"The blacksmith's apprentice returns." He said without the usual enthusiasm of their meetings.
The young man slammed the stack of books onto the table next to him, rolling the office chair into the middle of the room and looking into the cell at the bedraggled prisoner. "What's eating you?"
"Nothing." He said with a tone that sounded alien to him: hopelessness. "Nothing at all."
They walked down the salt and pepper-mottled road, heads hung low. It was gone. All of it was taken away from them in what felt like a split second. A hail of gunfire seized their senses and left them scrambling for cover, leaving their home far behind them.
Carl Grimes was in front of them, thundering down the overgrown path with a cold gaze. His wide-brimmed sheriff's hat casting a shadow over his cerulean blue eyes and forehead. Beads of perspiration found their way all over him, clinging onto the frayed ends of his shoulder-length hair. Carl sniffed, pushing the events of the prison deep inside him.
Rick wheezed as he limped after his son, refusing to be helped by the other boy that was following them. Hair fell in front of his swollen face in thick, tangled clumps of sweat and blood. His entire head was inflamed, a deep, ugly red color that would make anyone take a double-cross at the sight. Rick's eyes were set deep in his skull, lined with dark bags that made his broken blood vessels even more visible. He let out a wet cough while limping down the road, body tensing in pain with every whooping hack.
Clancy had tried to help Rick at first, only to be shoved away by a bloodied, sweaty palm. The man shot him a look of reassurance, or at least that's what Clancy thought it was. He couldn't tell through the bruises and blood that covered the older man's face. The boy felt his polo shirt sticking to him, and it just seemed to make him more annoyed every time he peeled the sweaty fabric from himself only for it to bunch back up in the same place. Big brown eyes peered at Carl, who continued his march into the unknown, shoulders tense and shaking.
The part of his shirt that encased the hand with the missing finger was soaked through with a brownish-red stain that seemed to get bigger every time he looked down. Clancy bit his lip, inhaling sharply as the freshly torn flesh brushed up against the coarse dry blood that was coating his once-pristine shirt. He hadn't withdrawn his hand from the bunched-up shirt since he made the impromptu bandage and unraveling it could wait a little longer. The thought of infection was the first thing on his mind. Something that could take his entire arm from him if he wasn't lucky, or even kill him. Clancy let out a sound of discomfort as the fresh wound grazed itself again.
"Carl... slow down." The beaten man groaned. "Carl, stop! We need to stay together." He stumbled towards his son. "We need to find a place... with food and supplies." Placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, Carl looked into his father's bloodshot eyes as he began to speak again. "Hey... We're gonna be-" Rick's voice trailed off, breath hitching. Carl stared at him with a scowl, taking in every inch of his father's broken face before swiftly turning away and continuing down the road.
Clancy stood behind the pair, looking onwards awkwardly as he shifted his feet on the gravel road, kicking up pieces of clay and small rocks onto his bloodstained Converses. It was really gone. All of it, gone in an instant. Taken away from him in mere minutes. A roof to sleep under, hot food, showers, farms, people to trust; all gone. Taken away by other people. People that were just like him who somehow found it in themselves to murder during a time like this. Not just murder; slaughter. Slaughter and butcher and tear others apart limb from limb. It brought a cold sweat to Clancy's brow. He let out a sharp exhale as his index finger flared up again.
"You alright?" Rick turned, a singular bloodied blue eye looking right into him. Clancy was almost afraid of the man; afraid of his face and what it meant for the future of the people who were still alive. They would all just beat each other into shit until there was nothing left, not that there was much left of the world anyway.
"Yeah- yeah, I'm good." Clancy tightened his shirt around his finger. Don't complain, others have it worse, asshole.
Rick nodded, turning around slowly and limping after Carl. Clancy wasn't sure if he should go in front of the man, or keep following behind. He chose to stay behind.
They were at some hick biker bar now. Joe and Joe Jr.'s BBQ Shack. An ocean of motorcycles neatly lined the small parking lot outside the long wooden building, the only sign of the old world. Everything else was chaos. Cars flipped on either side of the road, overgrown grass, broken windows; it was like the entire portion of the road had been thrown into one huge blender.
"You two wait outside, okay? Keep watch." He rasped, sucking in a deep, wheezing breath.
Carl looked at his father, narrowing his eyes "You keep watch. You can barely stand, we're not gonna let you go in there alone." He motioned towards Clancy with his head, the other boy looked down the long stretch of road ahead of them, head snapping towards Carl as he heard his name being mentioned.
"Excuse me?" Rick asked, tilting his head as if to challenge his son.
"We've done this before. We're gonna- I'm gonna help you clear it. You should just let me do it myself!" Carl yelled.
With a sigh, the older man shook his head, opening the door to the biker bar. "Let's go." His gaze shifted from both of the boys standing in front of him.
Clancy was blasted with humidity and the smell of rotten meat almost immediately. It made him wrinkle his nose and dry heave, as well as announcing his discontent with the place entirely soon after. The others didn't say anything. Rick held his revolver steady, walking as quietly as he could through the restaurant. Behind him tailed Carl, hands clasped over his Beretta, index finger hovering over the trigger guard. The two walked through the single-story restaurant with ease, passing discarded plates, napkins, and glasses. There was nothing. No food, no weapons, no anything. Clancy gripped his crimson-stained shirt, balling his hand into a fist and groaning in pain slightly as his knuckles popped.
He swallowed a mouthful of saliva, pursing his lips with raised brows as they continued through the BBQ shack's kitchen. It was surprisingly clean, for starters. The walls were a near-perfect white, the sink was neatly stacked with piles of dishes, kitchen utensils were all in place, and the occasional pot or pan hung from the ceiling limply. It was a nice kitchen, through and through. Probably would've been better if there were people cooking something in it though. God, Clancy missed eating barbeque.
Looking into the corner of the room, the boy's eyes widened as he caught sight of a cast-iron skillet. He crept towards it, pulling it off the rack and balancing it in his right hand. It was heavy, sure, but it seemed like it could get the job done. Whatever "the job" was, Clancy didn't really want to think about it at the moment, but the pan could be helpful either way. And hell, if he wasn't using it to bash in walker brains, maybe he could stop and make Rick and Carl some grits.
An inappropriate chuckle escaped the boy's mouth. Something low enough for only him to hear, but louder than he wanted it to be. Rick followed him through the kitchen, scanning around with his gun lowered before he announced that the kitchen was clear. He limped out of the white room, leaving Clancy behind with the skillet and a small red box that raised his attention; Marlboro Mediums. He shoved them into his front pocket with a thin smile.
By the time the boy exited the kitchen, himself, a large crash brought him running into the dining room. There it was. A huge walker was stumbling through what seemed to be a barricade of chairs and tables towards Rick, jaws snapping at the man as he held it back. The man was screaming something about how "he had it" and "not to waste the bullets" but apparently Carl didn't hear him. Before Clancy knew it, the seven-foot-tall man was sprawled limply across the wooden floor, black blood pooling from under him.
"Hey, asshole! Hey, shitface!"
Clancy cringed as Carl continued to scream, the boy slamming his fist against the wall as Rick looked at him with a scowl.
"Watch your mouth!" He growled.
"Are you kidding me?!" Carl mocked. "If there's one of them down there, they would've come out."
Clancy covered his face as the two argued, walking past Rick and towards the stairs. This was the worst. Like being at a friend's house while they were fighting with their parents and being forced to sit there and watch.
"M'gonna look around upstairs. See if I can find anything for my finger."
"Yeah, I'll go with him too." Carl said with acid in his tone as he stared down Rick. Clancy shrank in on himself as the boy spoke. Why was he dragging him into this whole stupid feud with his dad?
The two walked up the stairs as silently as they could, and from Carl's screaming earlier, it didn't seem like there would be anything upstairs, but being safe about it couldn't hurt. Once they reached the second floor, Clancy brought his fist out to knock on the wall nearest to him. Nothing.
"Hey, you think you can find me a shirt somewhere. I don't really care what size it is or anything 'cause I'm just gonna tear it up to cover my finger."
Carl nodded and promptly retreated into one of the rooms of the house while Clancy pulled the door to the guest bathroom open, carefully stepping inside as the light of the hallway illuminated the dark room. Once deciding that it was safe enough to enter, the boy pulled off the sweaty, blood-stained polo and tossed it into the empty bathtub. It landed with a surprisingly wet sound, something that made him wrinkle his nose as he turned away from the mass of filthy cloth.
Clancy looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror and grimaced. The first thing he noticed was the fist-sized, deep-purple, raw bruise that spread across the left side of his chest and up to his lower collarbone. Brushing it with the tips of his fingers, he sucked in a breath of air as it flared up in pain, sharp acidic sparks of it finding their way down his entire torso. He rolled his left shoulder slowly, dull pain continued to tear through his upper body. Great.
Then he noticed how skinny he was. Clancy turned to the side and gawked at his stomach, which had sunken deeper than he'd ever seen. He wasn't even ripped yet. End of the world fucking sucked. He breathed in and held it there, staring in awe at his ribs, which were there clear as day in the middle of his torso, each divot easily seen through the layer of thin skin. With a sigh, he let go of the breath and his ribs fell back into obscurity. Maybe he should be eating more. He definitely wasn't hungry now, though, which is weird because he remembered being starving this morning.
His hair was the next thing that piqued his interest. Long. Long and matted and gross. Clancy had taken a shower the day before but that did nothing to help whatever was happening atop his head. Sweaty strands fell in front of his eyes, and they were soon swept back by his hand. He needed a haircut too. And a five million dollar mansion, and a big screen tv with an Xbox to play on, and an alive set of parents. Maybe a few more things here and there.
Carl was screaming at his dad again. Something about a knot or something, but Clancy didn't even bother to listen this time.
His index finger was the next problem, the pain had only been located near the severed appendage at first, but now pulses of uncomfortable pins and needles found their way through his entire hand. Clancy raised it to the darkened bathroom mirror, pursing his lips at what had become of it. Brown crust spider-webbed itself down his entire forearm, stopping almost immediately at the elbow. Besides the snakes of dried blood that trailed down his arm, the finger itself had stopped bleeding, leaving a gnarled stump of flesh that had the tiniest piece of bone sticking out from the top of it. It would undoubtedly get infected if he didn't do something about it. So that marked the next priority on his list, finding anything to clean it; water, peroxide, alcohol, it didn't really matter. Clancy remembered watching a movie where a person used vodka to clean a wound, so maybe if they found any of that it would come to good use. He hoped.
Opening the medicine cabinet, a smile crept across the boy's face as he saw it. Sitting there on the top shelf was a brown bottle that jiggled with liquid inside once Clancy pulled it from its place. Peroxide. Bingo. Thumbing through the rest of the pills in the cabinet, he extracted a bottle of Tylenol and some vitamins. The latter probably wouldn't do much, but Clancy liked the idea of getting some form of nutrients in his body. Putting the bottle onto the sink next to his other spoils of war, he stood wide-eyed as Carl came into view through the glass of the medicine cabinet, small shirt in hand.
Normally, being around people without his shirt on was a primal, debilitating fear of his. Something that would make his knees all wobbly and forehead and hands clammy. But weirdly enough, he didn't really care anymore. Carl stared at the purple welt on the boy's chest and shook his head in disbelief, asking him if it hurt as he handed him the ratty t-shirt he'd found in the closet.
"A little bit. When I touch it and when I move my shoulder it gets really bad though."
"W— what happened?"
"I got shot, I think. Couldn't really tell but something hard hit me in the shoulder and I fell down." He turned back towards the mirror, tracing the bruise. "Guess the football gear wasn't so stupid, huh?"
Carl nodded, looking down at the shirt in Clancy's hands. "Do you need any help with that?"
"Nah. You see, it's all about how you—" Clancy pulled the sleeve from the shirt with a grunt, emitting a snapping sound as strands of fabric tore but provided no result. "It's all about how you—" He pulled at the sleeve again, cursing under his breath as it refused to give way from the shirt. "You just need to get it at the right… angle!" The boy tugged against the cloth to no avail. The sleeve of the old shirt stood true and left him with aching fingers. "Alright… let's go find some scissors, I guess." He walked out of the bathroom. "Hey! Can you take the things on the sink with us to the kitchen?" Getting another shirt could wait.
"Are you ready? Because I think this is gonna hurt really bad." Carl swirled the bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the cup that Clancy had placed on the table.
"Erm… not really. But I gotta just… get it over with. Like ripping off a band-aid." Clancy's hand shook as he held it over the empty cup, his right hand wrapping around his wrist to keep it steady as Carl lowered the bottle closer and closer. He could've sworn he heard the liquid fizzle as what was left of his finger was doused in it.
Clancy immediately slammed his fist on the marble counter as the peroxide went to work, the tell-tale white foam surrounding the wound and popping as the rest fell into the cup below. Red hot flashes of lightning shot up his arm and through his entire body, making his knees go weak as he held onto the counter for support. Clancy stopped biting his lip and let loose a flurry of expletives at the pain just kept going and going and going.
At one point, he was sure that he was about to pass out. Fresh beads of sweat dotted his forehead, further ruining his already filthy hair. Clancy let out another squeak of pain as his finger stood covered in the deep-pink foam, Carl staring at the cup in awe as it collected most of the stained peroxide.
The pain stopped before he knew it, and with a deep sigh of relief, Clancy pulled his hand away from the cup and looked at his injured finger. It had ceased to bubble and pop, leaving thin blood mixed with peroxide to ooze from it. Reaching his hand out for a washcloth, which Carl supplied, Clancy dried the wound and handed Carl the strand of cloth they had cut from the shirt. Sure, it was no gauze, but it would have to suffice. For now at least.
Carl laced the white cloth around the other boy's finger, pulling it taught and tying it under itself, providing Clancy with a strong knot to hold his bandage in place.
"Thanks for the help, Dr. Grimes." He said with a smile as he examined the impromptu medical aid.
Clancy could've sworn he saw the other boy blush in the darkening kitchen as he put the finishing touches on the bandage. He was definitely seeing things. Maybe he needed glasses. What would happen if he actually needed glasses? How would they get a prescription or have his eyes checked, or—
He picked up the cup of dirty hydrogen peroxide and dumped it into the sink. "How much more of this do we have?"
"Erm… about enough to clean your finger one more time, I think." Carl gauged the weight of the bottle in his hand. "But I think we should save some for my dad if— when he gets up."
"Yeah… yeah that's what I was thinking." Clancy stared at the dried blood wrapping down his arm in vein-like patterns. "Seriously though, thanks a lot, Carl. I uh… I really appreciate it." He smiled, which quickly turned into a wince of pain as the raw wound brushed up against the cloth
Carl let out a noise of affirmation, and taking that as enough, Clancy left the kitchen behind, walking up the stairs to the bedrooms to find a new shirt… and maybe some new shoes.
Of course, the light blue Homer Simpson shirt was the only thing that fit him. The guy's head was plastered dead in the middle of Clancy's chest, a big cartoon smile hanging there as he held a donut in a floating hand beside his floating head. Even though keeping up with fashion wasn't on the top of his list of things that were important, there had to be a limit on something like… well, this. He looked in the mirror with a sigh as Homer stared back at him. Maybe he could find some new pants too. Alright; shoes first, then underwear, actually, then pants.
Pulling up a pair of black jeans, Clancy grunted as he forced the button closed. What was with these people and their weird clothes sizes? The underwear problem was settled, and shoes were the last thing he needed. Leaving the ruined canvas sneakers in the bathroom alongside his polo shirt, the boy pulled open the same closet he found the Simpsons shirt in and fingered through the pairs of shoes that were laid out on the floor. They stopped at a pair of black combat boots, size ten. Half a size smaller than what Clancy was used to, but he'd manage.
Creeping down the stairs, he was surprised to see Rick fast asleep on the couch. Barely breathing, but at least he was still alive. The man sucked in an unconscious breath as his body rocked on the couch. Clancy grimaced as he scanned the room for any sight of Carl. The kid was out cold as well. How long had he been upstairs for?
Shrugging, he crept back up the stairs, entering the bedroom with the dark green walls. Carl had definitely been in here already, seeing as the television was pushed askew and unplugged from the wall; the same cable being used to tie the door shut. An Xbox sat on the dresser, one of the new black ones. Well, not so new now, Clancy thought to himself as he ran a hand across it's dust-covered surface. The room clearly belonged to a kid; one his or Carl's age. Clancy shuddered to himself as the realization about what probably happened to them came to his mind. Dead.
He opened the bedroom window with a grunt. The missing finger was providing him with more trouble than he thought it would, especially with the flash of pain that came every time he grazed it upon something. Being careful to remain quiet, Clancy placed his hands on the sides of the open window, sending a booted foot through the gap and onto the awning shortly below. Pushing himself up, the boy soon found himself through the window and in the open air.
He breathed deeply, taking notice of the sky. All purple and blue and pink as the sun set somewhere past the mess of dark trees that surrounded the secluded road and lone house. Stars speckled the vibrant sky, tiny pinpricks of white that left the boy with a smile as they glimmered back at him. Something about it wasn't right. It was almost too beautiful for a day like this. Too beautiful for people like them to see.
Clancy backed up on the slanted awning, pressing against the white siding of the house's walls and slowly lowering himself. The migraine he'd had for most of the day got a little better as he sat. So did the finger and the shoulder. Maybe it was just the heat. The walking. The crying. All had run him ragged over the past few hours, and taking a second to sit. To relax without the threat of anything shooting him in the head or ripping into his throat. It was nice.
Then he started thinking. Thinking about the past week at the prison. The time Patrick gave him his glasses to wear and he almost fell over in the prison yard. The time he and Michonne talked about what route she would take through the comic store to get the best ones. The time he almost slammed his foot right in between Carl's legs by accident during the one and only time they played soccer at the prison.
Then he thought about Hershel getting his head sawed off his shoulders. Jacob's head blowing to pieces in front of him and the labored breathing that came from the man as he ran away. The tank that shredded the crops into nothing and blew up the watchtower. The car seat smeared in blood that made him scream when he looked inside it. Rick's beaten face and ragged breath. Getting shot in the shoulder.
Clancy dug his hands into his jeans, withdrawing the Marlboro Medium box and rolling it through his fingers, tracing the red design. He pulled the top of the pack open and smiled. Half a pack. He'd hide it from Rick and Carl, of course.
Clancy thumbed the cigarette, running his only remaining index finger down the paper cylinder. The pack had a lighter already inside of it, one of those mini Bic ones that was dwarfed by the boy's hand. He let out a snort looking at the small red thing, striking down on the flint wheel and producing a small orange flame that contrasted greatly from the deep blue of the lonely night. Clancy let go of the button that produced the butane gas slowly, leveling his head at the dying flame. The boy flicked it on again, getting lost in the warm glow as the flame danced atop the red Bic. He kept it lit, rotating the lighter and making the tiny inferno stretch and contort around the metal tip.
Clancy kept up this motion, head lazily following the flickering lighter. He let go of the button and placed the heated tip of the Bic against his forearm. Biting his lip as the lighter dug its way past his skin, singeing him in the small area that it covered. Clancy kept the lighter on his arm until the burning stopped and the night was silent once again. He cried after that, making sure to be quiet enough for Carl or Rick to not worry about it. They were both sleeping anyway, so why should he care? Maybe it was to stop other people from finding him. People like the people that took away their home. He let out a shaky, wet sigh, wiping at his nose with his hand and settling back against the wall of the house.
Clancy placed the cigarette in his mouth, letting the small thing hang freely as he took his time with the lighter. Attempting to flick it on once, then twice, then three times. Nothing. He wrapped his remaining fingers around the body of the tiny Bic carefully, setting his thumb in place and striking down fast, emitting a weak flame. He greedily brought the cigarette forward, inhaling deeply as the tobacco began to burn. The smoke tasted funny and felt different, but it would have to do. The orange filter at the bottom should've ticked him off that these were a different brand, but Clancy didn't think there would be this much of a difference. With a face of discomfort, he continued to smoke. Floating away from everything.
Then morning came and he was still on the roof. Shit.
To top that off, he was in pain. The entire left side of his body ached like he'd just been straining the muscles for hours on end, and the boy let out a groggy moan of pain as he extended his left arm. Great. The morning was starting off smashingly.
With a stretch, he crawled back through the open window as gracefully as he could, nearly tripping as he made his way back into the bedroom. Clancy massaged his shoulder as he walked through the green room. What time was it?
"Carl?" Nothing.
Clancy stepped out of the bedroom and into the corridor that connected the entire upstairs portion of the house. He called out again. "Rick? You up?" Nothing.
Then he went downstairs, not even worrying about the amount of noise he was making as his heavy boots crashed against the creaky wood. "Carl?!" The boy wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere in the house.
The cold realization of panic swiftly crept through him as he continued to call the boy's name, peaking through the backdoor and half expecting him to jump out and scare him, but no. There was still nothing. Shit. Shit shit shit. Fuck.
He had to find him. If the stupid asshole was out there alone and got himself killed… Clancy didn't even want to think about it. This wasn't how he wanted his first morning on the road to go, peppered with anxiety and an ache that made him want to tear his own arm from his body to be rid of it, but here he was. He took the skillet off the kitchen counter and promptly turned towards the back door, balancing the thing in his right hand as he stepped out of the house.
What if Rick woke up while he was gone? Fuck. Clancy backed up into the kitchen, tearing open every drawer, peeling through piles of silverware and kitchen utensils and fifty things he didn't even recognize until he found a red Sharpie. Uncapping it in his teeth, he ripped a postcard off of the fridge as he stomped into the living room. What should he write?
Carl left. Going to find him.
-Courtesy, Your Friendly Neighborhood Clancy.
Lame. So lame. But it was already done and there was nothing he could do about it.
PS, take some of these, found them last night.
Clancy slammed the Tylenol down onto the table next to the couch and took one last look at Rick's sleeping form before picking up the frying pan and walking through the back door out into the unknown.
"Hey Mr. Badass, how'd you find your way up there, huh?" He spat at the boy sitting on the roof of the deserted house with a smug look on his face.
It hadn't taken Clancy as long as he thought it would to find him. About a half-hour walk down the street and towards one of the only other houses in the neighborhood was probably the most logical route for him to follow, and it paid off.
"Killed three walkers today. Alone. Without anyone's help." Carl sneered. "Trapped one in the room back there too. Got my shoe, but I was too smart for it to get me."
"Okay, yeah, that's uh… that's great." Clancy kicked at the loose gravel in the road. "So, why'd you leave, exactly?"
"To get food, obviously. We didn't have any, so I thought it was time that I did things on my own." Carl laughed. "I honestly don't think I need my dad anymore! I mean, if you saw what I did today, maybe you'd think the same."
Clancy looked past Carl to the pair of rotten arms flailing out of the opened window. "I— yeah, sure." He raised a brow at the side of the house. "How'd you get up there?"
"Climbed up the side."
A few minutes later, and a lot of struggling on Clancy's part, given the constant throbbing pain that shot through his upper body and finger, both of the boys were on the roof.
"A can of pudding? Really? Is that like a common thing down here? Jesus, I hate the south." With a grunt, he lowered himself over the awning and let his legs dangle freely.
"So I guess you don't want it then? Hey, man, there's more for me." Carl let out a chuckle as he dug his spoon into the chocolate pudding.
"I mean, I never said that, I just think it's weird that… Forget it. Can I have some of that?"
"You gonna get your own spoon?"
"You want me to climb all the way down there to get one?"
"Kinda, yeah."
"If you're gonna be like that, I'll just use my hands."
"Hell no! That's— that's gross for both of us." Carl hesitated, looking down at the spoon. "You know what... fine." He thrust the spoon into the other boys' chest, Clancy sucking in a breath as Carl made contact with his shoulder. "Sorry!"
The first spoonful was one of the best things he's ever eaten. Given the lack of food he'd consumed in the past day, that would probably be a given. Apparently, he was talking to Carl. Something about how good the food was maybe, or about the weather and how weird it was that it could be so cold at night and so hot during the day. Maybe he talked about his new shoes or how Carl probably had to get new ones as well. Pudding now, thinking about having an actual conversation later.
"I ate mostly powdered food for, like, pretty much the past six months. Maybe a can of something that was in the dining hall here and there, but most of the shit was powered. Didn't expire for a few years either, which was a surprise to me at least. I never went to a summer camp or anything, so, like, seeing all those cabinets stocked with basically chemicals made me kinda happy I never went." Clancy paused. "You better believe I ate all of it though. Tore through that stuff in six months and then had to leave when I ran out. S'when Daryl found me a few days later." He left the spoon clean, staring at his warped, clouded reflection on the back of the silverware.
"We ate powdered food at the CDC. Eggs and stuff. They weren't that bad, actually."
"CD-what-now? What the hell were you people doing before the prison, going to farms and government buildings and shit." Clancy laughed. "Kinda wish I was there to see that."
And with that, Carl began talking about his entire journey through Georgia up until that point. The boy had never talked this much before, and Clancy would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. Just talking. Talking about life and how crazy it is and how you can never expect the next thing to come. Clancy didn't mean to undersell Scott. He was his best friend for five years, but apart from a passing conversation here and there, the things they talked about rarely strayed from whatever game they were playing or movie they had watched. And when they did somehow slink towards a conversation about something serious, a vale of humor would usually, if not always come soon after. Talking with someone his age about themselves instead of some stupid video game was kind of refreshing. Maybe it also had something to do with him getting used to talking to people again in general, as well.
Then Carl asked Clancy about himself. He hated talking about himself but knew it was coming. "My mom's name was Grace… erm, she was born in Brooklyn, lived there her entire life. Met my dad when she was in her late twenties, I think. He was Irish, that's where I get the freckles from, I guess, and she was Italian. Dad lived in Georgia, moved to New York and they had me a few years later." Clancy exhaled loudly as he continued. "Uh… I was in sixth grade when we moved to Washington, D.C., mom got a job in the government, some senator position or something, I dunno. She was always kind of secretive about it and my friends used to break my balls about it, too. She died in a car crash a few years after we moved to D.C."
The way he said it kind of bothered him. It was so nonchalant that he barely even noticed he'd let it slip. "Then we moved to a smaller house. Stood there for a few years and dad took me back to Georgia. Then things got bad and, well, you know the rest." Clancy slumped forward on the awning, leaning his chin in his palm and sighing. "That's the scoop, I guess."
"My mom died, too." Carl said plainly. He'd omitted that part from the story about his group, but Clancy could've put the pieces together from the first day he met him.
"I had to put her down after she gave birth to Judy."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry about your mom and dad too."
A comfortable silence came over them after that. They passed the spoon between them after every bite, something that got less gross to Clancy as time went on, mostly just because he was hungry.
"Carl, don't be a people pleaser alright, I don't know where I'm even going with this, but… when I was your age, it's what I was, and I don't want you to be that. I know I'm only like a year older than you and you probably know a whole lot more about the world than I think you do, but just… I don't want you to do what I did."
"What?"
"There was this girl… fucking, uh…"
"'Fucking, uh' was her name?"
"Shut up. It was… It was Maria, that's what it was. I literally changed my entire lifestyle to go on a date with her and it went nowhere, alright." Clancy spat. "Don't let your own insecurities make you change who you are. Change cause you want to, alright? That's what I'm trying to say. And if you think that you're a 'big tough man', then be a big tough man, I don't give a shit. I just— I don't want you to be doing it because you think being anything else makes you weak"
"What'd you do?"
"I started losing weight, dieting. But, like, not in a healthy way. I'd like… barely eat, and when I would, it would be like a couple of pieces of chicken or something. I hated pretty much all of it, but it worked, I guess.."
"All for Maria?"
"Partially, yeah. And someone else, but I don't wanna get into that."
"Who?"
"Some guy I was trying to get to like me. Felt like he was disappointed in me so I wanted to prove him wrong. I mean, proving people wrong is a good thing, Carl, but still, don't make that be your only goal in life. Like, I look back and it's like… did I even like this girl? I dunno. Maybe I was just doing it to fit in. Try and get a girlfriend like everyone else. You never had a girlfriend or anything, right?"
"There was this girl that I knew at the start. Sophia." Carl looked down into the can of pudding. "I don't think I liked her, but she was nice to me. Pretty sure she liked me. I don't think I've ever really like liked someone."
"I understand. You wanna know something crazy? At your age I like… barely talked to anyone. " Clancy kicked his feet a little harder as they dangled over the edge of the roof. The new boots were settling in pretty well, they were a little tight around the midsection of his foot, but other than that, he couldn't complain. At least that was something going for him, a nice pair of shoes. And a friend beside him that he could actually talk to about real-life problems, that was good too. It made Clancy feel "complete" in a way, like a piece of him was missing over the past half a year and now it was filled up by this kid wearing a tacky hat. "I literally only spoke to, like, two of my friends, my dad, and my gym coach. That's it."
Carl looked like he stopped listening the second Clancy started talking, but the other boy didn't seem to mind. They traded stories for the next hour, passing the spoon to each other after each bite of pudding. It was the most normal Clancy had felt in years. More normal than any of the time he spent at the prison, weirdly. Like this was meant to be, and that life wasn't. Didn't make losing it any easier, though.
Eventually, they started talking about Judith and Clancy started to get clammy and uncomfortable as the conversation went on.
"Look, Carl, I'm really not good with words and stuff, y'know? But I just want you to know that I'm really sorry, okay? Like not in the way people say they're sorry after something bad happens but they don't really mean it, but like… like in the way that makes me want to want to fix everything for you even though I can't."
"And that's the worst part, I think. I see you here, you're just a kid, barely what, fourteen?" Clancy laughed, "You know what I was doing at fourteen? Jerking off and playing video games, and look at what you're doing. Saving people, playing a part in something bigger. Surviving. Carl— I don't think you understand that you are a kid. You're a kid and it's okay to act like a kid because, well, you are one. And you've just— been through so much shit and it's like…" Clancy brought up his hands, clenching them while making an exaggerated sound of frustration as Carl looked on. "I don't know what I'm even trying to say anymore, I'm only like, a year older than you anyways."
"Why would I want to act like a kid now?" Carl choked out through pudding. "You saw what happened at the prison? Being a kid doesn't prepare you for something like that."
"Yeah, well, walking around like a tough guy never seems to go right for people either, huh? You saw what happened to The Governor. Everyone he brought with him to kill us died. And look at us, we're still here."
"But what if he's still out there and he finds us again. And what's the point of still being here if everyone is dead?!"
"I— How do you know?" Clancy leaned forward. "You think The Governor's still out there, so why do you think everyone's dead?"
"Because my sister is dead, okay?! Sure, I cared about everyone else, but once I saw that empty seat I knew nothing mattered anymore. 'Cause if she's dead, then why should I waste time worrying about if other people are still alive." He seethed.
The pudding can was empty by that point and Carl leaned it over the edge of the awning, sending it clattering to the road as he sat on the roof with a sour look.
Clancy shrank in on himself as the other kid continued to stew in his own anger. "Did you really mean it? What you said earlier about not needing your dad anymore?"
"I did." Carl said matter-of-factly.
Somehow, he still found a way to freak Clancy out.
They were back in the house a few hours later, Carl with a pair of new shoes stolen from the room with the green walls. As for Rick, the man was still sprawled across the sofa, shallow, ragged breaths filling the living room every few seconds.
The note Clancy left on the table was gone. Either a gust of wind blew it under some furniture, or Rick had seen it. He hoped it was the latter, however unlikely it may be.
The rest of the day was quiet. Carl picked through a book he found in the green room. Elsewhere. He mumbled something about it being cool and having elves in it as he passed by Clancy in the kitchen.
The boy was tearing apart t-shirts again. Making long strips of cloth that he tied together and wrapped around his neck in a makeshift sling for his aching shoulder. Similar to the shoddy bandage on his finger, it wasn't much, but it got the job done.
Night came, and the boys silently agreed that they definitely wouldn't be eating the meager rations that they'd gathered given the pudding incident a few hours prior. So they settled in, Clancy deciding to sleep in the living room instead of on an awning outside the window. And of course, just as sleep was beginning to take its hold on him, he had to relieve himself. Groggily announcing it to Carl, he picked himself up from the floor and stomped upstairs to the bathroom.
There was no water in the toilet. The thought of taking it outside came to him, but glancing out the window to see the pitch blackness of the night quickly brought Clancy back to the waterless toilet.
He had just finished when a noise of pain erupted from downstairs. Zipping up his fly and booking it out of the bathroom, Clancy flew down the stairs, nearly tripping over his feet as he reached the bottom.
"Woah, woah, woah. What— what the hell happened?"
"I thought—'' Carl spat through a nose full of snot. "I thought he was dead." He let out a shuddering sob that made Clancy choke up.
"What do you mean?" The boy's voice softened as he brought himself down to Carl's level.
The younger boy held his knees to his chest as another wail came out of him. "I— I said I didn't need him. I said— I said I could live without him but I can't! I can't do it!" Carl covered his eyes at the sight of his unconscious father laying on the living room floor.
Then Clancy moved like a robot that hadn't been greased up in decades. His arm awkwardly outstretched around Carl's shoulder, pressing him tightly into himself. The boy shuddered in his grasp, shoulders bouncing up and down as he sobbed into his hands. Clancy looked onwards, eyes wide and mouth down-turned in an expression of pure shock and confusion. Now what? He was hugging the kid, so now what?
Clancy decided to keep Carl close to him, tightening the hug as every wracking sob tore through the boy and made the former vibrate alongside his movements. "It's gonna be alright. I— I'm here." Was he there, though? How could he even know the kid's pain? Losing his home, his family, seeing his sister's bloodstained carrier and father beaten half to death. Then he shook away the thought of comparing his pain to someone else's. Why should it matter what something went through? As far as Clancy knew, the only people who were still alive all went through some sort of pain, so helping someone wasn't the worst idea. Or, as always, maybe he was just fucking stupid.
He repeated himself, rubbing the other boy's shoulder as his muffled wails continued to rock through his body.. "I'm here… I'm here." Clancy wasn't good with crying people. Never was, and probably never will be. Something about it just made him completely uncomfortable. The wet, dripping face, the thick, slimy snorts of mucus, and horrible noises of anguish. Sure, he wasn't exactly a supermodel while crying either, and he'd done his fair share over the past six months, but that still didn't change his perspective on it. It was something terrible and cringe-inducing. But it was something necessary. Something that kept a human, well… human.
"I care about you." Carl choked out through a full nasal passage, snorting wet and deeply.
"What?"
"What— what I said before. I said I didn't care about anyone but— but Judith." He sniffed. "I care about you and dad, and— and everyone at the—" Carl started crying again before he could even finish.
Then something hit Clancy, burrowing deep into his stomach and registering in his brain within a second. Not a bullet or the rotted teeth of a walker, but a feeling. A deep guttural feeling that was right. It just felt right. It felt right and it made him feel good in his stomach like he was riding the Coney Island Cyclone and had just dropped from a huge hill, the car flying across the tracks and blowing wind down on his face and making him smile from ear to ear. Clancy wanted to pull him in closer, to pull him to his side and never let him go. But that would be weird. And gay. That's what gay people do, and he wasn't that.
Yeah, tell that to the page of the magazine with Hugh Jackman on it that you kept in the information booth, asshole.
And then that thought went into the filing cabinet. Way back into the weeeeeeee-recesses of his mind to be never heard from or thought about again. That didn't stop the occasional jump that his stomach made every time he brought Carl just a little closer to him.
Clancy woke up hot and all tangled up in Carl's body. Prying the boy's arm off of him, he looked around the room, a sense of relief washed over him as he saw Rick still passed out on the floor. Sure, it wasn't good that he was still on the floor, but it was more favorable than seeing him awake with full knowledge of what had happened last night.
What the hell was he thinking? It was a mistake, that's all it was. Just a stupid mistake he made. Teenage hormones or something. Yeah, it had to be that.
He sat at the kitchen table reading a book, well, more like looking at the words in a book, while he waited for the other two to wake up.
"You shouldn't have risked it, going out there like that. It's dangerous."
"We were careful." Carl replied.
"It's good that you found more food."
"We found even more. But we ate it."
"What was it?"
"112 ounces of pudding. I don't say this lightly… we kinda demolished it." Clancy answered from the wooden table, picking at the lace of his new boots.
Rick let out a pained chuckle before squinting at the boy's Simpsons shirt. "Where'd you find that?"
Clancy laughed at the man's expression. "Look, Mr. Grimes, I'm not happy about it either, but it was basically the only thing that fit me in the whole closet and—"
"I got your note yesterday," Rick said with a sip of water. "Thank you."
"What note?" Carl asked, head leaning on the couch cushion."
Rick turned towards his son, taking in a ragged breath. The man was definitely healing, that was without question. However, he was still a long way from being a hundred percent better. "Clancy told me you left and that he was gonna find you. Left me some pills too." Rick looked at the small red bottle. "Haven't gotten around to taking them yet."
"It was nothing, Mr. Grimes, really." The boy said, face flustered and fingers nervously running through matted hair.
"Yeah, well it meant a lot to me 'Friendly Neigh-
"Yeah, yeah, you can stop now, it's alright." The boy brought a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Carl burst out laughing as Clancy sank into the loveseat on the other side of the living room, cringing. Rick smirked and shook his head as he took another careful sip of water.
"Did you write that?!" Carl howled in laughter, breaking into a cough as he continued to chuckle.
"It was cool at the moment, okay." Clancy lied. It wasn't even cool at the moment.
"You think you're Spider-Man or something?"
"Yeah. A little bit actually. You could be, like, my sidekick."
"Spider-Man doesn't have a sidekick."
"He's got his Amazing Friends. You ever watch that show? The one with Ice-Man and—" A knock at the door interrupted the conversation and the room fell silent.
Rick dropped the bottle of water, fishing his revolver out from his detached gun belt and staring through the peephole in the front door as Carl pointed his Beretta towards it as well. The man smiled and fell to the floor, breaking into a fit of laughter while shaking his head.
"What? What is it?"
Rick looked at the two boys. "It's for you."