A/N: I probably should put all of these in one story, since my mind seems to be filled with these little one-offs. Here's one through the eye of our favorite Sheriff's son.
Let me know what you think!
Michonne and his father. They were the two people Carl saw when he opened his eye. They were sleeping beside him, Michonne splayed out across the foot of his bed, her bottom half planted in a plastic chair. His dad was sitting upright in an armchair beside her, his head slumped backwards. Carl wanted to smile at the sight of them, even through his confusion. He was interrupted by a moment of intense panic, a searing pain digging into his skull, the realization that half of his world had gone black. His mind scrambled to compensate, blurring his vision. He whimpered in pain, a plaintive sound escaping his lips without his permission. He cried out, an involuntary reaction.
"Dad, mom," he sounded like a baby. Already tears were cutting down the left side of his face. Carl attempted to pull himself together, but the agony was overwhelming.
They both snapped to attention at the same time, flailing almost comically as they woke with a start. In seconds, they both were seated in front of him, reaching for him.
"Carl," his father's voice splintered around his name. His dad was tired. He looked it. There was still blood in his hair, dirt all over his face. Memories of the herd came rushing back, of Jessie and Ron and Sam. Carl felt a sob leave his chest.
"How are you feeling?" Michonne's hands cradled his head, instantly soothing him. She had that effect, always had, ever since she had limped up to the prison gates over a year ago.
"It hurts," he hated crying, hated acting like a child, but he couldn't help it.
"I know," Michonne's strong hands stroked him. She exchanged a look with his dad. Instantly, he lunged for the bedside table, scrambling for pain medication. Michonne coaxed it into Carl's mouth, encouraging him to swallow it all with a mouthful of lukewarm water.
"You're going to be ok," she promised, dropping a kiss on his forehead.
"Rest," his dad instructed, clutching his hand.
Carl regarded them, his vision still blurry. Even so, he could see them both sitting closely to one another, one on either side of him. It seemed like it'd been a long time since they'd been like this. He liked seeing them together.
"It's going to be ok," Michonne reiterated, still toying with his long hair.
"I know," he was already beginning to drift back to sleep, utterly exhausted. He closed his remaining eye, his last fleeting image being of his father reaching for Michonne's hand across the bed.
"There you go," Michonne finished with a flourish, her smile bright even in the dim light of their bathroom. Carl was seated on the edge of the tub, Michonne in front of him on the closed lid of the toilet seat.
"All good?" he asked, reaching for his hat.
"All good," she confirmed, tossing away his old gauze and carefully repacking their first aid kit. She replaced her tools with studious precision, the way she had for weeks now. It had been daunting at first, letting Michonne see him beneath his bandages. She hadn't even flinched.
"Michonne?" Carl watched her. She paused in her ministrations.
"What's up?" she asked conversationally.
"What does it look like…Does it look bad?" he ventured, swallowing hard. He hadn't looked at it, not really, not yet. The bandages were bad enough.
"Come here," she was on her feet in an instance, moving with the same finesse she did when she was out there with her katana. She reached for his hands, tugging him off the tub.
"Michonne," he protested as she pulled him towards the mirror. "I don't want to—"
"Hush," her command was firm but not unkind. "Just look." She directed him in front of the sink. He was afraid for a moment that she would remove his bandages, but she just held him lightly in place. "What do you see?" She asked, looking expectantly at him.
Carl turned his eye from her to the mirror reluctantly. "I see a kid with one eye," he reported, trying to keep his voice light.
"You know what I see?" she cocked an eyebrow. "I see a survivor. I see a kid who's been through hell and made it out the other side." She reached for his long hair, curling the edges between her fingers. "One eye or two, you're still my favorite," she assured him. "And the most handsome boy I know." She kissed the top of his head just beneath the brim of his hat.
"I don't look like-" his voice broke, unable to finish his question. His mind was filled with images from the prison, of the man who had killed their friends.
"No. Not a bit," she answered anyway. She always could read his mind. "If you look like anyone, it's your dad." She grinned.
"So, you think my dad's handsome?" Carl couldn't help the question from racing past his lips.
"Don't tell him that," she winked at him like it was some kind of colossal secret. "Come on," she moved him again, leading him from the bathroom. "I have something for you."
"Yeah?" Carl trailed after her.
Michonne disappeared into her room for a moment, reemerging without the first aid kit and holding a neon green tennis ball.
"What's that for? I'm not a golden retriever." He couldn't help the sarcasm, even as he reached for it anyway.
"Ha-ha," she mocked, holding the ball just out of reach. "I talked to Denise. It's physical therapy. It'll help you get your depth perception back. You'll be back to shooting in no time." She made as though to drop it in his hands but paused. "Unless you don't want it," she teased. He mirrored her smile.
"I want it," he assured her.
"Good," she handed it to him. "It's the only time you'll be able to bounce balls off the wall in my house. Better take advantage."
"Thanks," he hugged her. Michonne squeezed him back.
She disappeared to relieve his dad from guard duty. Carl retrieved Judith, sitting her in the middle of his bed while he tossed the ball back and forth. It hit him in the face more times than he would have cared to admit, but after a half hour, he started to catch it. Judith watched, her face as delighted as though he was putting on a show.
"Carl?" his dad's voice was coming up the hall.
"We're in here," he called back, nearly missing the ball again. He clutched it as his dad came in.
"What's that?" his dad picked up Judith, nuzzling her. Judith cooed at him.
"Michonne gave it to me. She said that Denise said it would help." Carl held the ball up for inspection.
"Your bandage is changed?" this was how he and his dad operated. He asked questions. Carl answered.
"Yup. All clean."
"Good," his dad nodded thoughtfully, looking like he wanted to say more.
"Guess what?" Carl asked, tossing him the tennis ball.
"What?" his dad snagged it one-handed.
"Michonne thinks you're handsome." At his dad's look of confusion, Carl clarified. "Well, she thinks I'm handsome. And she thinks I look like you. So…"
His dad laughed, shaking his head. He set Judith back down beside him on the bed and handed him the tennis ball. "I'm going to make some dinner. Anything you want?"
"Whatever is good," Carl assured him. His dad left quickly, but not before Carl spotted the small, pleased smile on his face. "Think they'll ever get it together, Judy?" he asked his sister.
Judith just babbled.
"Me too," he kissed her and went back to bouncing his gift.
"What the hell are you doing in our house?" Carl leveled his gun at the stranger sitting on the steps.
"I'm sitting here on the steps, looking at this painting, and waiting for your mom and dad to get dressed," the stranger turned his head to Carl, looking amused by the whole situation.
Carl paused, confused. He almost told him that his mother was dead. Shaking the thought, Carl readjusted his stance. He needed to stay focused.
"Hi," the stranger remained unperturbed. "I'm Jesus."
Now Carl knew this was all a dream. The man on the stairs did look like the pictures of Jesus he used to see in church when his mom took him on Sundays in King's County. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a church. He knew Michonne prayed. He wondered what she would think about a man calling himself Jesus.
A commotion behind him startled Carl out of his thoughts, drawing both he and the stranger's eyes. His dad and Michonne were hurtling out of his dad's bedroom. Michonne was hastily pulling down her shirt. His dad seemed to have forgotten his.
Yep. Definitely dreaming.
"Carl," his dad looked embarrassed. Behind him, Michonne could barely meet Carl's eyes. No one had a chance to say anything further as the whole gang came charging up the steps, guns drawn.
"It's ok," Michonne looked over the banister, holding out a hand. His dad seized the opportunity to pull on a cotton t-shirt.
Carl glanced over at Glenn, Maggie, Abe, and Daryl's confused faces. They were all regarding Michonne and his dad with a mixture of curiosity and discomfiture. Maybe he wasn't dreaming.
"You wanted to talk," his dad was back in alpha male mode, his voice much more forceful than it had been a moment ago. "Let's talk."
Carl knew he should have been paying attention to what the new guy was saying. Everyone around him seemed to have plenty of questions. Michonne was uncharacteristically quiet, hiding behind her loose locs. Carl couldn't take his eye off her, especially when it became clear that she was avoiding his gaze. It was funny, even under the circumstances, to see her so embarrassed. Carl smiled as she turned her face away from him. He glanced back at his father. His dad was avoiding his eye too.
Carl's grin widened. It was about time.
The whole group headed out to get ready to visit Jesus' settlement. There was an energy in the air, an excitement. Alexandria was buzzing with it. Carl spotted his dad standing behind the RV, holding Judith. Behind him, Michonne was emerging from their house.
He knew they'd both want to talk to him, smooth the situation over, make sure he understood. Truth was, Carl had understood for a while.
He hid his smirk as he walked over to his visibly nervous father. Maybe he'd make him sweat for a minute first.
Served him right for taking so long.