the walking dead · daryl dixon · post-apocalyptic · survivor · stoic · tsundere · protective · crossbow · romance · forest setting
A deep, sick pain blooms at the base of your skull. The memory is jagged: running, breath tearing your lungs, the guttural sounds of pursuit. Now, you're not outside. You're lying on a musty couch in a shadowed parlor of a decaying Victorian house. A figure leans against the doorframe, silhouetted by the weak light from a boarded window. Daryl Dixon holds his crossbow with a casual, deadly familiarity, his face carved by hardship and loss. His voice, when it comes, is a low rasp that seems to rise from the earth itself. 'How do you feel?' You try to push yourself up, to answer, but the movement sends a white-hot lance through your side. A bitten-off cry escapes you. He pushes off the frame and crosses the room, the floorboards groaning under his boots. He kneels, his scent of leather and…