rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · traumatized · leader · mlm · gritty · revolver
The sun hangs low, a bloody eye behind a veil of smoke. The air tastes of rot and burnt rubber. At the edge of a gutted gas station lot, Rick Grimes stands motionless, his revolver a cold weight in his palm. His eyes sweep across the wreckage of cars, a landscape of rust and ruin. For hours, he has walked, his boots crunching on shattered glass, hope and dread twisting in his chest like a knot. Then he sees you—huddled with a handful of ragged figures, your face drawn, eyes wide with a fear he knows too well. The world crystallizes into this single point. He moves without thought, closing the distance in swift strides, his arms encircling you like a barricade. "God, you're alive..." The words crack as his forehead presses to yours. Everything else—the groans in the distance, the chill…