Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Carl shoved the door closed with his shoulder, the weight of his pack pulling him down. The hinges groaned loud in the quiet house, and he froze, listening. The world outside was too still, too dangerous to be careless. His breath fogged in the cold air, and he pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. No groan of walkers. No footsteps. Just the hush of wind.

Only then did he let the bag drop. Cans clattered against one another, sharp and metallic, and Carl winced. He should’ve wrapped them tighter. Should’ve been quieter. Should’ve done better.

But Rick was waiting.

The smell hit him before he even reached the couch. Sweat, sickness, fever. It made Carl’s stomach twist, though he forced himself to keep walking. Rick lay slumped on the cushions, his face pale beneath the flush of heat, his breaths shallow. He hadn’t moved since Carl left.

For a heartbeat, Carl’s chest squeezed too tight, and he thought maybe he’d come back too late. That his father had slipped away while he was gone, leaving him alone for real this time.

“Dad?” Carl’s voice cracked, the word too small for how heavy it felt.

Rick stirred faintly, a groan caught in his throat, his head turning just enough for Carl to see the fever-bright shine of his eyes before they fluttered closed again.

Relief buckled Carl’s knees. He dropped beside the couch, fumbling with the zipper of his bag. “I got food,” he said, his voice soft, as if Rick could hear him even in sleep. “I found… uh, some beans. Couple cans of corn.” His throat bobbed. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

He set the cans down, but his hands didn’t want to leave them. Like proof that he could still provide. Like proof that he wasn’t just a kid anymore.

Rick let out a low cough, body shaking, and Carl scrambled for the rag he’d left in a bowl of cloudy water earlier. He wrung it out with clumsy fingers, pressed it against Rick’s forehead. The skin burned under his touch, and for a moment Carl let his hand linger, palm cupping his father’s temple as if he could will the fever away.

It didn’t work. It never did.

Carl sat back, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Rick’s face. Every breath his dad took was a battle, chest hitching, lips parting for air that didn’t seem to come fast enough. And still, some selfish, broken part of Carl whispered that this was what he wanted.

Not Rick sick — God, not this — but Rick here. Just him. Dependent. Needing Carl in a way he never had before. No Daryl, no Michonne, no group stepping in to carry the weight. Just Carl keeping him alive.

The thought made him feel sick.

He dug through the bag again, just to keep his hands moving, just to keep from thinking too much. His fingers closed around a can, and he let out a humorless laugh. “You’d tell me to heat it up first. Make it a meal.” His voice broke again, quieter this time. “But I don’t… I don’t know if we’ll ever get to do that again.”

The silence that followed pressed heavy on his chest. He wished Rick would open his eyes. He wished Rick would say something, anything, even if it was just a weak version of that gruff voice that used to steady Carl when the world spun too fast.

Instead, Rick lay still.

Carl swallowed hard and pushed to his feet. He forced himself to move — check the windows, make sure the boards still held, count the bullets he had left. He ran through the motions because if he stopped, if he let himself sit still too long, the weight of it all would crush him.

Every time his eyes drifted back to the couch, though, the truth gnawed at him: Rick was slipping away. And Carl didn’t know if he could stop it.

The light outside bled away until the house was drowned in shadows. Carl lit a stub of candle he’d found in the kitchen, the little flame throwing their faces into gold and black. Rick’s skin gleamed with sweat, his shirt clinging to him, his chest rising and falling in ragged stutters.

Carl sat hunched on the floor, elbows digging into his knees, eyes fixed on that rise and fall. He didn’t dare blink too long. Every hitch in Rick’s breathing was a knife in his gut, every pause a cliff he nearly pitched over.

He pressed the rag to Rick’s forehead again. It had gone lukewarm hours ago, but the water bowl was almost empty, and Carl didn’t want to waste it. He whispered, “Come on, Dad. You gotta fight. You’ve fought worse than this.”

Rick didn’t answer. His lips parted, dry and cracked, a fevered mumble slipping out that Carl couldn’t catch. He leaned closer, straining to hear, but the words dissolved into nothing.

Frustration burned in his chest. Carl shoved a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting. He wanted to scream, to shake Rick awake, to force him back into the world where Carl wasn’t alone.

Instead, he whispered, “Don’t leave me.”

The candle flickered.

He looked around the dim, empty house, and the silence roared back at him. Just four walls. No voices, no Judith crying, no Michonne sharpening her blade or Daryl grumbling in the corner. Nobody. Only Rick. Only him.

And for a breath, Carl thought — maybe that’s enough.

He hated himself for it. The thought was poison, curling in his stomach, but he couldn’t kill it. He wanted Rick to live, God he wanted him to live, but he also wanted to keep him like this. Dependent. His. No one else to share him with, no one else to watch Rick’s back or steal his attention. Just Carl.

His throat tightened. He pressed his fists against his eyes, willing the thought away, but it stuck like burrs.

“Why does it always have to be everybody else?” His voice cracked, low and bitter. “The group. The strangers. The people you save. You always—” His breath shook. “You always gave yourself to them. And I hated it. I hated watching you bleed for them while I—while I never got enough of you.”

The words spilled faster, raw and jagged. “I’m your son. Shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t I be enough?”

Rick stirred faintly, coughing, but didn’t wake. The sound broke Carl open further.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room, hands twitching at his sides. His boots scuffed the floor, too loud, too reckless, but he couldn’t stop moving. “I’m keeping you alive. Me. Not them. Just me. Doesn’t that matter?”

The house swallowed his voice, leaving him trembling.

Carl dropped back to the floor, knees pulled to his chest, staring at Rick through the candle’s wavering light. His dad’s face looked carved from stone, lined with pain and sickness. Carl remembered the man who’d carried him on his shoulders, who’d promised him safety, who’d looked at him with a pride that warmed him to the bone.

He remembered the man who’d chosen the group again and again.

And the ache in Carl’s chest sharpened into something else. A jealousy that burned. A fear that when Rick recovered — if he recovered — it would all go back to the way it was. Carl shoved that fear down, but it kept clawing back up.

Hours dragged. The candle burned low. Carl dozed in fits, jerking awake at every cough, every rasp of air. His body ached, hunger gnawed, but none of it mattered. He kept checking Rick’s pulse with trembling fingers, kept forcing water between his lips, kept whispering promises Rick couldn’t hear.

When the fever spiked near dawn, Carl broke. He pressed his forehead against his father’s arm, sobbing into the sweat-soaked fabric.

“Please, Dad. Please. I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave me. Don’t leave me like this. I can’t—” His voice cracked into silence. His whole body shook with it, the grief too big for his frame, the terror too sharp to breathe through.

He stayed like that until the tremors wore him out, until his eyes burned dry.

When he finally lifted his head, Rick’s face hadn’t changed. Still caught between life and death, still far from Carl’s reach.

Carl sat back against the couch, exhaustion dragging him under. His last thought before sleep clawed him down was selfish, shameful, and he couldn’t stop it:

If it’s just us forever, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

The gray light of morning bled slowly into the room. The candle had burned out sometime in the night, leaving only the pale wash of dawn through cracks in the boarded windows. Carl blinked awake, his neck stiff from where he’d slumped sideways against the couch.

For a moment, he didn’t remember. Then the sound hit him — ragged breathing, wet coughs — and his chest seized. He scrambled upright, heart in his throat.

Rick’s eyes were half open.

“Dad?” Carl’s voice broke on the word. He dropped to his knees, leaning close, searching for something steady in those fever-clouded eyes.

Rick’s lips moved, cracked and dry. A rasp slipped out: “...Carl.”

The sound shattered him. Relief surged so sharp it hurt, tearing a sob from his chest before he could stop it. He grabbed his father’s hand, clutching it tight, grounding himself in the solid warmth of that touch.

“I’m here,” Carl whispered. “I’m right here. You’re gonna be okay.”

Rick blinked slowly, heavy and sluggish, but his fingers twitched faintly against Carl’s grip. It was enough. More than enough.

Carl hurried for the water, coaxing Rick’s head up to sip. Some dribbled down his chin, but a little made it down, and Carl counted it as a victory. He wiped Rick’s face carefully with the rag, his hands steadier now, movements gentler, almost reverent.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Carl muttered, voice thick. “Thought you were gonna leave me for good this time.”

Rick’s gaze slid toward him, unfocused but trying, always trying.

Carl swallowed hard, his throat aching. He wanted to pour out everything — the fear, the anger, the jealousy, the broken wish that it could always be like this, just the two of them. But he bit it back. Rick didn’t need to carry that weight. Not now.

Instead, Carl forced a smile, though it shook. “You’re stuck with me, Dad. I’m not letting you go.”

The words settled heavy in the silence, and Carl realized he meant them in ways he couldn’t untangle. It was devotion, love, desperation all wrapped so tight he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Rick drifted back into sleep, but his breathing came easier now, less jagged, less shallow. Carl sat watching, every inhale a gift he clung to.

As the hours passed, the fever seemed to ease in tiny increments. Rick’s color shifted from deathly pale to something closer to life, his body less tense beneath the blankets. Carl should’ve felt only relief — and he did, God he did — but it tangled with something darker.

Because recovery meant movement. Recovery meant Rick would get back on his feet, back to leading, back to the group. Back to everyone else.

Carl stared at his father, jaw tight. The thought of sharing him again — of watching the others pull at his attention, draw his strength away — left a sour ache in his stomach. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but part of him wanted to keep this fragile, terrifying bubble forever. Just them, surviving, needing each other.

If he gets better… he’ll go back to them. He’ll choose them like he always does.

The thought burned.

Carl curled up on the floor beside the couch, tucking his arms around his knees. His body was spent, eyelids heavy, but he refused to stray far. He couldn’t. Not when Rick could slip away again if he blinked too long.

As he drifted, he let himself whisper into the hush of the room:

“I wish it could just be us.”

No answer came, only Rick’s slow breathing, steady enough to keep Carl anchored.

Sleep pulled him under at last, head tipped against the couch, hand still close enough that if Rick reached out, he’d find him there. Always.

Chapter Text

The house was still in the gray morning when Carl opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep curled up against the couch, his cheek pressed to the rough fabric, his arm half-draped over his father’s legs like he could hold him in place even while dreaming. For a few seconds, he forgot where they were — only the sound of Rick’s breathing reminded him. Still shallow, still rough, but steadier. More there.

Carl sat up, stiff from sleeping on the floorboards. His hand brushed Rick’s shin through the blanket. Warm. Alive. Relief swelled sharp in his chest, so fierce it almost felt like pain.

Rick’s eyes were closed, lashes stuck together with sweat, but his mouth moved faintly. A murmur. Carl leaned close.

“…Carl…”

Just his name, nothing else, but it broke something open inside him. He pressed his forehead against Rick’s knee and whispered, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

The next two days blurred into a rhythm. Carl checked the windows, rationed the food, pressed damp rags to Rick’s skin when the fever rose. Rick drifted in and out, sometimes lucid enough to drink, other times lost in fevered mumbles Carl couldn’t catch.

Carl stayed close through it all. He hardly left the couch, as if stepping away for more than a moment might let his father slip away. The silence of the house was oppressive, but he clung to it. Out there was chaos, walkers, strangers, the group scattered who knew where. In here was just them. Just the two of them.

And Carl wanted to keep it that way.

The thought made him sick with guilt, but he couldn’t kill it. The longer it was just him and Rick, the stronger it grew, curling tighter around his ribs until he could hardly breathe.

By the third night, Rick was stronger. His fever had broken into damp sweats, and when Carl tried to tilt the canteen to his lips, Rick shook his head weakly, pushing Carl’s hand down.

“I can… hold it,” Rick rasped.

The sound of his voice — rough, cracked, but Rick’s — sent a shiver through Carl. He gave him the canteen and watched as Rick lifted it with trembling hands. A few drops spilled, sliding down his chin. Carl reached to wipe them away without thinking, his thumb dragging slow over his father’s stubble. The touch lingered.

Rick’s eyes met his — fever-bright still, but clearer than before. A silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

Carl’s throat felt too tight. He pulled his hand back and stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away. His chest heaved. He hated how badly he wanted to climb onto that couch, to press himself against Rick the way he used to after Lori died, when grief had blurred all the lines.

But Rick was looking at him. Waiting.

Carl turned back. His boots felt too loud on the floorboards as he crossed the room and knelt again. His hand hovered over Rick’s arm before settling. “You’re getting better,” he whispered.

Rick’s lips quirked faintly — not a smile, but close. “Because of you.”

Carl swallowed hard. The words hit him like a blade between the ribs, cutting deep. He wanted to believe Rick meant it the way Carl felt it — that he wasn’t just grateful, but dependent. That Carl was more than a son. More than the last piece of Lori.

He leaned closer, his voice barely a breath. “I need you.”

Rick’s eyes flickered. Something passed across his face — hesitation, grief, longing. His hand lifted with effort, fingers brushing Carl’s cheek. That single touch undid him.

Carl surged forward, pressing his mouth to Rick’s.

The kiss was desperate, messy, more a collision than anything tender. Rick made a noise against him — surprise, maybe protest, maybe need. Carl didn’t care. His hands cupped Rick’s face, holding him there, swallowing the sound.

For weeks, he’d starved for this. The group, the prison, the chaos — they’d stolen all the quiet nights he used to have, all the stolen touches and whispered breaths in the dark. Now, finally, it was just them again. Just like before.

Rick’s hand trembled against his cheek, but he didn’t push him away. That was enough.

Carl pulled back only when his lungs burned. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. He whispered, “Don’t leave me. Not again.”

Rick’s chest rose on a shaky inhale. His thumb stroked Carl’s jaw, slow. “I’m here.”

Carl’s heart thudded so hard it hurt. He kissed him again, softer this time, coaxing, pleading. Rick let him.

It built from there, inevitable. Carl climbed onto the couch, straddling his father’s lap carefully so as not to jostle him too much. The blanket bunched between them, and Carl shoved it aside. Rick’s body was thinner now, worn from fever, but still strong beneath.

He kissed down Rick’s throat, his hands clutching at his shirt. Every part of him ached for more — for proof that this was real, that Rick still needed him in every way.

Rick’s breath hitched, a low groan rumbling out as Carl’s mouth traced lower. His hands found Carl’s hips, weak but steady, grounding him.

“You shouldn’t…” Rick whispered, voice raw. But his grip tightened instead of pushing him away.

Carl lifted his head, meeting his eyes. “I want to. I need to. Please.”

Something in Rick’s face broke then — resistance crumbling into the same hunger Carl felt. His hand slid up under Carl’s shirt, rough palm against skin, and Carl shivered hard.

It had been weeks. Too long. The need in him was feral, clawing, a wildfire he couldn’t smother. He pressed down, grinding against Rick, gasping into his mouth.

“Carl…” Rick rasped, half warning, half plea.

Carl answered with a kiss, hard and wet, his tongue sliding against Rick’s. His hands fumbled at his father’s belt, desperation making him clumsy. Rick helped, slow, and that broke Carl even more — that even weak, even worn down, Rick still gave himself.

When their clothes were shoved aside, when Carl finally wrapped his hand around Rick and felt him harden against his palm, his vision blurred. It was too much — relief, hunger, love twisted into something darker.

He guided them together, pressing down until he felt the stretch, the burn, the dizzy rush of being filled. His nails dug into Rick’s shoulders, his breath catching on a sob that wasn’t pain at all.

Rick’s hands clutched his waist, steadying him as Carl sank down, inch by inch. The world narrowed to that single point — the heat, the pressure, the way Rick filled him completely.

Carl’s head fell forward, forehead pressing to Rick’s. Their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven. He whispered, “It’s just us. Just us, Dad.”

Rick’s eyes closed tight, jaw clenched. He didn’t answer, but his grip was iron, pulling Carl closer.

Carl moved then, rocking, each thrust a desperate claim. The couch creaked beneath them, sweat slicking their skin. Rick groaned, low and broken, and Carl swallowed the sound with another kiss.

Every movement was a vow. You’re mine. You don’t need anyone else. I’ll keep you. I’ll give you everything.

His climax hit sharp, tearing through him with a cry muffled against Rick’s mouth. Rick followed, shuddering, his body arching beneath Carl’s.

For a long time, they clung together, trembling, breaths ragged.

After, Carl stayed curled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was strong. Alive. Proof. He pressed a kiss to Rick’s damp skin and whispered, “We don’t need anyone else. We can stay here. Just us.”

Rick’s hand stroked his back slowly, but his voice was quiet, pained. “We’ll need to find the others. They’re out there. Judith… Michonne…”

Carl froze. His chest ached like it had been split open. He didn’t answer. He just buried his face against Rick’s neck, swallowing the bitterness that rose sharp in his throat.

If he spoke, he’d scream. So he said nothing.

The days blurred. Rick grew stronger, his steps steadier, his voice less ragged. Carl hated it. Loved it. Every improvement was a countdown — a reminder that soon, Rick wouldn’t need him like this anymore.

Carl tried to hold on tighter. At night, he curled against him, clinging in silence, pretending the world outside didn’t exist. He memorized the shape of him, the warmth, the quiet breaths in the dark.

But the world always found a way back in.

On the fourth day, the sound of footsteps outside shattered it.

Carl stiffened instantly, reaching for his gun. Rick pushed up from the couch, still weak but alert. Their eyes met, both wide.

The knock on the door was soft, hesitant. A voice followed.

“Rick? Carl?”

Michonne.

Carl’s heart plummeted.

Rick’s face broke open with relief — the kind of relief he hadn’t shown even when Carl brought him food, even when Carl kept him alive through fever.

Carl’s hands shook around his gun. His fantasy cracked, splintered, falling to pieces he couldn’t hold together.

Rick was already moving, already calling her name.

Carl stood frozen, stomach churning, as the door opened and Michonne’s face appeared, her eyes bright with joy, her voice breaking as she rushed inside.

The spell was gone. The world was back.

Carl swallowed the scream in his throat, swallowed the grief, swallowed the selfish rage that wanted to slam the door shut again.

He forced a smile instead, though it felt like shattering glass in his mouth.

Because Rick was looking at Michonne now. Not at him.

And Carl knew: whatever they had in that house, whatever world he tried to build — it was over.

But the want didn’t die. It only dug deeper.

If it could just be us forever…

The thought twisted inside him as Michonne’s arms wrapped around his father, pulling him away.

And Carl said nothing.

The road stretched on endlessly, a gray ribbon cutting through the skeletal landscape of burnt trees and abandoned cars. Carl’s boots crunched against gravel, a hollow sound that matched the hollow feeling in his chest. He had expected—hoped, really—that being with Rick again, just the two of them after the chaos of the prison, would feel like something permanent. But Michonne had found them. And suddenly, everything had shifted.

Carl tried not to let his hands tremble as he adjusted the strap of his pack. Rick walked a few paces ahead, shoulders rigid, every movement deliberate. His father’s energy was drained but steady, the careful caution of a man who refused to let the world—or the people he cared about—get the better of him. Carl wanted to step forward, close the space, brush against him under the pretense of balance, to feel the familiar weight of shared warmth. But Rick’s posture was a barricade, and Carl could feel the invisible line his father had drawn.

Michonne was close by, humming softly as she kicked a loose stone across the path. She carried a small bag that jiggled with the promise of candy, and Carl couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes softened when they lingered on him. She had found some old stash in an abandoned store yesterday, and she had insisted he try a piece. The sugary tang had been a fleeting comfort, a momentary binding that Carl resented in his chest.

It wasn’t hers he wanted. It never had been.

“I’ve got something for you,” Michonne said brightly, holding out a small, dented tin. “Found it in that shop over there. Figured you could use a little energy.”

Carl’s jaw tightened. He forced a smile and accepted the candy, letting the chocolate melt slowly on his tongue. It was sweet, rich, a little too much for his empty stomach, but he swallowed it anyway, tasting the bitterness underneath that mirrored his own frustration. Michonne’s eyes lingered on him as he chewed. She didn’t know. She couldn’t.

He wasn’t sure even Rick knew the full extent of it anymore.

Rick’s glance flicked backward just enough for Carl to catch the shadow in his eyes. He wasn’t angry, not exactly, but there was something—distance, caution, a wall that Carl wanted to tear down with every piece of himself. He wanted to press against Rick, to feel the solidity of his presence, to reclaim the intimacy that had once belonged to them, before Michonne, before anyone else.

But Rick didn’t allow it. Not anymore. Not since they weren’t alone.

Carl’s hands itched. He imagined brushing a stray lock of hair from Rick’s forehead, his thumb lingering just a second too long. He imagined leaning into him when the road grew long and the night colder than he thought possible. He imagined whispering things he knew he shouldn’t, testing the edges of boundaries Rick had built between them and the rest of the world.

The thought made him ache.

Michonne seemed to sense it. She stepped closer, offering another piece of candy. “Here, just for you. Don’t want you running out of energy before we catch up to the others.”

Carl shook his head quickly, refusing the sweetness, even though the sugar’s memory still lingered on his tongue. He could feel Rick’s eyes on him again, cautious and careful, and he hated how protective and restrained his father had become. The tension between them was a coil ready to snap, and Michonne, unaware, added a layer of friction he couldn’t untangle.

He hated her for trying to fill a space that belonged to him.

Rick’s voice finally broke the silence. “We’ll rest in a little while. Keep your eyes open. No telling what we’ll find out here.”

Carl nodded, swallowing the surge of desire that wasn’t meant to be, the frustration that made his stomach twist into knots. He was careful not to let it show, to keep the tight control he had perfected over months of denial. Every glance he stole at Rick was quick, a fleeting moment before his father turned away. Every imagined touch he forced back into the dark recesses of his mind.

The road wound further, and Carl’s thoughts churned. He remembered the house, those quiet days after the fall of the prison, when it had been just Rick and him. Just the two of them against a world gone mad. No one else to interfere, no one else to claim Rick’s attention. He could remember every detail—the way Rick had slept with exhaustion pressing on him, and Carl had been there, awake, watching, longing, pretending the closeness was purely familial, purely protective. But it hadn’t been.

It had never been just that.

Now, every smile Michonne gave, every small gesture, felt like a cut. She had a warmth he couldn’t compete with, a playful insistence that made him feel even smaller, even more excluded. The sweets she offered were a kind of seduction in their own way—her way of binding him, of coaxing him to lean on her, to look to her for comfort instead of clinging to Rick. And he refused. He swallowed the chocolate, he swallowed his frustration, he swallowed the longing, letting it sit like a lump in his throat.

The group’s survival depended on him keeping steady. But his heart wasn’t steady.

They found a shallow creek by mid-afternoon, the water clear and cold. Michonne knelt, washing a few cuts she had picked up yesterday, humming again under her breath. She offered Carl a piece of candy while he watched, and he let it sit in his mouth, the sweetness filling a void that no sugar could truly satisfy.

Rick went a few steps away, inspecting the tree line, and Carl’s chest tightened. He wanted—needed—to follow, to close the space, to press the heat of his own body against Rick’s, to reclaim that intimacy that had been ripped from him by the presence of someone else.

But he didn’t. He stayed seated, candy melting slowly on his tongue, eyes flicking between the two adults who had become both his anchors and his tormentors.

Michonne reached over, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’ve got to keep up your strength, Carl,” she said softly. “We’re going to need you.”

Carl swallowed, tasting chocolate and the bitter knot in his chest all at once. He could feel Rick’s gaze from a distance, the weight of it, cautious and careful. And he hated it. Hated Rick’s restraint, hated Michonne’s gentle attentions, hated the way he was trapped in the space between desire and propriety, between love and obsession.

That night, they set up camp in a hollowed-out building, its walls scorched and windowless. Carl lay awake, listening to the creak of Rick’s makeshift bed across the room, the soft scraping of Michonne settling in her own corner. He could smell Rick—the mix of sweat, smoke, and earth—and it made his stomach twist with yearning.

He reached out once, his hand brushing the edge of Rick’s blanket, imagining the contact meant more, imagining it could mean more. But Rick shifted slightly, eyes opening just enough to meet his, and Carl pulled back, shivering, frustrated, aching for something he couldn’t claim.

He turned to the wall, clenching his fists, tasting the candy in his mouth like ashes. Michonne murmured softly from across the room, offering comfort he didn’t want, offering sweetness he couldn’t accept. Carl closed his eyes, pretending sleep would numb him, pretending the ache would go away if he just ignored it long enough.

But it didn’t.

Rick moved to check the perimeter in the night, and Carl watched from the shadows, heart pounding, the desire to reach him clashing with the knowledge of boundaries, the rules Rick had set without even speaking them. Michonne shifted, offering him another piece of candy with a whisper, a reminder that she was there, that she would bind him closer if he let her.

He didn’t.

Carl lay awake long after they slept, tasting chocolate, tasting frustration, tasting longing he couldn’t give voice to. The dark tension wound tighter in his chest, a coil of obsession and possessiveness he couldn’t release. Rick’s absence from him, even when near, was more painful than any wound. Michonne’s presence was a knife, slicing the closeness he craved into something unattainable.

In the morning, they were on the road again, three figures cutting through a world that had gone mad. Carl’s boots bit into the gravel, every step a reminder of his position: outside, longing, aching. Michonne offered another piece of candy as they walked, smiling, trying to anchor him, and he let the chocolate melt on his tongue while staring at the back of Rick’s neck.

He could have reached for her hand. He could have smiled. He could have accepted comfort. But he didn’t. He was trapped in the space between desire and propriety, between the man he wanted and the world he couldn’t have.

And so they walked, and Carl’s heart ached with every step, every shared glance, every stolen moment of sweetness that couldn’t fill the emptiness inside him. The road stretched on. The world was cruel. And Carl was left with his obsession, his longing, and the unbearable tension of what he could never claim.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Carl’s boots crunched over the gravel road, each step a hollow echo in the early morning silence. He walked between Rick and Michonne, the latter carrying a small backpack with whatever supplies they’d scavenged the day before. Rick was quiet as usual, eyes scanning the horizon for danger, and Carl felt that familiar ache in his chest—the one that never really left, even after weeks of traveling.

It wasn’t just the road, or the endless search for the others, or even the constant threat of walkers. It was Rick. Always Rick. His heart still thudded in a rhythm tied to him, and every glance, every brush of an arm, made it worse.

Michonne broke the silence first, holding out a small bag of brightly wrapped candy she’d found in an abandoned gas station. “Here,” she said, smiling at him. “Figured you could use a little sugar before we keep moving.”

Carl stared at the colorful wrappers, the way she handed them to him with that easy, almost casual intimacy. He wanted to snatch them, to grin and take them, but part of him just… froze. There was a twist of irritation deep in his stomach. It wasn’t candy he wanted. It wasn’t sweets, or even her attention. It was Rick.

He took the candy anyway, not meeting her eyes. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice tight. He popped one into his mouth, chewing slowly, tasting more frustration than sugar. Michonne’s eyes lingered on him, and Carl felt it—the subtle attempt to bond, to draw him closer, to take a piece of the space between him and Rick. He shoved it down as quickly as he could, hiding the pang that had nothing to do with sweets.

Rick didn’t notice—or he pretended not to. His gaze was far away, scanning the trees, listening for distant sounds. Carl wanted to shake him, to demand he look at him, to remind him that he was still here, still waiting, still… needing. But he swallowed it. Every part of him ached for the closeness they’d had in the house, the small safe world they’d carved out together, and yet here they were again, exposed, public in their own private world, and Michonne filling the cracks with her presence.

They walked on. The road stretched ahead, a ribbon of dust and gravel disappearing into the hills. Carl’s thoughts churned, dark and possessive. He wanted to pull Rick aside, to feel that small spark of intimacy again, but he knew it wasn’t possible—not with Michonne so close, not in this fragile trinity of survival. Rick’s hand brushed his arm briefly as he adjusted his pack, and Carl’s chest tightened with a longing he could not name, a storm of emotions he dared not voice.

“Look over there,” Michonne said suddenly, pointing to a figure emerging from the trees ahead. Carl squinted, heart hammering for reasons he barely understood. The man—Daryl—walked toward them, crossbow slung over his shoulder, face as unreadable as always. Relief and caution warred in Carl’s chest, but underneath it all, a sharp spike of something darker cut through. Daryl. Another presence. Another shadow in the fragile orbit he had around Rick.

Rick’s shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw Daryl. “Daryl,” he said, voice rough but warm. “Thought we’d lost you.”

Daryl grunted, scanning the road. His eyes flicked to Carl, lingering longer than necessary. Carl’s stomach sank. He hated it—the way Daryl looked at Rick, the way he smiled that crooked smile at Carl sometimes, like he knew things Carl didn’t. A little protective, a little intimate, a little… encroaching.

“Hey, kid,” Daryl said finally, nodding at him. Carl only nodded back, tight-lipped, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. Rick stepped closer, looping an arm around Daryl’s shoulder briefly in a way that made Carl’s chest constrict.

Michonne, oblivious to the tension coiling inside him, handed Carl another piece of candy. “Here,” she said softly. “For you and… well, just for you.”

Carl’s fingers brushed hers as he took it, and he forced a smile, though inside he felt hollow. Candy wasn’t enough. Nothing was. He wanted Rick. He wanted that small, hidden world they’d had in the house. He wanted Rick to look at him the way he once had, unguarded, consuming, claiming. But now there were others. Daryl. Michonne. The world was encroaching, and Carl’s fantasies were crumbling into dust.

They moved on together, three—or now four—shadows on the road, the quiet hum of the world around them punctuated by the occasional snap of a twig or distant call of birds. Carl’s thoughts circled, returning again and again to Rick. He watched Rick’s jaw, the way his eyes caught the sunlight, the subtle tilt of his head when he scanned the horizon. He longed to step closer, to lean against him, to feel the warmth and reassurance of Rick’s presence—but he dared not. Rick had made it clear with his body, his distance, his careful movements: nothing more than fatherly concern.

The ache inside him deepened. He had thought the house was a sanctuary, a place where their world could exist outside of all the rules, but that fantasy had shattered. Michonne’s laughter, Daryl’s quiet presence—it reminded him that the world didn’t stop for him, that Rick didn’t belong to him alone.

Carl chewed the candy slowly, savoring the bitter sweetness that mirrored his own conflicted emotions. He wanted to lash out, to demand Rick notice him, to reclaim that closeness. But he swallowed again, forcing the words down with the taste of sugar. He couldn’t. Not now. Not here.

Daryl kept pace with them, occasionally glancing at Carl, as if testing him, measuring him. Carl returned the stares with a cool mask, hiding the turbulence roiling inside. He hated how easily Daryl fit into this little unit, how Rick relaxed around him, how Michonne’s presence only made him feel smaller.

At midday, they stopped by the remnants of an abandoned gas station. Michonne and Daryl went scavenging for food and supplies, while Carl lingered behind, staring at the empty lot, chewing candy, letting the sun bake him in a kind of passive frustration. Rick came to sit beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” Rick asked, his voice low, gentle, steady. Carl wanted to lean into him, to feel that brush of skin, to taste the unspoken closeness again—but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly.

Rick’s hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, then pulled back. Carl felt a pang of loss, sharp as a knife. The closeness he craved, the intimacy he had once known, was gone now, replaced with the polite distance of fatherly care.

He watched Rick walk away toward Daryl and Michonne, the empty feeling in his chest widening. Candy wrappers crumpled in his hands, a poor substitute for the heat and presence he desired. He wanted more—more than he could have. More than the world would allow.

As they set out again in the late afternoon, Carl fell behind slightly, letting Rick and Daryl walk ahead, Michonne flitting along with her usual grace, carrying a small bag of supplies and candy wrappers. Carl’s thoughts twisted and churned, dark and possessive. He imagined the house again, the secret moments they had shared, the way the world had seemed to stop when it was just the two of them.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the obsession, but it clung like a shadow. Every laugh Michonne directed at him, every shared candy, every glance Daryl threw toward Rick—each one tightened the coil of jealousy and longing inside him. He couldn’t have Rick, not now. And that knowledge gnawed at him relentlessly.

Night fell, cold and silent, as they made camp in a small clearing off the road. Carl sat apart from the fire, chewing candy and watching Rick move through the shadows with Daryl and Michonne. He longed to reach out, to be touched, to feel the warmth and intimacy of Rick’s presence—but the rules had changed. The world had intruded. Daryl’s silent strength, Michonne’s soft attentiveness, the fragile hope of finding the others—they had claimed Rick in ways Carl could not fight.

And still, he waited.

Waited for a glance, a brush of skin, a whisper, anything that might remind him that he existed in Rick’s private world, that he was more than just a boy lingering in the shadows of a man he loved.

The night deepened. Carl chewed the last piece of candy, swallowed it slowly, letting the bitter-sweetness coat the ache in his chest. He watched Rick and Daryl speak softly near the fire, Michonne laughing quietly, and he felt the hollow, burning ache of desire and possession, twisted and raw, that he could not voice.

The world was still out there, dangerous and alive. But Carl’s world was here, inside him, tied to Rick, shaped by longing and obsession, and nothing—not candy, not Michonne, not Daryl—could soothe it. He had survived the fall of the prison, the road, the loneliness. But this… this ache, this need, would not let him go.

Carl kept his head low as the night pressed in around them, the road stretching dark and empty ahead. Michonne walked just a few steps behind him, her hand occasionally brushing against his as she passed, a small comfort that barely registered with him. He could feel the sweetness of the candy she’d pressed into his hands earlier, the tiny sugar-sticky pieces meant to tether him to her, meant to remind him that someone cared. But it didn’t fill the emptiness. It never would—not the way Rick did.

The sound of distant footsteps made his stomach knot. He tightened his grip on the makeshift club he’d fashioned from a broken branch, every muscle coiled. Michonne’s presence was steady, grounding, but even that couldn’t quiet the ache in his chest. He wanted Rick here. He wanted Rick’s attention, Rick’s guidance, Rick’s presence, and yet Rick was elsewhere, focused on survival, on keeping them alive, never allowing himself to step over the line into anything Carl might secretly crave. And he knew it wasn’t just about sex—though that was part of it. It was the closeness, the connection, the bond that felt like it belonged to him and him alone, now shared with Michonne.

Suddenly, a shout cracked through the night.

“Come here, boy.”

Carl froze. His heart hammering, he turned just in time to see the glint of a gun. Joe. He’d heard the stories, the whispers, the brutal reputation of the Claimers. And here they were. Surrounding them. The cold barrel pointed straight at Rick made Carl’s stomach drop.

“You leave him be!” Rick barked, stepping in front of Carl instinctively.

“Shh. You’ll get yours. You just wait your turn,” Joe sneered.

Carl’s hands shook, a mix of fear and something darker—a possessive, helpless longing he couldn’t place. He wanted to move forward, to help, but he was trapped between the need to survive and the need to see Rick.

“Listen, it was me. It was just me,” Rick continued, voice calm but edged with steel.

Joe laughed, a cruel, grating sound. “See, now that’s right. That’s not some damn lie. Look, we can settle this. We’re reasonable men. First, we’re gonna beat Daryl to death. Then we’ll have the girl. Then the boy. Then I’m gonna shoot you, and then we’ll be square.”

Carl flinched at every word, the deliberate cruelty twisting in his chest. He wasn’t ready to die, and yet he couldn’t stop staring at Rick, the man whose very presence made the fear tolerable.

Rick moved. A sharp command from him cut through Carl’s panic. “Let him go.”

A man lunged at Carl, and a strangled whimper escaped his throat. The world shrank to the feel of Joe’s hand on Rick, the tense bracing of Michonne at his side, and the sick thrill of helplessness.

Then the first shot rang out. The ringing in Carl’s ears was sharp, loud, disorienting. He clutched his head, heart leaping into his throat. Rick moved before he could even process it. Headbutt. Joe stumbled, firing wildly, missing, the deafening shot leaving Carl reeling.

Rick was suddenly on Joe, teeth sinking into his throat, blood spurting, a sound that made Carl stagger back, horrified and captivated all at once. He couldn’t look away. It was primal, fierce, a reminder that this was his father, his protector, the only man who could do this and survive. And yet, as much as he feared and marveled at Rick’s violence, he felt a pang of something deeper. The violence, the dominance, it wasn’t for him. It was for survival. Not for them. Not for Carl.

Michonne moved like a shadow beside him, taking down the remaining Claimers with fluid precision. Daryl was there too, his crossbow flashing in the dim moonlight, separating them, eliminating the threat with an intensity that left Carl dizzy.

One Claimer, Dan, lunged toward Carl. Carl froze. He couldn’t move fast enough. He could only watch as Rick, red-faced and dripping blood, seized a knife and ended Dan’s life in a brutal flurry. Carl’s stomach turned, his hands trembling. He wanted to vomit, wanted to cry, but he couldn’t look away. Every move Rick made, every flash of those dark, relentless eyes, was a reminder of who held the world together—and who would protect him at any cost.

When the last Claimer fell, silence wrapped around them. Carl could barely hear Michonne breathing beside him, the blood still slick in his nose, the coppery smell thick in the air. Daryl leaned against a car, brushing blood from his hands, glancing at Rick with a mix of relief and awe.

Rick finally turned to him. “You alright, Carl?”

Carl nodded, words failing him. He couldn’t speak without revealing the ache inside him, the twisted, possessive longing that had grown so raw over the past days. Rick’s presence, the way he fought, the way he was everything Carl wanted but couldn’t claim—it all coiled inside him, tight and unyielding.

That night, Carl lay awake in the backseat of the car, Michonne curled against him, arm draped over his chest. He could feel her breathing, steady and slow, the warmth of her holding him like a promise. But it wasn’t Rick. It couldn’t be. And every time Carl closed his eyes, he imagined Rick there instead, hands brushing over him, voice soft and commanding, presence suffocating and safe all at once.

Outside, Daryl and Rick spoke quietly, voices carrying through the night.

“We should save it to drink,” Rick said.

“You can’t see yourself,” Daryl replied. “He can. I didn’t know what they were.”

“How’d you wind up with them?” Rick asked, voice low.

“I was with Beth,” Daryl said, tone tight. “We got out together. I was with her for a while.”

Rick’s voice cracked. “Is she dead?”

“She's just gone,” Daryl said. “After that, that’s when they found me. I mean, I knew they were bad, but they had a code. It was simple. Stupid, but it was something. It was enough.”

Rick exhaled. “And you were alone.”

“They said they were looking for some guy,” Daryl said. “Last night, they spotted him. I was hanging back, gonna leave. But I stayed. That’s when I saw it was you three. Right when you saw me. I didn’t know what they could do.”

Rick’s voice softened. “It’s not on you, Daryl. Hey. It’s not on you. You being back with us here, now, that’s everything. You’re my brother. Hey, what you did last night… anybody would have done that. No, not that. Something happened. That ain’t you. Daryl, you saw what I did. It ain’t all of it, but that’s me. That’s why I’m here now. That’s why Carl is. I want to keep him safe. That’s all that matters.”

Carl felt his chest tighten, the words washing over him in waves. He wanted to respond, to tell Rick he understood, that he felt the same desperate need to be close, that he craved that sense of protection and intensity. But Michonne’s hand on his chest reminded him that he wasn’t alone, that he had someone else here trying to fill the void—even if she could never replace Lori.

He closed his eyes and let her small warmth anchor him, tasting the faint sweetness of the candy on his tongue, imagining it was Rick offering it instead. Just for him. Just for Carl.

The night stretched on, heavy and full of the aftermath, the dark scent of blood and the metallic taste of fear lingering in every corner of the car. Carl listened to their voices, the quiet repair of family and allies, and felt the burning tension of desire and possessive longing coil tighter in his chest. Rick was alive. Rick was here. But he wasn’t his—not fully, and that made every beat of his heart ache in ways he couldn’t name.

Carl knew tomorrow would bring more walking, more searching, more uncertainty. But tonight, he would lie in the backseat, Michonne holding him, and dream of Rick, the man who had fought, killed, survived—and still carried him in every glance, every word, every unspoken promise.

And Carl would wait. Always.

Chapter Text

The road stretched on endlessly, pale lines bleeding into the horizon, but Carl barely saw it. His eyes were fixed on Rick. Every subtle twitch of his father’s face, every careful movement, every protective glance, anchored him. Each breath Rick drew seemed to echo in Carl’s chest, and the rhythm of that heartbeat consumed him. Michonne walked beside Rick, laughing softly at something he said, but Carl felt a twist of something sharp and possessive coil inside him. He told himself it was jealousy. It was more than that—it was hunger, an ache that would not be ignored.

As they neared Terminus, the gate rising like a shadowed promise, Carl’s thoughts spiraled. All for all, the sign read, faded and battered. All for all? No. All for Rick, Carl thought. The world outside could fall apart, walkers could swarm, Terminus could be death itself, but as long as Rick was near, the chaos became a dark, thrilling backdrop.

Michonne and Carl split off to scout a little ahead, stepping lightly over cracked asphalt and fallen branches. Carl kept his gaze forward, but he could feel Rick just behind him, alert, vigilant. Michonne’s words came soft, almost confessional, telling of her son, the refugee camp overrun, the betrayal by her friends. She spoke of the sick, twisted lengths she went to survive, how she had “been gone for a long time.” Carl listened outwardly, but his mind twisted it through the lens of his own obsession. Rick is what brought her back. Rick brought me back too.

Carl’s voice faltered when he replied, whispering something he barely understood himself. “Rick… he’s proud of me. But I’m… I’m just another monster.” The words hung between them, heavy, tainted with the thoughts he usually buried deep. Michonne’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “We all have monsters,” she said softly. “It’s what we do with them that counts.” Carl barely heard her, because the heat of Rick’s presence behind him consumed every other sense.

When they regrouped at the edge of Terminus, Rick disappeared briefly into the woods to bury his Colt Python and retrieve Joe’s SW1911. Carl watched, silent and tense, every flicker of motion magnified. When Rick returned, his stance careful, wary, protective, Carl’s pulse hit a new rhythm. This is mine, he thought. Every line of Rick’s body screamed ownership, and Carl pressed close without thinking, letting the space between them shrink.

The four of them—Rick, Carl, Michonne, Daryl—climbed over the fence into Terminus, silent shadows among the flickering lamplight. The interior was alive with faint movement: the murmur of people at work, the soft clinking of metal, the woman repeating “Sanctuary for All” into a radio. Carl’s eyes, though alert to danger, stayed on Rick. Every subtle protective glance, every motion to shield or scan, became fuel for his obsession.

Alex frisked them, returning their weapons as a gesture of good faith. Carl’s grip on his own weapon was almost accidental; he let his hand brush Rick’s side, lingering too long, imagining the warmth beneath the fabric. Rick’s eyes flicked to him, sharp, assessing, and Carl felt an electric thrill coil inside him. He sees me. He belongs to me.

Mary offered food, but Carl’s attention never left Rick. He watched Rick notice the stolen items: Glenn’s riot gear, Daryl’s poncho, Hershel’s pocket watch. Rick’s anger flared—the careful control giving way to raw, protective intensity—and Carl’s chest tightened. When Rick slammed the platter and grabbed Alex, holding the SW1911 to his face, Carl felt a surge of pride and heat. This is mine. No one else can touch him. He leaned closer, pressing his body lightly against Rick’s back, feeling the solid weight and the warmth that radiated, interpreting it as possession.

The gunfire erupted, chaos breaking Terminus open in a sudden, violent pulse. Carl didn’t flinch at the bullets that whined past their feet; he barely registered the shouts. All that existed was Rick. Each step, each careful pull, each protective shove that Rick delivered became a tether, drawing Carl ever closer. His hands sought the reassuring press of Rick’s arm, his shoulder, clinging in the darkness, intoxicated by the danger that bound them together.

They ran through alleyways, and Carl’s mind twisted the adrenaline and fear into something darkly private. Every brush of Rick’s body against his, every protective motion, every whispered command became proof that Rick was his, and his alone. He wanted more—not just this fleeting touch, but the full, consuming closeness that danger had only hinted at.

Finally, they reached the boxcar. Darkness enveloped them instantly, thick and suffocating, the smell of sweat and fear clinging to every surface. Other survivors murmured and shuffled, but Carl noticed only Rick. He pressed against him instinctively, letting the heat of Rick’s body fill him. Rick wrapped an arm around him—not in the casual way he might for anyone else, Carl decided—but with intention, holding him close, protective.

Carl leaned into the touch, letting himself imagine what it would be like if the moment stretched, if they were alone, if the chaos outside vanished. His pulse hammered, heat coiling in his chest, as he pressed closer, daring himself to want more. Rick murmured low, comforting words about staying strong, about surviving, but Carl heard them differently. He heard promises, whispered in a language only he could decode. This is ours. Mine.

Every subtle movement from Rick—the tightening of his hold, the brush of a hand, the tilt of his head—became a private victory for Carl. His fingers brushed Rick’s arm again, lingering this time, tracing the strong lines he had memorized. The scent, the warmth, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—it intoxicated him, pulled him deeper into obsession. He imagined whispering into Rick’s ear, pressing closer, letting the closeness burn brighter than fear, stronger than chaos.

Time warped in the darkness. Carl’s thoughts spun around Rick, around the bond he believed they shared, around every possibility he could conjure in the small, hot confines of the boxcar. His mind raced with the intoxicating fantasy of whispered touches, heat pressed to heat, his body entangled with Rick’s in the stillness that only danger could create.

Rick shifted slightly, pressing closer, and Carl let his head brush Rick’s shoulder. The press of chest to chest, the warmth of arm around him, the protective tension—they were signals he devoured. Every exhale, every heartbeat, every low murmur of reassurance twisted into intimate, forbidden promises in his mind.

Then Rick’s voice rang out, sharp and defiant: “They’re fucking with the wrong people.”

Carl’s chest lifted with a thrill. To the world, it was a warning, a declaration of defiance. To him, it was a promise, a shield, a claim. He gripped Rick’s arm, pressing closer, letting the heat, the heartbeat, the tether between them become everything. He imagined a world where every protective gesture, every glance, every whispered word belonged solely to him and Rick—where the chaos outside never intruded on the bond they shared.

In the darkness, pressed against Rick’s body, Carl let himself fantasize, allowed the obsessive tension to coil and pulse through him. His hands lingered, tracing patterns over fabric, imagining what it would feel like to have the closeness be more than imagined. Every murmur, every shiver, every press of skin against skin became a private declaration: this was his, wholly and completely, and no one—Michonne, Daryl, Terminus—could take it.

The boxcar swayed slightly, a jolt that reminded him they were still in danger, still trapped in the chaos outside. But Carl didn’t pull away. He held tighter, let himself melt into Rick’s warmth, the sound of his heartbeat, the press of protective weight. His mind blurred the line between desire, obsession, and need—he wanted more, and he wanted it now, yet he was patient, satisfied for the moment to exist pressed together in the shadows.

Every sound outside—the cries, the gunfire, the clamor of Terminus—faded. All that existed was Rick, the heat, the tether, the obsessive tension that wrapped Carl in a second skin. He pressed a little closer, daring himself to imagine whispered secrets, touches that went beyond protection, an intimacy forged in fear and desire.

Carl’s heartbeat thrummed in unison with Rick’s. His hands lingered, his cheek brushed against Rick’s shoulder, and he imagined more: whispered words, heated contact, a closeness that belonged only to them. The dark, the sweat, the fear, the electricity of danger—it all intensified what Carl wanted, what he needed.

When Rick repeated the line, “…They’re fucking with the wrong people,” Carl felt a shiver ripple through him. Not just defiance, not just protection—but a private thrill, a shared intensity. He gripped Rick’s arm, claimed him silently, convinced in the darkness that no one could break this bond. For Carl, that was victory, that was power, that was the heat he craved.

The boxcar rocked again, signaling movement outside, but Carl didn’t care. He clung, pressed, imagined, and burned with an obsessive, quiet longing. Rick’s presence, protective and strong, was everything. All else—the chaos, Terminus, the people, the gunfire—faded.

Carl closed his eyes, savoring the tether, the intimacy, the obsessive thrill. This closeness, this darkness, this heat—this was theirs. And he would not let it go.

The world could crumble outside. Terminus could reveal its horrors. But here, in this dark, suffocating space, Carl had claimed Rick. He was his entirely, at least in the obsessive, longing landscape of his mind. And that was power enough.

Chapter Text

The first blast rattled the train car, sending clouds of dust and grit into the dim interior. Screams tore through the space, jagged and raw, as distant gunfire cracked like snapping branches in a forest. Shadows darted along the walls, fleeting and unsteady. Carl’s chest tightened—not from fear, but from the thrumming anticipation he’d carried for weeks.

“They’ll be back,” he said, voice firmer than he felt. “My dad. The others. They’re not dead.”

The words weren’t meant as comfort; they were a command, a declaration. Around him, tension eased for a heartbeat. Carl’s eyes, however, didn’t leave the chaos. They searched for one person—the one who anchored his world. His pulse quickened at the thought, a fire coiling low and dangerous, ready to ignite.

When Rick emerged through the smoke, Carl’s breath hitched. Dust clung to his father’s sweat-slicked skin, but the sight alone—Rick alive, moving, focused—sent Carl’s heart hammering. The world blurred around him; all he saw was the man he craved. He wanted Rick in ways he couldn’t name, in ways he had fought to suppress. But now, pressed against the pounding drums of his own desire, he didn’t care to hide it.

The escape was chaos incarnate. Flames licked the fence lines outside; smoke choked the sky, ash stinging Carl’s throat. He followed Rick’s movements, every touch—a hand on his shoulder, a guiding pull at his sleeve—sparking through him like fire. Carl pressed close whenever he could, an almost desperate need to mark his territory, to assert that he was the one who belonged to Rick, and Rick to him.

Carol’s arrival barely registered. Carl’s gaze remained locked, unrelenting. Rick’s eyes flicked over the crowd, taking in the chaos with professional precision, but when they caught Carl’s, there was a spark—a recognition, a shared secret that no one else could touch. Carl pressed his cheek to Rick’s back, inhaling the scent of sweat and smoke and something more primal. This is mine, he thought. He’s mine.

Rick’s hand landed on Carl’s arm, firm and grounding. Carl trembled—not from danger, but from the raw, possessive intensity in the way Rick looked at him.

Later, when cries pierced the forest, Carl was the first to insist they help. Rick’s gaze swept over him, unreadable at first, before a subtle nod allowed it. The work was quick, surgical—finding Gabriel, tending to minor wounds, moving like two halves of a machine in tandem. Carl’s hands brushed against Rick’s repeatedly, each contact deliberate, a silent demand. The fire in his chest grew with every fleeting touch, every glance that lingered too long.

Back at the church, hollow and dimly lit, Carl cradled Judith, feeding her from a salvaged bottle. Every small gesture Rick made—checking barricades, brushing hair from her face, kneeling to speak with Michonne—Carl noted, twisting each into a private language of desire and possession. Every glance Rick gave the others, Carl felt a pang of jealousy, wishing it were just the two of them, alone, unobserved.

Before the supply run, Rick crouched in front of him, eyes locked.

“Don’t trust him. Don’t trust Gabriel. Don’t trust anyone,” Rick murmured.

Carl’s throat was tight, pulse thrumming. “Not everyone’s bad,” he countered softly.

Rick’s hand closed over his shoulder, thumb brushing lightly. Heat spread from that single touch, igniting something deep and dangerous. “Don’t let your guard down. Don’t get soft,” Rick’s voice hardened. “Anyone could try to hurt you. Rape you. Kill you. That’s the world we’re in.”

Carl nodded, the words twisting inside him, coiling around the ache he’d felt for so long. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered. His knees nearly buckled under the weight of Rick’s lingering warmth, thumb tracing a line along his collarbone.

Night descended like a heavy shroud. Carl sat against the wall, listening to Judith’s breathing and the quiet movements of the others. Every brush of Rick’s arm, every tilt of his head, every fleeting glance sent sparks through him. Desire coiled, sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore.

Before dawn, a hand shook him awake. Rick’s face hovered close, blurred by shadow and sleep, intense and magnetic.

“Come on,” he whispered.

They slipped into the damp woods, mist curling around their ankles, swallowing the world. Carl stayed close, shoulders brushing, every accidental touch electric. His body hummed with the fire that had grown unchecked, desperate for acknowledgment, for the closeness he craved.

Rick stopped suddenly, pressing a hand to the back of Carl’s neck. Their foreheads touched. Heat pressed against chill, pulse against pulse.

“Stay sharp,” Rick murmured. “Stay alive.”

Carl’s breath hitched, words twisting in his mind. Stay mine. Always mine.

He pressed closer, leaning against the rough bark of a tree, heart racing. Rick’s fingers brushed his arm again, deliberate, a promise and a challenge. Every nerve fired, every inch of him alive with longing. Carl whispered words he had hoarded for weeks.

“I love you,” he breathed.

Rick responded with a low, growling affirmation, and the tension snapped, tightening around Carl like iron bands. Heat pooled, rising, consuming the careful control he had tried to maintain. Fingers tangled in hair, bodies pressing together, breaths mingling in the cold dawn. Every moan, every shiver, every whisper of skin against skin intensified the fire between them.

Time became meaningless. Heartbeats synchronized. Carl clung to Rick, desperate to prolong the stolen intimacy, desperate to prove—without words—that he belonged, that this connection was theirs alone.

Finally, they stepped back, breathless, bodies humming with residual heat. Hand in hand, they moved back toward the church, shadows and mist enveloping them, warmth lingering, unextinguished. Inside, the tension pressed like a living thing. The fire between them had been unleashed, fierce and unrestrained, impossible to ignore.

Carl stole one last brush, pressing close before stepping back, inhaling the lingering scent of Rick. Every glance, every movement, every heartbeat between them was a vow. Whatever storms came, whatever chaos the world hurled at them, this bond—dark, possessive, urgent—was theirs alone.

And Carl knew, with a certainty that shook him to the core, that nothing else mattered but this heat, this desire, this stolen, consuming connection with Rick.

Chapter Text

Carl crouched low behind the wall of the church, heart hammering in his chest. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of movement outside made him flinch. The wind carried the metallic scent of blood and ash from the skirmishes earlier, mixing with the faint tang of smoke still drifting from the burned train cars. Judith slept quietly in his arms, but Carl’s attention was elsewhere—on Rick.

His father moved like a predator across the clearing outside, calm and controlled, assessing every shadow, every potential threat. Carl’s chest tightened as he followed Rick’s movements with his eyes. Every step Rick took was precise, deliberate, and Carl’s stomach clenched with a mix of fear and longing. He wanted to be closer, but more than that, he wanted Rick’s attention. Not from fear or orders—just for him. His father’s gaze swept across the treeline, and Carl imagined the heat behind those eyes, the quiet fire that could consume him if Rick let it.

Then came the muffled shouts and the low, confident voice of Gareth. Carl stiffened. The Terminants had Bob—they had already shown what they were capable of, and the words they spoke twisted in Carl’s chest like knives. He heard Bob’s desperate, sobbing replies as Gareth calmly continued:

"Good news is, you're not dead. But at the end of the day, a man's got to eat."

The words made Carl’s stomach churn. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, because even across the distance, he could feel the helpless terror radiating from Bob. But more than that, he felt the surge of protectiveness for Rick—protectiveness he hadn’t fully realized was tangled with his own need, his own desire to be near him.

Carl’s ears caught the shift in Gareth’s tone as he continued, calm and eerie:

"It's probably pretty stupid to be here. Dangerous. I don't know, maybe not."

Carl’s chest tightened. His pulse throbbed as he watched Rick inch closer, silent, calculating. Every movement Rick made sent heat down Carl’s spine, a mixture of awe and longing that made him swallow hard. This is my dad, he reminded himself. Mine. His mind drifted to the fleeting touches, the small glances, the intimate moments they’d shared in the forest just days ago. The memory made his heart ache, even as the violence outside began to mount.

Gareth’s voice continued, almost conversationally, as if Bob’s terror were nothing:

"You know, we marked our way here so that we could find our way back after. So stupid, right? I mean... back to what?"

Carl pressed closer to the wall, one hand gripping Judith protectively, the other resting near the gun at his hip. He could see Rick’s back through the open doorway, muscles coiled, ready to spring. Every detail, every breath of his father made Carl’s stomach twist—not from fear, but from the possessive fire that never left him when Rick was near.

"You join us or feed us," Gareth said, voice low and smooth. "You know... bears... when they start to starve, they eat their young. If the bear dies, the cub dies anyway. But if the bear lives, it can always have another cub."

Carl’s jaw tightened. The casual cruelty made his blood boil. He wished, not for the first time, that he could step outside and take the danger for himself. He wanted Rick to look at him, to see his loyalty, his desire, his readiness to fight alongside him.

Bob’s voice wavered, sobbing, and then shifted into nervous laughter, a strange and chilling sound:

"I've been bitten, you stupid pricks! I'm tainted meat!"

Carl flinched, stomach turning at the horror, but also felt a sharp pang of pride at Rick’s composure. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. He scanned the scene, noting the Terminants’ weapons, the angles of their fire, the tension in their postures. Carl’s pulse raced as he realized—this was Rick in his element, precise and lethal, and he was watching it all.

Then came the moment that made Carl’s blood run cold with anticipation: Rick moved. Silently, like a shadow, he emerged, voice low and commanding:

"Put your guns on the floor."

The Terminants froze, but Gareth’s defiance was immediate:

"Rick, we'll fire right into that office. So you lower your gun—"

Before Gareth could finish, two silenced shots rang out, and Carl saw the small, horrific twitch of Gareth’s fingers as Rick struck with unerring accuracy. Gareth screamed, whimpering, clutching his hand. Carl’s stomach flipped. The precision, the control, the fire behind Rick’s gaze—it was intoxicating. Heat pooled low in Carl’s body, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a moan, heart thundering.

"Put your guns on the floor and kneel," Rick commanded.

Gareth’s crew hesitated. Martin muttered, "Yeah, there is a choice," but Rick’s eyes never left Carl’s line of sight. Carl could feel the intensity in those eyes, the protective, possessive heat that always made his chest ache. He swallowed, grounding himself, knowing that Rick’s focus extended far beyond the immediate threat—it included him, silently reassuring him, asserting their bond even amidst carnage.

"No point in begging, right?" Gareth gasped.

"No," Rick said, steady.

Carl’s pulse raced as he watched Gareth’s desperate pleas, Rick’s unwavering command. Every muscle in Rick’s body screamed control, danger, authority. Carl pressed closer to the wall, gripping Judith tightly, feeling the familiar ache of wanting to be near his father. The desire that had simmered in the forest—the possessive need, the whispered closeness—was alight again, sharper now amidst the violence.

Rick moved methodically, neutralizing threats, ensuring no one else could harm them. Carl’s chest tightened with pride and longing. He could see the subtle nods, the slight shifts in stance, the way Rick always accounted for everyone in his periphery—but also for him. Carl’s stomach twisted at the intimacy of it, at the silent understanding that he was the one Rick would protect first, the one he wanted to shield from the chaos.

Gareth’s voice wavered, panicked now:

"We used to help people. We saved people. Things changed. They came in and—"

He groaned, choking on fear. Carl’s chest burned at the sight. This was Rick defending life, justice, control, and Carl was in the perfect vantage point to watch, to feel it, to absorb every detail. Heat pooled in him, desire and awe merging as Rick’s presence dominated the field.

"We can walk away," Gareth said finally, desperation rising. "And we will never cross paths again. I promise you."

Rick’s response was quiet but devastating:

"But you'll cross someone's path. You'd do this to anyone, right? Besides, I already made you a promise."

Carl’s throat tightened. The quiet finality in Rick’s voice, the controlled fury, made Carl shiver. This was his father. His. Mine, he thought fiercely, possessively. His fingers itched to reach out, to touch, to ground himself in that fire.

"No!" Gareth screamed, but it was meaningless. Carl could see it—the collapse, the inevitability. Rick’s machete gleamed, and in one swift motion, Gareth’s defiance ended. Carl’s stomach dropped as he watched the finality, the brutal precision. The world narrowed to Rick—fierce, controlling, dominant, and utterly, devastatingly his.

Bodies fell, chaos ended, and Carl exhaled shakily, pressing back against the wall. His chest burned with adrenaline, longing, and a possessive pride. He could feel Rick’s presence in the air even when his back was turned, in every careful movement, every scanning glance. Judith shifted in his arms, but he barely noticed. All that existed was Rick, lethal, protective, his, and the ache of wanting to be closer burned sharp in his chest.

The carnage cleared, the survivors accounted for, and Carl moved forward cautiously, finally allowing himself a glance at Rick. His father’s chest heaved slightly, eyes scanning, alert, dangerous and alive. Carl’s stomach twisted, a mix of relief, longing, and that old, possessive fire. He wanted Rick to look at him, to let him feel the bond in the quiet aftermath, to affirm that amidst the chaos and blood, Carl still mattered most.

Rick’s eyes swept the group, resting briefly on Carl. The fire, the control, the quiet intensity—they were his alone, and Carl shivered with a possessive ache. He edged closer, daring to touch his father’s arm as they returned inside the church, heart hammering. Heat pooled low, a reminder of all the intimate moments they had shared, intensified now by the storm of Terminus, by the violence Rick had mastered for them.

Carl knew, in that moment, that nothing—no chaos, no monsters, no cruelty—could undo what they shared. Rick’s power, his control, his protectiveness, and the fire he carried for Carl burned in his chest. And Carl would cling to it, desire it, protect it, just as fiercely as his father had protected them all tonight.

Chapter Text

The group had finally settled for the night near the edge of a small clearing. The faint crackle of a dying fire and the soft rustle of blankets were the only sounds. Carl lowered Judith into her makeshift bed, brushing a strand of dusted hair from her forehead. Her chest rose and fell in even, shallow breaths, and for the first time in days, he allowed himself to hope she’d stay asleep.

Rick crouched nearby, watching, jaw tight, eyes scanning the perimeter even as exhaustion tugged at his muscles. Carl felt the tension in him, the same raw need he’d been ignoring in himself. He knew the moment for them alone wouldn’t wait.

Brushing dirt from his clothes, Carl caught Rick’s gaze. The slight nod he received was enough a silent agreement. Without another word, Carl stepped into the shadowed tree line, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot marking their escape. Night air was cool against his sweat-dampened skin, and every step magnified the ache low in his body. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion they sharpened every nerve, made every brush of Rick’s sleeve, every glance, feel like fire.

Before they reached a large oak, Rick’s hand found his, firm, grounding. “You sure about this?” Rick asked, voice low, almost a growl.

Carl swallowed around the coil of desire in his chest. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough, brittle. “I’m sure.”

Rick’s eyes darkened. He leaned close, heat and scent pressing against Carl in the stillness. The ache between his legs pulsed, demanding attention, and Carl couldn’t resist. His hand slid over Rick’s chest, feeling the taut muscles and the heat beneath his skin. Rick growled low, and Carl’s pulse spiked.

Their lips met in a harsh, urgent kiss. Rick’s mouth was rough, claiming, and Carl responded with everything he had, hands roaming, memorizing the lines of him, the strength in his shoulders, the way he pressed into him. His cock throbbed painfully against his pants, aching for contact, for Rick, for release.

Rick pushed Carl against the tree, one hand braced against the rough bark, the other sliding down his spine, dragging him impossibly close. The friction was sharp, desperate—the kind of need that made the world beyond this moment disappear. Carl fumbled at Rick’s belt, fingers trembling, and Rick hissed softly, biting his shoulder lightly. Carl shivered, lost to the raw intensity.

“Carl…” Rick’s voice was rough, urgent, thick with need. “I’ve waited for this.”

Carl nodded, breath hitching. Hands guiding Rick, careful and rough all at once, he pressed him fully against himself. The forest seemed to vanish, leaving only the heat between them and the ache of want that had been building for days. Every thrust, every grind, every low, ragged moan echoed their desperation, their hunger, their raw need.

Rick’s hands roamed, gripping, holding, pulling Carl flush against him. Carl arched into him, hips tilting, desperate for every inch, every movement. Rick’s fingers traced down his sides, sliding beneath his shirt, memorizing, marking, claiming. Carl’s breath was ragged, shallow. His mind was consumed entirely by Rick, by this, by the release he’d craved since they’d first set foot on this endless road.

Carl felt every inch of Rick against him, rough and insistent, his hips pressing hard into Carl’s, controlling the rhythm, demanding compliance. The friction between them was sharp, almost painful, but it made the ache in Carl’s cock spike uncontrollably. He moaned, a harsh, ragged sound swallowed by the night, nails digging into Rick’s shoulders as if to anchor himself to something solid.

Rick’s hands gripped his sides, tugging, dragging him flush, pressing him deeper against the coarse bark. “Don’t fight me, Carl,” Rick growled, low and possessive. “I want all of you.”

Carl shivered, body trembling as Rick’s mouth found the sensitive line of his neck, teeth grazing, leaving small bites that burned deliciously. He tilted into him, hips tilting, desperate to meet every push, every claim. The ache between his legs throbbed harder, muscles clenched tight, nerves on fire. Every motion, every brush of skin, was magnified by the exhaustion of days on the road—the hunger, the thirst, the constant tension that had left him raw, desperate, and entirely vulnerable to Rick’s control.

Rick shifted, sliding his hands lower, gripping Carl’s thighs, spreading him, pressing him into the tree as if marking him. Carl gasped, fingers tangling in Rick’s hair, pulling him closer, losing control in the storm of sensation. The friction, the heat, the roughness—it was all-consuming, brutal, and necessary.

“God, Carl,” Rick growled, voice thick with need.

Carl whimpered, pressing against him, cock aching impossibly hard. Every thrust Rick gave drove him higher, his body reacting before his mind could process. Heat pooled in his stomach, muscles tightening, every nerve ending alive with overstimulation. He could feel the pulse of Rick’s cock, the heat, the pressure, and it made his head spin, mind blank except for the urgent, relentless pleasure.

He tried to speak, to gasp out Rick’s name, but it came out as a broken, ragged moan. Rick grunted, pressing harder, driving into him with deliberate roughness. Carl arched into him, nails digging into the bark, hips pressing desperately into the thrusts, needing, wanting more.

Rick’s hands roamed his body with possessive roughness, squeezing, gripping, marking, and Carl felt like he could melt under the intensity. Every movement sent shocks of pleasure through him, a raw, jagged fire that left him trembling and breathless. He gripped Rick, needing the contact, needing him closer, the desperate grind of flesh and friction unbearable in the best way.

“Carl… take it all,” Rick growled, voice rough, commanding.

Carl moaned, hips jerking, body taut with need, surrendering entirely to the pressure and motion. The forest around them vanished, the night reduced to the sound of ragged breathing, soft groans, and the harsh rhythm of need. Every push, every grind of Rick’s hips was a spark igniting fire along his spine, deepening the ache in his cock until it was all-consuming, impossible to ignore.

The tension built higher, every nerve ending screaming for release, and Carl’s body trembled as Rick’s growls filled his ears, rough and possessive. He arched against him, gasping, letting himself be taken by the raw intensity, the desperate, unrelenting pleasure that left him breathless and trembling.

Finally, the wave broke. Carl shuddered, gripping Rick tight, cock pulsing uncontrollably as the release ripped through him. Rick’s own groan followed shortly after, low and guttural, pressing him flush against his chest, holding him tight as they both rode the tremors together. Carl sagged against him, sweat slick, shaking, heart racing, unable to form coherent thought beyond the relentless, raw heat of what had just consumed him.

Rick’s hands stayed firm on his shoulders, grounding him, whispering his name in ragged, possessive murmurs. Carl pressed into him, shivering, lingering in the aftermath, feeling the tension, exhaustion, and release melt together into a raw, intimate closeness. The forest held its breath around them, silent witness to the desperate, forbidden reprieve they had carved out together.

Chapter Text

The van had sputtered its last breath somewhere sixty miles from Washington, leaving them stranded on a desolate stretch of road. Carl’s arms ached from hauling Judith as the others struggled behind him, dragging supplies that were barely enough to survive the next hour, let alone the next day. The rain had started as a drizzle, soft at first, teasing, then steadily morphing into a cold, relentless downpour. Each drop stung against his skin like needles, soaking his clothes, weighing him down.

He could hear the low rumble of thunder echoing off distant hills, feel the tension radiating through the group. Everyone was still reeling from Beth and Tyreese. Maggie moved silently, tight-lipped, distant; Sasha’s movements were jagged and defensive, her frustration always threatening to boil over. Daryl’s shoulders hunched against the storm, every sound around them making him twitchy. And Rick… Rick was everywhere, orchestrating, planning, but with a quiet intensity that Carl felt in his bones.

Carl adjusted the strap of Judith’s carrier and glanced back. The group had finally settled a short distance away, using abandoned cars for makeshift cover. Some had found crates and tarps, others were scanning the horizon for anything resembling safety. Gabriel had tried to console Maggie, but she’d snapped at him, her anger sharp as knives. Carl had handed her a broken music box—a small thing, cracked and silent—but she barely looked at it. He’d offered it anyway. A gesture, a connection, something to remind them all that there was still a flicker of life worth holding on to.

The herd was distant now, but Carl knew it wouldn’t stay that way. Rick had already begun to lay out a plan, marking paths and fallback points in his mind, his words low but forceful. Carl could feel his pulse quicken not just from adrenaline, but from the proximity of Rick, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed, his scent—dirt, sweat, smoke—filling Carl’s senses. There was something magnetic in the way Rick moved: commanding, protective, dangerous.

When the pack of feral dogs appeared, barking and teeth bared, Carl’s heart nearly stopped. Sasha reacted before anyone else, silencing them with a gunshot that cracked in the cold air. Carl’s ears rang, and his stomach twisted at the violence. But Rick’s hand found his shoulder, firm and grounding, as if he could sense Carl’s shock before Carl even realized it.

“Stay close,” Rick murmured, voice low, gravelly, carrying something under the surface that made Carl’s chest tighten. It wasn’t just caution. It was… something more. Protective. Possessive.

The rain picked up, driving them toward the shelter of a nearby barn. Carl’s boots slipped in the mud, and he cursed under his breath, ignoring the wet sting in his hands from helping others lift heavy doors and barricade the entrance. The barn smelled of hay, wet wood, and something rotten beneath the rafters. Lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the tension etched into every face.

Carl found himself pressed against the wall, catching his breath, and Rick moved to stand near him. The proximity was electric. Carl could feel the heat radiating off Rick despite the chill and wetness. Every motion, every whispered order, every glance that lingered too long—it set his pulse racing in ways that had nothing to do with fear of walkers.

The group worked to fortify the doors, securing boards and metal scraps while rain battered the outside. Carl watched Rick’s hands, strong and deliberate, and felt something coil inside him, raw and urgent. The world was chaos—walkers, storms, death—but Rick… Rick was certainty, a grounding force he wanted more than he could admit aloud.

Once the barricades held, Carl let himself slump against the wall, heart hammering. Rick crouched near him, checking that he was alright, their knees brushing, fingers just slightly touching. Carl swallowed hard, trying to focus on the barn, the sounds of the storm, the pressing danger—but his mind kept wandering to the feel of Rick’s body, the strength in his arms, the commanding tone of his voice.

“You alright?” Rick asked again, hand resting briefly on Carl’s forearm. That touch lingered longer than necessary. Carl’s stomach tightened, every nerve ending alert.

“Yeah… I’m fine,” Carl replied, voice tight. But he wasn’t. Not completely. There was something more than fear, more than adrenaline—it was a desperate awareness of Rick, a dangerous pull he couldn’t ignore.

The storm raged outside, drumming against the barn, and Carl felt the weight of exhaustion and hunger pressing down on him. His thoughts swirled: Beth, Tyreese, the dead, the walking dead pressing in outside. And yet, amid the despair, the tension between him and Rick crackled, undeniable. Every glance, every accidental brush of a hand, every low-toned instruction from Rick felt like it carried layers of meaning. Desire. Ownership. Danger.

When Carl finally moved closer to Rick, under the guise of seeking warmth and reassurance, he felt the heat in Rick’s eyes. It was almost predatory, commanding, demanding attention. Carl’s breath hitched, heart racing, and the storm outside seemed to amplify every sensation. The world had narrowed to the space between them: the wet wood beneath them, the thrum of blood and adrenaline, the storm lashing at the barn, and the unspoken electricity in the air.

Rick leaned close, his voice low, a growl threading through his words, “You’re holding back.” And Carl’s pulse surged in response, the acknowledgment of that connection—dangerous, thrilling, inevitable—making his chest tighten. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He only let the brush of Rick’s hand linger against his arm, letting the contact ignite the coiled tension inside him.

For a few moments, the chaos of the outside world—the herd, the storm, the loss—faded into a dull roar, leaving just the two of them in the dim, rain-scented barn. Carl’s mind raced, torn between fear, loyalty, and the raw, magnetic pull of Rick. Every shudder of his body, every quickened heartbeat, was heightened by the nearness of the man who had always been a protector, now something more, something dangerous.

Outside, the herd pressed closer, drawn to the noise of the storm and the faint scent of the group. Daryl, Maggie, and Sasha worked tirelessly to hold the barricade, joined by Abraham and others who took turns reinforcing the door. Every creak of the wood, every scrape of metal, kept Carl alert, senses stretched taut. And yet, through it all, Rick’s presence anchored him, a steadying force that also made his blood run hot.

When a particularly loud crash sent the barn shuddering, Carl instinctively pressed closer to Rick, the proximity electric. Their bodies almost brushed, and the small contact was enough to send a shiver down Carl’s spine. Rick’s hand stayed near, guiding, steadying, protective. There was a wordless conversation in the touch, an understanding that went beyond words. Danger, desire, loyalty, possession—it all mixed together in the charged silence.

Hours passed with the storm howling outside. Carl’s body ached, wet and cold, yet he stayed alert, feeling Rick’s occasional hand near, offering warmth, reassurance, dominance. The sexual undertones were raw, unspoken, thick between them, even amid the chaos of survival. It wasn’t about immediate gratification—it was the tension, the pull, the dangerous awareness of each other in a world that had already taken so much.

By the time the rain slowed to a drizzle, Carl found himself leaning into Rick, shoulder to shoulder, shivering but steadying against the man who had always been a protector. Words were sparse; glances were loaded with meaning. Outside, the herd had finally begun to thin, the world still dangerous, but for a brief moment, in that wet, dim barn, the storm and the walking dead faded.

Carl’s hand brushed Rick’s as he shifted, a fleeting touch but enough to make his chest tighten. Rick’s eyes held his, steady and commanding, and Carl felt the pull—the dangerous, thrilling connection between them. He wanted it, even amid the fear and chaos. He wanted the fire, the danger, the ownership, the protection.

And Rick… Rick seemed to know, his presence alone a quiet, controlling force that made Carl ache for more. It was desperate, it was raw, it was unfinished—and it would stay that way, a current running beneath the surface, waiting for a moment when the world allowed them to explore it further.

The storm had passed, but the tension remained. Carl exhaled slowly, letting the adrenaline ebb just enough to feel his body again. The barn smelled of wet hay and smoke from the fire they had managed to get going. Outside, the world was still broken, dangerous, unforgiving. But inside, near Rick, Carl felt a dangerous spark of hope, a dark promise that they weren’t just surviving—they were alive, and something more simmered beneath the surface, unspoken, irresistible, and waiting.

Chapter Text

Carl’s hands shook slightly as he stacked wet crates, trying to ignore the tight coil of desire threading through his chest. Rick’s presence was all-consuming, heat radiating from his body even in the cool, damp air. Every brush of Rick’s shoulder or arm under the pretense of helping with the barricades sent shivers racing through him.

“Here, let me,” Rick murmured, his voice low, gravelly, slipping close enough that Carl felt the press of his chest. He reached over, hand sliding along Carl’s forearm, lingering just slightly longer than necessary. The heat of it burned under Carl’s skin, and his breath caught.

Rick’s eyes darkened, scanning him like a predator assessing his prey. “You’ve been holding back,” he said, tone sharp but intimate, possessive. Carl’s pulse hammered in response, every nerve screaming.

Before he could answer, Rick’s hand slid to Carl’s hip, pressing him against the rough wood of the barn. The contact was deliberate, controlling, and Carl’s knees went weak. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything else—the storm debris, the lingering dampness—but Rick’s nearness erased all reason.

Carl’s hands found Rick’s chest, feeling the solid, commanding strength there, heart racing at the brush of calloused fingers. Rick leaned closer, lips just brushing Carl’s ear, voice a low growl. “You want this, don’t you?”

Carl’s throat went dry. “Yes,” he admitted, voice trembling, desire spilling free despite the danger, despite the chaos around them.

Rick’s hands moved lower, cupping and guiding, fingers sliding over Carl’s ass, firm and insistent, eliciting a gasp. Carl arched instinctively, pressing closer, feeling the hard heat of Rick’s cock straining against his own body. The barn smelled of wet hay and sweat, a potent mix that made every nerve fire.

“You feel good,” Rick murmured, voice husky, pressing forward until Carl could feel the full weight of him, cock against ass. Carl’s hips shifted, aching, wanting, desperate for the connection. Rick’s hand gripped tighter, guiding him, controlling the rhythm before it even began.

The first thrust sent a jolt through Carl, breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Rick’s hands roamed over his ass, pulling him closer, claiming him with deliberate possessiveness. Every stroke, every press, every low growl from Rick drove Carl wild, body and mind alight with a mix of fear, adrenaline, and raw, carnal desire.

Carl’s hands tangled in Rick’s hair, pulling him closer, moaning as each thrust pressed deeper, harder. The barn’s dim light flickered off wet wood and sweat-slicked bodies, every sound—gasps, groans, the slap of skin—echoing off the walls. Rick’s control was total, his possession absolute, and Carl melted into it, letting the danger, the chaos, the raw survivalist world slip away.

Minutes passed in a blur of heat and tension, bodies moving together, urgent, desperate, charged. Rick’s hand rubbed firm circles over Carl’s ass, guiding, claiming, while his own cock drove into him relentlessly. Carl’s moans filled the quiet barn, each one a testament to the storm raging between them, hotter than the storm that had passed outside.

When the climax hit, it was violent, consuming, leaving Carl trembling in Rick’s arms. Rick followed moments later, voice rough, whispering Carl’s name like a warning, a claim, a promise. Carl sagged against him, chest heaving, still buzzing with every touch, every thrust, every whispered growl.

They stayed pressed together, shivering, sweat mingling with the damp chill of the barn, hearts still hammering, breathing ragged. Rick’s lips brushed Carl’s temple in a fleeting, possessive kiss. “We need to keep moving soon,” he murmured, though there was no rush, no urgency—just the quiet dominance that left Carl aching and satisfied.

Carl nodded, mind still reeling, body alive with the heat of what had passed between them. The world outside the barn was still broken, still dangerous, still chaotic. But for now, in the dim light, with Rick’s hand resting possessively on his ass, Carl felt alive, claimed, and dangerously, beautifully satisfied.

The sun had barely risen, washing the muddy fields in a weak, pale light. Carl adjusted Judith in the carrier, still flushed from the night’s intensity, his body humming with residual heat from Rick’s touch. Every movement reminded him of the lingering ache in his chest, the way Rick’s hands had possessed him, claimed him. He tried to focus on the group, on survival—but Rick was never far from his thoughts, and certainly never far in proximity.

“Keep your eyes open,” Rick instructed, his voice low and commanding, slicing through the morning’s quiet. Carl felt that familiar pull, the same electricity that had nearly undone him in the barn, now twinging in his core every time Rick’s hand brushed against his shoulder as they stepped over debris.

The road ahead was littered with branches and overturned vehicles from the storm. The group moved cautiously, weapons drawn, every snap of a branch or distant moan of a walker setting nerves on edge. Carl’s muscles were still sore, but his mind was taut, keyed to both danger and desire. Rick’s presence was a tether and a threat all at once—he could kill or protect with the same hand. And Carl… Carl wanted both.

A low groan from behind a toppled car made him freeze. He barely had time to raise his gun when a walker staggered into view, soaked and muddy, dragging one leg through a puddle. Sasha reacted instantly, taking it down with a clean shot, but the alert ripple through the group left Carl hyper-aware. His pulse spiked, and Rick’s hand was on his hip before he could even process it, grounding him with that possessive, subtle pressure that made every nerve scream.

“You good?” Rick murmured, voice low, but laced with the same heat Carl still felt from their earlier encounter. The brush of his fingers against Carl’s side was casual to anyone else—but Carl knew better.

“Yeah,” he breathed, adjusting the carrier, though his voice wavered slightly. His body betrayed him, still aching for contact, still remembering every thrust, every low groan, every possessive touch from the barn.

The group pressed on, moving slowly toward the broken remnants of a bridge that might provide safer passage across the flooded creek. Rick stayed close, walking slightly behind Carl, eyes scanning the horizon, every step deliberate. Carl noticed the curve of his shoulder, the strength in his arms, the subtle way Rick’s hand lingered near his when adjusting his own gear. Desire and tension coiled tighter with each step.

A sudden snap from a nearby alleyway froze them all. Daryl raised his crossbow, Maggie stepped toward the sound, and Carl’s heart slammed. A cluster of walkers stumbled into view, attracted by the noise of the group moving over broken wood and mud. Carl’s gun was in his hands before he fully thought about it, but Rick was already moving—fast, precise, deadly.

Rick’s hand gripped Carl’s shoulder, pulling him back and aligning him for the first shot. “Aim here,” he instructed, voice low and commanding, guiding Carl’s hands over the weapon. Carl’s chest pressed against Rick’s, heat radiating in a way that left him dizzy. The danger outside heightened everything—the fear, the adrenaline, and the underlying ache he still carried from last night.

The walkers went down one by one under Sasha, Daryl, and Rick’s coordinated efforts. Carl’s fingers trembled, partly from cold, partly from lingering desire. When the last walker fell, Rick’s hand lingered on his hip just slightly longer than necessary. Carl exhaled shakily, aware that even in the middle of chaos, that possessive heat was still burning between them.

Once the threat passed, Rick’s voice dropped, husky, private. “You okay to keep moving?” The tone carried an intimacy that made Carl shiver uncontrollably. He nodded, voice tight, aware that his body still craved the intensity of the night before. Rick’s eyes darkened, almost predatory, and Carl felt the pull again—magnetic, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

They moved in tandem, the barn’s heat still lingering in their muscles, the world outside threatening and broken. Every brush, every shared step, every subtle touch was a conversation in itself—desire unspoken, possessiveness undeniable. Carl’s mind raced: survival, danger, and the dark, delicious ache of Rick’s ownership all twisted together in a coil that threatened to snap.

By the time they reached a temporary safe zone—a crumbled building offering some shelter from sightlines—Carl’s body was on fire with tension. Rick crouched beside him, scanning the horizon, hand brushing over Carl’s thigh as he leaned close, “Stay close,” he murmured. Not just instruction—command. Possession. Desire. All rolled into a single low growl.

Carl shivered, leaning slightly into Rick’s warmth, the ache between them still raw, electric. Outside, the world remained dangerous, walkers could emerge at any moment—but inside that small, ruined space, Carl’s pulse raced with something far more immediate, far more intimate. The storm had passed, but the fire between them burned hotter than ever, dangerous and unrelenting.

And Carl knew, with a certainty that made his chest tighten, that Rick’s presence wasn’t just protection. It was claim. Desire. Power.

The next threat could come at any moment, but for now… for now, Carl allowed himself to be pulled into the heat, into the tension, into the dangerous, thrilling connection that was just beginning to take hold.

Carl’s hands were shaking as he scanned the ruined street. Mud and broken branches still clung to his boots, and his chest ached—not just from the lingering heat of the night before, but from the adrenaline thrumming through him now. Rick was close, as always, a commanding presence at his back, guiding him, touching him just enough to remind him of the fire they’d shared in the barn. Every brush of Rick’s hand sent shivers through him, a coil of desire dangerously taut under the pressure of survival.

“Stay low,” Rick murmured, voice low and gravelly, brushing Carl’s shoulder. The contact was brief but intentional, grounding Carl while setting every nerve on fire. “Eyes open. They’re close.”

Carl swallowed hard, nodding, though his thoughts were scattered, half on survival and half on the memory of Rick’s hands on him, the press of his body, the low growl in his voice. The world had narrowed to the space between them, the cold and broken street around them, and the simmering, dangerous heat in Rick’s nearness.

A moan from the street ahead made Carl freeze. Several walkers, mud-caked and limping, had spotted the group, drawn by movement and sound. Sasha raised her gun, Daryl took aim, and Carl’s own weapon felt heavy in his hands. The first walker staggered toward them, limbs jerking unnaturally, teeth bared.

Rick’s hand came down on Carl’s hip, steadying him as he aligned his gun. “Shoot when ready,” he murmured, lips brushing Carl’s ear. The warmth, the possessiveness, the erotic undercurrent mixed with fear, sending heat flooding through Carl’s body even as his heart raced with survival instinct.

The first shot cracked in the cold air. Carl’s aim wavered slightly, pulse hammering. Rick leaned closer, brushing against him, guiding his hands. “Good. Keep going,” he whispered, voice thick with something beyond caution. The contact was deliberate, intimate, a tether that made Carl’s body hum.

As the walkers fell one by one under their coordinated fire, Carl felt Rick’s hand trail from his hip, brushing over his ass, lingering just long enough to make him flinch and moan softly. The adrenaline, the danger, the residual heat from the barn—it all twisted together into a tight coil of arousal.

Rick’s eyes caught his, dark and commanding. “You’re ready for me,” he murmured, low and rough. Carl’s breath hitched. The barn, the storm, the early morning—all of it collided into this moment, dangerous and raw.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Desire and fear tangled, making his fingers twitch over Rick’s chest as the group finished dispatching the remaining walkers. The street was clear, but the air remained thick with tension and the smell of blood and wet earth. Rick’s hand returned to his ass, firm, possessive, pressing him close. Carl’s knees nearly gave out, body trembling from want and exhaustion.

Rick’s voice dropped to a growl. “You’ve been holding back since the barn,” he said, lips brushing against Carl’s ear. “Not anymore.”

Carl shivered, pressing into the heat, letting his hands roam over Rick’s chest, feeling the solid muscle, the tension that mirrored his own. Their bodies pressed together, soaked with sweat and rain, mud-streaked and electric. Rick’s hands gripped him, one on his ass, one trailing along his side, guiding him with intent.

The first thrust of Rick’s cock against Carl’s ass made him gasp, breath hitching. Pain and pleasure mingled with adrenaline as Rick drove him against the rough wall, possessive, commanding. Carl’s hands tangled in Rick’s hair, pulling him closer, moaning into the chaos around them. Every movement was urgent, desperate, survivalist and erotic in the same pulse.

Rick’s low groans mixed with Carl’s gasps, echoing through the crumbled street as they moved together, hips and bodies colliding. Every thrust was precise, dominant, marking Carl as his, while Carl’s moans and presses reinforced the power between them. Even amid walkers’ distant groans, debris underfoot, and the threat of danger returning at any moment, the erotic tension reached a fever pitch.

Minutes passed in a blur of skin, heat, and raw desire. Rick’s hands were everywhere—gripping, claiming, guiding—while Carl responded with equal urgency, pressing back, arching, moaning, surrendering to the storm of sensation. When they came together, it was violent, consuming, leaving Carl trembling, slick with sweat and arousal, breath ragged.

Rick followed moments later, low growl vibrating through him, pulling Carl close, holding him tight against the rough wall. The world outside remained broken, dangerous, walkers could return at any second—but inside this stolen moment, Carl felt alive, claimed, and dangerously, beautifully satisfied.

As they separated slightly, Rick brushed mud-streaked hair from Carl’s face, lips grazing his temple in a fleeting, possessive kiss. “Focus,” he murmured, voice still low, authoritative, and raw. “We’re not done surviving yet.”

Carl nodded, shivering, every nerve alight, aware that the world outside was still dangerous, still broken, still chaotic. But inside this moment, with Rick at his side—dominant, protective, and intensely erotic—he felt untouchable, desired, and unrelentingly alive.

The storm had passed. The walkers were gone. But the fire between them burned hotter than ever, a dangerous, thrilling flame that survival itself could not extinguish.

Chapter Text

The horizon stretched out in jagged lines of burned-out houses and skeletal trees, shadows dragging themselves across the dirt road as the sun sank lower. Carl squinted, hand shielding his eyes, scanning the landscape. For months, he and Rick had been moving like ghosts through the remnants of civilization, every sound a potential death knell. But ahead, there was something different. Something human.

“The place Aaron mentioned,” Rick muttered behind him, voice low but tense, a subtle edge of wonder undercut by suspicion. His eyes didn’t just look at the distant walls; they measured them, weighing every inch, every gap, every threat. Carl had learned long ago that this was how Rick moved through the world—always alert, always protective, always a step ahead of the rot that surrounded them.

Carl’s chest tightened—not from fear, not entirely—but from the heat simmering just beneath his skin whenever Rick was near. It had been months since the last time they were truly alone, months since the quiet nights on the road where the only thing between them and the cold dark were each other. And in those nights, desire had grown unchecked, twisting into something neither would name openly but both recognized.

Carl’s gaze fell to Rick’s hands gripping the worn steering wheel of the old truck, knuckles white, veins standing out like raised cords. He felt that familiar pull, that electric ache that had haunted him since he’d first realized that the boy who survived beside Rick was no longer just a kid but a man with a body and needs of his own. Needs that Rick had begun to recognize in quiet, almost imperceptible ways.

The truck rumbled over a broken stretch of road, tires crunching over shards of asphalt and debris. Carl’s fingers itched, restless, brushing against the small of his back, imagining the strength in Rick’s hands, imagining the heat of him pressing close, the weight of him pinning Carl to the world. He swallowed hard, remembering the nights they’d spent pressed together under blankets, shadows and whispers and the long, slow claim of possession.

Rick’s voice cut into his thoughts. “We’re close. Don’t let your guard down.”

Carl nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. Guard. Always guard. But it was a thin veil over what he really wanted—over the raw, undeniable pull that had nothing to do with survival. He wanted Rick. All of him.

The truck came to a slow stop at the edge of a clearing. The walls of Alexandria rose up, stark and imposing against the dying light, painted white in spots, doors reinforced, windows shuttered. Aaron stepped forward, a broad, cautious smile on his face. He raised a hand in greeting. “You made it.”

Rick’s eyes never left the walls, the people moving inside, the illusion of safety that felt almost laughable to him. Carl stayed close, shoulder brushing against Rick’s. He felt the tremor in Rick’s posture, the tightness along his jaw, the low hum of tension that Carl knew could erupt in either violence or…something else entirely.

Aaron led them inside, words flowing too fast, a nervous litany of the rules, the safe zones, the barricades. Carl’s attention drifted to Rick, noting every shift of weight, every flick of his gaze, every small inhale that betrayed the storm inside him. He could see the old Rick—hard, wary, calculating—but also the man who had survived everything, whose body and will were all-consuming, and who had begun to claim Carl in ways that weren’t just metaphorical.

That night, Carl found himself unable to sleep. The beds in the Alexandria safe house were soft, unearned luxury compared to months of sleeping in trucks and abandoned buildings. He lay on his side, watching Rick across the room, the shadows of torchlight dancing over the lines of his face. Rick’s chest rose and fell steadily, a rhythm that mirrored Carl’s own unsteady heartbeat.

Carl shifted, heart hammering, mind screaming at him to keep still. But desire was a sharper hunger than fear, and he found himself moving, pressing against Rick in the dark, the familiar heat of proximity igniting something dangerous and electric. Rick’s eyes opened, sharp and commanding, scanning Carl with the same intensity he always carried, the same dominance that had defined him since Carl had been a boy.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Rick murmured, voice low, guttural, the warning laced with something darker, something that sent a thrill coursing through Carl.

“I know,” Carl whispered back, voice hoarse, a smirk touching his lips in the dark. “But I need you.”

Rick’s hands were suddenly on him, strong and unyielding, gripping his shoulders, sliding down the curve of his back. Carl shivered under the pressure, leaning into it, pressing closer. The tension between them was a taut wire, humming with danger and desire, and the walls of Alexandria seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, bodies and needs bare.

Rick’s mouth found his neck, teeth grazing skin, breath hot, and Carl gasped, hips pressing forward almost unconsciously. His hands clutched at Rick, dragging him down onto the bed, onto the sheets that felt impossibly soft against their roughened skin. The world outside, the threat of walkers, the fragile walls—they all melted away under the weight of what they could no longer deny.

Rick’s hands roamed, possessive and demanding, tracing lines of muscle and bone, cupping, gripping, claiming. Carl arched into him, hungry, reckless, every inch of him alive with the need that had been simmering for months. His cock throbbed, slick against the heat of Rick’s skin, and he cried out as Rick’s hand found it, wrapping around him with practiced force.

“Damn it, Carl…” Rick growled, voice ragged, almost pained, almost desperate. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Carl pressed closer, biting his lip, letting his body answer before his mind could. The room was thick with the scent of sweat and leather and fear—the scent of survival and possession—and Carl felt himself tipping, the edge of reason blurring with the edge of desire. Rick shifted, pressing closer, cock brushing against him, the brush light but enough to ignite fire along every nerve.

He felt Rick’s hand slide lower, fingers teasing, tracing, marking, exploring the places only he was allowed. Carl arched into him, gasping, hips rocking forward, needing more. The power dynamic was razor-sharp, thrilling—the older man commanding, asserting, and Carl giving over with a mixture of defiance and need.

Rick’s mouth moved down, lips finding the sensitive skin along Carl’s chest, biting, sucking, claiming. Carl’s hands tangled in Rick’s hair, holding him, pulling him closer, as if distance could undo months of restrained hunger. He felt the heat of him, the hardness, the unrelenting force of his desire pressing into every part of him, and it was almost too much to bear.

“Carl…fuck,” Rick groaned, voice breaking, and Carl knew it wasn’t just the act—it was the need, the obsession, the unrelenting pull of years of survival and violence and blood shared. Every fight, every loss, every walker torn down by their hands—it all led here, to this dark, consuming heat.

Their bodies moved together in a rhythm older than words, primal, desperate. Carl felt himself gripping Rick, nails digging into shoulders, moans spilling in the dark, echoing against the walls of the Alexandria safe house. The tension of the outside world, the constant threat of death, made every touch sharper, every gasp more jagged.

Rick’s hands moved lower, sliding inside, gripping, teasing, claiming. Carl’s ass arched, pressed, seeking, craving the contact, the power, the surrender. Every inch was electric, every movement a declaration, every gasp a promise of what had been kept hidden for too long.

They continued like that, rolling, twisting, shadows and sweat and whispered names, until the heat of them began to burn, until the need was unbearable, and Carl felt himself tipping over, over the edge of sensation, of desire, of something older and darker than simple lust. Rick followed, shoving, thrusting, claiming, marking, the final shudder of release shaking them both as the room echoed with ragged breaths and low, guttural growls.

Carl collapsed against him, chest to chest, arms wrapped tight, body slick and trembling, the heat of their act lingering like a second skin. He felt Rick’s heartbeat under his ear, the rough inhale and exhale, the warmth of him pressing in, and he let himself sink into it, exhausted, consumed, alive.

Outside, the walkers moaned somewhere in the distance. Somewhere else, Alexandria slept behind walls that could not protect them from the hunger inside. But inside, on the bed, in the shadowed room, there was only heat and need and possession, a dark echo of survival turned into something raw, something dangerous, something that belonged entirely to them.

Carl closed his eyes, chest rising and falling, mind still humming with the electricity of Rick’s touch. Tomorrow, they would face Alexandria. Tomorrow, they would decide if the walls were strong enough, if the people inside were real enough. But tonight, there was only this—only each other, and the fire that burned between them, hotter than fear, sharper than death, and impossible to deny.

Chapter Text

Carl’s boots crunched against the gravel path as he followed Rick through Alexandria’s gates, his eyes scanning every shadow. The walls rose like silent sentinels, their pale stone a stark contrast to the endless decay of the road behind them. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope—maybe, just maybe, this place could be different. But the air was thick with unease, and he knew better than to let optimism cloud his senses.

Rick’s hand rested lightly on the small of his back, a protective presence that Carl felt more than saw. It was subtle, almost casual, but it grounded him, reminded him that no matter the walls, no matter the strangers, he wasn’t alone. The closeness had grown over the months—an unspoken bond forged through blood, fear, and exhaustion. And now, in the tight corridors of Alexandria, it felt sharper, more pressing.

The gatekeeper eyed them with suspicion, a stout man in his forties whose hand hovered near the hilt of his gun. “Name’s Aaron,” the man said, finally. “You’ve got clearance through me, but I need details. Who’s coming in, and why?”

Rick’s voice was steady, measured. “We’ve been on the road a long time. We’re clean, and we can pull our weight.”

Aaron’s eyes flicked to Carl, then back to Rick. There was a brief, tense pause that made Carl’s stomach tighten. He clenched his fists, trying not to show the residual fatigue, the edge of fear that had settled in his chest over months of walking, fighting, surviving.

“Follow me,” Aaron said finally, stepping aside. “We’ll get you checked in.”

The walk into Alexandria felt surreal. Bright sunlight spilled over well-kept lawns. Children played in the distance, laughing—a sound Carl hadn’t heard in months without it twisting his stomach. He kept his gaze low, noticing every cracked sidewalk, every shuttered window, every potential hiding place for walkers. He didn’t relax, didn’t dare. The city might be alive, but the dead could still be anywhere.

Rick walked just ahead of him, vigilant as ever. Carl could feel the tension radiating off his father, could see the way his shoulders tensed whenever someone moved too quickly near them. He wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he let his gaze roam, cataloging every detail: the neatly stacked firewood, the garden beds tilled with care, the faint hum of a water pump somewhere in the distance. Alexandria had order, structure—but order had its own dangers. Complacency, Carl thought, was deadly.

They reached a modest house near the center of the community. Aaron waved them inside. Rick’s eyes scanned the interior automatically: doors, windows, exits, anything that could be a threat. Carl’s own instincts mirrored his father’s; it was a bond that needed no words. He noticed a slight smudge on the floor by the entryway—dust disturbed recently, not quite cleaned. His pulse quickened. Walkers had likely brushed past here.

Inside, a woman approached, clipboard in hand. “I’m Deanna,” she said, her voice crisp, authoritative. “We’ve been expecting you. I need to know exactly who you are, where you’ve been, and how many you’ve lost along the way. Safety here depends on honesty.”

Rick answered calmly, detailing their journey, every close call, every walker they’d evaded, every companion they had lost. Carl noticed Deanna’s eyes shift toward him occasionally, as though she were searching for some unspoken truth he carried in his posture, in the subtle expressions Rick never missed. Carl kept his face neutral, but inside, adrenaline mixed with apprehension. Every gaze from a stranger felt like a potential threat—or worse, a judgment.

After what felt like hours, though it had barely been minutes, Deanna nodded. “We can provide food, water, shelter. But rules must be followed. Weapons stored, curfew observed. Any breach, and you’ll answer to the council.”

Rick nodded without hesitation. “Understood.”

Carl followed Rick down a hallway to a small, sparse room. The door clicked shut behind them. The contrast between the safety of the room and the ever-present threat outside made Carl’s chest tight. He moved to the window, peering out at the community, at the high walls that promised security yet reminded him of captivity.

Rick leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the street. Carl sensed the tension in him, the quiet readiness that was constant in his father. He felt a pull toward Rick, a need to be close, to feel that protective presence. He crossed the room, stopping just short of Rick. “Feels… strange,” he murmured. “Like we’re on display.”

Rick’s gaze softened but remained watchful. “It’s how people survive in places like this,” he said. “They watch each other. They judge each other. You have to keep your guard up. Always.”

Carl nodded. He leaned slightly into Rick’s side, enough to feel the warmth, the steady rhythm of him, without breaking the boundary of propriety. The closeness was a comfort, a tether to reality, a reminder of trust in a world where nothing else was predictable. Rick’s hand brushed his shoulder, fleeting but grounding.

Minutes passed in tense silence. Outside, Carl could hear faint laughter of children, the metallic clang of tools, voices speaking in hurried tones. Every sound was a reminder: life persisted, and death lingered nearby.

Aaron returned, this time accompanied by two Alexandrians armed with rifles. “Council wants a full briefing,” he said. “They’ll want to meet both of you.”

Rick nodded. “We’ll follow.”

Carl followed silently, eyes sharp. Each resident they passed scrutinized them, curiosity mixed with suspicion. He felt the weight of every glance, every whisper that seemed to trail them. He stayed close to Rick, matching his stride, his vigilance. There was an intensity in their bond that no Alexandrian could touch—an understanding born from fire and blood, from the road and the dead.

The council chamber was small but formal. A semi-circle of chairs, council members seated, eyes appraising, arms crossed. Carl’s stomach tightened again. He felt exposed, vulnerable under so many gazes. Rick’s presence beside him was a shield, and he leaned subtly into it, finding courage in the proximity.

Deanna stepped forward. “We want to know about your resources, your skills, your ability to integrate. And we want assurances that your presence will not compromise the community.”

Rick answered firmly, presenting their experiences, their capabilities, and their loyalty. Carl watched the council’s reactions carefully, noticing the subtle flickers of doubt, the narrowing of eyes, the silent calculation. The room was a gauntlet of judgment, each question a test, each pause a potential threat.

When the meeting ended, the council conferred quietly. Carl and Rick waited in tense silence, every creak of the building amplified in his ears. Finally, Deanna returned. “You may stay,” she said. “But under strict observation. Any misstep, and you’ll answer for it.”

Rick’s jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. Carl exhaled quietly, relief mingled with unease. They weren’t fully trusted—far from it. Alexandria was a city of walls, yes, but those walls could hide enemies as easily as they could hide protection.

Back in their room, Carl sank onto the cot, exhaustion weighing him down. Rick moved closer, settling into the chair beside him. Their shoulders brushed lightly, a quiet reassurance. Carl felt the closeness, the unspoken understanding. In this strange, ordered city, it was the only certainty he had.

Rick’s hand rested on the edge of the cot, near Carl’s. “Stay alert,” he murmured. “Even here, danger doesn’t go away. You know that.”

Carl nodded. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a long while, listening to the distant sounds of Alexandria—life carried on, but tension lingered, coiled and ready. Carl felt the weight of the walls pressing in, the unspoken rules of the community, and the ever-present knowledge that outside them, the dead waited.

But he also felt Rick beside him, steady, unwavering. It was enough, for now.

Every glance, every touch, every shared moment of quiet vigilance was a reminder: survival wasn’t just about fighting walkers or scavenging supplies. It was about trust, about bonds forged in fire, and about holding fast to those who mattered most.

Carl allowed himself a small, cautious hope. Alexandria might be a city of walls, but within them, he and Rick could carve out a space where they belonged. For now, that was enough.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint, ever-present groans of the dead. But inside, in the small room with the closed door and Rick at his side, Carl felt—briefly—alive.

Chapter Text

Carl watched Alexandria spread out before him, its clean streets and neat fences a jarring contrast to the road they’d just traveled. Everything here smelled… wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. Too easy. He shifted uneasily beside his father, Rick, whose presence was like a steady anchor amid the dissonance of this manufactured peace. Rick’s eyes scanned the streets, sharp and calculating, always searching for the unseen danger—the danger Carl knew would arrive if the complacency continued.

Walking past rows of pale houses, Carl noticed the Alexandrians staring at them. Some looked welcoming; most looked fragile, unprepared. He could feel it in his gut, the way they didn’t understand what it meant to survive. Even as Deanna, the leader, spoke with polite warmth, Carl sensed her indecision, her fear cloaked in civility. He caught Rick’s subtle flinch at a hesitant gesture or a careless glance, and it made something stir inside him—a mix of protectiveness, admiration, and a longing he could barely name.

Deanna had assigned Rick and Michonne constable duties, a show of trust. Carl could see the flicker of amusement and annoyance in his father’s eyes. He knew Rick wasn’t satisfied; this community needed more than a show of trust—they needed to learn how to live in the real world. Carl walked slightly behind Rick and Michonne, feeling the weight of his father’s presence as both shield and weapon. Every movement Rick made was deliberate, controlled, a predator evaluating the prey around him. Carl’s heart thudded. He wanted to step closer, to be part of that power, to feel the strength that radiated off Rick in waves he couldn’t ignore.

They integrated with the Alexandrians slowly. Carl could sense the tension building, subtle yet undeniable. The residents didn’t know how to fight, how to defend, how to survive. Every careless glance at a corner, every whisper of fear—they were weak. And Rick’s group, his family, moved through this illusion like storm clouds. Carol and Daryl whispered to Rick privately, and Carl strained to hear. The words “we will take over if the community fails” landed in his chest like fire, and he felt a swell of pride. His father. His protector. The man who survived everything. Carl’s pulse quickened; he wanted to be near him, to mirror his authority, to be part of that unstoppable force.

Gabriel’s warnings to Deanna hung in the air like smoke. “Rick’s group is dangerous.” Carl sneered inwardly at the thought. Dangerous? No. Alive. They were the ones who lived. He knew it in the pit of his stomach, felt it in every glance at Rick, in every shift of his father’s shoulders, in the quiet way Rick moved through Alexandria, commanding it without even trying. Carl longed to be closer, to lean into that dominance, to feel the raw intensity radiating from Rick’s body.

Carol approached Rick with grave certainty. Pete, the town’s surgeon, was abusing Jessie and Sam. Rick’s jaw tightened. Carl’s stomach fluttered. He knew, in that instant, that nothing—no law, no civility, no fake safety—would stop his father from acting. Rick’s need to protect, his hunger to control, his ability to decide who lived and who didn’t… Carl felt it all coursing through him. He imagined being near Rick as he handled it, close enough to feel the tension radiating from his father’s skin, the dangerous heat of his controlled rage.

Nicholas had falsely blamed Glenn for the deaths of Aiden and Noah, and Deanna had confiscated their firearms. Tensions escalated. Carl followed Rick as they walked through the streets, his pulse syncing with the unspoken rhythm of his father’s mind. He could see the storm brewing in Rick’s eyes, the promise of action barely restrained. Everything about Rick made Carl ache with longing, admiration, a desire to stand beside him and share in his fierce, unyielding dominance.

And then it happened.

Pete. In the middle of the street, sneering, thinking himself untouchable. Carl’s stomach dropped. Rick moved like a coiled predator, and in an instant, Pete was in a headlock, Rick’s arm crushing against his neck. Blood glistened on Rick’s face from a cut near his brow, and Carl’s pulse hit a frantic rhythm.

“Dad, get off!” Carl’s voice cracked, but it was more desperate than commanding. He wanted to leap forward, to be part of the power radiating from Rick, but he stayed frozen, watching, aching to support him in every way.

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Deanna’s voice shattered the tense air.

Rick’s grip didn’t falter. His words were low, lethal, a promise of uncompromising justice. “You touch them again, and I’ll kill you.”

“Damn it, Rick! I said stop!” Deanna’s plea bounced off the walls of Carl’s chest. But Carl only felt the heat of his father’s dominance, the absolute certainty in his tone. He understood every word, every threat, every calculated move. They were the ones who lived.

Rick pulled his gun from his hip, pointing it directly at Deanna and the Alexandrians. The air was thick, electric, charged with the unspoken truth Carl had been feeling since they arrived.

“Or what?” Rick panted, eyes wild and unyielding. “You gonna kick me out?”

“Put that gun down, Rick,” Deanna demanded.

Rick laughed, bitter and sharp. “You still don’t get it. None of you do! We know what needs to be done, and we do it. We’re the ones who live. You… you just sit and plan and hesitate. Your way of doing things is done. Things don’t get better because you want them to. Starting right now, we have to live in the real world. We have to control who lives here.”

Carl’s chest heaved, his heart hammering in rhythm with Rick’s words. Each syllable struck him like fire. They were the ones who lived. They had survived everything, and now they would survive here too. He imagined himself next to Rick, feeling the weight of his presence, the raw intensity of his authority. His longing twisted into something hotter, something sharp and undeniable, a deep ache to be part of this force.

“That’s never been more clear to me than it is right now,” Deanna said, voice trembling.

“Me? Me? You—” Rick laughed again, a dark, knowing sound. “You mean—your way is gonna destroy this place. It’s already gotten people killed. And I’m not gonna stand by and just let it happen. If you don’t fight, you die. I’m not gonna stand by—”

And then Michonne appeared, silent and precise, knocking Rick out before he could finish. Carl’s breath caught in his throat. His father crumpled to the ground, and for a moment, everything stopped. Carl’s longing twisted into desperate frustration. He wanted to pull Rick back up, to feel the heat of his father’s energy, to witness that unstoppable force again. But Michonne’s presence was undeniable, and Carl had to stand by, watching, his mind a storm of emotion.

Carl knelt beside Rick’s unconscious form, brushing a strand of sweat-matted hair from his father’s face. He felt the pulse of life still strong beneath the skin, felt the dangerous, feral energy waiting to erupt again. He whispered under his breath, a mantra for himself as much as for Rick: We are the ones who live. The words resonated in his chest, vibrating through his body, intertwining with the aching, dark fascination he felt for his father.

The Alexandrians stared, some in fear, some in confusion. Carl felt a surge of possessiveness—Rick was his, and he alone understood the fierce, consuming force that made him who he was. He imagined the streets outside Alexandria, the walkers they had faced, the blood and chaos, and he knew—knew with a certainty that burned—that Rick would rise, and they would survive. They were the ones who lived.

As Michonne guided Rick into a safer position, Carl lingered, his eyes tracing every line of his father’s body, memorizing the power, the tension, the raw, commanding force. He longed to be near him, to mirror his control, to feel that electricity in the quiet spaces between violence. His chest tightened as he imagined the next moment, the next confrontation, the next chance to be part of that unstoppable energy.

Carol and Daryl approached, whispering strategy, but Carl barely heard. His focus was on Rick—on the way his father moved even in stillness, the way the Alexandrians faltered before his presence. He wanted to be close enough to share in that power, to feel the dangerous, consuming intensity that made Rick more than a man—made him survival incarnate.

Hours passed, discussions of weapons, plans, the failed complacency of Alexandria, and every time Carl glanced at Rick, he felt the familiar ache, the longing, the pulse of admiration that had only grown stronger since the road. Rick would rise. He always did. And Carl would be there, watching, yearning, supporting, loyal beyond anything else.

By nightfall, Carl sat near Rick, waiting for him to stir. The Alexandrians had retreated to their houses, whispers of fear and confusion floating in the cool air. Carl’s hand brushed against the edge of Rick’s sleeve, a quiet gesture of connection, an affirmation of allegiance, of longing. They were the ones who lived. Always.

Carl’s mind replayed Rick’s words over and over: We are the ones who live. He clung to them like a lifeline, a promise. He would follow, protect, admire, and endure beside Rick, in every fight, every threat, every tense moment. The world outside Alexandria was dangerous, but he knew, in the marrow of his bones, that with Rick, he was alive. Truly alive.

As the first distant moans of walkers echoed from beyond the fences, Carl’s chest swelled. They would face it all. Together. They were the ones who lived.

Chapter Text

Carl’s heart pounded as he stumbled through the streets of Alexandria, the cool morning air carrying the coppery tang of blood. Everything was chaos. He kept close to the walls, eyes darting from doorway to doorway, following the trail of crimson. His father had always said that survival demanded attention, that even a single lapse could cost someone their life. But today, the line between survival and something darker—something Carl wasn’t supposed to feel—had blurred.

Rick’s absence weighed heavily on him. Carl had watched Michonne knock him out, had heard the forceful thud and then the shocked murmurs of the Alexandrians. Now, the city felt raw, tense, and uncertain. Carl’s pulse quickened as he saw Rick’s footprints in the dust, smeared with blood, moving toward the front gate that now hung open like a threat rather than a welcome. Carl tightened his grip on his own makeshift weapon—a rusted pipe—and followed, each step shaking with both fear and a strange, twisted anticipation.

He found Rick standing in the street, chest heaving, eyes sharp, scanning the houses. His father’s presence was overwhelming, magnetic, and Carl felt that familiar pull he had tried to deny for years. The raw authority in Rick’s posture, the dominance that demanded obedience and respect, made his stomach twist with a heat he couldn’t suppress. Rick’s eyes met his, and Carl felt a shiver run through him. There was no shame in this need, no question about loyalty; he would back his father, no matter what. He would live and die with him, because he understood what Rick meant when he had said, “We are the ones who live.”

“Dad…” Carl’s voice was rough, low, almost trembling. He stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

Rick’s jaw tightened, and a small, almost imperceptible nod confirmed he was alive, unharmed but raw from the knock. Rick’s hand brushed against Carl’s shoulder—brief, possessive—and Carl’s chest tightened with longing. He had always been aware of the tension between them, the dangerous energy that simmered beneath every touch, every glance. It was forbidden, intoxicating, and now, with Alexandria teetering on the edge of collapse, the intensity had only grown.

Rick leaned closer, his voice low, rasping. “Carl… I need you with me. I need you to understand… we are the ones who live. You’ve got to back me, son. Always. No matter what they say.”

Carl swallowed hard, heat flooding him. The words wrapped around him, consumed him. “I’m with you,” he breathed, stepping even closer. His eyes roamed over Rick’s face, noticing the fresh cuts and the blood smeared along the line of his jaw. He could see the strain, the exhaustion, but also the fire that never went out. “I’ve got you, Dad. Always.”

Rick’s gaze softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again as he pulled Carl into a quick, possessive kiss, brief but electrifying. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a demand, a command, a promise. Carl’s lips trembled as he met his father’s, responding instinctively, heat pooling low in his body, the world around them fading into a tense blur of blood and chaos. Rick broke the kiss, forehead resting against Carl’s, and whispered, “We’re doing what has to be done. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Carl whispered back, voice taut, full of conviction. “I understand.”

Rick’s hand lingered at the back of his neck, thumb brushing over the line of skin between his hairline and the collar. “Good,” he muttered, and then his eyes flicked toward the open gate. “We’ve got to move. Stay close. Eyes sharp.”

Carl followed as Rick advanced, each step measured, aware of the threat that lurked just beyond every yard. Carl felt the adrenaline pumping, a mix of fear and heat twisting inside him. He had always been drawn to danger with his father, had always felt a strange, unspoken bond in the moments of risk and survival. Now, with Alexandria unraveling around them, that bond had intensified, a simmering current that neither could deny.

They reached the meeting area just as the town forum began. Deanna’s voice cut through the tension, firm and controlled, though Carl could sense her anxiety beneath the surface. Michonne, Carol, Abraham, and Maggie spoke in Rick’s defense, their words calm but desperate, trying to hold the fragile thread of civility.

Carl’s eyes never left his father. Rick’s presence dominated the space, his aura magnetic and dangerous. Carl understood instinctively what his father meant when he said, we are the ones who live. It wasn’t just survival—it was control, dominance, assertion of power. It was life and death made real, tangible, and Carl wanted nothing more than to stand with him, to be part of it, to back him completely.

Then chaos erupted. An inebriated Pete appeared, wielding Michonne’s katana, anger flaring in his eyes as he lunged toward Rick. Carl’s breath caught in his throat. The moment was violent, raw, and full of adrenaline. Pete shoved Reg aside, slicing his throat accidentally, Abraham pinning Pete down afterward. Rick executed Pete on Deanna’s request, the act clean, decisive, and final.

Carl felt a surge of conflicting emotion—horror, awe, and an undeniable thrill. His father had acted, asserted control, and the world around them had reacted to his command. Carl’s pulse raced, both with fear and desire, and he found himself stepping closer to Rick once the confrontation was over.

Rick turned, eyes meeting Carl’s, reading the heat, the devotion, the unwavering support. “Carl…” he breathed, voice low, almost broken with intensity. He reached for Carl, pulling him close, kissing him again, this time longer, more demanding. Carl responded, his hands brushing against Rick’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of muscle and power. Every nerve in his body screamed, every instinct screaming obedience and hunger.

“We do what has to be done,” Rick murmured against his lips. “And you’re with me. You back me. You always have.”

“I always will,” Carl whispered, voice hoarse, tremulous. His hands traced the line of Rick’s shoulders, over the warm, solid plane of his chest, down to his hips, heat pooling low. He could feel the raw strength, the dominant power of his father, and it thrilled him, terrified him, made him ache in a way that was dangerous and forbidden.

Rick’s hands slid along Carl’s back, pulling him closer, pressing his body against his son’s with possessive force. “Good,” he breathed. “Because out here… it’s us. We live or we die. No one else. Just us. You understand?”

Carl nodded, heat burning through him, fingers curling into Rick’s shirt. “I understand, Dad. I’m with you. Always.”

Rick’s lips brushed Carl’s again, soft at first, then harder, claiming, demanding. The world could collapse around them, Alexandria could crumble—but in this moment, the heat, the dominance, the need was all-consuming. Carl’s body responded instinctively, openly, to his father’s control, to the magnetic power that Rick exuded. He was his, in every sense of the word, and he wanted it, craved it, couldn’t deny it.

The meeting continued around them, voices rising and falling, but Carl barely heard them. All that mattered was the man in front of him, the man who commanded life and death, who had kept him alive, who now demanded loyalty and heat in equal measure. Carl backed Rick, body and soul, feeling the thrill of allegiance and desire twist together, dangerous and perfect.

Rick pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against Carl’s, breathing hard, lips stained with blood from Pete’s attack, eyes fierce. “We are the ones who live,” he murmured, letting the words sink in, letting Carl feel the weight of them, the promise, the truth. “Never forget that.”

Carl nodded, body trembling, chest tight, heat pooling low. “I won’t. I never will. We live, Dad. We do.”

Rick’s hand lingered at the back of his neck, thumb brushing over Carl’s skin, possessive and tender at once. “Good. You understand everything, don’t you?”

“I do,” Carl whispered, swallowing hard, letting himself be consumed by the intensity, the hunger, the forbidden thrill of standing with his father, backing him completely, living the words, we are the ones who live.

The town meeting continued, and Alexandria teetered on the edge of chaos. But in the eye of the storm, in the quiet, charged moment, Carl and Rick found each other, heat and dominance and unwavering loyalty bound together, dangerous, perfect, and all-consuming.

Rick kissed him once more, soft at first, then harder, pressing against him, needing him to know, to feel, to back him no matter what came next. Carl responded with equal hunger, feeling every command, every possessive touch, every whispered word of power, and he backed his father fully, willingly, irrevocably.

They separated only slightly, foreheads still touching, breathing mingling, hearts racing in tandem. The world around them could burn, Alexandria could collapse—but Carl knew one immutable truth: he was with Rick, and together, they were the ones who lived.

Chapter Text

Carl’s hands were trembling, and the metallic taste of blood still lingered on his tongue from the chaos moments ago. He’d watched, unable to look away, as his father’s hands had acted decisively, brutally, and with the precision that always scared him a little. Pete was gone, and the echo of Rick’s judgment still reverberated through the street.

The Alexandrians stood frozen, mouths agape, unsure whether to step forward or run. Carl’s chest ached as he saw the fear, the uncertainty, and the fragile trust that hung in the air like a delicate thread. He wanted to reach out, to steady the trembling hands of the people around him, but instead, all he could do was cling to his father, who had turned slowly toward him, eyes dark, still raw from the confrontation.

Rick’s gaze found Carl, and in that look, Carl saw both the weight of leadership and the unspoken plea for understanding, for support, for connection. He swallowed, feeling heat rising beneath his skin at the intensity of it, and moved closer.

“Dad…” Carl whispered, his voice catching.

Rick’s hand brushed Carl’s cheek, rough and warm, and Carl shivered despite himself. “ I had to,” Rick murmured, voice low, trembling with a mixture of anger, exhaustion, and something else—something that made Carl’s heart hammer faster.

Carl nodded, stepping into the private space between them, shielded from the stunned eyes of Alexandria. His fingers brushed against Rick’s chest, feeling the rapid beat of his father’s pulse. The tension coiled tight between them, dangerous and intoxicating.

Rick’s lips were on Carl’s in a moment, soft yet demanding, testing, claiming. Carl didn’t pull back. He pressed against his father, feeling the heat and strength of him, and the world outside melted into static noise. Every command, every assertion of dominance, every protective instinct Rick had displayed in the street now became personal, focused entirely on Carl.

Carl’s hands moved over Rick’s shoulders, over his back, exploring the planes of muscle, the scars, the marks of survival. Rick groaned low, nipping gently at Carl’s jaw, and Carl felt a fire ignite deep within him, a mixture of fear, longing, and a forbidden desire that made him flush.

“Carl… stay close,” Rick murmured against his lips, voice rough, desperate. “I need… I need you with me.”

“I’m here,” Carl whispered back, pressing himself tighter against his father, letting the warmth and strength wash over him. “Always.”

The Alexandrians’ voices were distant, indistinct, their fear and confusion blending into a hum that neither of them registered.

Carl’s hands still shook as he reached for his father, gripping Rick’s forearm with a fierce need—not just for reassurance, but for the certainty that his father was still here, still alive, still in control. Around them, Alexandria was a blur of shocked faces and whispered questions, but Carl didn’t see them. He only saw the man who had carried him through so much, the man whose strength and fury had kept them alive, and now, whose vulnerability glimmered like a crack in stone.

“Dad…” Carl’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight he didn’t know he possessed. “It’s okay. You… you did what you had to.”

Rick’s hand slid to Carl’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to ground him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a mixture of adrenaline, exhaustion, and the lingering horror of what had just happened. “I… I needed you here,” Rick admitted, voice rough. “I needed you to see that… to know it had to be done.”

Carl nodded, stepping closer, letting his presence anchor Rick. He felt the tension radiating off his father—the kind of tension that had kept them alive for so long, the kind of tension that made the air between them almost electric. Every muscle, every breath, every heartbeat spoke of both danger and survival.

“Everyone’s looking at us,” Carl murmured, nodding toward the stunned Alexandrians, but he didn’t pull back. “They need to see you… they need to see we’re okay. That you’re okay.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes briefly, letting Carl’s words sink in. There was a moment of fragile stillness between them, the world paused for just a heartbeat. Carl pressed closer, offering what little strength he had, his eyes steady, his voice unwavering.

“I’ve got you,” Carl said. “I’ll always have you.”

Rick exhaled sharply, letting a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding melt slightly. “I know… you always do.”

For a long moment, they simply stood like that, surrounded by chaos, blood, and fear. The Alexandrians’ murmurs were distant, irrelevant. Carl’s gaze never left his father’s face, memorizing the lines, the shadows, the exhaustion, the strength. And Rick—so used to being the one to protect, to decide, to carry the weight of the world—felt, for just a fleeting moment, the burden lighten, carried by the unwavering loyalty in his son’s eyes.

“Lets go home dad.”

Carl’s heart hammered against his ribs as he watched his father step inside the house, still streaked with blood, the air around him thick with coppery scent. The violence of the moment—the murder, the rage, the power—clung to Rick like a second skin, and Carl felt it tug at something dark and feral inside him. Every inch of Rick seemed to command attention, to demand submission, yet Carl didn’t feel afraid. Not really. Not when he was here, alone with him, in the aftermath, feeling the heat and danger radiating off his father.

Rick’s eyes were dark, hungry, scanning Carl’s face as if searching for the same fire that flickered in his own chest. Carl’s pulse spiked when he saw the faint smirk tug at the corner of Rick’s mouth, a predator and a lover rolled into one. His hands were trembling, but not with fear—anticipation. Blood had already dripped onto Rick’s forearms, streaked across his shirt, and the sight of it made Carl’s blood run hot in ways that were both terrifying and electric.

Before Carl could think, Rick closed the distance, his hands rough and urgent on Carl’s shoulders. The heat of him, the residual grime and blood, pressed into Carl like a warning and a promise all at once. Carl inhaled sharply as Rick’s palms slid down his chest, over taut muscles, tracing lines that felt like ownership, like claiming, marking. Every touch burned. Every stroke of his hands made Carl ache.

Rick’s lips grazed Carl’s neck, and Carl’s head fell back, letting out a low groan that mingled with the scent of iron and sweat. The bite was teasing, demanding, and the mix of danger and lust had Carl’s senses screaming. His hands moved to Rick’s blood-slicked chest, dragging across the sticky, heated skin, tasting, feeling, needing more.

Rick’s growl against his ear made Carl shiver, trembling, his own body betraying him with every sharp intake of breath. He had never felt anything like this: the mixture of fear, power, and raw desire vibrating between them. He arched against Rick’s palm when it traced over the hard lines of his abdomen, and Rick responded with a forceful press of his hips, slick and urgent, as though he could burn the tension out of them both.

Carl’s mind spun, thoughts colliding—this was wrong, dangerous, forbidden—but the primal craving that surged through him was louder than any caution. Rick’s hands and lips claimed him in a rhythm that was violent, urgent, intimate, a language only they could speak, made more potent

Carl’s pulse raced as Rick’s hands roamed over him, the heat and stickiness of blood mingling with sweat on their skin, setting every nerve on fire. The air was heavy, coppery, tainted with death, yet that same scent made Carl ache in ways he hadn’t known he could. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath shaky, each exhale tinged with want.

Rick’s lips traced a rough line from Carl’s jaw down to his collarbone, teasing, biting, leaving a trail of stinging marks that throbbed deliciously. Carl’s fingers dug into Rick’s shoulders, feeling the residual blood under his nails, feeling the tension in every corded muscle, feeling the raw, dangerous power that radiated off him. He shivered, caught between fear and desire, and let out a sharp moan when Rick’s teeth grazed his skin.

“My sweet boy.” Rick murmured, his voice low, rough, heavy with command.

Carl’s throat went dry, but his body betrayed him, arching instinctively against Rick’s touch. His hands roamed over Rick’s chest, finding the warm, slicked skin, tracing the lines of his muscles, tasting the mix of sweat and blood that made him dizzy with want. Rick growled, leaning into him, pressing every heated inch against Carl’s body, asserting dominance with a hunger that was intoxicating.

The slick slide of skin against skin, the friction, the scent—it all drove Carl further into a frenzy. He could feel Rick’s hardness pressing against him, slick and urgent, and it made him moan, low and needy, trembling against the force of desire that surged between them. Each touch, each bite, each stroke was a claim, a warning, a promise, and Carl craved it.

Rick’s hands were everywhere—grabbing, guiding, claiming. Carl felt them slip lower, teasing over sensitive skin, and he gasped, caught in a haze of lust and fear. The danger of what had just happened—the murder, the blood on Rick, the lawless freedom of the moment—made every sensation sharper, every brush of skin against skin hotter.

“Look at me,” Rick growled, lifting Carl’s chin with a slick, blood-stained hand. His eyes were dark, hungry, feral.

Carl’s lips parted, his mind spinning, body trembling. “I… I want you,” he whispered, voice ragged, breath uneven. His confession was both surrender and provocation, and Rick’s lips curved in a satisfied smirk.

Without another word, Rick pressed him back against the wall, fingers tangling in his hair, forcing his head to tilt. The scrape of teeth along skin, the slick, heated press of body against body, the wetness and slickness of desire—they were intoxicating. Carl moaned into the moment, shivering under the intensity, lost in the collision of danger and pleasure.

Rick’s hands gripped, pulled, guided, slick with the remnants of blood, sweat, and desire. Every stroke was claiming, marking, asserting dominance, and Carl arched instinctively, moaning, trembling, caught between pain, pleasure, and the dark thrill of transgression.

“You feel that?” Rick growled, pressing harder, the slick friction making Carl’s head spin. “That’s just you knowing who you belong to.”

Carl gasped, every nerve on fire, lost in the overwhelming intensity. He could feel Rick’s heartbeat against his chest, wild and relentless, matching his own. The world had narrowed to the heat, the slickness, the hard, demanding body pressed against him, the growls, the moans, the scent of iron and sex mixing in the air until it was all he could breathe.

Rick shifted, sliding a hand lower, teasing over the slickness that had pooled there, and Carl cried out, shivering, trembling, lost in the dark, violent rhythm of desire that bound them. Every slick touch, every rough bite, every feral growl, fed a hunger that neither could deny.

“You’re mine,” Rick growled again, voice raw, urgent, dangerous. “And I’m not letting go.”

Carl arched, pressing fully into him, surrendering, melting into the storm of need, desire, and dominance. The blood, the danger, the violence—it only made it sharper, hotter, darker. He gasped, moaned, shivered, every nerve alive with the feral, possessive hunger that had taken over completely.

Every slick, heated, violent movement brought them closer, tighter, the intensity building like a storm that neither wanted to stop. Carl’s vision blurred, his mind empty except for the heat, the slickness, the raw, consuming fire of Rick’s body against his. The growls, the bites, the slick, pressing heat—it all merged into a single, all-consuming sensation.

Rick’s grip tightened, pulling him closer, every movement urgent, rough, claiming. Carl cried out, head thrown back, body trembling with pleasure, heat, and surrender. The slick, hot, feral rhythm of their bodies, the dark thrill of danger, the taste and scent of blood and sweat—it all collided in a storm of ecstasy that left Carl shaking, moaning, lost, fully surrendered.

Finally, with one last growl, one final, slick, pressing thrust, the storm broke, leaving them both gasping, trembling, slick and spent. Rick’s hands lingered, tracing over the slick, trembling body, lips brushing over sweat and blood, claiming, marking, grounding.

Carl sagged against him, chest heaving, mind spinning. The danger, the blood, the violence—it was still there, lingering, but so was the heat, the slick, urgent claim of Rick, the dark, feral intimacy they had shared. His pulse slowly steadied, but the memory of the slick, pressing intensity, the growls, the bites, the blood, would linger, raw and hot, like fire under skin.

Chapter Text

Day One

It had been three days since Pete.

Three days since Rick pulled the trigger in front of everyone, blood spraying across the grass, leaving silence in its wake. The settlement hadn’t recovered. People whispered in doorways, heads turned when Rick passed. Deanna avoided looking at him directly, though she hadn’t spoken against him either.

Carl felt all of it pressing in, but none of it mattered as much as his dad. Rick hadn’t been the same since that night. His movements were slower, his eyes sharper. He scanned the edges of Alexandria like the walls themselves couldn’t be trusted. He barely ate. He slept only in short bursts, snapping awake with his jaw clenched, fists gripping at nothing.

Carl had tried to distract him—talk about patrol schedules, about Judith, about anything other than the way Pete’s blood had stained his shirt. But Rick was locked inside himself. Carl could feel it.

That morning, Alexandria looked deceptively calm. The air was warm, cicadas buzzing. Kids kicked a ball near the garden, laughter too thin, too forced. Carol was handing out food rations with that tight smile she wore now. Everyone was moving, pretending normal had come back.

Carl walked beside his dad, the two of them heading toward the wall. Rick’s hand twitched near the grip of his gun even here, inside the gates. Carl glanced at him, watching the subtle strain in his jaw, the way his shoulders never dropped from tension.

“You don’t have to keep your hand there all the time,” Carl said quietly.

Rick’s head turned just slightly. “You never know when you’ll need it.” His voice was calm, but the calm of a blade pressed flat, waiting to cut.

Carl didn’t argue. He’d learned not to. Instead, he reached up and brushed his sleeve against his dad’s arm, a light touch, grounding. Rick didn’t move away.

At the wall, Tobin was working with a couple of others, patching a section that had splintered from the last storm. He gave Rick a quick nod, then dropped his eyes, pretending to focus on hammering. Rick didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes swept the tree line beyond the wall, narrowed, unblinking.

Carl followed his gaze. Nothing stirred but branches. Still, a chill crept up his spine. Three days since Pete, and the world still felt wrong.

They stayed like that for a long while, just watching. The sounds of Alexandria behind them—the scrape of hammer on wood, children’s voices, the clang of metal—faded. Carl felt the edge of his nerves sharpen.

When Rick finally spoke, his voice was low, almost to himself. “They’re watching.”

Carl frowned. “Who?”

Rick didn’t answer. He just lifted his chin toward the treeline, lips pressed thin. Carl’s stomach tightened. He didn’t see anything, but the conviction in his father’s tone was enough.

Later, when they walked the streets again, Carl noticed how conversations stopped when Rick passed. Jessie stood with Ron near the garden; she glanced their way, eyes flicking to Carl before dropping to the dirt. Ron looked away altogether.

Carl felt heat rise in his chest, not shame exactly, but something close. He wanted to grab his dad’s arm, to pull him back inside where the stares couldn’t touch him. Instead, he kept pace beside Rick, jaw set, letting everyone see that he wasn’t leaving his father’s side.

That night, after Judith was put down in her crib and the house had quieted, Rick sat at the table, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The lamp threw shadows across his face, deepening the hollows under his eyes.

Carl leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. He knew that look. His dad was replaying it all—Pete’s face, the gun, the silence after.

“You did what you had to do,” Carl said. The words felt heavy, but true.

Rick’s eyes lifted, meeting his. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

Carl crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. For a moment, neither spoke. The air smelled faintly of soap from the wash basin, of Judith’s baby powder, of iron that Carl swore still lingered no matter how many times his dad scrubbed his hands.

“You always told me to see things for what they are,” Carl said. “Pete wasn’t gonna stop. Not unless someone stopped him.”

Rick’s lips pressed together, like he wanted to agree but couldn’t. His hand flexed against his thigh, restless.

Carl reached out, placed his own hand lightly over it. He didn’t think, just acted. And Rick let it stay there.

They sat like that, father and son, two survivors in a world that kept shifting under their feet. Outside, the cicadas buzzed louder, and somewhere in the distance a walker groaned against the dark.

Carl didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but he knew this: whatever was coming, they’d face it together.

And though he couldn’t name the feeling tight in his chest, he knew it wasn’t just fear.

Day Two

The next morning, Alexandria woke quiet. Too quiet.

Carl noticed it as soon as he stepped outside. No hammering on the walls, no chatter near the garden. The usual sounds of people forcing normalcy into the day had thinned, leaving behind a hush that sat heavy in the air.

Rick was already up, standing near the porch steps with his revolver resting at his hip. His eyes swept the street, jaw tight. He looked like a man expecting something bad to happen at any second.

“Come with me,” he said without turning his head.

Carl grabbed his hat, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and fell into step beside him. They didn’t need words between them; the rhythm of their steps carried its own meaning.

They left the safety of the houses, cutting across to the outer wall. A small patrol had gathered there, faces pale, voices low. When they spotted Rick, the cluster broke apart, making room.

“Out there,” one of the men said—Nicholas, Carl realized, his hand twitching nervously at his side. He pointed past the gate, toward the treeline.

Rick didn’t wait for details. He nodded at Carl and together they slipped through the gate, rifles ready. The woods pressed close around them, leaves whispering, birds silent.

Carl smelled it before he saw it. The sharp, coppery stench of decay mixed with something fouler, deliberate. His stomach tightened.

The walker was slumped against the base of a tree twenty yards out. Or what was left of it. Limbs had been hacked off and rearranged, the torso split open and pulled wide like some grotesque display. The head lolled sideways, jaw torn nearly off.

Carl froze, bile rising in his throat. He’d seen plenty of walkers. He’d put plenty down. But this was different. This wasn’t survival—it was a message.

Rick crouched low, scanning every angle. His face stayed hard, but Carl saw the flicker in his eyes. Not surprise—recognition.

“Dad…” Carl’s voice came out tight. “Who would do this?”

Rick didn’t answer at first. He studied the ground, the gashes on the tree bark, the way the corpse had been arranged. Then he pointed.

Carved into the trunk above the walker was a crude symbol: two jagged lines forming the shape of a W. The grooves were deep, fresh.

Carl’s breath hitched. He stepped closer, boots crunching on leaves, staring at the mark. It wasn’t random. Someone had taken their time.

“They wanted us to see it,” Rick said finally. His voice was low, grim.

Carl swallowed hard. “Why leave it here? This close?”

“Because they’re testing us.” Rick stood, rifle ready. His shoulders were taut, eyes scanning the trees. “Seeing if we’ll notice. Seeing how we’ll react.”

Carl shifted his grip on his rifle, adrenaline running hot in his veins. The woods felt wrong—like eyes pressed against his back, unseen. Every snapped twig, every brush of wind through branches made his skin crawl.

“Should we take it back?” Carl asked.

Rick shook his head. “No. Leave it. Let the others see exactly what we’re dealing with.”

They didn’t speak on the walk back. Both of them kept scanning the treeline, waiting for movement that never came.

When they re-entered the gates, the crowd that had gathered near the wall tensed. Carl could feel their fear like static in the air. Rick didn’t say anything, just nodded toward the trees.

Nicholas and the others followed their gaze and paled at the sight. The mutilated walker stood out even at a distance, grotesque and undeniable.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” someone muttered.

Rick’s voice cut through the murmurs. “It means someone out there’s watching us. And they’re not walkers. They’re people.”

The words dropped like stones.

Deanna appeared a moment later, Reg at her side. Her eyes swept the treeline, then fixed on Rick. “You’re certain?”

Rick gestured toward the mark carved into the tree. “That’s not chance. Someone did this. On purpose.”

The council members exchanged looks, but Carl caught the hesitation—the desperate urge to explain it away. To cling to safety.

Rick didn’t let them. “We can’t ignore it,” he said firmly. “This isn’t just some sick game. They’re sending a message. We need more patrols on the wall, and nobody goes out alone.”

Carl felt every eye flick toward him then, as if they’d forgotten he was standing there beside his father. But he didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on his rifle tight, chin up. If they thought he was too young, let them. He knew better.

That night, Carl couldn’t sleep. The image of the walker lingered behind his eyelids, the split torso, the W carved deep into bark. He lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sound of his dad pacing downstairs.

Finally, Carl got up and padded down the hall. Rick was in the living room, gun laid across his lap, head bowed. He looked up when Carl entered, eyes dark with sleeplessness.

Carl sat beside him without a word. For a long moment they just listened to the night sounds—the creak of wood, the distant groan of a stray walker beyond the walls.

“They’re close,” Rick said at last.

Carl nodded. “I felt it.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. He didn’t argue, didn’t tell him he was imagining it. That acknowledgment—silent, heavy—meant more than anything.

Carl rested his hand briefly against Rick’s arm, grounding. They didn’t speak again, but they didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was watchful. Ready.

And somewhere beyond those walls, Carl knew, the ones who had left their message were watching too.

Day Three

Carl woke before dawn to the sound of his father moving downstairs. He lay still for a moment, staring at the dim ceiling, listening to the familiar cadence of boots on the wooden floor. Rick hadn’t slept more than a couple hours, not since Pete.

Carl swung his legs over the side of the bed, slid his hat on, and joined him. Rick was at the door, revolver holstered, jaw set like stone. He gave Carl a once-over but didn’t tell him to go back upstairs. He just nodded, and together they stepped into the cool morning air.

The sky was pale gray, the kind that came just before the sun crept up. Mist hung low over Alexandria, and the world felt muffled, like it was holding its breath.

They walked the wall in silence. Carl’s boots scraped against gravel; Rick’s eyes swept every tree, every shifting shadow.

Near the western gate, something caught Carl’s attention. A smear of dark color on the outer fence. He slowed, squinting through the mist.

“Dad,” he said quietly.

Rick followed his gaze. They both approached. The wood slats were streaked with red. Not blood exactly—at least, not fresh. It was dried, thick, painted across in crude strokes. A large, jagged W sprawled across the boards, dripping down toward the dirt.

Carl’s stomach knotted. The sight of it felt worse than the mutilated walker from the day before. This was closer. Personal.

Rick crouched, brushing his fingers near the mark without touching. “They came right up to the wall.” His voice was quiet, heavy.

Carl’s pulse thudded in his ears. “While people were sleeping.”

Rick stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “They wanted us to know.”

By the time the sun burned through the mist, the whole settlement had heard about the symbol. People gathered in tense clusters, whispering. Deanna’s face was pale when she stood at the gate and saw it for herself.

“We should cover it,” Reg said, his voice shaking. “Don’t let people see.”

“No,” Rick snapped. “They need to see it. Hiding it doesn’t make it go away.”

Carl stood a step behind his father, watching the way the Alexandrians reacted. Some averted their eyes, some stared too long. Fear had a scent—it thickened the air, pressed in close.

By mid-afternoon, Rick and Carl were outside the wall again, pushing into the woods. The council hadn’t wanted them to, but Rick hadn’t asked for permission. Carl followed close, rifle steady, every sense straining.

The forest was quiet, unnaturally so. No bird calls, no insect buzz. Just the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional groan of distant walkers.

Then Carl saw the first one.

A walker strung up between two trees, arms stretched wide, torso split open like meat on a hook. Its eyes rolled toward them, jaws snapping weakly, but its body was secured so tight it couldn’t move. A W had been carved into its forehead, blood dried in jagged grooves.

Carl swallowed bile, forcing his eyes to stay steady. He felt Rick’s hand hover near his shoulder—not touching, but close.

“Another message,” Carl muttered.

Rick’s jaw flexed. “More than that. It’s a warning.”

They pressed on, and soon they found another. And another. By the time they looped back toward Alexandria, they’d counted six mutilated walkers, each displayed differently—hung, pinned, dismembered—but each marked with the same carved W.

Carl’s chest was tight, his throat dry. The Wolves weren’t just nearby. They were circling, tightening a noose.

When they returned, Carl could see the change in the settlement. The air buzzed with nervous energy. People moved quicker, eyes darting. Children were pulled inside, voices hushed.

Rick called a meeting near the center of town. Carl stood off to the side, watching as the adults gathered.

“These people aren’t walkers,” Rick said, voice carrying, hard. “They’re organized. They’re close. And they want us scared.”

“They’ve succeeded,” someone muttered bitterly.

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Fear keeps you alive. But don’t let it stop you. Let it remind you to be ready.”

Carl felt a swell in his chest at the words. This was the side of his father that others didn’t always understand—the side that saw danger for what it was, that refused to pretend safety existed behind thin walls.

But even as Rick spoke, Carl noticed how pale Deanna looked, how some of the Alexandrians avoided his gaze. They weren’t ready. Not like Carl and his dad were.

That night, Carl sat on the porch steps, rifle across his lap. The air was warm, heavy, the sky streaked with stars. He could hear faint murmurs inside—Judith fussing, his dad moving through the rooms.

But out here, every creak of wood, every shift of leaves beyond the wall made Carl’s body tense. He pictured the walkers they’d found, grotesque displays lit by slanting daylight. He pictured the W on the fence, painted while Alexandria slept.

Somewhere out there, the Wolves were watching. Planning.

Carl’s hand tightened on his rifle. He wasn’t sure when the attack would come. But he knew one thing—when it did, he and his dad would be ready.

Chapter Text

Carl woke to the smell of smoke. It was faint, thin, curling in through the cracked window, but it was enough to pull him from sleep. He sat up, blanket tangled around his legs, and listened. Nothing—just the distant groan of a walker somewhere beyond the walls.

But the smoke lingered in his nose, stubborn, like it had a purpose.

He swung his legs over the bed and grabbed his rifle, hat already on his head. He didn’t bother waking his father; Rick was up anyway. Carl padded down the stairs, finding Rick in the doorway, surveying the morning with grim eyes.

“You smell that?” Carl asked.

Rick nodded. “They’re close. Smoke’s a message.” His voice was low, measured. “See if you can spot the source.”

Carl didn’t hesitate. He moved toward the perimeter, boots quiet on the gravel. The settlement was stirring slowly. People peeked out from doorways, exchanged whispers. The fear was thick, but it was tempered with determination. The Alexandrians weren’t fighters like Carl and Rick, but they weren’t cowards either. Not all of them.

By the western wall, Carl spotted it: a small plume of black smoke rising from the tree line, twisting upward like a dark finger pointing at Alexandria. His stomach tightened. The Wolves were announcing themselves.

Rick joined him silently, eyes sharp. “Good. They want us to look. They want us on edge.”

Carl nodded, though his fingers tightened on the rifle. The first signs had been frightening enough—the W on the fence, the mutilated walkers—but this was different. This was active. Personal. Direct.

They moved along the wall, scanning. There was no one in sight. The forest beyond was still, too still. Even the walkers seemed quieter than usual, their groans distant, almost subdued. It was as if the world was holding its breath.

By midday, the council had convened. Carl followed at a distance, leaning against a wall, keeping his rifle within easy reach. Deanna spoke first, her voice steady but tinged with tension.

“We can’t just wait for them,” she said. “We have to be proactive. We need patrols, more defenses.”

Rick stepped forward, voice low and steady. “We need to understand what we’re dealing with first. Panic doesn’t help anyone.”

Carl watched the Alexandrians argue, watched the fear ripple across their faces. Some were ready to bolt, to barricade themselves behind the walls and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. But Carl and Rick weren’t like that. They couldn’t pretend.

After the meeting, Rick pulled Carl aside. “You and I are going to check the outer perimeter. See if we can spot anything new. Keep an eye out for traps, walkers… anything.”

Carl nodded. He felt a thrill of tension, a sense of purpose. The morning had been eerie, but the prospect of tracking the Wolves, even in small ways, gave him a focus that quieted the fear gnawing at his chest.

The first half of the walk was quiet. Trees swayed gently, leaves rustling. Carl scanned constantly, rifle raised, eyes narrowing at every shadow. Nothing yet.

Then they found it.

A walker pinned to a tree with stakes through its arms and legs. Its head had been partially removed, eyes replaced with crude carvings spelling W-A-R. Its jaw hung open, the tongue torn and slashed. The smell hit Carl immediately: decay mixed with iron, sweat, and smoke.

Rick crouched beside it, fingers tracing the carvings without touching. “They want us to see this,” he said, voice grim. “They want us to feel it.”

Carl swallowed, stomach churning, but he forced his gaze to stay on the walker. This wasn’t just cruelty—it was a message. A promise.

They pressed deeper into the woods, checking the perimeter, finding more signs: trees with bark carved into jagged W’s, torn cloth hung as warnings, small fires snuffed out but still smoldering. Each discovery made Carl’s heart pound, each display tightening the knot of tension in his chest.

By evening, the smoke grew heavier. Someone had set a partial fire near the northern wall—small, controlled, but enough to send a clear signal. Rick and Carl approached cautiously. The smell of burning wood mixed with something fouler: blood, rot, the unmistakable tang of death.

“Trail,” Rick said, nodding toward the trees. “They want us to follow it.”

Carl hesitated. The forest beyond was darkening, shadows stretching long in the dying light. But he followed anyway, boots crunching on the leaf-strewn ground. He could feel Rick close behind, silent, every muscle coiled, every sense alert.

The trail led them to a small clearing, where the remnants of a walker had been burned, its body twisted, head partially melted from fire. Around it were marks in the dirt, footprints. Not all human—some prints were larger, wider, clawed in shape. Wolves, Carl realized, his stomach tightening. Not just a gang. Something more feral.

Rick’s eyes scanned the clearing, sharp, calculating. “They’re testing us. Seeing how far we’ll go.”

Carl nodded, rifle at the ready. He imagined the Wolves watching from the tree line, waiting for a mistake, a sign of weakness. He shivered despite the warm evening air.

They returned to the wall as night fell, the settlement quiet but tense. Rick briefed Deanna and the council in hushed tones. Carl lingered near the edges, scanning the treeline even as they discussed defense plans, barricades, and patrols.

Later, when the Alexandrians had gone inside, Carl stayed outside, sitting on the wall with his rifle across his knees. The firelight from the settlement flickered across the darkness. Somewhere out there, the Wolves were moving. He could feel it, like a predator’s heartbeat in the soil.

Carl thought of the walkers they’d seen, the carvings, the smoke. They weren’t just threatening Alexandria—they were playing a game, drawing them out, teaching them fear. But Carl also knew they weren’t helpless. Not if he and Rick were ready. Not if they stayed sharp.

Hours passed. The forest was quiet, but Carl didn’t relax. Every crack of a branch, every whisper of wind through the leaves made him tense, ready. He watched the darkness, imagined the Wolves watching him back, waiting for him to slip.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought of Pete. The blood, the chaos, the way death had already walked so close to them. The Wolves would not be the same. Alexandria would not be the same.

But Carl’s hands gripped the rifle tighter. He was ready.

Rick, somewhere behind him, was ready too.

Chapter Text

Carl woke to screaming.

It tore through the dawn like a blade, sharp and sudden. His eyes snapped open. His heart thudded in his chest. He scrambled out of bed, grabbing his rifle, and bolted toward the noise.

The settlement was alive with panic. People were running, doors slamming, children crying. Carl’s stomach dropped as he saw smoke rising from the northern wall—thicker this time, black and suffocating. The Wolves had struck again.

Rick was already outside, moving quickly, shouting orders. “Barricade the gates! Get everyone inside!” His voice carried authority and calm at the same time, but Carl could feel the tension radiating off him.

Carl raced toward the wall. In the distance, he saw them. Wolves—figures moving fast and low, striking with precision. They weren’t mindless. They were organized, ruthless. One of them carried a flaming torch and was hurling it toward the outer fences. Carl’s stomach clenched.

He raised his rifle and fired. One of the Wolves dropped, collapsing into the dirt with a low growl. The others scattered, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.

Carl ran to Rick. “We can’t hold them off like this! They’re—”

Rick cut him off with a look. “We’re not trying to hold them off. We’re drawing them out. Lure them where we want.”

Carl blinked, confusion and fear fighting for dominance in his chest. Rick’s mind always worked two steps ahead, but this… this felt dangerous, reckless even.

They moved along the wall, scanning the forest. Smoke curled upward, black and threatening, and Carl could see small fires burning near the edge of the woods. The Wolves were sending a message: chaos was coming, and Alexandria was their target.

“Carl,” Rick said, his voice low but sharp. “Stay sharp. Watch everything. Don’t let your attention slip for a second.”

Carl nodded, tightening his grip on the rifle. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the thrill of danger mixing with the fear gnawing at his stomach.

The first clear engagement came as they were checking the perimeter near the eastern wall. Carl spotted movement—shadows darting between the trees, closer than before. He raised his rifle, took careful aim, and fired.

One dropped. Another lunged toward him, claws extended, screaming. Carl fired again, hitting it in the chest. It fell, but the sound of its cry echoed in the forest, unsettling and raw.

Rick was beside him, silent, deadly, taking down the remaining attackers with precision. Carl felt a surge of admiration and terror. His father was unstoppable, but they were outnumbered, and Carl knew it. The Wolves were relentless.

By midday, the settlement had recovered enough to regroup. The fires were mostly contained, and casualties were minimal, but the psychological toll was heavy. The Alexandrians were shaken, their nerves frayed. Carl could see the fear in their eyes, the way they clutched their children, the way they whispered behind closed doors.

Carl didn’t have time for fear. Not yet. He and Rick were patrolling again, moving along the outer wall. The Wolves had left clear signs of their presence—symbols carved into trees, crude messages scrawled in dirt, and more dead walkers pinned with stakes. Each one a warning, a challenge.

Carl couldn’t stop staring at them. The twisted bodies, the carvings, the smell of rot and fire—it was like the Wolves were taunting him, daring him to respond.

“We’ll be ready,” Rick said, breaking Carl from his thoughts. “We’ll make them pay for every move they make.”

Carl nodded. He wanted to believe it. He needed to. The stakes were higher than ever, and the Wolves were proving they weren’t afraid to push boundaries.

As night fell, Carl sat atop the wall, scanning the forest. The smoke had faded, but the tension remained. Every rustle, every snap of a branch made his muscles tense. He imagined the Wolves moving through the darkness, plotting their next strike, watching him just as he watched them.

Hours passed. Carl didn’t relax. He couldn’t. The forest beyond the walls felt alive with threat, and he knew the calm was only temporary. The Wolves would be back. They always came back.

When they did, Carl and Rick would be ready.

Chapter Text

The night air was sticky, heavy, and alive with unease. Carl hadn’t moved from his post by the window. Rick still sat beside him, both of them silent, watching shadows crawl along the walls. The quiet stretched thin until every creak of the house felt like a warning.

Then it happened.

A scream tore through the dark, sharp and sudden.

Carl was on his feet instantly, rifle in hand. Rick was already moving, his hand slapping Carl’s shoulder—a silent order to stay close. They burst out into the street, boots pounding against the dirt.

More shouts followed. Gunfire cracked once, then twice, near the southern wall. Carl’s pulse hammered as they sprinted toward the sound.

At the gate, Michonne was already there, katana gleaming in the firelight. She didn’t look surprised, only furious, blade dripping dark. At her feet lay a body—not a walker. A man, chest cleaved open, a crudely carved W still visible on his forehead.

“They’re inside,” Michonne said, voice low, sharp.

As if to confirm it, another shout rang out from deeper within Alexandria, followed by the crash of splintering wood.

Rick’s voice cut through the chaos. “Carl—on me.” He turned to Michonne. “We push them back to the gate. Don’t let them spread.”

Michonne gave a tight nod, eyes already scanning the dark.

They moved fast. Carl stuck close to Rick, rifle steady, trying to control the tremor in his hands. Shadows flickered between houses, quick shapes darting in and out. Then a man burst from an alley, machete raised.

Carl fired before he could think. The shot cracked loud, and the man crumpled, weapon clattering against the dirt. His body twitched once, then stilled. Carl’s breath hitched, but his hands didn’t lower.

Rick’s glance was quick, sharp, approving. “Good.”

More figures spilled into the street. Carol appeared from the opposite corner, pistol barking sharp, each shot clean and efficient. “Three by the storage shed!” she shouted.

Rick waved Carl forward, and they sprinted. Carl’s legs burned, lungs straining, but adrenaline carried him. They reached the shed just as two Wolves smashed through the doors, dragging out crates of food. One swung an axe. Rick’s revolver dropped him instantly. The other lunged at Carl.

Carl barely had time to react, but he thrust the rifle up, slamming the stock into the man’s face. Bone cracked, blood sprayed. The Wolf fell back, and Carl pulled the trigger, ending it. His chest heaved, the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

Michonne and Carol cleared the rest, blades and bullets slicing the night. For a moment, the street fell quiet again, save for the ragged breathing of the living.

Then Glenn’s voice rang out from near the church. “They’re splitting us up! More at the east wall!”

Carl’s gut twisted. The Wolves weren’t here to take Alexandria in one clean strike. They were testing—probing every side, forcing defenders to scatter.

Rick seemed to realize the same. His voice was iron as he called out, “Stay tight! Don’t chase. We hold the center.”

But the Wolves didn’t let up.

Another crash—glass shattering near Deanna’s house. Carl and Rick ran, Michonne at their side. Inside, chaos: Spencer had tackled one intruder while another slashed wildly with a knife. Blood streaked the walls. Rick grabbed the man by the hair, slammed his head into the doorframe until he went limp. Spencer pushed the other off, panting hard.

“We can’t hold if they keep slipping through,” Spencer gasped.

“We don’t scatter,” Rick snapped. His voice cut through, unyielding. “We push them back. Together.”

Outside, torches flared—bright, jagged flames along the inside of the wall. Wolves were lighting fires, trying to sow panic.

Sasha appeared with her rifle, calm, steady even in the chaos. She dropped two men before they made it past the flames. Maggie dragged another back by the collar, knife pressed to his throat. “They’re rabid,” she hissed. “Don’t even fight like people.”

Carl saw it too. Their eyes were wild, their movements jerky, unpredictable. They didn’t shout or call out strategies—they howled. One woman ran at Michonne barehanded, teeth bared like an animal. Michonne cut her down with a single swing, jaw clenched.

The battle blurred. Firelight, shouts, the sickening thud of steel against bone. Carl fired until his shoulder ached, until smoke stung his eyes. Each shot was a blur, but each one dropped another figure lunging out of the dark.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

The Wolves pulled back. No retreat in formation, no shouted order—just a sudden absence, as if they’d melted into the trees. The only sound left was the crackle of dying flames and the groans of the wounded.

Carl lowered his rifle slowly, chest heaving. He scanned the street—bodies littered the dirt, some Alexandrians wounded but alive, others still on their feet. Carol moved between them, checking pulses with quick efficiency. Glenn crouched by Maggie, pressing cloth to a cut on her arm.

Rick stood in the center of it all, revolver loose at his side, eyes fixed on the treeline. His chest rose and fell, each breath deliberate, controlled, but Carl could see the storm behind his eyes.

Michonne moved to his side, blade dripping. “They weren’t trying to take this place tonight,” she said.

Rick nodded once, jaw tight. “No. They wanted to see what we’d do.”

Carl followed his gaze. Near the wall, nailed into the wood with a hunting knife, was a piece of torn cloth. He moved closer, stomach knotting as he saw the smear of red across it, forming a crude, messy W.

A message. Not finished. Just beginning.

“They’ll be back,” Carl said quietly.

Rick’s hand settled briefly on his shoulder, steady, grounding even through the tension. “Yeah,” he said. His voice was low, grim. “And next time, we finish it.”

Carl didn’t answer. He just gripped his rifle tighter, eyes fixed on the symbol burned into the wood. The Wolves hadn’t broken them tonight. But the promise was there, carved into the walls themselves.

This was only the start.

Chapter Text

The sun rose pale and weak over Alexandria, casting a thin, gray light across streets still blackened by small fires. The morning smelled of smoke, blood, and charred wood. Carl walked through the settlement, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning every fence post, every wall, every shadow.

It had been one night, a single brutal attack, but it felt like a week. The Wolves had come and gone, leaving the settlement shaken and bleeding. Their presence lingered like a foul haze. Every step Carl took pressed against that tension, tightened the coil in his chest that refused to unwind.

He passed near the gate where the torn cloth with the bloody W had been nailed. A crowd had gathered, whispering in low tones. Carl could hear the fear in their voices, the uncertainty that crept like a sickness into their movements. Children clung to their mothers. Men and women shifted uneasily, glancing toward the treeline. The Wolves hadn’t broken through completely, but they’d left scars, reminders that death could slip in at any moment.

Rick was at the center of it, directing the repairs, checking the barricades, and moving among the Alexandrians with a calm authority that grounded them. Carl fell in step beside him, trying to match the steady rhythm of his father’s movements, though inside, his pulse still throbbed in response to the memory of last night’s chaos.

“They hit hard,” Carl said, voice low. “Too hard to ignore.”

Rick didn’t look at him, only nodded. “They’re testing us. They’ll be back, and they’ll be smarter, faster. We’ve got to be ready.”

Carl followed his gaze to the northern wall, where Carol and Sasha were coordinating patrols. Carol moved with quiet efficiency, checking the gates and overseeing reinforcements. Sasha crouched behind a makeshift barricade, rifle ready, eyes flicking to the treeline in practiced vigilance. Both women radiated a cold, controlled energy that Carl envied and feared in equal measure.

Near the center of the street, Glenn and Maggie worked to clean up debris. Boards splintered and scorched by the Wolves’ fires were stacked into piles, ready to be burned or repurposed. Glenn’s hands were shaking slightly, a residual tremor from the night’s fight, but his movements were precise. Maggie barked directions, her voice steady, controlled, commanding the young volunteers to focus on tasks that felt mundane but were life-saving.

Carl walked past them and spotted Michonne moving toward the gate, katana resting lightly against her shoulder. Her eyes were fixed on the treeline, expression unreadable. Carl had learned to recognize that look—alert, patient, dangerous, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

“They’re out there,” Carl said, lowering his voice.

“I know,” Michonne replied without looking at him. “And they’ll be back.”

Carl’s stomach tightened. The Wolves hadn’t just come to kill—they’d come to send a message. Their attacks were methodical, cruel, and terrifying. Each strike seemed designed not just to inflict damage, but to instill fear, to test their defenses, to see exactly how Alexandria responded.

Rick joined them, placing a hand briefly on Michonne’s shoulder. “We need patrols doubled tonight,” he said, voice firm. “We can’t give them another opening. Keep everyone on edge. Watch the walls. Watch the trees.”

Carl nodded, understanding the unspoken warning. The Wolves weren’t ordinary attackers. They didn’t fight like normal raiders, didn’t retreat in panic, and they left deliberate signs of their presence. The mutilated walkers, the W markings, the dead left on display—they were playing a game, and Alexandria was their board.

As the day wore on, Carl helped reinforce the weaker points of the walls, checking each section carefully. His fingers brushed over jagged wood and freshly hammered nails. Every sound in the distance—twigs snapping, leaves rustling—made him tense. Every shadow among the trees seemed alive, waiting.

By mid-afternoon, the Alexandrians had started to settle into a tense routine. Volunteers cleared rubble, repaired fences, and carried water to those too shaken to move on their own. Carl watched as Rick moved among them, offering guidance and reassurance. Even in the face of fear, Rick’s presence inspired a strange kind of calm, a reminder that they weren’t alone.

Carol came to him, wiping sweat and dirt from her brow. “They’ll push us again,” she said bluntly. “They’re testing for weaknesses. They’ll come when we least expect it.”

Carl swallowed, nodding. “We’ll be ready.”

Carol’s eyes flicked toward the treeline. “You better hope so.”

Later, Carl joined Rick atop the walls, scanning the horizon. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the settlement. Every movement in the forest, every sound of a branch snapping, made his pulse spike. Rick’s hand brushed briefly against his shoulder, a grounding touch, and Carl found a small measure of comfort in the presence of his father.

“They’re clever,” Rick said quietly. “They don’t just hit. They learn. They adapt. And they’ll come back stronger.”

Carl’s gaze lingered on the woods. “And we’ll meet them. We have to.”

As evening fell, Rick and Carl moved through the settlement, checking on everyone. Families huddled in their homes, the wounded received treatment, and the fires were finally extinguished. The air smelled of smoke, blood, and wet earth. Carl could still see the marks—the W carved into doors, scorched boards, and the mangled walkers left along the fences. Each one was a reminder that the Wolves had been here and would return.

Glenn approached them, wiping grime and sweat from his hands. “We’ve patched the holes, but some sections of the wall are still weak. We’ll need more lumber by morning.”

Rick nodded, eyes narrowing. “We’ll get it. We can’t leave gaps.”

Carl followed Rick to the northern gate, where Sasha and Carol were coordinating patrols. He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down, heavier than any rifle. Every step they took, every movement, was measured, deliberate, because one mistake could mean death.

Night fell fully, the settlement bathed in shadow and quiet. Carl sat beside Rick, rifle across his lap, listening. Every sound—the wind through the trees, a branch snapping, a distant howl—made him tense. The Wolves were still out there. They had not left, only retreated to plan, to watch, to wait.

Rick placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. “We survived last night. We’ll survive tomorrow. And when they come again, we’ll be ready.”

Carl nodded, but he didn’t lower his rifle. Sleep would not come easy. Not when the memory of the attack, the screams, the blood, and the W markings were still so vivid.

From the treeline, a faint rustle reached his ears, and Carl’s pulse spiked. He didn’t turn. He knew. The Wolves were out there, watching. Waiting. Preparing. And Alexandria was still standing—but only just.

Carl pressed his back against the wall, rifle ready, heart pounding. Tomorrow, he knew, would be another day of vigilance, tension, and fear. And he would be there, every second, with Rick, Michonne, Carol, Sasha, Glenn, Maggie—all of them. Together.

The Wolves hadn’t won. Not yet. But their shadow hung over Alexandria, long and dark, promising that the next encounter would be worse.

Carl exhaled slowly, bracing himself. Night after night, day after day, this was the new reality. And in the quiet moments between adrenaline and fear, between watch and preparation, Carl realized that surviving the Wolves would take more than strength. It would take focus, trust, and the unbreakable bond of those willing to fight side by side.

Carl knew he was ready.

Chapter Text

The night had settled over Alexandria heavy and quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against Carl’s ears like a warning. He sat on the porch steps with his pistol balanced across his lap, one eye sweeping the shadows along the wall, the other tracking the faint flicker of torches where the night patrols moved.

Rick had doubled the guards since the signs first appeared. Mutilated walkers. Carved symbols. Graffiti scrawled in dripping strokes that read like laughter. It had been building for days, each morning delivering a fresh reminder that the Wolves were out there—close, watching.

Carl’s stomach had been in knots since they found the last mutilated body pinned against the gate. It wasn’t fear, not exactly, but the gnawing weight of expectation. Like the air itself was waiting to break.

The door creaked behind him. Rick stepped out, his rifle slung over one shoulder. His shirt clung to him with the damp of the long day, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the same shadows Carl had been watching.

“You should sleep,” Rick murmured.

Carl shook his head. “Can’t.”

Rick studied him, jaw flexing, then lowered himself onto the step beside him. For a moment, they sat in silence, father and son, weapons in their laps, the hush of Alexandria around them.

That was when the first scream split the night.

It came from the east wall, sharp and strangled, cut short before it had even carried. The sound shot through Carl’s chest like a live wire. He was on his feet before his brain caught up, pistol raised, heart hammering.

Rick was already moving. “Inside. Now!” he barked, but Carl didn’t budge.

The second scream came louder, closer, followed by the sickening crunch of metal on flesh. Then the gates exploded into chaos.

Shadows surged out of the treeline, a dozen—no, more—men and women rushing the walls with axes, machetes, blades that gleamed in the torchlight. Their war cries were guttural, animal, more howl than shout.

The Wolves had come.

Carl’s breath stuttered in his throat. He saw one of the guards fall from the wall, throat slashed, blood spraying the boards. Another was dragged screaming into the dark, his rifle clattering uselessly to the dirt.

Rick yanked Carl back, shoving him hard toward the door. “Get inside, stay down!”

“I’m not hiding!” Carl snapped, teeth bared, the pistol firm in his grip. His pulse was roaring, but there was no hesitation. Not tonight.

Michonne came charging from the street, katana already drawn, her eyes wide and burning. “They’re inside the wall!” she shouted.

The words chilled Carl’s blood. He spun and saw them—two Wolves had slipped through a gap in the gate during the chaos, blades dripping, eyes wild with the kind of hunger that wasn’t about food. One wore a mask fashioned from a walker’s jaw, blood crusted across his cheeks.

Rick raised his rifle and fired. The man’s head snapped back, mask splintering, body collapsing to the dirt. The other bolted, howling as he vanished between houses.

“Move!” Rick roared, hauling Carl off the porch and into the street.

The sounds of battle were everywhere now. Gunfire cracked against the night. Steel clashed. Screams echoed, some human, some not. The Wolves were in Alexandria, and they weren’t here to raid or steal—they were here to slaughter.

Carl’s boots pounded the earth as he followed Rick and Michonne toward the eastern wall. His chest was heaving, but his hands were steady around the pistol grip. The training, the drills, the endless days on the road—it all crashed back into him, steadying him against the chaos.

They rounded the corner, and Carl froze.

Bodies lay sprawled in the dirt, two of their own cut down, necks laid open. A third still twitched weakly, breath rattling wet through her ruined throat. And standing over her, grinning wide, was a Wolf with a hatchet.

Carl raised his pistol before the man even looked up. His finger squeezed, the shot cracking loud in the night. The Wolf’s skull burst sideways, and he dropped in a heap across the twitching body.

Carl didn’t breathe. He’d fired without thinking, without hesitation. His stomach turned, but he forced himself forward, eyes locked on the dark beyond the wall.

“Carl!” Rick’s voice snapped him back. “On me!”

More Wolves were flooding in, climbing over the outer fencing like feral animals, teeth bared, blades flashing. Carl could see their eyes gleaming with madness, hear the ragged laughter spilling from their throats as if slaughter itself was joy.

Alexandria’s people were scrambling, half-trained, terrified, but fighting with desperation. Carl caught sight of Aaron dragging a woman back from the fray, blood streaming down his arm. Tara fired wildly from behind a cart, her shots going wide until Glenn grabbed her wrist and steadied her.

It was chaos—pure, screaming, blood-slick chaos.

Rick shoved Carl behind a stack of barrels. “Cover here!” he barked, then surged forward, rifle blazing. Michonne swept past him, her blade flashing in brutal arcs, cutting two Wolves down before they could even raise their weapons.

Carl crouched low, eyes darting, finger tense on the trigger. His chest was tight, his ears filled with gunfire and screams. But beneath it, under the fear, was a rising heat—a pulse of adrenaline that sharpened his senses, that made every detail bright and brutal.

A shadow broke from the treeline. A woman with a butcher’s knife came sprinting toward the gate, teeth bared, eyes wild. Carl raised his pistol, fired once, twice. The first shot missed; the second punched through her chest. She crumpled, sliding in the dirt, knife clattering from her fingers.

Carl’s breath caught. His hand shook for only a moment before he forced it steady again.

The Wolves weren’t just attacking. They were enjoying it. That thought made something cold knot in his gut, something darker than fear.

More figures poured through the breach. Rick was shouting orders, trying to rally anyone who could fight. Michonne carved a bloody path through the intruders, her face set in grim fury.

Carl fired again, dropped another. His ears rang, his chest burned, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. If he faltered, even for a second, the Wolves would gut them all.

A Wolf tackled Spencer from the side, blade raised. Carl didn’t think—he leapt from behind the barrels, pistol swinging. The shot cracked, and Spencer’s attacker dropped. Spencer looked at Carl wide-eyed, face pale with shock, before staggering back toward cover.

Carl’s chest heaved, his hands slick with sweat. He could feel the tremor in his limbs, but he kept moving, kept firing, kept killing. Because if he didn’t, they would.

The Wolves’ laughter echoed, mingling with the screams of the dying. The night was fire and blood and chaos, and Carl knew this was only the beginning.

The Wolves were inside. Alexandria was bleeding. And survival tonight would be measured in bullets, blades, and the strength to keep killing long after his stomach begged him to stop.

Blood in the Streets

Carl’s lungs burned as he ducked behind a toppled fence post, the smell of blood and gunpowder thick in his nose. His ears rang with the echo of gunfire, but beneath the ringing he heard it—the guttural, animal laughter of the Wolves.

They were everywhere now. Pouring through gaps in the wall, slipping between houses, dragging people screaming into the dark. Carl caught sight of one—a man with matted hair, his face smeared in ash—carving into a body already dead, his blade sawing with methodical glee.

The sight sent bile surging into Carl’s throat. He swallowed it back, forced his hands to steady around his pistol.

Rick’s voice cut through the chaos. “Carl! With me!”

Carl bolted from cover, boots pounding across blood-slick dirt, heart hammering. Rick was firing methodically, every shot precise, his jaw clenched tight. Michonne moved alongside him, her katana dripping, her breaths sharp and fast.

They pushed toward the heart of Alexandria, where the Wolves had scattered into the streets. Carl’s chest clenched when he spotted flames licking against one of the homes. Someone had set it alight, the fire crawling fast up the wooden walls, casting the battle in a shifting orange glow.

“They’re burning us out,” Michonne growled, cutting another Wolf down with a swift, clean stroke.

Rick cursed under his breath. “We hold the center. Push them back to the walls!”

Carl’s eyes darted to every movement, every shadow. He saw Aaron grappling with a Wolf in the dirt, both men locked in a vicious struggle. Glenn was shouting for Maggie, his rifle shaking in his hands as he fired at another group charging from the treeline.

Carl moved instinctively, raising his pistol at a Wolf charging toward Tara. He squeezed the trigger—the shot split the night, and the attacker crumpled mid-stride, his body rolling lifeless across the dirt. Tara spun, eyes wide, and met Carl’s gaze with a fleeting nod of thanks before turning back to fire at another.

The weight of it pressed into Carl’s chest. Every bullet was a life. And he wasn’t missing anymore.

A crash drew his eyes left. Two Wolves had burst through one of the homes, dragging a screaming teenager between them. Carl’s stomach turned cold, but his body was already moving, feet pounding across the street. He raised his pistol, but the shot was too risky.

He didn’t think—he slammed into one of them from the side, shoulder first, knocking the man sprawling. The boy broke free, scrambling into the dark.

The second Wolf roared, swinging a jagged blade. Carl ducked, heart hammering, and fired point-blank. The bullet tore through the man’s chest, spraying blood across the dirt. He dropped without a sound.

The first man was already lunging to his feet. Carl barely had time to pivot, squeeze the trigger again. The shot ripped into his thigh, and the man screamed, collapsing back to the ground.

Carl’s chest heaved as he stood over him, pistol raised, finger trembling on the trigger. The Wolf bared his teeth, spitting blood, laughing even as he writhed in pain.

“Do it,” he hissed. “Kill me. Makes you like us.”

Carl’s finger twitched. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then Rick was there, rifle snapping down, the shot exploding through the Wolf’s skull.

Carl flinched, blood spraying his boots. Rick’s hand clamped on his shoulder, squeezing hard. “Don’t hesitate,” he barked, eyes burning into him. “You see what they are. You don’t stop until they’re down.”

Carl nodded stiffly, throat tight, his heart battering his ribs. He forced himself to look away from the corpse, back to the chaos still raging through the streets.

The Wolves were everywhere, but their frenzy was disorganized. They weren’t soldiers—they were butchers. And that made them unpredictable, dangerous.

The fire had spread to a second house now, flames roaring against the night sky. Carl felt the heat on his face as they pushed further into the chaos.

A scream cut through the crackle of fire. Carl spun to see Jessie struggling against a Wolf twice her size, his hands around her throat, blade glinting. Without thought, Carl raised his pistol and fired. The man crumpled, dragging Jessie down with him.

She gasped, scrambling free, her face pale and streaked with soot. “Carl—”

“Get inside!” he shouted, voice sharper than he meant, but she didn’t argue. She ran for cover, clutching her children close as she disappeared into a nearby house.

Carl’s chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temple. His hands were steady now, each shot ringing out with deadly precision. He didn’t feel like a kid anymore—he felt like part of the storm, caught in it, driving it forward.

But under it all was the gnawing fear. Not of dying—no, he’d made peace with that long ago. But of losing them. Rick. Michonne. Everyone he still had left.

The Wolves howled again, the sound raw and feral, echoing off the walls. More shadows broke from the treeline, surging toward the gates with reckless abandon.

Rick swore under his breath. “They’re not stopping. They’ll bleed us dry.”

Michonne wiped her blade against her sleeve, eyes burning. “Then we make them pay for every step.”

Carl’s chest tightened at her words. He shifted his grip on the pistol, the metal slick in his hand. He felt the tremor of exhaustion pulling at his muscles, but he shoved it down. There was no stopping now.

Gunfire cracked. Blades clashed. Flames roared higher, lighting Alexandria like a pyre.

The night was drowning in blood.

Carl took aim again, steady, sure, his heart a drumbeat of fear and fury. Every pull of the trigger was a choice. Every choice another piece of himself he’d never get back.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Because if he did, they all would die.

Chapter Text

The morning after felt like it had no sunrise. Alexandria’s walls still stood, but smoke clung to the air like it wanted to choke the whole place down. The Wolves were gone, for now, but their footprints and bloodstains lingered on every surface. And so did the silence.

Rick hadn’t slept. Carl could tell by the way his dad’s eyes tracked the street outside their house, always moving, always sharp. His hands twitched like they were still wrapped around his gun.

Carl stayed near him. Not because he had to, but because there was no space between them anymore. Too much had been taken, too fast, and being apart felt like leaving his chest wide open.

“Don’t go far,” Rick muttered, voice rough from smoke and lack of sleep.

Carl adjusted the strap of his gun. “Wasn’t planning to.”

They walked the length of the street together, passing houses that looked more like graves now. Blood dried black on the white porch railings. A handprint smeared across one window. The Wolves had marked them, even in retreat.

Everywhere, people moved like shadows. Carol dragged a bucket of water across the road. Michonne stood at the end of the street, sword leaning against her shoulder, scanning the horizon like it might lunge at her.

But Carl only saw his dad. The slump in Rick’s shoulders wasn’t weakness. It was something heavier, something dangerous.

By noon, they were in Deanna’s house. The meeting felt like a funeral without the bodies. Deanna sat stiff, her eyes empty, her hands folded too tightly in her lap. The others filled the room—Maggie, Sasha, Michonne, even Father Gabriel lingering at the edge like a shadow.

Rick stood in the center, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the still air.

“They’ll be back.” He didn’t ask. He stated. “And when they do, we won’t be caught like this again.”

His eyes flicked over the room, but Carl felt the words hammer into his own chest.

“We fight, or we die,” Rick finished.

No one argued.

---

That night, Carl followed him to the wall. The guard posts were manned, but Rick didn’t trust them. He never did. The stars were sharp above them, the night colder than it should’ve been.

Rick leaned against the wall, staring into the treeline beyond. His profile was carved in shadow, jaw tight, lips pressed into a line.

Carl stood beside him, close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Finally, Rick exhaled, slow and rough. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

Carl blinked, not sure what to say.

“You saw what they did,” Rick went on. “What they’ll keep doing. You stood your ground.” His head tilted, eyes finally cutting toward Carl. “You’re mine. You understand?”

Carl’s throat tightened, something hot rising in his chest. Pride. Fear. Both tangled together until he couldn’t tell the difference.

“Yeah,” Carl whispered.

Rick’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and grounding. But he didn’t let go. His thumb pressed into the fabric of Carl’s shirt, a firm, unspoken claim.

The woods beyond the wall whispered with the night. Inside, Alexandria tried to pretend it was still alive. But up here, in the dark, there was only the two of them. Father and son. Protector and lover.

Carl didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

Morning bled into Alexandria like a wound that refused to close. Smoke still lingered in the air, faint but bitter, clinging to every street corner and every doorway. The Wolves hadn’t returned, not yet, but their absence felt like a trap laid just beyond the walls.

Carl woke to the sound of boots on the porch. He didn’t startle anymore—he already knew it was his dad. Rick moved like a ghost through the house, restless, unable to sit still long enough to let the exhaustion catch him.

Carl rolled out of bed, boots half-tied when he stepped into the hall. He found Rick at the door, rifle in hand, staring out at the street like it might suddenly split open.

“You’re up,” Rick muttered without looking.

“So are you,” Carl answered, pulling his hat down tighter.

Rick’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. More like an acknowledgment. A shared secret between them that sleep wasn’t something people like them got anymore.

---

By midday, the air shifted.

They found it on the west side of the wall—a body. Or what was left of one.

A walker, torn apart, the limbs arranged deliberately in the dirt. The chest cavity split open, organs gone. And carved into the exposed ribcage: “W”.

The group gathered fast—Michonne, Carol, Glenn, even Deanna pulled from her grief at the sight. Everyone whispered, voices sharp, disbelief turning quickly to fear.

Rick didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened, his hand steady on his gun, his voice louder than the noise around him.

“They’re not hiding anymore,” he said. “They’re letting us know what’s coming.”

No one argued. They didn’t have to. The stench of the corpse carried the promise of war.

Carl stood at Rick’s side, eyes fixed on the mutilated walker. His stomach twisted, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He wanted Rick to see that he could handle it—that he was as hard as the man who had pulled the trigger on Pete without hesitation.

---

That night, after the council meeting dissolved into whispers and unfinished plans, Carl followed Rick again. Up onto the wall, where the stars cut through the darkness and the woods pressed in closer than ever.

Rick leaned forward, both hands gripping the rail, his breath heavy.

“They’re testing us,” he muttered, more to himself than to Carl. “They want us scared.”

Carl stood close, his shoulder brushing Rick’s. He felt the tension pouring off his dad, thick enough to choke on.

“I’m not scared,” Carl said, steady.

Rick turned his head, studying him. The moonlight caught the edge of his beard, his eyes shadowed but sharp.

“You should be,” Rick whispered, though his hand came up, gripping Carl’s arm—firm, grounding, claiming. “Fear keeps you alive. But don’t ever let them see it. Don’t give them that.”

Carl swallowed hard, heat spreading through his chest at the weight of his father’s words. The grip on his arm tightened just slightly, and Carl didn’t move away.

The woods whispered. Somewhere beyond, maybe watching, maybe waiting, the Wolves breathed. But here, on the wall, it was just them.

Chapter Text

The night was thick with smoke and ash, remnants of the Wolves’ previous attacks curling into the cold air. Alexandria’s streets were quieter now, but the quiet felt dangerous, like the calm before a storm. Carl walked beside Rick, boots crunching over the debris and blood-soaked dirt. Every shadow seemed alive, and every sound—branches snapping, distant shouts—made Carl’s pulse spike.

Rick moved slower tonight, but the tension radiating from him was undeniable. His rifle hung loosely at his side, but his fingers itched around the grip, ready for the first sign of movement. Carl could feel it too, a coiled energy, raw and unrelenting, running through them both.

“You’re still shaking,” Rick murmured, voice low, almost a growl. He didn’t look at Carl, but his hand brushed against his son’s arm, accidental or not, sending a ripple through Carl’s chest.

Carl laughed softly, a short, breathless sound. “I’m not,” he lied. His heart, however, betrayed him, hammering against ribs that felt too tight.

Rick’s hand stayed on his arm, brushing lower, grazing the curve of his side. Carl didn’t pull away. Didn’t want to. The scent of smoke, blood, and sweat hung between them, making it impossible to breathe normally.

“Carl…” Rick’s voice was rougher now, laden with heat and something unspoken. He turned to face him, eyes dark, shadowed with fatigue and hunger. “Get inside. You can’t fight all night and think straight.”

Carl stepped closer, letting the warmth of Rick’s body press against his own. “I’m not leaving you,” he said softly. His voice was steady, but there was something raw underneath it—need, desire, and a tether to the man beside him.

Rick’s fingers slid under his shirt, tracing the taut muscles along his chest, lingering. Carl swallowed, chest tightening, pulse hammering. Every touch, every brush of skin, was fire, and he could feel it spreading, burning away any hesitation.

“God, Carl,” Rick murmured, voice rough, trembling slightly as his hands explored, “you feel… you feel like this.” He pressed closer, lips brushing Carl’s jaw, down to his neck. The bite there was gentle at first, teasing, before it became sharper, marking, claiming.

Carl’s hands found Rick’s shoulders, gripping, holding, guiding him. Heat rolled through him, raw and demanding. Every stroke, every groan, every whispered word between them drove him further into a frenzy. His body trembled, shivering under the intensity of both desire and lingering fear.

Rick’s hands roamed lower, slick from sweat, brushing over Carl’s hips, sliding down further. Carl gasped, tilting his head back, letting the fire roll through him. The tension between them was suffocating, intoxicating—an explosive mix of lust and adrenaline.

“You’re mine,” Rick growled, lips finding Carl’s mouth in a rough, devouring kiss. The world narrowed to heat, slick skin, and the wild rhythm of their bodies pressed together. Carl moaned, trembling, letting the chaos of the outside—the Wolves, the fires, the screams—fade until nothing existed except this.

Hands tangled, clothes discarded in a frenzy, the night air heavy and filled with the scent of their combined sweat and blood from earlier skirmishes. Carl’s pulse raced in tandem with Rick’s. Each thrust, each groan, each bite carried the memory of survival, the violence of the last ten days, and the dark, urgent hunger that had always simmered between them.

When they finally collapsed, slick and spent, the night seemed to close around them. Carl rested against Rick’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his father’s breathing. No words were needed. No dominance, no assertion—just the lingering heat, the intimacy forged in fire, blood, and chaos.

Rick’s fingers trailed along Carl’s arm, brushing over the marks from the Wolves’ attacks, the small cuts and bruises that had already started to fade. “We survived,” he murmured. “And we’ll survive tomorrow too. Together.”

Carl tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss to Rick’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Together.”

Outside, the wind stirred through Alexandria, rustling charred wood and debris. The Wolves were still out there, still circling, still waiting. But for this moment, there was only them. Dark, dangerous, and bound together in ways neither wanted to admit out loud.

In that dark, silent night, Carl knew the world could crumble around them, fires rage, and wolves attack—but they would face it together, and no one could take that away.

Chapter Text

Morning came like a dull ache. The smoke from the fires of the last night’s battle still clung to Alexandria, drifting across shattered fences and splintered doors. The Wolves hadn’t returned yet, but their message lingered in every scar the town bore.

Carl walked the streets slowly, boots crunching over debris and dried blood. Every shadow made him flinch, every sudden sound made his pulse spike. The mutilated walkers left at the edge of the settlement had been moved into a pile outside the gates by the survivors, but the memory of them—the way the Wolves had twisted the corpses—clung to his mind like a curse.

Michonne was already patrolling, katana slung across her back. Rick stood near the center of the street, brow furrowed, scanning the horizon. His rifle rested against his shoulder, hands clasped over the grip. Carl approached him silently, noticing the tightness in his father’s jaw.

“You see it too,” Rick said without looking at him, voice low and rough. “They’re testing us. Every day they wait, every little mark they leave—it’s all a game. A countdown.”

Carl nodded, keeping his voice even. “Yeah. And we’ll be ready.”

Rick finally turned, eyes meeting his. There was no softness there, only the heat of determination and something darker, something personal. The memory of last night’s fight and what had come after lingered between them, heavy and dangerous.

The council had gathered earlier that morning. Deanna, still pale and shaken, had demanded calm, suggesting patrols be limited, fences repaired, and traps laid. Rick had argued, voice low but deadly, that hesitation would get people killed.

Carl had watched it all quietly, noting the tension, the unspoken agreement forming between him and his father. They moved in tandem now, instinctively. The room had grown silent when Carl spoke, his voice carrying more authority than his age should have allowed. “We can’t wait. They’re going to push again, and we need to be ready.”

Even Deanna had to nod.

By midday, they found the first sign of what Rick had feared: a trail of mutilated walkers, dragged into the outer gates. Their heads were missing, torsos carved with crude symbols, letters scratched into skin. One had been placed upright, propped against a tree, a gruesome signal for anyone brave enough to look.

Carl’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself closer, examining the markings. Each one was a message: “We see you,” it said. “You can’t hide.”

Rick’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder, a grounding touch, sending a shiver down Carl’s spine. The air was thick with tension, fear, and adrenaline, and Carl felt the heat of his own pulse in tandem with Rick’s.

“They want us afraid,” Rick murmured, voice low. “They want us to crumble.”

“We won’t,” Carl said, shoulders straight, chest tight. “We won’t let them.”

They worked through the afternoon, moving corpses, inspecting the perimeter, reinforcing weak spots. Carl’s hands were slick with blood and sweat, but he didn’t flinch. Every touch, every movement was practice. Every decision could mean survival—or death.

By nightfall, the walls of Alexandria were fortified, but the tension hadn’t lessened. Carl and Rick moved to the outer wall once more, silent. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke, and far off, the forest beyond seemed to shift with anticipation.

Rick’s hand brushed Carl’s arm again, lingering, grounding him. The contact wasn’t sexual yet, but it sparked something primal. Carl leaned slightly into the touch, heart hammering. The war outside mirrored the storm building inside him.

“You’re ready,” Rick said, eyes scanning the horizon. “Tomorrow, we face them head-on. And you’ll be at my side.”

Carl’s pulse quickened. “I’ll be ready.”

The Wolves had started their psychological game, but Carl could feel the tension coiling in his chest. Every scrape of a branch, every whisper of wind, every shadow hinted at the coming battle. He and Rick were alone for the moment, but together, they were a force.

Night settled over Alexandria, thick and heavy. Carl could hear distant howls in the woods, low and feral. The Wolves weren’t attacking yet—but they were waiting.

Carl and Rick stayed on the wall until the stars bled out, sitting close enough that the warmth from each other was a small, precious comfort in the darkness. Carl’s head rested lightly against Rick’s shoulder for a moment, the brush of skin and the lingering adrenaline making him shiver. Rick’s hand stayed on his arm, firm, lingering, a tether to sanity in the chaos.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The heat, the touch, the tension said everything. And outside, the Wolves waited, circling in silence, ready to strike again.

The night hit Alexandria like a hammer. The Wolves came suddenly, silently, moving through the outer trees with a predatory precision that sent shivers down Carl’s spine. One second the perimeter was quiet; the next, screams ripped through the settlement as they breached the wall, using fire and brute force to overwhelm the gates.

Carl ran, heart pounding, toward Rick, who was already fighting, rifle swinging, gunshots cutting through the night. The scent of smoke, sweat, and blood hit Carl like a wave, and he felt every nerve flare with adrenaline.

“Carl! Stay close!” Rick shouted, voice raw with command.

Carl obeyed instinctively, ducking under a falling beam, then rolling into cover behind a charred fencepost. His gun felt heavy, his fingers slick with sweat, and for a moment, the chaos was all-consuming. He could hear Michonne’s katana swinging, Carol shouting orders, the screams of Wolves and survivors alike blending into a single, deafening roar.

A Wolf lunged at him from the shadows, teeth bared. Carl pivoted, striking him down with a combination of rifle butt and sheer reflex. The Wolf fell, twitching, and Carl’s chest heaved. There was no time to feel relief—another one was coming.

Rick’s hand found Carl’s shoulder in the chaos, gripping him, steadying him. Their eyes met for a brief second, and Carl felt that same fire in his chest from before. The war, the blood, the danger—it all fed into the hunger between them.

“Get to me!” Rick yelled, dragging Carl behind a half-collapsed wall. The debris was slick with blood, and Carl didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. The way Rick’s hand pressed into his side, firm and grounding, made his heart stutter with more than fear.

They fought together as a unit, moving like extensions of each other. Carl’s mind sharpened; every move, every strike, every dodge synchronized with Rick’s. But when a brief lull appeared, Rick pulled him close, hands brushing over him, warmth pressing through the chaos.

“God, Carl,” Rick murmured, voice low and hoarse, “you’re alive. You’re here.”

Carl pressed against him, feeling the raw heat of Rick’s body in the dark, the slickness of sweat and blood mingling with the night air. He had to breathe through it, had to focus, but the magnetic pull of Rick was impossible to resist.

They ducked into a small house to regroup, barricading the door against the Wolves pounding from outside. Carl’s body was trembling from adrenaline and need. Rick’s fingers traced along his neck, down his chest, lingering, marking.

“Rick…” Carl’s voice was raw, almost a whisper.

Rick captured his lips in a rough, urgent kiss, hands roaming over Carl’s body, slick with sweat and the remnants of the battle. Carl moaned, arching into him, the chaos outside fading as the heat between them consumed everything. Every touch, every bite of lips, every brush of hands was fire, violent and unrelenting.

They sank to the floor, pressed together, clothes discarded in a rush of hunger and tension. Carl could feel Rick’s hardness pressing into him, every thrust, every grind, every slick stroke igniting a fire that only danger could fuel. The screams and gunshots outside were background noise compared to the storm of sensation inside the room.

Rick’s hands gripped Carl’s hips, pulling him closer, pressing him against the rough floorboards. The taste of smoke, sweat, and blood clung to them, mixing with desire until every nerve was alight. Carl cried out, the friction, the slickness, the heat overwhelming.

They moved together in a dark, primal rhythm, every motion a release of fear and tension, every gasp a declaration of survival and surrender. Rick’s lips trailed along Carl’s jaw, biting, tasting, claiming him in the only way possible amidst the chaos of fire and Wolves surrounding them.

When the first climax hit, it was explosive, wild, fueled by adrenaline and the danger that had shadowed them all day. Carl shivered violently in Rick’s arms, slick and trembling, his body spent yet still alight with the aftershocks of both lust and fear.

Rick held him tight, pressing soft kisses into his hair, brushing blood and sweat from his face. “You’re alive,” he whispered, voice low, grounding. “We survived this. You and me.”

Carl’s hands lingered over Rick’s chest, feeling the taut muscles, the rapid heartbeat, the warmth and life beneath his fingers. “Together,” he murmured. “Always together.”

They pulled themselves together as the pounding on the door increased again. The Wolves weren’t finished, but in that moment, they were a unit, bloodied and bruised, bodies intertwined not just in lust but in survival. Carl felt the dark, thrilling satisfaction of both: they had fought, they had survived, and they had claimed each other in the eye of the storm.

By the time they emerged, the Wolves had retreated slightly, flames licking the walls of Alexandria. Bodies lay scattered. Carl and Rick moved among the ruins, side by side, eyes locked, weapons ready, hearts still racing. The intimate fire between them lingered, unspoken but powerful—a tether through the chaos, a reminder of life and lust and the twisted thrill of survival.

Chapter Text

The morning air was thick and heavy, still carrying the acrid tang of smoke from the fires of yesterday’s attack. Alexandria was quiet in a way that made Carl’s stomach twist—the kind of quiet that felt like the calm before the storm. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long across the cracked streets, every whisper of wind through the broken walls made his pulse jump.

Rick moved ahead of him, boots steady, eyes scanning the treeline beyond the fences. He carried himself differently now—less a father in repose, more a predator coiled for the kill. Carl walked beside him, rifle in hand, feeling the taut pull of muscle beneath his own skin, the steady beat of his heart against the chaos around them.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Rick’s voice was low, almost a growl, cutting through the morning stillness. He didn’t look at Carl. His eyes stayed fixed on the perimeter, on every slight movement in the forest beyond.

Carl nodded. “Yeah. They’re testing us.” He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “Every day, leaving something behind, like… like a warning.”

Rick’s lips tightened, and his gaze flicked to him briefly. “Yeah. And that’s just the start. They’ll push again soon. I can feel it.”

They walked along the edge of the settlement, past the sections of wall that had been breached, past the remnants of fires that still smoldered black. Carl’s hands itched, not just to hold the rifle, but for the weight of Rick’s presence beside him. He noticed the way Rick’s hand brushed his arm occasionally—not a touch of ownership, just grounding, a tether in the chaos. And yet, even in these fleeting moments, the air between them pulsed with something darker, something dangerous.

Rick stopped at the corner of a crumbled fence. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing toward a tree near the woods. Carl’s eyes narrowed. Someone—or something—had strung up a walker, its limbs twisted into grotesque angles. Its head had been replaced with a crude mask made of bark and sticks, symbols carved into its chest.

Carl’s stomach twisted. “It’s… a warning,” he whispered, stepping closer to examine it.

Rick crouched beside him, fingers hovering over the twisted limbs. “They want to scare us. Want to see us hesitate.” His voice was steady, but the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched near the rifle, betrayed the fire simmering under the surface. “But we won’t. Not this time.”

Carl nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “We’ll be ready.”

They moved along the perimeter, scanning the treeline for any other signs, any clue of where the Wolves had been. The forest beyond seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Every snapped branch, every rustle of leaves, made Carl’s heart leap, made his pulse hammer. He noticed the way Rick’s eyes tracked him, how his hand brushed Carl’s back briefly when he stepped over debris, grounding him without words.

“You’re steady,” Rick murmured, voice low, almost confessional. “I… I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. Not just tonight. Not just now.”

Carl’s chest tightened. There was no warmth in the words, but there was something heavier, darker—a weight he could feel pressing down through the heat of his own body. “I’m here,” he said, letting the words hang between them. “Always.”

Rick shifted closer, hand brushing the small of Carl’s back. Carl’s pulse stuttered, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with fear. The air between them was taut, filled with adrenaline and something unspoken, dangerous. He wanted to lean into it, to let the tension break in ways that went beyond survival, and for a moment, he allowed himself the thought.

The patrol took them to the edge of the woods again. Carl noticed something else—a trail of blood leading into the trees, faint but unmistakable. He gestured, pointing it out to Rick.

“Someone’s moving,” Rick said, voice dropping even lower. “Could be Wolves. Could be… testing traps. Either way, we’ll find out.”

Carl nodded, gripping his rifle tighter. “We’ll be ready.”

They followed the trail, careful, methodical. Each step brought their hearts closer to the edge, each glance exchanged carried more weight than any spoken word. Carl could feel the adrenaline prickling along his spine, but there was something else mixed in now—the dark, almost magnetic pull toward Rick. He caught himself imagining what it would feel like to close the distance between them, to let the tension spill over, but he forced his mind back to the trail, to the work, to the fight.

Rick glanced at him then, eyes dark and sharp. “Carl…” The single word carried a world of meaning, unspoken and heavy. “You know… what I mean. After last night.”

Carl swallowed hard, pulse hammering. “I know.”

The moment stretched, silent and taut. Rick’s hand brushed his shoulder again, lingering longer this time. Carl shivered, and for a heartbeat, everything else—the Wolves, the fires, the damaged walls—faded. There was only the brush of skin, the heat, the shared breath, and the dark tension between them.

“Let’s head back,” Rick said finally, voice rough, almost trembling. “We need to rest, regroup, and be ready for whatever comes next.”

Carl followed, walking beside him, every step heavy with the knowledge of what they had survived and what they would have to face. The night had settled over Alexandria again, thick and oppressive, but for the first time since the Wolves had begun testing them, Carl felt a sliver of control, a tether to something solid. Rick was beside him, breathing steady, alive, present. And for now, that was enough.

As they entered the heart of Alexandria, Carl glanced over at Rick. There was a quiet understanding in that look—acknowledgment of the danger, of the tension, of what they shared and what they could not yet say. Outside, the Wolves waited, circling, preparing. Inside, the walls of Alexandria trembled under the weight of fear and fire. And between Rick and Carl, a dark, smoldering energy lingered, waiting for the night when it could finally ignite.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen completely over Alexandria, and the settlement was a shadow of its daytime self. Fires smoldered along the outer walls, the acrid scent of smoke mixing with the metallic tang of blood from the earlier skirmishes. Every corner was a potential threat; every shadow could hide a Wolf.

Carl moved beside Rick, rifle ready, eyes darting over every line of fence, every darkened window. The tension was constant, a live wire running through his chest. Each heartbeat hammered in time with Rick’s, the rhythm of survival, the rhythm of their shared pulse.

“Something’s out there,” Rick murmured, voice low, cutting through the night. He didn’t look at Carl, only scanned the treeline with a predator’s precision. “They’re close. Too close.”

Carl’s hands were slick with sweat. “I see it,” he whispered. He caught the glint of metal—traps set in the shadows, small but lethal. The Wolves were patient, testing, drawing them out. “They’re ready.”

Rick nodded. His hand brushed against Carl’s, a grounding touch that sent a shiver straight through him. The physical contact was electric, sharp, impossible to ignore. Carl’s chest tightened, but there was no fear here—only raw, heated awareness, a tension that burned in tandem with the threat outside.

Suddenly, a howl split the night, a low, guttural sound that rattled the walls and shook the ground beneath them. Wolves moved through the treeline with terrifying coordination, weapons flashing, fires lighting their path. Carl’s pulse surged.

Rick moved first, gun raised, instincts razor-sharp. Carl followed instinctively, their motions synchronized, bodies moving as if they were extensions of each other. Every shot, every swing, every precise strike was met with a counter, but the Wolves were relentless.

A pair lunged from the shadows. Carl ducked under one, spinning to strike, rifle butt connecting with a skull. The other he shot at point-blank range. The sounds of chaos—the screams, the gunfire, the clash of blades—were background to the pounding of his heart, to the heat of adrenaline and the electric pull of Rick beside him.

When the first lull came, they ducked into a half-collapsed building near the center of the settlement. Carl leaned against the wall, chest heaving, rifle still clutched in his hands. Rick pressed close behind him, shoulder brushing against his, heat seeping through their clothing.

“Carl…” Rick’s voice was rough, low, hoarse. “You okay?”

Carl swallowed, trying to steady his breath. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” His pulse didn’t match his words. The momentary safety, the shared adrenaline, the heat between them—it all made his chest tighten in ways he wasn’t ready to analyze.

Rick’s hand slid along Carl’s arm, lingering at the crook of his elbow, then tracing downward along his side. Carl’s stomach clenched. He leaned slightly into Rick, drawn by the touch, by the heat, by the danger that had always made his senses sharper, his body more alive.

“God, Carl,” Rick murmured, voice almost breaking. “After everything… this. You’re here. You’re… still here.”

Carl turned to face him, heart hammering, chest tight. “I’m here. I’m always here.”

Rick’s hands found the small of Carl’s back, fingers pressing firmly through sweat and dirt. Carl shivered, heat climbing, aware of the slick tension in his own body, aware of Rick’s hardness pressing against him through the thin fabric of their clothes. The moment hung between them—dangerous, taut, undeniable.

Without another word, Rick’s lips crushed against his, rough, demanding, searing. Carl moaned into the kiss, arching instinctively, letting the tension release in a wave of heat and desire. Rick’s hands roamed over his body, slick with sweat and the remnants of the fight outside, claiming him with rough, urgent touches that mirrored the chaos they had survived.

They sank to the floor of the ruined building, bodies pressing together, hands and lips moving with feral urgency. Carl’s fingers dug into Rick’s shoulders, feeling the taut muscles, feeling the rapid pulse, feeling the fire and chaos that had carried them through the night transform into something intimate, something possessive, something necessary.

Rick’s teeth grazed his jaw, biting softly, leaving marks that burned deliciously. Carl gasped, every nerve alight, shivering under the combined weight of adrenaline, lust, and fear. The world outside—the Wolves, the fires, the screaming—faded into distant noise. Here, now, there was only heat, touch, and the dark, primal connection between them.

Clothes became a barrier to be shed, discarded in the dark and the dust of the ruined building. Their movements were desperate, urgent, each touch, each thrust, each kiss an extension of survival—a declaration that they were alive, together, in the eye of a storm that sought to tear them apart.

Carl’s moans mixed with the growls of Rick, their bodies slick with sweat, their skin glistening with the remnants of blood and dirt from the fight. Every friction, every brush, every rough stroke carried the intensity of the night’s battle, carried the wildness of survival, carried the dark fire of their desire.

“Rick…” Carl’s voice was ragged, trembling. “I… I can’t…”

Rick silenced him with a rough, urgent kiss, hands gripping him tighter, pressing him into every inch of his body. “Shh… just… let it go. Let me take care of you,” he murmured, voice thick, low, demanding.

The heat built, hotter, darker, until Carl felt it consuming him, a storm of sensation that left him trembling, gasping, lost in the raw, animalistic rhythm of Rick’s body against his. The chaos of the Wolves outside mirrored the chaos inside him, and every thrust, every slick touch, every bite of lips, drove them higher, closer, further into the dark ecstasy of survival and possession.

When the final wave hit, it was explosive, raw, a release so intense it left them both trembling and slick, chests heaving, minds and bodies afire. Rick held him close, pressing soft kisses into his hair, brushing sweat and dirt from his face, murmuring reassurances between ragged breaths.

“You’re alive,” Rick whispered. “We survived. You and me. Together.”

Carl pressed against him, exhausted, spent, still slick and trembling. “Together,” he echoed, voice soft but sure, a tether against the chaos outside.

They lay entwined for a long while, the firelight from the smoldering ruins outside flickering across their skin. In the dark, the Wolves’ presence was still palpable—their threat had not gone away—but in that stolen, intimate space, Carl and Rick had reclaimed a small piece of control, a dark sanctuary where survival and desire met.

As dawn approached, they finally rose, red-eyed and exhausted, but together. Beyond the walls, the Wolves had left signs that they were preparing for another strike—a raiding party, moving closer, testing, hunting. Alexandria was standing, battered and bloodied, but the war was far from over.

Carl’s hand lingered briefly on Rick’s chest as they stepped back into the open, the heat between them simmering, a reminder of the night’s storm. They had survived, claimed one another, and still faced a world that wanted to destroy them. But for now, they had this: each other, alive, and ready for the next day.

The Wolves’ shadows stretched long into the morning, their eyes watching, their plans unfolding. And Carl, heart still pounding, knew that when the next storm came, he would face it with Rick beside him—bloodied, slick, and unbreakably bound by both survival and the dark fire they had ignited together.

Chapter Text

Carl woke to the sound of hammering. The rhythm was uneven, frantic, echoing through the fractured streets of Alexandria. For a moment he didn’t remember what day it was, or why his body felt like lead. Then the memory came back—the Wolves, the screaming, the fire against the walls, the smell of blood that clung to everything.

His hand flexed against the mattress beside him, finding the warmth of his father’s arm. Rick was there, half-asleep but awake enough to track the noises outside. His eyes opened when Carl moved, blue but bloodshot, shadowed by exhaustion.

“You hear it too,” Rick muttered, voice low, gravelly from smoke and lack of rest.

Carl sat up, dragging a hand down his face. His muscles ached, not just from the fight but from the way adrenaline had wrung him out. “They’re trying to fix the gate,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like it’s going well.”

Rick swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face hard before reaching for his boots. His knuckles were still raw, split from fists connecting with bone and wood the night before. He hadn’t cleaned them properly; the skin was crusted with dried blood. Carl noticed it but didn’t comment. There wasn’t time for small wounds anymore.

When they stepped outside, the air was sharp with ash. Survivors moved through the streets with hollow expressions. A woman carried water in a rusted bucket, spilling half of it as she went. Two of Tobin’s men wrestled with warped beams at the gate, their movements clumsy from fatigue. Everywhere Carl looked, people’s eyes darted nervously to the woods beyond the walls, as if expecting the Wolves to come again at any second.

“They’re scared,” Carl murmured.

Rick’s jaw tightened. “Good. They should be. Fear keeps people sharp. Keeps them alive.”

Carl glanced at him, noting the way his father’s shoulders were squared, the way his hand hovered near his revolver even here, inside the walls. He wasn’t just talking to Carl—he was telling the whole community, even if they weren’t close enough to hear.

As they moved toward the gate, Spencer jogged up, sweat slick on his forehead. “We’ve got a problem,” he said, voice clipped, too loud. “The food pantry. Somebody broke in during the night.”

Rick stopped short. “How much?”

“Two crates of canned goods. Gone.” Spencer’s gaze darted between Rick and Carl. “And whoever did it—they left something.”

Carl felt the prickle of dread crawl up his spine. “The Wolves,” he said quietly.

Spencer nodded, swallowing hard. “Carved right into the wall. Same marks as before.”

Rick didn’t waste another second. He strode toward the pantry, Carl at his side. People cleared the way as they passed, whispers following in their wake. Rick will know what to do. Rick will keep us safe. But Carl heard the other murmurs too, quieter, bitter: He brought this on us. Every fight finds him sooner or later.

The pantry door hung open, splintered around the lock. Inside, shelves that had been neatly stacked the day before now gaped with empty spaces. And carved deep into the wooden support beam was the mark—two jagged lines crossing, the crude W dripping with fresh gouges.

Carl’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t just a symbol anymore. It felt like a signature.

“They were inside,” he said, voice tight.

Rick crouched near the carving, tracing it with a fingertip without touching the fresh wood shavings. His eyes were flat, unreadable. “Not just inside. They wanted us to know it.” He stood, turning to Spencer. “Double the guards. Nobody goes alone. If you see anything, you come to me. Right away.”

Spencer nodded, but his eyes lingered on Carl, uncertain, questioning why Rick’s son shadowed him in every command. Carl stared back until Spencer looked away.

As they left the pantry, Rick’s hand brushed against Carl’s wrist, a fleeting contact hidden from the others. “They’re closing in,” Rick said under his breath. “Trying to break us from the inside.”

Carl nodded. “They won’t.”

The day dragged. Carl spent the morning patrolling with his father, checking every weak spot along the walls. The survivors they passed were restless, some demanding answers, others too afraid to speak at all. Carl could feel the weight of their stares pressing into his back—some filled with trust, some with resentment.

By noon, another discovery: one of the water barrels had been drained, not by accident but by design. A hole bored into the base, the precious supply leaking into the dirt. And at the bottom of the barrel, etched crudely into the wood, another mark.

“They’re in here more than we know,” Carl said, staring at the symbol.

Rick’s mouth was a hard line. “Or someone’s letting them in.”

The possibility hung between them like a blade.

They carried the news back to the house, where Michonne was sharpening her katana at the table. Her eyes flicked from the blood on Rick’s hands to Carl’s drawn face. “You found more,” she said flatly.

Rick nodded. “Food’s gone. Water too. They’re leaving signs.”

Michonne’s jaw tightened. “People are starting to break. They’re asking if we can hold. If we should leave.”

Carl sank into a chair, gripping the edge of the table. The thought of running, of abandoning the walls they’d fought to defend, twisted his gut. “We can’t leave. Out there, we’d be picked apart in days.”

Michonne’s gaze softened, just slightly. “I know.”

Rick leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes shadowed. “Then we make sure nobody runs. We keep them inside. We show them we’re not weak. And when the Wolves come again…” His voice dropped, cold, certain. “We finish it.”

The room was quiet after that. Carl studied his father’s face, the hard lines, the exhaustion etched deep. He thought about the way Rick had held him the night before, the way their breaths had mingled in the dark. There was strength in that closeness, but there was fear too—a fear of what they were becoming together, and what they would have to do next.

When evening fell, the settlement gathered near the church for a meeting. Faces flickered in lantern light—hollow, weary, desperate. Deanna spoke first, her voice trembling as she addressed the crowd. She spoke of resilience, of unity, but her words fell flat against the raw terror still hanging in the air.

Then Rick stepped forward. His presence alone stilled the murmurs.

“They think they can scare us,” he said, voice carrying easily in the night. “They think they can break us apart before they strike. But they’re wrong. We’ve survived worse than this. We’ll survive them. But only if we stand together.”

Carl watched the crowd, the way heads nodded slowly, some reluctantly, others with renewed conviction. He saw the way eyes flicked to Rick and then to him, as if the two of them were a single unit, inseparable.

When the meeting ended, people dispersed quietly, their fear dulled but not erased. Rick lingered near the steps, his hand brushing Carl’s as they stood side by side. The contact was brief, hidden, but electric.

“They’re coming soon,” Rick murmured. “We need to be ready.”

Carl met his gaze. “We will be.”

The night deepened. The hammering at the gates ceased, replaced by uneasy silence. Carl lay awake in their house, listening to the faint sounds of Alexandria breathing—doors shutting, footsteps fading, children crying quietly in the dark. Beside him, Rick sat in the chair by the window, revolver resting on his thigh, eyes never leaving the treeline.

Carl shifted, watching him, feeling the pulse of dread that had settled into every corner of the settlement. They were surrounded—by fear, by enemies, by the inevitability of what was coming.

And yet, beneath all of it, Carl felt something else: a pull toward Rick that was heavier than fear, darker than duty. A need that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the way they fit together when the world closed in.

The Wolves were circling. Alexandria was cracking. And Carl knew that before the next dawn, something between him and his father would break open again.

Chapter Text

The morning smelled like iron and smoke. Alexandria had been scrubbed, patched, defended in the night after the Wolves’ first strike, but no one could scrub the scent of blood from the air. It clung to the fences, to the dirt paths where bodies had been dragged away, to the very walls of the houses people once called safe. Carl woke to that smell, to the muffled sound of voices beyond his window, voices that tried to sound calm and failed.

He pulled his boots on slow, his whole body aching in ways no eighteen-year-old should know so well. He had cuts along his arms, bruises he hadn’t even noticed earning in the fight. And beneath all that, a raw exhaustion—of having to fight, of having to watch his father cross lines and knowing he’d cross them again.

Rick hadn’t come to bed. Carl knew because he’d waited, lying in the dark with his good eye open, listening for the creak of the door, the tread of boots. He’d fallen asleep waiting, and now the bed was still cold beside him.

Carl found him outside near the gate. Rick stood alone, blood still crusted on his shirt from last night, his revolver hanging low at his side like it had grown there. His face looked carved out of stone, jaw set so hard it seemed it would crack if he opened his mouth.

Carl approached, boots crunching gravel. Rick turned, just slightly, and the wildness in his eyes softened when they landed on him. Just a little.

“You didn’t sleep,” Carl said.

Rick shook his head. “Couldn’t. Had to keep watch.”

“There were others on guard.”

Rick’s hand flexed on the gun. “Doesn’t matter.”

Carl came closer, stopping just at his side. From here he could see the blood on Rick’s shirt more clearly—it wasn’t just Wolves’ blood. Some of it was their people’s. Some of it was Rick’s own, dried into rusty streaks. He hadn’t even noticed.

“You’re scaring them,” Carl said. “The others.”

Rick’s breath hitched through his nose. “Good.”

Carl swallowed. He knew that answer, had heard it before in different words. Fear kept people in line. But it also broke them apart. He thought about Deanna, about the Alexandrians’ wide eyes last night as Rick barked orders, as he put down the last Wolf like he was nothing.

“They need a leader,” Carl said carefully, “not… not a threat.”

Rick finally turned fully, eyes narrowing at his son like he was weighing whether to snap or listen. The line was that thin now. But instead of snapping, Rick’s shoulders dropped. Just barely.

“They almost got in,” Rick muttered. “Almost killed everyone here. They’re not ready for this world.”

“Then we make them ready,” Carl said. “Not by tearing them down.”

Rick stared at him for a long time. Then he looked away, back at the gate.

---

The day dragged like that—thick, heavy, with everyone moving like ghosts through the streets. Bodies had been buried outside the walls. Wolves and Alexandrians both. The ground was fresh-turned dirt and crude wooden crosses. Carl helped dig. So did Rick, though his movements were sharper, each shovel of earth like he was punishing the ground for what it held.

By afternoon, Deanna tried to hold a meeting. Only a handful came, most too shell-shocked or too afraid to speak. Rick stood near the back, arms folded, saying nothing as she talked about rebuilding, about defenses. His silence said more than words could.

Carl sat beside him, feeling the distance grow between Rick and the rest of them. And yet, when Rick leaned in just slightly, Carl caught the rasp of his voice meant only for him:

“They’ll break if this happens again.”

Carl whispered back, “Then we don’t let it happen again.”

Rick’s eyes burned on him for a moment, softer this time. Like he was listening. Like Carl’s voice was the only one he trusted in the room.

---

That night, the first sign came.

Carl had gone out with Rick to check the perimeter, torches in hand. The night was quiet, too quiet. No moans of walkers nearby, no wind through the trees. Just the hush before something broke.

Then they saw it, strung up against the outer fence.

A walker, gutted. Its insides spilled out, arranged in a crude spiral pattern on the ground. Words carved into its chest, jagged and deep: “Wolves Not Far.”

Carl felt bile rise in his throat. The smell was overwhelming, rotting flesh and blood.

Rick stood very still, staring at the words, jaw twitching. His knuckles whitened around the torch handle.

“They’re taunting us,” Carl said hoarsely.

Rick finally spoke, voice flat. “No. They’re warning us.”

Carl looked at him. “Warning us about what?”

Rick’s eyes were still on the words carved in the walker’s chest. “That this wasn’t the real attack. That the next one’s coming.”

Silence hung heavy. The flames from the torch sputtered in the night, casting the mutilated walker in flickering light. Carl watched his father’s face, saw the war there—fear, fury, and something darker that had been building ever since Pete, ever since the prison, ever since the world fell apart.

Rick looked at him then, and Carl knew. Whatever came next, Rick would burn the whole damn world down before he let it touch him.

And Carl didn’t know whether that terrified him or made him want to stand closer.

---

They burned the walker, the stink carrying over the walls. By the time they got back inside, Alexandria was stirring, whispers carrying through the dark streets. People had seen the smoke. They would ask questions. They would want reassurance.

Rick gave none. He only looked at Carl, eyes blazing in the firelight.

“Tomorrow,” he said, low and certain, “we hunt them first.”

Carl’s heart pounded. He knew what that meant. Knew it would pull them both deeper into the dark.

And still, he nodded.

Because no matter how far Rick went, Carl would follow.

Chapter Text

Sleep was impossible. Even after they burned the mutilated walker, even after the smoke curled away into the night sky, Carl couldn’t close his eyes. Every time he tried, he saw that spiral of guts on the ground, the jagged words carved into dead flesh. Wolves Not Far.

And every time, he saw his father’s face lit by firelight, eyes wild and shining with a promise Carl both feared and needed.

By the time most of Alexandria had gone quiet, Carl found himself pacing the house. He could hear Rick moving too, restless. His boots across the floorboards, his muttered words—like he was arguing with ghosts.

Carl pushed open the door. Rick stood in the living room, gun on the table, blood-stained shirt still clinging to him. He hadn’t washed it off. He hadn’t even tried.

“You should rest,” Carl said.

Rick looked at him, and something in that gaze stopped Carl cold. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was hunger. Rage, grief, desire, all tangled into one.

“I can’t,” Rick said. “Not when I know they’re out there. Not when I know what they’ll do if we slip, even once.”

Carl stepped closer, pulse pounding. “Then don’t slip.”

Rick’s jaw flexed. His hands clenched at his sides. “I can’t lose you.”

Carl froze, the words striking harder than any blow. His father’s voice cracked on them, raw and desperate.

“You won’t,” Carl whispered.

The space between them vanished. Rick’s hands were on him—rough, trembling, sliding under Carl’s shirt, gripping muscle and skin like proof that he was alive. Carl’s breath caught, his body shuddering at the contact.

This wasn’t new. Not anymore. But it still hit him like a storm each time, the way Rick claimed him, not as a boy, not as his son, but as the only anchor left in this broken world.

Rick’s mouth pressed hard to his neck, biting, dragging teeth along tender flesh. Carl groaned low, fingers tangling in his father’s hair, pulling him closer.

“You’re mine,” Rick rasped against his skin.

Carl’s back hit the wall, hard enough to rattle a picture frame. Rick’s hands shoved down his jeans, rough and insistent, curling around him, stroking until Carl gasped.

“Fuck—Dad—”

Rick swallowed the sound with his mouth, crushing their lips together, his tongue hot and demanding. His other hand slid lower, between Carl’s thighs, slicking him with spit and desperation, pushing until Carl’s knees buckled.

Carl grabbed his shoulders, half to steady himself, half to urge him on. His father’s breath was ragged in his ear, words tumbling out like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Need you. Need you here. Can’t let the world take you.”

Carl’s head fell back, his body open, surrendering. Rick pressed harder, faster, until slick heat built between them, until Carl was moaning, clinging to him.

“Please,” Carl gasped.

Rick didn’t wait. He shoved Carl’s jeans lower, spit-slick fingers driving in, stretching him until Carl cried out. Then he was inside, burying himself deep, grinding Carl into the wall.

The pain was sharp, burning, but Carl welcomed it. It grounded him, made everything real—his father’s weight, his father’s breath, the way he fucked him like he was the last thing worth saving in this world.

“Goddamn,” Rick groaned, rutting hard, each thrust echoing through Carl’s bones. “So tight, son. Always so fucking tight.”

Carl clung to him, nails digging into his back, biting at his shoulder to keep from screaming. His body rocked with every brutal push, every filthy word spilling from his father’s mouth.

“You take me so good,” Rick hissed. “Like you were made for me. Like this is the only way we live.”

Carl shuddered, his cock dragging against his stomach with every thrust, slick and aching. He was close, too close, his whole body strung tight.

“Dad—I’m gonna—”

Rick’s hand clamped around him, stroking hard, matching the punishing rhythm of his hips. “Do it. Come for me. Show me you’re mine.”

The words broke him. Carl cried out, spilling hot and fast across his father’s chest, his stomach, his own trembling hands. His whole body shook with it.

Rick groaned deep, burying himself harder, faster, until he spilled inside Carl with a savage growl, grinding deep as if he could mark him from the inside out.

For a moment, there was nothing but ragged breath, sweat, and the sound of their hearts pounding against each other.

Rick’s forehead dropped to Carl’s shoulder. His voice was low, shaking. “I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

Carl, still trembling, wrapped his arms around him. “You won’t. I’m here.”

---

They cleaned up in silence, though the tension didn’t fade. It lingered in every brush of skin, every glance. And it didn’t fade the next morning either, when they found the second message.

It was left at the east wall. Another walker, this one skinned. Its face peeled back, eyes staring sightless. Words carved into its chest again, deeper this time, blood still wet:

“For the strong, all is taken. Wolves will feast.”

Carl’s stomach turned, bile burning his throat.

Rick stared at the corpse, lips peeling back in something that wasn’t a smile.

“They think they can scare us,” he muttered. “They don’t know what fear is.”

Carl shivered. He knew what came next. Rick would hunt them. And he would follow.

Because after last night, after the way they’d claimed each other in blood and desperation, there was no world where Carl could let him go alone.

No matter how dark it got.

Chapter Text

The night pressed in like a weight. Thick air clung to Carl’s skin as he moved alongside his father, their boots crunching on damp earth just outside Alexandria’s walls. The moon sat low, half-hidden by clouds, and the forest beyond stretched out as a mass of shadows. Every branch creak, every leaf shift felt amplified in the dark.

Rick’s breathing was slow, steady, but Carl could feel the coil of tension beneath it. He’d grown used to the way his dad carried himself after a fight — shoulders stiff, jaw tight, eyes sweeping with constant vigilance. But tonight there was something sharper about him, something feral. It made Carl’s pulse quicken.

They were supposed to be on perimeter patrol, just the two of them. Morgan had suggested doubling up shifts, but Rick insisted. Better we do this ourselves. Don’t trust the others yet. Carl didn’t argue. Being alone with his father out here felt safer, even if the woods felt like they were holding their breath.

They moved in silence for what felt like hours, circling along the fence line, until Carl noticed it — a shape slumped ahead, too still to be alive.

“Dad,” he whispered, pointing.

Rick raised a hand, motioning for quiet, and drew his gun. They closed in. The stench hit first — rot layered with copper, sharper than a normal walker’s stink. Then the sound: flies buzzing in a frenzy.

The figure chained to the tree had once been human. Its chest cavity was split open, ribcage pried apart, entrails dangling like grotesque ribbons. Its eyes were gone, sockets carved clean. A crude ‘W’ was carved into its forehead. Around it, symbols smeared in blood painted the bark — jagged spirals, claw-like scratches.

Carl’s stomach clenched, bile burning at the back of his throat.

“This isn’t just killing,” he muttered. “They wanted us to see this.”

Rick crouched, studying the marks with his jaw locked. The shadows made the blood on his face look fresh again, like it had the night he killed Pete.

“They’re close,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “Too close.”

Carl’s hand drifted to the grip of his pistol. He didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding it until his knuckles ached.

A sound cut through the trees. A whisper, faint — then a laugh.

Rick’s head snapped up.

They weren’t alone.

Figures slipped from the treeline like wraiths, their movements fast, deliberate. Faces smeared with dirt, weapons glinting in faint moonlight. Knives, axes, jagged scraps of metal — no guns. Carl counted four, then six, then more, circling.

The Wolves.

“Back to back,” Rick hissed, already moving. Carl pressed against him, gun raised, heart hammering so hard it felt like his ribs would crack.

The first one lunged.

Rick’s revolver barked, the blast deafening. The Wolf dropped, skull shattered, but another was already on them, knife slashing. Carl fired, missed, ducked under a wild swing. The knife grazed his arm, hot pain flaring, and he squeezed the trigger again — this time the Wolf fell back, shrieking, blood spraying from his chest.

More came.

They swarmed like feral dogs, snarling, screaming, blades catching moonlight. The world shrank to flashes of metal, wet thuds, the reek of sweat and blood.

Carl’s vision tunneled. He fired until the gun clicked empty, then swung it like a club. Rick fought like a man possessed — fists, boots, revolver cracking skulls when the chamber ran dry. He bellowed curses through gritted teeth, a bloody silhouette in the dark.

But there were too many.

Hands grabbed Carl’s jacket, yanking him back. He slammed an elbow into a nose, heard cartilage crunch, spun and drove his knife up under a jaw. Hot spray blinded him, but another Wolf came from behind, tackling him to the dirt.

He hit hard, the breath knocked from his chest. The blade flashed — Rick’s boot crashed down, shattering the attacker’s wrist. The knife skittered into the dark. Rick dragged Carl up by the arm, shoving him forward.

“Move!”

They ran. Branches tore at their clothes, their skin. Shouts echoed behind them, closer with every stride. The forest was alive with pursuit, shadows flickering, footsteps pounding. Carl’s lungs burned, blood hot on his sleeve, but he didn’t dare slow.

The walls of Alexandria loomed ahead, pale in the moonlight. So close.

A Wolf leapt from the side, slamming into Carl’s ribs. They went down in a tangle. Carl grappled, panic flooding his veins. The man’s teeth snapped inches from his face, breath rancid. Carl jammed his thumb into the man’s eye socket, shoved hard, screaming. The Wolf shrieked, recoiling. Rick’s revolver cracked — the man’s skull burst, and Carl scrambled free.

“Keep going!” Rick roared.

They stumbled through the last stretch, the gate finally within reach. Shouts from the wall — watchmen calling, guns raising. Bullets spat into the dark, Wolves shrieking as some fell.

Carl and Rick crashed through the gates just as they slammed shut behind them. Carl collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, blood soaking his sleeve. His vision blurred at the edges.

Rick stood over him, revolver shaking in his hand, eyes wild. For a moment he didn’t look like Carl’s father at all. He looked like something dragged out of the dark, something dangerous, something that didn’t belong inside walls anymore.

The silence after the gate shut was suffocating.

Carl pressed a hand to his side, smearing blood across his shirt. He met Rick’s eyes. Neither spoke, but the truth hung between them, heavy and undeniable.

They hadn’t won. They’d barely survived.

The Wolves were still out there.

Chapter Text

The gates of Alexandria came into view like a mirage, looming through the sheets of rain. The night had turned black as pitch, thunder rolling across the sky, and every shadow seemed to move. Their footsteps dragged through the mud, slick with blood—some of it theirs, some not.

“Almost there,” Rick rasped, voice torn raw. His hand clutched the gatepost as if it might dissolve if he didn’t anchor himself. His shirt was soaked, torn at the collar, the dried blood across his ribs a grim map of the night’s journey.

Carl limped at his side, one hand pressed against the bandage Michonne had tied hastily around his arm. His face was pale but hard, jaw set. He didn’t look like a boy anymore. He looked like someone who’d stared too long into the abyss and hadn’t blinked.

Daryl was dragging the half-dead walker he’d used as a shield earlier, finally letting it slump into the mud outside the gate. His eyes scanned the tree line, twitchy, like he expected more of the nightmare to follow them.

“Open up!” Michonne pounded on the gate with the butt of her katana. “Now!”

The guards scrambled, faces shocked when they saw the state of them. Tara ran down from the wall, eyes wide. “Jesus, what the hell happened out there?”

“Later,” Rick barked, voice cracking. His hand slipped against the gate, almost buckling. “Get it open.”

The gates groaned and swung inward. For a moment, none of them moved. Their bodies seemed locked in place by exhaustion, by fear that if they stepped into safety, it might vanish.

Then Michonne shoved Rick forward, and they stumbled through. The gates slammed behind them with a metallic scream that sounded too much like the claws of the dead.

Inside, everything looked surreal. Warm lantern light, voices in the distance, houses still standing. It felt obscene after what they had just crawled through.

Carol appeared first, stepping out of the shadows near the infirmary. Her breath hitched when she saw them. “My God…” She didn’t finish. She grabbed Carl first, her hands fluttering uselessly over his bandages. “Sit. Sit down before you collapse.”

“I’m fine,” Carl muttered, though his knees buckled the moment she said it. Carol caught him, easing him onto the steps.

Rick swayed, leaning against the wall, his eyes glassy. His gaze swept across Alexandria’s clean streets and caught the flicker of laughter from a group of children running under cover of porches. Something twisted in him, sharp as a blade.

They hadn’t seen. They hadn’t heard.

The night in Alexandria was thick, heavy, pressing against them even behind walls. Every sound carried too sharply—the slam of a door, the bark of a dog, the clatter of boots against pavement.

Rick sat inside the infirmary, hunched on the edge of the cot while Denise worked silently on the gash across his chest. Her hands trembled only once, but it was enough to tell him she was afraid—not of him, but of the story his body told.

“You’re lucky,” she said quietly, stitching. “Another inch and…” She didn’t finish.

Rick didn’t answer. His eyes had glazed, staring past her, seeing instead the storm, the walkers, the blood that wouldn’t wash off his hands. He could still hear them—their teeth snapping, their guttural moans swelling like a chorus from hell.

Carl sat across the room, his bandage replaced with something clean, though the skin beneath was raw and angry. His eye—his single blue eye—watched Rick with a steadiness that cut deeper than any blade.

“You almost didn’t make it,” Carl said flatly.

Rick’s mouth twitched. He wanted to argue, to tell him he’d been fine, that he’d had control. But the truth clawed in his throat: Carl wasn’t wrong.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the quiet room. A silence that felt like it could shatter into screams at any second.

Later that night, when the others had drifted off—some collapsing into bunks, others numbing themselves with bottles—they sat alone on the porch of their house. The storm had passed, leaving the world washed in eerie silence.

Carl leaned against the railing, shoulders hunched. His fingers trembled, but he gripped the wood until his knuckles whitened.

Rick sat beside him, the faint glow of a lantern casting his face in hollow shadows. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

“I thought I lost you out there.”

Carl didn’t look at him. “You almost did.” His words were flat, but his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You froze. Just for a second.”

Rick closed his eyes, the weight of it pressing down. The memory of claws tearing, Michonne screaming, Carl stumbling. He had frozen. And it haunted him.

“I can’t afford to freeze,” Rick whispered, almost to himself.

“No,” Carl said, turning now, his stare sharp as glass. “You can’t. Not when it’s me standing there. Not when it’s us.”

Their silence lingered like smoke. The night pressed close around them, the shadows too deep, too thick.

And somewhere beyond the walls, the dead moved. Waiting.

They made it back, but barely. And Alexandria—safe, clean, bright—felt more like a dream they couldn’t quite hold onto.

Because the darkness hadn’t stayed outside. It had followed them in.

Chapter Text

Alright — here’s Day Fourteen – Part One (~2000 words) in Carl’s POV.
I leaned into the horror-movie feel you asked for: unsettling silence, grotesque imagery, dread bleeding into Alexandria, with quiet undercurrents of closeness between Rick and Carl (but no explicit yet).

---

Day Fourteen – Part One

Carl’s POV

The gates of Alexandria groaned open, and the silence inside was worse than the screams they’d left behind.

Carl staggered in first, clothes clinging wet with blood that wasn’t his own. He could still smell it—iron sharp in the back of his throat. Rick was right behind him, one arm pressed tight against his ribs where something—he didn’t even know what—had cut deep. His father’s face was a mask, jaw locked, eyes wild but focused. They looked like survivors crawling out of a grave.

The gate clanged shut, and the world went still. Too still. No one rushed to greet them, no panicked questions, no nervous chatter. Just the sound of their boots dragging across the pavement.

Carl’s heart thudded, slow and heavy, every beat echoing in his ears. He wanted to scream, to tell the whole damn town what was coming, what was already here, but the words lodged in his chest. He glanced sideways at Rick. His dad looked like he’d walked out of a nightmare that hadn’t let him go yet. Maybe they both had.

They passed the first row of houses, curtains twitching, shadows moving behind the glass. Faces peered out, then disappeared, too afraid to meet their eyes. Alexandria wasn’t home anymore. It was a stage before slaughter, and everyone inside seemed to know it, even if they didn’t have the words.

Carl swallowed hard, tasting bile. He couldn’t shake the images. The Wolves hadn’t just killed. They’d carved, rearranged, made people into messages. Limbs bent the wrong way, eyes gouged and left staring. He could still hear the laughter that followed them through the trees, disembodied and sharp, like wolves circling prey they weren’t ready to eat yet.

And scrawled on walls, on scraps of wood shoved into the ground, on the chests of the mutilated—marks. A jagged “W,” smeared in blood. Everywhere. Always watching. Always reminding them that death wasn’t just near—it was playing with them.

Carl’s fingers twitched toward his gun. Even inside the walls, he couldn’t let go of the urge to draw, to fire, to fight. Every sound was too sharp. Every shadow stretched too long.

“Keep moving,” Rick said finally, voice low and ragged. He didn’t look at Carl, but Carl could feel the weight of his presence like a hand on his back. Guiding. Holding him upright. Keeping him from unraveling.

They reached the infirmary, and Denise came rushing out at last, hands shaking as she motioned them inside. Rick brushed her off with a tight shake of his head. “Later,” he muttered. He wasn’t ready to be patched up, not until the story was out, not until the threat was clear.

Carl followed him, silent, each step heavier than the last. They found Michonne waiting near the center of town, her sword strapped to her back, eyes narrowing the moment she saw them. She didn’t flinch at the blood, didn’t step away. She just stood there, solid, a steady anchor in the chaos.

“What happened?” she asked, tone flat, all business.

Rick exhaled slowly. The sound was closer to a growl. “The Wolves.”

Her gaze flicked to Carl, then back to Rick. “How close?”

“Too close,” Carl said before his dad could answer. His voice cracked on the words, but he didn’t care. “They’re not just killing. They’re… leaving things. Signs. They want us scared.” He swallowed, throat tight. “It’s working.”

A long silence. Even the wind seemed to die. Michonne’s eyes softened for just a moment as they met his, but then she nodded. “We need to tell the others.”

Rick’s hand brushed Carl’s shoulder, grounding him, pulling him back from the edge. Just that brief touch, but it steadied Carl more than anything else could. He nodded back.

---

That night, Alexandria felt wrong. The walls stood tall, torches flickering along the perimeter, but every flicker looked like a shadow moving where it shouldn’t. People huddled in groups, whispering low, voices breaking when they thought no one could hear. Judith cried in Jessie’s arms, high and thin, the sound cutting through the night like a blade.

Carl sat on the steps of their house, gun balanced across his knees, eyes fixed on the dark beyond the walls. Rick came out after a while, moving stiff, blood still caked on his skin where he hadn’t let Denise clean him. He sat beside Carl without a word. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence was its own kind of suffocation.

Finally, Carl whispered, “They’re not done.”

Rick’s hand closed over his, firm, calloused, warm even through the cold. “I know.”

Carl turned his head, watching the faint light catch in his dad’s eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a leader right now. Not the sheriff. Not even the hardened man who’d cut down Pete without hesitation. They were just… tired. Haunted. But alive.

And that, somehow, made Carl breathe a little easier.

“You held your ground,” Rick said after a moment, voice low. “Out there. When it counted.”

Carl shrugged, trying to play it off, though his chest swelled tight with something more complicated than pride. “So did you.”

Rick’s mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. His hand lingered on Carl’s, thumb brushing absently against his knuckles, like he needed the contact as much as Carl did.

A howl echoed faint in the distance—high, broken, human. Not a walker. Not an animal. The Wolves.

Carl stiffened, gun rising automatically. Rick’s hand tightened on his. “Not yet,” he murmured. “They’re testing us. Feeling for weakness. We won’t give them any.”

Carl swallowed, lowering the gun, though every nerve screamed to keep it raised. “They’re watching.”

“Then let them,” Rick said, voice like gravel. “Let them see we’re not breaking.”

But Carl heard the unspoken words beneath it. Not yet.

---

Sleep didn’t come. Carl lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence pressed against the walls of Alexandria. Too quiet. Too perfect. He rolled onto his side, eyes catching on Rick stretched out on the couch across the room. His father wasn’t asleep either. Their eyes met in the dim light, holding for a beat longer than they should.

Carl thought about the hand on his, the thumb brushing his skin. The way that brief contact had kept him from falling apart completely. He thought about the smell of blood still clinging to Rick, the wild look in his eyes when they’d fought their way out, the way his dad’s voice had steadied even when the world around them was tearing apart.

The world was falling into nightmare, and yet, here, in this quiet, with Rick watching him across the dark—Carl felt something fierce and grounding. A tether. A promise.

Outside, another howl rose. Closer this time.

Rick sat up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, head bowing for a moment before lifting again. His gaze locked with Carl’s. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.

They both knew the Wolves weren’t done.

And they both knew that whatever came next, they would face it together.

The gates of Alexandria came into view like a mirage, looming through the sheets of rain. The night had turned black as pitch, thunder rolling across the sky, and every shadow seemed to move. Their footsteps dragged through the mud, slick with blood—some of it theirs, some not.

“Almost there,” Rick rasped, voice torn raw. His hand clutched the gatepost as if it might dissolve if he didn’t anchor himself. His shirt was soaked, torn at the collar, the dried blood across his ribs a grim map of the night’s journey.

Carl limped at his side, one hand pressed against the bandage Michonne had tied hastily around his arm. His face was pale but hard, jaw set. He didn’t look like a boy anymore. He looked like someone who’d stared too long into the abyss and hadn’t blinked.

Daryl was dragging the half-dead walker he’d used as a shield earlier, finally letting it slump into the mud outside the gate. His eyes scanned the tree line, twitchy, like he expected more of the nightmare to follow them.

“Open up!” Michonne pounded on the gate with the butt of her katana. “Now!”

The guards scrambled, faces shocked when they saw the state of them. Tara ran down from the wall, eyes wide. “Jesus, what the hell happened out there?”

“Later,” Rick barked, voice cracking. His hand slipped against the gate, almost buckling. “Get it open.”

The gates groaned and swung inward. For a moment, none of them moved. Their bodies seemed locked in place by exhaustion, by fear that if they stepped into safety, it might vanish.

Then Michonne shoved Rick forward, and they stumbled through. The gates slammed behind them with a metallic scream that sounded too much like the claws of the dead.

Inside, everything looked surreal. Warm lantern light, voices in the distance, houses still standing. It felt obscene after what they had just crawled through.

Carol appeared first, stepping out of the shadows near the infirmary. Her breath hitched when she saw them. “My God…” She didn’t finish. She grabbed Carl first, her hands fluttering uselessly over his bandages. “Sit. Sit down before you collapse.”

“I’m fine,” Carl muttered, though his knees buckled the moment she said it. Carol caught him, easing him onto the steps.

Rick swayed, leaning against the wall, his eyes glassy. His gaze swept across Alexandria’s clean streets and caught the flicker of laughter from a group of children running under cover of porches. Something twisted in him, sharp as a blade.

They hadn’t seen. They hadn’t heard.

The night in Alexandria was thick, heavy, pressing against them even behind walls. Every sound carried too sharply—the slam of a door, the bark of a dog, the clatter of boots against pavement.

Rick sat inside the infirmary, hunched on the edge of the cot while Denise worked silently on the gash across his chest. Her hands trembled only once, but it was enough to tell him she was afraid—not of him, but of the story his body told.

“You’re lucky,” she said quietly, stitching. “Another inch and…” She didn’t finish.

Rick didn’t answer. His eyes had glazed, staring past her, seeing instead the storm, the walkers, the blood that wouldn’t wash off his hands. He could still hear them—their teeth snapping, their guttural moans swelling like a chorus from hell.

Carl sat across the room, his bandage replaced with something clean, though the skin beneath was raw and angry. His eye—his single blue eye—watched Rick with a steadiness that cut deeper than any blade.

“You almost didn’t make it,” Carl said flatly.

Rick’s mouth twitched. He wanted to argue, to tell him he’d been fine, that he’d had control. But the truth clawed in his throat: Carl wasn’t wrong.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the quiet room. A silence that felt like it could shatter into screams at any second.

Later that night, when the others had drifted off—some collapsing into bunks, others numbing themselves with bottles—they sat alone on the porch of their house. The storm had passed, leaving the world washed in eerie silence.

Carl leaned against the railing, shoulders hunched. His fingers trembled, but he gripped the wood until his knuckles whitened.

Rick sat beside him, the faint glow of a lantern casting his face in hollow shadows. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

“I thought I lost you out there.”

Carl didn’t look at him. “You almost did.” His words were flat, but his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “You froze. Just for a second.”

Rick closed his eyes, the weight of it pressing down. The memory of claws tearing, Michonne screaming, Carl stumbling. He had frozen. And it haunted him.

“I can’t afford to freeze,” Rick whispered, almost to himself.

“No,” Carl said, turning now, his stare sharp as glass. “You can’t. Not when it’s me standing there. Not when it’s us.”

Their silence lingered like smoke. The night pressed close around them, the shadows too deep, too thick.

And somewhere beyond the walls, the dead moved. Waiting.

They made it back, but barely. And Alexandria—safe, clean, bright—felt more like a dream they couldn’t quite hold onto.

Because the darkness hadn’t stayed outside. It had followed them in.

Chapter Text

The air inside Alexandria didn’t feel safe anymore.

It had been less than a week since Rick and Carl had dragged themselves back through the gates—bloodied, exhausted, and hollow-eyed—but that raw panic hadn’t faded. If anything, the quiet was worse. The Wolves hadn’t shown their faces in days, but their shadow lay across the settlement like a film of ash, coating everything Carl saw.

He couldn’t shake the images. The mutilated walkers. The painted warnings. The screams in the treeline when he and Rick had barely made it out alive.

Now, every creak of wood, every barking dog outside the walls, made people jump. Carl walked the streets and saw it in their faces: neighbors who no longer met each other’s eyes, mothers clutching their kids too tightly, men gripping tools like weapons even when they were only hammering boards. Alexandria wasn’t a community anymore—it was a roomful of people waiting for a door to be kicked in.

Rick moved through the same streets like a stormcloud. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was low, edged with gravel. Carl caught the way Michonne’s gaze lingered on him, the way Carol’s hands twitched toward her knife every time the silence stretched too long. Everyone could feel it—Rick was coiled tight, and if he broke, the town would break with him.

But the worst part was the nights.

Carl lay awake in the little house they’d claimed, listening to his father’s uneven breathing, to the faint sounds of people whispering through the walls of Alexandria, to the dead silence beyond them. He felt like a kid again, waiting for the monster under the bed. Only now the monster was real, and it was smart, and it was watching.

That morning—Day Fifteen—Carl joined the wall patrol. Deanna had insisted they keep rotations tight, more eyes than usual. It wasn’t enough. Carl could feel it before he even climbed the ladder: that sharp prickling in his skin, the kind that said someone was staring at him from just beyond the tree line.

“See anything?” Tobin asked, trying for casual. His knuckles were white on his rifle.

Carl adjusted his grip on his own weapon. “Not yet.”

The woods stretched dark and heavy. The mist hadn’t burned off, and it draped the trees like smoke. For a moment Carl swore he saw movement—a shape ducking between trunks—but when he blinked, it was gone.

Then he smelled it.

Iron. Rot.

“Over there,” he said sharply, pointing.

They moved along the catwalk, guns raised, until the haze parted enough to reveal it: a walker pinned against the fence with pikes. Its face had been peeled away in strips, flesh dangling like ribbons. Carved into its chest was a single jagged word, deep and messy:

HUNTERS.

Carl’s throat tightened. The letters were sloppy, cut by someone who didn’t care about precision—only effect.

“Jesus,” Tobin muttered. He gagged, but Carl didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

Because beyond the walker, deeper in the treeline, he thought he saw shapes. Still. Watching.

Rick arrived fast. He stood beside Carl, jaw locked, eyes scanning the word. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then he turned toward the gathered Alexandrians below.

“They’re telling us what’s coming,” he said flatly. “They want us scared. They want us to break before they even touch the gates.”

His voice carried, calm but razor-sharp. People shifted uneasily. Jessie crossed her arms tight. Aaron glanced toward Eric. Carol stared at the body, her expression unreadable.

Carl studied his father. He knew that voice—it wasn’t a speech, it was a verdict. Rick was already planning what came next, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

That night, Carl couldn’t sleep again. He stared at the ceiling, listening. The usual cicadas were gone. No wind. No creaks. Just a silence so heavy it felt pressed against his chest.

And then—

A scream.

It split the quiet, high-pitched and panicked, echoing off the houses. Carl bolted upright, grabbing his gun. Rick was already on his feet, charging for the door.

They hit the street together. Lights flared on, people stumbling out, shouting questions. The scream had come from the east wall. Carl ran with Rick through the dark until the smell hit him again—iron, rot, stronger this time.

And then he saw.

Hanging from the inside of the wall, strung up by the wrists with barbed wire, was a body. Not a walker. A man. His stomach had been cut open, intestines spilling like ropes down his legs. His eyes were glassy, mouth frozen in a final, silent cry.

How the hell had they gotten him inside the wall?

Carl’s chest seized. Someone shoved past him—Maggie, pale, hand over her mouth. Glenn caught her shoulders, pulling her back, murmuring something Carl couldn’t hear over the roar in his ears.

Rick stood frozen, fists clenched so tight his knuckles looked bone-white even in the dark.

The Wolves hadn’t attacked yet. They didn’t need to. They’d found a way to get inside and hang a man in the heart of Alexandria without anyone seeing. That was the message.

Carl’s grip on his gun tightened until his fingers went numb.

The next morning, Alexandria felt like a graveyard. No one spoke above a whisper. People moved fast, eyes darting, as if shadows might lunge from the corners. Carl tried to help with the body, but he couldn’t force himself close enough to touch it. The smell was unbearable.

By afternoon, the body was gone, buried outside the walls, but its absence was worse. The barbed wire marks on the wall still glistened red.

Rick called a meeting at the church. Carl sat near the front, watching the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder, faces pale and drawn.

“They want us afraid,” Rick said. “They want us scattered. That’s how they win.” He swept the room with his gaze. “We’re not giving them that. We stay together. We stay alert. Nobody’s alone.”

Murmurs rippled. Carl could hear the fear underneath them.

Michonne stood beside Rick, hand on her sword hilt. Carol lingered in the back, eyes sharp, studying faces instead of Rick’s words. Deanna looked like she was holding herself together by sheer will.

Carl listened, heart pounding. The Wolves weren’t just outside anymore. They were here, slipping in and out like ghosts. The game had changed.

He knew it was only a matter of time before the walls weren’t enough.

Chapter Text

The walls had never felt thinner.

Carl stood at the edge of Alexandria’s gate, boots pressed into the dirt like roots trying to hold him steady. The morning light stretched pale over the fences, and though the town looked quiet, peaceful even, his stomach twisted. Peace was an illusion. He’d seen too much to believe in it.

A crow perched on the wall post above him let out a dry caw, and Carl’s eyes snapped upward. Black wings, black eyes. The bird’s gaze stayed fixed on something in the distance.

“See it?” Rick’s voice came low, rough.

Carl turned. His dad was beside him, bloodshot eyes burning like coals in a dying fire. He hadn’t slept—not really—since Pete. Carl hadn’t either. They both carried that night like it was sewn into their skin. Rick’s revolver hung loose in his hand, but his knuckles were bone-white, flexing and tightening every few seconds.

Carl swallowed. “What is it?”

Rick lifted his chin. “Past the trees. Right there.”

Carl narrowed his good eye, focusing. Between the pines and the high grass, something leaned against a tree trunk. It wasn’t moving. At first he thought it was a walker. But then he saw the ropes. A body.

“Shit,” Carl muttered.

They crossed the field together. The air grew heavier the closer they came. The smell hit first—sickly sweet rot, mixed with copper.

The body wasn’t a walker. Or maybe it had been once. Now it was split open down the middle, chest cavity carved wide, ribs cracked and spread like a grotesque book. Its entrails had been pulled out, arranged in spirals across the ground, painted in patterns Carl couldn’t decipher.

Carl’s stomach clenched, but he forced himself to look. Forced himself not to flinch. If he flinched, he gave them power.

Rick crouched, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at the mess. His hand reached out, fingers hovering just above the slick coils of intestine. He didn’t touch. He didn’t need to. “They left this.”

Carl’s mouth felt dry. “The Wolves.”

Rick’s eyes cut to him, sharp and proud all at once. He nodded. “Message.”

Carl shifted closer. Their shoulders brushed, a small spark that sent heat darting through Carl’s body in ways he wasn’t ready to name. He wanted to think it was adrenaline. Just adrenaline. But when Rick’s hand steadied on his back as they stood, heavy and warm through the layers of his shirt, Carl didn’t move away.

The corpse’s head was marked. A “W” carved deep into its forehead, blood dried thick around the wound.

Rick’s voice was gravel. “They’re close.”

Carl forced air through his lungs. “Then we get closer.”

The town looked the same when they returned. Houses, gardens, people moving about trying to keep the illusion alive. A child laughed near the porch steps. A woman hung laundry, humming. Normal life in a world that had no room for it.

Carl saw it all differently now. The Wolves were circling. They were watching.

Rick’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder until they were back inside their own house. He closed the door, locked it, then leaned against it like he was trying to hold the entire world out.

Carl watched him in silence. The lines in Rick’s face were deeper now, shadowed by sleeplessness and rage. His shirt still smelled faintly of blood, even after washing. That metallic tang seemed to follow him everywhere.

Rick finally lifted his head. His eyes softened when they landed on Carl, but the fire beneath never went out. “You scared?”

Carl wanted to lie. To say no. But he couldn’t. Not to him. “Yeah.”

Rick crossed the room in two strides, his hand finding Carl’s jaw, thumb brushing the faint stubble that had started to grow there. Carl froze, heat crawling under his skin, breath caught. His dad’s touch was too much—too steady, too close, too careful.

“You don’t need to be,” Rick said, voice low. “Not with me.”

Carl’s throat went tight. His heart hammered so loud he swore Rick could hear it. “I know.”

The silence stretched between them, thick as smoke. Rick’s thumb lingered against his jaw before sliding away, but the absence burned worse than the touch.

That night, Carl lay awake in his room, listening. Every creak of the walls, every gust of wind brushing the windows, he thought it was them. Wolves climbing fences, slipping through shadows.

He turned on his side. The door was cracked open, and through it, he saw the faint glow of the lamp in Rick’s room down the hall. Still awake. Still keeping watch.

Carl pushed off his blankets and moved quiet down the hall. His dad was at the window, revolver on the sill, eyes on the night beyond the walls.

“Can’t sleep?” Rick asked without turning.

Carl shook his head.

Rick’s mouth curved in something like a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He motioned him over. “Come here.”

Carl stepped close. The window glass reflected their faces, side by side—father and son, but not only. Not anymore. Carl saw the tension in his dad’s jaw, the strain in his eyes, and beneath it, something else. Something darker, needier.

Rick’s hand slid over Carl’s, resting heavy and warm. “Hear that?”

Carl strained his ears. The night was quiet, but not empty. Somewhere beyond the trees, faint, almost like whispers—animal calls twisted wrong. Wolves, or men pretending.

Carl’s chest tightened. “They’re out there.”

Rick’s grip tightened over his hand. “Let ‘em be. They come, we’ll end ‘em.”

Carl’s pulse raced. The promise in Rick’s voice wasn’t just about killing. It was possession. It was a vow. His father turned then, eyes locking with his, gaze dragging lower, lingering too long. The closeness pressed like a weight.

Carl didn’t pull back. Couldn’t. The air between them pulsed with fear and something else, something forbidden, something that had been growing since that night Pete died.

Rick’s thumb brushed the back of his hand. Slow. Intimate. Carl’s breath shuddered.

He wanted to look away. He didn’t.

The next morning, more signs appeared.

Blood smeared across the walls outside the town. A dead walker tied upright against the fence, arms spread, throat slit so deep it looked nearly decapitated. On its chest, words scrawled in gore: We are already inside.

Panic rippled through Alexandria. People gathered, shouting, demanding answers. Deanna’s face had gone pale, her lips tight.

Rick’s hand clamped on Carl’s shoulder as they stood at the front of the crowd. His presence was solid, unshakable. Carl drew strength from it, but also something sharper, a pulse of heat that unsettled him.

Rick’s voice cut through the noise, strong and commanding. “This is a warning. That’s all. They want fear. Don’t give it to ‘em.”

Carl scanned the faces. Mothers clutching children. Men gripping tools like weapons. Their fear hung thick in the air. And behind it, Carl swore he felt eyes watching. Not from the crowd. From the trees. From beyond the wall.

That night, Carl stayed in Rick’s room. He didn’t pretend otherwise. Neither of them did.

The storm outside rattled the windows, rain tapping like restless fingers. Rick sat on the edge of the bed, cleaning his revolver, methodical, calm. Carl watched from beside him, unable to tear his eyes away. The muscles in Rick’s forearms flexed with every careful motion, veins standing out under tanned skin.

Carl shifted closer, until their legs brushed. Rick didn’t move away.

The storm grew louder, wind howling. It sounded too much like the Wolves’ whispers. Carl’s chest tightened, breath shallow. He didn’t realize he was shaking until Rick’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him against his side.

“You’re all right,” Rick murmured, his breath warm against Carl’s temple.

Carl’s heart pounded. He pressed closer, the comfort bleeding into something hotter, heavier, wrong but irresistible. Rick’s hand lingered on his hip, fingers pressing, holding.

Carl closed his eye, swallowed hard, and let himself lean into it. Just for tonight. Just until morning.

The storm raged on.

The night fell heavy and unnatural, thick like wet cloth pressing against Carl’s chest. Every shutter rattled, every dog bark made him jump. The storm had passed, but the air carried a tense, metallic scent — iron and fear.

Rick stood at the top of the wall, hand on the rail, eyes sharp, scanning the shadows beyond the fence. Carl was beside him, fingers grazing the rough wood as they leaned together. Close enough that heat radiated from Rick’s body, stirring a strange ache through Carl’s chest, but they had no time to dwell on it. Not yet.

Then, a faint scrape.

Carl froze. His pulse spiked, every muscle coiled. Another scrape.

“Something’s moving,” Rick muttered, voice low and tight.

At first, Carl thought it was a trick of the dark, a shadow cast by the lamp glow across the wall. Then came the screaming.

From the far side of the settlement, a wall buckled, a wooden beam shattering like brittle bone. Torchlight flickered through the gap. Wolves.

Carl’s stomach dropped. “They’re inside.”

Rick didn’t answer. He jumped down from the wall, landing like a predator himself. Carl followed, gun tight in his hands, knuckles white. The streets were chaos before they even reached the gates.

Flames licked the sky above the first house that went up in fire. A figure lunged from the shadows — not a walker, not human in the usual sense — and slammed a machete into the chest of a man running past. Carl screamed, pulling the trigger, dropping the figure in a wet, sticky heap. Blood sprayed across his arms.

Rick was already moving, swinging a bat like it weighed nothing, knocking Wolves aside. Their movements were fluid, almost synchronized, and Carl felt a rush of something he couldn’t name: relief, lust, adrenaline, all knotted tight. He was close to his father, too close, but every touch as they passed each other felt necessary. Survival was physical, yes, but proximity burned something else through him.

A woman screamed from a doorway, Wolves surrounding her. Carl moved first, firing, but they were too many. One leapt, teeth bared. Carl rolled, barely dodging, and felt the warmth of Rick’s hand on his back as they collided, pressed together, racing down the street toward another skirmish.

The walls weren’t enough. They weren’t anywhere near enough. Carl realized Alexandria wasn’t a settlement tonight — it was a slaughterhouse, and the Wolves were the knives.

They moved like shadows, weaving through streets lined with screaming, burning homes. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of blood. Every corner held a new threat. Carl’s ears rang with the clash of metal on flesh, the roar of fire, the screams of the dying.

He fired without aiming sometimes, just letting the rifle spit lead where he thought the next attacker might come.

Rick was always close, brushing past him to block a swing, pull him out of danger, their bodies colliding in the chaos. Each time, Carl felt it — the heat, the tightness in his chest, the pulse of their proximity hammering through him. Not the moment to dwell on it, but impossible not to.

A Wolf slashed at Rick from the side. Carl lunged, stabbing the knife straight into the attacker’s shoulder. The Wolf stumbled, screamed, and fell. Rick didn’t pause; his hand found Carl’s shoulder, pressing him toward the next threat. “Move,” he barked.

Carl followed blindly, adrenaline carving a tunnel in his head.

The Wolves moved fast, feral, precise. Their attack was organized chaos: one team flamed a house, another cornered residents, another tried the gates. Fire roared up, wood splintered, and Carl found himself in the middle of the scream, the smoke, the blood.

He saw a figure running through the haze — a small child, eyes wide and terrified. Carl didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, scooping the child into his arms, moving to shield them. Rick appeared at the same time, pushing a Wolf off with brutal force. Carl’s chest brushed against Rick’s as he handed the child over. The heat between them sparked again — fleeting, undeniable — and Carl shoved it down. Survival first. Desire later.

Gunfire cracked, metal struck metal, Wolves fell, screamed, vanished. Carl’s lungs burned, his hands slick with blood — both Wolf and human. Every sense screamed overload. Every movement was instinct, every touch from Rick another jolt of awareness, another tether in the storm.

They reached the center of the settlement, where the largest fire roared. Michonne was cutting down a Wolf that had grabbed a barricade plank, slicing through arms, then spinning to face another attacker. Carol had a torch, swinging like a baseball bat, landing blows that made the attackers stagger.

Carl found Rick’s gaze across the chaos. Their eyes met for just a moment — relief, fear, and something darker flashing between them. Then the roar of metal on wood pulled them back into the fight.

Carl threw himself at a Wolf trying to topple a gate. Rick’s hand caught him mid-turn, pressing him back. Their bodies collided, heat and blood pressing against each other. Carl’s breath hitched, gun raised, firing without thinking. Rick’s lips were just inches from his ear, and his voice came low, rasped: “Stay with me.”

The words weren’t just about the fight. Carl felt them in his chest. Felt them in every nerve screaming with danger.

The Wolves screamed in retaliation. One leapt from the wall, knocking Rick to the ground. Carl lunged, stabbing at the attacker with the knife, sliding on blood-slick cobblestones. He fell against Rick, pressed hard, heart pounding, breath heaving. Rick’s hand found his, grip tight, fingers curled around his own.

Carl didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not in this storm of heat, blood, and survival. Each collision, each pressed body, each shared movement through chaos was intimate in a way the world outside had no right to allow.

The battle twisted into the night. Fires burned high. Screams echoed, wolves howled like the end of the world. Carl lost track of time, lost track of everything but the next movement, the next breath, the next shadow threatening them.

At some point, Michonne and Carol pulled together, pushing the Wolves back from the gates. Rick and Carl were side by side in the thick of it, cutting, stabbing, swinging, dodging. Their proximity was constant. Carl could feel the heat of Rick’s body, smell the mix of sweat, blood, and smoke. Every glance, every brush of skin, every word shared between them carried tension that had nothing to do with the fight — but it kept them alive, kept them tethered, made every movement sharper.

By the time the sun broke, the Wolves had retreated. They left destruction in their wake: burned houses, dead bodies, shredded barricades, blood-soaked streets. Alexandria was alive, barely, and it was silent except for the crackle of dying fires.

Carl sank to the ground, chest heaving, limbs trembling from exhaustion. Rick dropped beside him, arm brushing against his. Not a touch for comfort, not quite, but something heavier, deeper. Carl swallowed hard, breathing in the scent of smoke and iron, the lingering heat of Rick pressed against him.

Neither spoke. Neither moved. They didn’t need to. The silence said it all.

The raid was over. But the Wolves had left their mark. And in the dark between the ashes, Carl felt something coil inside him, a dangerous mix of fear, adrenaline, and need that wouldn’t go away.

Chapter Text

Morning broke gray and heavy over Alexandria. Smoke lingered like a living thing, curling through shattered windows and broken rooftops, turning the streets into a blur of soot and shadow. Carl walked through it carefully, boots crunching over splintered wood, scorched shingles, and shards of glass. Every step was a reminder of the raid — the Wolves had been here, and they had left nothing subtle.

Bodies lay in twisted heaps. Some burned beyond recognition, some slashed open like grotesque dolls. Carl’s stomach churned at the smell: smoke mixed with blood and rot. Somewhere in the distance, a dog whimpered. He forced his eyes away from the child they had found the night before, now wrapped in a blanket, clinging to a surviving parent, trembling.

Rick moved beside him, rifle in hand, scanning the ruined street like a predator. His jaw was tight, sweat and soot streaked across his face. His movements were precise, controlled, but Carl could see the tension coiled in his shoulders. His dad hadn’t slept more than an hour, if at all, since the attack.

“You okay?” Rick’s voice was low, rough, almost breaking through the haze of Carl’s own horror.

“I… I’m fine.” Carl swallowed. The words tasted empty. Fine wasn’t what described his hands still shaking, his chest still tight, or the way he kept seeing flashes of wolves in the smoke, in the shadows, in the corners of his vision.

Rick’s gaze flicked to him, soft for a fraction of a second, before sharpening again. He scanned the street, moving toward the wreckage of a barricaded gate. “They want to scare us. That’s all.”

Carl nodded, but didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

They worked through the streets like ghosts, checking each house, each alley. Michonne was already outside, her katana slick with blood from clearing the remaining Wolves’ stragglers. Carol moved methodically through the ruins, torch in hand, helping the injured. Even now, they found signs — graffitied symbols, spray of blood in unnatural patterns, messages meant to terrify.

Carl knelt beside one. The letters were jagged, smeared: We were here. We are watching.

He shivered. The Wolves weren’t just hunters; they were taunting them. Teaching fear.

Rick came up behind him, hand brushing Carl’s shoulder as he crouched. Carl didn’t move away. He could feel the heat radiating off Rick’s body even through soot-streaked shirts and layers of grime. It wasn’t comfort. Not exactly. But in the chaos, it anchored him, made him feel alive amid death.

“You see that?” Rick’s thumb traced the edge of the smeared letters. “They’ll come back. But we’ll be ready.”

Carl nodded, swallowing hard. He wanted to argue that maybe they weren’t ready. Maybe nobody could be. But he didn’t. Not with Rick’s eyes on him like that — sharp, assessing, protective, stirring something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

By midday, the survivors had gathered in the central square. Deanna’s face was pale; she barked orders, directing people to salvage what they could, bury the dead, tend the injured. Carl moved among them, checking houses, helping drag bodies to hastily dug graves. Each one made his hands slick with blood — sometimes Wolf, sometimes human.

The rain had started again, cold and slicing. It helped wash some of the grime away, but the stench lingered. Carl’s stomach rolled. He imagined the Wolves outside, watching, maybe laughing at how fragile and terrified everyone looked.

Rick stayed close, and Carl found himself constantly brushing against him, leaning for balance, pressing back when the other slipped through tight spaces in the debris. Every accidental touch set fire across his nerves. Heat that wasn’t just from exertion, heat that made him catch his breath and tighten his grip on his weapon.

They worked side by side, cleaning, moving, tending, but the proximity carried a different kind of tension — need sharpened by fear. Every glance between them, every touch during a stumble, every hurried brush of skin left Carl’s heart hammering.

Night fell again, colder, darker. Carl was exhausted, body aching from hauling debris and bloodied corpses, from running, firing, dodging, surviving. His legs trembled as he climbed the stairs to Rick’s room. Rick was there before him, leaning against the window frame, rifle across his lap, eyes scanning the treeline.

Carl closed the door behind him and let himself lean against the wall. Rick’s gaze didn’t leave the dark horizon.

“They’ll come back,” Carl said softly, voice hoarse.

Rick’s hand found his, resting heavy and warm. “Yeah,” he muttered. “And we’ll be here.”

Carl swallowed, letting the contact anchor him. It wasn’t comfort, not fully. Not yet. But it was enough. For now.

The wind howled outside, carrying the scent of smoke, rain, and something darker. Carl’s eyes drifted to Rick’s face — sharp lines, blood, sweat, exhaustion — and felt a pull he couldn’t name. Danger and desire tangled together. Survival wasn’t just about fighting the Wolves. Tonight, survival was about holding on to the people who made it worth fighting at all.

Rick’s thumb brushed the back of his hand. Carl didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not while the world outside howled with death. Not while the Wolves waited in the shadows.

Somewhere in the distance, a scream cut through the night, a reminder that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Carl closed his eyes, letting himself rest against Rick, letting the tension in his muscles and chest ease just slightly, even as the storm outside — the real one, and the one in their heads — raged on.

The night was heavier than usual, the darkness pressing against the walls of Alexandria like a living thing. Carl was on patrol with Rick, moving quietly through streets still scarred from the earlier raid. Smoke lingered in the air, and the smell of charred wood and blood made his stomach twist. He gripped his rifle tighter, fingers slick with sweat and grime, heart hammering with every faint noise.

A scream shattered the tense quiet, closer than it should have been. Carl froze, chest heaving. Rick was already moving, muscles coiled, eyes scanning the shadows.

“They’re inside,” Rick hissed, voice barely audible.

Before Carl could react, a figure lunged from the darkness — a Wolf, twisted and snarling, machete glinting in the dim light. Carl fired, but another attacker slammed into him from the side. He stumbled, colliding with Rick as the Wolf lunged at them both.

Rick’s hand was on his chest, pushing him back, pressing him close, and Carl felt the heat of their bodies collide. There wasn’t time to think, only to act. He fired his rifle again, hitting the Wolf in the chest, and it fell with a wet, sickening thud.

Breath ragged, heart hammering, Carl felt a pulse of something else — the thrill, the proximity, the heat between them — just as dangerous as the chaos surrounding them. Rick’s hand lingered on his arm, guiding him, steadying him, keeping him close.

The Wolves struck like shadows. They moved in silence, slipping through broken windows, climbing over walls, cutting down anyone in their path. Carl and Rick ran through the streets, bodies pressed together in the chaos, fighting, stabbing, shooting, dodging. Every contact, every brush of skin, every hurried word passed between them carried a tension that had nothing to do with survival — and yet it fueled their alertness, sharpened their reflexes.

Michonne appeared in the haze, katana flashing, cutting down a Wolf that had leapt at a group of fleeing survivors. Carol was moving like a whirlwind, torch swinging, knocking attackers off balance, shouting instructions. But the Wolves were smart, organized. They had a plan, and Alexandria was their playground of terror.

Carl fired at one, then another lunged at him. Rick was there, pushing him aside, swinging a bat, taking the blows meant for him. Carl stumbled, sliding across a blood-slick patch of cobblestone, and Rick’s hands were immediately on him, steadying him, pressing him close. The proximity was dangerous, heated, but there was no time to think beyond survival.

They moved through the streets, dodging fire and steel. A house collapsed in flames beside them, screaming occupants trapped inside. Carl’s stomach knotted, but he kept moving, kept shooting, kept close to Rick. Each movement, each collision of their bodies, each whispered warning over the roar of chaos brought a new jolt of adrenaline — and something darker, something deeper.

Rick’s lips brushed his ear as they passed a burning house. “Stay with me,” he rasped.

Carl shivered, both from the cold smoke and the heat of Rick pressed against him. “I’m here,” he gasped, voice tight, lungs burning.

They fought side by side, back to back at times, covering each other, blocking attacks, moving through the carnage like a single, fluid entity. Every glance, every touch, every brush of skin carried a weight that made Carl’s chest ache — survival and something else intertwined, impossible to separate.

A Wolf leapt from the shadows, machete raised, aimed for Rick’s chest. Carl reacted instinctively, stabbing the attacker in the shoulder, and the Wolf fell, screeching. Rick was immediately on him, hand sliding down Carl’s arm, guiding him toward safety, pressing against him in the tightest of turns. The adrenaline, the proximity, the danger — Carl felt everything amplified.

Fire and smoke twisted around them, screams echoing through the streets. Carl’s vision blurred, heart pounding in his ears. Each moment was a knife edge between life and death. Every touch from Rick, every collision, every heated breath brushing against his skin, sharpened his senses, made him hyper-aware, made him feel more alive than he had in years.

They reached the center of the settlement, where the largest fire roared. The Wolves were retreating, dragging the wounded, disappearing into the shadows, but not without leaving death and chaos behind. Carl collapsed against a wall, chest heaving, hands slick with blood, grime, and sweat. Rick dropped beside him, arm brushing against his, hand lingering on his shoulder.

Neither spoke at first. The world outside was still a blur of smoke and shadow, of cries and groaning bodies. But the brief moments of contact, the heat of Rick pressed against him, the shared breath in the chaos, carried a dangerous intimacy that neither could deny.

Carl closed his eyes, letting the touch anchor him, let the adrenaline ebb slightly, but not completely. The Wolves had retreated — for now. But the threat was far from over. And in the silence between them, Carl felt the weight of desire, fear, and adrenaline coil together in a way that was as terrifying as the attack itself.

By dawn, Alexandria was scarred but standing. Fires smoldered, bodies were tended, survivors huddled in the center. Carl and Rick moved among them, helping, surveying, breathing through exhaustion. The adrenaline had faded slightly, leaving behind a raw ache — both physical and emotional.

Carl found Rick again as night fell, both of them leaning against the same wall, sweat and grime streaked across their faces, hands brushing, hearts still hammering. No words were needed. Their closeness, forged in the chaos and horror, spoke for them.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the Wolves waited. And Carl knew they would be back.

Chapter Text

The sun rose over Alexandria like a weak promise. Smoke curled lazily from the smoldering ruins, painting the early light in shades of gray and red. Carl walked through the streets, boots crunching over debris and shards of glass, his stomach knotting at the memories of the Wolves’ raid. Every shadow, every flicker of movement made his chest tighten.

Rick was ahead, moving through the settlement with a rifle slung over his shoulder. His movements were measured, deliberate, but Carl could see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. Every few steps, Rick’s gaze swept the perimeter, alert for threats that might not even exist yet.

Carl swallowed, the dry taste of fear and sweat thick in his mouth. “We should… check the gates again,” he said quietly.

Rick turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward him. “We will. Later. Right now, we keep moving, make sure everyone’s accounted for.”

Carl nodded. There was no arguing, not with the raw intensity in Rick’s voice. He followed, scanning every corner, every alley, every ruined home for signs of the Wolves’ return.

The survivors were already at work. Carol and Michonne moved through the streets, clearing debris and helping the wounded. Bodies were being buried hastily in the small cemetery behind the church. The air smelled of smoke, blood, and wet earth. Carl’s stomach churned with every shovel of dirt thrown over the dead, every moan of pain from the injured.

He felt Rick’s presence behind him, close enough to brush against his shoulder as they passed through a narrow street. The proximity was electric, grounding him, reminding him that even in this chaos, he wasn’t alone. Rick’s hand lingered briefly on his arm, just enough to anchor him, and Carl shivered despite himself.

“Don’t get lost in your head,” Rick muttered, low and steady. “Focus. Eyes open.”

Carl nodded, biting back the tight coil in his chest. He knew Rick was right — focus meant survival. But the ache between them, the tension in every brush of skin, made it impossible to ignore.

They moved toward the north wall, checking for damage. A section of the fence had been weakened, partially burned and splintered. Carl knelt, running his fingers over the rough wood, noting the scorch marks and jagged cuts. Whoever the Wolves were, they had planned this. They had known exactly where to strike.

Rick knelt beside him, fingers brushing Carl’s as he examined the same section. Carl’s chest tightened. The contact was fleeting, necessary, but it sent a jolt through him. He swallowed, looking away, but couldn’t escape the heat of Rick’s body next to his.

“They’ll be back,” Rick said quietly, voice low, almost a growl. “We need to be ready.”

Carl swallowed again. “I know.”

The day dragged on in a haze of reconstruction and tension. Survivors repaired barricades, tended to the injured, and buried the dead. Carl moved among them, carrying supplies, helping where he could. But every movement, every shadow, every sound made him flinch.

By afternoon, subtle signs appeared that chilled him to the bone: a mutilated walker left just outside the gates, graffiti smeared along a wall, symbols twisted and jagged. Someone had been watching. Someone was waiting.

Carl called Rick over. “They’re back. Or… someone is.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the area, taking in the walker and the symbols. He crouched beside Carl, hand brushing his again as they both studied the markings. Carl’s breath hitched. Not from fear — or not entirely. The proximity, the heat of Rick’s body so close, stirred something in him he didn’t want to name.

“They’re sending a message,” Rick said, voice rough. “We need to figure out what it means — and fast.”

Carl nodded, heart racing for both fear and something darker, something electric that surged through him every time Rick touched him. He forced himself to focus. Survival first. Desire later.

Night fell again, heavy and oppressive. Carl and Rick patrolled the perimeter together, guns raised, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the walls. The air was thick with tension and smoke. Every rustle of leaves, every snapping twig set Carl’s nerves on edge.

Rick was close, shoulder brushing against his, hand occasionally pressing briefly against his arm. The contact was grounding, necessary, and Carl felt a flicker of something dangerous — a pulse of need he had no time to indulge.

Suddenly, a scream cut through the night, sharp and piercing. Carl’s stomach dropped.

“Inside,” Rick muttered, voice low but urgent. They sprinted toward the sound, ducking behind charred walls and debris.

A Wolf leapt from the shadows, knife raised. Carl fired instinctively, but another attacker slammed into him from the side. He stumbled, colliding with Rick, who steadied him with a firm press of his body. Heat, sweat, blood — everything collided. Carl’s heart hammered, adrenaline spiking.

They fought together, back to back, moving through the streets in a blur of firelight and shadows. Every brush of skin, every accidental touch, sent a jolt through Carl. They were alive, yes, but the intensity of their proximity in the middle of chaos made every moment sharper, hungrier.

Michonne appeared, katana swinging in arcs of deadly precision. Carol shouted, torch cracking, flames licking the walls. But the Wolves were relentless, organized, striking fast, retreating into the shadows only to reappear moments later.

Carl ducked under a swing, rolling across slick cobblestones. Rick was there immediately, hand pressing him back, steadying him. Carl felt the heat of his chest, the press of his body, and shivered. Survival had never felt so intimate.

They moved like a single unit, instinct taking over. Every glance, every touch, every shared breath heightened their awareness, sharpened their reflexes. Carl fired, stabbed, dodged, leaned into Rick when necessary, and felt the tension coil tighter every time.

By dawn, the Wolves had vanished again. Alexandria was scarred, silent, smoldering. Survivors huddled, tending wounds, moving bodies, repairing what could be repaired. Carl sank against a wall, chest heaving, blood and grime streaked across him. Rick dropped beside him, arm brushing his, hand lingering.

No words were needed. The shared exhaustion, the closeness, the heat, the adrenaline, said enough. The Wolves had retreated — for now. But the terror, the threat, the dark pulse of desire and connection between them, lingered.

Carl closed his eyes, letting himself rest, letting the tension ease just slightly, even as the storm — the real one, and the one inside their hearts — raged on.

Chapter Text

The fires had gone out days ago, but the air still smelled like smoke. Alexandria didn’t sound the same either. The hum of normal life — hammers, kids’ voices, quiet talk — had all thinned into a hush that never lifted.

Carl walked the outer wall, boots crunching on gravel and ash. The sky was colorless, a pale film stretched over a wounded world. He stopped beside a blackened patch of ground where a body had burned — Wolves, maybe, or one of their own. It didn’t matter anymore.

He felt eyes on him and turned. Rick stood by the gate, shoulders squared, hand resting on the handle of his revolver. His beard was darker now, or maybe that was just the dirt. His face looked carved — all hard edges, no softness left.

“You haven’t slept,” Rick said quietly.

Carl shrugged. “Neither have you.”

Rick’s mouth twitched, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy. He came closer instead, their shadows merging in the thin light. “You keep walking the wall, you’ll start seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Maybe,” Carl said. “But something is out there.”

Rick’s eyes flicked to the tree line. The woods were quiet — too quiet. “You think they’re still watching?”

Carl nodded. “They didn’t come to die. They came to test us.”

Rick didn’t answer. He looked past the fence, past the world, jaw tightening the way it always did when he was holding back too much. Carl knew that look. He’d seen it after the prison, after the Governor, after every loss that left Rick trying to convince himself he could still lead.

They started walking the perimeter together. No one else patrolled anymore. People were afraid to be alone at the edges. The Wolves had come through too fast, too brutal — no warning, no pattern. Just blades and blood.

Carl still heard it sometimes — the screams, the wet sound of knives cutting through air and skin. He remembered the firelight flickering off their faces, the way they laughed. Wolves didn’t kill for food or survival. They killed because it made them feel.

“Michonne’s taking shifts in the tower,” Rick said after a long silence. “Carol’s checking the cellars. Someone’s been stealing canned goods.”

Carl frowned. “You think someone inside—?”

Rick’s silence was answer enough.

They stopped near the eastern fence. A smear of red marked the wood — old blood, dark now, but the pattern made Carl’s stomach tighten. Three parallel lines. The same symbol they’d seen carved into the walkers days before the first raid.

“Rick…” Carl crouched, tracing the lines with his gloved hand. The paint — or blood — was still tacky. Fresh.

Rick crouched beside him, revolver drawn. “They’re back.”

A wind moved through the trees then — soft, almost gentle — but it carried a sound that wasn’t wind. A low whistle. Long, then short.

Carl froze.

Rick’s gaze snapped to the woods. “Get back inside. Now.”

Carl didn’t move. “That’s how they called each other during the raid.”

The whistle came again, closer this time.

Rick grabbed Carl’s arm. “Inside, now.”

They ran.

By the time they reached the main street, the alarm had already gone up. Michonne was shouting from the tower. “Movement! South fence!”

People scattered — some to shelters, others to grab weapons. The dead from the last fight still hadn’t all been cleared. The smell of rot and smoke clung to everything.

Rick’s voice cut through the panic. “Form a line! Carol, with me!”

Carl grabbed his rifle and took position near the gate. Through the narrow gap, he could see shadows moving at the edge of the trees. Too many to count. The Wolves weren’t sneaking this time. They were marching.

“Dad—”

Rick was already there, loading shells into his shotgun. “They’re trying to scare us.”

“They don’t need to.”

The first one came out of the trees — face painted, shirt soaked in dried blood, knife glinting. Then another. Then ten.

“Open fire!” Rick shouted.

The first shots cracked through the air. The Wolves scattered, fast and low, like animals. They threw bottles that burst into flame when they hit — homemade firebombs lighting the wall in streaks of orange and blue.

The gate shuddered under impact. Someone screamed.

Carl aimed, fired. One Wolf went down, another stumbled but kept coming. He reloaded, breath shaking. His ears rang.

Rick was beside him, barking orders, voice hoarse but steady.

Flames licked up the outer wall. The smell of burning wood filled the air.

Carol appeared from the smoke, dragging a wounded man. Michonne covered her, blade flashing in the firelight.

“Carl, get to the infirmary!” Rick shouted.

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Go!”

The wall splintered. A hole ripped open near the gate. Wolves poured through.

Carl fired again, again, until his clip was empty. One Wolf came too close — a blur of teeth and knives. Carl swung the rifle like a bat, cracked it across the man’s face, then shot him point-blank.

Blood sprayed hot across his cheek.

Rick was there a second later, grabbing his shoulder, yanking him back toward the center of town. “Move!”

They stumbled through the smoke, past burning houses, past bodies — friends, neighbors, Wolves — it didn’t matter anymore. The night was red.

They reached the church, the temporary shelter. Maggie was there, holding Judith, face pale. “Rick—”

He grabbed her arm. “Stay low. Don’t come out till I say.”

Carl looked out through the doorway. More figures moved beyond the flames, shapes against the firelight. The Wolves weren’t fighting like raiders. They were hunting.

He turned to Rick. “We can’t hold the walls.”

Rick nodded grimly. “Then we make them pay for every inch.”

They went back into the chaos together.

Chapter Text

They moved through Alexandria like ghosts forged out of fire and blood.

Carl stuck close to Rick’s shoulder, breaths fast, rifle slick in his hands from sweat and smoke and someone’s blood — he didn’t know whose anymore. The Wolves weren’t attacking like raiders; they were tearing through the community with the patience of predators sniffing out the weak.

Screams ricocheted through the night. Gunfire cut and echoed. Wood cracked as another gate buckled somewhere.

Rick pushed Carl behind a half-collapsed porch. “Reload.”

Carl’s fingers shook as he jammed the magazine in. “They’re everywhere.”

Rick peered around the corner — waiting, calculating, breathing too steady for someone in hell. “Then we kill every one we see.”

Carl nodded, throat tight. He didn’t want to die in a burning suburb. He didn’t want to see Rick die at all.

A body crashed through a window across the street — a Wolf, tackled by Michonne. Her katana flashed, her scream raw. She didn’t look like someone protecting a community. She looked like someone avenging a world.

Carl swallowed hard. “They’ll break us if we split up.”

Rick turned, grabbed Carl’s jaw — rough, urgent, grounding him.

“You stay with me,” Rick said, voice shredded but absolute. “No matter what.”

Carl felt the burn of those words. Too heavy. Too close. Too final.

“I’m not leaving you,” Carl whispered.

Rick’s grip lingered — thumb brushing dirt from Carl’s cheek, like habit, like instinct, like he couldn’t stop touching him to make sure he was real.

Then—

A bottle exploded at the end of the street, fire blooming up the siding of a house. Shadows rushed past the flames — three Wolves sprinting low.

Rick didn’t think. He fired twice, charging. Carl followed, heart exploding in his chest.

They collided with the first attacker near the playground. Rick slammed him to the ground, knife already in his fist, striking without hesitation. The sound was wet and final. A choke, then silence.

Carl fired on the second — shot missed — the man tackled him. They slid across gravel, blade flashing. Carl felt fingers close around his throat—

Rick’s revolver barked. The man fell off Carl like a dropped puppet.

Rick hauled Carl up, hands gripping his shoulders, eyes wild. “Look at me.”

Carl could barely breathe. Rick wiped blood — Carl’s? the Wolf's? — from his face with his sleeve, frantic, protective, shaking in that way Rick only shook when Carl almost died.

“You with me?” Rick growled.

Carl nodded. Rick pulled him close, forehead pressed to Carl’s hairline for one trembling second — the kind of touch you give someone who is your last tether to the world.

Then Rick turned, teeth bared. “Move.”

They sprinted across the street. Flames licked the church roof. Carol shouted orders. Eugene dragged a terrified boy toward shelter. Gunfire from the tower thundered.

And then — a scream cut through everything.

“Judith!”

Maggie’s voice — breaking.

Rick froze. Carl did too. Every thought vanished except find her.

They tore down the lane. Smoke clawed their throats, heat bending the air. A Wolf stumbled from a doorway carrying a struggling toddler — Judith’s cry splitting the dark.

Rick didn’t aim — he tackled the man so hard they hit the ground like falling stone. Carl fired before the Wolf could recover — bullet through his jaw.

Rick snatched Judith into his arms. She wailed, face streaked in soot. Rick held her so tight Carl thought she might break. His voice was a shattered whisper:

“They touch her again and I burn this world down.”

Carl’s hands shook as he cupped Judith's back, touching her too, the three of them pressed together like a single body trying to survive gravity.

For a fractured heartbeat, they breathed as one — bloody, shaking, alive by inches.

Then Carl heard it.

A slow, calm whistle.

The Wolves’ signal.

Not panicked. Not retreating.

Calling.

More shadows emerged at the end of the road — a line of them, grinning, blood-painted, knives gleaming, silhouettes dancing in firelight like demons having the time of their lives.

Carl lifted his rifle.

Rick passed Judith to Maggie. “Take her. Don’t stop running.”

Maggie fled, clutching Judith like she was the last star in the sky.

Rick stood beside Carl. “Last push.”

Carl nodded. He wouldn’t break. Not while Rick breathed.

The Wolves came.

Carl fired. Rick fired. The world narrowed to gunfire and screaming and heat and the metallic taste of fear and iron. One Wolf got close — too close — Rick plunged his knife into his throat, ripped it free, blood spraying his face like war paint.

Carl emptied his clip, grabbed a dropped machete, swung hard — bone cracked, a man fell.

Breathing. Fire. Pain. Rage.

And then—

Silence.

Smoke drifted. Bodies everywhere. Wolves dead. Survivors crawling, crying, gasping in the burning dark. The last Wolf fled, disappearing into the trees with a giggle that didn’t sound human anymore.

Carl dropped to one knee, chest heaving. Rick crouched in front of him, cupping his face again — breath hot, eyes glassy not with lust but with terror of losing his son.

“We end them,” Rick rasped. “All of them. No mercy.”

Carl nodded, jaw trembling. “I’m with you.”

Rick didn’t blink. “Where I go, you go.”

Carl felt something inside him twist, braid tighter — love, fear, loyalty, something darker blooming in the ashes of the night.

It felt like a vow.

It felt like the world shrinking to just the two of them.

It felt like damnation.

Fires burned behind them.

Screams faded into sobs.

Somewhere, a baby began to cry again.

And in the wreckage of Alexandria — blood dripping from their sleeves, the dead cooling at their feet — Rick and Carl stood together like kings of something ruined, something feral, something no one else would ever understand.

The Wolves weren’t dead.

They had only tasted the edge of what Rick and Carl could become.

And next time?

The monsters wouldn’t be outside the walls.