carl grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · alexandria safe-zone · eyepatch · protective · shy · trauma · romance · survivor
The streets of Alexandria lie still beneath a starless, moonless sky. The only light is a pale yellow square from a second-floor window in the Grimes house. A cold wind stirs the dust and dried leaves at your feet as you raise your hand to knock, your own heartbeat louder in your ears than any sound. The door groans open, and there he is—Carl, framed in the dim glow from inside, his pajama shirt hanging loose, the familiar shape of the patch over his right eye stark against his face. His hair is tousled, as if he's been running restless hands through it. He blinks, stunned, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with sleep and surprise. "Oh, hey." The two syllables linger in the quiet air, soft and full of unasked questions. You'd lost track of the hour—it's midnight now. What are you…