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Even with the doors and windows barricaded—barricaded as much as possible—the cold air still permeates the abandoned clothing store that they’re staying at. Rick thinks it’s probably mid-November or mid-December, but he isn’t quite sure.There’s snow outside, still falling, and it’s been blue cold for God knows how long, and the sun is almost completely set. They’ve been traveling and on the road through fall and through this winter, and they’ve been looking for a good shelter to stay in more long-term. For a place that Lori can have her baby that isn’t just the side of the road with walkers coming at them.Hershel’s checking on Lori in one of the dressing rooms off to the side of the store, and the rest are sitting together in a corner off to the other side, sharing blankets and body heat and a portion of the little food that they have. Rick is off by himself, seated on a wobbly chair, but he has a clear view of the others all huddled up together.Rick’s side has been aching since they were running from walkers a few hours ago, and a sharp branch snagged his side. He felt the blood, but he knew it wasn’t a bite, and he had more pressing concerns at the time. Still does, really.He looks at the others, sitting on the floor and huddled together in the corner, then rifles through the duffel bag laying on the floor beside him to find one of the first aid kits they’ve pieced together, a towel, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.Rick takes one of the makeshift first aid kits, the towel, and the whiskey bottle out of the bag, then straightens a bit. He sets the kit and the whiskey bottle on the floor, beside his leg, and puts the towel on his lap. He sees Carl looking at him from the huddled group, even with how dark it is, and Rick gives him a soft, quiet smile, hoping that he’ll be convinced that everything’s as fine as it can be.He’s not convinced, apparently. He whispers something to Daryl, who’s sitting beside him, and Daryl nods. Carl gets up, taking the blanket from around his shoulders and depositing it onto Daryl’s lap. Carl walks over to Rick, his head tilted a bit to the side.Carl’s gotten… harder, lately. Colder. He’s had to, Rick knows that, but Carl’s becoming less and less like a kid as time goes on, and the moments that Rick can look at him and see the child that he’s supposed to be are few and far between.“Hey, Carl,” Rick says, resituating himself on his wobbly chair. It’s colder, over here. Rick didn’t take a blanket, and he was trying to take care of his wound without the others noticing all that much. Turns out that’s not going to happen.Carl’s staring at the darker, bloodstained spot on Rick’s shirt and coat, on Rick’s left side. It’s dark in this abandoned store with how cautious they are to light it up, so Rick’s just a bit surprised at how quickly Carl has caught on.“You’re hurt.”Rick nods. “Yeah,” he says, then, “It’s not a bite. Promise.”“I know it’s not,” Carl says. He looks down at the first aid kit and the whiskey bottle, and then at the towel in Rick’s lap. He looks back up at Rick’s face, then says, “Need some help?”Rick shakes his head. “No, no. No, I’ve got it. Go get warm with the others, Carl—”“I can help you clean it and stitch it. I know it’s from that tree branch earlier—”“You saw that?”Rick could swear Carl almost scoffs. “Course I did.”He starts unbuttoning the lower buttons of Rick’s shirt, as his coat is already open. Rick puts his hand over Carl’s, stopping him, and Carl looks at his face.“Come on, now, I’ve got it—”“Let me help, Dad,” Carl says, and he says it with such conviction that it tugs at Rick’s heart.Carl shouldn’t have to help his father stitch up a wound; he shouldn’t have to shoot walkers; and he shouldn’t be hungry and cold this harsh winter. No. He should be on a playground, in a school—Carl’s back to unbuttoning his shirt even as Rick doesn’t say anything in reply, and this time, Rick doesn’t stop him. Rick is too tired and Carl is too sure that he’s going to do this, and even if Rick doesn’t want him to, he’s going to let him, anyways.Rick watches as Carl finishes unbuttoning his shirt, and Carl pulls part of the shirt to the side to look at the wound. The fabric pulls at the wound, dried blood attaching shirt to skin, and Rick breathes through it to hide a groan.It’s on Rick’s left side—near that old bullet wound scar from so, so long ago, now—and it’s essentially a slash; it’s a rather clean cut, considering the branch that caused it. The wound has clotted a bit, but not fully, and it’s now leaking fresh blood slowly down his side as some of the healing it had done is broken open by the shirt being unstuck from it.Carl doesn’t bat an eye. He crouches down a bit and grabs the whiskey bottle from the floor, then pops it open. He mutters a quiet “one, two, three,” mostly to himself, before he pours some of the whiskey over the wound.Rick balls up his fists and grits his teeth so that both Carl and the others don’t hear him, even as the pain flares. He tips his head back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes.Rick tilts his head forward again and opens his eyes. Carl’s pressing the towel against the wound to dry it and to staunch the bleeding, and the whiskey bottle has been set down on the floor, uncapped. Rick’s breathing hard, but he’s trying not to make all that much noise so that he doesn’t worry Carl, and so that the others don’t come over and try to gather around him like a flock of birds.Carl looks up at Rick as he’s pressing the towel against the wound with one of those rare, innocent smiles on his face. Rick smiles back, because even through this, he wants to show Carl that he appreciates this. That he doesn’t take it for granted.Carl lays the towel down on the floor, beside the whiskey bottle, then opens up the first aid kit that’s on the floor. It’s rather bare—assorted bandages, needle and thread, and tiny, almost empty bottles of rubbing alcohol that Rick knew were there, but that he didn’t want to take and use for himself on this when whiskey would do just fine.Carl takes a small flashlight from his coat pocket and clicks it on, then puts the flashlight end in his mouth, and shit, does it remind Rick of Shane. Must be where Carl learned it, he thinks, with a stab of hurt and regret and so much more that he can’t let himself fall into right now.Carl finds the needle and thread quickly in the bare first aid kit. When Carl first puts the needle through skin, it almost looks like his hands are shaking.The pain flares up a bit, but not unbearably. Carl stitches quickly and cleanly, and even if his hands were shaking before, they aren’t now.There’s a surety to his movements that tells Rick that he’s been taught this, certainly, but he’s cautious enough that it’s clear that he is at least new enough at it to be just a bit uneasy about stitching Rick up.Or maybe it’s because Rick is his father and this is the first time Carl has ever stitched him up, and Rick hopes that it will be the first and the last time all at once, but he has a strong feeling that that isn’t how it’s going to be.Carl is done rather fast, and when he ties off the last stitch, he gets the bandages. He puts a small wad of them on top of the wound, then gently pushes Rick forward so that he can wrap it all up around his stomach. Rick complies, and after Carl ties the bandages off, he takes the flashlight out of his mouth and turns it off with a quiet click, then puts it back into his coat pocket.Carl’s hands have blood on them, Rick notices. He’s not sure if Carl doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, or just accepts it.“Thank you,” Rick says. The room is quiet and his voice is, too, but Carl nods, and just barely smiles. Carl closes up the kit and puts the cap on the whiskey bottle, then shoves the kit and the bottle back into the duffel bag, leaving the bloody towel on the floor.“You’re welcome,” Carl says after he’s done putting everything back in order. He’s halfway crouched in front of Rick, but he straightens, then moves to lean against the wall, now standing beside where Rick is sitting.They’re quiet for a moment, but Carl hasn’t left yet. Rick takes the opportunity. He looks at Carl, standing at Rick’s right, even though he can only partially see Carl between the lack of light and the angle.“Where’d you learn to stitch, Carl?”The store is still dark and Carl’s face is still only partially visible, but Rick can still see his face almost fall at that.“Hershel taught me. Said I—that I needed to know, just in case.”“You’re good at it,” Rick says. “I had to learn some, uh—some basic stuff, being a deputy.”“Yeah?”“Yeah.”“You—you remember that time, before—” Carl stops, for just a moment, then starts again. “That time you had to deliver that baby, and it was in the newspaper?”Rick swallows down a lump in his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”“You think—Dad, do you think—”“Hershel knows what to do better than I do, Carl.”“But if he… if he doesn’t make it, you can. You can help, right? You already have before, and—”“If I have to, I will, yeah? Don’t worry about that, okay?”Carl nods slightly, just enough of a nod that Rick can tell that he did. Carl clears his throat quietly, and God, does Rick hope he isn’t trying to swallow down tears. After a moment, Carl lets out a barely audible, “Yeah. Okay.”The door to the dressing room that Lori and Hershel are in creaks open quietly, and Rick’s gaze shoots to it. Hershel comes out first, then Lori, and although Rick can’t hear what he’s saying, Hershel is saying something to Lori. Lori nods, then looks over at Rick.Rick lets his eyes linger for a moment. Sees the curve of her stomach, even in the dark. He looks away because he can’t stand something, even if he hates himself for it.He looks over at Carl, who now seems to be looking at Lori. Rick glances back, and Lori isn’t looking at him anymore. Lori and Hershel are both moving to sit with the huddled group, and Beth is handing Lori a blanket.Rick puts his hand on Carl’s shoulder with his right hand, even though the angle is a bit awkward. Rick moves his head a bit to look at Carl again, and Carl returns his gaze.“Go get warm, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.”Carl nods, and his eyes go between the bandaged wound and something else, too. Carl reaches out and touches that old bullet wound scar from a lifetime ago, where it is right under the top of the bandages.His fingers linger on it only for a moment, and he doesn’t say anything else. He turns and walks to the group, and he doesn’t look back. Carl sits on the ground beside Daryl again, and Daryl gives him his blanket back.Rick watches them. They’re all talking and occasionally laughing, and Lori has a hand on her stomach. Rick keeps finding himself staring at it.Carl says something and the others laugh. He must’ve had a joke up his sleeve, Rick thinks. He does, sometimes. Rick misses out on most of Carl’s jokes because he’s off doing one thing or another these days—'one thing or another’ usually being exactly what he’s doing now—sitting off by himself.He leans over and digs the whiskey bottle back out of the bag even as his wound aches with the movement. It’s now only about a quarter full.Rick opens the bottle and takes a sip, then another. Carl and Lori and some of the others, too, glance over at him from time to time, and their looks are nothing short of concerned.It’s over a minute, hell, it’s over five, and Rick still hasn’t come over there with the rest of them. Doesn’t really plan to.He takes a last sip from the whiskey bottle and barely gets anything from it; he’s drank it dry.He sets the empty bottle down on the floor beside him, and he doesn’t bother putting the cap back on it. Rick watches the others as they gradually, one by one, start to lie down and fall into not-so-restful sleep.Carl is the last to fall asleep. He gives Rick an almost disappointed look—Rick can even tell that with how dark it is; he could tell that look anywhere—before Carl’s back is to him.Rick leans back in his wobbly chair that feels like it could break any minute, and now, he’s tired of it. He stands up and shoves the chair to the side, and it falls over, breaking one of its chair legs as it goes. Rick slides down the wall to sit on the floor where the chair used to be.It’s even colder and perhaps even more uncomfortable, but he’s tipsy from the whiskey and it doesn’t matter, anyways.The rest are asleep, together and something like warm, and he’s here, slumped over and sitting against the wall. The whiskey has dulled the pain, but it’s not taken it completely away.He needs to sleep. He knows that he does. But he can’t.Rick doesn’t know how long he just sits there and watches the others sleep. He’s a bit out of it, sure, but not enough that he isn’t fit to lead them; not enough that he isn’t useful.He must eventually fall asleep, but when he wakes up, it doesn’t feel like he rested any at all. He wakes up, eyes flying open, to Carl in front of him with a hand on Rick’s shoulder. Rick flinches back, and Carl takes his hand away, almost startled. Rick breathes in, trying to control himself.“Uh—morning, Carl,” he says, looking at Carl where he stands in front of him. Carl’s eyes go from the bandaged wound to Rick’s face, back and forth a few times, until Carl sighs heavily—too heavy and too burdened for how young he is. How young he’s supposed to be.“You should eat,” Carl says, nodding over towards the group. Rick can hear hushed conversation from the group now that he’s listening for it, but he can’t make out anything that’s being said.Rick nods, then says, “I’ll be there in a minute. Why don’t you go on over, okay?”Carl really does scoff this time, then rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he says, clear disbelief and clear disappointment in his voice—maybe frustration, too, Rick thinks. Carl eyes the whiskey bottle for a moment—the empty whiskey bottle—then turns around and joins the others without another look or word Rick’s way.Rick looks down at the bandages—bloodstained, but still holding—then runs a hand down his face tiredly. He feels like he hasn’t slept well in months. Shit, he really hasn’t—they all haven’t—and he knows it.Rick’s been staring off, gazing at a small, tiny strip of daylight coming through a partially exposed window. A spot they must’ve missed when they boarded everything up for the night yesterday evening. Shit.Rick hears footsteps coming closer, and it’s Carl. Of course it is.Carl sets an open can of some food—probably beans, given what they have—in front of Rick’s leg, a spoon stuck in it. Rick meets his eyes, and Carl returns his gaze.Carl just nods toward the can, then walks back over to the group again.They’ve got to get moving. Walkers weren’t far behind them, and this shop will get overrun fast.Rick is so damn tired, but the others are too. It doesn’t matter if he’s tired, he tells himself, and it doesn’t matter who’s baby—
Goddamn it.
Rick eats, and watches, and hates how he stays away even though he knows it’s his own choice.They just have to keep moving until they find a good place to settle for a while, and then everything will be okay, he thinks—he tells himself and he knows he lies to himself.He eats because they’re all hungry and he is no exception, and the whiskey burns in his stomach with how little he’s eaten—how little they’ve all eaten.Rick gets up off of the floor, and he tries to hide and forget the aching of his side. He takes his can of beans, walks over to the others, and he puts on the best fake smile that he can muster. He tells them all ‘good morning,’ and they all say it back, even Lori—even Lori, with some little spark of hope that maybe this is fixed coming across clear as day in the faint glimmer in her eyes and the gentle curve of that soft smile that Rick still cannot bring himself to truly, really hate.Rick comes and sits beside Carl, and Carl smiles at him like Rick can fix it all. Like one ‘good morning,’ one show of good faith, one thing showing them all that Rick isn’t completely retreating into himself is enough. That Rick isn’t leaving them all alone while he drinks in the corner—at least, that he isn’t doing it all the time.It’s not enough, and Rick knows it, but it’s enough for this morning and it’s enough for right now.But eventually, it won’t be. Rick knows that and they all know it, but for right now and right here, it has to be.