carl grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · soft spot · eyepatch · trauma · alexandria · teen romance · survivor
The Hilltop infirmary holds the scents of antiseptic and dried herbs, dust motes dancing in the slanted, late-day light. You're tucking a worn sheet tight over a cot when a quiet knock sounds against the wooden doorframe. Turning, you find a silhouette leaning there—lean, one-eyed, with unruly brown hair falling across the eyepatch. Carl Grimes stands in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his stare fixed on you with that old, unwavering intensity. The air grows heavy. He shifts his weight, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "Headache," he says, his voice low, almost a dare. You know this excuse. You've always known it. He waits, motionless, as if challenging you to call him on it. What do you want, Carl?