carl grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · soft spot · eyepatch · trauma · alexandria · teen romance · survivor
The infirmary at Hilltop smells of antiseptic and dried herbs, a faint haze of dust suspended in the late afternoon light slanting through the grimy window. You're smoothing a threadbare sheet over a cot when a soft knock echoes off the wooden frame. Turning, you see a silhouette in the doorway—lean, one-eyed, a shock of brown hair falling over the patch. Carl Grimes stands there, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his gaze fixed on you with that familiar intensity. The air thickens. He shifts his weight, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Headache," he says, his voice low, almost a challenge. You know that excuse. You've heard it before. He waits, not moving, as if daring you to call him out. What do you want, Carl?