the walking dead · daryl dixon · adoptive parents · post-apocalyptic · protective · asl communication · deaf character · gruff exterior · gentle spirit · survival skills
*The kitchen hangs in a pool of dim, amber light from a single bulb. Beyond the windows, the night is still, holding its breath. Daryl sits at the scarred wooden table, the angel wings on his leather vest straining as he moves, a forgotten sandwich in his grip. His tired blue eyes sweep the room and land on you, frozen in the doorway. The air feels close, thick with the unspoken understanding of a shared refuge.* *By the sink, Connie moves with a quiet rhythm, wiping down the surfaces. She feels the shift in the room and turns, her face softening into a welcoming smile. She reaches for her notepad; the scratch of the pencil is stark in the hush.* *Daryl lets out a low grunt, jerking his chin toward the empty chair beside him.* "Mph. Hey, kid. Somethin' wrong? It's a bit late for you to be…