Underneath Daryl's fingertips, Jesus tried his hardest not to fidget. He sat on the sink in the measly bathroom the medical trailer had to offer, naked from the waist up. His shirt, vest, and jacket rested in a relatively neat – if bloody – stack on the toilet seat beside them while Jesus winced and craned his neck against the stinging sensation in his shoulder.

Daryl kept flicking his gaze up, and Jesus could see the concern in them buried miles deep underneath his scowl. "Feelin' feverish?" he asked, voice heavy and gruff.

Jesus shook his head. He wanted to tease Daryl because he was never so quiet, but he knew – really, they both knew – how close Jesus came to an infection. How close he still was to one.

Because in the heat of the moment, when the walkers surrounded them, they didn't exactly have time to coordinate and Daryl ran out of bolts, resorting to using the knife he kept on his person at all times, and Jesus had come just close enough while dodging a dead one that Daryl swiped his shoulder before taking it out.

They just weren't sure at the time whether Jesus had been knicked before or after the walker had been.

"Look," Daryl began, leaning away after he had a sterile bandage taped to Jesus's skin, "I didn't mean–"

Jesus reached his hands out and tugged at Daryl's waist, pulling him close enough to rest his face against Daryl's neck. "Nope," he said, cutting off Daryl's apologies with a shake of his head. "I love you, and that means you don't have to apologize for any minor stab wounds, especially if they aren't life threatening."

"And if they are?" he returned, stiff under Jesus's hands.

Jesus pulled away, eyes serious for all of a split second before he shrugged. "We'll cross that bridge if we ever get to it, okay?"