i think we've loved a thousand lives, i try to find you every time
2k words, ao3
soulmate au bc there’s no such thing as too many soulmate aus
title is from “same soul” by pvris
Jesus leaned against the convenience store’s back wall, panting as he ripped the hat off his head and pulled his bandana down to uncover his face. Despite the heat, he didn’t grab the bottle of water from his coat pocket; only a few swallows of water filled it, and he knew he couldn’t risk that. He was only somewhat thirsty from the summer sun; he could take a few more hours. He’d be back at the Hilltop before he let himself run out.
That was when he heard the truck – a distant hum before it turned into a deafening roar and, as if to mock Jesus and his thoughts of momentary leisure back at the Hilltop, parking just in front of the very same store he himself rested behind. Two doors opened and slammed shut only seconds apart and Jesus hid in the shadows, his heart rate increasing. He heard at least one pair of boots clicking against the pavement, its gait too casual.
“What’d you wanna stop here for?” one voice asked, a southern drawl thick on his tongue.
Jesus could barely hear the second stranger pad around the concrete, but the first man’s stomping he heard loud and clear. “I’m just sayin’,” he said. “It’s not like there’s anythin’ we need from a place like this. It’s prob’ly been cleared out for years.”
They were quiet for a few seconds, but then Jesus heard him. “Yo – gimme a hand with this,” the second man mumbled, accompanying the words with a snap of his fingers. His accent made it nearly unintelligible, but Jesus’s whole body stilled.
Jesus knew those words.
A faint sense of dread filled his stomach. For a split second, only the sound of blood rushing registered. Yo, gimme a hand with this, the stranger said. Without thinking, he brought a gloved hand up to his hip where underneath his layers that very phrase marked his skin.
His soulmate.
Part of him knew he had to act quickly if he did anything at all – and doing nothing was out of the question. No matter the drop in his gut or the fear clawing at his chest, he was a recruiter, and the Hilltop needed new people. New contributors. New fighters.
He had to act fast. He held his breath as he pulled his bandana up over his mouth and replaced the hat on his head, looking around the vacant lot around him. A few feet away he eyed a bundle of old fireworks and a smirk lit up his eyes, his hand already sliding inside his coat pocket to grab his lighter, still listening to the two around the building.
Jesus’s eyes flickered shut as he fixed his ears on the two men, but all he could make out was the sound of strained groaning and creaking metal. “I don’t think we got it,” the first man said. The joke nearly made Jesus laugh.
“I’ve got an idea,” the second man said. A moment later, the truck roared back to life.
Jesus moved quickly under the noise of the engine, sprinting towards the trash can on the other end of the building. He lifted the can outside of its reinforced bin, listening carefully for the two men. Whatever they were doing, it was making enough of a racket to successfully mask the sounds of Jesus throwing the garbage onto the ground beside him.
He listened to them struggle with the object – a vending machine, apparently – but minutes later, the engine revved and the metal groaned against the pavement. The second man whistled and the engine cut off, leaving another heavy silence between them.
“It’s soda and candy. Why the trouble?” the first man asked.
“It wasn’t any trouble,” grumbled the other.
Jesus’s stomach turned, his eyes turning towards the sky at whoever this man was – his soulmate, his mind jeered. Pushing his luck, he glanced from behind the building at the two men: one tall and lanky with sweaty curls over his head, the other a handful of inches shorter but with longer, greasy hair. They both turned away from where Jesus stood and he grinned at the shorter man’s vest, a pair of dingy, faded angel wings embroidered into its back.
That was when Jesus moved. Without giving himself any more time to think, he ran forward and shoved the taller man against the machine, grabbing his keys when the man’s head collided with the metal. A cocky grin lit Jesus’s features when the two men finally reached for their weapons, safeties clicking off after he placed the keys in his pocket.
Two pistols matched evenly with his head, though more intimidating were the eyes trained on his every move: while the first man looked at Jesus with distrust, the second man looked at him with unabashed hostility. He raised his hands in mock innocence. Now that he could see their faces, Jesus noted the taller man’s clipped beard and relatively neat clothing. The other man, however, looked as if he’d been on the move since the start.
“Back up, now!” the shorter of the two yelled, and Jesus felt his eyes widen – if it hadn’t been a part of his act, it would have been at the sudden realization that this man was his soulmate.
“Now!” the taller one demanded, stepping closer towards Jesus’s retreating figure.
“Whoa,” Jesus placated, masking his shock and feigning ignorance. “Easy guys. I was just running from the dead.” He nodded his head in the direction of back lot, towards the trashcan – not that they knew that.
At his words, the taller man began walking backwards towards the end of the building, his gun still trained on Jesus. The other didn’t move an inch. “How many?” he demanded, and Jesus quirked an eyebrow.
“Ten?” he lied. “Maybe more. I’m not risking it. Once it gets to double digits, I start running.” He could feel his eyes twitch humorously despite his best efforts, but he couldn’t help it – not with the way his soulmate and his partner held dispassionate expressions on him.
“Where?” the shorter man asked, and Jesus shrugged.
“About a half-mile back,” he said. “They’re heading this way. You have about… eleven minutes?” he guessed.
He could practically see the wheels turning in his head. Jesus could tell the man knew he was lying, but before he could keep going his partner lowered his gun with a quiet, “Okay,” and followed it up with, “Thanks for letting us know.”
“Yeah,” Jesus said quietly, his hands still raised. “There’s more of them than us. We gotta stick together.” He raised an eyebrow at the man who still held his gun up, peering his head around to look him in the eyes. “Right?” he prompted.
It took several seconds but he finally lowered his gun, and only a few moments later Jesus lowered his own hands. “Do you have a camp?” he asked the surlier man.
“Nah,” he answered, and the other followed closely behind with, “Do you?”
Jesus eyed them both closely, wondering idly if he should tell them about the Hilltop. “No,” he told them, though. They weren’t Saviors, that much was obvious, but they did have their own community, whether they were willing to share it or not.
There was something different about them, too, Jesus thought – something on the side of tame but still wild. As if they were frayed on the edges. As if they were a cataclysm waiting to unfold.
“Well,” Jesus said, backing away slowly, “I’m sorry for running into you. I’m gonna go now.” He turned around and sprinted away, calling over his shoulder, “If this is the next world, I hope it’s good to you guys.”
He already had his back fully facing the two when the first one called after him: “I’m Rick.” Jesus cursed himself as his interest got the better of him, and he slowed down just in time to hear him continue with, “This is Daryl. What’s your name?”
He hesitated for only a split second before he turned around to face them both one more time, and, his lips pulling into a smirk, he pulled his bandana away from his mouth. “Paul Rovia,” he told them honestly, and then he extended his arms out beside him, “but my friends used to call me Jesus. Your pick.”
“You said you didn’t have a camp,” Rick repeated, his tone cautious but still on the side of friendly. “Are you on your own?”
“Yeah,” Jesus answered, but he cocked his head to the side all the same, narrowing his eyes at the pair of them. “Still, best not to try anything,” he warned.
Daryl didn’t skip a beat. “Best not to make threats you can’t keep, either,” he spat back.
This time when Jesus smiled the bandana couldn’t mask it. It was too perfect, he thought, how already this man was ready to step up to the plate. “Exactly,” he told him, turning around one final time.
He caught Rick begin to ask another question (“How many walkers—") before Daryl cut him off, and Jesus only barely heard his “No, not this guy,” before Rick called again, louder, “How many walkers have you killed?”
“Sorry!” Jesus threw over his shoulder in lieu of an answer. “I gotta run. You should too -- you have about seven minutes!”
He stopped just short of the side of the building, his ear still trained on their conversation.
“What the hell was that?” Daryl asked.
Rick answered, quietly, “He was clean. His beard was trimmed. There’s more going on there.”
With a disgruntled noise, Daryl added, “He didn’t have a gun, either.”
Jesus listened to the pair argue the matter between them as he grabbed the firework from the ground and lit it.
“We could track him, watch him for a while. Get to know more, see if he’s really alone. Maybe bring him back,” Rick suggested, but Daryl made a sound of distaste.
“No,” he said with finality. “The guy calls himself Jesus.” Rick chuckled at that.
Jesus dropped the firework inside the trash can and made his way back around the building, waiting for the sound to echo off the tin and lure them away -- and sure enough, only seconds later they were off, guns back in position. Jesus couldn’t help a snicker as he snuck past their backs and into the truck, turning the key in the ignition, yelling, “Sorry!” out the window.
He watched them fade into the distance from the rearview mirror, the vending machine still rattling behind him from its chains. Rick’s face, from what Jesus could see, looked simultaneously shocked and pissed but Daryl’s expression was one of blank fury.
Jesus knew they would see each other again; it was part of the legend passed down along with the soul marks. Fate would see them together, either to spend the rest of their lives side by side or ultimately choose to break their bond. He wondered which would be the case for him and his soulmate – him and Daryl. If they would reunite and join communities, or if they would cast each other out and live in solitude, praying for another, better soulmate.
He wondered – at first, after the world ended – whether his soulmate would change or remain the same, but his mark sat unchanged as it always had, written in the same haphazard scrawl it always had been. He then wondered if the universe knew the world would end and if his soulmate was someone he would only be compatible with after he adjusted to the new world order.
If it were true that Jesus’s soulmate was destined before the world fell apart – that this Daryl character was, in fact, his soulmate, and had been since the words first materialized on Jesus’s hip – would they have been as good for each other back when Jesus was only Paul Rovia? Or was it fate that bound them together with the knowledge of who they would both become in the wake of the world’s tragedy?
Yo, gimme a hand with this. The words inked into his skin itched, and he brought a hand down from the steering wheel to press against where they marked him. He spent most of his life wondering just who those words would belong to, but he had to be honest: an ill-tempered, short-fused redneck never once crossed his mind.
