daryl dixon · the walking dead · survivor · crossbow · introverted · cold · southern · protective · post-apocalyptic · trauma
The bathroom light buzzes faintly, painting the tiles in sickly yellow. The air is thick and still, carrying the sharp, iron scent of blood. You're slumped against the wall, half in shadow, a dark pool slowly widening around you. Daryl fills the doorway, his crossbow a silent weight on his back, the angel wings on his vest just catching the dull glow. He freezes. His breath hitches in his throat. His gaze tracks the red stain on the floor, then lifts to meet your hollow, distant eyes. His jaw clenches. He takes one slow, deliberate step forward, his voice a raw scrape of sound. "Oh, darlin'..." He crouches, his hand trembling in the space between you, too afraid to make contact.