It never occurred to Jesus to pay attention to Daryl Dixon's attire.
It was, after all, the end of the world.
No one cared about how anyone else dressed.
For what it was worth, Jesus dressed practically. For utility, not comfort, he told Maggie. He wore enough layers to keep his skin protected from the dead but made sure he could still move comfortably while fighting. He couldn't wear too much and risk being bogged down, but any less and he was one bite away from certain death.
So he wore a long-sleeved button-down. A cotton jacket. An insulated vest. A leather trenchcoat. Leather gloves. Heavy canvas pants. Wool socks underneath steel boots, tied twice around his ankles. His belt looped through his jeans, over his vest, and secured his holster at his hip. Knives lined the inside of his trenchcoat, fitting comfortably in his hand-sewn pockets.
Daryl dressed for utility, too, in thick jeans and steel work-boots, laced several times over his calves, but he differed from Jesus in one massive way:
Jesus excelled in close-range combat. He fought with knives, with his knuckles and fists as he scraped with walkers and humans alike, and so his clothes demanded to be heavy enough to provide protection but loose enough to allow agile movements. Daryl, however, excelled in long-distance and range. He walked with a permanent hunch from where he'd grown so used to his crossbow sitting over his shoulder, and when he didn't have it he had a shotgun slung over his back, another pistol or two at his sides.
Hand-to-hand was not his strong-suit, so he didn't bother wearing dozens of layers - he frankly didn't need to. He wore a tank top and his signature leather vest, the wings over his back a dirty, dingy grey no matter how often he snuck away to try and clean it. When the weather demanded it, he wore a half-buttoned flannel underneath the very same vest.
Jesus stood in the doorway to their bedroom, passing his gloves from hand to hand as he watched Daryl sleep. He knew Daryl would hate himself for sleeping in and Jesus even more for letting him stay in bed, but ever since returning from Negan's compound the other man simply couldn't find any peace when he laid down. But the more he watched Daryl's face contort and begin to warp with soon-to-be fear, Jesus found his own resolve waning.
He toed his way across the room, quietly kicking off the shoes he hadn't yet tied before curling up on his side next to Daryl. He set his gloves down beside him, brushing his calloused fingers softly through Daryl's greasy hair.
Though the lines in his face didn't soften, Daryl settled closer to Jesus in the dip of the mattress and released the breath caught in his throat. It was enough for Jesus - he leaned forward and rested his forehead against Daryl's, the corners of his lips lifting slightly.