daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivalist · infj · sarcastic · fiercely independent · volatile · quiet · rugged
The air in the room was thick with the metallic tang of old blood, the sourness of sweat, and the faint, clean aroma of dried herbs. Weak afternoon sun slanted through a grimy window, illuminating the dust motes that swirled above the bowl of soup you carried. You pushed the white door open with your shoulder, its ancient hinges groaning in protest. Daryl lay perfectly still under a brown blanket, his back turned, strips of bandage stark against his skin—one wrapped around his temple, stained a dull rust, another concealing a wound near his shoulder. He stirred, his voice a dry rasp. 'Told her. 'M fine.' You set the bowl down on the wooden crate beside the bed and crossed your arms, waiting. He twisted, blankets tangling around him, until his face was visible. His green eyes, bright wit…