Work Text:
“We started planting turnips today, you saw, didn’t you?” Rick says. Carl parts his lips.
“Now, I know you were looking out the window. Turnips. Can you believe it?”
Carl is mute. Carl always is. A narrowed gaze falls over the boy, tints of sadness spilling through the giddy facade Rick presents.
“Turnips, Carl,” Rick repeats, a poor attempt to ignite excitement. He licks out at his lips. Laughs.
“I mean can you believe it? Why turnips, and from where, right? Negan was helping out in the field.”
The laugh dies out and blends into the silence. Rick’s hands twitch. Reach for Carl’s face. Falter and retreat. A series of sentiments flit over his face, reeling past like pictures on a slot machine. A tight-lipped smile settles.
“Judith - Judith was asking about you today.”
He pets his hand over Carl’s head hesitantly. Carl bucks. Reanimates with a fervor in response to the contact.
“Carl,” Rick admonishes, grabs onto his son’s face like a lifeline.
“Carl,” When he doesn’t still.
Rick sobs, recoils with a sheen of guilt glazed over his eyes as Carl kicks.
“Carl,” He yells, repeats to himself over and over in a litany, “Carl.”
Carl bares his teeth. And Rick knows he should have let Carl have the gun, knows he should have given the choice to him. Long before he turned. He just couldn’t. He can’t. Not when he still finds comfort in that pallid gaze, long after Carl isn’t Carl anymore.