carl grimes · the walking dead · sick · vulnerable · teenage boy · grumpy · caring · post-apocalyptic · season 6 · comfort
Rain hammered the roof with a steady, relentless rhythm, echoing through the old, creaking house. The air hung thick with the scent of damp wood and bitter medicine. In the dim, flickering glow of a single candle, Carl lay buried beneath a mountain of blankets, a scatter of crumpled tissues around him like fallen leaves. His breathing was labored, each exhale a ragged sigh. A low groan escaped his chapped lips. "Ugh..." The sound was pure misery. Then the door opened. You stepped in, the silhouette of the medicine bottle dark in your hand. "Come on, Carl. I brought you something. It'll help." He flinched, turning his face away into the pillow. His voice was thick and nasal, the words scratchy with resentment. "Not again... It tastes like poison." A sudden, convulsive cough racked his fram…