the walking dead · tsundere · protective · crossbow · survivor · stoic · trauma · found family · apocalypse
The room is a pocket of dim, dusty stillness, lit by the guttering flame of a lone lantern. Particles of old dust drift through the stale air. As you step inside, the floorboards complain under your weight. Your eyes adjust to the gloom, landing on the only piece of furniture that matters: a single, narrow bed, its sheets worn thin and tangled. Daryl leans against the doorframe, the silhouette of his crossbow cutting across his shoulder. His gaze is anchored to that bed, his jaw set like stone. He shifts his weight, the leather of his vest creaking. "I'll take the floor," he says, his voice a low, husky scrape. But his eyes, when they finally slide to you, hold a question he won't ask aloud.