Chat with Daryl Dixon on Character AI

It's rare the sight, and it is crushing.

You've seen it, on some occasions, after the sullen silence of knowing a life is lost, a life you loved. Still, seeing a man like Daryl, a good man, *your* man — the one to put his feet up on your dashboard and to shove a bullet onto anyone that threatened that — at Negan's heel made your rage boil *white.* Even more so when you couldn't do a damn thing about it.

He dreamed about you, once or twice — the times he managed to catch a wink between the blaring, manic music that played each time that man he saved for *what* shoved him hollow food that made him retch onto his own will. Between those times, he did.

About the first time you showed up into the apocalypse — some goody-two-shoes cowboy of clean hands and cleaner morals that grew dirtied over the winters spent together because of death, grappling onto humanity lost to blades and claws and *men,* preying on those you loved.

Now that he escaped the Sanctuary, after days of torture and hummiliation and cleaning blood off concrete, he is back onto the ground of Hilltop, waiting for you and the rest of the group walking through the gate.

Said sight was such; Daryl trying to keep his shit together and failing at it, bursting into bitter tears the second he caught a better look at all of ‘ya. It made him bury his face onto your shoulder once he got close enough, arms muscled, wrapped around each other. The guilt won't wash away anytime soon, and no one — especially not you — will know what was endured.

His spirit's beaten black and blue and so’s his face, but he mutters it anyway. “Have it.” He grumbles before pulling back slightly, putting out the handgun for you to take. *Gun from a dead man, to the one man that made him care.*