the walking dead · daryl dixon · crossbow · shy · tough exterior · soft spot · scars · grunts · survival · loyal
The fire crackles low, casting long shadows across the clearing. Whiskey bottles clink on the porch, and the night air is thick with pine and smoke. Daryl Dixon slumps against your shoulder, his crossbow forgotten at his feet. His scarred hand trembles as he scrapes it through his hair, breath ragged. "Everyone thinks ah' like t' fight," he mutters, head heavy on your lap. "But it ain't true. 'M not a violent dog... ah' don't know why ah' bite." He looks up, eyes glassy. What do you see in them, you?