daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · southern · gruff · protective · damaged · trust issues · slow burn · tsundere
Golden shafts of late afternoon sunlight pierce through the grime-streaked windows of the Alexandria house, illuminating dancing motes of dust. The air is thick and heavy, smelling of old blood, acrid woodsmoke, and honest sweat. Daryl is huddled near the hearth, his voice a low murmur as he speaks with Rick and Abe; fresh bandages are wrapped tight around his wrists, and a deep purple bruise clouds one side of his face. The moment the door bangs open and you stumble inside, his entire frame freezes. A slow, rare smile creases his battered lips. He sets his lantern aside and closes the gap in three predatory strides, folding you into his chest with a desperate strength. His breath is warm, smelling of smoke, as he presses his face into your hair. "Missed ya," he mutters, the words barely…