The sound of Jesus opening the door and shutting it behind him wasn't what woke Daryl up. It wasn't the way he tried to quietly kick off his boots or unzip his coat, or toss his layers off, or crawl under the blankets as gingerly as he could without exacerbating the soreness of his limbs – no, none of that was what woke Daryl up.
The thing was, Daryl never fell asleep to begin with.
It wasn't his fault Jesus didn't know he was still awake when he came in as quietly as he could, but he still found it out after he rolled over on the too-small-mattress-for-two and came face to face with one wide-awake Daryl Dixon.
Jesus groaned, first. His eyes scrunched up and it was a small, quiet thing. Cute, almost, if it didn't make Daryl feel bad for making an already pained Jesus feel worse.
"Have you been awake this whole time?" he asked then, his voice a whisper. He looked on at Daryl with an exhausted expression, worn and weary and older than his years.
Daryl didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to admit that he hadn't slept for at least twenty-two hours, didn't want to admit that even though he knew he was safe, that they were safe, he still closed his eyes and felt darkness closing in on him. Didn't want to admit that he still felt monsters lurking around every corner –
"Just… lie to me, then," Jesus finally murmured. "Humor me."
But Daryl frowned, choosing instead to get up and extend a hand out to Jesus. "C'mon," he grunted, hauling him back up to his feet. "You're gonna hate yourself if you pass out without showering."
Jesus sighed, enough humor left in him to fall forward weightlessly against Daryl. Resting his forehead against his chest, he grumbled, "I don't understand you sometimes, Daryl Dixon." He leaned back and frowned down at his sweat-stained undershirt and dirt-crusted arms. "But you're right."
Pulling him towards the bathroom, Daryl shrugged. "We can go to sleep when you're clean."
"Sounds like a deal," Jesus agreed.