didn't know him any better would think it was neatness, manners. But in truth every measured spoonful of the thick, barley stew was forced. Fighting the part of him that wanted to turn away and shovel it down as fast as possible. That wanted to ignore the sandwich and squirrel it away for later. The part that told him how many meals he could get out of everything on his plate if he rationed it right. All while also trying to navigate the other, very real part that reminded him how hungry he was. How his relationship with food was caustic and one-sided and if he could just eat fast enough then maybe he'd be able to-

Less time for him to lose it.

Less time for Paul and Gregory to change their minds.

Less time for-

Paul laughed, melodious and honest as he cocked a hip against the window. Arms crossed over his chest, looking out at Hilltop with a smile as dusk fell.

"No. Not like me," the man admitted. "I get all antsy when I've been cooped up too long. And better me out there than them, I say. We all have roles. We all have a place here, a job. Part of my job is to look for people, people like you. People worth saving."

The remnants of his wounded pride rose remarkably quickly.

"You didn't save me," he remarked bluntly, around a mouthful of fluffy, hearth-made bread. Feeling the lingering throb from the slow forming bruises that reminded him how hard won this moment truly was.

It wasn't completely true, but the sentiment remained steady.

"No," the man agreed, brown hair curtaining as he looked down at his feet for a long moment before looking back up and catching his gaze. "You chose to save yourself."

He frowned, caught. Still working through it when the man indicated at his tray.

"You know you can have seconds, right?" Paul remarked, reading his mind, or maybe just his face as his fingers froze around the last half of the sandwich he'd been debating saving for later. "There isn't any rationing here."

"We're both growing boys after all, don't you think?" the man remarked with a wink. Scooping up his tray with a grin and cocking his head to the side like he was waiting for something. Some social cue he didn't recognize or maybe just a thank you.

In another life, his cheeks would have heated. But instead of saying anything, he just stared. He stared for so long that he eventually nodded. Giving the man the permission he'd apparently been waiting for as he grinned and told him he'd be right back.

The silence that ushered in his wake seemed surprisingly sub-standard. Leaving him with nothing to do but wait until Paul returned carrying two more trays and a thermos of tea. Setting them down on the small office table beside the bathroom as he gestured for him to join him.

That was the first meal they ate together.

Surprisingly it wasn't the last.


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