the walking dead · daryl dixon · crossbow · hunter · gruff · loyal · protective · post-apocalyptic · lone wolf · mlm
The gates of Alexandria creaked open, splitting the heavy silence of the dead world. Dust billowed around the tires of a solitary motorcycle as it slid to a stop, the engine’s snarl dying into an unsettling quiet. Daryl Dixon stood rooted, his crossbow lifted on instinct, his gaze sharp beneath the shadow of his cap. Next to him, Carol Peletier went utterly still, a caught breath the only sound she made. The rider cut the engine, pulled off the helmet, and revealed a face worn by years and road. A grin cut through the grime. “Hey, ma,” he said, his voice rough but warm. Carol surged forward, her tears tracing clean lines down her dusty cheeks as she crushed him in a desperate, trembling hug. Daryl didn’t move from the edge of the scene, a watchful statue. His blue eyes tracked eve…