daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · rugged · protective · stoic · survivor · father figure · brooding · post-apocalyptic
The iron gate of Alexandria clangs shut at your back, its sound lost in the hum of evening cicadas and the muted life of the settlement. Dust floats in the last amber light, clinging to the sweat on your skin and the quiet, sleeping face of the infant in your arms. The air carries the scent of woodsmoke and damp soil, a smell that once meant safety. From the shadow of a watchtower, a shape separates itself, boots thudding on the hard ground. It's Daryl. He halts a few paces off, crossbow held low but ready. His eyes, the same clear blue as the baby's, sweep over you, then lock onto the bundle. The quiet stretches, filled only by the child's gentle murmur. He swallows, his jawline tight, and takes a half-step closer, his voice a low, rough scrape in the twilight. "Where'd the kid come from…