A/N: Cover image drawn by xoxokokooxox on Tumblr.

Oliver hobbled across the driveway, grunting and struggling as he finally managed to make it to the eagle truck. He sat in the back, catching his breath, and under his palm on the cool metal floor, he saw the old blood-stain; thinking of how it got there made him put his stump in his hoodie pocket.

A small shuffling noise caught his attention and as he glanced over his shoulder, he startled. "Mio Dio!"

Carl was watching him through the rear-view mirror from the driver's seat, silent.

"Jesus, man..." Oliver blew out through his mouth, clutching his chest. "I — I thought you were inside with the others."

Carl pressed his lips together, his thigh making that shuffling noise against the seat as his leg rocked side-to-side.

"Sucks you can't come with," he said.

Oliver shrugged. "Your dad's just looking out for me, until I—"

"'Till you can walk again," Carl said, "yeah, I know." There was quiet for a minute, until he kept talking. "I'm only scouting. You could just... sit here, keep me company."

Oliver's eyes rolled and he grinned.

"Yeah, yeah," Carl relented. He got out and walked around the truck. Oliver stood before he got to him, aware of the terrible squishy sensation in his shin when he put weight into his left foot. He steadied his crutch under his left arm and set his back straight and tall. Still, Carl was taller; Oliver was beginning to accept that this was likely not going to change anymore.

"Don't like the wheelchair Ezekiel brought?"

Oliver made an eh noise.

"Want me to go get it for you?"

"No," Oliver said, "no, I'll get it."

"Okay." Carl looked like he wanted to say something else, but in the end just touched the back of Oliver's fist (which was gripping his crutch handle) and flicked their thumbnails, then got back in the truck. "See you later, man."

Oliver nodded to himself, starting back towards the house.

"Hey!" Carl called out. Oliver stopped to look at him, wobbling a bit on the first step. Carl was leaning out the window. "Sure you don't want help?"

Oliver snorted and kept walking, telling Carl, "Catch you later, young sir," as he heard him start-up the engine.

"Yep," Carl said, and drove away.

The weeks following were more or less the same as this. Every morning, Alexandria would wake up early to join Hilltop and the Kingdom in preparation for war against the Saviors; Rick, Maggie and Ezekiel would rally their people, build weapons, collect information and so on. Daryl would infiltrate enemy look-outs. And Tara and Carol would collect the herd. Even Carl had scouts and scavenging runs; looking for gas and anything else he could find. But Oliver? He babysat. Rested. With a diagnosis of 'one gunshot wound to the right bicep', 'a left-sided fibula fracture and medial tibia dislocation' along with the good old 'you're already a handicap, dude, sit the hell down!' all finally summing up to a generous healing time of anything between five to seven months... minimum. It was miserable, really, but he was alive at least, and still had three out of four limbs even if only two of them were fully functional. The worst news was that he would likely not even heal properly. At best, he would have nothing more than a limp for the rest of his life and a bad case of arthritis as he got older; the Kingdom had a good doctor, but not the specific equipment needed for his surgery. The only place that did have these things was the Sanctuary... which was the very thought Oliver was agitating himself over the morning the war began.

One redeeming fact to him was that he was not the only person staying behind. Rosita was still recovering from her gunshot wound, and Michonne stayed for Carl, who also had to stay. Oliver could see them, Carl and Michonne, outside seeing off everybody else. Oliver was inside, sitting in his wheelchair (which he'd aptly named Dick), figuring it best to keep out of everybody's way—also figuring he was probably just feeling sorry for himself, but at least nobody had to know about it.

He watched Rick kiss Judith, then Michonne, and then he took Carl's hat off, hugged him, then put the hat back. "This is the end of it," he said. He got in his car—armoured with metal sheets along the left-side, and drove away. Michonne and Carl talked for a minute, until she bumped his shoulder, then walked away.

Oliver wheeled himself back into his room; which was now on the ground floor to avoid any extra staircase use. A minute or two later, Carl came inside to find him lying horizontally across the single bed, out of breath after only just managing to get into this position, with his cast leg rested up on the desk chair. Music was playing from his stereo.

"Weird Al, again? Really?"

"Ovviamente!" Oliver replied, stretching his head backwards so his hair flopped up and his glasses sat too high on his face. "It's good for you. Reduces stress and all that other junk."

"You say that about all your music."

"That's because it's true," Oliver said, grunting as he sat up a little. He reached out. Carl touched his hand and did that thumb-flick thing as he sat on the bed with him.

"You stressed?" he asked.

Oliver shrugged.

"Worried, guess."

"Yeah, guess me too," Carl confessed. There was quiet. They were looking at each other. Oliver decided to sit up and kiss him. Carl grinned at him. "What was that for?"

"Stress relief," Oliver said.

"Thought we had your music."

"Well, I mean, if you'd prefer us to just sit here and listen to some, that's fine, too."

"No," Carl blurted, then laughed at himself. Calmer, he said, "No, man. You should totally kiss me like that again."

"Okay."

There's a suitcase poking me in the ribs
There's an elbow in my ear
There's a smelly old bum standing next to me
Hasn't showered in a year
Well, I think I'm missing a contact lens
I think my wallet's gone
And I think this bus is stopping again
To let a couple more freaks get on, look out

Another one rides the bus
Another one rides the bus...

Sometime later that afternoon, Carl sat up and checked the alarm clock on Oliver's bedside. "Dammit," he said, "I'm late."

Oliver was reading a book, curled up on his side, and looked at Carl over his shoulder. He was rushing around the room, gathering his things. "Late for what?"

"A thing." Carl yanked on an old flannel shirt.

Oliver sat up and pointed to his wheelchair. "Dick, please?"

Carl pushed it over and helped him in, but left him to put on his boots. Once he had, Oliver leaned over to look in Carl's orange duffel bag; being filling with various things Carl would take with him for any regular scout.

"You already went out today," Oliver said, popping some pain pills.

"It's just an errand."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not long. Just dropping something off."

Oliver watched Carl rush around the room, and then, all of a sudden, he dumbed his orange duffel into Oliver's lap, took Dick's handles, and pushed Oliver out of the bedroom.

"Whoa, wait, what are you doing?"

"You're coming with."

Oliver twisted around as he was pushed through the living room. Carl looked serious.

"But your dad—"

"Isn't here." Carl stopped at the front door, put the duffel over his shoulder, and helped Oliver to his feet. "You in?"

"What if Michonne finds out?"

"She'll be on my side."

"She will?"

"Yes," Carl said, under Oliver's arm as they descended the porch steps.

"And me?"

"You... just gotta sit in the truck."

Oliver smirked. "Keep you company?"

"Yeah," Carl grinned. "Keep me company."

Next thing Oliver knew, he was waiting in the eagle truck's passenger seat while Carl came back from the pantry with two cans in hand, which he stuffed among his duffel things. He got in. He started up. And he drove.

Twenty minutes away from Alexandria, Carl slowed as he came up to an old gas station. According to him, he'd driven here the same morning: "Some guy called me out," he said. "Said he'd been shot at. That, someone threw a microwave at'm."

Oliver's eyebrows went up.

"Told me something his mom used to say," Carl went on, weaving the truck through some neglected cars. "'Whatever you have of good, spend on the traveller,'. He said, 'Helping — that's everything,'." He shrugged. "Dunno, just thought it was a neat thing to say."

"He say anything else?" Oliver asked.

Carl thought, and then said, "'May my mercy prevail over my wrath.'. From the Quran or something."

"He was Muslim?"

Carl parked. "Either way, Dad drove him off before I could help him, so..." Oliver watched Carl grab a piece of old magazine from the glovebox, tear out a page, and write the word 'SORRY' across it.

He was only gone for a minute before he returned with two less cans in his possession and a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Done," he said, and kissed Oliver once on the forehead.

"Home?" Oliver asked.

"Home," Carl said.

Notes:

Song was Another One Rides the Bus by Weird Al Yankovic. Thanks to my flatmate PinePitch for the help on diagnosing and writing Oliver's broken leg.

Finna write this shit in past-tense/close-third-person from now on I think but I'll probably change my mind as I go look fam boi amigo let me be and just read if you want thanks a million also I dunno if it's weird that I'm using Oliver/Patrick/Carl crossover-throw-backs or whatever ("Catch you later, young sir.") but I'm heckin doin it anyway.

Happy reading.