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It finally happens while they're on the run - not exactly on the run but at the barn, after the church.
They're clearing out the surrounding area for the night, but who knows how long they'll be staying here for. Everybody else is out doing something or the other; killing walkers, gathering twigs for a fire, hunting, getting water.
Carl stays back with his dad, quietly watching as Rick changes Judith's diaper in the corner, cradling her against his chest not too soon after. "I think we'll stay here for a few days. Gather our bearings and figure out where we're goin'."
"Cool." Carl shrugs, more annoyed and angry than he is satisfied. He should be - satisfied and content, that is. Happy that at least they’ll have four walls and a roof over their heads tonight. He can feel the warmth between his legs though.
He can hear his dad's footsteps approaching, crunching on the ground, knees cracking as he sits down next to him. "Hey," the man whispers. Judith gurgles. "somethin' wrong? You've been upset since this morning,"
That isn't exactly a lie.
"I'm not - I'm not upset." Carl picks up a thread of hay and twists it around his finger. As much as he knows his dad cares, he wouldn't understand enough to help him. It's stupid, he feels like crying - and this is coming from a kid who guts open walkers on a daily basis.
"Sure seems like you are. C'mere," Rick shuffles Judith onto his lap and curls an arm around Carl, pressing him into his chest a little. It's quiet for a while, save for their collective breathing. Rick's hands, fingers - all the while rough and calloused - are soft against him as they rub up and down his forearm and it makes Carl feel like he's a baby again. He just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep in his dad's safe hold, much like Judith spends her time doing nowadays. It isn't fair. The urge to cry intensifies.
"I'm gonna go help the others clear the area," he announces and leaves before his father can stop him.
He doesn't actually do that. He distances himself from the rest of the group as much as possible and after making sure he isn't being followed, Carl ducks behind a few bushes and gulps before checking the mess in his pants. He isn't sure if it's worse or better than he'd intended but it's still bad either way. It's seeping through his jeans but they're dark washed - the stain isn't noticeable unless you squint. He wonders if anyone has noticed. If they have, they haven't said anything.
"Carl?" Michonne materializes out of nowhere, thankfully after he's pulled his pants back up.
He thinks about telling her, she could probably help and understand better than his dad will. And maybe she wouldn't even tell him, Carl trusts her like that. She’s his best friend.
"Everyone's wondering where you ran off to. What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Carl deadpans and trails his fingers against the gun in his holster.
Michonne doesn't pry, only nods and hums, silently urging for him to follow her back to the barn. It's almost nightfall, which means there'll probably be an influx of walkers in a few hours or so. They've done their best killing the ones lurking behind trees though.
"Where were you?" Rick asks when Michonne delivers him back into barn, in tact and without a scratch.
"Taking a walk," he says and shoves himself in the same corner he was sitting in before. This time there's a flood of Daryl sitting beside him, carving a piece of wood with his switchblade, his expression neutral and calculating as usual.
Rick grunts. "You can't just wander off without word, Carl. You know -"
"Okay. I'm sorry," he feels too emotional to be arguing with his father right now, he's so sure that he might slip and let the tears fall if he pushes himself or gets pushed on any further. "I just wanted to be alone."
He skips dinner - almost expired canned corn and roasted deer - and slumps up against haystack and closes his eyes. Everything is so overly complicated now, too complicated.
It was better at the camp or at the farm where all they had to mostly worry about was the food they were gonna eat and the walkers they had to kill. It's getting worse, the insides of his thighs feel sticky. There was a time where Carl genuinely believed none of this was going to happen - just like how his chest never really grew and how the hips never settled in. It was easier when he used to wear his dad’s jackets and play the hero.
His stomach growls and a walker groans from afar. Carl pushes his knees up to his chest and sighs. Right now, hunger and walkers are the least of his troubles.
It starts raining and thundering out after everyone cramps up to sleep for the night. Judith starts crying and the walkers start to scratch against the walls from outside. When it's over in the morning the trees have been broken in half, collapsed on top of the dead. It's mesmerizing in a way, supernatural and holy when Carl lays his eyes upon the scene. The sticky warmth is still as bad as it was yesterday, if not worse. He can feel it dry and peel just above his knees. And he smells like iron - his hands, his shirt, the air around him.
He could already hear the footsteps before they approach, feel the scabbed hands before they touch his shoulders. He feels too old for this - for hugs and embraces, especially from his dad of all people. But still. He hugs back and slips a tear, two, three, four, five down his cheeks. And it’s ugly, snot and wetness and Carl’s sure glad no one else is here to witness such a vulnerable moment. He doesn’t really remember the last time he cried. Maybe when his mom died.
“I,” he sniffs, face buried into the crook of Rick’s neck. “It happened.”
It’s all he needs to say to generate small and gentle pats across his back. “Yeah?”
Carl confesses, “I feel terrible. Weak.”
“You’re not.”
“But it feels like it.”
“You’re the strongest man I know.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
Rick’s beard tickles against his forehead a little and Carl wonders if he’ll ever be able to grow one as wild, bushy and unkempt as his. He looks too much like his mom.
“I know I can’t understand how you feel right now,” a pause.
“You’re right. You can’t. You don’t.”
“But that ain’t gonna stop me from tryna’ help. Can I help? Will you let me?”
Everything goes quiet after that. The wind, the leaves, the stream nearby. It’s still there, mocking, laughing at him him. Growing warmer and wetter and smelling more and more of steel and metal. Carl bites his bottom lip. “Please,” he begs.
It’s hard not to be embarrassed when he finds out that his dad has a separate pocket on his backpack full of sanitary supplies, “For the wom- for the people who need them.” Rick tells him, bright square between his fingers.
And when Carl comes back to the barn, changed and clean and wearing new pants, Daryl pats him on the back and tries to trip him and Michonne steals his hat, ruffles his hair into messy oblivion.
His dad is in his usual corner, bouncing Judith on his hip with a smile. “We’re gonna head out and try to scavenge for some supplies.”
Carl holds his breath. “I’ll come too.”
“Get your gun, young man.” Rick grins and his little sister screeches with laughter.
“Okay dad.” Carl smiles back and it doesn’t hurt so much.