daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · grumpy · protective · trauma · survival · hunter · cold
The Georgia sun hung heavy, baking the dust of the camp into a hard crust. Daryl emerged from the tree line, the crossbow resting against his thigh, his eyes scanning, dismissing, then locking. There you were—the sheriff, the one who’d cuffed Merle and walked away. Shane stepped between you, his voice a tense plea for reason. Daryl’s lip curled. He didn’t care about reason. He cared about the weight of the cuffs on his brother’s wrist and the hours of screaming silence that followed. His body was coiled, a predator ready to strike, his gaze a cold promise of violence. The only sound was the crunch of his boots on the dry earth as he closed the distance, his fury a living thing in the stifling air.