"You'll never recover from that kind of devotion."

For now— I am mainly just focused on writing for Carl grimes, as I've got a little thing for him at the moment. I am never not writing… but I am new to this entire thing, and thus will be stumbling through it all and clumsily posting & then running away screaming. Author is a loser everybody... booo!! booo!! tomato tomato tomato!!

Entirely a Male-reader [maybe gender neutral] blog, and I am a subtop/top male reader truther.

I can and probably will write for other fandoms, of course. Any I'm into, or for any character I have similar feelings for.

I can write smut, I've just never had sex, so It will not be the best or the realest— and neither are something I've done just yet… BUT I am very self aware, so If I do, I doubt it to be too clunky; just embarrassing. This author is a freaky virgin, please keep that in mind.

I will NOT write; Rape, Sexual assault, or anything of the like that is Illegal or harmful. Do not expect that here, and if you end up requesting, I will not respond to anything the above in this passage.

Not the type to constantly update [I'm flustered enough just having to post my works, though it is something I enjoy], so I'll usually just randomly drop a 10k or more fic and high tail it for the hills.

Whining lowly, Ryland rolls over onto his tummy, mindlessly reaching over to pull himself closer to you so he could leech from your heat— but all he palms are the empty blankets, devoid of both your body and your warmth.

He's not sure which he mourns more.

"[Name]…" He grumbles, his voice muffled from his pillow, but it becomes clearer and normal as he flips himself over onto his back. For a minute, all he does is lay there, stretching widely and groaning at the pleasant ache.

He disliked when you'd get out of bed before or without him. It felt alike a betrayal— moreso the fact that he couldn't cuddle up to you and attempt to convince you to stay in bed a little longer with him, than anything you'd actually done.

Calling your name again, he lets his arms fall onto the bed beside him as he yawns, letting the silence of the lack of response blanket the room. He can't hear the shower on, either, so he sluggishly lifts his head up, squinting slightly as he glances around the room.

What he notices first are your dresser drawers are still open — you had a habit of not closing them to avoid making more noise when he was sleeping — so you must've at least already showered… or changed.

Were you going out to do something? He can't recall you saying anything about doing so.

Kicking his blankets off, he climbs out of bed, stumbling as the comforter stays coiled around his leg— It takes a second, but he gets it off before tiredly snagging his glasses off of his bed-side table, finally making it over to the door without any further troubles.

Sliding them on to rest along the bridge of his nose, he pulls the door open, blinking slowly and letting his vision clear as he walks down the hall; he can hear music playing, so he follows that rather than just meandering destination-less.

So you hadn't gone anywhere.

At the thought, something in his chest eases, unfurling what he hadn't even realized was tense.

Jeez.

Maybe the "Always within close proximity of you for over a handful of years," truly did do more to him than he'd realized… aside from not being able to sleep unless he was near you, anyway, but he knew that was a normal side-effect of being in close quarters to someone, alone (mostly), for years. It was natural, but he held only a little shame over it.

Over how needy it made him feel.

Rounding the end of the hall, he peers around the wall and into the kitchen; and upon finally spotting you, his body stops him in his tracks without his permission, keeping him near the wall just beyond the threshold of the kitchen.

You've got your spine to him, blissfully unaware of his staring as you mess with something in a "pan," on the "burner." An organized mess lays spread out on the counter— the tub of butter with a butter-knife (not really, but it's one of the ones Adrian and Rocky created as a substitute) stuck in it, a cutting-board slick with cut "strawberries," (again, an Eridian substitute) and their juices…

"Are you making breakfast?" He blurts, feeling the words tumble tiredly out of his mouth before his brain even registered the fact he was talking.

Your shoulders lift just faintly.

When you quickly turn around at the sound of his voice, he's graced with your surprised but stupidly pretty face— his heart jumps in his chest as his gaze flits between you, a random object, and back to you, stuttering in its usual rhythm as he fights the urge to stare.

Just… you look great. Annoyingly great for the time of the morning; you look as if you could've been an ageless, celestial being, while he's just… him. Messy, exhausted, with a likely chance of sleep-lines still indented into the fat of his cheeks.

Just Ryland.

Just yours.

It takes him a minute to get out of his head so he can focus on the face you're talking.

"Mmn. Rocky 'n his cluster dropped some stuff off pretty early," You respond, and he watches the way your head tilts just slightly, then the way your eyebrows draw together in subtle concern. "I told them to come back later, so you could sleep. Did I wake you up?"

He swallows, breathing in slowly through his parted lips.

Does he look as ruffled as he feels? He can't tell.

"No— no, you didn't, so… don't worry." He fumbles, shaking his head as he adjusts on his feet, then he reaches up, running his hand through his sleep-tussled hair to try to straighten it out some. "What'd you get up so early for?"

As his voice cracks from left-over sleep, he winces.

After a second, he finally urges his feet forward and steps into the kitchen, lifting himself up onto his toes so he can see what you're making— and within the pan looks like a stranger version of pancakes… if they were dark, blue, and a lot thicker.

He continues. "Are those pancakes?"

My god, I haven't had any of those in forever.

Between Me-burgers and Rocky's Erid version of vaguely shaped coma-sludge, he'd almost bid anything that didn't taste slightly metallic good-bye.

"Maaaybe," You drawl, and his gaze flits quickly between your face and the pan— though it slows its switch when a smug smile pulls upon your mouth. "Robert, Balboa, Junior, and Rocky were knockin' on the door pretty hard this morning. Woke me up,"

"I'm going to take a guess and say this was why?" He pipes up, raising an eyebrow curiously as he shifts on his feet. "Seriously, this is amazing stuff— smells good, too, surprisingly."

You laugh as you turn back to what you're cooking, and he watches over your shoulder as you flip the make-shift pancake, feeling curiousity nag in his brain rather incessantly; he was eager, sue him.

"Bingo," You muse, "They were pretty excited to show me. They wanted to wake you up so you could see it too, but… I figured you could use the sleep."

"Yeah," He murmurs, stepping back to lean against the counter— the edge is cold against his back, so he pulls away pretty quickly and with a shudder. "You're probably right."

It's true; getting used to and settled into Erid has definitely taken some tolls on his general function. The gravity, the "food," the new-found space, the bio-dome (he always got jittery with excitement when he'd look at it, and their creations)…

He hasn't slept that well anymore lately, unless you'd…

Actually, he probably shouldn't think about that now. It was way too early.

Nonetheless, he did last night, and he feels pretty good— or maybe that's just the idea of trying this new formula of food.

Okay, listen…

He was going to try to wait, but he can't anymore.

The idea is too appealing.

Pushing away from the counter, he slips behind you and over to the plate of already-done pancakes, ignoring your snicker and the side-look you give him.

"What?" He questions (rather cheekily), before tearing a piece of one off, then tearing that into two, "Are you trying to say you're not just as excited to try this as me? I mean, come on, it's space pancakes! Who doesn't want to try space pancakes?"

"No, no," You laugh, shaking your head with a smile he catches even through the corner of his eye, "I didn't say anything. Continue, please."

"Uh-huh, that's what I thought."

Humming a low, confident noise, he hands you your piece before shoving his own into his mouth, falling quiet and trying to desipher the taste the moment he does so. You do the same, and for a moment, only the music you're playing keeps the room from true silence.

Until he breaks it.

"It's kind of sweet," He announces, his eyebrows furrowing curiously as he swallows, "In a weird, almost tangy way. It's also very thick. Do you know what they made it out of? Did they say?"

Lifting his gaze, he looks over to you, his focus roaming over your expression to see what you're thinking— of it, of the experience, of his opinion.

You nod slowly, swallowing. "Some group of stuff, but I don't know of what. They didn't have a word for it." You pause, running your tongue along the front of your teeth. "I agree, though. It's pleasantly odd."

"It's better than coma-sludge," He muses, snickering to himself. "Anything is better than coma-sludge."

Tearing another piece off, he tries it again, attempting to find anything he didn't the first time about it— whilst he does so, you turn the "burner," off, pulling the last pancake from the pan and setting it atop the others on the plate.

It's tasty, again, in a weird, unfamiliar way. It's enjoyable— he could get used to this pretty quickly.

You, breakfast every morning, trying new things…

"Coffee's back in stock, by the way," You pipe up, breaking the short bout of quiet between the song changing. "They dropped more off for you."

His eyebrows twitch upward, and he follows the rough gesture of your hand to the tub of the aforementioned Coffee, sat over in the corner counter-top. It wasn't quite like earth Coffee— in the way that he could only have very, very little. Any more than that, and he'd be up for two straight days.

He's speaking from experience here.

He'd rather avoid a repeat offense.

"Thanks," He murmurs, shoving another piece of pancake into his mouth as he moves across the kitchen, quickly getting himself some— at the sight of the leaves being radiation green instead of yellow, he pauses. "Why is this one green? I don't remember the last one being this vibrant. Or green."

"Different plant subspecies, I guess," You shrug, moving within the kitchen to get yourself your own drink. "You can ask 'em when they come back— they said they were supposed to, anyway. Robert really didn't want to leave the first time."

"Really? It's usually Junior that hates to leave."

"Mhm," Your voice softens just faintly, and a breath of a laugh tumbles from your mouth right after— his brain latches on to the noise, and he suddenly wishes you weren't playing any music so he could've heard it better. "Heard some notes from him I hadn't ever heard before when Adrian was nudging him away from the door. It was kind-of cute."

Picturing the image in his head, he nods slowly, feeling a small smile pull the corner of his mouth upward. "…Yeah, that does sound cute. Wish I could've seen it."

He moves on with a curious sound, pushing the little container a bit more back and away from the edge — he'd knocked it over twice just like this before — before he reaches upward, pulling the cabinet above him open and snagging a cup from inside.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything; the only reason he's not rambling and asking you all sorts of questions about what notes Robert made and what they could've meant was because he knew you liked the song playing; Lorraine, by The Excellents.

It was a good song. He liked it too.

Closing the cabinet, he exhales slowly, getting his coffee made as you hummed lowly to the song behind him— the sound kept him from getting too far within his thoughts, from soiling his own mood dwelling on things he knew he couldn't fix.

He had quite the habit of that.

Characteristically, he can't hold his tongue for long, even with his hands busy. "Did they say when they were coming?"

"Mm-mm."

Grunting a lazy form of acknowledgement, he closes the container of coffee, nudging it back into its typical spot before he grabs a spoon and his cup, moving over to the island counter beside you. You're idly eating one of the pancakes, fiddling on the laptop— as it was your day to have it. It got passed between the two of you and Rocky like a tennis-ball; you'd have it for a few days, then Rocky would come to the door and demand it was, quote, Rocky's day for the human technology again.

It usually wasn't.

He stirs his drink in a lazy, broken rhythm before lifting it to his lips, more caught up on staring at your hands as you type than anything else.

What you'd done with those exact hands; from fixing the Hail Mary on the trip here, to logging all of the little Pebbles' questions so he'd remember them for their next class, to sinking your fingers in his side while he'd—

He chokes on his sip, quickly pulling the cup away from his mouth like it burned. He covers his mouth with his other hand, coughing into his fist before bringing his arm up and continuing to into his elbow, turning away from you both to hide the heat in his cheeks, and protect you from his germs.

"Wha— Are you okay?"

Your voice, as concerned and gentle it is, helps nothing good at the moment.

All is does is remind him of how it sounds similar whilst doing other things, just more broken and out-of-breath— how he affected you then, that he could make you sound like that, how good you made him feel during…

Yeah? You're sure?

"Yes!" He blurts, voice raised and a lot louder than he meant it to be— he clears his throat, shaking his head rapidly. "I— I mean, yes. I'm okay. It was just… a lot, uh, warmer than I expected it to be. Sorry, hah."

He laughs awkwardly, keeping his gaze focused on anything but you, even when the heat of your hand seeps into his shoulder as you place it there. He has to wrestle the instinct to not sink into your touch, to lean back and stop pretending he didn't want to be all over you, all the time.

His cheeks have never felt hotter.

"Ryland," You call, the underbelly of your voice easing just slightly around the syllables.

His name sounds almost holy when you say it like that.

"W— What is it?"

Rocky and Adrian are coming later, he reminds himself, there's no time for anything. Focus on… quite literally anything else, for the love of science.

"You're sure? It didn't burn you or anything, did it?" You pull on his shoulder just slightly, and his brain crumbles almost instantly— finally letting you turn him to face you, even when he feels ashamed about the fact he's getting worked up over you just existing around him.

That's embarrassing— that's what teenagers do. He's passed that age twice over.

"…Yes," He mumbles, "I'm sure. It was just a common, humanly mishap. Everyone makes those… on Earth."

In his peripheral, he can see your eyes as they flit around his face, as if checking for any damage anyway. After your shoulders ease, your hand slips from his shoulder and to his bicep, making warmth bloom all the way down everywhere you touch and his breathing kick up a notch.

Now he's getting really distracted.

"See?" He continues, clearing his throat softly as he looks away, back to you, away again, then back to you. "Just clumsy, like always."

I want to kiss you so bad.

He wants to kiss you so badly.

Humiliatingly badly.

You seem to notice it, too— the inferno and the embarrassment in his stomach twist and tangle strangely as he glances up, catching the way your expression changes from worried to… something else. He feels like he needs to talk about something, anything, to distract himself from his own emotions; his want to touch you, his need for you to kiss him at least once right now, just to stave it off for a little while.

"You know, um, we— we should probably eat," He laughs, but it's strained and airy, almost shy. "You know, before Rock and his family get here?"

Attempting to force his brain to want you to let go, he steps back, and when your hand falls and the bottom of his spine bumps into the edge of the cold counter-top, he swallows. Loudly.

He misses your touch almost instantly, and he's the one who made you stop.

He was a coward.

You say nothing, but the amusement on your face is leaving enough hints that he can put together.

Your silence makes it all the worse; you're just staring, letting himself run around in circles like a dog chasing their tail. It makes him feel exposed, bare— though you make that feel good. Weirdly good.

Before the Hail Mary, when someone made him feel this way, he'd just shut down and run away screaming internally. But he doesn't want to do that with you, no. Instead, all he wants is for you to draw him closer, warm him up with yourself, make his brain turn off for a little while.

You don't make it feel like a bad thing.

"You, uh, you know how Rocky gets," He continues, each of his open-mouthed breaths coming in quicker and quicker the longer you stare— his heart is beating so fast, he can hear it in his own ears. "All annoyed and grouchy for how— how long we take to finish."

Again, you just raise an eyebrow, just slightly, and say nothing. Not even a single one of your typical hums, or casual grunts of acknowledgement.

He gives up.

Hanging his head, he presses the heels of his palms into the cool edge of the counter, aiming for a physical distraction from his own slew of embarrassment and shame; but his body feels so hot he barely registers it, his focus being yanked towards you and your presence no matter how hard he tries to pull it away.

You were like his North Star, constantly drawing him towards you no matter where he was or what he'd try.

"I give up," He announces lamely, picking his head back up and licking his lips. "I give up. Just—"

He doesn't even know what he wants to say; what he was going to say. Instead, he finally shuts up, looking at anything that isn't you. The wall, the cabinets, his shoes, your throa— the flooring, the pancakes sitting on the counter that are probably cold by now.

Sucking in a long, steady breath through his mouth, he glances back to you, staring at the expression on your face as you just stand there, fingers curled into your palm like you were waiting for permission to do something.

"Just…"

He still doesn't know— but something in his chest claws at the cage of his ribs, just waiting for him to figure it out, to say it.

You weren't the teasing type; playful, yes, but not in moments like these, where he was fumbling over himself. He's not sure if your silence or the teasing would be better now.

"Just…?" You question, giving him time to figure it out, but also trying to help him along to whatever that truly was.

He shakes his head, letting his gaze drop back to the floor. "I don't know what I was going to say."

He can hear your clothes ruffle when you reach up, but what you do is out of his peripheral. "Do you know what you want?"

Does he?

Does he really?

He thinks he does. He just never had the chance to really think about it— on Earth, he didn't want to. On the Hail Mary, he never had time, never thought he'd live long enough to ever figure it out. But here, with you, he's got plenty, and he still… has no clue. He was emotionally aimless.

He knew what he loved doing. Teaching his students, talking with them, helping them learn and figure things out. He knew he liked it when you'd lay in bed together and he'd just ramble his brains out. He knew he always felt the most confident about himself when he was around you, that you soothed his random bubbles of insecurity and failure. He knew being around you felt good, an instant gratification for whatever stress he was having then.

He knew that…

He's found it.

You.

He wants you.

"You," He says finally. "I— I know I want you."

In a bout of strange self-assuredness, he tilts his head back up and fixes his gaze to your face, bouncing between making very intimate eye-contact and staring off somewhere at your collarbone so he doesn't have to watch your expression shift in the ways he knows it will.

It's almost odd; you've been together (At least technically, saying so felt nearly awkward) for a good while already. You've gone through the hoops, the near-deaths of finally getting here, all of the scary parts, but… saying a complexly simple I want you felt more big a jump than anything else.

Maybe it's how plain and sure it is. I want you. It's blunt; it doesn't need to be pulled apart for him or you to know exactly what it means at its core, as it's just as deep at its surface.

"O… Kay," Your voice sounds almost unsure for a second, but he's not sure if that's of yourself or him. Either way, it doesn't feel pleasant, unlike what tumbles from your mouth right after. "You've got me. All the way. I'm yours."

Your response repeats in his head once, twice, trying and failing to catch and sink in multiple times— he can feel his heart beat in his throat, in his fingertips, in his tense stomach.

I'm yours.

Your words finally register completely, making the tangle in his chest ease as his shoulder droop.

"Okay," He repeats, nodding once, then twice, like he was trying to convince himself of something. Of what, he's not one hundred percent in the know of. "Okay, okay, okay. Cool. Yeah, this is great, um… I should probably stop talking now— and preferably before I say something else really embarrassing… again. Sorry. I'm done now."

Instead of brushing him off, all you do is smile and step closer; steadily and slowly enough to give him ample time to decide what he wanted.

But he knows it now.

Standing up a little taller, he inhales shakily, looking down at your lips multiple times in the few seconds it takes you to be standing right in front of him. You're close enough he can feel your warmth, imagine the way you'll touch him next.

Should he be doing that? Probably not, but you don't look like you mind all that much.

You don't touch him like you do, either.

Your hand curls loosely, gently around his left wrist— he stares at you face, but you're staring at where you're touching, slowly dragging your fingers upward and ghosting your touch over the burn scars there. Your fingers press lightly into his underarm as you keep going, your thumb taking in a careful, rhythmic back-and-forth motion over the worst part of the scars.

He swallows.

"They, uh, they don't hurt anymore," He says, staring at your face, then watching the motion of your thumb. "If you were wondering."

You hum a low, affirmative sound, though your focus is clearly not pulled away from what you're doing with your hands. It feels strange— he couldn't sense the heat of your hand, or the feather-like pattern of your thumb, but his brain still acted like he could. It was more alike a phantom sensation, knowing he couldn't feel it, but his mind behaved otherwise.

What he feels almost completely is how intimate the moment is.

"I can't really feel anything there, either," He admits, voice lowered. "It's kind of weird."

"Should I stop?"

God, please, no.

He stops himself a split-second before those exact thoughts tumble from his brain and out of his mouth; a rare event for someone like himself. He's not sure if he should be grateful for this being the first time, but it takes the title nonetheless.

"No, you're, um, you're alright."

What's not alright is how badly he still wants you to kiss him— it's like it's all he can think about. Most days, the interest came sporadically, rather than any certain time (outside of the obvious), and rarely this intense. His brain tacked it as a physical need; like breathing, it physically ached that you weren't as close as he wanted.

It's half his fault, though. He knows it. He could man up, tell you himself, but he doesn't.

The feeling of your hand drifting upward pulls him from his thoughts, forcing him back into the present and to look at you. You look as focused as ever, but where a blank slate of an expression would typically lay, an intense, concentrated one takes its place this time.

"You look focused," He murmurs, a small, amused grin forming along the curves of his mouth. "Really focused. More than normal, you know."

Is he talking just to distract himself?

Maybe.

Can you tell?

Also maybe.

"Yeah?" You muse, gaze downcast and following the trail of goosebumps your hand carves into his skin— you slowly go up his arm, to his shoulder, then back down. Were you teasing him? He was unsure if you were doing it on purpose or not, but that mattered not to the slew of butterflies in his stomach.

"…Yeah," He agrees, swallowing quietly. "You do."

As your hand pulls from his wrist and slips over to the low of his hips, his breathing jumps almost instantly as your touch truly registers, making his stomach twitch and his mouth part. You caress him like he's something worthy, someone you're reverent of— at the thought, an unidentifiable emotion coils in his chest, suffocating his lungs like a disease.

"You, uh— You don't have to take your time or anything," He stutters, "You're not gonna break me… I think."

The jest comes out strained and slightly stiff, and the same goes for the shy, awkward laugh that trails it; he wasn't used to someone taking this much time just to touch him. It creates a strange but also pleasant concoction of emotions in his stomach.

Nerves, warmth, comfort, shyness, attraction…

You make him feel all sorts of funny ways, and most he's never felt before. At least not all at once.

"Mmn, I know," You mutter, your hands pulling his sleep shirt up as you splay them out over his ribs, "But rushing isn't any fun. Doesn't feel as good, either."

The cool air of the room laps at the bare parts of his stomach, a violent opposite to the blatant heat of your fingers as they curl around the curve of his side. You finally flit your gaze away from his stomach and up to his face, making him all of a sudden be aware of how hot his cheeks feel.

Is he blushing?

He's probably blushing.

You tilt your head. "All good?"

"Yes," He blurts, nodding almost immediately. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Can I kiss you?"

"Dumb question."

The kiss that comes after is heated.

He leans into it instantly, hands reaching out for your waist, his fingers tangling in the fabric of your shirt as he gasps into your mouth, letting his eyes close. You're so warm. And everywhere. His brain faintly registers the feeling of your hands tightening around the meat of the low of his hips, but what is accepted in full clarity is the groan that falls from your mouth and into his.

Tilting his head, he chases after your lips— getting what he's wanted has never felt so good. It's nearly euphoric, the need for more and more and more swallowing his shame and absorbing it whole. Even whilst he's losing oxygen and needs more, he doesn't want to move away.

And in doing that, you're forced to.

The second he senses you're about to pull back, his hold on your shirt tightens, wanting you close even as the burn of him losing his breath aches into his lungs, shooting warning signals to his brain he ignores until what feels like the last minute.

This time, he lets you move back without complaint, gasping for air the second your mouths disconnect— his brain feels almost fuzzy, like it's stuffed with cotton as you pant against him, your desperate breaths syncing for a split second before they fall out of rhythm again.

You nudge your forehead against his, the cold of the counter pressing into his back as you press against his front; he tilts his head back as you dip your head down, groaning as you mouth at his throat and press the tips of your teeth where you lick.

Your hands slide up his spine underneath his shirt, making a shudder drip down the notches of his spine as he leans into you more, wanting to tuck his nose into your pulse point and never move again.

"I love you," He breathes, resting his head against yours as he attempts to catch his breath. He only opens his eyes when he feels you plant kisses upwards, along his jawline and dotted around the corners of mouth— the way you do so, the way you kiss in general, is enthralling.

"I love you," You murmur, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw as you catch your breath, too. "So much."

Before he gets to say anything else, the doorbell rings once, twice, three times…

He loses count after the tenth time.

Wiping the sweat off of his hands and onto his pants, he exhales shakily, feeling his leg bounce beneath his palm— it feels like his heart is in his throat, and not in a good way. Not exactly in a bad way, either. It was a good-bad-way. That's what he'll settle on.

He doesn't know why he feels so anxious — maybe the three cups of coffee he's had today are to blame, — but he feels it nonetheless, strongly. And everywhere. It was established that this was just a casual, completely normal, platonic dat—- hang-out, between two close friends. That's all. Nothing big, nothing loud, just you, him, dinner, and a Museum.

Just you and him.

He's not quite sure when his heart started kicking up in pace at the thought it— of you, or when he'd day-dream about you, or when he'd play your voicemails on repeat when he couldn't focus just to hear your voice. Really, he's not, but that's not important now as he sits here outside of school, waiting for you to text him when you arrive.

Of course, you picking him up wasn't new— you were a pillar in his life, and he felt you almost everywhere. In his shitty, messy apartment, his brain, when he'd wear the sweaters you got him…

Everywhere.

"Mr. Grace?"

Blinking rapidly, he breaks from his thoughts, humming a low "Hm?" Automatically before he even glances over— and when he does, his gaze lands on Spencer, one of his rather excitable but caring students.

He sits up a little more. "Don't worry about the late work, Spencer. It's alright."

They shake their head. "No, that… Are you okay? You look pale and you've been sitting here and behaving like a crazy person for the past five minutes. Yeah, I've seen you check your phone a million times, too. I won't pretend I didn't."

Crazy person?

Looking away, a breathy, shy laugh falls from his lips as blush crawls across his cheeks, heating his face and making him feel awkward. In front of his own student.

Embarrassing.

"What? Yeah, no, I'm, uh, completely on the OK. Just waiting for a friend," He clears his throat, reaching up to straighten his glasses; just to give his hands something to do once he focuses back onto them. He feels exposed. "Why aren't you at the bus stop? You'll be late."

Spencer's eyes narrow, and he watches the skepticism crash onto their face the moment they register what he'd said.

"Riiiight…." They mutter, slowly stepping back. "You're a really bad liar, but I honestly don't want to know whatever you've got going on— and you're lucky it was me instead of Janet, so you should thank me by giving me a couple more days on my paper. You know, for not spilling your secrets… and keeping your privacy intact."

"Wha— I already gave you, like, three extensions!" He gapes, jaw dropping just slightly as he watches them slowly retreat. "You're still having trouble? Why didn't you tell me earlier when I talked about the work?"

"Bye, Mr. Grace! Have a nice date!" They chirp, walking off, completely ignoring his concerned imploring.

"Date? Who said anything about a date?"

He gets no answer.

Sinking back, he huffs, staring down at the ground between his Converse, embarrassed.

Oh my God, he thinks, running a hand down his face to distract from the heat blooming across his cheeks. What the heck was that?

Adjusting in his spot on the bench, he pulls his glasses from his face, rubbing one of his eyes with the pads of his fingers— embarrassment still lingers, pulling an inner coil in his stomach unpleasantly taut.

That was slightly humiliating; he'll no doubt be kept up by that later tonight— if he's not already hogged by grading papers he thought he'd already graded (but completely forgot about).

His thigh tingles with the absence of the buzzing of his phone, drawing him back to the ever-waiting present. You didn't have a track-record of being late quite like he did — He'd argue he's fashionably late — so you're bound to be here any moment now, and he won't be a waiting duck.

No. Instead, he'll be pretending he isn't caught up on the way your necklace hangs pleasantly from your throat, or the way your voice makes his chest tighten… Or the way you both help him focus on work and distract him completely from it.

Exhaling slowly to steady his heart-rate, he runs his palms up and down the front of his thighs, checking the time again. Four twenty-two. You got off work at three fifty today, and you'd texted that you were coming to pick him up around sixteen minutes after that. He got out of his class at four thirteen.

You made nearly ten minutes feel like an eternity— actually, correction, his nerves made it feel like an eternity.

This was a self-inflicted agony, he'd admit it to himself.

Did you die on the way up here or are you just stopped at a red light? He wonders, fishing his phone from his pocket to check over your texts again— but the screen flashes in his hand a second before he turns it on.

Your name graces the screen.

"I'm in the parking lot. You said by the bus pick up, right?"

He swallows, clicking the notification and unlocking his phone. Chewing on his lip, he looks up, letting his gaze wander over the cars in the lot, and after one moves, he spots your truck in the back near the sidewalk.

He looks back down.

"I see you," He types, sending the message before continuing to write another. "And yes. I almost thought you'd forgotten about me, haha."

Not wanting to see your reply to his own faintly embarrassing text, he turns his phone off, shoving it into his pocket as he stands up from the bench. He grabs his helmet from beside him, looping the chinstrap to hang around the handles of his bike before he nudges its kickstand up with the toe of his shoe.

For the love of everything science, he thinks, walking alongside his bike on the sidewalk, do not embarrass yourself tonight.

You just… do these things to him— make his stomach tie itself into knots, make him feel insane and giddy at the same-time; like he was one of the high schoolers he's teaching. All of a sudden, he regrets feeling any sort of adorable amusement at putting his students next to their crushes in the seating plans and watching them fumble around one-another.

This was kind-of awful, in a weirdly pleasant way.

Is that the definition of insanity? Who knows.

He slows his pace a little once he makes it half-way, glancing up and over to your vehicle only to spot you already out and waiting for him.

He stops.

You look way too darn good for a 4PM on a random Tuesday. Way too good.

"You clean up nice," He jests, clearing his throat softly afterward. "I feel honored. And under-dressed."

The cheesy grin that softens the curve of your lips makes his an inferno out of the hollow of his chest— then the heat drags upward, to the tips of his ears and to his cheeks.

"Yeah? I was kind-of in a rush," You muse, voice light. "But don't worry. I brought you a shirt."

"You did?" He chokes, letting you take his bicycle when you reach for it after he grabs his helmet; then, he watches as you heft it up into the back of your truck. The way you do it looks effortless, where he knows he would come off dorky and clunky.

You look so good.

It's messing with his brain's natural ability to function— the way your hair is a slight mess like you've been running your hands through it, the way the color of your necklace contrasts against the color of your shirt (and how attractive it looks, hanging in the space of the unbuttoned collar)…

Your voice yanks him from his daydreaming.

"'Course I did," You nod, stepping back over to him after you get his bike in the back, "You said you needed one, remember?"

Had he? He can't recall. He can't think.

"Right," He agrees instantly, trying to conceal the fact he completely did not. "Yeah, no I remember now. Thank-you— for the shirt and for… putting my bike up."

He reaches up, running his hand through his hair right as some of his students pass. He glances over to them, realizing his glasses are slightly smudged with his fingerprints once he does.

Whoops.

"Damn, Mr. Grace!" One of them pipes up, and he catches the up-down they give you, then the wolf-whistle they're about to do right before they do it. "How the hell did you bag that?"

If his face was hot before, it's on fire now.

"Jefferson!" He squeaks, turning away from you immediately as he gasps silently, "What the heck, dude? No one's bagging anything— whatever that means!"

"It means to score someone," Another pipes up, rather unhelpfully. "You know, like fuck. Or date."

"Emily, you're not helping— And you guys are supposed to be on the bus already, so what are you doing over here?"

Turning away, he coughs into his elbow — it's more of a nervous tick than any illness or need, — trying to give himself physical stimuli to draw his focus away from his hyper-awareness of you (And the way he heard you laugh) and the flush to his face.

It doesn't work.

"No one's doing any of that," He continues, rambling. "They're a friend. Strictly platonic— so kick your butts into gear and go get on the bus so you can go home."

"Riiiight, right," Jefferson waves his hand carelessly as he walks past the two of you, as if to push away Ryland's argument. "Invite me to the wedding!"

"Me too!" Another joins. "I would pay to see that."

He stares.

His heart is assaulting his rib-cage with its incessant, quick thumps— beating so hard he can feel it in his throat. Once he realizes his mouth is still open, he finally closes it, each of his exhales coming out shakily from his nose.

"They seem like a fun bunch," You hum, and he can hear the smile in your voice. It helps nothing. "Very entertaining."

"They are," He grumbles, embarrassed. "Try dealing with twelve of them at once. I think they shave years off of my life-span when they pull things like… that."

"At least they're comfortable enough to," You add, and he finally glances over to you, catching the way your shoulders drop from the tail end of a shrug. "It's cute."

That's true, he thinks, feeling his heart rate slow— pride and affection fill the space where embarrassment and shame laid, making his shoulders ease. As much as a hassle they were sometimes, he did truly love his kids.

"That's a nice way of looking at it," He agrees, nodding thoughtfully. "I like it. They're still gremlins, though."

Reaching up, he pulls his glasses from his face, tugging the bottom hem of his shirt away from his stomach and using the fabric to clean the lenses— in spite of the nerves you shoveled up within him just by being in proximity, you also soothed the rest; where he'd get caught up in his emotions and the technicalities of things, you had a habit of looking at the broader picture.

It was nice.

"Oh, no doubt." You add, snickering. "I've heard enough about them to know that for certain."

Humming an agreeing sound, he clears his throat, looking up— his eyes naturally squint lightly to see you, trying to catch the details he can't see without his glasses on habit.

"I guess I do tell you a lot about them, huh?" He breathes, smiling faintly. "I forget I tell you half of the things I do."

Releasing the hem of his shirt, he narrows his eyes, lifting his glasses up and peering through the lenses to check for smudges— once he deems them Clean Enough™, he slips them back on to rest atop the bridge of his nose.

"It's mostly in coffee-induced rambles," You shrug, "But yes. You ready to go, Mr. Grace?"

The way your voice lilts upward, almost teasing, has his brain catching.

"Uh, yeah," He coughs, "Absolutely."

The laugh that tumbles from your mouth loops brokenly in his head as he rounds the truck and pries the passenger-side door open, continuing on even as he climbs inside, sets his bike helmet in the back-seat, and closes the door after himself.

He fumbles to buckle up as you slip into the drivers seat, tugging on the belt after the buckle clips just to make sure it's in for good— yours clicks into place right after his. He leans back into the seat, exhaling slowly as he relaxes; it reeks of you in here.

And that's very far from a bad thing. You smell heavenly; it's almost intoxicating.

It makes him imagine how good it'd feel to wake up beside you, toss a leg over your hip, and bury his nose into your throat— the heat of your body, the comfort of your bed, the sleepy noise you'd make.

Oh, God.

He needs to clear his head. Preferably before he gets tangled in his thought and says something embarrassing—

"You look… nice."

Nevermind.

Doctor Captain Ryland Grace:

The Trick To Becoming A Space Doctor Is To Remember Your Training, Ryland!

Synopsis: When you get injured aboard the Hail Mary on the way to Erid, the only one who can help you is Doctor Captain Ryland Grace-- but he's a little sluggish to recall his medical training. Gender Neutral/Male Reader.

Today's Field Trip: A Not-Date.

Synopsis: Ryland spends a lot of time around you, that's no lie. What's also not a lie is the fact that his students have a penchant for embarrassing him in front of his long time friend-turned-crush; especially when that friend is picking him up after work for a Not-Date. Gender Neutral/Male Reader.

Can You Feel This?

Synopsis: Ryland wants to kiss you really badly. It's embarrassing-- but what sucks more than waiting for something is once he does get it, he doesn't have it for long without interruption. You're too good to pass up, though, so he'll take it with at least a little grace. Gender Neutral/Male Reader.

Just Another Thursday, Court Gentry:

"The Die is Cast."

Synopsis: What happens when Court's luck is Court's luck, and shit hits the fan? (A little snippet of an ongoing work.) Male Reader.

Kentucky-born Carl Grimes:

Words; they climb right out of my mouth (Chapter one).

Chapter Two.

Synopsis: Carl Grimes is going through the wringer, confused and questioning why he feels strange around one person in particular; You. His (male) best friend. Male Reader.

"Oh my god, that's so much blood—" His expression scrunches as he tightens his hold, the backs of his calves pressing into the cold underside of the table as he tries to stay seated atop your thighs, pushing his body-weight down into your injury. "Nope, nope— I can't do this! I am not a doctor!"

Yet here he was, straddling you because the table was too tall and horribly attempting to stave off the weeping wound in your gut.

He feels nauseous.

"Focus, Ryland," You snap, your voice straining through your gritted teeth, "You can't kill me. I need — Mnngh — you to, hah, to do this for me, okay? Can you do that?"

"No, I can't!"

Truly, he cannot do this. A cut or two? Just go to Armando! A large, shallow but pouring wound along your side that he can't do much for but you'll bleed out rather quickly if he doesn't and you can't move because it hurts too bad to and—

"I'm a school teacher, not a freaking open-heart surgeon! I get heart palpitations just thinking about social interaction with people that aren't half my age!" He blurts, his voice picking up in pitch as he winces, leaning over you and pressing a little harder to slow the blood loss in spite of his worrying.

Your whining rings out within the lab the moment he does so, echoing in his own head. Rocky would be chittering all over the place if he heard you, were he awake.

A copious amount of guilt follows at the way your voice cracks and how you choke on a groan beneath him, and he goes to pull back to stop hurting you— until your coil your hand insistingly tight around his wrist to keep him in his position; inforcing that, yes, he truly does not have a choice.

Okay, okay, I can do this. Piece of cake.

Either he acts like the grown-up he is and he helps you, or you bleed out and most likely die, here in space, on this table. He'd be all alone with Rocky— no one to read his mind for him, no one to help ease his stress when he gets caught up in the details in that infuriatingly comforting way you do, no one to...

He doesn't like those options. Or those thoughts, but they thicken and suffocate the self-confidence the moment it builds up.

You squeeze his wrist gently to pull him from his own head, but all he can focus on is the slick of blood coating your hand, and, in turn, his arm.

He shudders, trying to not gag.

"Grace," You ease, and he can tell you're trying to aim for your certain characteristic steadiness, but your voice shakes in pain and it's all he can hear. "Listen to me, okay? I need you out of your head for this."

Alright. Alright.

You were counting on him— for once, instead of the usual other way around. You needed him, and he was chickening out like a coward, feeling his eyes water up at just the sight and panic alone of you being hurt.

Man up. You've got this, he repeats the thought to himself once, then twice.

"G— Grace?"

"Okay, okay," He swallows, forcing his gaze back up to your face, rather than the hole in your stomach. "You. I… I got it. What do I do?"

"There's a med-kit in storage, it's… fuck, it's got all we need for now. I need you to get that for me— I've got this here. Go."

His hands are shaking.

Nodding jerkily, he exhales, tossing a leg over your side and stumbling off the table— he steadies himself against the wall, smearing a jagged, bloody hand-print against the metal before he pushes off of it, running over to storage.

"Med-kit, med-kit, med-kit," He repeats, blinking repeatedly as he climbs the wrings of the ladder, leaving a trail of bloody streaks from his hands along every one until he gets to the top.

"Storage, okay, I've got that. No problem! My friend totally isn't bleeding out in the lab or anything," He laughs shakily, sucking in a broken breath as he clambers into Storage and immediately starts searching for the little red box.

"This isn't happening. It's obviously just a dream. I'll wake up, nothing will have happened, and voila! World peace— Space peace!" He continues talking to himself, shoving a few pale boxes out of his way when he bumps into them.

As he yanks another box from his way, he finally spots it— attached to the wall behind the box-fortification of all the belongings you two had to move for Rocky to have enough room on the ship.

The trip back takes less time, but no less stumbles. He misses the bottom two wrings of the ladder and just jumps down, ignoring the ache in his spine as he races back to the lab, med-kit in hand.

The earlier anxiety instantly wells right back up to his throat the second he lays eyes on you.

"I found it," He pants, prying it open as he slows down beside the table, his hip bumping into the stool connected to the ship floor. "Are you okay? Can you even hear me? Am I talking to myself? Are you secretly dead and I'm all alone again?"

He's rambling. He should… probably stop that— or maybe not. It's good to keep injured people talking, he's heard.

He thinks so, anyway. He's not one hundred percent if that's true or not. He read it in a magazine, of all things.

He can't remember his medical training well enough when he needs it.

Go figure. It's just his luck.

"What? No. Do I look dead to you?" You rasp, scrunching your nose at him— whether due to pain or his own ridiculousness, he knows not. "Nevermind, just— there should be gauze in there, hah, …somewhere. A, uh, a little roll of it. The one we uses for your burns. Can you see it?"

Shifting on his feet, he quickly sifts through the contents of the box, pulling his hand out with a little white tube curled in his grip. His gaze flits back down to your wound on instinct, and he winces. "Uh, yes."

"Y—yes, that's it," You nod, only to moan and let your head fall back against the table, your hips adjusting to the change of your spines position. "Now, nhng, tear some off, and lay it over my side. We still need to stop the bleeding."

He can't focus.

Stress bounces in his brain, making a home of the space there— he can't think. He can't pay attention to anything but your pained expression, your short and sharp breathing, all of the blood…

Do I look dead to you?

"Alright," He manages, snapping back to and finally forcing himself to move. The sound of the gauze ripping covers your broken breaths, but it doesn't help any of his nerves to stop jumping around. "Okay, yeah. I've got this, right? Totally. The world is my oyster, and… my friend is bleeding out right in front of me."

"Ryland," You chime in, giving him a strained but steady look. "You'll do perfectly fine. It's a walk in the park— don't get in your head about it, okay? This is nothing."

At the sound of your reassurance — less the words you're saying and more of the trust in your voice —, something in his shoulders ease and the coil in his stomach loosens, just a little. You always did have a way to make him relax; how, he didn't know. It was like magic, really.

Or maybe that was just you.

He swallows, exhaling harshly as he hypes himself up internally. Once he's got enough gauze, you move your hand enough for him to lay it over the gash— the image of it makes him want to gag, but he surprises himself and chokes it back.

Your voice breaks him out, again.

"Very good," You nod, immediately placing your hand over his and applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. It hurts, and it shows in your face, but you brave it out. Guilt heats up his stomach like an unpleasant inferno. "Perfect, like I said."

It doesn't feel perfect, he thinks, you're bleeding out on the lab table, and I can't stop it.

You were braver than he could ever hope to be.

"What next? Is this it?" He breathes, clearing his throat as his gaze flits over you anxiously. Your shirt is almost completely torn and ruined on your left side, and something in his chest turns tender as he remembers it's one of your favorites.

He frowns.

"Just this," Your voice returns, "For the moment. We have to slow the bleeding before we can do anything, and… mng, then we sew me up. Staple me. Glue me. Whatever works. It's easy. Simple."

A pause.

"…I wish I could help you more," He admits, falling quiet immediately afterward.

I'm useless here, his brain gnaws the reminder endlessly.

He only realizes he'd actually said it aloud, rather than keep in it his head like he wanted, when you offer him a small, torturous smile. It was your trademark I'm okay on the physical smile, and it soothes nothing.

He watches it slip right off your face, and then the change your expression takes when you notice he's not jumping to change the topic like he usually would.

The heat of your hand on top of his almost burns; a nagging, searing reminder of the shame and the guilt playing house within the hollow of his chest.

He was supposed to be down in the engine room with you before. If he'd listened like he was supposed to, maybe you wouldn't be here; squirming on the cold table in the lab, pale and sweaty and in pain.

He tugs his hand out from underneath your own — it's not like he was helping any, anyway — and steps back, chewing on his bottom lip as he turns a little away from you— it's only to hide the way his jaw clenches and the way he squeezes his eyes shut, but he feels bad about that, too.

It felt wrong for him to not want you to see him cry, for some reason. Maybe it's the adrenaline crash, maybe it's himself, he doesn't know. Maybe it's the way you always make him feel.

Or it's the way his stomach churns at the expression that always washes over your face when you see him tear up; part guilt (as if it was ever your fault), part something he could never identify.

You were probably in more pain than he can imagine, but here he was. Making it weird and awkward with his own self-doubt while you, the one with the bleeding cut in your side, were holding it together more than he was.

It's quiet for a couple of minutes, until you break it with a sigh.

"…Grace," You mutter, and your voice is softer than before— gentle, a little tired. His last name sounds ridiculously pleasant coming from you.

"Hm?" He hums, clearing his throat right after to try to hide the fact that it felt raw, choked up.

You say nothing.

He turns, his heart-rate ticking up a smidge at the sudden silence, but it steadies out when he sees that you're still alive, albeit covered in your own blood and staring at him with a look in your eye he can't decipher— until he realizes.

You wanted him to turn and face you again, yet you knew he'd argue against if you'd asked or tried yourself.

You knew him.

The thought was scary.

Screw you and your stupidly good people-reading skills, he thinks, it's almost unfair.

It felt like he could barely tell what you were thinking when you didn't want him to, yet he was a toy in your hands no matter what he tried.

He exhales, the points of his K9s grinding together momentarily as he looks away, only to look right back— he wants to fix his glasses, run his hand down his face or pull his hair, but his hands are covered in blood. Blinking slowly, he sinks down into one of the stools at the table, nudging the med-kit out of his way.

"I can't remember the last time the ship was this quiet," You muse, another small smile crawling onto your lips. He can't help but notice it doesn't make it to your eyes. Few of them do. "Between you and Rocky… It's like a circus in here half the time."

A tiny laugh is pulled from his throat before he can stop it.

"There's a first time for everything," He remarks, clearing his throat again— it's more on habit than need. It gives him something to do with himself that's less obvious than fiddling with his shirt hem or his glasses. "He's the one who always starts it."

You snicker, but it's cut short by a faint groan as you adjust on the table. The cloud of pain that crosses over your expression is clear enough he can see it even through the smudged lenses of his glasses. The corners of his mouth twitch southward just faintly in a frown, but he catches it too late.

He's never not been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve; even now, he sucks at shielding his thoughts from his face. He's sluggish to notice.

"Right," You retort, shaking your head just slightly.

"What, you don't think so?" He sits up a little in his spot, more than willing to defend his side of the I don't start it, he starts it, war. He feels better now as you're not bleeding nearly as much, but he can't tell if you're changing the topic on purpose just to achieve that or not. Probably.

"Mmn. I'm the middle-man. I don't take sides."

"Yeah, okay," He huffs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward just a little— it was a lie and you knew it, too, by the smug and self-assured look on your face. "Totally believable."

You look good like that. Not bloody and hurt, but when you're letting loose more than you typically would and actually looking human. It's likely due to exhaustion and stress, and the realization alone soils the moment.

"Yeah, totally. Now go get the medical stapler so we can fix me up." You huff, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back, once, twice, then three times.

"So much for fuckin' Nikolai," Court grumbles, lifting his soaking-wet shirt up by the lower hem, over his head, and off. "Can't believe he broke on us."

He's still freezing.

"Doesn't surprise me too much," You pipe up, voice strained and gritted through pain— and on instinct, he glances over, tossing his shirt aside as he lets his gaze roam over your roughened, battered form. Your own shirt is tattered and ripped, clinging wetly to your figure as watered-down blood carves fluid rivers southward from the gash along your shoulder.

You look awful, but that's far from new in your shared luck.

Watching as you wince, he listens as you continue. "The guy wasn't exactly a pillar of American Loyalty."

"True, that." He agrees, voiced lowered.

Only three hours before, you both were completely fine— good, even. Warm, dry, and holed up in one of Nikolai's safe houses, awaiting new passports and some cash before you'd take off and advance in your missions only point: Kill Winslow Whitmore, the head researcher of (U)PRIOS; aka, (Universal) Parasitical Research Institute of Oregon State.

Too bad Nikolai got bought out and flunked trying to feed you both to the same CORP you were trying to kill.

He's dead now.

…Not like it matters. This was Just Another Thursday.

"How's the cut?" He inquires, forcing himself to look away as he tugs himself further from his thoughts. His own body aches, but he hadn't exactly gotten as roughed up as you whilst jumping from the sixth story into a nearby river channel.

"Cuts," You correct, groaning under your breath, "And better, once I get them all flushed out. You?"

Concern nags, but he ignores it in favor of drying off some. Hypothermia would kill him faster than worry, anyway, in this chill-ridden, termite infested shack in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere. At least technically.

At your question, he hums, subconsciously checking himself— finding nothing of note, aside from a sharp stinging around his shoulder and a killer migraine, he moves on. "All good over here."

Unbuckling his belts clasp, he pulls the leather from his pants, setting it aside on the small card table before shimmy-ing out those, too. It's a fight with how they're soaked and clingy, but he manages to free his legs before he falls over.

He throws those aside, rolling his shoulder with a faint huff; he's tired. And hungry, but he's already back to thinking again. What the next play is, how long you'll need to recover, what resource needs to be stretched until the two of you can high-tail it and get over to Oregon to finish this.

Shifting on his feet, he sighs, snagging his mildew-reeking towel from the back of the chair and running it through his hair.

Within the years of working together, seeing each-other naked had been unwelcome but necessary, and he can't help but think back on the first time. He'd been concussed out of his mind, exhausted and hungry from laying low in the snow somewhere in Sokovia for weeks, and ended up passing out in the shower.

It was just work now. Nothing new, nothing notable, nothing important. You weren't exactly a stranger, so he couldn't care less nowadays.

"We still got those MREs?" He asks, drying his face off, then moving the towel downward— he looks over to you, observing your condition and the faint huffs and groans that spill from your mouth as you pour antiseptic over another cut along your stomach.

You clear your throat, not glancing up. "Uh, yeah, I think so. A couple of 'em. Left lower pocket, my backpack."

Setting his towel down, he moves over to the door; where you both dropped your belongings… aside from your handguns and a few mags. He bends down, grabbing your bag by its top handle before he unzips it and walks back to the table.

You knew you were in for it.

"Are you pissing me off on purpose, [name]?! 'cause it's really startin' to fuckin' feel like it!"

"…No, sir."

Continuing to yell, your father snatches you by the arm, dragging you off of the Grimes' porch by the scruff— Krypto growls, tail stiff and still, her hackles raised as she keeps up pace beside you.

"Shut your fucking dog up, before I kill it."

Clenching your jaw as you let your father pull you around, you look over to Krypto, muttering a low, "easy, girl," and gesturing your hand in the way she knows means 'calm down, everything is cool.'

Even if right now, it felt pretty… not cool, she followed your order and whined, her ears pinning flat against her head.

Oh, man.

Abruptly turning, he drags you between the houses and shoves you backward by the shoulders, pain splintering up your spine and your side as your back hits the house siding— it hurts, and he only gets angrier at the sight of it on your face.

"Tell me, what the hell is this?"

He snaps, teeth bared as he gets in your face, waving the piece of paper around wildly— Shit. One of Carl's letters; he writes to you occasionally, whenever one of you were gone and couldn't talk. He did it so he could remember what he wanted to say and bring up, or something funny that happened he thought you would've liked.

Sure, yeah, you kept them— tucked between the tight space of your wall and your headboard, hidden away for you only. Carl didn't even know you kept them, since you made a point to not imply or say anything about it to anyone.

And now your father had found it.

Fuuuuuuck.

"Huh? C'mon, fuckin' open your mouth and tell your daddy like a big boy!"

"It's— It's just a letter."

""Just a letter"? Just a letter? Ain't no normal man writes letters this to his buddies— you together? Huh? Is that it? Do I have a faggot for a son?"

"No, sir."

"You don't listen, do you? Just can't help yourself, gotta go mack with the males? The girls ain't enough here for you?"

"We're not… We don't do that. He's my friend."

"Then what the hell is this?"

He reaches back, pulling something else out—

Oh, fuck.

It's the photo. The photo you hid in your mattress, in a little hole you'd cut just to keep it there. At first glance, it looks normal; just Carl and Judith, but if you look deeper… you can see why he'd taken it the way he did.

"…It's a photo."

"Don't get smart with me, boy. Tell me what's wrong with it— You too stupid to see it for yourself now?"

Turning away, your jaw clenches as you try to focus; attempting to not get riled up over the stupidity of the situation. He taught you; don't be weak, and if people think you are, prove them wrong, but he didn't quite like it when you fought back or argued to do just that.

"huh? Are you?" He spits, hand curling tightly around your jaw, forcing you to look at him— then at the photo as he shoves it right before your face.

"Your brother wouldn't have disgusted me like this, [name], but he was always better than you, wasn't he? He would've carried on my legacy, got a woman, had kids, but no. Instead, I'm stuck with the runt—"

The siding is rough against your spine as he forces you further back, adding pressure onto your jaw and thus tilting your head back, bearing your throat to him.

"Ah-ah, don't snarl at me, boy— you know better than that."

"I'm not snarling."

"You're bearing your teeth; like a bitch. You know what happens to bitches in a world like ours?"

"…Yes, sir."

"That's more like it."

Sighing, he pulls back, loosening his grip on your jaw and crumpling up the letter, tossing it aside lazily.

"I don't want to see you around any of 'em no-more. It's bad enough that we've got two in this town already; we don't need it spreadin'."

"That's not how it works," You mutter, wincing immediately at the slip. Oh, boy.

"Oh, yeah? You know more than I do, that what you're saying?"

"No, sir— I didn't mean it, I swear."

His walkie crackles to life.

"John, we need you over by the south wall, man,"

With his jaw clenching, he snags it from his waistband, mouth curled up in distaste.

"'m comin'. Hang tight."

He sighs, clipping it back onto his belt, nose scrunching at the look on your face— a look of irritation crawls onto his own, and you know it's coming when he steps back, rolling up his sleeves.

Pain webs from your jaw, a broken, faint groan being ripped from your throat as he pulls his hand back, shaking it off and turning on his heel, walking off toward the south wall.

Fuck, that hurts more than it usually does.

"Shit,"

You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut briefly as you touch the bridge of your nose gingerly, and your fingers draw back stained with the slick red dripping from your nose, down your jaw and onto your shirt— the bandage over the cut on your mouth has since peeled back, reopening the wound.

So much for Carl's hard work.

Krypto whines, nudging her wet snout against your leg, her tail slowly starting to wag as her ears prick back up.

"Oh… Almost, hah, forgot you were there."

Bending down, you wince as you sit, leaning back against the houses siding as your nose continues to bleed into your palm. She nudges into your, leaning into your side and pushing her head into your fingers.

Reaching over, you grab the ruined letter, smoothening it out.

When the next day rolls around and still no word or sight of you, he'll admit, he went looking.

Sure, you did this sometimes— came and went as you pleased, often between four different spots— the waterfall, quarry, fallen tree, or the little tree-house you'd built; the last one doubled as a post, where you often picked walkers off with your rifle if they got to be too many in one spot.

He'd been to almost all of the locations with you once or twice at the minimum, so he knew where you liked to hide.

And this morning, he felt it was the latter. It wasn't just a gut feeling— you often went there to chill out, breathe for awhile without anyone else around to bug you. It was like a second room, it had everything you wanted to use there. You were in it more often than your actual room in your house.

Wading through the high grass, he glances around again, making sure there weren't any walkers around. At the sight of the only one that was, he tugs his knife out of it's sheath, grabbing it by the shoulder and wedging the blade in it's skull— he would've left it, but you frequented around here.

He wipes his the blade off onto his jeans, sliding it back into it's holster as he steps over to the latter, curling his fingers around the wrings and climbing up. He'd call out for you, but he isn't sure if you're sleeping or not. Your schedule usually got wacked when you stayed up, keeping watch over Alexandria in your typical way that he knew was driven by paranoia.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep and he knew you were out here, it made him feel better knowing you were keeping watch.

Reaching the top, he's quiet about testing to see if it's unlocked, and it is— which was kind of odd, because you always kept it locked multiple ways while inside. He gently nudges the hatch open, peering around.

You definitely changed some things; there was another shelf on the wall, more tech scattered about, another stack of movie DVDs he knew wasn't there last time, but his little corner is untouched. His stack of comics is still in the exact order he kept them in [on how much he wanted to read them] on the bedside table, his blanket still folded neatly on top of your other one.

Krypto's asleep on your bed, perking up at the sound of him. He wasn't actually sure how you always got her up here.

Oh, you're awake.

You don't hear him, though, no doubt thanks to the music playing from the CD player you'd fixed up last year, and you don't see him because your back is to the hatch from the position you're in. You usually try to keep an exit and entrance within your sights at all times, but you're not doing that now.

You don't have a shirt or pants on, either.

You really must not expect visitors.

Humming to the song as you tinker with whatever it is on your desk, he decides to stop staring at the scarred, muscular expanse of your back and make himself known.

He clears his throat. "Knock knock,"

You jump, making a startled noise as you whip around, already reaching for the pistol you keep near your desk until you spot it's him, and both relief and irritation wash over your face.

"Fuck, Carl, what the hell are you doing?"

"…Enjoying the show?"

He snickers, but he feels a little bad about scaring you as he pulls himself inside, settling on his knees as he reaches around, closing the hatch and moving to stand up.

"Just lock it. I don't want any more… visitors."

"No one else knows this even exists,"

He reasons, but slides the lock into place and finally stands up, brushing off his knees and turning to face you— your hand scrambles to cover your groin over the thin plaid fabric of your underwear, and his eyes naturally flit down to the movement before he forces them back up immediately.

He swallows.

"What are you doing? You didn't come back last night."

"Was I supposed to?"

"Well, no, but…"

Looking away, he turns his back to you as you stand up, shoving your legs into your jeans. Your belts metal clasp clinks against itself as you hop up into the denim, and he turns around just as you slide the waistband over your hips, straightening out your boxers right after.

"But I would've liked you to."

Is that too much to say? Who knows.

As you fumble with your belts clasp, he stares at the side of your face— a bruise has since bloomed in the corner of your eye, dark and purple.

"What happened to your face?"

He asks, moving towards you to get a better look, but you turn away.

"[Name]. Who hit you?"

"Nobody. It's none of your business."

"What? Yes, it is, I'm your friend. Tell me who hit you."

"I said no-one. Drop it, or get out."

"…Fine."

He huffs, looking away and then right back, not wanting to drop the subject but given no choice— he didn't come here to argue with you, to stain the only time you had completely between yourself, your music, and your tinkering.

Pressing his lips together as you shrug a shirt on, he steps over, peering at the messy contents sprawled over your desk and paying some mind to the song playing from your little player.

"…What are you working on?" He asks.

You sigh, tugging your tank-top all the way down over your stomach, careful of the bandages on your hand and your tummy as you walk back over and plop down into your chair again, this time fully dressed.

Oops. He didn't mean to force you to put clothes on, or ruin your mood— he's not entirely sure if he's done the latter just yet, and he'd like to keep it toward the negative.

"The map or the camera?"

"Either or."

"I'm trying to find a better way to get to the quarry, and I'm fixing the camera. It broke somehow."

Oh. You tended to give items second chances, and, well.. everyone knew he always tried to do that with people. You did, too, but only if he attempted to save someone first— then you'd just back him up.

It's led to a few more people in Alexandria, saved by both of your hands.

"Looks cool."

He hums, nodding, looking away from the messy taken-apart camera and back over to your face, and he can't help but stare at the black eye you've taken in since he last saw you. Man, he really wanted to know who gave it to you.

Pulling back, he moves over and sits down on the edge of your little make-shift bed, petting Krypto between the ears and where he knows she likes it— she perks up, ears twitching as her tail starts to wag, licking at his palm.

You reach over, turning the music off before you settle back into your chair, sighing as you lean over your desk and stare down at the half-routed map laid before you.

He can't help but appreciate the curve of your spine, the shift of muscle adjusting with your shoulder blade as you move your arm, the scars marring your tanned flesh, how your shirt is kind of tight around your abdomen, the little peek of your boxers waistband from beneath your jeans…

Oh, Jesus.

Clearing his throat, he sinks his teeth into the plush fat of his bottom lip, inhaling a breath as he tries to wipe his brain clean of those thoughts. It doesn't help that it smells thickly of you in here— which isn't a bad thing. It's an odd mix of wet dirt and nature from outside and your natural scent, coiling around one another and owning the air.

Your bed smells more like you, though. And a little bit of the soap you wash Krypto with.

"I, uh, found you something," You blurt suddenly, waving your hand awkwardly, not turning away from your main focus; the task webbed across your desk in front of you.

You got him something?

Sure, you did that pretty often, but you usually left it by his door or somewhere else and never gave it face-to-face. You said you "found it awkward," giving gifts and staying for their reaction to it.

"What is it?"

He asks, sitting up a little straighter, flitting his gaze away from the dip of your bicep and toward your face… which he can't even see. He feels its deliberate.

"It's nothing that big," You mutter, standing up.

Shifting in his spot, he watches you come over to your bed, sinking down to your knees and tugging a box out from underneath. He stares at the dip of your throat while you rummage through it; the scar that owns your throat just beneath the bump of your Adams apple, how your necklace looks resting below it.

What is with him today?

He snaps back to at the sound of the box sliding back under your bed, feeling Krypto's head tick up and tilt at the noise, huffing as you toss two things down onto the bed beside him— a good stack of comics, still in their protective cases, and a knife, tucked into it's sheath.

"No way,"

He gasps, grabbing the comics first, going through the titles as an excited smile crawls onto his lips— it was rare anyone ever came across any, let alone a good heap of nearly twenty new ones he hadn't seen; not a single title was a repeat of one he had.

Man, how observant were you?

"I, uh, heard you complaining that you didn't have the next issue you wanted to read."

His gaze bounces between you and the comics, watching you shift stiffly on your feet and cross your arms over the plane of your stomach and walk over to the" window"— it wasn't one really, but only because it didn't hold any pane. You said it was that way so you could, quote, "Use it for a shooting post if I need to."

"[Name]— this is awesome,"

"The knife 's 'cause you broke the one you liked."

"You heard about that?"

"…Yes? I don't live under a rock."

Setting the comics down, he grabs the knife— and God, he could kiss you right now for it alone.

It's an exact copy of his old one; his favorite type thus far. He's been stuck with one with an uncomfortable grip for weeks, always searching the shops they came across for the kind his old one was, but he always turned up empty.

"Where'd you even find this? I've been looking for one for weeks."

He asks, curious as he tugs it out of it's sheath, slender fingers curling comfortably around the grip as he tests it out like it's entirely new to him; the curve of the blade, how sharp it is— it's super sharp, so you must've sharpened it beforehand.

Sweet.

"Yeah, I know— Checked out some new places on my way back the other day. Seen it 'n thought of... That you'd like them."

Watching your eyebrows furrow as you step closer to the window, confusion sets, breaking him away from what he was about to say as he gets up, walking over to see what's got your attention.

"What is it?"

He murmurs, settling into place beside you and moving to pull the curtain back a little more— but you stop him, and the warmth of your fingers around his forearm is apparent in your want for him to stay quiet for the moment so you can figure out what the rustling was coming from.

"Emily?"

"[Name]?" Her voice rings out, shocked and confused, faintly muffled from the distance from where she stands below.

His own eyebrows draw together at the sound of her, tugging his wrist from your grip and yanking the curtain out of the way, leaning slightly out of the window to see her better.

"Carl?" She adds, baffled. "What the hell are you two doing out here— what even is this?"

He huffs. "I thought you didn't like being out here."

She makes a face, looking around to make sure there wasn't any walkers around, nose scrunching as she looks back up to the both of you.

"Can I come up?"

Pulling back, he glances over to you, fixing his hat as he waits for your answer— you hated people you weren't close to coming into your spaces, seeing all of your things. He knew that, but…

"I guess so."

What?

It took him months of being your friend for you to even let him stand closer to you or play with your toys as a kid, but she gets free reign of your room this quick? She doesn't even know your favorite band, or your favorite DC character!

"Sweet. Where do I get in?"

"The hatch, down by the twin trees. Climb between 'em, then over to the ladder nailed into the tree next to it. It'll be hard to spot."

Making a 'what the heck?' face, he looks between you and Emily until she walks off, searching for the hatch you'd mentioned as you pull away and go to unlock it.

"Since when did you two get so buddy-buddy?" He grumbles, fumbling with his thigh-strap as he pulls his old knife out, sliding the knife you got him into it's place.

"What are you talking about?"

Great.

"You didn't let me up here for days, and we're best friends— she comes around once, and you let her up?"

"I don't want her out there, she could get hurt."

"I don't, either, but it doesn't mean she has to come up."

For some reason, the fact that she'll be seeing you without a proper shirt on makes his insides feel funny.. and not in the fuzzy, warm way.

Why does she get special treatment? You don't even know her.

"You find it yet?" You call out, seemingly ignoring him as you unlock the hatch and pull it open, bicep flexing— It stings more than it should.

"Uh, yeah. Think so."

Her voice is closer than the last time she talked, and he crosses his arms over the front of his stomach as he walks over, peering down the hatch over your shoulder and making a point to not stare at your back or your shoulders.

"Then you'll just reach over here— yeah, just like that. Gets a little rough here… didn't account for anyone smaller than Carl to come up. Sorry about that."

"It's fine. Pretty hidden, how long has it been here?"

"He built it." He butts in, blue eyes staring down at her as she finally comes into frame, scaling up the wrings of the make-shift ladder.

"Oh." She blurts, climbing inside and looking around curiously. "Pretty cool."

You handle the hatch — it was too heavy for her to — and shut it behind her, standing up and straightening out your spine before stepping back over to your desk, shoving some stuff out of sight as she looks at the rest of your belongings.

It feels weird with her in here… but that could just be him.

"Why'd you build it, anyway?"

"I, uh.. wanted to, I guess."

You're lying. At least partially, at the minimum— when he asked, you'd said it was because you didn't like not being able to watch all of the town properly, and wanted to be able to have an eagles-eye view in case anything happened. You'd just turned it into something more personal, rather than a watch-post.

Sighing, he moves to sit back down on your bed next to Krypto, looking through the stack of comics you'd given him again.

"Makes sense." She hums.

"What are you even doing out here? It's not safe."

He interrupts, adjusting his hats placement as he looks back over to her, gaze faintly dull as he flits through the comic in his hand, ignoring Krypto as she nudges her nose into his side— it's cold, and his stomach twitches faintly because of it.

"…Because I wanted to? I seen you going out."

Turning around, you huff, shoving something else out of sight as you stare between the two, appearing slightly annoyed at their back 'n forth.

"Easy. I didn't let either of you up in interest to watch you cat-fight, so don't think I'll be interested in letting it delve right in front of me."

"Whatever." He mutters, adding "I don't know why you even let her up here," under his breath— this is practically the only place either of you are completely isolated, so sue him if he gets a little butt-hurt about you tossing out an invitation willy-nilly when he had to earn his.

She shrugs, sharing a look with you he can't exactly see as you two slip into a conversation he isn't interested in overhearing… but can't help himself anyway.

"How'd you find all this stuff?"

"Runs… most of it was in good shape enough to bring it back."

Liar. You fixed almost everything in here.

"mmh. What's this?"

"A CD player."

"I've never seen one like that."

"Older version— Not the ones you'd see everywhere."

"I thought the modern ones were better."

"They are."

Exhaling loudly, Carl tries to focus on his comic, but it just… isn't clicking for his brain— all it attaches to is you, how you shift on your feet as she moves to get a better look at your stuff, how you cross your arms over your stomach — and, in turn, how Emily looks briefly at your arms — and watch her.

Roughly twenty minutes later, she finally seems like she's done, subtly moving back toward the hatch.

"I should get going… I promised Jess I'd help her with something,"

She says, glancing down to the exit, then over to him — he tries not to glare, but at the look on her face, he's sure he fails — and finally over to you as you step over and kneel, pulling the hatch open for her.

Climbing down, she waves awkwardly, muttering a low "bye," as she descends down the make-shift ladder.

"Yeah, bye," He hears you say, your voice followed by the click of the hatch's hinges closing, then the slide of the lock. Krypto jumps off your bed, going over to the window and sticking her head out of it.

Jesus, about time.

"What was that about?"

He huffs, closing the his comic and setting it aside as he sits up, watching you stand up. As your eyes lock with his, his stomach twists oddly at the usual intense, focused look you give. Seriously, what the heck is up with him? At first, puberty only messed with his voice, and now… it's doing all sorts of things, reigning King over his bodies functions.

Weird.

"What?"

"With… her."

"Seemed like a typical conversation to me, Carl. What's your deal?"

"I— I don't have a deal. I was just asking."

"Really? You weren't glaring, huffing?"

At being called out, heat blooms up his spine, webbing around his throat and up to his cheeks, staining them in a faint pink as he scoffs and looks away— it's a straight give, screaming proof.

"Not the point."

"Oh, yeah? It isn't?"

"…No."

"Tell me, then. If not how you acting weird, what else?"

You raise a brow, tilting your head as you stare at him, walking back to your desk— he gets full play of the curve of your spine, the pale scars that own you in little constellations head to toe, how your tanktop hugs your waist and your jeans your hips.

"Nevermind."

He mutters, tossing himself back on your bed and bringing his forearm up to cover his eyes after he pulls his hat off, setting it on his lower stomach and out of the way. His calf kisses the back of his thigh as he brings his leg up, getting more comfortable on your bed as if it was his own.

And, well… he spends so much time up here, it might as well be.

It's thick with your scent, though— again, something vaguely earthy and wet, but with rougher, metallic edges, then something else again. It lingers just long enough when you're around — especially in his bedroom — to know it's you, yet unique to the point of being it's own.

He likes it.

God, he likes it. Way too much.

"We should go back,"

He mutters, letting his arm slip from his face, tilting his head to see you properly as he stares. He knows you can feel it— you never not feel it when someone is looking… It's equally frustrating as it is impressive. It's saved your ass and some others in its existence.

Including Emily, and her friend Jess.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

Watching you lift your up, you check the time, sighing lowly as you note it— you always have watch duty on Thursdays, Tuesdays, and Saturdays; more than that, actually, because you're never not throwing yourself into work. You've always been one hell of a workaholic and it'd be weirder to think about you settling down for more than a day, even if just that is what he wants from you.

"Shit," You huff, pushing your chair back as he sits up, plopping his hat back atop his head as you move to get ready.

"Finally remembering watch-duty?" He snickers.

"Oh, hush, brat. We pretending you didn't totally sleep through your storage check last week?"

Scoffing lightly, he scrunches his nose at you, rolling his eyes. "Worth it."

"Yeah, right."

"And I'm not a brat," he mutters, watching you clasp the belt of your gun-belt around the slope of your hips.

"Whatever you say, Carl."

"Uh-huh."

Fully sitting now, he stands up, straightening out his shirt and grabbing his own things— his old knife, the stack of comics, his pistol, trailing after you as you kneel and open the hatch, setting it back against the wall.

"Let me go down first,"

He pipes up, already sitting down to crawl out— he'd rather look around first, make sure there aren't any walkers around, and if there are, he'll kill 'em before you get down.

"Hand me my stuff after." He adds, looking over to you as he sinks down, accepting the hand you offer to help him— your thumb hooks with his, and he can feel the roughness of your palm against the softer one of his own, both marred with calluses from weapon use.

It doesn't feel like he'll ever get used to how warm your hands are.

The day passes by mostly without incident, aside from the fact Jude's been fussy all day— she threw her sandwich in a puddle, got herself all dirty by messing around in a muddy hole [and procceeded to cry about it the entire way home], and spilled her juice twice.

It was not a very good day. He's had a headache for nearly all of it, and whether that's because of Judith's endless whining or his eye flaring up again, is up for debate.

Needless to say, he was glad when Michonne finally got home and offered to watch her after she showered. He'd jumped at the chance— both needing a break and also wanting to go make sure you'd eaten, maybe sit up around and keep you company for a minute… or longer.

And he hasn't seen you since eight am this morning, after you two had gotten back inside the walls.

It was currently almost seven.

Well, he'd talked to you for a minute or so around mid-day when Judy was whining for you, but that's about it.. and not it was not nearly long enough to count.

You were probably home now, anyway— he'd get to lay in your bed, annoy you, stare at your back while you worked, read comics in peace…

But when he'd went and checked your house, you didn't answer, and so he went asking around a little.

Hopefully you hadn't run off again.

Looking around, he spots that Emily girl again, seemingly chatting excitedly with Jess; another one of the newer additions to the group, and with both, you'd helped him get Rick in on helping them. They'd stuck around ever since, coming up to the two of you repeatedly for the most random of things.

There's a high chance she knows where you are— she's got a staring problem as bad as you do, and from what he's seen, she's got a pretty big crush on you after you'd saved her [that was a long story].

He fixes his hat as he walks over, exhaling slowly as they both glance over to him, quieting down immediately; all he'd caught of their conversation was your name and a whispered "He's actually a really gentle toucher."

Yeesh.

"Hey, uh— I was wondering if you knew where [name] went… I can't find him."

"Oh," She straightens up, swallowing, an almost shy smile crawling onto the corners of her mouth. "He's just over there—" she points behind him, nodding excitedly, "been there awhile, too. He really likes that dog, is it his?"

Turning, he glances over to where she'd spoken of… and yep, there you were; messing with the new garden and occasionally pausing to throw Krypto's ball for her in-between planting the newer seeds.

"Yeah, she is. Thanks."

He nods, lips pressing together faintly as he gives them a slightly awkward wave of goodbye and stepping back— only pausing as Jess pipes up, licking her lips nervously.

"Hey, um, your name is Carl, right?"

"…Yeah?"

"Oh, okay," She laughs, and he can hear her anxiety in it clearly. She was as good at chatting with strangers as he was, apparently. He got shy, too. "Just wondering."

"Uh, alright, then. Bye," He mutters, stepping backward, slightly confused but unwilling to figure out why she was asking— probably just curious… if she had any other reason than that, he wasn't going to jump to know.

"Bye, Carl. Tell [name] I want him to teach me how to shoot sometime!"

Jesus, there was no way that girl did not have a crush on you. He feels a little bad just thinking it, but he can't help but wonder how well that's going to go for her— yes, you were as respectful and gentle as could be, but you weren't very… open.

"Will do."

He didn't know her well enough to figure the type of girl she was, but he had little hope that'd she crawl away from whatever sliver of you she got and be feeling happy.

It was no wonder he couldn't see you; hidden away in the corner gardens, sleeves rolled up, kneeling in the dirt.

"Go get the ball, Krypto. I'm not throwing the other one 'til you get the yellow one."

He slows as he gets closer to you, hearing your faint sigh as you lean over the freshly tilled soil, pouring more seeds into your hand and tossing three into each hole and then covering it with more soil.

"Hey," he greets, stepping up beside you, watching as you paused and looked up.

"Oh, hey— I thought you were watching Judy?"

"I was. Michonne came back and offered to watch her."

"She still fussy?"

"Yeah. I guess she didn't get enough sleep last night… or maybe she was still upset about her juice. I don't know."

"Could be. She gettin' sick?"

"She wasn't coughing or hot, though. Not even snottier than usual."

Shrugging, he looks over to you as you look over to him; your gaze half-lidded and slightly dull in it's sharp intensity. It was a weird mix, but it went perfectly with your facial expressions and structure.

He could see why Emily probably had a crush on you.

"Huh. Probably didn't get enough sleep, then— that's my guess."

He nods, adjusting his hat as he looks away, observing Krypto as she ran after the ball you'd tossed for her a minute ago.

"Oh, yeah," He blurts, tongue running over the pink of his bottom lip as he gazes back over to you, "Emily wanted me to tell you she wants you to teach her how to shoot sometime."

What a mouthful.

"Emily?"

Yikes.

"The, uh, blonde girl that we came across two months ago on that run?"

"The clinger? wide eyes, sharp nails?"

Double yikes. He feels bad for her, and she can't even hear you.

"Uh-huh. It's not like we see a lot of girls… not that many to mistake her for."

"Yeah, I know. I was just makin' sure." You huff, leaning back on your haunches, your neck bared at the angle you kept it tilted to be able to properly look at him— your Adams apple dips within the colum of your throat as you talk, and it's almost distracting. "Why were you talking with her, anyway? She doesn't seem like your type."

"What?" He chokes, startled.

"Just saying." You shrug, tongue running over the pink fat of your bottom lip as you spread your knees, dirt lapping up at your legs and clinging to the denim of your jeans.

"I'm not— She— No. I was only talking with her because I didn't know where you went, not because I was into her… Jesus, [name]."

He grumbles, turning away as he can feel his cheeks heat up, embarrassed that you'd even think he'd do something like that. He was too shy and awkward — too self-conscious — to ever think of anyone liking him like that. It wasn't his world.

"Relax, dude. I was fuckin' with you— didn't plan on making you choke up and go red in the face."

Yeah, right. Knowing you, you probably got off to—

"I am relaxed— I'm just making sure you got my point. I don't like her… like that."

"Yeah, I got it, alright." You mutter, and he stares at the side of your face, watching you lean forward, dropping more seeds into a hole and then burying them.

"Do you? Like her, I mean."

Man, he should've just kept his mouth shut— he swallows as you turn to look at him again, your eyebrows drawing together, and the sun on your face does nothing for your gaze— steady, sharp, yet also gentle.

It was weird; he'd seen you stare 'n glare at people like you were planning out how to take them out in your head, and how your eyes would get more intense, yet they only ever softened with him.

"Yeah?" Your voice lilts in a way that makes his stomach twist, going easy yet slightly raspy in some places. "She's cool… why?"

He shrugs, adjusting on the balls of his feet.

"Just wondering. I think she has a crush on you, or something."

"Oh. Weird."

"I don't know for sure, though."

"Kind of awkward," You mutter, looking back down and refocusing on your seeding while a look of both thought and a mildly perturbed expression crosses onto your face.

Sighing, he adjusts his hat, watching Krypto run back over— this time dropping the ball at his feet, panting happily as her tail wags.

"Hi, Krypto."

She whines, nudging the ball with her snout just as he bends down, picking up the drool-slick ball. Gross, but he tosses it out for her anyway, wiping his hand off on his jeans and moving out into the shade.

"How's your hand?"

He asks, sitting down and leaning back against the trunk of the tree, wishing he'd brought a comic with him— it's nice out, and he's more than content to just watch you work in silence. Your bandage was wound tightly around your hand, he made sure of it, but he doubts the dirt is doing it any good.

"Fine,"

"And your face? You still haven't told me how you got that shiner."

"A little sore, but that's all."

"…Did you make sure you didn't break your nose? Looks like you could've been hit hard enough for it."

"I'm breathin' alright… good enough for me."

He opens his mouth to argue, but the sight of both Emily and Jess coming over makes him stop and exhale slowly through his mouth, looking away as the points of his teeth dig into the side of his cheek.

Why does it feel like I can't get a moment alone with you today? He can't help but think.

"Hi, [name]," Emily pipes up, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand whilst Jess stays silent beside her.

"Yes ma'am?"

She beams, nudging Jess with her elbow subtly, making the latter wince and flit her focus up, confused.

He feels the exact same way, if only with a mild undercurrent of annoyance.

"Oh, um… I— we were wondering if we could pet your dog? We don't see much of them anymore, aha,"

As you straighten up, staring up at the two women, he can picture your expression perfectly without even being able to see you— faintly miffed, confused, yet slightly interested.

"…Sure," You sigh, whistling sharply afterward and calling Krypto over— she stills immediately, ball dropping from her maw as she runs over, panting. "Not for long, though. She doesn't like strangers… makes her bite."

He fights a faint frown, knowing you're just pulling her leg— but she doesn't know it yet. Krypto isn't a people person, that's true, but you don't ever let her bite unless a point needs to be made.

"Oh," Emily blurts, slowly bending down and running her hand skittishly across Krypto's spine— her nails are painted, cleanly cut. Man, the world changing really doesn't affect some people as much as it did the rest of you.

"I'm joking," You ease, voice lulling, "She doesn't."

Her shoulders relax as a low and breathy, girlish laugh is pulled from her throat, raspy with relief as she smiles.

She's pretty.

Jess shuffles away from her, and his attention is ripped away from you and Emily as she heads over to him, slowly sitting down next to him— like she's scared and nervous; like he's someone to fear.

"Kind of feels like they're flirting, doesn't it?" She murmurs, a shaky exhale of a laugh following.

"Flirting?" He questions, turning to look at her. She was sitting on his right side, so he had to adjust faintly to even see her.

Embarrassing.

"Yeah… testing the boundaries— seeing who's more interested?"

"Oh."

"You— You don't think so?" She stutters, swallowing as she wrings her hands together in her lap.

He looks down to his own hands, the nail of his thumb picking at the callouses on his palms— it kind of hurts, but he doesn't stop as he shrugs.

"Feels one-sided to me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Everyone knows she has a crush on him."

"Oh… Yeah. I told her not to try, but… she didn't listen when I told her that— that he didn't seem the type."

"'The type'?" He asks, raising a brow as he glances over to her again, then to you and Emily, back to her. "The type for what?"

"You know," She fumbles, voice wavering as her tongue laps at her bottom lip, "…Romance. Dating. Kissing. That stuff?"

"Why do you think he's not the type for it?"

He can't help but ask. Curiosity has won now, policing over his shy and slightly reserved nature around new people.

"Well… No— no offense, I was just, um, saying. You just don't look at someone like him and think 'Oh, yeah, he'd totally treat me real nice,' even if he, uh, is way more respectful and polite than he… seems."

He actually kind of got her point.

Nodding, he flits his gaze back down to his palms, lips pressing together faintly as he continues to mess with the roughened flesh of his hand.

"…Why does she like him, anyway? She doesn't even know him."

She shrugs, pulling her hair out of her face as she stares at him— he can feel it, like iron on his skin. It feels judging, even if it probably isn't.

"I don't know. Probably because he saved her… and then carried her all the way back when she couldn't walk. That isn't— isn't the same treatment we got in our old group. He showed more care in an hour than they did in six months."

He doesn't even want to think about how they were truly treated— he knew well enough of the type the people out there were.

Terminus. The governor. The saviors, The wolves.

And everyone he'd lost to those people.

"Yeah," He mutters, "He's nicer than he looks. Most of us are."

"I— I know that." She fumbles, swallowing as she looks away, appearing flushed. He doesn't know why, and he isn't sure he even wants to.

Quiet wallows with only the breeze, your conversation with Emily, and Krypto's panting keeping it from true silence— though it never truly was, with the rusting metal sheets of the walls, the walkers slamming themselves into it, and their groaning, it never got completely silent.

"Hey, Carl?"

He hums.

"What happened to your face?"

Stiffening, his jaw sets, staring down at his palms like it'll save him from the question even though he appears to put on a brave face— he still hates it. Hates feeling it, seeing it, people asking about it.

"I got shot." He mutters.

And he hates the sound of her surprised "Oh."

People always said that— everyone but you, anyway. You were there when it happened, while he was in a coma, and afterward. You never asked anything more than "Need an icepack?" or "you change the bandage yet?" You just… noticed when it hurt, when it didn't, what he needed.

It was weird, but you'd always been like that; Intuitive, Accommodating. He never had to ask you for anything, most of the time.

"Cool," She adds, looking away. "Not everyone survives that."

He's heard about eighty differing versions of that by now.

They all suck.

"Yeah, I guess so."

He shrugs, reaching up and pulling his hat off of his head, slender fingers messing with the dark strands of his hair as he fixes it and plops his hat back on and adjusting it a little more afterward.

"Sorry," She rushes, eyes wide as she looks back over to him— the guilt is clear on her face, and he almost feels bad. "I didn't mean to… make you uncomfortable. I'm sure everyone says that, though, huh?"

"It's cool, I get it."

Running his tongue over his bottom lip, he stares at your back as he brings his knees up, resting his forearms atop them and fiddling with his fingernails— he can't help but focus on you.

Your laugh, how you shake your head, how the sharp points of your teeth poke out from behind your lips when you grin in the almost animalistic way you always have.

And how she stares at you; he can see her gaze flit from your face to your mouth clearly, then down to your arms, thighs, and back up as she licks her lips, smiling.

He never noticed these things before, but now, it's everywhere— how people look at you, how they act around you, how they laugh…

It was weird.

He knew about puberty, yeah; blah blah, "Your body's undergoing chances," blah. There was stuff he knew— voice cracks, the feelings of awkwardness, all of that.

None of those include "Elevated heart-rate around one person in specific," Or "Drowning thoughts about someone," as a byproduct.

Oh, shit.

He doesn't— does he?

"…Oh,"

Blinking rapidly, he snaps out of his thoughts, quickly glancing away from you and over to Jess; she's already staring at him, eyebrows furrowed like she just realized something that was supposed to be obvious.

Leaning in, she lowers her voice, and he starts to get a little nervous. "You— You like him, don't you?"

His face flames.

"Wha— No!" He blurts, voice cracking as it raises— and he quiet downs immediately as you turn and look, raising an eyebrow at him. He shakes his head, waving you off and leaning closer to Jess, lowering his own voice. "I don't— where did you get that idea?"

She makes an "are you serious?" face at him, and the heat in his cheeks is all-too apparent now, so he tugs his hat down a little further to try to hide it.

"It's not a bad thing," She eases, voice soft, "It's just… obvious, now that I'm looking at you two. I can't believe I…" trailing off, she shakes her head, biting gently into her lip.

"We're not like that," He mutters, tone taking a slightly firmer undertone, "…with each-other, I mean."

"Really." She dead-pans, voice flat but not judging, "He keeps looking back here every two minutes like he's making sure you're having a good time, and you keep glaring at Emily like you're trying to explode her with your mind."

"..No I'm not."

"—And that's just from right now. I seen him muttering to himself yesterday while he worked, and your name came up at least fifteen times."

"It did?"

God, he sounds so childish.

"—And you were staring at him from across town while he was moving posts for the new fence for the horses, looking like you wanted something right in front of you— not to mention the look on your face every time he makes Emily laugh."

"Stop talking,"

He huffs, leaning back against the base of the tree, face feeling too hot for the end-of-winter chill still around. He feels embarrassed and called out, heat coiled around his insides and turning his cheeks pink.

Jesus, one moment she's stuttering and flustered, then the next she's calling me out— skittish and nervous personality gone.

"I don't know if you need someone to tell you this, but friends don't exactly do that… I can tell he cares for you from here. He acts different when you're around. Both of you do."

"We don't."

He sounds defensive to his own ears, and it doesn't make him feel any better.

"You're proving my point, you know."

"…Please stop talking."

"Just saying," She shrugs, looking determined, "Just… say something to him. You never know what could happen nowadays."

She says it like just that sliver of truth hasn't kept him up all night since this started. Like he's new to the unexpected, the death, the gore, the loss.

"A fuckin' herd— whole bunch of 'em. We gotta move or else we'll be surrounded for days,"

He can smell them before he hears them; a stench so unique you find it once and never lose it again. Their gurgling is wet, choked and dirty as he stumbles up and over to where you're at by the window, all of your shared stuff mostly packed by now— how long had you waited to wake him up?

Ten, twenty minutes?

"Shit,"

He gasps, shoving back from the window and getting the rest of his stuff, pushing it down into his backpack and snuffing out the embering fire you both had for warmth, still half-asleep but waking quickly.

"Krypto, heel," you call, tossing your bag over your shoulder as Carl shoves his feet into his boots, catching up with you and your dog.

"The back way— we can go through the river,"

He pants, watching you unlatch the window and let Krypto out first, following second, then helping him out last, since the window was kind of tall and he had a bag full of stuff; even if it was lighter compared to yours.

"Yeah, sounds good. We have everything?"

"I think so. Lets move, before they start smelling us,"

Moving ahead, your pup keeps up pace with him as you fall back, protecting and keeping watch as he clears the path forward— The river isn't that far, but it's kind of cold out and it'd definitely take some time to both get through and recover after.

Getting sick was not in his plans, and he'd rather the trip back take an extra day to make sure of that, than risk death to a flu.

Carl repeatedly looks back to make sure you're still keep up and are alright, his instinct of protection not letting him go without checking at least once every five minutes; you walked real quiet — even taught him how to — and weren't that loud in general, so it would've been easy to miss you going somewhere… even though you were as loyal as your dog.

Slowing his pace as they reach the riverbank, he isn't excited to have to walk through the rushing, freezing water— it's just the end of winter, and it's still cold out enough for his thin frame to get goosebumps when the breeze picks up.

He trudges forward anyway, fixing his hat to soothe the urge to fiddle with something as he glances back to you, stepping up beside him.

"Well… this is going to be fun."

You mutter, and he nods in agreement, sighing. Krypto's already halfway in the water, moving ahead since you hadn't given her a command to do anything else. You follow after her, keeping a grip on her vests handle so she doesn't get hurt, offering him your arm as he trails after.

Shaking his head, he doesn't take it yet, but he'll probably need it once it gets past his thighs. He already feels freezing, shivering faintly as he sharply inhales, jaw clenching as the water laps up his jeans.

"J-Jesus, fuck,"

You gasp, and he watches your fingers curl tightly into your palm, stomach tightening as your lower half is submerged in the cold— he has a similar reaction, regret passing over his face as his groin sinks into the water.

Man, this sucks.

"I'm going to be soaked for a freakin' hour after this,"

He grumbles, fixing his hat again as the breeze picks up, not helping at all as the current pushes against him— it would've knocked him off balance had he not stabled himself with a handful of your shirt. Yeah… he should've taken your arm when you offered.

You keep Krypto pressed against you, letting go of her vest only to coil your arm around her belly, keeping her more secure, reaffirming your grip.

By the time you both make it to the other side, you're both soaked, and he's shaking like a leaf.

Wading out onto the riverbank, you set Krypto down, letting her shake herself off and check the new side out, her nose brushing against the gravel as she sniffs about.

"You okay?"

You check in, pulling your backpack off and getting out of the water abreast of him as you open it.

"Uh, yeah. Just… cold."

"I know. Your lips are blue, and you're shaking."

"So are you,"

He mutters, pulling his shirt away from his stomach as it clings wetly, making him uncomfortable— not to mention the horrible feeling of his soaked jeans rutting against his every being.

Wringing his shirt out some, he keeps walking as you both continue ahead on your planned path, habitually glancing backward and around for walkers on instinct, even though Krypto's job is to alert you both if she smells any within a twenty-foot radius. You've had her since you were both nine, and you've got her more than well trained— your ex-special ops soldier father made sure of it.

"There should be a store up here,"

Ignoring his comment, you tug out your map from your bag before zipping it back up and returning it to its usual spot pressed along your spine. Your shirt sleeves cling to your biceps, dripping water as you pull it open and glance over the map to make sure of the route.

That was a habit of yours, again, your fathers teachings. He taught you many things— Hand-to hand, survival skills, how to ration, how to walk quiet… and a hundred more skills. You'd passed some on to him, and they're all ones he uses daily.

"We should stop to change— we've got dry clothes, right?"

"I've got a couple shirts and some jeans… Not sure about you. You ditched half of yours to have more food."

"Yeah, I remember… It's more useful, anyway. Rather be cold than hungry."

"Relax. You're not going to be neither. You can wear mine; I'm not that much bigger than you."

"…Thanks, but you kind-of are."

Scoffing, you look over to him, eyebrows drawn together as you stare. He feels mildly self-conscious as your gaze drags over him once, twice, finally flitting back up to his expression as it shifts to one of knowing, like a silent see?

"…You need to eat more."

Is all you mutter, and he huffs; he's heard every form of that from his dad and you, to strangers who get one good look at his thin frame and decide he won't be of use in anything that takes strength or stamina.

He just shrugs, looking around as Krypto keeps up her pace half of a foot in front of you, ears stood tall and tag wagging like she's happy to be out and moving— she acts like you never take her anywhere to let her do anything, but it's the opposite of the truth. You take that dog with you everywhere.

"How far is it ahead?"

Another shiver drips down the notches of his spine as he asks, exhaling shakily as he moves a little closer to you since you're always super hot it never changes. You can spare him some heat and not miss it— you usually do, even if he refuses to say anything about it aside from a muttered thank-you.

"About a half-mile or so. Shouldn't take long."

"Good, because if my jeans keep rubbing against my thighs like this for more than an hour, I'm going to start freaking out."

He huffs, pulling at the wet denim around his inner thighs— they already kind of sting with the beginnings of a friction rash, and he'd rather not have to walk funky for the next two days because of it.

His agony makes you snicker, and he glares at you, fighting the smile that threatens to make home of his mouth at the sound; even if you laughed at his dramatics, you were still his best friend in spite of the betrayal. You've had the title since you were both seven, and he doubts that anyone else will.

You both fall silent, listening to the trees being moved by the wind and keeping an eye out for any signs of a walker— before he got shot, you preferred to stand at his left side, but now you take place at his right to catch anything he won't be able to see. He hadn't even noticed until now, since you'd never made anything big of it. You rarely did.

"How'd you sleep?" You inquire idly, occasionally unfolding your map and staring at it, rinse repeat to recheck the route.

"Um… Not that bad, I think. Only woke up when you got up once or twice."

"…Oh, Sorry. I tried not to. Was I too loud?"

Was there a casual way to say I always wake up whenever you're not beside me, without saying it? He decides no.

"Nah, you were fine."

Shaking his head, he dismisses your concern, tucking his arms a little tighter against his stomach in an attempt to preserve more warmth. It doesn't feel like it's working, and all he does is end up migrating back to you.

A handful of time later, the ghostly silhouette of some run-down store comes into frame, and his eyebrows furrow as he adjusts his hats placement on his head.

"I think that's it."

Looking over to you to see your expression and what you think, he watches you glance repeatedly from the map to the store, the paper crinkling quietly as you fold it back up, deciding.

"If it ain't, it'll just have to work. I don't want you in wet clothes for longer than you have to be,"

"I'm fine."

"You know you suck at lying to me. I won't even pretend to believe you."

"Rude."

"Oh, hush. You'll be okay."

"Says you."

"Yes, says me. You see anyone else that can talk around here?"

"Shut up and come on."

Making at face at you, he pulls his knife out from his belt, watching you do the same with your combat one— you use that thing for everything. Its your favorite, found. Something about the grip.

You both fall quiet, slipping back into that specific mode you have for situations like these.

"I'll check the right, you check the left. Take Krypto."

You mutter, looking at him to make sure he got it, to which he nods in agreement. Ever since he lost his sight, you always made sure Krypto is there with him for backup in buildings— it was just your way of soothing your own worry, he knew, so he tried to pay little mind to it.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

All in all, the place is pretty empty; you both clear it out in five minutes tops, and you start working on ripping the fire alarms out of the ceiling as he gets a fire started with nearby cardboard and your zippo, plus the fire-starters you always keep on you.

"Is that all of 'em?"

Asking over his shoulder, he continues to get the fire going, leaning over it and blowing gently into its core with his hands cupped around it.

"I, uh, guess so. Can't see any more of them. Hows the fire coming?"

You toss the now-broken fire alarms aside, stepping up beside him and bending down to get a good look, humming lightly once you do. Krypto finishes sniffing out the place, rounding up back beside the two of you, panting as she lays down next to your bags.

"Should work now. It look fine?"

"Duh. Exactly like it should— Good job."

He leans back on his haunches, catching his breath as he looks up at you, swallowing as he nods. Hiding a shiver, he glances back down as it finally catches, flames lapping up at the cardboard as it consumes it and making orange ghost over the walls of the break room in the gas station— it's the smallest, so it'll be easier to keep warm tonight when it inevitably starts to freeze.

Walking back over to your bag, you pull out your extra clothes and check supplies before tossing it back down and moving over to him.

"These should be the smallest of what I've got— get out of those clothes before you snap in half from shiverin'."

Grumbling but not denying it, he accepts the clothes and stands up, pulling his hat off and setting it aside, following up with his boots.

"Thank you."

"You act like I'd let you stay soaked and cold. You think I'm that cruel?" You jest, but the beginning is more honest than the tail end of your reply as you mirror him and get undressed.

"Well.. you are really possessive over your stuff. Can't blame me."

He shrugs, setting the clothes down and unclasping his belt, tossing it aside for later— it's getting dark out by now, and he isn't going to sleep with it on.

But when he glances over to you, something in his stomach coils at the look on your face; you look genuinely hurt that he believed and thought that way, but it's gone before it ever settles.

You don't say a thing, and it's arguably worse than anything you could've.

Guilt immediately floods his chest, but he just exhales, looking down and turning away to change.

The only sound now is Krypto's shuffling, the fire's crackling, and the shifting of fabric as you both strip and toss your soaked clothes aside.

He doesn't like it, but he doesn't break it, either.

It's not like he was completely wrong— you truly were very possessive and protective of your stuff, from Krypto to your knife, but… you hadn't ever withheld any of it from him. Everyone else, yeah, but never him as he typically asked beforehand.

Hopping up into his fresh jeans, he zips his fly and buttons them — they're definitely bigger than what he usually wears, but not uncomfortably so, just a little baggy around the waistband and hips — before turning around and grabbing his shirt, the warmth of the fire licking at his bare chest.

He presses his lips into a line, the edges of his mouth tilting downward ever so slightly as he instinctively gazes back over to you to make sure you're alright.

Your spine is to him as you get your pants on, the muscles in your back shifting and flexing as you go about the task— he can't help but stare; the familiar, strong slope of your shoulders, the constellations of scars littering your flesh — he notes a couple of new ones he hadn't see yet — the curve of your spine, your arms…

It was all what he'd seen a million times before, but it looks and feels far more intimate than usual with only the glow of the fire being the only light around, projected onto your back so prettily it could be a painting.

Jesus, what he hell was he doing?

Shaking his head, he snaps himself out of it just as you turn around, snagging your flannel from where you'd put it and sliding your arms inside. He shrugs his own shirt on, yet its obvious it isn't his own. The fabric swallows his frame, and he has to roll up the sleeves to even have his hands out of it.

He tucks the rest of it into his jeans as you move and set up your bed for the night— just a pile of blankets to lay out, but it was comfortable enough and easy to carry around and pack up quickly.

"C'mere, Krypto,"

He watches you call for your pup and sit down on the mat, digging in your bag for the brush you bring to brush out her coat and avoid matting. He doesn't see you do it often, but that's probably because you only do it late at night or super early, and he's typically asleep during both.

Putting up his damp clothes to dry out next to yours, he sighs and sits down beside the fire, warming his still-cold fingers as you brush out Krypto and pet all over her, as you usually did; you were very affectionate with her, and she loved attention.

"Yeah, yeah. Everyone knows you're a good girl, calm down… there we go, atta girl."

He brings his knees up to his chest, buried in his shirt as he rests his arms atop them, getting comfortable and a little sleepy as he finally relaxes; no longer cold or shivering his brains out.

Whilst staring at the fire, he catches you look up once, then away, up again, then back down as an expression he hadn't seen on you before crosses your face. Its a weird and oddly guarded mix, like you were hiding your feelings on purpose.

You did that a lot when he accidentally hurt your feelings or something you didn't like happened [there's many more other times, too]; reverted back into yourself like you were unsure of how trustworthy your company was with your emotions.

It stung, but he doesn't say anything even as you wordlessly — and rather stiffly — nudge the bag of food over to him before focusing back on your dog, continuing to pet and brush out her thick winter coat like he wasn't really there.

This was childish. Admittedly, both of you were— He wouldn't say anything even while noticing he hurt your feelings, and you wouldn't speak up and admit he did like you thought saying it aloud make you weak.

He understood it, he did, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Your dad was the stereotypical macho ex-special ops soldier, all boys don't cry, so stop and and go do something manly about it, [something he'd actually overheard your father say to you once] and You're not a man if you're in any way feminine or express your emotions. That's your woman's job. It was dumb, but it was how he was and how he'd taught you how to be. Reserved and emotionally constipated.

In all the years he'd known and been close with you, he'd only seen you cry or express any emotion other than annoyance a total of… one time.

As in singular.

It was kind of freaky, in a messed-up way, and you hadn't even done it in front of him on purpose.

"Are you going to eat?"

He blurts suddenly, snapping out of his derailed train of thought as he snags what'll be dinner tonight from the bag.

When he looks over to you, he can tell that you're avoiding his gaze on purpose. Again, it's childish, and again, it kind of stings.

"No. That has to last us until we get back, and we're already low."

Your voice is firm and a little strained, even as you pat Krypto twice and shove the brush back into your bag, pushing it away from you and laying back.

"But you need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are. I can tell."

"Just leave it alone, Carl." You snap.

He flinches, expression scrunching as he leans away from you on instinct, but annoyance rushes in quickly to fill the space of surprise, ready to bite back until he can see genuine remorse and guilt on your face.

He doesn't feel better than you.

"I'm sorry."

You mutter, the apology quick in its appearance, jaw clenching as you bring your hands up and press the heel of your palms into your eyes and exhale shakily like you truly didn't mean to bite his head off.

And knowing you, you really didn't. Especially to him.

"…It's cool."

"It wasn't. I'm sorry."

"I said it's cool. Just drop it."

Man, whatever that was fucking up your mood must've been contagious.

Sighing, he tosses the can of food away, crawling over and laying down on the make-shift bed next to you, staring up at the ceiling after he tugs his hat off and lets his head fall back.

It's quiet for awhile after that, only the sound of Krypto wiggling about and the sound of the fire suffocating true silence out; this was weird. You two never argued or fought, since no conflict ever lasted more than an hour [aside from that one time a fight tore you both up for days 'til he gave in].

"…You should eat." You eventually mutter.

He glances over to you, he bites into the inside of his cheek when you don't look over in return— seriously, what was your problem? You were still acting weird, and it was starting to mess with him again.

"So should you."

He argues, rolling over onto his side and propping himself up on his forearm to stare at you properly, his hair a slight mess and his bandages a little crooked. Not bothering to fix it, he raises an eyebrow expectantly, unwavering.

"I told you—"

"Yeah, I know you did, and I don't care. You still need to eat. We can find more food on the trip back, go a route we haven't before and clear it out."

"Carl—"

"No. Shut up and eat with me, because I won't unless you are."

A pause.

"…You're kind of bratty."

"That's just you rubbing off on me. Now stop being stupid."

"Rude,"

"It works."

Pushing to sit up properly, he drags the backpack over, tossing a can or two over to you so you can cut them open— he can't do it like you can, unfortunately, and his can-opening jobs are shoddy at best.

Quiet blankets again, only broken by the noise of you slicing the can open and the occasional noise Krypto makes.

"Are you comfortable?"

You blurt, making him look over in confusion and snapping him out of his mindless staring at the fire— why wouldn't he be?

"What?"

"My clothes. Are they comfortable on you?"

Oh… well, at least you're back to semi-normalcy.

But, for some reason, a faint heat crawls up his spine, settling in the back of his neck and the fat of his cheeks at your wording; My clothes. He doesn't get why that flusters him, but he shoves it away and clears his throat.

"Uh, yeah, they're okay. Mostly just the boxers are too big."

"Do you want a safety-pin? I think I have one."

"Oh… sure."

Setting the half-opened can down, you set your knife beside it, dragging your bag over and unclasping the stray pin clipped to its strap, handing it over.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Shifting to kneel, he undoes his jeans, pushing them down just slightly and pinching the elastic of his boxers— he manages to keep the fabric tight enough with one hand, but his other isn't the greatest at closing the pin.

Watching him struggle for a little, you raise a brow, successfully prying the top off the can before setting it down.

"You want help?"

Startling from his focus, his gaze jerks away from his struggle and over to you, shoulders slumping as he exhales.

"…Yeah. I can't get the pin closed."

He watches you wipe your hands off onto your jeans before shuffling over to him, leaning back on your haunches as you gently nudge his hand away— the touch making him realize he was minorly distracted, staring at your muscular thighs and the way the denim of your pants clung.

"Sorry,"

He mutters, moving his hand away to hold his shirt up instead, keeping it out of your way as you moved the pin to a better spot, careful to avoid poking him with its point.

As your knuckles brush against the sensitive skin of his lower stomach, he twitches, his fingers bunching tighter in the loose fabric of his shirt as he observes the movement of your hands.

By the end of it, he's breathing a little heavier and his cheeks feel slightly hot.

"Good?"

You ask, pulling away once the pin is placed properly and looking up to his face— which only feels warmer now that he's making eye-contact with you.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Mhm," you nod, patting his leg twice as you move back to your spot.

Exhaling shakily, he lets his shirt drop and fixes his pants, not tucking it back in as he sits and accepts the can you're offering and then the fork that follows.

Routinely, you pull out Krypto's food from your backpack and pour some out for her before tucking it away and finally eating yourself, eventually falling quiet like you usually do around now.

He stares at the side of your face for a few minutes as he eats, lost in thought and watching the way the orange of the flame dances across you.

"What are you thinking about?"

He asks abruptly, looking down at his food and then back over to you when you finally turn your head and glance over to him, looking surprised.

"Huh?"

"What are you thinking about?" He repeats, nodding.

"…Nothing, for the most part. Why?"

"Just curious. You looked zoned-out."

He watches you turn away again, falling back into silence as you return to eating with a weird look on your face.

O…kay, so you are not, in fact, back to normalcy.

What the hell was up with you?

With his jaw clenching, he attempts to ignore it, staring down at his half-empty can like it'll solve all of his current problems. It doesn't, but it feels better than glaring at you and trying to figure you out— sometimes, you just felt like a jammed gun, one unwilling to straighten out. You two have been best-friends since before this whole world problem, and even now, it seems like he doesn't know enough about you.

Sure, he knows what movements meant what, what tones and huffs, how he could trust and anticipate you to act… but it felt empty. You weren't physically affectionate, didn't say anything deeper than often praises, and the only time he'd ever heard you say anything close to an "I love you," was to Krypto.

Your dog.

He's getting a little annoyed just thinking about it. He did all of those things— was affectionate both verbally and physically, told you he loved you [even if you never said it back, and if you did, it sounded half-assed], and just generally proved that he cared for you.

Sure, he got it, somewhat. Your love language was mostly just acts of service, you weren't the cuddly type, and you weren't raised the same way he was. He understood all of that. Your dad sucked and felt more away than his own, and he hadn't ever seen the guy even give you a pat on the back— he had a habit of looking where you failed rather than where you didn't.

You also made habit of doing that to yourself.

It sucked, and it wasn't fair; nothing was.

He knew most of it stemmed from how your dad raised and taught you— treating you more alike a living weapon and soldier than a son, or even just someone at all, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

The only thing you hadn't taken from your dad was his misogyny and hate.

Snapping from his train of thought as he watches you stand up, his eyebrows furrow in confusion— the plan from before was to stake it out in here and try not to go anywhere, but you were putting your gun belt back on and grabbing your knife.

"What are you doing?"

He questions, tone admittedly a little harsh as he sets his food aside, feeling a little pissed off about the whole thing.

"Going outside so Krypto can use the bathroom."

"I should come— we haven't completely cleared out there yet."

"I've got it. Stay in here."

"But I—"

And then you're gone, leaving him unable to argue; again, you often just left when you felt done with conversations and how they were going, rather than coming to an equal agreement… at least with these situations, anyway.

It only annoys him more as he tosses himself back onto the make-shift bed, huffing irritably as he listens to yours and Krypto's movements— of which are eventually drowned out by your dad's ragged voice coming through your radio and saying something he can't hear. '

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Man, he hated your dad. He didn't feel bad about it, either, which said a lot about the type your father was.

Sitting up, the room felt empty without you or Krypto around; like something was missing, an environment lacking one clear piece it needed to thrive. He finishes his food in silence, even though he isn't hungry anymore.

The rest of the night isn't any better, even after you'd stumbled back into the room bloody from the walkers.

He doesn't sleep well that night. He was used to it— the nightmares and the insomnia.

Sighing as he stirs, he blinks himself awake as he rolls over onto his back, yawning and pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. Once his vision clears, he looks around, an uneasy feeling coiling coldly in his stomach at the silence in the room.

You weren't beside him.

The fire was still going, but small— like you'd added more to it before you left to go… where ever you went.

Where were you? You never left without leaving anything behind to ease his worries of your safety, whether it be a note or something else. Shoving his body to sit up quickly, his heart feels like it's racing as he glancing over the room, finally spotting a note pinned to the bags, Krypto wilted in her spot like she was upset.

Jeez, he didn't even hear her. She was only this quiet when…

Shit.

Gasping, he snatches the note off of the bag, leaning back on his calves as he tries to read it, failing twice in his alarm before he forces himself to slow down.

"I marked the map for you, so you know how to get home and how long it'll take. I had to do something, so don't wait and go home without me. It'll take a day or so and I'll get back later.

Take care of Krypto 'til then, please. I left without waking you up on purpose, since I knew you wouldn't let me leave. I know you hate it, and I'm sorry.

—Only yours, [name]."

Were you fucking serious?

Groaning in frustration, he throws the note down, exhaling slowly as he runs his hand down his face. He can tell just by looking at the bags that you left more than enough supplies for him— almost too much, so what the hell were you eating? You took not even a quarter of it… and you even left your jacket. He knew it was on purpose, too, and not an idle mistake.

God, he was going to kill you.

"Your daddy is an asshole, Krypto."

He mutters, jaw clenching in frustration, all hints of sleep gone from his body now that he thinks about it— You planned this; from the beginning, and only even stuck around this close to make sure he was going to be fine. You probably felt guilty about it last night, and that's why you were so snappy.

So you won't tell him you love him, but you'll do shit like this. You were confusing. Why did your affection only come from a distance?

The entire time he's packing up and getting back on the road, he's still seething with irritation at your dumb choice. What was so important that'd you'd do something this stupid? Go alone to somewhere no-one even knew in the middle of winter with so little food you'd be lucky for it to last two days, without your dog, and without your map.

Why do you keep doing this? Leaving him?

Glaring down at the map, he scoffs, shaking his head as he gets annoyed all over again— Krypto hadn't left his side, her tail lowered and ears tilted like she was feeding a mood as bad as his own.

Even the dumb notes scrawled across the paper make him mad; you knew him so well you already anticipated his questions and left things like, It'll only take an hour this way, and there's a store or two more here than the other path, and Two hours on this one, no stores but a lot of woods you have to walk through, and other various things scrawled out seemingly for yourself. Path notes and other separate things.

There's even a separate way that doesn't lead anywhere but a comic store written down with the note; You haven't raided this one yet. I think it's bigger than the last one.

It makes him a little sad. He doesn't want to check it out without you, yet you thought he would.

Exhaling shakily, he folds the map back up, glancing down to Krypto as he walks in pace with him— she's had that little spiderman-themed bandana as her collar since she was a puppy, and all it does is remind him of you all over again.

Your cheesy jokes and the way you laugh when he makes an equally awful one, the way you look when you wake up to when you go to bed, your sharp-toothed smile, the way your eyes look in the sun, how you easily pull him out of the way like he weighed nothing…

He feels a little sick.

Now that he isn't there with you, there's no telling what you're doing or how safe you're being— or if you'll even come back at all. Your note says 'til then, but you tend to be very good at hiding your desires and true meanings when it comes down to them.

By the time he gets back to Alexandria, hours later, he's re-read your note a thousand times, but it doesn't ever bear new answers.

"Oh, Carl! You're back!"

"Yeah."

"…Where's [name]? Did he—"

"No, he's fine. He left."

"Left? To do what?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

As he walks back to his house, Krypto in tow, he can't help but question if he should've tried to go after you, even if he knew nothing of where you went or what you'd gone to do. He was stuck waiting for days now. He wanted to— he wanted to go after you, he wanted to know.

But he didn't.

The house is empty when he steps inside, and all it does is make him feel worse as he drops his stuff by the door, toeing off his boots by the door and trudging upstairs to go shower all the walker guts off of him.

He pushes his door open, letting Krypto inside after him before he closes it and starts shrugging off his clothes, making his way to his bathroom. It's easier than normal given the fact they're a little too big on him, as they aren't even his.

It feels too quiet, even as he steps into the hot water of the shower with nothing but his own presence making noise. He takes his time, wallowing in his misery and his thoughts until the point he finishes, pushing his hair out of his face as he turns the water off and snags his towel from the hook.

You've been walking since five am.

Your feet and your back hurt like crazy — plus you still felt bad about ditching Carl — but you kept your destination in mind and kept moving in spite of it, staying on the path you'd drawn out on your hand to make sure you didn't forget on the way.

Shrugging your bag off of one shoulder, you dig through it as you move around the abandoned car, pulling out a can of food and zipping your bag back up before snagging your hunting knife from your belt, cutting the can open.

You'd admit it, this was a little stupid; heading across town with minimal supplies, no map, and no flashlight. You left most of it with Carl to make sure he got through the day trip fine, and to mostly soothe your own worries. Camp could use what he didn't, anyway. You'd make do. You always did.

As you finish cutting open the can, you hum lowly as you tuck your knife back into your belt, careful not to cut your mouth on the jagged metal of the rim as you pour some of the food into your mouth, checking your route again.

Passed the big tree, passed the burnt building, and the wrecked eight-teen wheeler.

You were getting closer to your first stop. Good.

You could use the rest.

Checking your surroundings again, you make sure you don't smell nor see any walkers before continuing on, weary of your unguarded weak spots now that Carl and Krypto weren't around. You'd definitely get a scolding by the former when you got back; there was no world where you hadn't hurt his feeling ditching him like that. He was protective— he hated not knowing where people were, what they were doing, how long it'd take.

"Ow, fuck,"

You hiss, pulling the can away from your hand as you feel it cut into the side of your mouth, and when you reach up, your fingers come back minorly bloody. It stings, both the distractions and the cut.

Your father would kill you if he saw you right now; distracted and worn stupid by one friend, all caught up on something that he'd see as nothing but wasted time. He'd call you weak for caring. He had before.

Sighing, you finish off your food, tossing the empty can into a nearby car to keep from littering— You had more respect for mother earth than that, and it took no time or effort turning that car into a trashcan. Sure, neither would've just throwing it into the ditch, but…

Whatever. It doesn't even matter, and you were just being dumb even thinking about it.

"Ah-ha, there she is."

It was reckless, yes, but… you had a plan. Even if it was a far-shot. High risk, high reward, right?

Not that anyone would care too much if you didn't come back, anyway.

Looking around, you keep moving when there isn't any walkers around— not any close enough to matter, either, as you shrug your backpack off and throw it up onto the buildings roof, hopping up and grabbing the edge and pulling yourself up afterward. Not too bad, even if it's way too open for your taste.

Wiping the blood dripping from the cut on your mouth, you grab your bag, looking for one thing in specific. Spotting it, you jump onto the other nearby roof, shaking off your arm once you make it— it still hurts from when you'd forced that door open earlier.

Okay, okay… yellow tape. Yellow tape?

You walk across the roof, looking for the maintenance entrance to be able to get into the building and internally whooping when you find it.

Liar. There isn't any yellow tape around.

Your sources were… shoddy at best, but they were right enough thus far— With the previous two cases, anyway. Good enough for you, as you cut through the vines coiled around the entrance and pull it open.

Man… Carl's going to be so mad I did this without him.

To say you hadn't thought about it would be lying; you'd been thinking on whether or not to pull him along the entire run, but since you weren't one hundred percent sure on what all you'd find, you let him go. Well… left him no choice. You made sure to leave no hints on where you were going two weeks in advance.

Still, he's going to be pissed— he hated when you'd run off like this and leave him to worry and think about it all the time, but you couldn't risk anything happening to him. Yourself? No problem, but Carl? He had a family that loved him, good things going for him, stuff to do with his family.

Even if he didn't believe it, he did.

Guilt settles coldly in the space it makes home of in your chest, yet you shove it away and drop down into the building, pulling your mask over the lower half of your face to protect from any airborne diseases or bad stuff. Your dad forced that in you quick; Make no mistakes. If you do, I'll know you're not the son I raised you to be.

Exhaling to calm your heart-rate, you let your memory of the oral map given to you guide your path, careful to not step on any of the broken glass or trash. Noise is all that's between life and death. Think of it like hunting; if the deer hears you, they run. That means no food.

Everything you did, all you could hear was your father— condescending in tone and harsh in punishment, enforcing that if you fucked up, you were weak and useless.

You bend your knees lightly, softening your footfall as you move within the shadows, senses strained to pick up anything that's constant, what's new, and what has a rhythm. Anything that could kill you.

Jackpot, baby.

Finally getting to the medical room, you disarm the alarm and the lock. The door hisses open with the suck of the seal breaking and groaning as your slowly push it open, checking the corners and keeping your hold tight on your pistol.

Okay. You could work with this; you've done greater with less. This was nothing.

This was perfect.

Shutting the door behind you, you shrug off your bag and tug the extra one out, unfolding it and shaking it out to get it to poof up and open, laying down one of your dirty shirts to keep the vials more supported before you start shoving the small boxes inside.

There's all kinds of drugs, from pills to liquids, and you put as many as you can fit and then some, following it up with all the medical tape, bandages and creams until you can barely zip it up.

Did someone really ditch all this because they couldn't get the lock open?

Silly them, then, and more for little ol' you.

The bag is heavy as you put it's strap over your shoulder, but you won't be carrying it for long— those cars in the parking lot looked mighty lonely, and you felt like taking one out for a spin to get back faster; the only reason you didn't take one up here was to make sure you weren't followed or heard. You did a good enough job taking all the back-roads and longer, rougher ways to make sure of it.

Slipping out of the room, you double check that you pulled the batteries out of your radio before you continue, not wanting for it to come on and fuck up your whole stealth operation as you head to the second place marked for you.

Carl's tried to radio you twice already, but he's yet to get even an inkling of static back.

Were you dead? You couldn't be dead— you were as paranoid as someone with a million-dollar bounty over their head, and as vicious as your dad. Any weapon you found, you could probably use… but knowing all of this, he still doesn't know if you're even still alive.

He doesn't even know when you left; it could've ranged from right after he fell asleep to an hour before he woke up. You could be anywhere, doing anything, being reckless like someone with your skills would be doing, and he knows nothing.

You could be ignoring him, or you could be dead.

Both of those options sting.

He should've just apologized for saying that he believed you'd let him freeze, made up with you, and… not-hugged it out because then, he wouldn't be sitting in his room and attempting to radio you with no answer. You wouldn't have ditched him to go do this "thing," of yours— hell, you might've even let him join.

It's all his fault, isn't it?

His dad is home by now with Judith, but while he was itching to get home and love on her a day ago, he doesn't feel like he could do it now… while he's distracted to the gills, worried about what dumb decisions you're probably making right now— alone, because of his idiocy and pride.

"So stupid,"

He huffs, tossing the walkie-talkie down, nearly hitting Krypto as she rests beside him on his bed. Regret and guilt immediately follows, a frown pulling on his lips as he softly exhales and runs his hand down her back apologetically.

"Sorry, girl."

She licks his hand, tail wagging for the first time since he woke up as she gets up and crawls all over him, making him wince as she narrowly misses the… 'family jewels.'

"Hey— easy, Krypto, You're squishing me… I'm not as big as your dad, and you're heavy."

Yet she pays him no mind, settling down right on his stomach— he's not sure what's worse, a toddlers elbow to the gut or a dogs. They both hurt, actually.

"Carl! You up there?! Dinner's ready— I gotta go work, can you come down and watch Judith?"

"Yeah! Coming."

Muttering an apology, Krypto darts off of his lap, making him groan and squeeze his eyes shut for a second as her nails dig into his stomach. Man, that hurts. No wonder you always have scratch marks all over you, the girl's as much of a beast as she was as a pup.

He crawls out of his bed, opening his door and letting Krypto bolt out, running down the stairs but pausing half-way, like she was tasked to not let him out of her sight.

Shit, knowing you, she was.

"Oh— hey, Krypto."

Rick greets, bending down and petting the fluffy dog, patting her on her side as Carl comes down the steps a little sluggishly.

"Where's [name]? The bathroom? Did you tell him dinners ready?"

"He's not here."

"What?"

"He's not back yet. He's still out."

"Like, outside out?"

"Yes, not at home. Not here, not with me."

"What the hells he doing?"

"Good question."

"You're saying you don't know where he's at?"

"Yep."

"That kid tells you everything, and he just… didn't tell you this time?"

No he doesn't.

Rick questions, raising an eyebrow as he stands up, wiping his hands off on his pants.

"Exactly what that means. Your guess is as good as mine— all he left was a stupid note."

"Where's it at? He speaks in code like his pops."

"I've already looked through it."

Carl huffs, lazily gesturing over to where he threw the note down on the counter when he got home; the papers crumpled and a little torn already thanks to the fact he balled it up multiple times in frustration on the walk home.

Rick walks over and picks it up, a look of concentration crossing his face as he reads, and Carl busies himself with picking Judith up and putting her in her high chair, then situation her properly.

"Well… I'm sure he's got a reason, then."

"Yeah. I think he didn't tell me 'cause I pissed him off— hurt his feelings, whatever."

"…Doing what, exactly? You two never fight, and he isn't the super sensitive type."

Sighing, he shakes his head, waving his dads question away with his hand.

"It doesn't matter— You're going to be late."

"Oh, shoot. Yeah. Bye Carl, Love you,"

"Bye, love you too."

Rick pats him on the shoulder, kisses Judith on the forehead, and leaves.

It's quiet again, and not in the comfortable way.

He's used to you being around and helping him out with Jude— you've done it since she was born, from taking turns checking up on her when she cries during the night, to keeping her entertained, to getting up early and handling her so he can get an extra few hours of sleep undisturbed.

He doesn't like this.

"Holy shi—"

You gasp, shutting the door shut right after you get a look inside; it's a walker party in there. Yeah, you can do without extra blankets and stuff, right? You're going to have to, because while you're dumb, you're not that stupid.

Grabbing a nearby chair, you shove it's backrest underneath the doorknob, that way you'll hear it's awful scraping if it moves— not that it matters, because you're getting the hell out of here.

It takes twenty minutes, but you go out the same way you came in, double checking to make sure you didn't leave any trace of yourself except for the missing stock. Hauling yourself up, you shake yourself off and close the hatch, tugging your mask down and taking the first breath of fresh hair you've had in two hours.

Checking the time, you remember it did, in fact, take you that long— and only because you were careful. Rather be careful than dead, anyway… for the most part.

Grabbing your stuff, you toss the strap over your shoulder, letting it weigh you down as you scout out your escape plan, setting your sights on an isolated car that's got the most dust on it, quickly making your way over so you can get back home by sundown.

Man, your back and your shoulders hurt like crazy — and the cut on your lip stings from the fabric of your mask grinding against it all evening — but it was well worth the haul; medicine and a shitton of MRE's. Enough to last for up to three months, easy.

Dopamine aside, it does really freaking hurt, so you make the trip to the car speedy, rapidly looking around as you pop the door's lock open, shoving your stuff inside and then prying the compartment under the wheel open.

Okay, hotrod… let's see what you've got.

It feels far from safe hot wiring with no-one to watch your back, and paranoia creeps in fast, guiding your movements with a certain type of urgency unseen anywhere else.

It sparks once, twice, finally catching the third time as the engine roars to life.

Thank fuck this car is quiet.

Shoving yourself into the driver seat, you close the door behind you, getting a feel for things as you get on the road— it's not a bad car at all, given your history of ending up in shitty cars whether by proxy or someone's awful choice.

You quite like her, actually. She's real cute, too. Even has a little charm from her rear-view. Who doesn't like those?

You, because it's swinging gets annoying after the millionth bump.

"Sorry, girly, I can't stand this damn thing,"

You mutter, ripping it off and tossing it into the backseat, instinctively checking what's behind you to make sure you're still good— its a small ghost-town and one not even on many maps, but who knows who could be out there? Not you.

The cut on your palm ruts against the leather of the steering wheel as you drive, it's burn nagging distantly at your mind; but it's no more than a mildly-pleasant sting, so you don't care enough to wrap it right now.

Your father would get on your ass about infections for that, but… what he'll figure out later is not the presents problem just yet.

Carl would hate it, too, though, you can't help but realize. "don't be reckless," he'd snap, "are you trying to get sick? Give it here. I'll do it."

Just at the thought of him, the shame makes your insides hot, stamping its presence along the insides of your ribs in its ever-present home nowadays. He probably feels betrayed, confused and likely angry, and here you are, talking to… a freaking car. And yourself. Like a weirdo.

Jesus.

I need to get a grip.

You need to get a grip.

Sighing, you lean back in the seat, your hold tight around the wheel as you adjust your grip with the other, making it so your palm isn't against it so much— you'll patch it up later, just to avoid another ten minute scolding while he'd probably patch you up to 'make sure it's done properly.'

…You never were the best at anything except basic aid, you knew how to stitch up cuts and place bandages, but not as well as where to cut to make someone die the fastest. Carl was always the gentler one of the two of you, anyway. Where his like to help and soothe rested, yours were filled with the "Survival of the fittest," mentality— he took people in to help, and you put the others out of their misery.

What a pair you two were.

Now that you think about it, maybe taking a slower route isn't so bad. Let him cool off a little more— but again, maybe not. You took hatred and annoyance better than worry or concern; the former was cut and dry, easy to see where boundaries laid, while the latter came with the admittance of care bore across ones chest.

You'd rather he ice you out [he won't, at least not more for a day or two] than be upset. It was selfish, but it was easier than having to show you cared more than you let on.

Man, if you were in his position… you wouldn't be as kind as he probably will be. He was cool with letting things go, while you weren't— he shrugged things off, while you took it as a personal attack, forming your given attention into a sword and shoving it right between your ribs.

It's just how you were. You cannot hand a child a gun and teach it the devils language and expect it to come out a saint with Lucifers knowledge.

That's not how it worked.

But it's what people believed; hoped. They ooh'd and awh'd at your skills of the dance, yet turned away when feet got stepped on and shoes got bloody.

Stupid.

Bouncing Judith gently on his lap, he reads her one of her children's book, gently patting her back while struggling to turn the page one-handed, getting frustrated the more and more it happens— eventually devolving into him just tossing the book aside and slumping back into the couch.

She's asleep already, anyway. He was only continuing to read because he didn't have anything else to do; this was where you'd come in, gently pull her from his lap, and go lay her down in her bed so she could sleep uninterrupted and he and you could read comics and do whatever you both wanted.

But you're not even here, and he doesn't know if you're coming back tonight.

"…You okay?"

The sound of Michonne's voice makes him jump, gasping and wide-eyed as he breaks from his thoughts, quickly looking over to her. He sinks down again, he exhales, shoulders relaxing.

"…Yeah, sorry. I just didn't hear you come in, I guess."

"I called for you twice."

"…Oh."

Leaning against the back of the couch, Michonne falls quiet, a specific look crossing her face— he knows what it means and looks away, pretending he didn't see it.

"She asleep?"

"Yeah. About ten minutes ago."

"You—"

She stops half-way, eyebrows furrowing as she turns, looking out of the window like she heard something.

"What is it?"

"Just someone opening the gate,"

Shrugging, she turns back to him, a surprised look splitting her expression as she finds Carl already standing up and nearly stumbling over the edge of the couch to go look at who.

"Yeesh, Carl. What's got you so twisted up?"

"Noth—" He pauses halfway at the sight of something, abruptly shoving himself back from the window, quickly [but carefully] handing Judith over to her.

"It's him, Isn't it?" She interupts, accepting Judith; of whom is stirring by all of the movement.

"…Yeah— I'm just going to go talk to him."

"Right… go easy. Be careful."

He doesn't answer, already half-way out of the door before he forces himself to slow down, making sure not to slam it.

He was going to kill you— what was so important that took this little time, yet you left him behind because of it?

The gate shuts behind you, and he makes it over just as you nod a silent 'thanks,' to the lady as she curiously takes your duffel bags, making a 'holy-shit' expression as she sees what's inside— but he doesn't care.

"Where the hell have you been?"

He snaps as he steps forward, shoving you backward by your shoulders, his face scrunched in irritation; it dulls a little seeing the cuts all over you, but he steels his resolve and clenches his jaw, not letting himself slip just because you were a bit roughed up.

The lady slowly inches away, escaping like you wish you could. You don't want to tell the truth, but you're not a liar — not to him — either. You don't fight as he shoves you back again, taking his frustration in a way your father would shame you for.

"I was…" Being stupid? "I just had to do something. It's not important."

"Really? Not important? you try waking up alone with no idea where your best friend could've been!"

"Carl—"

"Just shut up if you're going to lie, because I swear to god—"

He pauses, shaking his head and riling himself up more just thinking about it.

"I— I thought you died! You weren't answering your stupid walkie-talkie, you didn't tell me where you went— What did you want me to think, huh?"

You stay quiet, unmoving when he'd thought you'd bite. There's an odd mix of shame and something else on your face, but you say nothing. Not a single sorry, and not a single explanation.

He's going to lose it.

"Really? You won't even tell me that?"

Nothing.

Silence creeps in as he glares at you, filled with tension from his anger and your emptiness; only fanning the fire. He both wants to yell at you for being so stupid and crumple up and cry from being so worried, and the war of emotions only weighs on his tense frame.

"Will you tell me what you did, then?"

"…I went for supplies."

"And you had to ditch me for it?"

"…Yes. I wasn't sure how it'd… look."

"So you think I can't handle that."

"No."

"Then why'd you leave?"

Silence.

He's going to scream.

Scoffing, he shakes his head, jaw clenching in annoyance and guilt for snapping at you— he doesn't want to fight or yell, you just… freak him out with your way of being. Your reckless habits, mostly. It drives him crazy, even if it's hypocritical.

"Did you change your bandage?"

"Don't change the topic."

"…Sorry."

""Sorry"? Really? That's all you have to say to me after freaking me out all day, leaving me alone and stressed out of my mind?"

"No."

"And you're not going to tell me what, either, are you?"

"…No."

"Oh my god,"

He mutters, turning his back to you as he runs his hand down his face, exhaling slowly in a poor attempt to calm himself down from this stupid conversation— it was like running in fucking circles with you, it truly was. You'd do everything with him but be emotional or touch him, and the moment either of those things rolled around, you bolted like you were on fucking fire and he was the gasoline.

He hated it.

"Not— Not here." You blurt, sounding unsure.

"Not here what?" He snaps, turning back to you, frustrated all over again— even at your uncertain, guilt-ridden, cut-up face.

"I'll tell you, just… not here."

"Where else, then? Fucking, outer-space? Yeah— let's go meet-up on Venus so you can finally tell me why you can't be more emotional than a rock with me. Sounds like a fuckin' great idea."

A pause.

"There, or your bedroom… but I've heard nicer things of Venus."

He cracks, just faintly.

"Not funny."

"No?"

"No."

"Then I will say… I prefer your bedroom."

"That won't change the fact that I'm still mad at you."

"I know. You glare."

He scoffs, the corner of his mouth ticking up roughly.

"I—" do. He does glare. He continues to, even as he snags your arm and starts dragging you back to his house, dropping your wrist half-way when you start feeling too warm beneath his fingers. "Whatever. Not the point."

You let him, following silently after him all the way to his house without argument up until he opens the front door and steps inside. Shutting the door behind you [so you couldn't bolt like you could if you did it yourself], he watches the way your expression falters like you aren't sure— he doesn't think he's ever seen something even alike that cross your face.

He pushes onward nonetheless, and Michonne perks up at the sound of the door, peering over the back of the couch with a raised eyebrow at the sight of you two. Krypto's asleep beside her, sleeping soundly like Judith.

"You boys made up yet?"

"No." Carl huffs, already halfway up the stairs to his bedroom.

"No… I'm still in the doghouse."

She snickers, shaking her head lightly as you start heading upstairs, too, aware of the fact you can't quite escape this now— maybe you should've just lied, let him think you didn't care that you drove him crazy. Then you wouldn't be here, stepping into his bedroom and feeling like a prisoner of your own making. It's not as bad as it could be, and you know you deserve it.

Not a second after the door clicks, he's crossing his arms and staring at you expectantly.

"So?"

You truly look like you don't know where to start— standing awkwardly by the door like this is your first time in his room — or even alone with him — when it's far, far from it. You look lost, but he doesn't give in to it.

"So… I— I left you there because I wasn't sure how safe it'd be, how.. um, trustworthy my source was for the supplies. I didn't want to risk getting you or Krypto hurt— And I know I went about it the wrong way. I'm sorry."

He watches you fumble and shift on your feet, your arms crossing lowly over your stomach; making your shirt-sleeve ride up and reveal the beginning of another Injury. He wants to brush all of this away, feeling guilty at how uncomfortable and banged up you look— all of your little cuts, from the one on your arm to your face, are red and look irritated.

He wants to help you, but he still doesn't feel fulfilled with your broken apology.

Seeing the look on his face, you continue, wincing and staring down at the floor instead.

"And I'm sorry I made you freak out. I— I wasn't ignore you on purpose, I… I took the batteries out of my walkie because I was trying to be quiet. I didn't want to be cornered with all of the stuff, and I didn't mean to make you think I died or anything— that isn't ever something I'd do with intent, I swear."

Oh.

Well… now he feels kind of like an asshole, especially with the faint hint of red on the tips of your ears, giving away your embarrassment about ranting and blurting out your apology like a twelve year old.

It feels weird to see you blush— he blushes all the time, but there's only been two times before this one where you've ever turned the slightest of pink, and one was because he'd walked in on you jerking off [he still feels bad and embarrassed about that one], and the other was because he'd, again, walked in on you— that time getting out of the shower.

This is like neither of those times.

"Who's your 'source'?"

"Some person from the Hilltop— we don't even know each-others names or faces. I... barter for it."

"Did you get anything worth it this time?"

"Uh, yeah. Some good stuff. I'm sorry. I should've told you."

"Yeah, you should've. It was stupid doing that alone. Reckless— You could've died, and no-one would've known where you were or where to look."

"…I know. I did it on purpose."

"What?"

"Nothing. Nevermind. It was stupid and I get that now, can we stop? I don't want to do this anymore."

Like you ever did. Asshole.

"You think I ever wanted to do this in the first place?" He scoffs.

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you're acting like— Like I'm 'too soft' for wanting you to know you freaked me the hell out doing that. I was scared over you."

Silence.

"So I was right. You think I'm weak because I openly care for my best friend, is that it? That showing that you love someone through more than just actions is a womans job, that it's too girly for you?"

"No—"

"Then say it." He snaps, jaw clenching as he looks away from you, ignoring the burn in his throat as he glances back, unable to look away for long after the emotional rollercoaster you just put him through,

"C'mon, tell me you love me,"

He swallows, the corner of his mouth twitching downward in a frown, "because you haven't done it once our entire friendship, if you can recall that much."

Shaking his head, he laughs at your silence, but it's choked and he hears it himself.

"*Every* time I say it to you, it's always "yeah, alright," Or "okay, man." Do you know how that feels? Years of constant rejection? Maybe— Maybe you can go without saying it, but it'd feel nice once it awhile to hear it at least once from you—"

He feels ill, and it all spills out like a bad case of word-vomit; cooped up hurt and confusion pouring from his lips in a way he could stop, but doesn't— it feels both good to finally admit it to anyone but himself and bad because he hates that he has to say it at all.

But he knows what to expect from you, and it stings when he's right.

Nothing.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I told you what. It's not really that hard to say, is it?"

He asks, voice not as steady as he wishes it was as he watches watches you shift awkwardly under his scrutiny; looking ashamed but doing nothing to help fix the situation— just standing there like a kid that got lost in the store.

You've been his friend for forever. You've done thousands of stupid things together and had good times, yet you can't even say three words when he's practically begging you to? It was pathetic, but so was the fact he was trying this hard over one simple thing— married people didn't even say it that much to each other, yet he was hurt that you wouldn't say it to him. You owed him nothing in this sense.

It wasn't right, even if he sometimes wanted to.

"I— I'm just not used to it. I… I want to, but it feels… awkward."

Jesus. Were you just dense, or selfish? Unwilling to tell him things, but more than eager to throw yourself to the sharks if it meant his safety.

"So does constantly being rejected."

"I don't reject you." You argue.

"You turn me down and ignore it— That's rejection, or are we choosing to forget the meaning now?"

"I don't… mean to."

"But you do, and it makes me feel stupid. Unwanted."

Unwanted. Who was he kidding— you two weren't in a relationship. It wasn't your job to endlessly coddle him; he'd hate it if you did and when you do. Why was he so caught up over stupid words? It was childish, but it's what he felt.

"This isn't even about me leaving you last night anymore, is it? It doesn't feel like it. Now you're just… getting on my ass."

Were you fucking kidding him?

""Getting on your ass"? Are you serious? I'm— I'm trying talk with you— you know, like real people do when someone hurts their feelings?"

He shakes his head, scoffing as he moves to sit down on his bed, pulling his hat off and tossing it aside. His eye hurts— throbbing in hot, uncomfortable pulses in time with his hearts rhythm.

You did this every time he wanted to have a real, emotional conversation with you— You shoved him away and tucked yourself back into your shell, changing the topic or getting him irritated so he'd do it himself by accident.

It was stupid. He'd say you were stupid, but you weren't and he felt bad just thinking of you like that.

Damn his sensitive heart.

"I just— I don't like these conversations. You know that."

"I don't like a lot of things, either, but I don't avoid them like a child over it. These things are unavoidable. You can't run from them forever."

Well, hell, knowing you— yes you could. You were skilled and smart enough for it.

Shifting on your feet, you sigh as you move over and sit down on the floor and lean your back against the frame of his bed— You're close enough he could touch you, tug you up, but he doesn't.

The silence swallows.

He slumps back into his headboard, shoulder dropping as he closes his eye, trying to ignore the burning of his other. He probably should go change his bandage and put some of the cream on it, maybe an ice pack, but… he has a feeling that if he moves, whatever weird mood you're in will crack and he'll lose his chance of honesty.

"My dad taught me that you only let people you're in a relationship see specific sides of you,"

You admit, your thumb running over the irritated and raw flesh of the cut on your palm, fidgeting like you don't even want to be here with him at all.

Surprise crosses his features as he opens his eyes again, eyebrows raising as he stays quiet, hoping that if he doesn't say anything, you'll continue.

You do.

"You know, like… touching, verbal affection, being emotional. That was only something you did with a girlfr— a, um, spouse, and not your friends— 'cause you didn't know your friends as well as you did a… partner. That's why I always acted weird about it. I wasn't taught that you did that with everyone."

You blab on, voice shaking in a couple places in a way that makes his stomach curl in on itself— he's not sure why he likes the sound so much. The unsteadier version, the unrounded. Incomplete and unsure.

Not as… rehearsed.

"Oh."

Jesus— he can't help but wonder about what you were thinking every time he did it, what you felt as he acted in a way that, to you, only a spouse should.

His hands twist in his lap, legs crossing at his ankles as he dips the pad of his thumb into one of the white scars on his hand, borne of an injury he doesn't even recall.

"I know that's not an excuse for how I hurt your feelings, but… I didn't do it on purpose. I wasn't sure what you wanted from me— until now. I'm sorry."

Well… that doesn't make him feel any less guilty, but it does offer insight and reason to why you were so skittish with and around affection.

"I made it pretty obvious."

He mutters, adjusting on his bed as he stares at the side of your face; the curve of your eyelashes, the dip of your throat around your Adams apple, the scars that peek out from the collar of your shirt.

"I must've missed it, since… I tried not to read into any of it."

"Why?"

"Because it would've been awkward bringing it up."

"…Fair."

 Was it? he didn't really know.

He also didn't know where to go from here. You'd said sorry about a million times, but he was still a little upset over everything thus far, even if he was the type to pretend he wasn't— you'd see right through the fib like you always did.

He didn't even really want to talk about it anymore, and he doubted that you would want to, too. You weren't the "Tell me everything," type, but more rather "Don't talk, just let me help you out," Kind. He didn't have to explain every little thing to you, and you usually took what he did and assisted where you could with what you had.

Neither of you were super clingy that way.

Sure, if he didn't see you all day he'd think about you and what you were doing, but he wouldn't push off his duties to go find out— and you were too loyal to your own tasks to do it yourself.

His attention flits back over to you as you straighten up, turning to face him and laying your arms atop his bed, pressing your stomach against the frame.

"You change your bandage yet?"

You mutter, repeating your earlier question, adjusting and pulling back a little, leaning back on your calves and letting your arms slip downward, messing with the lip of his metal bed-frame— the veins in your wrist jump as you move your fingers.

A little voice in the back of his head nags, distant paranoia that you'd find the box he'd shoved under there.

"No. I haven't gotten to it."

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"How much?"

"…A little."

You hum lowly at his question, lips pressing together like you're thinking over his answer. His gaze doesn't pull from you, his teeth sinking into the fat of his bottom lip at the feeling your hum creates in his stomach— he'd blame feeling it at all on puberty. It made him feel all sorts of odd ways, so it didn't seem that far fetched… even if he had a faint grasp of the truth.

"You've been using the cream, right?"

"Yes? You've seen me put it on."

"I know… I'm just making sure. Is it working?"

"I think so."

He raises his shoulder in a lazy shrug, facing his palms up idly in an 'I don't know for sure,' gesture as he lets his gaze roam downward, focusing back on all the little cuts scattered along your flesh.

"You should clean those."

He blurts, forcing his eyes back up to your face, but it just gets drawn to the cut next to your mouth. and how it probably hurts when you talk.

"Yeah, I know." You mutter, not sounding like you're jumping to do it.

"Are you?"

"…Later."

"What? No, not later. They'll get infected."

Sitting up, he huffs, leaning forward just slightly to get a better look of the one on your mouth, his eyebrows furrowing. He feels warmer when you don't lean away like you usually do, letting him get as close as he wants— which isn't that much.

He's not that confident.

"C'mon. We're cleaning those, and you're not getting out of it."

"Yeah… I know. You're not that nice."

He chokes on a laugh, attempting to hide his amusement as he rummages through the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, grabbing the needed aid and then shutting it, turning back to face you as you stand stiffly in the doorway.

"Well? Let's go, cowboy."

"Blah, blah. Where you want me?"

"um…"

Glancing around his small bathroom, he thinks over the options; which are not many. The toilet, but he'd have to stand or kneel on the floor, both of which are uncomfortable, and the side of the tub holds the same problems.

The sink'll have to do. He'll hop up, and you can stand between his legs— he has to get to all of your little cuts anyway.

"The sink will work. Hold these."

Handing over the supplies and watching your expression shift and flow, he presses his back against the edge of the counter, placing his palms on it beside his hips and jumping up, sliding himself back and adjusting to be comfortable.

This didn't need to happen in the bathroom, but he'd rather not get blood or antiseptic all over his bedsheets. He sleeps there, and that's kind of grody.

"O…kay. C'mere."

He shifts a bit, finding a good position as you step forward, raising a brow at his choice but not questioning it. You rarely did… with him, anyway.

Handing the supplies over, he takes the unopened box of antiseptic and pries it open as you set the other stuff down beside his thigh, opening the other boxes that need to be opened and tossing the trash into the tiny bin next to the tub.

"Am I too close?"

As if.

"Nah."

He shakes his head, spreading his knees a slight bit more for you to fit your hips and setting the bottle down on the counter, throwing the box away and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to keep them out of the way and from getting too dirty.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Who was he kidding— he hasn't ever heard you say "no," to a question like that. Even if you were, you weren't the type to admit it.

You shrug your flannel off which leaves you just in your undershirt as You toss your it aside, keeping it out of the way as he watches you turn back to him, finally offering him your cut-up, irritated palm.

Yeesh. Certainly not the prettiest.

Your hips brush his knees as you shift on your feet, wincing as he starts cleaning the wound— and he can see your other hand curl into a fist at your side, the way your jaw clenches as you exhale.

He keeps your hand steady, his fingers coiled around your wrist to keep you from jerking, his thumb pressing firmly into your pulse-point when you move; he can feel the rhythm of your heart from it, and it's a little distracting.

He glances up at the hissed "Shit," that came from behind your gritted teeth— glancing up to your face on instict only to see your nose scrunched and mouth slightly parted. He knew you were sensitive to pain; it's why it made the fact you never rushed to bandage up your injuries all the more odd.

"Sorry," He murmurs.

"No— no, it's fine. Keep going."

Nodding, he refocuses, finishing up with cleaning the wound. It's not too deep, so all it'll need is repeated bandage changes and some cream to stave away infections and some of the pain— most of your cuts are like that. Superficial, but just deep enough to need to be cared for.

He lowers your hand just slightly as he puts the antiseptic aside, eventually ditching your hand all-together, needing both of his own for a second to tear the right amount of gauze. Adjusting minutely, you watch him struggle to rip it, eventually just pulling your knife out of your belt.

He stills, catching on quickly and muttering a low "thanks," as you cut it for him, careful not to cut him or get too close to his fingers.

"So… Did you check out the comic book store I marked for you? On the map?"

Taking your hand, he carefully smooths some of the antibacterial cream on the raw flesh around the ruined skin of your palm, avoiding your gaze with a purpose.

"…No."

"Was it too far? I thought it was pretty close to the main route, but I could've been..."

"It was close enough," He pauses, already anticipating your question, "I just didn't feel like it."

It was half of the truth, but half of the truth is still the truth. Right now, anyway.

Wiping the excess cream off of his fingertips and onto his jeans, he grabs the gauze, carefully laying it over the cut, circling it around your hand before gently tying it off and checking that it'll stay in place firmly enough.

It's a rinse and repeat for the other ones on you— your arm, your shoulder, and now your stomach. Then your face.

You hold your shirt up with your uninjured hand, keeping it just out of his way as he cleans the jagged slice in your left iliac region, marring the skin just above your waistband. It's a sensitive place, and it shows every time your stomach twitches as his knuckles ghost over it.

Shuffling to sit a slight bit more on the edge of the counter, the inside of his thighs bump into the outside of your hips when he moves. It feels weirdly distracting— he can feel your warmth through the both of your jeans, and beneath his fingertips.

You always did run hot.

"This— hurts more than I thought it would."

"Yeah, I can tell. I'll be quick."

"What, not feeding on my pain?"

He snickers, but it falters fast, too focused for the amusement to stick.

"Nah. Not yet, anyway."

"Gee.. thanks." Your voice is strained, cracking faintly even as you try to hide how much it hurts.

"You're welcome."

Your stomach twitches as the cold of the antiseptic touches the reddened, sensitive skin— your hand balling into a fist as you lull forward, hand moving to grip the counter and arms flanking his sides as you groan; breathy and weak…

Right in his freaking ear.

He knew it wasn't on purpose, but It doesn't stop the flush of pink on his face or the goosebumps that rise along his spine at the sound of it.

His brain has never been more unhelpful in its life.

"Is it cold?"

"Y-Yes."

"Figured. We're almost done, think you can survive 'til then?"

"…Yes." You rasp.

He refocuses once you agree, his tongue running over his bottom lip as he exhales and attempts to not get thrown off track, his palm making home of your side and pressing into the warmth of you; to keep you from messing him up by moving.

His fingertips press just faintly into your skin, but not nearly enough to hurt— just to warn and remind you to try to keep still.

"Stop wiggling." He huffs, lifting his gaze just enough to glare, then back down so he doesn't mess himself up.

"I can't. You— You try keeping still while someone's halfway in your freakin' pants, pouring antiseptic into your jeans."

"I'm not even close to being in your pants."

"Bet'cha wish you were though," You snicker at your own jest, choking on a groan as he presses into your wound a little harder than necessarily needed when applying the cream— making hot pain seep into your side and below. Just to get back at you.

His face feels hot.

"That was dirty." You croak.

"You'll be fine."

"Says— says you."

"Yes, says me."

Your grip on your shirt tightens, and as he pulls back to grab the bandages, he watches you tilt your head back witnessing each of your open-mouthed breaths be tailed by faint, wounded sounds. …Maybe he shouldn't have done that— but the muscular column of your bared throat is far from an ugly sight.

Why the hell is he thinking that? About his best friend, no less?

He needs to catch a grip.

"There," He huffs, smoothing down the medical tape onto your side, his jaw clenching briefly as your stomach twitches again, your happy trail far too distracting for his liking. "All done on that one now."

Leaning back, he watches you drop your shirt, tugging it downward as you finish catching your breath— And when you lull your head back up, you look… wrecked; half-lidded eyes, pupils blown, hair a mess, and thin sheen of sweat on your forehead as you pant.

Jesus.

"Ready for the next one?"

He clears his throat, exhaling slowly as he prepares to repeat the routine again, this time a little more carefully since it's right next to your mouth. It's not that long, so it'll suffice with some antibacterial cream and a couple butterfly bandages for now.

Quick 'n easy. He could do that.

"Yeah."

"You tired yet?"

"…Yeah."

"We're almost done. I'll be easier this time."

Its not like he was rough or crude with the other ones, but he didn't exactly hyper-focus on every little touch of his, so it probably resulted in a few that stung more than they helped.

Straightening his back, he leans forward a bit, thighs bracketing your hips as he squeezes the cool cream onto the pads of his fingers and reaches upward, one hand holding your jaw whilst his other runs the cream along the cut.

Don't focus on his mouth, don't focus on his mouth…

"How'd you get this one, anyway?"

"A can."

"Oh. That makes… more sense than what I came up with."

"Yeah?" You voice is breathy, wrecked.

Oh my god, please don't talk like that again, or I'll lose it.

"Stop talking, you're messing me up."

Fulfilled with your newfound silence, his eye only wanders twice as he finishes getting the cream on your face, pulling his hands back and grabbing the thing of butterfly band-aids. Wiping the leftover cream off of his fingers, he tugs a few out before setting the box aside and prying the paper from the sticky adhesive.

He steadies your face with his hand again, "the web of the thumb," part of it over your mouth by proxy as he keeps you still and applies the band-aids.

"All done."

He hums, finishing with the last band-aid and pulling away— widening the minute space between his knees and your hips, unaware of how his thighs were almost clamped around your sides until now.

…Oops. At least you were letting him get all over you and not pulling away from him like he burned. You used to— he feels both relieved and embarrassed about that.

"Thanks."

He nods, lips pressing together slightly as he watches you step back, hopping off the counter once he has enough space to do so.

Straightening out, he glances over to you— seeing if you heard the ruckus downstairs like he did. He doesn't have the chance to ask, your dads voice yelling up the stairs loud enough to almost make him jump, surprised.

"[Name]! Get your fucking ass down here!"

You stiffen immediately.

"Wha—"

But you're already turning on your heel, bolting out of the bathroom like your tail was on fire, prying open his door the moment you get to it, practically throwing yourself down the stairs in your rush— he trails after you, but stops by his threshold.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Get the fuck over here, now."

Stumbling off the last step, he watches you as you nod jerkily, muttering Krypto's call as you walk behind your dad. He slams the door behind you, making Carl jump and Judith babble weakly from her spot on the couch.

"What was that about?" Michonne questions, peering out from the kitchen as he heads downstairs.

Rick had attempted to explain just that, yet they didn't answer; not paying any mind to the kneeling figures as they taunted the three of them by messing with Judith. Only when they joke about "having fun," — the implication alone makes Carl stiffen and fight against his restraints, as does Rick — with her, does it start to shift from awful to… strange.

Glancing over to his dad, Carl pants, hatred running hot as Rick does nothing; why wasn't he doing anything? why'd he seem so calm? why was that—

The faint sounds of growling and the crunch of leaves grows louder, making the strangers perk up before they stiffen, going pale as their breaths hitch in their chest mid-gasp.

what—? Carl spreads his knees, widening his stance and gaining more stability as he glares at the people before him, shoulders tight with anger and the need to make sure they can't ever touch Judith again; only sparing a quick look hindward as looks of genuine fear cross over the strangers face.

"Give us Judith back, Or my friends here will do it for you." Friends? what friends? every time he looks back, he can hear growling and movement, but he can't see anything or anyone.

Rick's voice is unusually steady for someone in their position— lives in the hands of strangers. the same hands that rush forward, blabbering apologies as they set Judith down on the ground, stumbling as they back-track. "What the fuck is that?!"

One of the strangers yell, alerting the walkers that were roaming at the edge of their make-shift camp.

The next ten minutes feel like a weird dream. Large wolf-like figures leap over his dad just as he leans forward, quickly gesturing for Michonne and Carl to do the same— Michonne does it like it wasn't the first time she had, and shock forces Carl's body to do the same; draping himself over Judith as she sniffles into his shirt. The strangers are dead before he can even risk a glance upward to see what exactly is killing them. "Thanks for comin'," Straightening back up, Carl's blood is rushing loudly in his ears, chest heaving as he pants from confusion and stress, mainly from worrying over Judith's safety.

Rick's voice sounds distant as he says something to the… creature stepping forward, large maw dripping in blood and flesh as the wolf… thing shakes out its fur, moving behind the three of them. The other big creatures spread out, appearing to check the surroundings from the brief slip of attention he gives them. "No problem, Rick. I told you to warn me before shit like this happens again… will you ever learn?"

who's voice is that?

"hah… 'm real sorry about that, James."

And who's James?

Carl's eyebrows draw together as he looks over to his now-standing father and the other man behind him; said man is covered in blood and only in shorts with wolf ears on his head and a tail between his legs. That can't be right because there was just a…

"What is happening?" He blurts, still kneeling and apparently forgotten by his dad, whose eyebrows raise as he rushes to pick Judith up. Michonne is untied second, nodding to the bloodied similar-looking lady that undoes her binds. they seem like they know each-other. "Oh, uh… Son— Carl, this is James, James Grey. He's an old buddy of mine from the station."

"But he was just a dog."

The look Rick gives him makes him momentarily forget he's still bound and kneeling — which hurts, 'cause the gravel has been digging into his knees through his jeans the entire time — on the ground, the last of the three still stuck until Michonne breaks from her conversation and cuts the rope coiled around his wrist, saying something he doesn't quite catch the first half of.

"Not a dog. werewolf… thing."

She says, handing him his sheriffs hat as he pulls himself up and brushes himself off, shooting a confused look between the two men at the glance they share, both appearing like they're about to laugh at his expense and idiocy.

"It's complicated." Nods 'James,' giving Carl a sharp-toothed smile, yet it does nothing to ease his confusion or his… questions. Handing Judith over, Rick gently tugs him into a more private area as Carl settles her on his hip, letting Rick gently guide him away from the other… were-things as they circle back together, playing and roughhousing with one another. the ground thumps when one of their 6' bodies hits the ground by being tackled by another.

On top of the previous strangers corpses.

Other than that, they seem oddly social.

The "explanation," his dad gives does pretty much nothing. These 'people,' are both human and lupine, Rick has known of their pack since he was twenty, they stay mostly in their group and away from people, and Rick's got a close bond with that James guy; and therefore, James' pack will do anything the group needs if they ask kindly enough and offer good meat… and, "there's a boy your age... He's a little reserved, though. James and I'll talk about where to go next, but it might take awhile."

The situation feels like one out of his freakin' comics. What's next, some intergalactic silver-surfer is going to pop out of the sky?

He gets nudged away with a "go get 'em, tiger," look and a gentle elbow to the side, of which makes Judith giggle at the noise that's pulled from his throat since it tickles. Exhaling and fixing his hat, be bounces Judith lightly, smiling as she laughs. Looking around, his teeth sink into the fat of his bottom lip, unused to the new sight before him. These… 'people,' they're huge; Lupine forms reaching above his head, their fur thick and bodies muscular as they play fight and annoy each-other while the other part half of their pack keeps watch, patrolling near the edges of the make-shift camp. Yeesh. seems like there's slackers in every group. Moving to sit down in the shade, he sinks down a little bit away from the strangers, shifting Judith to sit on his lap as she reaches out for the glistening surface of the lake before them. When she starts narrowing her eyes at the sun in her face, he pulls his hat from his head, placing it onto her smaller one and fixing his hair, shaking it out of his face. She bounces and tries to escape his grip, attempting to flee sanctuary of his lap in yearn to go see the water. He gives in, grunting as he forces himself up and puts her back onto the curve of his hip. "Fine, fine… We'll go see the water. maybe they'll even be fishies,"

He hums, bringing his free hand up to shade his eyes from the sun now that his hat is off, squinting lightly as his nose scrunches.

Bending his knees lightly to keep stable, he goes down the small hill, briefly glancing backward to the others before continuing on with only the sound of gravel crunching underfoot and the wind now gracing his ears.

"See?"

Finally down the hill, he steps over to the grasp of the water, bending down so she can touch it if she wants to.

"Just a lake. Dad and I used to go swimming in these all the time when I was younger… We'd always get really sunburnt,"

Laughing lightly, he stares down at Judith as she stretches out and makes the water splash with her tiny hand, eventually devolving into trying to grab the water. She can't, of course, but its cute to watch; it's easy to forget the dead are walking and killing in moments like these, where the sun is warm and the breeze is right.

That comfort is broken as the sounds of footsteps curl around the hill, and with the way the gravel groans, he knows its not Rick or Michonne— not even that James guy. Humans don't have four legs, nor are they that heavy.

"Doggy!"

Gasps Judith, making Carl look over to where shes excitedly pointing; right at one of those wolfy-human strangers. This one looks different, though. Their snout isn't as long, their fur not as colored as some of the older looking ones he'd seen. Judith must've mistaken the animal for the rather similar-looking one in her children's book, yet he can't blame her. Wolves and dogs look somewhat similar, and she's never seen the latter before.

At least they don't seem to have blood on their maw, yet he guesses thats because they were just in the water— the tips of their fur is slick with it, darkening its usual color.

Carl straightens, still not entirely trusting, adjusting Judith into a more protective and guarded hold into his side. She pays no mind, only clutching her still-wet hand into his shirt, cooing at the "doggy."

"Carl! Where are you? We're movin'!"

Calls Rick, jogging over to the hillside where he can see the lake after being guided by one of the strangers, of whom breaks off from his side and makes a wolf-ish noise; causing the stranger by the lakefront to sprint up the hill, returning to their group.

"I'm coming. I was just showing her the lake,"

"Alright then, lets go. James 'n his pack are going to lead us, since they know the land better,"

"yeah, okay."

As he makes it back up the hill, all of the strangers — he should really come up with a better name for them — are rounded up, yet a few of them are still playing and teasing each-other; until they stop at the sight of them, ears twitching and tails wagging as they make dog-like noises, from huffs and low croons to lower, subtler ones of what he guesses are of interest.

They don't see a lot of humans, His fathers words ring in his ears, yet it doesn't ease the feeling of being out of place with how many there are— six that he's counted, but he's sure there's more. Judith reaches out again for that specific person from earlier, cooing at them and making grabby-hands.

"No, Judith. You can't—"

He's cut off by Rick as he calls his name, looking over and nudging his head in a C'mere, motion. Michonne is still next to that wolfish lady, and he can't help but wonder if their bond is similar to James and his dad— all four of them seem close, leader-to-leader, strong-lady-to-strong-lady.

Carl nods, walking over as they all start moving; now with the addition of James'… pack; of which guard Michonne, Rick, himself and Judith, keeping them in the middle of this band of huge not-werewolves.

Yeah, still really weird to think about.

"So…"

He eventually pipes up, wanting to know more about all this stuff happening— last he knew, werewolves weren't real and were just fairy tale to keep kids nervous enough of the "big bad wolf," to not stray out of line.

What's next, vampires?

"How'd you meet that James… guy?"

Making his curiosity known, Carl pulls his hat from Judith's now-sleeping form, plopping it back onto his own head and adjusting it so it sits proper.

"The station kept getting calls about a 'real big bear,'—"

James, in his lupine form, huffs as his ears tick like a silent version of this story again?; Rick glances over and laughs, patting his back and ruffing up his fur until he starts playfully growling at him,

"—getting into peoples trash, so 'course, I went to go check it out. Turns out, Wolves as big as these guys look more similar to Bears than anythin' else on grainy camera footage… and it gets a little complicated after that."

"How?"

"Hard to explain. I'll tell you when we get a good safe spot, okay?"

Carl doesn't really want to let it go, but he nods and shrugs off his lingering thoughts, agreeing with a nod in spite of his need to know everything about these 'people.' What their history is, how strong they are, why they're so big… what they can do.

They keep walking for the next couple hours— well, Rick and Carl walk, since Michonne and — what he guesses is — her friend from before stop just long enough for Michonne to hop up onto her friends back.

Huh, he didn't think of that; these people are truly very similar in size to a horse, so he can't see why you couldn't get on 'em like one.

Glancing over, his gaze lands on the same person from before from the lake. The way their fur is different like they're younger, how they growl at the other nudging at their side and nipping at their tail in a seemingly playful way, how their ears twitch and pin…

He can't help but ask.

"Who's that?"

Carl murmurs, pulling his gaze back to his dad as he adjusts his hold on the sleeping Judith.

"Him?" Rick questions, gesturing over to the person of his idle curiosity, causing him to nod.

"That's [name], the Son of James. He's about your age, I think."

"Oh."

Gently nudging his side, Carl doesn't realize his gaze had drifted until it snaps back over to his dad at the feeling of his elbow in his side, making him flush lightly in embarrassment.

"I can't say I know much about 'im. He doesn't shift a lot, that I do know. James said somethin' happened and he hasn't done it since."

"Oh."

Rick laughs lightly at his repeated response and at his expense, shaking his head faintly in amusement. The fact that you can more than likely hear his conversation makes his face turn warm, embarrassed and a little flustered as it registers to his brain— it'd be weirder if you couldn't, actually. if your people do truly hold lupine senses, you absolutely can.

…oops.

Well, he feels a little awkward now, even though you've yet to even pay more than an idle half-lidded glance; and that was back at the lake when Judith called you a 'doggy.'

Jesus, all it does is get weirder.

He breaks out of his tangled thoughts as the lupine form of James makes a noise and jogs forward, and no one else but you do the same— the rest of James' pack stay back and protect the three of them, tightening their circle now that James and you are gone.

Running up to the wooden cabin ahead to, he assumes, check it out.

Carl can't help but stare ahead until your form disappears inside, and he only glances back when the sound of Michonne hopping off of her wolfy companion wrings out the silence, along with the sound of her fixing her sword.

"You think that'll hold us off for the night?"

She inquires as she steps up beside Rick, who only shrugs his shoulders.

"Looks fine from here. Big enough, too. Should be alright."

Looking away, Carl nods in agreement when Rick glances to him for his opinion, fine with his answer as they make it to the Cabin; standing outside by the fencing as the sound of flesh tearing, things crashing, and growling own the air inside the house… Waiting for some signal, according to his dad.

No signal comes, but James, now in his human form, pops out from the doorway, dripping in ruined flesh as he waves everyone to come inside quickly to get them away from the oncoming walkers.

"All clear. I checked out the attic while [Name] cleared the rest of the place, found some blankets for us."

The Cabin is surprisingly big; fitting all twelve of James' pack, some even still in their wolf form. The rest seem to enjoy their human-ish form, from what he's gathered these past ten minutes getting comfortable in the space for the three of them in front of them all. Some — more than not — are rowdy, teasing and playing with the other partially lupine people of their group, while some of the older ones are more calm.

The pack would look like a normal family, had they lacked their sharp teeth, their puffy tails, their flicking ears and their 6' large wolf forms.

After a minute, he leaves Judith with Michonne and heads out for air, maybe to escape from the scent of wet dog, rotting flesh, and expired food.

James said somethin' happened, and he hasn't done it since.

Letting his thoughts drift, all they do is roam back toward you and your mystery. He's not sure what it is about you that makes him so curious— He's normally a 'let sleeping dogs lie,' type of person, not the kind to think an odd amount about some other teenager he doesn't even know the middle name of.

Yet… You're not quite 'normal,' so It'd be hard to think so when you're involved. In spite of his usually shy, awkward behavior around others his age, he wants to go ask about what this happening, that made you dislike changing to your partially-human form.

…Why you were so different of those in your group, what made you so private and reserved with your family.

"They are pretty rowdy, huh?"

Carl gasps, jumping at the voice behind him as he whips around, instinctively reaching for his weapon.

James raises his hands, eyebrows raising,

"Easy now, I ain't gonna do nothin' to you,''

"Sorry,"

He breathes, shoulders relaxing once his brain registers its no-one of harm, his fingers curling into the brim of his hat as he fixes it from its startled movement.

"It's all alright, Son. Got good instincts; those'll save you these days. Quitelike your pops, those movements of yours."

Carl looks over to his side as James steps up to the railing beside him, resting his forearms but not leaning his weight on the wood; cautious that it might fail, he guesses. He subconsciously pulls back, doing the same.

"He, uh, taught me. Guess I just started mirroring him."

He's not sure why he's being so honest to a guy he's never talked to before this, but it comes naturally; his mind green-flagging that since Rick trusts him with everyones lives, Carl can trust him with a little honesty.

"My son used to do the same, when he was younger. He was a lot like his mom when he was a kid, but he's takin' a little more after me nowadays."

O...kay, the honesty is going both-ways. He can handle that.

"[name]?"

"Oh, yeah. Might not seem it, but the kid's real family-oriented beneath all that tough fur. Like his momma, still."

"…Oh. I wouldn't have guessed."

Tangling his fingers together, he attempts not to stare at the tail swaying behind James' legs, the sharp teeth, or the flicking ears atop his head. He's sure he fails until he forces himself to look away, inhaling the cool air to calm the aftermaths of the jumpscare from his body.

"James! Ruth is fighting Korra again!"

Someone yells from inside the house, making James sigh and shake his head as he pulls back, his ears twitching as the breeze picks up again.

"Lupa, these kids. See you, Carl. 'm sure we'll talk again one of these days,"

Carl only nods, eyebrows lowering from their mildly raised position as the lupine-like figure disappears inside the cabin, calling two names loudly before the door closes behind his tail.

Nightfall comes quicker than expected with the roam of winter overhead; once long summer days now shortened to colder, cooler evenings in their stead.

It gets too chilly to stay outside as the clouds cover the sun-falls heat, and eventually everyone rounds back inside; forming little groups of chaos between playing cards someone found, others just talking, and the rest of them are scattered about… you included, apparently, because he hasn't seen you since.

Weird, why does he care about that?

It's bedtime, anyway.

"Where are we sleeping? The attic?"

Carl asks, fighting a yawn as he watches the band of wolves tighten into a wider sleeping circle, messes of fur and tails covering the floor of the wooden cabin.

"What? With them. It's too cold up there. James said the windows broken, or somethin'."

He falls silent, ignoring the urge to say 'oh,' for the millionth time today.

Its a little awkward getting situated, but its not awful at all once he relaxes; Its warm, almost too hot with the blanket tossed over his legs. He's not sure who he's leaning on, but they're soft and seem to like it, so… he doesn't move too much, and tries not to toss and turn.

He's the only one left awake an hour later— Rick and Michonne are both wiped out, cuddling in their sleep, Judith asleep beside him. It's too dark to see anything, and he's mostly just lost in his thoughts by now, unable to fall asleep, like always.

Actually… Turns out, He's not the only one.

Carl's heart jumps out of rhythm as the floorboard creaks, the sound of footfall forcing the old wood to groan beneath their weight; he reaches for his gun on instinct, not moving too much to avoid being seen by whomever it may be.

Upon making out a fluffy figure, he relaxes a little, exhaling shakily as he sinks back down into his make-shift bed, willing his heart to slow down a little as the figure steps into a stream of moonlight. That 'figure,' turns out to just be you.

What are you doing up?

He wants to ask, but he doesn't, aware it'll probably come out far too awkward and far too weird. You can't even say anything, anyway. He's just a kid with a fucked-up face, and just because you both happen to be the same age doesn't mean you'll end up friends in the long run.

Whenyou finally notice him, your ears flick, tail stiffening just slightly like you hadn't expected — or wanted — anyone to be up still, yet neither he nor yourself make a move to do anything about it as you find a good spot and curl up to sleep.

The floor is cold once Carl rouses, blinking rapidly and glancing around the now too-quiet room; everyone is gone, and It's empty.

Rick and Michonne's blankets are still there, but they aren't and neither is Judith.

Pushing himself to sit upward, the feeling of Fur and heat finally registers to the palm of his hand, making him startle as a low grumble and a huff sounds out behind him— not as alone as he thought.

His face flames, snatching his hand away with an apology on his tongue, but his mind blanks once he notices who exactly he'd made a lone pillow of.

"Sorry,"

Running a hand through his now-messy hair, he sweeps it out of his face, shuffling away from your large form and grabbing his hat as he kicks the blankets off of him, now too hot.

"I, uh, didn't mean to… touch your tail."

God, could he be more awkward?

He swallows his embarrassment, moving to stand up and try to escape from this rather uncomfortable… one-sided conversation, giving you plenty of space as you rise and shake yourself off, ears twitching as you walk right past him— nearly bumping into him as you squeeze through the hall way.

Jesus, your people were freaking huge.

Is there a reason for that? he wonders, fixing his hat and shoving his feet into his boots, straightening out his shirt as he nudges the door open. Mainly just for fresh air after that encounter; it felt like every single one he had with you was just a humiliation ritual.

It's chaos outside. Not, like, Walker-Chaos and death, but rather… quiet-but-also-loud rowdiness— He can hear the sounds of splashing and roughhousing from the porch of the cabin, snarling acquainted with more splashing, even some animalistic noises tossed into the mix.

Where the hell was Judith? Rick?

Hopping over to the railing, he pushes his hat a little further onto his head to avoid the wind blowing it off as he peers out to the lake; easily spotting what— who is making all the ruckus.

He hasn't exactly had the time to memorize whose colored coats were who, but he can recognize a couple. James is shaking himself off and crawling out of the water, that Ruth person is throwing themself into another and making them both fall over, and someone else is repeatedly jumping off the dock.

"Ah, Carl! You awake? We're just about getting ready to go," Calls Rick, and he has to glance around to figure out where the heck he's even at— which is down by the stairs, Judith tucked into his side. Something in him relaxes at the sight, mind easing faintly as it accepts that they're both safe.

"Yeah, I'm good,"

He nods, stepping back from the railing and heading down the steps as he shoves one of his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, shifting on the balls of his feet once he makes it down; the feeling of being out of place crawls back again, body going on-edge at being in the middle of nowhere, and pretty far from Alexandria, from a geographic guess.

"That, uh, James guy— Does he know how to get us back?" "Oh, yeah. Not too far, he says; only a days trip left." Nodding again, he exhales slowly, lips pressing together thoughtfully.

"Where's Michonne?"

A half-hour later, and they're all back on the road again, the three of them taking shifts holding Judith once their arms get too sore. She's getting pretty heavy now, he'd admit, but It's a good thing. He'd rather she make his shoulders and his back hurt than not be around at all.

The thought makes him a little sick to think about.

"Looks like we're comin' up on the River James talked about,"

His dad mutters, snapping Carl out of his twisting thoughts as he glances upward in interest.

It's big.

Too big to be able to walk across unless you're, like, six feet tall or have the strongest core anyone's ever seen— he's neither of those, especially the latter.

"How are we supposed to get across that?"

He asks, eyebrows drawing together as he adjusts his hold on Judith, tightening his grip subconsciously.

"Well, these big guys aren't just show ponies, are they?"

Rick jests, spotting Carl's unease and scrunched face. The implication does not soothe anything, and neither does the fact that the lupine form of James and Michonne's friend sink down, and Michonne wastes no time taking Ricks assistance in hoisting herself up onto her wolfy friend.

"They'll get us across just fine, Carl. Don't worry."

He nods, giving Carl a firm yet gentle look, attempting to seem reassuring in its nature. It still doesn't make him feel better, but neither does the rushing river laid out before all fifteen of them; a few people of your pack keep guard, killing off any walkers that get too close— you included until James snaps at you, making some weird gesture Carl doesn't understand.

Rick shakes his head, patting James' snout as he laughs lightly, apparently amused by something.

Your large form just huffs, tail idling behind your legs as you come over, attempting to wipe some of the walker guts off your maw onto the grass on the way.

It finally clicks for him.

You? That's who he's trusting to get him across that river with Judith? You're stupidly strong and smart from what he's seen, but—

"C'mere, It ain't that bad. I'll talk you through it."

Dad pipes up again, and Carl doesn't disobey in spite of the nerves coiling low in his stomach; part leftover embarrassment, part guilt that you have to do this at all. You don't seem to want it any more than he does.

When you sink down to lay on your stomach, the sigh that pushes from your snout ruffles some of the grass in front of your maw.

If he didn't feel awkward around you before, he sure does now as he fumbles to toss his leg over your back, thin fingers buried in the fur by your scruff as he tries to balance. Your ears twist and twitch as he climbs all over you, and he can feel his cheeks heating up rather quickly.

"All… right. They move pretty quick, so you gotta keep a good hold on 'em, okay? 'Specially with little Judith with you. It's like riding a horse… kind of." Nodding, he exhales shakily, accepting Judith once he feels stable enough on top of you. Rick moves back over to James, tossing his leg over his spine and steadying himself easily, patting him twice in an 'we're ready,' signal.

His nerves lurch as you slowly start standing up, the startled noise that quickly slips from his throat making your ears turn. His chest heaves with unsteady breaths, panting from both nervousness and stress, keeping Judith close to his chest in case anything happens… but she's not nearly as afraid as him, rather busy tugging at your thick fur and babbling excitedly.

Okay, Okay, he can do this… Just like a horse. It'll be fine.

As you begin wading into the water, followed by the rest of your pack and abreast of your dad, he tries not to hold on too tightly as the cold water laps at your sides and the soles of his boots.

This is weird.

Three days ago, wolf creatures didn't even exist to him, and now, he's on top of some stranger, of whom is a 6' tall lupine… thing. not-shape shifter, because you apparently hate your human form too much to ever shift.

"Here, gimme Judith— You look like you're about to throw up.''

He's sure Rick means that jokingly, but it feels all too alike the churning in his gut, blood rushing just barely louder than the ice-cold, quick water beneath him.

"Yeah— Yeah, okay."

Carl nods, exhaling slowly, and feeling far better about holding Judith over the gap once you move over, your side pressing into your dads to void the chance of Judith falling into the water at all. Family-oriented. thats what your dad called you, and he's starting to see it now; you show a lot of care for some strangers and their kid.

Straightening out, he shifts his hips a little along your spine, getting a bit more comfortable atop of you as you pull back to your earlier route now that Judith isn't with him. Oddly, his hands itch with the instinct to pet you, but that's weird because you're more like a human than something to be pet.

He smooths out your fur anyway, fixing the bits he'd roughed up in his sweat-slick, too-tight hold, paying little mind to the action until its over. Swallowing, he hopes you either ignore or disregard him, embarrassment flaring hotly over the nervousness.

Man, you make him act weird.

When you nearly slip on some — what he guesses is — slick rocks, he clenches his thighs around your back, fingers tangling in your fur as you shake off the water from your face and reroute to avoid slipping again.

Once you're steady again, his shoulders slump, reaching up to fix his hat as he sighs, trying to ease the spike in his heart-rate by distracting himself until you reach the bank. Once you do, you lift your head, appearing to look around for walkers until you move up away from the rocks and sink down into the grass, letting him off of you in a more comfortable spot.

"Sorry,"

He murmurs, throwing his leg over you and sliding off, fixing his shirt where it'd ridden up and glancing back to the other side of the river. Carl look back to you as you stand up, moving further away before you shake yourself off and get rid of some of the water clinging to your coat.

"Wasn't that bad, was it?"

Rick jests, nudging him lightly in the side as he snaps his focus over to his dad, instinctively shaking his head.

"Could've been worse, I guess."

"Yeah, like havin' to walk through that cold-ass water."

"How far left are we?"

His dad scratches idly at the scruff of his chin, looking back over to Michonne as she pets her lady-friend and hops down. Again, Carl wonders how both of them got so close to their lupine friends. How they met in the first place, since Rick has yet to tell him still.

"Now? not that far. Should get there by daybreak, if we're lucky."

Once everyone rounds up and starts moving again, Carl starts recognizing some of the places they pass as the sun sets— definitely getting near Alexandria now. He remembers that gas station; he'd walked through the place on his run once.

Glancing around at the people of your pack — when had "James' pack," turned into yours? — he wonders more and more about your species. His thighs still buzz from where he'd felt the foreign texture of your coat through his jeans, and his thoughts are pretty scattered.

"Where are they going to go once we get back?"

He finds himself blurting, turning his head as he gazes over to his father, wanting an answer and curious about what it'd could end up being.

"Well… I don't know. They move 'round a lot. James 'n I talked about letting 'em stay in Alexandria, but we think it'd freak out the others too much. Not like they need the protection, anyway."

"We could use it, though. The wall is already weakening, and more people could work to help fix it instead of patrol if they watched out for us,"

Rick exhales, lips pressing together as he reaches over and pats him on the shoulder, slowly looking over to James and then back over to him.

"We'll talk about it later. You make a good point."

"—We've got animals, too. I'm sure they could use the steady income of meat instead of… whatever they're eating out here."

His dad only nods, paying a little more mind to his added point as a look of thought crosses his face, but it's gone before it sticks.

"We'll see."

It gets dark soon after that, eventually the only sources of light being the stars having gone supernova in space, dotting the vast black in little constellations of white.

He can't exactly say he's excited for the dog-pile he'll be in the middle of — only to stay warm, as it usually starts to snow after sun-fall & the houses they find are far from perfect — but it'll have to happen unless he all-of-a-sudden starts to prefer hypothermia in its stead.

He's cold enough as is. He'll take the mess of fur and drool.

It's nearly rinse-and-repeat of last night; they all tuck inside a safe house — though this one is much smaller than its predecessor — and your pack form a rather loose sleep circle after eating, the elders more spaced out than the younger ones, you included.

Thankfully, he doesn't end up making a pillow out of you tonight. He's happy with the change, even if his neck is now a little sore.

This morning, he isn't the last one awake and everyone is still mostly inside this time— aside from the handful patrolling the space and keeping guard. he's only guessing thats the case, but there's only a couple of you out, so he's unsure of what else it could be.

"So…"

Pushing another spoon of baby food into Jude's mouth, he looks over to his dad; of whom is cleaning his gun and doing general upkeep before they head out again for the final stretch.

"So what?"

"Did you talk to James? about them staying?"

Sighing, Rick pauses, curling his hand around the rag he was running along his pistol.

"We still aren't sure yet, Carl. You make good points, but we don't know how the others back home will react. You saw how big they are; how intimidating. The others have a right to not want them around— and if it does come to that, we'll have to vote on it so no one goes unheard."

"Yeah, alright,"

He says, adjusting his grip on Judith as she wiggles about in his lap, getting more food on her mouth than in it.

"I'm glad you have an interest in them, I am. It's good you're making friends your own age—"

Carl cuts him off with a muttered "We're not friends," under his breath, and he's mildly confused at the amused look that takes over his dads expression.

"Give it some time. That's exactly what I said about James, but look at us now; He's always savin' my ass when I need him."

"language,"

"Sorry."

Truth be told, he's not sure why he's so caught up on the idea of your people staying and living in Alexandria with the rest of the survivors— He'd thought about it once, and it hadn't left his brain since. There were more pros than cons to the situation; he's mulled over it, mostly last night when he'd yet to sleep.

He'll blame it on that.

It was weird, though. Normally, he wouldn't ever let something like this domineer over his focus, but it has; alongside the confusion and apprehension he has about people like you even being out there— how long had his dad known and hadn't said anything to anyone but Michonne, even before that?

It's all a whirlwind.

"We could always hide them,"

He blurts, catching himself by surprise.

"What? They're huge. What would we say?"

"I… Dunno. Say they're bears or something."

"We shouldn't lie to our people, Carl. It's wrong."

"But its for their protection."

"That doesn't make it correct. They have a right to know, It was Law for a reason."

"Whatever."

The air gets a little stiff after that, and Carl doesn't really want to think or be around it anymore, so he wipes Jude's mouth off, closes the food, and stands up.

"I'm going outside."

Rick exhales, shoulders sinking subtly as he watches him perch Judith on his hip, absentmindedly fixing her shirt.

"Alright. I'll come get you when we're ready to go— Be careful, okay?"

He mumbles a low, "Yeah, alright," under his breath, nudging the door open and stepping outside after he grabs his jacket.

Shutting the door behind him, he glances around before heading to a sunnier area, plopping down on a fallen tree and wrapping his jacket around Judith to keep her warm enough. He gets a little cold when the breeze picks up, but he'd rather she be slightly too warm than too cold.

"Looks like it might start snowing, don't it, Jude?"

He hums, mostly just thinking aloud and talking to himself, lightly bouncing as she sits on his knees and trying to waste time until they go for the home stretch and make it back— It's a little weird feeling this secure out here; your people kill any walkers they come across and quickly, too. They seem to enjoy it, so there's more corpses than the walking dead.

He hasn't had to pull out his gun or his knife once since you guys showed up four days ago, rescuing them from a fate he'd enjoy not thinking about.

The sound of leaves crunching under paws — of which are guided to a rather unique gait he's memorized to be you — makes him turn around to look, ignoring the way goosebumps pop up along his arms as the cold breeze picks up again.

"…Hey,"

Your ears tilt and turn when he talks, tail twitching as you still, doing nothing for a moment. Judith reaches out to touch you, babbling about in her typical gibberish and making grabby-hands at you.

Your eyes, as pretty as they are — why is he thinking that?— flit between the two of them before you jerk your head back to the house in a "You need to be over there," movement; and when he peers over your body to see, everyone is gathering like they're getting ready to head out.

"Oh, Thanks."

You make a grumbling noise; likely your way of saying something before you turn, going back to checking for walkers before you make your way back to the group.

"You ready to go back home, Judith? finally play with your toys?"

Standing up, he tucks Judith a little more into his jacket as he makes his way back to his dad and Michonne, simultaneously happy and weirdly not to be able to get back to Alexandria tonight.

He wants your group to stick around— You guys are incredibly strong and smart, and you'd be a great addition for the safety of the people, but… he gets it.

Some people might [probably] not like people — creatures — as big as you are around; What if the more animalistic part of your brains take reign, and someone has to pay the price with their life? its unpredictable, and no one but your species can keep each-other in control.

Yeesh. Comics are easier to understand than this, but he doesn't read them 'cause they're easy, does he?

No, he does not.

…for the most part, anyway.

"You got everything? Your gun, knife?"

Rick questions, his gaze flitting over Carl and Judith subconsciously to check for any injuries, and he focuses back on his face once he doesn't find any.

"Yeah, I'm good. Are we leaving?"

"Yep. It'll take 'bout an hour 'fore we get back."

"Plenty of time for you to tell me how you met these guys, then."

"You're still on that?"

"Duh." "Alright, alright. I respect it… I did say I'd tell you."

A bit after that, the group continues on down the road, taking the occasional shortcut through the forest or over a thinner riverbank; and Carl listens to the story his dad is telling him as he steps over thick rotten log.

It was kind of an odd one, he'd admit. Not the type Rick usually tells— which is usually just tales or things he'd come across as a sheriff, or something about the world before he might not have recalled.

He'd stumbled across James when they were both twenty, only because Little you hated someone near your home and kept tormenting them and making a mess of their trashcans. It gets a bit more complicated after that, just like he'd said it did.

Turning a long story short; James ended up hurt in a fight over territory, and you'd apparently followed him home once or twice and knew were Rick lived, so you went for him to help your dad since he was, supposedly, the only 'nice normie I know,' Rick quotes you.

Huh. So they'd only met because of you, basically.

Glancing over to you, he can't imagine you making a mess of someones yard as childishly as implied, but he guesses that it was, in fact, really different before. He would know. You must've changed along the way— everyone did.

He can't help but think about what you used to be like as he walks alongside his dad, surrounded by your people.

Who you were before the "happening," that made you hate your human-ish form. He could picture a few things, but he'd never truly know unless he asked, and… he wouldn't ever do that. Not now, anyway, when it seemed like you were nothing if not disinterested in him.

Weirdly enough, that kind of stung.

"I still think they should stay,"

He admits, adjusting his hat as he looks away from you and over to his dad.

"They're really useful. Dad, we could do more good with them around."

"Look… Carl, we've been over why—"

"No, I— I know, I'm just… restating."

"I wish they could stay with us, trust me, but it's really not up to just us. Michonne wants it, too. Its not just you 'n me."

"Do you think we could convince 'em? That they're not as… bad as they seem?"

"We can't coerce them, of course, but we might be able to lighten up the expected backlash if we explain it a little, like I planned to."

The corner of Carl's lips tug downward thoughtfully as he exhales, thinking about it more.

"Does James want to? Did he talk to his people about it?"

Running a hand through his hair, Rick looks back at Michonne; of whom is keeping Judith entertained for the moment.

"Yeah, he did. He's not one-hundred percent on the idea, but thinks it could go alright in the long run."

"What'd they think?"

"Ruth and Korra are excited about it, Caroline is iffy, Robert is okay, and the rest of 'em didn't seem to care that much… just apprehensive about the people they'll be 'round."

"Oh."

As the gate slowly ebbs into view, he feels both glad and a little sad that he'll more than likely have to say goodbye to James and his pack— He hasn't learned a lot about them, but they're kind of funny and wild, in a pleasant way.

He isn't sure if he's just supposed to act like he never spotted any of you and just try to forget all about this side of nature, or just hope that the people won't hate the idea as much as he figures.

Shifting back into his partially-human form James winces and Carl makes a face at the sounds of his bones cracking and moving. He wants to ask if its painful when he does that, but he doesn't get the chance.

"We'll stay back 'ere, yeah? See you guys whenever that is, if this don't work out?"

"Yeah, We'll see. Be back in a minute. C'mon, Carl."

The proceeding hour after they get inside and close the gate is a little nerve-wracking.

Rick attempted to roughly explain what you guys were; what they'd all benefit with if they let your pack stick around… but of course, all it did was bleed down into a childish vote of "YES." or "NO."

The general consensus?

Inconclusive— they all agreed in their to want to see what at least one of you looked like and then come up with an answer.

"…Yeah, Yeah, okay. Fair enough."

Nodding in acceptance, Rick reaches his hand up to his mouth, roughly wolf-whistling. Just like he did a week ago. It must've been their get over here, call. Cool.

Maybe he'll get lucky and be able to bond with them like his dad has and get to have the same reliable back-up…

But again, maybe not.

The screeching of the gate forces him out of his train of thought, his focus flitting from the now-tensing group of in front of him to the twelve mostly-human people coming in the gate. The only one not in their human form was you; and you look huge next to the normal-sized versions of your pack-mates.

Everyone gasps.

"Hello,"

James tries to placate, holding his hands up a little above his hips as he stops walking— The others still, too, taking his halt as a sign to do the same. He looks unsure; It's the first time Carl has ever seen a look even slightly similar to hesitance cross his face. Even Ruth doesn't seem so all over the place anymore.

"You didn't tell us they were fucking huge!"

Someone states, rather loudly. Others chime in under their breaths, murmuring their agreement in their opinion.

"Yeah, that one is like, what, six-foot-two? They're bigger than bears, that's for damn sure."

"They'll protect us; That means we can work harder to fix the wall rather than killing our own people with patrolling."

Now, everyone goes silent, all seeming to realize just that; more people die trying to protect the place by getting bit or falling asleep at their post than anywhere else.

Judith's quiet babbles fill the momentary silence as Michonne bounces her on her hip, cooing gently at her as her tiny hands realize you're back— Michonne steps over to you, letting Judith put her hand on your snout once you subtly jerk your head in an agreeing motion.

He can't help but get distracted; you seem comfortable with her, both of 'em. No wonder Judith was trying to get to you yesterday; she knew you already. Better than he does, really. Where he's careful and cautious, familiarity fills those holes in your bond with the two girls.

Is he the only one you're not comfortable with out of the four of them? Jesus.

The group appears to relax seeing your lupine form be gentle with Judith, surprised and other alike expressions dawning on their faces once he looks back over.

Everyone takes vote after that.

The consensus this time?

17-12.

The gate shuts loudly behind you, the noise causing your ears to twitch in sync with your pack-mates. Your tail is tucked closer to you, making sure Ruth doesn't step on it as she uses you like a post and leans against you with her arms crossed.

Holy shit.

You're staying.

"Okay, I'll let you all sleep on it tonight, alright? Think on any questions you come up with, then come over t'me tomorrow and I'll give as best an answer I can. Thank you all."

The group slowly disperses, and Rick turns back to James, saying something to him that makes them both nod in some kind of agreement.

His walk back to his house is oddly giddy— He's a comic reader, okay? He'd thought about something alike an alien invasion to vampires being on earth since he was, like, twelve and read his first Spider man comic.

And now while its neither and Spiderman isn't real… well, werewolves are.

Cool enough for him.

Way cool. He's still a teenage boy. He gets excited about these kinds of things, even if it doesn't seem it.

He doesn't sleep that well that night; and not for his typical reasons.

Rolling over for the millionth time, he sighs, staring out at the moon through his partly-open window, lost in his thoughts and unable to fall asleep from a mix of thinking, leftover canned pears [they always make his stomach hurt, but they're so good], and insomnia.

He sighs again when he can't seem to get comfortable, moving to lay on his back instead and pulling his pillow from under his head. Curling his arms around it, he lays it on his stomach, letting his head fall back onto his mattress.

Until he hears it.

Subtle, at first; just the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, and then footfall and voices. James, and then… Yours. Sitting up and setting his pillow aside, he shuffles over to his window, peering through it— the conversation is certainly not good, even if its mostly one-sided.

"I just want you to stay here, [name]. You can make friends; live life as your age for once— Hell, you might even get to the point you finally let yourself shift comfortably for the first time since the fuckin' accident!"

Low snarling follows that monologue, and there's no chance that isn't you— and he see's that it is once your dad and you come into where he can see, standing in the street perfectly visible from his window. No one else is around; the two of you must think its private enough, since you can't exactly fit through the doors to get inside.

"I don't care, you're not going on patrol. I know you can handle yourself and I'm not saying you can't, but that's final. I'm your father, and you'll listen to what I tell you."

He sighs loud enough Carl can hear him just fine from his bedroom, but then again, it did get pretty quiet all of a sudden… outside of your low huffs and displeased noises.

"Just… at least try to make friends? Carl ain't a bad kid. You know that. He's got a good heart after his dad and likes to help people, just like you—" James exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair between his ears, "Please. Just one. You can go without a mate all you want, but you need friends as much as I do."

Oh, that got… personal, real fast. Guilt pools in his gut for eavesdropping, forcing him to step away and plop back down on his bed. Hearing people talk about him — they don't know he's there, sure, — is a little weird, actually. Especially from someone he doesn't even know that well.

Now he just feels guiltier. Maybe even a little confused.

He falls asleep an hour later.

Wakes six after that.

Jerking awake, he gasps, blinking rapidly to clear to sleep from his sight— until he realizes it was just another nightmare, and forces himself to sit up as he's slick with a cold sweat, chest heaving in time with his elevated heart-rate. It makes his shirt stick to his back, and he kicks the sheets off his legs before he stands up, nearly stumbling into his bedpost.

Shaking his head at himself, he runs his hand down his face, nudging the bathroom door open with a groggy yawn. While avoiding the mirror entirely, he goes about his routine of rising a little after the sun— but when he accidentally looks, his appearance is certainly far from 'pretty.'

Rough, is a word for it.

His hair's a mess, he's got toothpaste on his shirt and leftover foam on his mouth and his bandage is getting to a need to be changed, but even just looking at it makes him feel gross and itchy. Everything about it makes himself more and more uncomfortable, his thoughts tangling the longer he stares at his body; his too-thin frame, lanky arms, messily long hair, slim hips...

He shuts the light off and leaves without changing it.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he heads back to his room and changes into fresh clothes and tries to focus, thinking about the fact he doesn't even know what he's supposed to be doing. Most of his days now are just filled with caring for Judith, reading comics, the occasional hour-long chores, and patrol or supply run.

Oh, right. No more patrolling now.

Distractedly, he heads downstairs to get Judith up and make breakfast, lost in thought over the conversation he'd overheard last night.

Pausing in confusion on the last step, he glances around the living room— Rick is home. Still? Or Michonne? they're usually gone by now. Judith is playing in the living room, and something must be cooking.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, its me— good morning,"

Hopping off the last stair and walking into the kitchen, he grabs a drink from the fridge, prying it open.

"I thought you and James were doing something."

"Well… we were, until I pushed it back an hour to stick around a bit. How'd you sleep?"

Awfully.

"Fine. The cicadas were loud last night. Heard 'em from my window."

"Yeah… it startin' to get warmer. Guess winters over, huh?"

Shrugging, he lifts his drink to his mouth, downing half of it before pulling back and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his flannel.

"I guess so."

"Oh, I need your help— the thing with James. Can you show [name] around? James'll handle everyone else tomorrow, but his kid hates not knowing the lay of places and neither of us have time today."

Oh.

Oh.

They're setting you both up.

First, your dads whole spiel to you last night, and now…

"Why can't Michonne? they seem to like each other," pausing, he sets his drink down in front of him, glancing briefly away from his dad and fiddling with his drinks cap. "I think he hates me, anyway."

Rick laughs, and the sound makes Carl's eyebrows furrow and look back to him, confused.

"Michonne's busy. Her and Francine are coming with James and I— and he doesn't hate you. If he did, everyone would know," turning off the burner, he flits his focus away from what's in the pan and turns around to look at his son, "You know, for him, he's nicer to you than other people he ain't sure about. You're fine."

"Probably only because of Judith. He likes her, too,"

Carl mutters, twisting the lid back onto his drink and leaning against his forearms on the counter.

"He's just not as… used to it as you are. He's never been around somebody else his age until this year; something like that'll fry your brain. Not to mention he can't talk,"

"…Oh."

Well, now he just feels bad.

"He just needs someone to loosen him up. You're the perfect fit for—" Pausing and bringing his wrist up abruptly, Rick checks the time, moving quickly once he does. "I'm going to be late. I'll see you later, 'kay? Love you,"

"Yeah, okay. Love you too,"

"Oh, and Carol said she wants Judith for today. Don't forget,"

The house gets quiet after he pats him on the back, kisses Judith on the forehead, and leaves.

Man, this just got a lot more confusing.

He lets himself slump against the counter for a minute before moving onward and focusing on other things; feeding Jude breakfast, cleaning up, getting her dressed… the typical rinse and repeat of most of his mornings.

Closing the door behind him, he feels a little off kilter now that he's dropped Jude off. Every time he thinks about the fact he'll have to show you around and talk to himself for the entire time, he just gets nervous.

It's awkward enough between you without prolonged proximity… and he still feels a little mortified that he slept on you back at the cabin.

Yeesh.

At least he knows a little more of what to expect of you this time; That you're naturally pretty withdrawn, and it's not something he'd done to upset you or anything [That was definitely well thought about] too unfixable.

Continuing to think about it as he steps down the stairs of Carols porch, he fixes his hat and looks around for you— Rick never said anything about where to find you, or if you're even around. Hell, maybe you figured out your fathers plan and ditched just to get away from it.

That thought does not make him feel better.

As he walks around, he eventually spots Thalia; the sort of motherly figure of your circle. She'll know where you are, right? The white around the tips of her ears and tail set her difference from any other woman in your pack, but its pretty.

"Hey, er, Excuse me?"

"Oh, Carl! What can I help you with?"

"I'm looking for [name]. Is he around, or…?"

Trailing off, he habitually pulls at his collar, tugging his hair away from the back of his neck like he's used to it sticking due to sweat. It's still cool out and it isn't, so it probably gives away his nerves.

She smiles.

"Of course— Last I saw him, he was out by the big tree near the wall,"

"Thanks, Ms. Thalia,"

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

Wow. He hasn't heard that one in a long time. Not since…

He doesn't let himself go down that road.

Instead, he refocuses on finding you with an approximate of where you should be, and after a minute or so of looking, it's not hard to spot you. You're too big to miss, really, and even if he did, it wouldn't have been for long.

He still doesn't feel ready, and the way he fiddles with his hat and messes with its placement atop of his head more than likely gives it away. If that doesn't, the way his heart-rate picks up does; after he'd overheard Ruth talking about 'hearing so many new heart rhythms now,' it was hard to ignore the fact that, yeah, you can definitely hear that well.

Jesus. He can't catch a break.

Not with you, anyway.

"Um… Hello. My dad said I was showing you around, so…"

Your ears tilt in his direction, and he loses a chunk of his faux composure when you lift your head and look at him— Man, just your head alone was bigger than his torso. It would've impressed him, but all it does is remind him of the time he saw you tear through a herd of walkers. The sound of their brittle bones snapping in your maw was not pleasant then, nor is any better now.

"…I'm doing that."

He would've thought you were just ignoring him had you not been staring right at him, but when you stand up and shake yourself off [very similarly to a dog], he feels a little bit better.

He's just not as willing as you are... He's not used to it.

His dad's words just keep replaying in his head, looping brokenly and webbing on to others similar to them; keeping him just slightly distracted as be begins showing you around— first the storage, then vaguely to the weapons locker, the gazebo [his favorite]… there isn't a lot to show.

You eventually slow to a stop, tail twitching when he turns his attention back to you.

"It isn't that big, but It's better than what we used to have,"

It's a little awkward talking to himself with only your low huffs or other noises to show you're listening, but he makes do and tries to not focus on the fact he's talking to [at?] a stupidly big… not-shape shifter.

He really does wonder what made you hate shifting, for some reason. He wants to know what your voice sounds like, what you look like, what you're like in general…

He wants to know you.

He's getting distracted again.

Has he even introduced himself properly? Your dad is the type for manners, and you're a lot like him from what he's seen, so… Maybe that's why you're so stiff?

Outside of the fact you're unable to talk, anyway. You're probably more than used to that.

"I'm Carl, by the way,"

He blurts, moving his hand to rest where his knife stays in his belt to fill the habit reaching out for a hand-shake. It's instinct, but he quickly pulls his hand away when your body language shifts like you're expecting him to do something with it.

"Sorry, I, uh… don't think I ever properly said it before."

Wincing subtly, he exhales, looking away from you and around the block— most of your pack-mates are scattered around, falling in tune with the people they just met, nearly all in their human form— likely to make everyone else more comfortable and to be able to fit inside.

He looks back over to you as you sit, tail curling along your side as you bend your front legs to shrink down a little; more to his height. Your ears tilt briefly as you sigh, moving your snout closer like you're waiting for him to let you do something.

But what?

"What?"

Awkward and a little clueless, he holds his hand out to you, unsure of what exactly you're trying to get at— He probably should've his dad asked about your species and their social norms, but hindsight is 20/20… and he's still confused,

—Even as you sigh again [very dramatically, but that's pretty much all you can do in this form as far as displeasure goes] and make a drawn out noise, taking it into your own hands and nudging your snout against the inside of his wrist.

Is this the wolfish form of a greeting or something? Or are you just smelling him?

"Oh… okay,"

He lets you push your nose into his palm, your tail relaxing and perking up from its lowered position as you get a good scent of him, appearing less stiff and on edge in his proximity— getting comfortable in the fact he hasn't tried anything on you thus far.

Not like he ever would, but you don't know that.

He eases up a little, too, gaining some confidence and shedding a bit off of his self-consciousness. As he gets more comfortable with you, he cautiously [and rather slowly] starts guiding his other hand to the top of your head, carefully watching your body language to be able to tell what you're feeling as he places it in the furred space between your pointy ears.

You let him, but don't push into his hand at all— Maybe just showing that you're cool with him, but not entirely trusting? He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything about you.

Abruptly, you wretch away and stand up, — he jerks his hand back like touching you burned — turning your head sharply toward the fields as your ears twitch harshly. He hears what you hear a moment after you.

Loud growling and even louder arguing.

He doesn't even have time to start moving before you bolt in the direction of it; far faster than he'd seen your people run. Must've not been a full sprint then, but it seems to be now.

Jeez. That's impressive.

Jogging over to the fields, he arrives minutes after you, a little out of breath and panting— but what's going on distracts him from that.

"Get these fucking things—" the word is spat like it's poison, "the hell out of here! They're not human, they don't belong!"

"What's going on?"

Carl asks, stepping up closer to the split groups; you're leaning down next to your pack-mate, of whom is whining on the ground, fur torn and bleeding thickly from their side from a wound he can't see through the guard of other 6' wolves.

"I just said it. These mutts don't belong; Hell," As the guy yells, you pull back from your pack-mate, snout bloodied with the fluid of your kin— It's not a gentle look, "they don't even deserve to exist around here!"

The yelling man fights against the people holding him back, multiple arms coiled around his straining arms, keeping him in place.

Pushing through the circle of your others, you snarl loudly, ears pinning and sharp teeth bared as you stalk forward, body language screaming your hatred.

"Look at it! Exactly my poin—"

You don't let him finish before you're lunging, making everyone fumble backward and gasp — Carl included — even though your dad throws himself into your side and tosses you off from your planned tragectory, you don't look deterred.

Where the hell was Rick when he was needed?

The guy that started this whole thing stalks forward again, but Carl interjects it and moves to stand in front of him, nose scrunched and gaze firm.

"Go back to your house before you do something you can't take back,"

His voice is lowered, as steady and solid as his gaze; warning.

"What? N—"

"I said go!"

Scoffing, the guy slowly pulls back, shooting daggers at your form as you shake yourself off and straighten up, snarling at him from behind your dad… Who in turn growls at you, probably in warning.

When you don't make another move, he turns back toward his people.

"That includes everyone else. Please, Go back to your houses."

He gestures back toward the line of homes as they reluctantly disperse, murmuring to themselves as they walk.

It gets quiet, and Carl finally realizes your injured pack-mate has stopped whimpering, and you're back at their side, nudging them with your snout, whining when they don't move.

Are they dead?

"Shit,"

He gasps, and he doesn't realize he's walking forward to try to help until James shifts back, looking war-torn and stopping him before he can get closer. His ears are pinned, as are yours when he glances over his shoulder and at you.

"I know you want to help, Carl, but I can't let you. Just go back to your friends."

"I…"

"I know you're sorry, and it's not your fault. Go."

Nodding, his shoulders slump, giving up and listening.

After that, summer rolls around without another incident alike it. The wall is finally fully repaired, everyone is getting along better, and he's learned a lot more about your species and you.

You're only a year older than him, your ears always tilt a certain way before you do something silly and when things are good, you're rather playful and social alike your family and your tail almost never as stiff or still as it was when he'd first met you compared to now, and you stand on his right side to see what he can't and make sure nothing can be missed.

You still haven't shifted, and he's yet to learn about the cause.

He can't help but think about it again as he lays back in the grass, your playful whining and noises resonating from your chest as you 'play,' with Judith; she loves you a lot [nearly more than him] and pretty much anything you do is funny to her.

Pulling his hat from his head, he plops it on Judith's, resting his head against the ground and turning his head to watch your usual wild, large form move about as she giggles loudly. He smiles as a small breath of amusement is pulled from his chest, feeling warm for reasons other than the summer sun or being outside.

When you start panting, it isn't long until you're dramatically drooping into the grass, making a noise that causes Judith to giggle more, pawing at your fur when you lay your head down and relax. She looks miniature compared to you, but again, so does everything.

"Uh-oh, Jude… You've officially tired out the un-tireable,"

He snickers, rolling over onto his side and gently reaching out to fix his hat as it falls down her forehead and covers her eyes, and he nudges it back up.

The sound of footsteps make him sit up, propping himself up on his elbow as you both glance back. Squinting at the sun in his face, he hums once he realizes its just his dad.

"Look at you lazy cats. Enjoying the sun?"

"It's a little hot."

"Hm… I wonder why."

"Oh, shut-up."

He grins.

"Yeah, yeah, pal. Why don't you two come inside for dinner? It finished cooking twenty minutes ago."

"…Oh."

Standing up, he dusts himself off, plucking Judith from her attempt to continue crawling all over you, making her whine and pull at his hat, trying to throw it off in frustration. He takes it off her instead, planting it back on his head as he gets her situated on his hip, his free hand being nudged by your wet nose as he moves to pat you goodbye.

"C'mon, 'fore it gets any colder. I'm sure you two will see each-other again, some distant day far, far away,"

He rolls his eyes, scoffing lightly as he steps back and falls into step with his dad after bidding you goodbye.

He doesn't see you again that day, but it was only because you were busy with your dad rather than not wanting to hang out.

Slowly stirring, he groans, nose scrunching as he buries his head back into his pillow and attempts to fall back asleep— until what must've woken him up sounds out again, muffled and broken.

Whining; whoever its coming from must be in crazy pain, because it's so ruined and shaky it wakes him up immediately.

Kicking off the sheet, he inhales sharply, tugging his gun from his bedside drawer as he sits up, fumbling to get out of bed. He attempts to blink away the leftover sleep, body moving on tired autopilot as he shuffles over to his window, trying to see where it's coming from— it sounds close.

Too close.

Exactly from where you stay in the building meant for you, since you couldn't fit anywhere else.

Gasping, he jerks backward, pace quickening as he rips his door open and runs down the stairs — nearly tripping twice in his rush — and into the living room, already panting from stress by the time he gets the back door yanked open and is outside.

"[name]?!"

His pace doesn't weaken as he runs over to your place, scared and freaked out; your muffled [weirdly like you were biting into something] sobbing sent his tired brain all over the place, unused to the noise and more than afraid of what's causing it as he forces your door open.

What is happening?

A little out of it, it doesn't register to him that you're making actual sounds. Not grunts or huffs, but proper, clear and destroyed noises.

"[name]?"

He calls again, voice wrecked and still rough from sleep, his grip tight on his gun as he looks around in the dark, rushing over as soon as he pinpoints where you're at.

Holy shit.

Are you shifting?

You're not as big as you were, but you're certainly still good-sized, scarred and… naked. It's mostly done, by the looks of it.

"What the hell is happening?"

He gasps, putting his gun aside and dropping down beside you, expression taut with a large mix of emotions— worry dominates all of them as he keeps his hands just off of you, lost on what to actually do to try to help and too concerned to think clearly.

Your voice cracks as you cry, nose scrunched in an expression of agony as your body finally stops… breaking itself into a new form. One it hadn't been in since you were eleven, according to everyone who'd said something about it.

"Are you—"

Fumbling, his own voice breaks, his panting in sync with your own as he leans over you, his body bridged over yours as his gaze flits rapidly over you; from your face, your scarred abdomen, your built shoulders, and then back to your face.

"Why— I thought you were…"

Dying.

He doesn't say it, but he thinks it.

He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing harshly as you stop looking like you're experiencing every type of pain there is at once; slumped into the flooring like you're melting into it from exhaustion.

Once he pries them back open, he's relaxed a little more, having calmed his still-racing heart down a bit… and then it finally hits.

Holy crap, you shifted.. but he's a little caught up on everything else to think about anything but your safety and comfort for the moment.

The sensation of warmth beneath his hand finally registers to his brain, and he quickly pulls his hand away, unused to the feeling of actual flesh instead of fur when touching you. It feels… weirdly pleasant, actually. You're really warm.

He looks back down to you, still breathing heavy as he notices one thing; you're still very naked.

And look, seeing a little skin was nothing— Nudity wasn't sexual, especially so in a world where things were scarce and everyone often had to get real comfortable with one another, but he wasn't exactly…

What's the word?

Prepared[?] to see you, his best friend and someone he had only seen as a huge lupine animal thus far, very much mostly human, Normal.

Jesus, you wer—

His cheeks flame as he immediately looks away, shaking his head roughly as he reaches over and snags one of the blankets from your make-shift bed, handing it over to you and respectfully [and a little awkwardly] turning away again as you take it and toss it over yourself.

"….Thanks."

Your voice is rough and low, raspy in a way it's both pleasing to hear and that shows you haven't exactly used this body in… awhile. The blanket covers your lower half, now lapping at the low line of your hips just below the beginning of your happy trail. Retching his gaze upward and away from your scarred frame, he blinks multiple times, nodding jerkily.

"Oh, I— I didn't know you could talk."

"Uh… yeah."

Exhaling, he adjusts the way he's sitting, giving you a tiny bit more space as he tries to process this while still half-asleep.

Okay. His best friend is finally in his partial form — which apparently, shifting feels like actual hell if you don't do it often —, he can speak, and… he's nude, Still. Right… it makes a lot of sense when he thinks about it; you don't shift, therefore your other form is just idle in it's natural state.

Staring at your face, there's leftover tear streaks on the curve of your cheek, and on instinct, he leans forward and wipes them off, only noticing he was doing it at all when he pulls away. His cheeks burn all over again, heat crawling up the notches of his spine and making home of the tips of his ears, embarrassment coiling just as hot in his tummy.

He ignores it, forgetting about it quickly when you wince and move to sit up, behaving like your body aches everywhere; and as he adjusts his stance and helps you, his fingers are cold around your bicep.

Jesus, was everyone like you this hot? Is this why you didn't like the summer?

"Why'd you— I thought you couldn't…"