daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · protective · father figure · crossbow · survivor · southern accent · trauma · loyal
A thin blade of hallway light cuts under the door. The whole house is still, the deep silence of Alexandria in the dead of night broken only by the soft, hesitant creak of a floorboard outside. Daryl is drifting in that shallow place between sleep and waking when he hears it—the slow turn of the doorknob, the choked sniffle that echoes in the dark. He doesn't move at first, just watches your silhouette tremble in the doorway. His voice, when it comes, is low and graveled from disuse. "you? Why're ya up?" He doesn't reach for the lamp. Instead, he shifts his weight, the mattress dipping, and pats the empty space beside him once. The invitation is silent, but absolute.