A/N: Cover image drawn by xoxokokooxox on Tumblr.
CW: Telling the story in past, third now.
AN: If you don't know already, Carl has a mild stutter in this fic since getting shot as a result of being shot.
Axillary clutch underarm, Oliver hobbled across the driveway and sat in the back of the eagle truck to catch his breath. Under his palm on the cool metal floor he saw an old blood-stain. Remembering how it got there made him put his stump in his hoodie pocket. From the driver's seat Carl looked at him through the rear-view mirror, his thigh rocking side to side.
"Sucks you can't come with," he said. "Dad and I are o— only scouting for gas."
Oliver shrugged. "He's just looking out for me, until I can walk again."
"Yeah," Carl said. "I know."
They were quiet for a minute. In that quiet Oliver looked down at his broken leg. He couldn't bend it at the knee and always had this itch under the cast that was just a little too far to scratch. He sighed. Seeming to catch Oliver's bitterness Carl got out and walked around the truck. Oliver stood before he got to him, aware of the terrible squishy sensation in his left shin when he put weight into it. He steadied his crutch under his left arm and set himself straight and tall — still Carl was taller and Oliver was beginning to accept that this was likely not going to change anymore.
"Ezekiel b—brought you a wheelchair..."
"I'll get it," Oliver said to him.
"Want me to?"
"No," Oliver said. "I got it. You go meet your dad."
Carl nodded and stepped back and as Oliver made his hobbling way back towards the house Carl got back in the truck.
"See you l—later, man," he said.
Oliver nodded, wobbling a bit on the first step. Carl leaned out the window to watch him, waiting until Oliver had made is safely to the door before he started up the engine and drove away.
The days following ended up being more or less the same as this. Every morning Alexandria would wake up early to join Hilltop and the Kingdom in preparing for war against the Saviors. Rick, Maggie, and Ezekiel rallied their people, built weapons, collected information, and so on. Daryl was infiltrating enemy look-outs. Tara and Carol were collect the highway herd. Even Carl had scouts and scavenging runs with his father. And Oliver? He helped babysit Judith, rested, and recovered, with a diagnosis of one gunshot wound to the right bicep, a left-sided fibula fracture, and medial tibia dislocation 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 most disheartening part was that he would likely never 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 the surgery. The only place that did have these things was the Sanctuary and this was the very thought Oliver was getting himself agitated over on the morning the war began.
Oliver, Barbara, and Rosita, who was still recovering from her gunshot wound, watched from 101's porch as Rick kissed his daughter, then Michonne, and finally hugged his son and said, "This is the end," and then he and the armoured cars drove out of Alexandria.
"I know you w—wanted to go with him," Carl told Michonne. "I d— did, too."
"Everything hurts," she said, "but I'll help you defend this place."
"Help me?"
"Oh yeah. This is your show."
Carl laughed and shook his head. Michonne bumped his shoulder. Oliver waited for Carl to come over so he could wheel him back into the house, since Oliver couldn't do it by himself. Carl put on the stereo.
"Weird Al, again?" Oliver asked.
"It's good," Carl said.
Oliver scoffed and lugged himself onto the couch. Carl joined him, gently putting Oliver's healing leg on the coffee table for him.
"You s— stressed?" he asked.
Oliver shrugged.
"Worried, guess."
"Me, too," Carl confessed.
And they listened to the music together.
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 in the afternoon Oliver looked up from the book he was reading to see Carl moving around the living room filled his orange duffel with various supplies for any regular scout.
"Didn't you already go out this morning?"
"S— sure."
"You're going again?"
In response Carl pushed Oliver's wheelchair over and helped him in. He left him to put on his boot and once Oliver had he dumped the duffel bag in Oliver's lap.
"You want me to come with?" Oliver asked, popping some pain pills and drinking them down with a glass of water from the coffee table.
"Sure."
"What are we doing?"
"We're just d— dropping something off for someone. Won't take l— long."
Carl pushed Oliver's wheelchair out onto the porch. Oliver stood and leaned against the banister while Carl carried the chair down onto the side walk. He got Oliver down and in it, then he pushed him along the street towards the pantry.
"But your dad—"
"Isn't here." Carl went inside the pantry and came out again with two cans in hand. "Come on."
"What if Michonne finds out?"
"She'll b—be on my side."
"She will?"
"Yeah," Carl said, under Oliver's arm as they descended the porch steps.
"And me? Why do you need me out there?"
"K— keep me company."
Next thing Oliver knew he was sitting in the eagle truck as Carl drove out of Alexandria. Twenty minutes out Carl slowed as he came up to an old gas station.
"Was here th— this morning, getting gas," he explained. "Some guy called me out. Said h— he'd been shot at. That... someone threw a microwave at him."
Oliver's eyebrows rose.
"Told me something his mom used to say," Carl added, weaving the truck through some neglected cars. "'Whatever you have of good, s— spend on the traveller.' He s— said, 'Helping — that's everything.'"
Carl shrugged.
"Just thought it was a n— neat thing to say."
Oliver watched him and he asked, "He say anything else?"
Carl thought about it, then said, "'May my mercy prevail over my wrath.' From the Quran or s— something, I think he said."
"He was Muslim?"
"G— guess." Carl parked. "Either way Dad drove him off before I c— could help him, so..."
Oliver watched Carl grab the two cans from the pantry and a piece of old newspaper from the glovebox. He tore out a page and wrote the word 'Sorry' across it, then kissed Oliver's cheek and got out. 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.
"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.