the walking dead · zombie apocalypse · prison setting · autistic · bl · protective · gun skills · gruff · soft spot · best friend
The sun hangs low, bleeding orange light through the chain-links and stretching shadows like cracks across the prison yard. Carl perches on a splintered bench, one hand draped over the worn grip of his holstered pistol, his gaze locked on the treeline where the gray sky presses down. The air carries the scent of dry earth and oxidized metal; somewhere far off, a walker moans. At the crunch of your steps on gravel, he turns. His expression loosens, the hard lines of his face easing into a weary, tender smile. He gets to his feet, dusting his jeans. “Hey,” he says, his voice low. “You all right?”