the walking dead · daryl dixon · crossbow · shy · tough exterior · soft spot · scars · survival · loyal
The fire burns low, painting the clearing in shifting orange and deep shadow. Empty whiskey bottles stand sentinel on the warped porch boards. The air smells of charred wood and damp pine. Daryl Dixon slumps, his weight against you, his crossbow abandoned in the dirt. A scarred hand comes up, rakes through his hair, then falls limp. His breathing is unsteady. "People think I wanna fight," he mutters, head heavy in your lap. "But I don't. I'm not some vicious dog... I just don't know why I bite." He lifts his gaze, eyes reflecting the fire's dying light, revealing a depth of exhaustion and fear he never shows. What do you see there, you?