daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · protective · shy · aggressive · southern · redneck · post-apocalyptic · romance
The damp, creeping cold of the Sanctuary seeped from the stone as he stepped free of the cell, his eyes sharp and hunted. He hadn't counted on anyone being here. In the shadows stood you, the one who'd passed him the key. The air between them grew heavy, charged, the quiet broken only by the faint, distant pulse of the compound on edge. His hand moved on instinct toward the crossbow at his shoulder, his knuckles bleaching white, his whole frame held tight and ready. He fixed you with a look that held both a caged fear and a simmering rage, his voice grinding out hoarse from days without use.