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It's the loud snap! the camera makes that alerts Carl.
He's distracted, doing the few dishes that are left from the lunch Rick and he shared earlier, head bowed down as he scrubs a pot. Rick comes near him — sneaks, really —, careful not to make a sound so he won't warn Carl of his presence. He's got their camera in hand, one of the few that are shared between the residents of the Safe Zone, and Rick just can't help himself — his boy looks so beautiful.
The buttery afternoon light streams from the kitchen window to shine upon Carl, illuminates the thousand hues of his hair, creates dream-like kaleidoscopes with it. He's got an apron on, that dark blue one they share, softened with use and stained with both smears of past meals and the joys from cooking together. Carl's hair falls over his face despite his best efforts, a section mopped in place awkwardly once his soapy hands tried to keep it out of his eyes.
What makes Rick's heart tighten isn't the lighting, his boys' bare feet on the kitchen floor or the sight of Carl bent over, dressed like a little wife, tending to their home. It's the expression in his son's eyes, the peacefulness in doing something so mundane, that line of worry that creeps between his eyebrows more and more lately erased. Carl looks happy, satisfied, even, ecstatic at getting to busy himself with easy, nearly-forgotten tasks.
And so, Rick can't stop himself — he snaps a picture before Carl has the chance to notice him, to complain or pose or hide his face even as he smiles, all coy for the camera, for Dad's eyes on him. Truth be told, though, if allowed, Rick would carry a camera on him all the time, take shots of Carl's expressions, of every single moment they spend together to keep for later.
The only reason why Rick doesn't is that the one thing that's better than having hundreds, thousands of pictures of Carl is getting to live through all of those moments with him. Rick refuses to waste a single second of them peeping through a lens.
Carl's eyes shoot up a second after the flash sparks over him, surprise turning into colored cheeks and a lovesick smile he does his best to contain — and, of course, fails.
"Dad! What are you doing?" He laughs, turning away from the camera as Rick snaps picture after picture, can't keep a smile off his own face either. Rick doesn't answer, just keeps stepping closer and clicking away until Carl is raising a soapy hand at him — and, in turn, way too close to the camera — and telling him to stop, his tone light and giggly.
Rick sets the camera by the countertop, satisfied with the amount of snapshots of their little married life he's gotten. He turns to hug Carl from behind, circling his waist and the apron he's seen Carl wrap around himself two, three times until it's tight enough to fit over his little waist. Rick kisses the back of his neck, delights in the shivers his beard raises from his baby's skin.
"Sorry, sweetheart," He kisses Carl's exposed shoulder, reveling in his powdery scent. "Couldn't help myself."
Rick sets his chin onto it, drapes himself over Carl's back, way too pleased with himself once Carl simply goes back to washing the dishes, as tricky as the angle makes it, way too comfortable in his Dad's arms to sacrifice his hug in the name of something like full mobility. Who needs that kind of stuff anyway?
That, of course, doesn't last long, because soon enough Rick is digging his fingers into the knot on Carl's apron to try and get it off.
Carl elbows him in the ribs half-heartedly for it. "You know, I'm busy here."
"Yeah, because you love doing the dishes so much." Rick grins, twisting the boy in his arms until Carl's back is pressed against the sink and his eyes are glued on Rick's. "Come on, darling, dance with me."
Carl laughs, can't help himself.
"What? No!"
"Why not?"
"Because my hands are all soapy and there isn't even any music, Dad!"
Rick grips him by the wrists easily, ignores Carl's protests to pull him closer.
"I don't mind."
It doesn't take any time at all before Carl is melting onto his father's chest — Rick, his kryptonite, his one and only weakness. His bubbled hands grab for Rick's shirt, fisting at his back, and he sighs as he spreads himself over his father's torso. Rick gives him a soft smile Carl can't see even as he feels his back getting wet from the dish soap.
Carl's at that age where he needs to complain about everything. It's normal for a boy to distance himself from his father, Rick knows, but he's pretty sure that's not what's happening here. Rick thinks his baby is just needy, with a crush too big for his heart to bear and a want for Dad's attention that's even bigger. The only thing Carl wants, as far as Rick has noticed, is this: Dad's hand on the back of his head, keeping his boy's face cradled against his heart to listen to the music the steady beat of it makes, a kiss pressed against his temple and a silent I love you in the way Rick's hand drops over his waist. Carl craves domesticity, craves a married life, and Rick will be damned if he's not gonna give it to him.
"Dad?"
"Hm?"
They're mostly swaying together, bodies warm against each other as their feet drag against the floor, more interested in keeping each other close than in following some imaginary melody.
"I was just thinking that maybe, once Judith is old enough, we could… get a place. Just the two of us. Raise some chickens, maybe— maybe grow a vegetable garden. Get a dog. Just us."
Rick stays quiet and Carl's heartbeat thrums in his ears, head pressed against Dad's chest as his face grew red and he became more and more unsure by the second. Rick's grip on him has tightened, getting nearly painful, but Carl could barely feel it under the blanket of disappointment and bitter embarrassment that settled over him.
"Anyway, it— It was just an idea, Dad. It's nothing."
"Carl—"
"I don't want you to feel pressured or anything, it's just— It's stupid. Doesn't matter."
"Carl." Rick repeated, exasperated. He brought a hand to the back of his son's neck, a familiar gesture neither of them had managed to outgrow, and used his grip there to move Carl's head from where he tried to unsuccessfully hide himself onto Rick's chest to force his gaze to his him. "Look at me, honey."
Carl's brow was furrowed, mouth twisted into a grimace. Even if he had opened up to Rick countless of times along the years and had been met with nothing but his father's utmost kindness and seemingly undying love in return, Carl still shivered with it. He tried not to keep things in anymore — had no reason to, not with how connected Rick and him were today, but he couldn't help it.
They have never been religious, but Dad had always been a God in his eyes — huge, bigger than life itself, constant, unwavering, his childhood hero forever and ever, and the end of the world didn't do anything to help Carl outgrow this hero worship he felt for the man; only made it worse, really. It even felt like he had more to lose now, here, where the things that counted were so scarce, where Rick and he shared a bed and made each other breakfast every single day, where they slow danced in the kitchen for the sake of it. Carl really, really didn't want to fuck this up.
Rick caressed his boy's cheek, thumb melting away that frown in seconds, Carl nuzzling against his palm in instinct instantly. He was a man now, Rick knew it, could see it — more of a man than Rick was at that age, more of a man than Rick was once he had him, probably. But still, Rick knew Carl would never grow up to be anything but a child in his eyes.
"There's nothing, and I mean nothing in this world that would make me happier than growing old with you."
Carl's breath left him all at once, knocked out of him by his Dad's affections, like his love was a punch straight to the gut. Carl was growing surer and surer every day he would never get over it.
"Really?"
Rick smiled, gave his boy that smile that lit his entire face, and lowered his hand to Carl's waist once more so he could keep twirling them around the tiled floor.
"Really," Rick answered, letting Carl nuzzle against his chest once more, only ducking to urge a kiss against the top of his head.
Carl moved in a split second, still shy when it came to initiating anything, and pressed his slack mouth against Rick's, cheeks glowing with shyness and the warmth that came with joy, that honeymoon-like, unending bliss.
He could almost see it; the buttery morning light shining through their bedroom window, Carl's arms surrounding him from behind early in the morning while Rick cooked breakfast and his boy was still too sleepy to care, afternoons spent between lovesick smiles and the sacred sound of Carl's laughter, seeming to echo off the trees surrounding them, winters spent inside, curled in front of the fireplace, Carl dozing off in his lap as Rick read to him and combed loving fingers through his hair.
"I don't know about the dog, though. I'm pretty sure our cottage won't have room for us, the chicken coop, the plants and the dog. You're gonna have to help me build him a house."
Carl's head shot up from its place pressed against Dad's chest, his eyes seeming to sparkle. Rick marveled at his boy every single day, slept curled with him and woke up to their legs tangled together amid the sheets, but still, he couldn't help but think to himself that Carl was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen about fifty times a day.
He didn't think he would ever — or could ever — stop.
"I never said anything about a cottage."
Rick smirked down at him, couldn't stop himself as he looked at the smile that grew on his son's face. Prettiest boy in the whole damn world.
"Well, maybe I have my own fantasies."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. It's by a lake… You gotta see it during the spring, darling. Archie likes the little yellow flowers."
"And Archie's the dog?"
"Of course Archie's the dog!"