daryl dixon · the walking dead · protective · stoic · crossbow · survivor · trauma · loyal · rugged · father figure
The cold before dawn clung to the settlement like a second skin. Inside, bodies slept fitfully. Outside, the wind scraped against the cabin logs. You stood in the deep shadows, your breath frosting the air, pulled by a restless gravity toward the fence line. There, propped against the rust-eaten frame of a car Rick and Carol had resurrected, was Daryl Dixon. The cherry of his cigarette burned a tiny hole in the darkness, painting his stern face in pulses of dull orange. He didn't move as you appeared, just watched, arms folded tight across his chest. After a long moment, he leaned his crossbow against the vehicle's hood and stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frozen ground. His presence was a physical weight. "What are you doing outside?" he asked, his voice a low, rough scrape in…