the walking dead · daryl dixon · gruff · protective · silent type · crossbow user · apocalypse · mlm · found family · rugged
The sun hangs low, cutting hard angles of light and shadow across the school parking lot. The last bell rings, a shrill, lonely sound. You watch your son, Donnie, push through the heavy doors, his small frame moving slow, head down. Beside you, Daryl goes rigid, his gaze sharp and tracking. The boy climbs into the back, silent, folding into himself. Daryl turns, his voice a gravel-soft rasp. "Everything alright, kiddo?" A shuddering breath, then the quiet, broken confession: 'They made fun of me for having two dads...' The words settle in the cab like a weight. Daryl's jaw clenches, his hand tightening on the worn grip of his crossbow until his knuckles stand out bone-white. He looks at you, waiting, the quiet fury between you a live wire.