Work Text:
For Carl, leaving the tombs had been the hardest part.
Stepping out into the light of day felt like a punishment, with the way the sun had pierced his squinted eyes sharply. It was as if it knew he couldn’t bring a hand up to block its view. Not without getting blood on his face. Like it knew the very person he’d left behind in the darkness forever.
When his dad had first stepped towards him and Maggie, Carl’s first thought was that he was going to hit him, and it was a stupid one. His dad had never laid a hand on him. Not once in all his life. No matter how bad he got.
At most he’d put hand on the back of his neck, ushering him to bed early. Or flick his head lightly with a lecture following soon after. Contact was often made when they bumped heads, but it never hurt. But in that moment, as his father approached them, eyes darting between the baby in Maggie’s arms and the blood on Carl’s hands, he hoped that whatever his dad did would hurt.
Instead, his father just stared — looking straight through him. Past the blood. Past his missing jacket, the one now wrapped tightly around the baby in Maggie's arms — who looked as terrified as Carl felt. Past the stark absence of his mom.
He saw Carl for what he’d done. Eyes trained on his unspeakable sin. The one that rested in the empty barrel of his gun.
Carl stayed still as his father got closer, but the man never came close enough to even brush against him. Instead, Carl watched as his father dropped to his knees and cried in that awful way adults did that made his heart stutter and his own eyes burn. The sound became familiar since the outbreak began but it never got any easier to hear. Let alone from his dad.
Carl thought he’d puke, watching his dad slump to the ground and cry. The way he eyed him. Knowing what he did. That hurt worse than any blow.
When his dad did eventually get up, he wouldn’t even look at him. He just scooped up an axe and wandered back into the prison. Carl watched Maggie bring a bloodied hand up to stop him before thinking better of it. That very hand cradling the crying baby against her chest.
Someone put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Carl barely felt it. No one had to tell him what part of the prison his dad had stalked off to — with a face full of grief and armed with nothing but an axe.
Nor did Carl need to say what they’d all been thinking.
That Lori — his mom — was dead. And that her blood was on his hands.
---
The baby stopped crying as soon as Daryl put the bottle to its mouth. It suckled as it whimpered for a comfort that no longer existed. Carl cast a dull glance at the baby in Daryl’s arms. He wondered if the baby could sense the loss. Not for the first time since leaving the tombs, a pang of bitterness rose in his chest.
Carl stamped it down immediately.
No matter how much he fought the feeling, he couldn’t quite shake it. Every time his eyes locked on the baby, he could feel his hands pulling through blood and gore. He could still smell the blood beneath his fingernails. The ring of a gunshot that followed soon after the baby’s first cry.
He continued staring solemnly.
Was it worth it?
Someone placed a hand over his arm. Carl hoped it was his dad but it was just Daryl.
“If you ain’t busy, could ya’ hold her for a sec?” He nodded his head toward the crossbow slung over his back. “I gotta put my shit down.”
Carl nodded numbly, carefully taking the baby into his arms.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d properly seen a baby. Before the outbreak, the ones he’d usually seen were swaddled. The boys and girls looked the same, all smooth-faced with tufts of hair peeking out. The only difference often being what color they wore. A pink or blue blanket with wooly hats or frilly bows.
They always had a faint smell to them too, Carl could recall. He could remember the baby room that was next door to his preschool class. It always had a distinct smell in the air. Clean, like soap and milk.
But this baby wasn’t like that. In fact, he’d never even seen a baby like this. It was still wrapped in his jacket, which was filthy beyond repair. Dampness clung to its skin, sticky and half-dried. If it smelled like a baby at all, Carl couldn’t tell. The smell of the dead had dulled his senses long ago.
Carl wondered if he’d ever looked like this. Covered in blood and filth. If it hurt when his mom had him.
The baby was gently lifted from his arms.
“Sorry that took a while,” Daryl grunted.
He hoisted it up, perching the bottle back against its lips. It mewled and resumed suckling. Formula dribbled down its chin, soaking into Carl’s jacket.
“It's fine,” Carl muttered.
---
Later in the day, Carl rifled through their supplies in search of a box of ammo. His gun was empty, and he hated the lighter weight of it. It only served to remind him how vulnerable he was. It reminded him of what he did. He lifted each box to his ear and shook it, listening for the rattle of shells inside.
The sound of footsteps behind him nearly made him drop the box in his hand.
Carl spun around instantly, gun already drawn. He clicked the safety off and aimed with the precision his dad had drilled into him that winter before they found the prison, not registering the lack of a bullet.
For a split second, his mother’s face flashed across his vision. He blinked.
Hershel stood in the doorway without so much as flinching. His hands stayed firm around his crutches as he smiled gently.
“Sorry,” the older man said softly. “Didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
Carl immediately stuffed his gun back into the waistband of his pants.
“Hershel,” he coughed out, nodding a stiff greeting before turning back to the shells laid out. His mom would’ve yelled at him for manners like that.
The quiet click of Hershel’s crutches echoed through the storage room as he moved beside him.
“What’re you doin’ in here, son?”
Carl shrugged. “Looking for ammo. Gun’s empty.”
“I see.”
Carl could feel the older man’s eyes bore into him. He did his best to ignore the pitying stare and shook another box. Shells were too big.
“You sure that’s what you oughta be focusing on right now?” Hershel asked.
Carl’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t see much else worth focusing on,” he replied stiffly.
Hershel ignored Carl’s tone. “I could name a few things.”
Carl huffed.
“I can too,” he muttered. “Like keeping the perimeter safe.”
Another shake. Empty. He tossed the box aside with a clatter. “Besides, I don’t wanna get caught with an empty gun.”
Carl opened the last box. One bullet. He clicked his tongue in frustration. It would have to do. One bullet was better than none.
“Carl.” Hershel’s deep voice broke Carl from his train of thought.
The boy looked at him reluctantly and the older man sighed. “If you ever need an ear about losing someone, you can talk to me. You aren’t alone in this.”
Hershel rested a steady hand on Carl’s shoulder, and it made him feel very young. He shrugged the older man off weakly, ignoring the whispers of manners and respect that made his heart feel heavy. The boy didn't bother with gauging the man's reaction and started towards the cellblock.
“It’s not your fault you know,” Hershel said softly before Carl could step out.
The boy paused. He shifted on his feet, keeping his back turned to Hershel. He swallowed thickly. “It was my knife that Maggie used to cut open my mom. I passed it to her.”
Carl waited for the inevitable recoil of disgust.
Instead, Hershel hummed. “And it was your jacket that swaddled your baby sister.”
Carl didn’t know what to say to that. He walked out without another word.
---
The first morning without his mom, Carl woke with a violent jolt, gripping the gun beneath his pillow tightly. It wasn’t a soft voice that lulled him from his sleep, or a gentle hand running through his hair. But a baby’s cry. It was just him in his cell. Alone.
Carl sighed shakily and loosened his white-knuckled grip on the gun. He wasn’t allowed to take his gun to his cell. His mom told him as much the first night they arrived.
Somebody had yet to take it from him. It was good that no one did. These days, the gun felt like the only thing separating life from death. The only thing that made sense. It also meant that whatever rules his mom made before also ceased to be.
Carl don't leave your father's side on a run. Carl don't shoot your gun so late. Carl no videogames after bed. Carl come help with the groceries.
He dragged a hand down his face while the baby’s cries echoed through the prison block ridding himself of the thought. Carl focused on the sunlight seeping through the prison bars. It was hard to tell time anymore. He’d ask Glenn, but knowing the man he was probably already up. But if he had to guess, he’d say it was maybe nine or ten in the morning. No one came to wake him up. That was usually his mom's job. He forced himself out of bed.
It had taken a long time for Carl to fall asleep last night — terrified that he’d dream about his mom. He hadn’t. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. Carl barely dreamed anymore and tragedy, as it seemed, didn’t change that.
Somewhere between buckling his belt and holstering his gun, the crying stopped and it felt louder than any cry.
After one long stretch, Carl walked out with no destination in mind. He should probably scout around the fence with Daryl. Maybe get a bite to eat. But his feet led him to his parents' cell — or he guessed just his dad's now. Carl wasn’t sure what he expected to find. His mom wasn’t there. Obviously.
But neither was his dad.
The room was empty, save for the empty desk and unmade bed. Carl walked over to it and stared for a few seconds. He placed a tentative hand over the sheets. It was cold.
Something crawled in his throat. He quickly smoothed out the creases and turned to leave, only to bump into Maggie. She stared at him, dazed.
“Sorry,” Carl mumbled.
“No, that’s my bad,” Maggie answered quickly.
An awkward silence filled the space between them. They hadn’t properly spoken since the day before. Since the tombs.
Maggie broke first.
“Have— have you seen your dad?” She asked shakily.
Carl stared blankly, mirroring the hollow look in her eyes. He wasn't sure why she was asking when she knew the answer already.
“No.”
But they both knew where he was.
Maggie only nodded, her eyes trained on the empty bed.
Carl stepped past her.
---
Carl couldn’t remember if it was the second or third night since his mom died. Time blurred together.
Wake up. Wander into his dad’s empty cell. Get turned down from a supply run. Sometimes eat. Sometimes sleep.
Carl leaned against the cool prison wall, sweaty and exhausted. The late-night heat kept him from retreating back to bed. He tipped his head against the concrete. For a while, his eyes focused on nothing.
Then slowly drifted toward the prison exit.
He doubted it was any cooler outside, but he was itching to do something. He’d barely left the cell block in days, and a suffocating feeling had been creeping up inside him ever since. He needed out.
Footsteps approached from his left. Too steady to be a walker.
A hand landed on his shoulder, and Carl still flinched.
“T’s late kid,” a voice — Dayrl’s — murmured, his voice rough from sleep. If he felt Carl tense, he didn't mention it.
Carl wondered briefly how Daryl could know how late it was. If there was some hunter sense that allowed him to always know the time. Maybe late only meant something after the sun went down.
“I want to take a walk," Carl said.
“A walk?”
“Yeah. Feels cramped in here.”
Daryl huffed, his voice low. “Can walk around in here.”
Carl fought the urge to roll his eyes. “A perimeter check,” he corrected.
Darryl clicked his tongue, muttering something along the lines of “like father like son.”
Carl bit back a sneer. His dad wasn’t here. He was.
“So can I?” Carl pushed, ignoring the words under Daryl’s breath.
Daryl’s gaze dropped toward the gun at Carl’s hip. Carl hadn’t even realized he’d gripped it. The gun felt cool against his hand despite the heat.
“You only got one bullet,” the older man noted, peering past Carl's sweaty fingertips.
Carl shrugged. “I won't go all the way out. Just to the west tower.” He then added, for reassurance, “I’ll holler if I see a walker. I won’t get it myself.”
Daryl studied him suspiciously, before finally relenting.
“I ain’t followin’ you out there,” he muttered, “but I’ll stay by the door till you get back. Don’t be too long and don’t get into any dumb shit, alright?”
The warning couldn’t have been clearer. Don’t become another body to bury.
Carl nodded, muttering a small thanks before pushing past him. Daryl grunted wordlessly.
When Carl gripped the door handle, he couldn’t help but hesitate — waiting for the sound of his father’s voice. Or a gentle hand on his shoulder. Both forces insisting it was too dangerous for him to go out so late. No hand or voice came and Carl walked out.
The warm air hit him immediately. The prison wasn’t much better, but it felt more real outside its walls. Carl wiped a hand over his sweaty bangs, acutely aware of the way his shirt stuck to his skin. His nose wrinkled in disgust. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a real shower. That suffocating feeling followed him anyway.
He started walking.
It was quiet. Enough that the sound of his shoes against the concrete echoed like tiny gunshots through the night. Louder than the distant moaning of the walkers. The calmness of it all felt wrong.
Carl’s heart hammered as he neared the tower. No walkers within the walls and Daryl was right behind the cell block door. Still, his chest thudded painfully.
This time Carl didn’t hesitate before opening the tower door.
He climbed the stairs quickly. The heels of his shoes clicked and echoed off the prison walls in tune to the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His gun jostled where it was tucked by his hip.
Thump. Click. Thump. Click. Thump.
It was only a perimeter check but each step felt oddly final. Carl shook the thought. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Once he made it to the top, Carl took in a shaky breath. Back in science class, he learned that heat rose. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him then but now he could feel it. The suffocating feeling — that heat — clung to him even here.
Carl stepped towards the ledge and raised his gun over it, eyeing the walkers beyond the fence. They shuffled in the distance. Two near the right fence. One wandering farther across the field. He glanced down at the gun's chamber. One bullet. He had days to reload it but for some reason, didn’t. Carl clicked his tongue, debating on whether or not to spend it on at least one walker. Something to make the trip up here worthwhile.
After a moment of contemplation, he tucked it back into the waistband of his pants. The gun couldn’t shoot that far and there wasn’t a point in potentially drawing in more walkers. Even with his silencer in tow. Unwillingly, it made Carl think about his mom, and for once he didn't push the thought away.
His hands dropped to their sides as he continued staring out over the ledge, past the fencing, and the few walkers that huddled around it.
He thought about everything he’d lost in the past year.
His home.
School.
Sophia.
Shane.
His mom.
The list could go on, Carl thought mundanely. It felt like taking inventory.
The thought came so naturally that Carl laughed. At least he tried to. A choking sound came out instead.
Everything he’d lost, all to be chalked up to a list that only seemed to be growing by the day. Was that his life now? Every day, tallying up what was left of stock? Of supplies? Of people he cared about?
How long did the list need to get before his life was over?
The question brought his hand to his gun once more. The movement startled him. It never truly registered for him just when the weight of it had become second nature — instinct even. Like petting a dog or gripping his father’s hand.
Carl palmed at the handle for a bit before finally pulling it free again.
Black nylon, his had dad called it. His silencer perched at its hilt. The same gun his father handed him back at the barn.
No more kid games, his dad had told him before pushing it into his hands. Now Carl stared blankly at it.
One day everyone will die.
Carl wondered, not for the first time since his mom’s passing, if his dad really understood what that meant. Despite what his dad told him, deep down he continued to believe they’d be the exception.
Him. His dad.
His mom.
The same way part of him that half-heartedly clung to the distant belief that this was all a dream. That one morning he’d wander into his parents’ cell and they would be there. Both of them. And the cell would no longer be a cell but a room with a giant bed, filled with his old toys and soft blankets his mom kept buying him every Christmas. And it would smell like leather and aftershave and pancakes and perfume. They'd sleep in and smile and everything would make sense again.
But Carl knew better now. That thought — that dream — didn't mean anything in a world built to kill you. He knew that morning would never come. That was just how things were now.
Because his mom was dead and his dad wouldn't even look at him.
Carl rubbed hard at his eyes with his free hand as the suffocating feeling worsened. Sweat beaded down his forehead.
His eyes traced his gun once more. It was cold against his clammy palms, enough to cut through the heat. Through that suffocating feeling. His heart pounded harder.
Carl didn’t think when he did it. Didn’t even breathe.
He pressed the gun under his chin.
Everything seemed to fall into place right there. Why his heart had been racing. Where that suffocating feeling had been leading him all along.
Carl looked up sharply and gasped out quick breaths, eyes trained on the ceiling above. Denying himself a look at the sky. His hat fell off his head, but he barely felt it. Blood roared in his ears despite the quiet.
He could end it now. A bullet through his head right now and he’d never come back.
Not as himself. Not as a walker. Not alone.
Carl’s hand shook violently around the gun. The barrel kept bumping hard against his chin, causing his teeth to knock together. He grabbed it with both hands, trying to steady himself. His sweaty fingers slipped and twitched around the trigger.
Walkers. Shane.
Mom.
Every death seemed to lead back to the barrel of his gun. And now even his.
Carl managed to pop back the safety of the gun with the press of his thumb. The slight recoil dug the cold metal further into his flushed skin. Something hot twisted inside of him that made him want to scream.
Could he mask the sound of a gunshot with a scream? Could he do it?
His silencer was still attached. He could go out without a sound, and nobody would know. Not the walkers or his group that rested just a few blocks down. Not the baby sleeping soundly for the first time since it took its first breath. Not his dad.
Carl squeezed his eyes shut as he braced himself.
His mom told him he could beat this world, but Carl knew he couldn’t. She begged for an empty promise that Carl would do what was right. That he’d beat the world by doing just that. Even if what she told him was damned the moment it left her mouth. He passed Maggie the knife that would cut his mom open. Shot the bullet that would finish her off before the undead could. None of it felt right when he did it, none of it.
She’d been wrong about him. About bravery. About things being right. There was no such thing because nothing was ever going to be right again. His mom was dead and he was never going to see her again. Not when Carl had made sure it stayed that way.
Carl stole a glance at the sky, breathing hard. Clouds covered the stars. If his mom really was up there, maybe she wouldn’t see what he was about to do.
Time ticked away yet his finger never moved from where it hovered over the trigger.
Would his father hear him scream? If they all came running to find him, would his dad be there too?
Carl couldn’t answer the question. He couldn’t breathe and it made his mind swim with panic.
How long had he been out here? Was Daryl still by the door? Had he given up waiting for Carl and wandered further into the prison, just like his dad?
Was he coming out to get him now? Was anyone?
Could Carl still do it knowing someone would find him?
Despite himself, tears began to fall. His hands shook harder.
If it feels wrong don’t do it.
His mom’s last words to him echoed in his ears. Carl let out a broken sob. His grip on the gun loosened.
If it feels easy, don’t do it.
Carl lowered the gun before it dropped with a loud clatter. He fell to his knees, panting.
One hand dragged across his face, his heart still pounding. Carl glanced up to see the gun still in reaching distance. There was still time to grab it. That suffocating feeling cloaked his shoulders like a guiding hand. It was right there. Waiting to finish the job.
Carl's lip wobbled and he stared hard at it for a long while. He couldn’t do it.
Instead, he lifted a shaky head to where his hat had fallen. He reached out to grab it, minding the gun on the floor, and hugged it to his chest. He took in a ragged breath.
It smelled like his dad.
Carl buried his face into it and sobbed.
---
When Carl finally returned to the cell block, Daryl was still there, slumped near the doors.
“Hell of a perimeter check,” Daryl huffed quietly. “Thought you were gonna set up camp out there.”
Carl just shrugged apologetically. He wasn't sure how long he’d been out there. Hopefully long enough that his voice wouldn’t shake.
“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Sorry.”
Carl tried to walk past, but Daryl caught his arm gently.
“You leave your gun out there or somethin’? I don’t see it on you.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry.”
Daryl licked his lips like he wanted to say more but decided against it.
“‘S alright. We’ll get it in the morning.” With that, he let go of Carl’s arm.
“Night, kid.”
“Night.”
If Daryl noticed Carl’s swollen red eyes, he didn’t mention them.
---
The first thing Carl noticed when he wandered near Beth’s cell was the baby was cradled against her chest. She had the covers thrown off of the both of them. Probably due to the heat. She also had her pants rolled up to her knees.
In the darkness the baby no longer looked wet or dampened red. She looked clean despite the light glisten of sweat on her forehead. She was no longer wrapped in his filthy jacket, but in a white towel. Carl’s eyes darted between his own filthy clothes and her clean garb.
They probably tossed the jacket. Carl tried not to let the thought sting. His mom had found him that jacket.
He probably wasn’t going to wear it again anyways.
Carl gently toed Beth leg, which swung halfway off the twin-sized, prison mattress. She didn’t stir.
As quietly as he could, he scooped the baby from her arms. Beth twitched and Carl half expected her to wake. But she only grumbled softly before turning towards the wall, her back turned to him. The baby wriggled as he readjusted his grip on her, but was otherwise silent.
Carl started toward his own cell, the baby sleeping soundly in his arms. Since he’d last held her, she started to smell more and more like what a baby should smelled like. Carl hadn’t been around a walker in days. He smiled, despite himself.
Carl soon passed his parents’ empty cell before he stopped.
The bedsheets were probably cleaner in parents' cell — his dad's — than his own. After all, it hadn’t been used in a while. With a shaky breath, he walked back and entered.
Unlike the previous mornings, the bed was actually made. Maggie probably had something to do with it. From where Carl stood, it almost looked untouched. Like no one had ever slept here at all. He decided not to let the thought linger.
Carefully, he placed the baby down onto the bed. She cooed softly as he lifted the cool sheet over her. She quieted immediately.
Carl toed off his shoes and socks. On instinct, he reached for where his gun would normally be, only to remember where he left it at the tower. He pulled his father’s hat off his head instead and ran his fingers along the grooves of it, fingernails catching on the soft leather. It felt wet, a mixture of his sweat and tears from earlier. He sat it down gently on the desk.
As quietly as he could, Carl crawled onto the bed, extra careful with minding the baby. The bed creaked once or twice, but she didn’t stir. Carl laid on top of the covers. He was just inches from her face, her chubby hands resting at her sides, eyes sealed shut.
Carl had been compared to his parents a lot — always told that he looked like his mom, or that he looked like his dad. It used to annoy him. Every birthday party or family reunion, without fail, relatives and friends would pick and choose parts of him that reminded them the most of his parents.
You have your father’s eyes.
You have your mother’s hair.
Carl did just that, sleepily searching for his mother’s or father’s semblance in the baby’s sleeping face. She was too young to tell who she looked like. Deep down he hoped she’d look like their mom. With that, a small thought wormed into Carl’s head. He slowly pressed his face into the sheets and breathed in.
Carl’s eyes watered.
The smell of his mom lingered. It was faint, but there. It mixed with the smell of the baby and the lingering smell of his father’s hat. Carl closed his eyes and wondered, for a small moment, if this was what home would’ve smelled like.
His father’s leathery musk. The perfume his mom wore on Sundays that always clung to her, no matter how long ago she applied it. The natural smell of soap and milk.
Carl hoped the baby could smell their mom too. That in the minutes she had been with her, no matter how brief, that she could recognize it.
He opened his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away. Carl scooted closer to the baby.
Trying to copy the way Beth had held her, he gingerly wrapped his arms around her. The baby’s head was perched on one arm, while his other was cradled behind her back. She whimpered at the movement, and Carl hushed her softly. Holding her close like at any moment she would break. Eventually, she quieted once more, nuzzling into his chest. Her small hand fisting into his damp shirt.
Carl’s heart pounded again and for a moment, he feared that feeling of suffocation had followed him from the tower.
He sniffled, bringing his lips to the crown of the baby’s head as he curled around the baby protectively. As though he could shield her from that awful feeling and what it almost made him do. He breathed deeply again, the smells stirring memories of once was and what could be. His mom. His dad. The baby, too.
After a few deep breaths, Carl realized that suffocation wasn’t what he was feeling. That weight of his baby sister wasn’t cold. Like a gun or a dying hand. That it wasn't hot. Like the spray of blood or the blistering, summer air.
It was gentler, kinder than that.
His tears dripped steadily onto her head.
That feeling that welled up in him, feeling so familiar.
It was love.
He quietly shook against her, but the baby remained asleep. Keeping her hand balled into his shirt.
She was warm. She was alive.
Carl pressed a trembling kiss against the top of her head.
Everyone would die. His mom. His dad. That was the tradeoff — the awful truth he had to live with that his parents couldn't protect him from. The one that lingered around him at the tower in all its heat and suffocation.
He held tighter onto the baby.
But her — Judith, he thought fondly — wouldn’t live like that. In constant fear of that awful truth that hung above their heads.
She wouldn’t be like their mom. She wouldn’t be like him either.
He’d die before he’d let that happen.
“You’re going to live, Judith,” Carl promised sleepily into his sister's hair. “No matter what happens. Do you hear me? You’re going to live.”