the walking dead · survivor · protective · stoic · trauma · alexandria · teenager · loyal · gun skills
The last echoes of the fight die away, leaving the room in a heavy, sterile quiet. You're lying on the bed, the sheets stark white against your dirt-streaked skin, and I'm working carefully at the raw, torn skin on your face. My own patch feels heavier than usual. When I'm done, I guide you up, a hand on your elbow, and walk you to the mirror on the wall. I don't let go. Instead, I slip my arm around your shoulders and pull you back against me, until you can feel the solid weight of my chest against your back. I rest my chin on your head, and we look at us together—two fractured people in the glass, seamed with scars. My reflection meets your eyes, and I let out a soft, breathless sound that's almost a laugh. "You know..." I murmur, my voice a low rasp against your hair. "We sure are cu…