𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 | Daryl Dixon

71 | KNOTS UNTIE

Having never really been one for religion, waking up to the sight of Jesus standing in her bedroom was not an experience she'd ever anticipated.

His careful whisper of her name drifted through her dream until she woke up, her eyes carefully flitting open to see the stranger from the day before standing at the foot of her bed, his leather-gloved hands held up in surrender.

He offered a sheepish smile, taking a slight step forward when he saw she was awake. "Tori, don't freak out-"

Tori rolled out of bed so fast, her head went fuzzy. The suddenness woke Daryl too, and he was on his feet within a second. Grabbing the knife from her nightstand, she pointed the blade toward the surrendering man whilst Daryl grabbed his gun.

The two of them stood ready to fight, completely alert as if they hadn't just woken up. Daryl wore nothing but baggy sweatpants whilst Tori wore his shirt, the baggy grey materiel only just covering her otherwise naked body. Neither cared how exposed they were; their combined focus rested only on the intruder.

Jesus bit the inside of his cheek, keeping calm as he faced the ends of both weapons. He assessed the two; he thought he might've had a better chance talking to them when they first awoke, learning very quickly he was wrong. He noticed the unblinking eyes of Tori, the steady hands of Daryl. Priding himself in knowing how to read people, Jesus could tell they were fighters, protective of their surroundings.

If it weren't for the gun and the knife being pointed at his head, he may have smiled. He had been right – these people were good.

With his hands still up, he looked to the brunette woman, nodding his head slowly. "We should talk."

Daryl scoffed, the gun in his hand clicking as he adjusted his grip. His finger hovered above the trigger, brushing against it as he straightened his aim.

"How'd you get in here?" Tori asked Jesus, taking a step toward him.

Instinctively, he took a step back. "The front door. Look, I'm sorry for barging in. I need to talk to you, and your people."

"And you had to break into the house to do that?" Daryl hissed, his tone deep and raspy. "Don't seem like talkin' is all you wanna do."

"I'm sorry," Jesus repeated gently, looking from Daryl to Tori again, hoping to appeal to her. "C'mon, if I was here to hurt you, why would I wake you up? Please. I just want to talk."

Her eyes scanned him – his face, his body language. He didn't carry a weapon, nor did his eyes hold anything but sincerity. His hands were still up, empty palms held out toward her, surrendered. Though he seemed calm and collected, his breaths were shallow, made nervous by the knife and the gun aimed toward him.

Slowly, Tori lowered the blade in her hand, keeping the handle clutched within her palm. She turned to Daryl, whose fist with still clenched around his gun as he looked to her unsurely. She nodded lightly, gesturing for him to back off. Though it took him a few seconds, he silently copied her, lowering his weapon.

"Get the hell outta' here," he snapped, and Jesus quickly nodded, leaving the room to wait on the staircase. With a heavy sigh, his eyes awake with anger, Daryl turned to Tori. "You actually trust that guy?"

"Not necessarily," she shrugged as she grabbed her jeans from the dresser, jumping as she tugged them up her legs. "But if he did come in here to kill us, he missed out on one hell of an advantage finding us asleep and half naked."

Daryl looked down at himself as if he'd only just remembered being shirtless. He rolled his eyes, his lips pressed into a tight line as he grabbed a shirt from the scrunched-up pile on the chair in the corner, pulling it over his head.