Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Carl never dreamt of an extravagant life.

He wasn’t one to be ambitious, though it would have been nice to, in his future, secure something good and cushy that paid fine and kept the lights on, put food on the table and sometimes even enough to get himself a treat or to get his future wife and kid something nice too.

He didn’t have any bigger aspirations than that which he thought normal for a ten-year-old, although Tommy—who was ten-and-a-half and should’ve been placed in the grade after, but his momma made a mistake on the paperwork when they moved mid-semester three states over to get away from his pa—would say it was odd, since they had their whole lives ahead of them and could be anything they could ever want, so long as they put their minds to it.

“You sound like Dad,” Carl said once at recess.

“Good!” Tommy said. He swung once around a lamp pole, balancing himself on one foot. “Your dad’s in the police. He’s got a good job, savin’ people, helpin’ them out. Everyone oughta be like him.”

“Mom’s not like him,” Carl said. He didn’t feel either way about it. It was just a fact of life. “She just stays at home, waiting for me or Dad to come back.”

His family wasn’t unlike what his friends at school had. Dad went out to work and Mom stayed at home. Carl thought that was normal. His friends’ moms were all homemakers and they all kept in touch at these little meetings one of them would host every week. It seemed to Carl that most of the things Mom ever talked about with the other moms was about chores, be it cleaning the kitchen countertops or trying out that newest recipe, though she never budged on her pancakes.

Carl supposed they didn’t struggle as much as they could have, what with Dad being promoted to deputy sheriff and all, but they weren’t well-off either, with Mom frequenting secondhand shops and only replacing Carl’s clothes when he really couldn’t pass them off as fitting anymore. They had two cars, yeah, but aside from Dad’s cruiser, the truck was an old hand-me-down from Mom’s uncle and still smelled like cigarette smoke even after they wiped it down. Sometimes, when it was an especially good year for their family, Carl would get something real nice for the holidays, like a nice jersey from one of Dad’s—and by extension Carl’s—favorite baseball team, and even a PlayStation he got one Christmas morning, which had sat on the rickety TV stand in his bedroom collecting dust after Tommy moved away again.

In hindsight, he realized how good he’d had it after all.

Things had happened so fast and without his say-so, always without his control—like his lack of any early ambition meant fate deemed him unremarkable after all, left was he to be a spectator of his own life, sentenced in perpetuity to be seated on the benches at his own game, a faux participant, half in and half out. Weak.

Carl could say Mom started changing after the dead awoke. But that isn’t true. She changed after Dad didn’t wake up.

It was a little bit at first, and slowly, almost imperceptible, like a neglected house plant shriveling up day by day. After a month, she’d shut herself in, cocooned herself. Carl could almost see the shiny veil on her eyes but they weren’t tears. It was like she’d died or had lost herself, somewhere, inside herself; as if a reality had dawned on her that she’d have to face this new thing alone.

When Shane showed up, when they ran, Carl watched as she changed again. This time it was a blooming thing, so far in contrast to the terror and panic they all felt. Little by little, again, the cocoon cast lifted and something shiny, bright and hopeful peeked through. He could see it in the way she walked with her head higher, hear it in the twang of her voice, sense it in the way she watched him. But Carl knew somehow, deep down, that that thing from her wasn’t beautiful. It was almost too intense, too bright and sharp, like that way of nature and its toxic colors and warning signs, like how looking into the sun could blind you.

He learned a lot about their roles when he’d thought Dad was gone. Before he left—before they left him, it had been simple, just like on TV. Carl was Mom’s son, Dad’s boy. They were a small, happy little family set in their small, happy ways, with no one to come in between them and ruin that balance.

That’s how Carl saw Shane in the end. It was a naive way to think, he’d admit that much, that this new man could ever replace the Dad he knew and grew up with, who belonged to him in ways Shane never could. But he realized eventually that it was just as naive to think that taking Shane out of the picture would restore that familiar balance he longed for for so achingly long.

—

He starts to think about things at the prison.

He blames the lull in the action; the relative silence. It’s almost unfair that they can have this at all, what with everything that’s happened since—well, since the first day. He could trace it back to when they had to run from the farm, or all the way back from when Dad was shot, or maybe a little bit after that, with what happened to Shane. He knows it’s pointless to even try, but here he is, crouching by the carrots and tomatoes, knee deep in the dirt with Dad and thinking about another man.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Dad says. He tugs at a tomato leaf. They’re a lot smaller than Carl was expecting, but they grew faster than he thought they would. Carl is briefly enraptured by the bright cherry reds gleaming under the midday sun. Picturesque. If he focuses, he could forget the fences bordering his periphery.

“Wager we could start picking them by next week.” Dad moves over to the potatoes and starts digging around in the soil, his bare fingers working expertly to dig out a spud and placing it in the basket. Carl is enraptured once more.

“We should take a break,” Carl suggests. The sun is high up but he knows that’s no excuse for the heat rising in his face, the back of his neck. Dad glances at him briefly and gives him a little smile. Carl looks away.

“I know you think I’ve gone soft,” Dad says. “But not that soft. I can handle some sun.”

Carl shrugs. It’s a particularly sweltering day, but he’s at least got his hat protecting him from the worst of it. Dad’s in his rolled-up shirt sleeves, chest bare between the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Carl’s own tee has gone wet with sweat, and he takes a moment to unstick it from his chest.

Dad clears his throat, nods at Carl’s hat.

“Glad to see you make use of it today.” He reaches over to tug it over Carl’s forehead, blocking his line of sight, teasing. “I miss seeing you in it.”

Carl shrugs again. He knows it’s a bad habit, but no Mom to tell him off otherwise. He adjusts the hat to sit neatly on his head.

“It’s no farmer’s hat,” he says, sighing. He helps Dad dig out a few more potatoes, cool to the touch in contrast to the surface. “But it’s the closest thing I have. Should have you wearing it if anything, Dad. You could get heatstroke. Or a sunburn.”

“Your old man’s made of stronger stuff than that.”

“Stronger than the sun?” Carl scoffs. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Language. You’d be surprised at how much I could bear. A little sun’s not gonna get me just yet.”

They fall into amicable silence—relative silence, that is, now accustomed to the ever-present hum of walkers moaning and screeching surrounding them every time he steps outside of the prison’s buildings. But he knows, instinctively, and especially when he’s with Dad, that he’s safe.

He takes a small, guilty moment to go back to watching him. He looks at Dad’s face, calm and concentrated on their harvest, then back down to his calloused fingers prying the soil, his able hands, the shining ring, then up to the hair on the back of his hand, the watch on his strong wrist. He gulps.

It’s not long after that when they deem they’ve taken enough for the day. They have to be careful to ration their pickings, taking just enough to feed their people and not too much as to risk some of the produce going to rot.

While Dad’s wrapping up, Carl takes his hat off and dusts it off. It’s in grand condition considering all the things it’s been through. Carl used to curl up with it at bedtime, snuggling into the stiff fabric of it, loved so much how it smelled like Dad. He knew Mom thought it was weird how much he treasured it but she never said anything.

It doesn’t smell like Dad anymore. He wants it to.

Dad’s too preoccupied to notice Carl sneaking up behind him, standing on his tiptoes and plopping it on his head.

He laughs a soft laugh. Dad’s always soft with him, for him, even when Carl knows how hard he can get.

He turns around and gives him a look, tilts it back so it fits better, sitting neatly above his brow. Carl is grateful, half-expecting Dad to take it off and return it to him, to tell Carl to stop playing and get back to work or go to his room, admonished like a kid.

“Officer.” Carl nods.

“And how can I help you, young man?” Dad drawls, tipping the hat in greeting, hooking a thumb into a belt loop.

He tries to resist the renewed heat climbing up to his face seeing the picture Dad makes. It’s admiration is all it is. He hasn’t seen it atop Dad’s head in a while, but it makes him look real official, like he’s got authority again and isn’t just playing farmer. It makes him look even bigger in Carl’s eyes, though he knows rationally it’s just the lens of childhood that he hasn’t fully gotten rid of—not for his dad.

“Mighty fine day out,” Carl says, looking around them, squinting up at the cloudless sky. “Best stay cool in the heat, Officer, could lose your head.”

“Lose my head?” Dad says, smiling. Carl mirrors him instinctively. The stretch on his lips feels strange. “Can’t have that now.” He tips his hat again. “What can I do to thank you for returning an officer’s uniform back to him?”

“Thank?” Carl blinks, confused.

Dad snaps his fingers, like he’s got an idea.

“Well, gee, I know just the thing.” He winks. Carl’s heart somersaults.

Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out a strawberry. He must have stuffed it in there when Carl wasn’t looking. Carl wonders who it was for. Maybe Dad wanted it as a treat for himself—unlikely, considering Carl thinks he hasn’t been eating enough lately, or maybe it was for Judy, or someone else. It’s certainly a coincidence that he’s offering it to Carl now. A nice coincidence.

“I’ve got the perfect reward right here,” Dad says, raising the strawberry so it glints in the sunlight. They both admire it.

Dad looks at him, eyes warm. “Sweet thing like you deserves something sweet, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carl says. It’s more of a whisper, his voice leaving him halfway, his breath gone entirely by the end.

Dad sidles up close to him, the heat emanating from his body making Carl feel like he’s in a sauna, or maybe the pit of a volcano, which would be more fitting.

All thought leaves him as Dad offers him the strawberry, beautifully red and indeed sweet-looking. Carl could reach to take it from him, but he doesn’t think, and why would he, when it’s at the perfect height for him to lean over and take a bite of it. He takes the soft flesh between his teeth and lets Dad feed it to him like Carl feeds Judith her applesauce, like how Dad must have fed him when he was little.

Like the tomatoes, it’s smaller than the ones Mom used to bring home from the grocery store, but all the sweeter for it.

It could be gone in a bite. Carl makes it two.

He savors the sweetness of it on his tongue, the faint tartness, the earthy bits of dirt transferred over from Dad’s fingers. And that just might be his favorite part.

Guilt strikes him like a blow to the stomach, that he wouldn’t mind at all following the flavor to its source, bypassing the strawberry’s stem and taste the dirt on Dad’s fingertips.

He’s distracted, doesn’t notice the juice dribbling over past his lips and down his chin. He’s looking at Dad’s face, artfully collected. Doesn’t flinch when he feels a rough thumb sliding over his soft cheek, expecting it, really, hoped for it. Loves that it happens.

He thinks that’s it—Dad will wipe the strawberry juice off his chin and then they’re off, heading back inside.

He doesn’t move an inch, not a single muscle, as Dad carefully collects the liquid pooling on Carl’s chin on his thumb, feels him take a second to caress him, press the sticky sweetness of it on his skin like he can imbue it somehow with Carl’s scent, his sweat.

He watches intently as Dad raises his thumb, must imagine the brief inhale before he pops the digit in his mouth, and raises his brow in pleasant surprise.

“Good harvest today,” Dad says, nodding. It’s Carl’s imagination that makes his voice rougher, deeper, rattling his bones. He meets Carl’s steady gaze, his pale eyes careful and analyzing, before blinking and looking away.

“Let’s get you out of this heat.”

—

At the prison, Carl doesn’t have jobs—he has chores.

He had some chores at home, but just enough to not put Mom out of work. Between the three of them, and Dad and Carl mostly out of the house during the school year, there wasn’t much to do. That at least meant the house was spotless for most of the time. If Carl noticed a layer of dust on the fireplace where his baby pictures sat framed and pristine, he never said anything about it.

The weekends were special. Carl thinks back on them fondly now. Saturdays were Dad Days. Carl had all the power to choose what they did that day which was a great change from the weekdays, when Dad had unpredictable schedules or sudden emergencies, when there would be stretches of up to four days in a row where Carl never got to see him at all, never got to be tucked into bed by him. He loved his mom for being there during those times, and how she never seemed to take issue at seeing Carl transform into someone else when Dad came home, blooming under his touch and beaming at every word, chattering nonstop about Saturday—about the amusement park that opened up nearby, the kite Tommy lent him after soccer practice or the new movie that’d come out, and oh, Dad, Dad, please, can we go see it together? By Sunday, she served her awful pancakes with a smile.

Carl wakes up with a crick in his neck, dreading today’s chores. They take shifts at the prison, dictated by a rough schedule posted up on the whiteboard in one of the offices on the first floor, past the security hallway in the south wing.

Breakfast is uneventful fare. He scans around their shoddy dining arrangements. The cafeteria’s exit doors are opened up to the courtyard where he can see Carol helping with the food. She’s busy fanning the flame with one hand, her other pointing to one thing or another, doling out instructions. He approaches her, still scanning, but no Dad.

“Thanks, Carol,” he mumbles, taking the plate she offers. They’d manage to get a couple of their hens to pop out some eggs. They’re scrambled next to some canned beans thanks to Michonne, with the tomatoes from yesterday fried and glistening. It’s a feast.

“You seen your dad anywhere?” she says. “Been meaning to talk to him.”

“No,” he says, shuffles awkwardly to let another person pass by.

“Where’s your hat?” She nods at his head, eyes kind.

“With the farmer, obviously,” he mumbles, heat rising in his face as he recalls yesterday.

She laughs and waves him away.

He sits by a corner to eat by himself, though not long after Patrick comes by to join him. He talks up a storm, but it’s easy to ignore.

He tries not to think much about how the others must see him—Dad’s little messenger. No one’s ever really got something to say just for him, except maybe Michonne, but she’s different. For the others in their group, seeing Carl means seeing an extension of Dad. It should make him feel a way; disrespected that he’s not recognized as his own person, tied always to someone else.

He should hate it. He doesn’t.

Carl scans the cafeteria again. Maybe Carol hadn’t seen him because he already left. Dad’s scheduled to go out today. The thought of it casts a stone in Carl’s stomach and he feels immature. Everything’s the opposite now. He’s with Dad all the time, every day, and the few times he goes without him he feels weird, off, like a shadow of himself until he sees him again.

He goes down by Misty’s stable. Seeing Dad from afar makes him breathe a sigh of relief.

“Going to check the snares?” Carl asks, walking up to him. He’s gotten a lot better at setting up the snares; last round, he’d managed to put up almost as much as Dad.

“I am,” Dad says. “You’re not.” He shoots Carl a knowing look. Carl ignores it. Gun or no gun, he should be allowed to come and go as he pleases with him. He’s always safe with Dad.

“Do your chores.” Carl winces. “Read comics. Maybe some books, too.”

“Hang out with Patrick.” Carl rolls his eyes.

“None of that, now.” Dad ducks low so they’re eye to eye, gives him a hard look.

Carl can’t look away. His tone is absolute, his gaze unmoving. Carl should be used to it by now; Dad’s a cop. He’s gonna be like this on or off duty, hard, steely and unrelenting. Lately though, Carl has noticed something about him, something new, or maybe he didn’t realize it’d been there the entire time and something in the air has shifted. Carl’s a little older now after all, more observant. He notices a tension in Dad’s shoulders, the curve of them, neck bent when he speaks all low and rumbly—like a prowling animal, really, a predator with keen eyes and coiling limbs, like one wrong move would have him pouncing. He’s unblinking when he looks at Carl, jaw set as he gives him a command disguised as suggestion.

“Maybe go to story time,” he says, eyes twinkling, but he’s dead serious.

“Dad,” Carl says, slightly affronted. “That’s for kids.” The rest should go unsaid, but Carl hears his own voice and resists another wince. He sounds like a whining kid.

“Yeah,” Dad says, smirking.

Carl breaks eye contact, looks at his shoes. The scoff that puffs out of him sounds forced even to him.

“Now, brush her down,” Dad says, and it’s final, leaving no room for argument. Carl wonders if he ever gets tired of bossing Carl around all the time.

Dad reaches over the wooden fence and pets Misty’s mane. Misty snorts, her long tail wagging. He leans over and gives her a kiss.

Carl blushes. He hates this feeling. It isn’t like he’s never seen him kiss her before or show her little bits of affection. Carl sneaks in a snuggle or two once in a while himself. Misty’s a good girl, and has never gotten herself or them into any trouble. She’s easy as far as horses go, though Carl’s not got much experience aside from the petting zoo Dad took him to on a Saturday, where they overcharged unsuspecting parents for pony rides for their kids. Carl remembers his pony bucking him off and leaving him in a cloud of dust on the ground, his backside aching, freaking out Mom and Dad both. They got a couple free rides after that, Dad walking alongside him for the rest of them, a warm hand on the small of his back and a little smile shared between them both.

Misty is great. She’s no overcharged pony. Carl isn’t jealous of her.

“Jealous?” Dad says, smiling at him now.

“No,” Carl says weakly. He resists the urge to squirm.

“Come here, baby,” he says, reaching out to him. Carl ducks his head and goes.

He knows Hershel’s just around the stable, knows the prison’s right behind him, some of the windows facing their way, doors opening and people streaming in and out, over the field where any one of them could see them. But Carl doesn’t care.

Dad takes him into his arms. Carl breathes him in, their little garden’s soil mixed in with the dark musk of him.

“You take this back for me, all right?” Dad leans back just enough to take his hat—which had been resting on the fence—and places it back on Carl’s head. “Need you to take care of it until I get back.”

Dad adjusts the hat to sit properly, then neatly tucks a strand of hair behind Carl’s ear.

“It’s getting long,” he murmurs.

“Do you like it?” Carl asks.

Dad watches him carefully, opens his mouth slow. The words don’t come out right away.

“Do you like it?”

Carl tugs a strand. “It tickles the back of my neck,” he says. He traces the skin of his nape with the tips of his fingers, then down his neck, then to the centre of his throat, gulps. “But I like it.”

“Then I like it,” Dad says, little smile again. He tugs Carl’s earlobe, leans in real close and presses a kiss on his cheek. His beard tickles, makes Carl shiver even though today’s as hot as yesterday.

“Be good,” Dad says, and he’s walking away.

When Carl’s sure he’s not going to turn back around, and that it’s only him and Misty now, he takes the hat off and breathes it in.

—

Carl goes to storytime. He’s not always a brat, he thinks dryly, kicking an empty can of soda on the floor on his way to the little library where Carol is hosting storytime. He can do nice things, too. Listen to his dad. Be a good boy.

He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself by making a big entrance, so he hedges on creeping inside slowly, quietly, and hopefully sitting somewhere at the back where the other kids won’t notice him.

He wants to scope out the scene first, though. He slowly makes his way toward the small group at the front, Carol’s clear voice bouncing softly from the walls as she reads aloud from a dreary-sounding novel.

Then, she stops.

It doesn’t come as a big surprise as much as it is a disappointment.

Carl watches as, slowly, Carol carefully takes out a small box. The metal screws creak open, the sound of it sharp and grating as the shiny knives that are revealed from inside.

“Today,” Carol says, “we are talking about knives.” She says it matter-of-factly, with not much difference to the cadence of her voice, the words rolling off her tongue as easy as a children’s book.

“I’ll be teaching you how to use them, how to be safe with them, and how they could save your life.”

It’s wrong, Carl knows. Alarm bells ring in his head and he shifts, his body telling him something’s wrong before his mind can fully process it.

But it must be noticeable enough though, because Carol looks up and sees him. He swears silently in his head.

“Please,” she says calmly, like approaching some rabid dog. “Don’t tell your father.”

Carl flushes, anger and embarrassment coursing through his blood.

Don’t tell his father? Dad? That’s the first thing she thinks of when she sees him? Isn’t he his own person? Doesn’t he have an opinion on all of this himself, independent of his father?

He carefully schools his features into one of mild disapproval, but really, deep down, he’s conflicted. He leaves silently, leaving Carol to worry about the mess she may have just made.

He goes back to his cell, stomach twisting. He’s in one of those now—what do they call them? Moral dilemmas? Or is it ethical? Carl feels stupid.

He feels even stupider knowing that he doesn’t even find himself on the fence about it, not really.

Of course he’s going to tell his dad. Dad deserves to know. He says he’s not their leader anymore, that they’ve got a council now to deal with all those hard choices, but Carl knows they know who really ought to be in charge, who really is in charge. And it’s his dad. He’s the one with the real power. The one they obviously look to when they’re stuck.

Carl finds something to fiddle with as he thinks, settles on a worn out comic book Michonne brought him the other day. He flips through the pages mindlessly, taking in the bold lines and swirling colors, thinking about Carol, the knives, his father.

Carl really must seem like an extension of Dad to other people, an extra pair of eyes and hands. He knows it’s really only because he’s Dad’s son, their leader’s kid, but there’s something there that makes Carl feel real special. Treasured. Almost secondary in rank, if Carl let himself see it like that. He feels guilty even just thinking it, but it must be true.

Carl is Dad’s. He belongs to Dad. Dad would do anything for him. Anything.

And Carl loves it.

—

The flu comes.

It starts off a normal day. Natural sunlight is few and far between in the cell blocks, filtered always by the cold steely bars that border every door and window. Carl knows his circadian rhythm would be messed up if they didn’t have ways to make do with it anyway—if they didn’t have each other.

“Carl?”

He hears Dad’s voice. It’s far away, soft and gentle. Oddly enough, Carl can’t think of the last time he’d been not gentle when calling out Carl’s name, like it’s something he treasures now, making every sound and every shape his mouth makes count.

“Carl.” There’s the sound of a baby fussing. Sleep melts away slow and fast, and all of a sudden there’s light behind his eyelids and his dad calling his name.

“Come on, baby, wake up,” Dad says.

Carl blinks one eye open, his cheek squished against his pillow. He sees the outline his dad and baby sister make under the early morning sun and sighs. The vision before him is idyllic. The sun casting a beaming glow around them makes them look like angels, like if his family had been just the faintest more faithful, Carl could believe he’d already died and gone to heaven.

Carl gets ready quickly, resisting the urge to blush as he hears his dad and Beth talking about Judith just past the flimsy blanket they draped over the cell door for a modicum of privacy.

He and Dad have been sharing the cell, tiny as it is, since it’s the only way either of them can get any sound sleep. Judith stays tucked in there with them for most nights, too, if she isn’t with Beth just a cell over. Dad was hesitant to hand her over to just anyone other than Carl once the shock of Mom lessened from unbearable grief to a heavy weight, but one too many sleepless nights and begging from Carl finally had him relenting.

After that, Carl had him all to himself.

Today feels weird. He’s restless, even after saying goodbye to Michonne. The squeaking of the fences grate his ears, the walkers making the hair on his arm stand up.

He’s helping Dad feed the piglets, squinting under the sun and holding up a bucket with Dad crouched low before him, the back of his neck glistening with sweat and hair sticking to his skin. Dad’s hair is curly, unlike Carl’s, who takes after Mom.

He slowly follows the curlicue of a strand sitting on Dad’s temple, mouth going dry.

“They only took out one cluster yesterday,” Carl says, after collecting his thoughts. “Probably gonna need more people today. Maybe we could help.”

“I got other plans,” Dad says, sifting through the feed, “involving dirt and cucumbers and keeping people fed.”

“Well,” Carl says, the words out of his mouth before he realizes, “if you don’t want to, maybe I could.”

He doesn’t know what makes him say it. It must be the lull—the not doing that feels so foreign to him. He’s seen Dad in action; knows what he’s capable of. Carl feels so helpless next to him. What if Dad starts to see him as weak? Starts noticing he really is helpless, just a dead weight for Dad to carry by pure obligation, just because Carl’s his kid?

Dad grasps the feed in his hand, the worms struggling in his gloved grip. Carl stares at them, feeling much the same, stifled, instincts warring to squirm away free, but it’s so warm in Dad’s hand and under his gaze. It’s where he belongs and he wants so badly to keep it that way.

“Could I?”

Dad looks at him and stands. He towers over Carl. Carl gulps.

“We have other plans,” Dad says, walking around him, and there it is again, that prowl. Carl frowns. “That’s what I should have said.”

He follows Dad back to the sty, cheeks heated—with embarrassment and shame, maybe something else.

He watches Dad feed the piglets, petting one of them affectionately. Carl thinks they’re cute in a gross sort of way. He remembers the day Violet had given birth to them. It happened too early in the morning for him to bear witness to the gorier bits, but one day they just showed up, like the stork from Dad’s bedtime stories had brought them over. Carl needed some more time to name them since there’d been more than he expected.

Dad doesn’t know they have names. And even if he did, Carl doubts he’d remember who was who.

“Dad,” Carl says. Dad stops what he’s doing and looks at him. “I’m sorry. I—” he falters, looks down at his muddy shoes. “I’m trying.”

“Yeah,” Dad says. “I know, baby. And I’m proud.”

Dad…when can I have my gun back? The thought surprises him. His mouth opens to say it because he wants to—needs to hear the answer, but what comes out instead is “Really?”

“Yeah,” Dad says.

“But…” I’m weak. Carl blinks. He looks at his father, really looks at him, and knows that he means it.

Anything he’s about to say is interrupted by the sound of gunshots in the distance. Two, then three.

“Stay close,” Dad says, and they run out of the sty.

Carl slows down. They have to secure the fence, otherwise the piglets will get out. Then what’ll they feed everyone?

Dad notices.

“Get in the tower with Maggie,” he says. Carl opens his mouth. “Don’t argue. Go!”

Heart in his stomach, Carl quickly secures the fence. He runs up to the tower to climb up and join Maggie, but pivots the second he sees Michonne returning on her horse.

Things happens so quickly, his body moving automatically, like it’s his second nature to pull the heavy ropes securing the prison gates to let Michonne through, like he was meant to go to the tower, pick up the rifle and feel the heavy metal weight of it in his hands, the rightness of it.

They’re scrambling. With Maggie still in the tower and Michonne outnumbered, Carl doesn’t need to think twice before he cocks the gun and pulls the trigger, taking a walker out.

Its head explodes into bits of old blood and guts, the smell of it rank and nauseating. Ears ringing, all his instincts hone in on is the need to survive, the rush of blood and adrenaline at the sudden danger keeping him quick and alive.

They control the scene as best as they can. With Maggie’s help, they get Michonne back to safety, her weight balanced over Carl and Maggie’s shoulders. They all watch solemnly as even more walkers swarm the fence, threatening to tip it over. Carl winces as a particularly harsh shove under the weight of the dead makes one of the fence poles creak.

With Michonne injured, it takes them longer than they would like to reach one of the entrances to block C. Carl can hear the muffled sounds of screaming and gunfire.

He bites his lip hard at every banging shot of a gun, his ears still ringing, sweat making his skin prickle hot and cold at the same time. Maggie is a constant reassuring presence on the other side of Michonne, speaking to her in low tones. Carl is grateful for it. All he can do now is focus on supporting Michonne and her injured leg and making sure they don’t all tip over.

Eventually, the noise the cell block over stops. Carl doesn’t know if the silence is better.

He’s already lost Mom. He doesn’t know what he’d be without Dad.

After a couple more minutes, a door swings open and Dad walks out.

Carl’s heart drops into his stomach. He detaches himself carelessly from Michonne, immediately racing to Dad like there’s an invisible force pulling him to him. He stumbles over his steps. He could keel over; his legs feel like jelly, his limbs loose, hindering and hanging on him. His mind has erased everything else around him, pinpointed only to one goal and one goal only.

Dad, he mouths, but his voice doesn’t come.

“Hey,” Dad says, hand reaching out to Carl. “You might want to stay back.”

Carl thinks he’s saying something, but he can’t hear him.

“Dad,” Carl gasps, rushing to him. He wraps his arms around Dad’s waist, grasping, desperate, his fingers tangling into the thin cotton of his shirt. Carl breathes in the smell of him—sweat, blood, the dead, old scent that always seems to trail after an encounter with walkers—but Carl couldn’t care less. Dad is warm under his touch, whole, moving, breathing. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” Carl says. His voice is thick, so slurred with emotion it’s a moan.

“Carl,” he can hear Dad murmuring. “Shhh.”

“Dad, daddy,” he hiccups. He knows he’s babbling and he can’t stop. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you come out.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dad says gently, “I’m here, baby. I’m fine. But back away.”

Dad gently pushes Carl away from him, taking his warmth and familiar scent with him. Carl could cry.

He frowns. “I had to use one of the guns by the gate,” he explains, spreading his hands open in apology. Dad—Dad’s gonna be mad at him. Carl can tell.

Dad gives that a beat to sink in, really register. His gaze turns icey at the realization, takes a slow step toward Carl. Carl shivers and backs away.

“I-I swear,” Carl says, “I didn’t want to.” Dad, he’s about to say. God, what had he called him? Carl winces. He doesn’t think he’s called him anything other than Dad in years.

Dad takes another step, and this time Carl flushes hot all over, his breath hitching.

“I was coming back,” Michonne says behind him. “I fell.”

Her voice is a much-needed interruption from what—whatever it was that just passed between him and Dad. It does enough to distract Dad at least, has him looking up and away from Carl.

“They came out and helped me,” Michonne says.

“Are you all right?” Dad asks, looking at Michonne’s leg. Carl is slighted he didn’t ask the same of him.

“What happened in there?” Maggie pipes in.

“Patrick got sick last night,” Dad says, glancing briefly at Carl. “Some kind of flu. It moves fast. we think he died and attacked the cell block.”

Carl is shocked into silence.

“Look,” Dad says, leaning down to speak to him, voice low and sympathetic. “I know he was your friend. He was a good kid. I’m sorry, baby.”

Carl’s frown deepens. He steps towards Dad, seeking comfort. Dad shakes his head and puts a hand up, urging Carl away.

“You shouldn’t get too close to anyone exposed,” Dad says, frowning. “At least for a little while.”

“But Dad,” Carl rasps, finding his voice again. He sounds small and pathetic.

Dad quiets him with a stern look.

It’s all Carl can do to back away slowly and, once he’s sure Dad’s not going to change his mind, returns to Michonne and Maggie.

Heart in his stomach, Carl focuses on keeping them safe for now and retreating to the secure cell blocks. Dad looks fine, albeit a little shaken up like all of them. He’ll be fine.

Carl will just have to find another way to talk to him later.

—

Dad doesn’t look happy about any of it.

As soon as Carl saw Dad hauling the piglets onto the idling truck, apathetic Daryl on the driver’s seat, Carl knew their plan. He didn’t stick around long enough to see it, knew logically that something had to be done about the walkers pushing up against their defences, the hoard thickening after the gunfire attracted several dozen more to their borders. Carl knew they had to sacrifice something to fix it. That’s what always happened.

Even through the thick walls of the prison he swore he could hear their squeals as they were fed, one by one, to the hoard to lead them away from the prison. And there went Violet and all her babies. Dead.

Dad is hauling the meagre pallets and planks of wood they’d built the small pig sty out of. From afar, Carl can see him straining to lift each piece, restless, anxious. Watching him makes Carl feel much the same.

He walks, hesitantly at first, then with growing determination, towards his dad. He needs to talk to him. Needs to touch him. He’s still shaken up after all. He needs Dad to comfort him.

“Not this time,” Dad says. Carl isn’t sure what he means. He frowns.

The sun is setting, the sky an unpleasant yellow.

Dad is covered in blood. It should be disgusting.

Carl looks around, looking for something to say. He never got to know them much, but the people who died after the attack deserved to live as much as the rest of them. And now they’d lost the pigs, too.

“Think the pigs made them sick?” Carl asks.

“Or,” Dad says, lifting another plank onto the growing pile, “we made the pigs sick.”

Carl watches Dad work, brow twisted with a million thoughts, sweating with exertion. His dad has never been afraid to get dirty, really dig his knees in the soil and do the hard work. Carl finds the field actually really suits him; he’s a rugged kind of handsome with his beard and long hair and flannel shirt, like he wouldn’t be out of place in a farmer’s commercial—but not the ones in overalls, more like the cowboy boots kind—touting homegrown American values and carrots. Carl wonders if he hadn’t been a cop, he’d be a farmer instead.

Mom never let Carl get too dirty, always fussing with his clothes and hair. He wasn’t allowed to jump into many rain puddles when she was around. Even now, with her gone, Carl feels like Dad’s taken on the mantle to protect him from stuff like that, too.

It’s the only explanation for why right now, next to him, Carl’s relative cleanliness borders on immaculate.

“Hey,” Dad says softly. He puts another plank down. Half the walls of the sty are already gone.

“I think we should stay away from Judy a while,” Dad says. “Just in case.”

“Okay,” Carl says. He’d been thinking the same—has already limited how much contact he’s had with her.

“I don’t like it,” Dad says, frowning, “but we—”

“I know,” Carl says. He kicks a stray piece of wood, watching it roll away. “We have to protect her.”

Dad looks at him. Carl meets his gaze, challenging himself not to turn away. He blushes under the intensity of Dad’s expression.

“Yeah,” he says. “We do.” He looks pleased, proud even. Carl resists the urge to preen.

Carl thinks it’s time to relay his little message about Carol.

“Dad?” His voice sounds so small.

I’m not asking you to lie, Carol’s voice echoes in his head. I’m asking you not to say anything.

Carl takes a deep, calming breath. He isn’t going to lie to Dad. He doesn’t want to. This feels like some kind of test for him, like his loyalty to his father is somehow being questioned. It isn’t the first time he’s found himself in a situation like this; he’s developed a bad habit of being where he shouldn’t, unassuming he can sometimes get with his steps too quiet, presence too small when he’s not with Dad. It’s caused him to stumble upon a small affair or two, or one too many stolen meals or stashed away goods that weren’t disclosed to everyone right away. Just little white lies the others have told him not to reveal to Dad—out of fear or other consequences, Carl isn’t really sure. His dad’s not cruel. He’s fair.

Carl isn’t some kind of sneaky little snitch. He really isn’t, he always insist to them, but they don’t always believe him. It doesn’t help that he always tells Dad eventually, like an obedient little boy.

“Carol’s been teaching the kids how to use weapons. How to kill,” Carl says. He silently resigns to his fate of being Dad’s messenger for now. “Their parents don’t know and she doesn’t want you to know.”

Dad’s not looking at him. He’s got a thoughtful look in his eye, looking off into the treeline.

“I think you should let her,” Carl says. It’s what he really thinks, after all. They can’t lay around and be defenseless forever, not even the kids. Today was just proof of that. He watches Dad, but he doesn’t seem to move an inch. Carl hopes he can at least get his two cents in while he has the chance.

“I know it’s not up to you,” Carl says, taking another careful breath. “But it should be.” He thinks this is what it must be like to be an adult then, to play the game. He agrees with what Carol is trying to do, but clearly Dad needs to hear some affirmation about his own role in all of it. Carl can give that to him.

Dad dumps the canister of gasoline he’s been holding onto the pile of wood. They watch for a few seconds as gas pours out, gas they could have been using on supply runs—now yet another thing gone to waste—until it slows down to a trickle. Carl takes a small step back.

“Dad?”

“Thank you for telling me,” Dad says.

“Yeah,” Carl says.

“I won’t stop her. I won’t say anything,” Dad says. It’s no answer to the problem. Carl feels useless in the moment; he wants Dad to step up, be the real leader they need. But he’s not so stupid as to straight up admit that. Besides, he’d just sound like a whining, entitled kid—the very thing he’s been trying to avoid becoming.

Dad lights a match and they both watch as the wood pile bursts into flames. It starts slow at first, the kindling at the bottom taking a second to ignite, but the fire quickly works its way up to the rest of the dry wood, until Carl can smell that distinct scent of woodfire he’s become so accustomed to these days to cook their food and warm the colder nights—until he can feel the heat on his face, though maybe that had already been there.

“Carl?” Dad opens a tool box, and Carl makes his way to him. He pulls out Carl’s gun, wrapped haphazardly in a dirty rag like an afterthought. He hands it back to Carl slowly, the grip facing Carl, the barrel pointing down, just like how Dad first taught him from what feels like an eternity ago.

Carl reaches out. It almost doesn’t process to him—the amount of trust Dad is showing to him now. After everything they’ve gone through with Mom, with the last few months, Carl wasn’t expecting that today of all days would lead to such a turn. But the reminder of the proximity of danger must have shifted something in his father. Carl can see it in his steely eyes as he looks up at him, taking the gun. His fingertips brush Dad’s hand and that hard look remains. Dad’s not looking at the gun at all now. Just at Carl.

The small point of contact thrills him. Dad must realize he can’t always be there to protect Carl—that he’s going to need something else when things get real dire and he’s not around.

He watches silently as Dad ties his holster around his waist and picks up his revolver. Carl’s only held it the one time when Dad first taught him how to shoot. It’s as heavy as Carl’s pistol, but the barrel is wider. It made Carl’s hand cramp up after a while and Dad had to help him hold it up, his warm grip around Carl’s hand sure and steady. Seeing it in Dad’s hand, it looks perfectly sized, like it’s always meant to be his.

The memory of those first times warms Carl. Dad holsters his gun, comes up real close to him and reaches out. His touch is hesitant at first. Not shaky, just testing to see if Carl will step away. When Carl doesn’t, he pets his hair, his hand heavy and smelling of gasoline. Carl breathes it in greedily, steps even closer, his mouth splitting open in a silent gasp as Dad pets his hair, as Dad reaches down to his nape and grips it a bit under his hand, his calloused thumb brushing the sensitive shell of Carl’s ear. His hand slowly settles even lower, wide enough to wrap almost entirely around Carl’s neck. The heat of his skin like a brand, like a—like a collar.

Carl wants it there forever.

—

Lately, he’s been having dreams.

He guesses it’s what people would call a growth spurt. Not that long ago, Carl could curl up nicely with Mom in a cell bed comfortably. Now, he doesn’t think he’d manage the same without falling over. He appreciates the space though, and finds himself stretching out on his shabby bedding arrangements that aren’t so bad once he got used to them—it’s much nicer than sleeping in a tent or an RV, anyways. But he notices he does get cold sometimes. Without Mom, he doesn’t get as much of the physical attention he’s been so used to.

He tries to convince himself that he doesn’t need it. He’s seen too much at his age to fully consider himself some stupid kid now, despite what other people say or think of him when they see him. He bets he’s seen way more messed up things than the stragglers from Woodbury ever saw in their cozy houses.

He’s hardened now. He’s no kid. He’s practically a man.

But it backfires.

Isolated in a faraway cell block with the rest of the kids and Hershel, Carl is nearly clawing at the walls.

He misses Dad. He needs Dad.

Curled up in the farthest bed in the block, with nothing but his backpack to keep him company, Carl shivers under his shoddy blankets. Yeah, without Mom, he hasn’t gotten his fair share of hugs in a while. Dad tries his best to show him affection, but he never stepped up much since she died, too busy drowning in his own grief. Carl doesn’t blame him, but he also does.

Carl thinks it’s just some weird brain thing—like how water or food tastes that much better when you’ve gone too long without it. With Mom, he never took much notice of her little touches, holding his hand and petting his hair, calling him her sweet boy.

In her absence, Dad tries. But because it’s so infrequent, Carl finds himself latching onto them—powerfully, to say the least. He cringes, curling further into his blanket. Mom was always soft, smelled good, like home. But with Dad…

Carl bites his lip. Squirms. Dad smells good, too. But he’s not soft, got scars and calluses on his palms, fingers, from his days in the field and all the hard work, after the end of the world, keeping Carl alive and safe. Dad usually doesn’t hold his hand, just grasps him firmly, friendly, on his shoulder, his hand eclipsing it, the width of it able to wrap entirely around Carl’s arm—could probably crush him if he wanted to.

In his bed, he flips on his other side.

When Mom petted his hair, she did it gently. Dad’s gentle, too, real gentle. But he reaches further down Carl’s neck, grasps his nape, rubs his fingers on the thin skin of it so Carl can feel every scratch of rough skin, feel the warmth and smell the scent of him, like a claiming brand, feels it even after Dad’s pulled his hand away. He wonders sometimes, when Dad does it around other people, if Dad does it so they can see Carl belongs to him and only him, wonders too if people can tell Carl absolutely revels in it, the thought, the signal of his claiming. He knows it’s crazy, but even after Dad’s long gone Carl can still smell him somewhere on his body, like something animal’s been unlocked inside him.

Carl craves it, he realizes, craves Dad’s touch. His need for it has grown seemingly exponentially knowing he now can’t have it—is blatantly refused it—and it hasn’t even been a full day.

Heat pools in his cheeks, eyes burning with unshed tears at the unfairness of it all. His belly starts to get warm, too, the kind of sensation he knows he only gets when he’s half-awake, legs achy and feeling wound up, hearing the rumble of Dad’s voice in the near distance, just outside his cell/room.

But this time, he’s wide awake for it, is fully cognizant of the lull of his own arousal.

Dad. He wants to whine. A bit of it does come out—he turns and muffles it into his pillow. What did Dad say? He shushed him so nice when Carl ran up to him so frantically, held him tight in his arms, bloody and corded in muscle, so different from Mom, tough, yeah, but sweet, oh, so sweet, and called him baby, his baby.

Carl gasps. He doesn’t realize he’d shut his eyes. He cracks them open, just to see if anyone could’ve heard, but they’re all congregated somewhere outside the room, the evening creeping in slowly but surely and dimming the building’s interiors.

Deeming it safe, Cark bites his lip and worms his hand under the blankets, then under his pants.

He gasps again, a hot, hitching little thing. The relief of his hand on his—his—he blushes. He can’t even think it—the word. He can’t think straight at all, can’t think of anything but…

Dad always looks at him so intensely, like he’s taking Carl apart just with his eyes alone. The thought of it makes Carl twitch down there, makes him get all wet and slick, making the glide of his fingers go easier, faster, his toes curling in his socks.

Daddy, Carl wants to moan. The shock of arousal surprises him. Yeah, he thinks, that’s what he needs. Dad’s gotta step up now that it’s just gonna be him, taking care of Carl and Judy. He’s gotta be good, gotta be soft—softer, give everything Carl wants even when he doesn’t want it himself.

Carl shoves his knuckles in his mouth. He strokes himself faster, images of Dad flashing before his eyes, his mind retracing the last few days: Dad’s thumb on his chin, licking him up all sweet, the low drawl of his voice, the brush of his rough stubble on Carl’s soft cheek when he hugged him, the unrelenting give of his body, solid under Carl, so capable but holding so much back.

That must be it, Carl thinks. Maybe Dad doesn’t think he can handle it—really does think Carl’s too weak. Like Carl’s gonna cry out, scream, shout, if one day Dad’s not so gentle, if he’s rough and pushes Carl around, or instead of cradling his nape, grips his hair tight in his big fist and pulls, or maybe he’d push him down, his purr turning into a growl, spreads Carl apart, his legs—

The pleasure of it is blinding, paralyzing, his body intoxicated with so much pleasure he can barely think, all his thoughts reduced to nothing but a mantra of Dad, Dad, oh Dad, daddy—

Carl’s body grows rigid and he arches his back, muscles shaking as he releases into his hand with a breathy gasp. His right palm gets sticky quickly, the wetness of his release still a novelty to him. He slowly winds it up and out of the blanket, staring at what he’s made, still panting, out of breath, shaking and sweating from the exertion. He—he’s so needy.

The brief spark of anger and self-loathing makes him growl out a small noise. He wipes his hand carelessly on his blanket and turns around again, so he’s facing the opposite wall of the cell. The bed next to him sits empty except for his bag, where he packed his most important thing, the nice photo of him and Mom and Dad—a perfect little family.

He knows they weren’t kidding anyone.