#fluff!!!

Carl sat on the porch of Alexandria's newly rebuilt community center, elbows resting on his knees, fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. The sun had begun to dip beneath the treetops, casting long, honey-gold streaks across the road. Alexandria looked peaceful now, almost too peaceful. Like it didn't remember what it had lived through.

But Carl remembered. He always would.

Beside him, Michonne rocked gently in one of the handmade porch chairs, sipping from a chipped ceramic mug that was steaming, if only barely. Whatever was in it wasn't quite tea, not anymore, just boiled rainwater and some hopeful handfuls of leaves smelling vaguely like mint. It wasn't about taste, though. Rituals mattered.

Her eyes scanned the quiet street, watchful as ever. But it was her sidelong glance that told Carl he wasn't doing as good a job hiding his nerves as he thought.

"You alright, kid?” she asked, voice low and dry, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway. "You look like you're about to confess to murder.”

Carl barked out a short, nervous laugh. "I mean… not murder, but you're not wrong.”

Michonne arched a brow and set the mug down on the porch rail. "Spill it, Carl.”

He hesitated, just a second. But in that second, all the fears he'd shoved to the back of his mind came clawing to the surface: fear of rejection, of disappointment, of breaking something he couldn't fix. But Michonne had never been the type to judge with words first. She'd listen. She always listened.

Carl took a breath. Then another. And before he could change his mind, the words tumbled out.

"It's Negan.”

"What?”

"I'm dating Negan.”

Silence.

A single bird chirped from the nearby woods, like it had been waiting for the moment just to make it even more awkward.

Michonne blinked, slowly. Once. Then again. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. Then: "Negan. Like… Negan Negan.”

Carl winced. "Yeah. It started slow, and weird, and... okay, yeah, it is weird. I know that. But he's… he's changed, Michonne. Really. He's not the same guy from before. Not who he was when he had the bat and the swagger and the bullshit speeches.”

She stared at him, unreadable.

Carl pressed on, voice quiet but steady. "He makes me laugh. He listens to me. He sees me like… like I'm a person, not just Rick's son or the one-eyed kid with the tragic past. I don't know when it happened exactly. It just… did. And I fought it for a while. Thought it was just guilt or trauma bonding or... I don't know. But it's real.”

The silence stretched a little longer, but it didn't feel as cold anymore.

Michonne turned her gaze back to the horizon, exhaling slowly. "Carl, I don't like it.”

Carl flinched. "I know.”

"You know what he did. To all of us. To your dad. To you.”

"I do,” Carl said softly. "But you also know I always saw something different in him. Even back then. When I was just a dumb kid talking to a guy in a jail cell. I could've hated him. Probably should've. But I didn't.”

She gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Yeah. I remember. You had this annoying habit of seeing the best in people, even the ones who didn't deserve it.”

Carl gave her a crooked smile. "He deserves it.” 

Michonne resisted a smile herself. "Guess you still do.”

Silence again, for just a few couple of minutes. Carl's heart sank.

"He's not just anyone, Carl,” Michonne said, her voice tight with something she wasn't saying. "He killed Glenn. Abraham. Almost killed your dad. And after all that, somehow… you found love there?”

"I don't know if it's love yet,” Carl admitted. "But it could be. And… isn't that what you guys wanted? When the fighting stopped... wasn't this the whole point? Finding peace? Finding people again?”

Michonne didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, and for a brief moment, he saw the faintest shimmer in her eyes. Not quite tears, but close. A history too heavy to carry but impossible to forget.

Then she reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it.

"No, I'm not gonna tell you to stop,” she said. "Because I trust you. And I love you enough to accept that you know your own heart. Even if it's choosing someone I wouldn't have picked in a million years.”

Carl didn't realize how much tension he'd been holding until it released all at once. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a breath that bordered on a sob. He leaned into her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug.

"Thank you,” he whispered.

She returned the hug with one arm and muttered into his shoulder, "He better not screw this up or I will bury him in the garden.”

Carl laughed, loud and real, chest loosening with every breath. "Duly noted.”

They sat like that for a while, the sun slipping further down, painting the sky in streaks of orange and lavender. The sounds of Alexandria in the evening filled the silence... distant laughter, a door creaking open, the low rumble of Eugene talking too loudly about compost.

It was peaceful.

It was strange.

And it was okay.

Eventually, Michonne pulled away, giving him a firm look. "You telling your dad next?”

Carl nodded. "Yeah. Negan's coming by tomorrow. We're gonna do it together.”

She sighed dramatically. "I should stock up on aspirin.”

Carl chuckled, brushing his hair back. "He'll be cool. I think.”

Michonne narrowed her eyes. "Rick is many things, Carl. Cool is not one of them.”

Carl smirked. "You used to think that was charming.”

"Yeah. Until he left me to go save the world with no return date. Now I'm just annoyed.”

They both grinned. And in that moment, Carl felt something warm settle deep in his chest. Not just relief, but something closer to peace.

Not everything was forgiven. Not everything had to be. But some things… some things could be accepted. Grown into. And maybe, just maybe, even cherished.

Rick's house was still the same old bones, even after all the rebuilding. The wooden beams were worn smooth now, sanded and stained with care. The new windows let in more light, and the fireplace, once barely functional, had been restored with bricks from a collapsed school building a few miles out. It was warmer here, both in temperature and spirit. Still, the tension in the living room tonight could be sliced with a blade.

Rick sat in his patched-up armchair, beard trimmed but still a little wild, strands of silver gleaming under the low lamplight. His revolver wasn't on the table, but Carl was 98% sure it was in the drawer beside him. Just in case.

Negan stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him. No leather jacket. No Lucille. Just an old flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the familiar look of someone trying not to make too much noise in a bear's den. Which was ironic, considering how loud he used to be.

Carl sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to bounce his knee too obviously.

Rick's eyes went back and forth between them, lingering on the way Carl's hand rested beside Negan's on the cushion, close enough to touch, but not quite. A long, quiet moment passed. Then Rick rubbed his chin and asked the question Carl had been bracing for.

"You're sure?”

Carl didn't hesitate. "I am.”

He glanced sideways, caught Negan's gaze, and reached out, lacing their fingers together. Negan didn't even flinch. Just squeezed gently, grounding him.

"It's real,” Carl added, voice firm.

Negan offered a small smile, crooked like always, but softer than it had ever been in the old world. "Hey, Rick. Before you say anything, just know: I know I'm lucky. Lucky he even talks to me, let alone…” He looked at Carl, his eyes full of something surprisingly vulnerable. "I won't mess it up.”

Rick didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and gave Negan the kind of long, squinting stare he used to give random newcomers at the gates.

Carl could feel Michonne watching from the arm of the couch, one eyebrow halfway to the ceiling.

Then Rick sighed dramatically, rubbing at his jaw. "Damn. Thought I was more your type, Negan.”

Negan froze.

Carl blinked.

Michonne snorted.

"…Come again?” Negan asked, laughter bubbling at the edges of his voice.

Rick shrugged. "What? I've got the salt-and-pepper thing going on. Got that grizzled charm. Don't act like you never looked.”

Carl groaned. "Dad.”

Michonne nearly spit out her drink. "Rick, wha-”

Negan burst out laughing. Not his old theatrical cackle, but something sharp and delighted and real. "You know what? If things were different, sheriff, maybe you'd have had a shot.”

Carl buried his face in his hands. "I can't be here for this.”

Michonne wiped her eyes, shaking her head. "This is so not the direction I thought this would go.”

Rick leaned forward, expression settling into something more serious, but not angry. Not even cautious. Just a little tired, and a lot thoughtful.

"Look,” he said, turning to Negan. "I still don't like what you did. That's not something I'll ever forget. But… I've seen the way you've changed. You didn't just rot in that cell, you helped. You stayed when things got hard. And if Carl sees something good in you, after everything? That means something.”

Negan nodded once. "It should. I owe him more than I can say.”

"You owe a lot of people,” Rick added, not unkindly.

"I know,” Negan said. "And I'll keep paying. Every damn day.”

Rick gave a slow nod, then looked at Carl again. "You're happy?”

Carl squeezed Negan's hand again. "Yeah. I am.”

Rick leaned back again, his face easing into a quiet smile. "Then I'm good.”

It was that simple. No fireworks. No speeches. Just something heavy lifting off the air.

They sat together for a while after that, conversation trickling in, low and meandering. Michonne eventually brought out a half-decent casserole made with potatoes, wild greens, and something Eugene swore wasn't possum. Negan helped carry the plates and even asked Michonne about her garden, though she still watched him like she was mentally measuring a six-foot grave.

Rick, surprisingly, cracked a few more jokes, at Carl's expense, mostly. "I always figured you'd end up with someone quiet. Maybe a librarian. Instead, you bring home the guy who used to swing a bat at people's skulls. What happened to subtle?”

Carl just smirked. "Guess I inherited your taste in dramatic men.”

"Touché.”

Later, as the night deepened and shadows stretched long across the walls, they stepped outside for fresh air. The sky was clear, stars littered like glitter on black velvet. Over the trees, a massive moon was rising, eerie and beautiful.

"Blue moon," Rick said, looking up.

"In June,” Michonne added. "Old superstition says it's the time for cleansing. Reckoning.”

"Also romance,” Negan muttered.

Carl raised a brow. "You read that in a gardening almanac?”

"Nah,” Negan grinned. "I just make shit up. But it sounds right, doesn't it?”

They all stood there quietly for a moment, watching the strange moon glow over the safe walls of Alexandria. The past still lingered, always would. But in that hush, the world didn't feel heavy.

It felt light. Playful. Forgiving, maybe.

Michonne handed Negan a bowl of mashed potatoes with a slow side-eye. "You get one chance with him. One.”

Negan raised the bowl like a toast. "Understood. And for the record, I'd die for this kid. But if you ask me to weed the squash beds again, I might fake my own death instead.”

Carl laughed, leaning into Negan's side. "Deal.”

And somewhere behind them, Rick muttered, "Still can't believe I lost out to him.”

"Rick,” Michonne warned.

"What? I'm just saying, I had the jawline. The beard. The skills. I was a package deal.”

"Dad, go to bed,” Carl groaned, cheeks pink.