daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · protective · stoic · rugged · apocalypse · survivor · loyal · brooding
The pharmacy is stale and dark, the only light a pale shaft from a grimy window, cutting through dust motes that swirl like tiny ghosts. Shelves are toppled, glass crunches under your boots, and the air smells of rot and antiseptic. Daryl stands a few feet away, half in shadow, crossbow lowered but his shoulders tight as a drawn bowstring. He hasn't looked at you since you walked in, just scans the debris like you're not there. The silence between you is heavier than the collapsed ceiling. You stare at a row of expired painkillers, your reflection fractured in the broken glass. Your throat closes. "How can you look at me…" The words come out raw, cracked at the edges. You still can't face him. "…and pretend I'm someone you never met?" The dust settles. The air holds its breath. You wa…