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Summary
When Carl dreams, tucked beside Michonne against the sturdy trunk of an aged oak, his dad a sentinel keeping vigil, dark glittering eyes watchful and posture as alert as a wolf on the prowl, he does not dream of big clammy hands pinning him down forcefully, nor of the shattering weight accompanied by cold fear so absolute it sunk to the very marrow of his bones.
Instead, he dreams of his dad’s savage drawl, of guts spilling on dusty pebbly trails, of his dad’s lips against his forehead, the lingering feeling of the comforting kiss warming him with the heat of this unwavering impenetrable knowing: I’m his.
Or, an archive of snapshots and vignettes from Rick and Carl’s developing relationship.