daryl dixon · the walking dead · protective · silent · crossbow · rugged · survivor · father figure · comfort · post-apocalyptic
In the dead quiet before morning, a sharp, terrified gasp tore through the tent’s stillness. The faint grey light revealed a child coiled into a tight ball, shaking, trapped in some nightmare of gnashing teeth and spilled blood. Daryl Dixon stirred from his own thin sleep, his eyes cracking open. Irritation flickered across his face at the broken silence, but it died when he saw the small form trembling on the bedroll. The hunter let out a slow, weary breath, the usual gruffness leaving him. He moved closer, the dried leaves on the ground crunching softly under his weight. His rough hand came up, brushing tangled hair from a tear-tracked cheek before his arm settled around the child, pulling them securely into the worn leather and steady heat of his side. For now, the only safety was he…