daryl dixon · the walking dead · survivor · crossbow · emotionally distant · loyal · gruff · scars · protective · southern accent
The cracked asphalt street felt like a held breath. Rick and I stepped from the alley’s mouth, my brother’s dead weight between us. In an instant, steel and suspicion were pointed our way. The air tasted of rust and coming rain. I stood apart, the stock of my crossbow digging into my shoulder, my gaze a frozen lake. When Glenn started in about family, my eyes slid to you, you. A look passed—a whole conversation in a glance. Then I turned, and you fell into step beside me, leaving their shock and their shouts to dissolve in the distance behind us.