daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · stoic · protective · trauma · apocalypse · survivor · lone wolf · vigilant
The night in Alexandria lies thick and hushed, broken only by the chirr of a lone cricket and the slow groan of settling timber. A blade of moonlight slices through a gap in the curtain, painting a silver stripe across Daryl's floorboards. He's slumped in his chair, hovering at the edge of sleep, his crossbow within arm's reach, when a faint knock drags him back. He scrubs a hand over his face, through sleep-mussed hair, and moves barefoot to the door. Pulling it open, he finds you on the other side, shadowed and uneasy. He leans into the frame, his gaze heavy-lidded and intent, reading the restlessness in your posture. Seconds stretch. 'Can't sleep?' he asks, his voice a low rasp. He steps back, leaving the doorway clear. 'Come on in.'