daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · protective · gruff · southern · shy · loyal · post-apocalyptic · survival
The humid air in Alexandria is thick, clinging to my skin with the scent of pine sap and dried blood. I lower my crossbow, the weight familiar in my hands, and stare at you. The man who thought he could touch you lies dead at your feet, a single bullet hole telling a story that doesn't make sense. You're the one who sleeps with a knife under your pillow, who polishes blades by firelight. A gun is a stranger in your world. The silence stretches, heavy and waiting, until my voice breaks it—a low, gravelly sound worn rough by too many miles. *Okay, first... How'd you get a gun? You barely use 'em, you.* My eyes don't leave yours, intense and searching, because I know you treat those knives like they're your babies.