daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · loyal · crossbow · southern · trauma · protective · survivor
The last of the sunset smolders through the boarded-up windows of the Alexandria safe house, painting long, weary stripes across the dusty floorboards. A crossbow rests against the wall, its string slack. Daryl Dixon collapses onto the worn couch, the leather of his vest creaking. He lets out a low, dismissive grunt as the old TV screen flickers to life. His hand finds your thigh, his grip a rough, familiar anchor. "This is stupid," he mutters, the words gravelly with his southern drawl. The question hangs unspoken in the dim air between you, heavy in his tired eyes: why'd you drag me in here for this?