Things you said at 1am.
Carl tip toes into her room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. He eyes his dad, slumped over the edge of her bed, his head resting on her lap. Carl walks up beside his father, taking note of his fingers intertwined with hers tightly. Carl wants to be angry with him. He wants to scream at him and tell him how much of a fuck up he is. He wants to ask him why every time things get good, he has to figure out a way to ruin them. But that isn't fair this time. He tried. Carl knows that he actually tried this time. So instead of waking up his battle worn father, he runs his hand over his damp hair softly; lovingly. Like his father has done to him so many times in the past.
Carl takes a seat next to him and turns his attention to the closest thing he's had to a mother in over a year. Her face is puffy and bruised, no doubt from pointless beatings at the hands of Negan's heathens. But he knew she fought tooth and nail. Refusing to stay down; getting back up each and every time they knocked her off her feet. She wouldn't have it any other way. His father lost his mind at her appearance when they dragged her from the van after taking her nearly a week before.
"You fucking prick!" Rick screamed loudly when his eyes landed on her, struggling against the hold that Arat and Bob had on him, "Goddamnit! I did everything you fucking wanted! Everything! You fucking-"
Carl glances down at his plaid shirt, her now dried blood staining the material. Enid begged him to take it off, to change, but he couldn't. He wouldn't. It would serve as a reminder to him now and always as to why that mother fucker has to die. Daryl, Rick, Gabriel, Carl, and Rosita watched in horror as Negan stabbed her with the same hunting knife he used on Spencer. She crumpled to the ground and within an instant, the war was ignited. Bullets whizzing through the air, fists flying, knives slicing.
Carl reaches out and places his hands on her forearm, a little surprised at her warmth. That's a good sign at least. He strokes her skin gently, smiling softly for really no reason at all, which surprises him more, "I never thought this situation would be reversed. It's usually you huddled over my bedside." He says quietly, "I know I've never told you this, well, I kinda have, in my own dumb way." He pauses, glancing to his left as his dad shifts but doesn't wake. His breaths deep and rhythmed. He turns back toward her, his mind racing with the words he wants to say. Carl was always like his mother, never finding a time where he was lost for words. Now is no different, "That night, on the porch, after Deanna. When I told you that I would do it for you. What I meant to say was that I love you. My sister loves you."
He drops his head a little, his voice growing softer and softer by the minute, "My dad loves you. I don't know if he's said it, probably hasn't, but I know he does. He's not a talker, he won't say it out loud but I hope you can feel it. I hope you know it. I'll, I'll talk to him. I'll tell him that sometimes people just need to hear it, for no reason. I'll make sure that you hear it. From him, from me, from Daryl, from everyone. Because we love you Michonne. We love you and we need you."
He nods a little, growing more and more confident as he speaks, knowing that his words will come true, "Daryl and Jesus are working on a plan right now. And when you're strong and you can fight, we'll take that piece of shit down. Together. We'll hang his head on the gates of Alexandria as a sign to any future fucks that wanna mess with us. We don't die easy. But they will."
His hair falls in his face as he looks up and gazes out of the small window. His hand grazes down her arm and rests on top of his fathers. He laces his fingers as best he can with theirs just as the clock strikes one am.