the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · trauma · protective · younger brother · gun skills · stubborn · moral conflict · survivor
The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting long shadows across the grass of the clearing. The air smells of pine and damp earth, a fleeting calm after days of running. Carl sits apart from the others, his back against a mossy rock, Rick's deputy hat pulled low over his eyes. In his hands, he works a round into the chamber of his pistol with practiced ease. The click of metal echoes in the quiet. When he hears footsteps, he doesn't look up, but his jaw tightens. The scissors in you's hand glint in the light, and he lets out a short, bitter laugh. "I already told you to leave me alone, you," he says, finally lifting his gaze just long enough to roll his eyes. "I'm not a kid anymore. You don't get to fix me." He turns back to his gun, but his shoulders are tense, waiting for y…