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Somewhere, outside and distant, a walker is dragging it’s disgusting fingernails across the glass of a first-floor window. From the second floor, where he’s looking through a closet for something useful, the sound rings in Carl’s ears like the thing with bloody, yellowed fingers is standing right behind him, hungry and clawing at an imaginary wall of glass. He shivers, just barely, each time it echoes off the walls, and tells himself over and over that there is nothing behind him, that nobody is staring at him through the passenger window.
And he isn’t scared, not like Sam, not like Deanna. He’s angry, because shouldn’t they have seen this coming? He’s angry because they should’ve prepared for this, prepared the Alexandrians for this. Because Enid is outside the walls, Ron hates him, and Carl was just starting to get a hold on this ‘having friends’ thing. Because Glenn is gone, and Abraham is gone, and Sasha is gone, and Daryl is gone. He’s angry because that walker has blood caking it’s hands, bits of flesh under it’s nails, and it’s dead and it has killed. He’s angry because the only things in this closet are crayons, warm blankets and action figures. Anger, anger, anger.
Through this haze, the scratching seems millions of lifetimes away, like it’s happening to a different Carl Grimes, who’s a little bit stronger and who cares a little less.
And a door clicks open, and everything else is background noise. The anger, the scratching, so quickly forgotten. He runs, quickly, silently, for the stairs, and gets to the break before the second flight when he sees Ron’s green sleeve pull the door shut from the other side. Despite himself, the first thing he thinks is: Moron. And the second, quickly following, is: What the fuck?
While he pulls himself down the remaining stairs and towards the door, a million things are rushing through his head, and something deep inside him is screaming Danger! Danger! But he keeps walking until his hand closes over the door-knob.
Ron is leaning over the desk in the corner of the garage, head against the wood surface, and Carl thinks he looks miserable. He closes the door behind him, just as quietly as Ron did, and before he can think it through, says, “You alright, man?” Obviously not.
The silence seems long and piercing after that, ringing in Carl’s ears, even though this should be familiar; The white noise of Walkers in the background, heavy-breathing overlapping, arms shuffling against his sides so quietly most people wouldn’t be able to hear. These are all things he’s trained himself to be comfortable with, to know, yet somehow it’s wrong. And right now, they’re safe, still, somehow it’s wrong.
Carl opens his mouth to say something less painfully stupid than last time, when he hears a pathetic: “Enid’s dead.”
His stomach sinks a little when he says that, because, really, he hasn’t let himself think those words in succession. She could be. She probably is, dead, but he can’t imagine her that way. “She’s not.” He whispers, to himself and to Ron, and hopes it sounds more sure and convincing to Ron than he feels. But nobody ever really dies, do they? Maybe he’s telling some sort of sick, partial truth. Maybe Enid is alive, alone, out there. Maybe she’s worse-off, if she is.
“My dad, he’ll find her,” and it’s a horrible comfort, he knows, “she’ll be alive. She will.”
“That’s bullshit.” Ron spits out, as he whirls around to face him, suddenly confident. “Your dad? He’s just gonna get more people killed,” He steps, one after the other, closer, “Because that’s what he does. Your dad’s a killer.”
Carl doesn’t try to deny it, because it’s true, but thinks of Reg rotting in the grave they buried him in, and then of the way he’s seen Ron flinch when someone moves a little too quickly, and says “So was yours.” Maybe worse than a killer. Because that’s true, too.
Ron freezes a few feet away from his face, out of breath and with wide, red eyes. “My mom’s dead.” He says, quietly again, like walking this far took every ounce of energy he had left, “My brother’s dead, too. We’re all dead.”
“We’re not,” he emphasizes, because that’s true, for now, and he needs Ron to grasp that. “We’re going to live.”
Ron shakes his head, so slight it can hardly be seen, and starts to brush past Carl and make his way towards the door, a look in his eyes so detached that it’s worrying. The only thing Carl can think is that he cannot make it to that door. Every part of him, even the deep parts screaming Danger! Danger! cannot let Ron make it to the doorknob. His hand shoots out and grabs onto Ron’s wrist, without thinking. His skin is cold. Stop, everything is screaming, stop, stop, stop.
“Ron–” he starts, but doesn’t finish whatever he was going to say, because his friend spins and shoves, sending him toppling onto the cold cement of the garage floor. Carl lands on his elbows and his tailbone and winces, groaning “Ow, fuck,” before he looks up at the other boy.
Fists clenched, chest-heaving, he’s staring at Carl with a look on his face that he can only think is murderous. Danger! Danger! Something shrieks, and there's a toolbox, opened and overflowing, just behind him, but he doesn’t reach for it. Instead he looks dead into green eyes, confused and, admittedly, pissed off.
“What the hell is your problem, man?” Ron spits, like speaking to him is poisonous.
“What’s my problem? Are you kidding me? You just threw me onto the floor.” His patience is wearing very thin, and he’s trying, but God forgive him, he is not a saint. Remember what you were like, he thinks, remembering yelling at his unconscious father, stomping around abandoned neighbourhoods. Remember how it felt.
“Do you ever know when to quit, Carl, seriously? Do you think you’re helping? ”
“I’m trying to!” Carl ignores the dull pain in his back where he landed, and pulls himself up, closer to Ron’s height.
“You’re not,” he says through his teeth, and it’s closer to a hiss than anything else, “You’re not. You can’t.”
“Jesus, man.” Carl says, stepping towards him, “All I’ve ever tried to be is your friend. I want to help you. Let me help you.”
Ron’s eyes, impossibly, narrow even further, and he scoffs, throwing his arms up in frustration. “I don’t want your help! I don’t want anything to do with you!”
“Why?” He says, exasperated.
“Because all you and your group do is ruin things, Carl! Everything was fine before you got here! And you just…” Ron trails off, eyes flicking all over Carl’s face, and for some reason, Carl holds his breath, thinking breathing might scare his gaze away. “I shouldn’t,” he speaks again, finally, and Carl breathes, “I shouldn’t want anything to do with you.”
“What’s your problem with me?” He asks, taking another step towards Ron, who doesn’t back away, but glares.
“I hate you.”
“What’s your problem with me?” Carl repeats, stepping again, because that isn’t an answer. They’re hardly any space apart, now, and Carl cranes his neck to look Ron in the eyes.
He doesn’t answer, but he breaks eye contact, gaze once again darting all over his face, unable to focus. They linger, hardly, on what Carl knows is a scar on his jawline, healed and difficult to see from a distance. Ron’s eyes flicker to a spot below his nose and then snap back up to meet his own, intense with something he doesn’t recognize.
And before Carl can repeat it, that question, again, Ron is lunging forward.
He feels the pressure of Ron’s lips long before he really registers what’s going on, kisses him back before he thinks Ron is kissing me right now, and before he thinks, oh, shit, Ron is kissing me right now.
His hand shoots up to tangle Ron's hair, sweaty and probably greasy, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care. He can’t think. Not right now, not when Ron leans forward, clanking their teeth together and kissing him harder, biting his lip and smiling against his mouth when he gasps at it.
Ron kisses with anger, he kisses with every bad thing and every good thing he’s ever had. He kisses like there’s no time and too much of it. It, kissing him, is intoxicating. It’s everything Carl’s ever wanted and everything he didn’t know he wanted. Ron’s hands hold his face so roughly, aggressively, like he’s afraid to let go. He holds him like in another life he’s trying to snap his neck, stop him from breathing, but Carl has already stopped breathing.
When they break apart, Carl is dazed, and more confused than before. Three million questions flick through his head at rapid pace, but he can’t vocalize any of them. Ron is staring at him, gaze softened but still hard around the edges, and he can only think one thing; Why?
Before he can remember how to speak, Ron is turning on his heel and walking towards the door. There's no voice screaming Danger! when his hand closes over the door-knob, opens the door and quietly leaves the garage.
He keeps the door open, just a crack, but doesn’t look over his shoulder.
Carl blinks once, twice, in disbelief, then smiles to himself.
He follows.