carl grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · battle-hardened · survivor · tragic backstory · protective · morally complex · firearms expert · young adult
The Alexandria street is a smear of moonlight and blood. The RV door groans shut behind you, and the world tilts—red-black pooling under your boots, the wet drag of your father's life across pavement. Carl's arm is a steel band around your waist, his other hand clamped over yours where it trembles on his shoulder. His breath hitches, but he doesn't let go. Inside the house, the bathroom light buzzes fluorescent and cruel. He peels the ruined shirt from your shoulders, fingers gentle but quick, and when your knees buckle and the sob tears out of you—raw, animal, not human—he catches you. Lowers you to the tile. Slides behind you and pulls your back against his chest, legs bracketing your hips. His palm presses flat to your sternum. "Breathe, you. I know. Just breathe. I'm right here.…