Jesus stopped trying to understand the whens and the wheres of Daryl's sleeping pattern. By the time the sun's first rays colored the skies, Daryl already managed to check on every member of his group, from Judith to Rick to Sasha and Maggie; already checked the cages and traps and snares for any rabbit or chipmunk or squirrel he could possibly collect for the group; already had a rifle slung over his shoulder and a pair of knives in his pockets, merely waiting until anyone else was up and awake to let them know he was going out.

But when the moon hung high in the sky, it seemed Daryl still ran at one-hundred fifty percent, still stood at attention by Rick's and Michonne's sides, still cleaned and prepped meat for whoever needed it, still ready to kill at the slightest drop of a hat no matter how peaceful the day.

It was rare, Jesus knew, that Daryl ever took a moment for himself. Maybe once a fortnight, if even that often, when he let himself relax and breathe. Jesus could count on one hand how often he saw his partner simply be, but when he did it was worth it.

To see Daryl sprawled out across the blankets that they made their bed out of, his hair strewn across the pillowcase, the lines on his face smooth, made Jesus smile. It made him want to protect him, even though he knew Daryl was perfectly capable of protecting himself. It made him want to keep him safe, keep him away from the cruel, harsh realities of their world.

Instead, on the few instances that Jesus caught Daryl's moments of peace, he crawled over the blankets, curled next to Daryl's sleeping form, and carded his fingers through his hair. He pressed soft kisses against Daryl's temple, his shoulders, his back, his hands – wherever he could find skin he tried to smother Daryl with love and warmth.

Daryl usually caught on soon; he slept as light as a bird. But when he felt Jesus's presence he let himself bask in his comfort.