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Rick doesn't notice, probably because it's been like this for so long and the detail is so incredibly minor that there's no real reason for him to point it out, if he can identify the difference at all.
It goes like this: Negan is simply prepared to push Rick to his break point and finds a great way to get him there: his son. With Abraham's head bashed in and Glenn's leg mangled to bits, he thinks: why the hell not? So, he calls the teen over with the intent of ridding him of his arm.
But Negan's slick. He's detail-oriented, and he takes an eye to the littlest bit of extra pressure in Carl's right foot as he steps. The slightest bit of a deeper sink into the uneven gravel that's left behind in the imprint of his sole. It's not surprising when he holds up his hand, stopping Carl in place as he approaches the maniac. "Well, we'll get to that," Negan starts, gesturing to hatchet on the ground with a twirl of his bat, "in a second. First, I wanna' know what the fuck is up with your leg, kid."
Carl blanches- if it's possible for his face to become more pale, if any of the color in his face has recovered from the previous night. He gulps and blinks. "What- what are you talking about?" he whispers, trying to keep the trait away from his family and, more specifically, his father.
"I'm talking," Negan yells, prodding his finger into Carl's shoulder, "about that damn limp ya' got on. Fuck, didn't know you were such a goddamn idiot, too. Should'a' bashed your head in instead." After Carl fixes his stance from jolting, Negan pats his shoulder. "You twist your ankle on the way over, stumbling over your own two feet?"
"No," Carl mutters. He glances down towards the ground in shame.
Negan chuckles, a sound that's repeated in his mind for hours, haunting him over the images of bats swinging and blood spraying. His hand comes up, hitting the underside of his hat's brim. The dirtied accessory tumbles to the ground, landing over rocks and dust somehow looking worse than it did before. Instinctively, he curls his shoulders in towards his chest. Negan grins. "There's no point in lying. Hell- you say what happened to your friends over there when they messed up," he recalls. Carl stares straight at the ground in an attempt to ignore the blood-soaked dirt. "Now, tell me the truth so we can get this shitshow on the road."
"Carl," Rick begs from the ground. His voice is quiet but, by the tight clench of Negan's jaw, he can tell that the man heard. "Tell him, bud. It's- it's ok."
"You hear your daddy?" Negan taunts. "Tell me what's wrong with your leg."
Carl shakes his head. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong."
Negan sighs, a long breath leaving his lips and disappearing into the air. "Carl, Carl, Carl," he clicks his tongue. With a few steps, circling in place, he puts a hand on his hip and taps his bat on the ground. "You guys 'll never learn, huh?" Then, he leans down, his tall figure and confident face pushing into Carl's personal space. Hot breath falls onto his face and Carl shakes. "Tell. Me." he annunciates.
"No," Carl responds.
A quiet growl leaves from Negan's throat. "Tell me," he insists, his voice growing in volume.
Carl shakes his head. Negan's presence was overwhelming- the closeness, the anger, the violence that reigned over his body. Carl squeezed his eyes shut. "No," his voice shakes.
"God damnit!" Negan shouts. Carl curls inwards, flinching; with the distraction, Negan brings his hands up to Carl's shoulders, shoving his backwards. Amidst the shout of his father, he falls, his back slamming into the ground, with his head and legs soon to follow. Negan grabs a hold on his leg, quickly yanking the bottom of his pant leg up and revealing his ankle.
His ankle, with the knife holster that he's been wearing for the past year and a half.
"Oh, boy," Negan shouts happily upon the sight. Giddily, he yanks the knife from its sheath and drops Carl's leg harshly. He winces and tries to sit up, his palms digging into the rouged ground. The blade is held in front of the man's face as he inspects it closely. "This is a nice one, kid. Real nice!"
Negan reaches down and grabs Carl by the ear, pulling him to his knees. Carl whimpers. "You thought you could kill me, huh? You really though that you," he pauses, yanking harder on Carl's ear, "could sneak your way over here and fix things up? Thought hiding this from me would work?!"
"No," Carl says underneath Negan's words, but the man ignores him.
"Huh?" Negan demands. "Speak up. You thought you could kill me?!"
"No," he says again.
Negan leans closer to him, screaming. "Huh?!"
Carl's breath picks up as he feels Negan nudge his side with the bat. He doesn't want to end up like Glenn- can't end up like Abraham, and everyone's watching him. He hears his father beside him, begging for him to stop, because Carl's only a child, but Negan is over top of him, laughing. "No!" he returns, more aggressively.
"Huh?" Negan repeats.
"No! No..."
Now that Carl is distracted, no longer thinking his responses through before he blurts them out, Negan yanks at him again. "Why did you have it? Why did you have the knife?"
Carl shakes his head, but it's hard with the hand holding his ear in place. Tears begin to make their way through the tight line of his closed eyelids. "No, no, no."
Negan repeats his question over and over, his words overlapping Carl's desperate please to stop. Negan pulls him to stand, digging his fingers into Carl's head and his arm and screams in his face, the volume in his ears making him bring his hands up to block the noise. "C'mon, Carl! Why? Why, why, why?!"
His hands press harder into the sides of his head as he cowers. A heavy sob leaves his throat.
"Why's you have it? Why'd you have the knife, huh?!!" Negan taunts. "Why'd you-"
"In- in case I wanted to kill myself, ok!" Carl shouts. In an instant, he can feel the grip on his ear lift up, just enough so that Negan's fingers are still there, but it no longer hurts. The screaming has subsided and, as Carl removes his hands from his head, he notices that it's never been this silent since they got here.
Negan gives him time to pick his head up, to look at him with soaked, red cheeks and watering, pleading eyes before tsking. "Damn," he says. "Damn! You were serious?"
Carl swallows and waits a moment before nodding. He looks down to his father, whose wide eyes are looking up at him with a level of horror that could only be rivaled by the events of last night. He's quick to avert his eyes in order to not witness the look.
"Way to ruin our fun by being a little bitch!" Negan grunts. He stares at the knife for a second before tossing it over to Carl. "Here, catch," he says.
The handle nearly slips through his fingers but, within a second, the weapon lays heavily in his grasp. "What..."
Negan shrugs. Both of his hands join on the end of his bat, and he leans his weight into it. "If you want to kill yourself so bad, spare us the work and do me a little favor."
Carl stares blankly. He blinks first, and he can tell that Negan gains a little satisfaction from it through the twitch in his grin. "You..." he trails. "You want me to... kill myself? Right- right now?"
"Wow!" Negan exclaims, throwing his hand out for emphasis. He flicks Carl's forehead with his finger. "Looks like there's a light on in there somewhere. Now," he says, gesturing to the ground, "Kneel, would ya'? Just like you did yesterday."
"Carl," Rick interrupts. "Carl, Carl-"
Negan rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up!" he shouts, pointing his bat at Carl. "I can just do it myself, y'know."
Rick shakes his head. "No," he pleads. "No, just- he doesn't-"
"You don't have to do this," Michonne begs from where she kneels. It's the first time Carl hears someone else speak up in a while, but he can't even turn around to see what they look like. He's just surprised that she would risk her life right now.
The man shrugs. "I'm not doing anything," he defends, a hand flying up in a gesture of innocence. "He," Negan drawls, waving at Carl with the end of his weapon, "is gonna' do all the work. Blame him." He stoops down to Carl's level. "Why don't you start taking that nasty flannel off, yeah?"
Carl takes a deep breath before setting the knife down in front of him. His father is mumbling under his breath uncontrollably, his eyes dancing around because he just doesn't know what to do. Negan whistles and points to one of his many men that grab his dad by the head and force him to look at his son. When he sheds the long, pattered fabric from his skin, he watches as Negan raises an eyebrow.
"You're experienced, then?" he asks upon seeing the lines of raised, bumpy skin on his forearms. He grabs Carl's wrist, holding his limb up so even the ones behind him can see the marks. "Your people are shit! It'll make this easier."
Carl swallows and lets Negan replace the knife into his hand. "Start with whichever arm you want."
He hesitates, but nods, and sets the blade onto the base of his wrist, perpendicular to the scars that already lay there. He doesn't want to do this, really- but it could save everyone. So, despite the cold metal nipping at his skin, he presses a little harder.
No tears have flooded his eyes since the admission. He can't cry, not even if he wanted to- which he doesn't. It's weak enough to be here, kneeling at Negan's feet after all that they've given up, only to be pathetically taking his own life. His father is crying, a few people behind him sound the same, but he still moves on.
It stings at first, but he's smart enough to not take his time. He barely notices when he finishes the quick stroke that glides up his arm, but his fingers twitch, and the knife clatters to the ground. To his side, Rick sobs loudly, begging over and over for Negan to stop, but it's Carl who can't seem to change arms. His shaking hand grips around the junction of his elbow, trying to seal the large cut that is pouring blood onto the ground, his legs, seeping down into the creases of his palm and underneath his fingernails.
"Not gonna' finish the job, huh?" Negan asks. "Don't pussy out now, kid."
Carl breathes heavily. "I-"
His silence is too long, apparently, because Negan seems to have had enough. He throws down his bat and sighs. Then, he takes a hold of Carl's shoulders, pulling him to his stumbling feet and turning him around for his family to see. Their eyes float somewhere between his bleeding arm and tormented face, but he can't see much as his vision starts to blur.
Negan pulls at him numbing arm. "You got real deep in there, bud. Must've wanted this bad," he growls.
Carl tries to breathe, but the weight on his chest is heavy. He blinks the tears blurring his eyes, but it doesn't clear. He realizes that maybe- just maybe- he's fucked this up a little bit.
Negan keeps talking- if the muffled sound of his rough voice isn't his mind playing tricks on him. But the feeling is so different from the other cuts he had left on his arms. He feels like he's floating; no longer is the warmth of the thick liquid flooding his dry skin bothering him, neither is the pain. The outsides of his eyes begin to darken, and Carl stumbles on his feet. Negan lets go and, within the time of a blink, Carl's eyes remain closed, and he falls to the ground.
He's out before he reaches it.
(Negan stares down and sighs as the supposed 'leader' cries out, sounding more of a wounded animal than any sorrowed human being. He bends down, replacing the bat in his grip and pointing to the dying teen on the ground. "Save him, would you?")
Unlike the movies, he doesn't wake up on a soft bed, the familiar weight of a hand in his and his family passed out by his side, waiting for the moment he would finally wake. There's no friendly nurse, no beeping hospital machines, and no words of "never scare us like that again."
Carl is alone when he peels open his sore eyes, and the first thing he thinks of is how goddamn dry his throat is.
There's a half empty glass of water on the table next to his cot, so he gently sits up to grab it. His left arm- the one with stitches and sores- hurts, so he passes the cup to his other hand as soon as possible. It feels heavenly, the flow of cool liquid coating the inside of his mouth.
He glances around at the infirmary. The only other cot appears like it had been recently slept in, but no one's there, so he assumes the person got all better. He looks towards the window and notices the lack of light shining through, and, paired with the lack of lights on inside, he assumes that it's nighttime. Sighing, Carl swings his legs over the side of the bed, plants them on the ground, and pushes up.
Upon standing, he immediately falls back onto the bed. Cursing, Carl pushes back up until he has an unstable grip on the side of the bed. He thinks that- maybe- he should go find the bathroom and try to wash the stale feeling of his skin off of his face. Carl walks around the bed, reaching around for something to grip, but he slips, and goes crashing into the side of the bookcase.
Now, it could've been the whole just-woken-up-from-a-very-long-nap thing, but Carl completely failed to identify the quiet mumbling coming from inside of the bathroom. The door swings open, letting light flood out of the room, and Carl tries to lift his head, despite feeling as though the room is spinning. It becomes dark when the door closes behind the person, and he's even more lost.
"Christ, Carl," Maggie breathes, jogging around the bed to help him stand. "You shouldn't be out of bed. We need to get you sitting."
Carl hums. "'Didn't know you were here," he comments.
Maggie helps him back to the cot, taking on most of his weight until he's sitting soundly with his legs underneath the blankets. "I was helping Glenn shower," she explains. "He's just getting dressed now."
He furrows his brows. "Why would Glenn need help showering?"
It's almost comedic, the way said man had perfectly timed their conversation to reveal himself and make a grand entrance. Thanks to Maggie leaning over and turning the light on, he can tell that the clicking sound is coming from a pair of crutches tucked neatly underneath his arms. Carl looks down and notices the lack of a leg he has.
"Oh," Carl mumbles as he takes it in.
Glenn presses his lips together, doing his best at shrugging as he can. "It's whatever," he responds, knowing exactly what Carl was referencing. "'Could've been a lot worse. 'Just... glad I'm even here right now," he explains. Carl nods and watches as he hobbles over to his cot beside Carl's; he sits on the end of the bed and leans the crutches against the wall. "How 're you feeling?"
"Alright, I guess," he answers. "My throat is pretty dry, though. And I'm dizzy."
Maggie tears her eyes from her husband and looks down at Carl. She feels his forehead with her hand and, once content with his temperature, brushes his hair back. "'Makes sense," she says, "you've been out for four days now."
Carl blinks. "Four?"
She hums. "Your dad 's worried sick, but he's trying to keep it together. There's-" she swallows. "There's a lot going on. This 'Negan' guy- he wasn't a one-time experience."
He breathes, taking in the look on her face before glancing over at Glenn; he nods. "He... wants something from us?" The man nods and opens his mouth, but Maggie glances over at him. Carl senses that it's not a conversation for the present and removes the ideas from his head. "'M sorry about your leg."
"It's not for you to be sorry about," Glenn says simply. He looks down at the large wrap, covering Carl's entire left forearm and more. "I'm sorry about your arm."
"'Not for you to be sorry about either," he mentions. Carl wiggles his fingers, delighted to feel that the movement still works. "'S my fault, anyway."
Maggie's inhale is sharp, sharp enough to send his gaze flying upwards. "No," she insists. Her frown is one of anger. "Do not say that."
"How is it not?" Carl returns, sitting up a little straighter. "I mean- I hid the knife. I didn't say I had it, didn't let them take it, didn't answer his questions. I mean-" he gulps, gripping the bed sheet with his hand. "I kept it on me in the first place. It's- it's my fault for being such a needy idiot."
"Don't you dare say that, Carl Grimes," Maggie rasps. It's finally then that he realizes that she has tears welling in her eyes. "You- you were struggling," she starts, "and we didn't see that. It took- it took this psychopath trying to kill you for us to see that. God forbid you tried to do this when we weren't there-" Maggie pauses and shakes her head. "Back before all of this, Beth- Beth went down this path. And I will not let another member of my family do it again."
Carl blinks at her, feeling his own emotion beginning to puddle up. "Maggie..."
"She's right, Carl," Glenn adds from his bed. "We're supposed to take care of each other, and- and we weren't taking care of you."
"Just-" Maggie says, "you need to know that we love you, and we care about you, and none of us ever, ever want you to feel like we'd rather have you gone," she explains. "You need to know that, Carl."
He nods, sniffling. "Ok," he says.
Maggie taps his knee, before giving in with a huff and wrapping her arms around him. Their hug is pretty brief, and when she pulls back, she wipes her cheeks. "I'm gonna' go get your father," she explains.
It only takes two minutes for her to return with Rick. Carl and Glenn talk about what he's thinking of doing in place of a prosthetic until the door swings open, and the most relieved man in history is standing in the entrance.
Two pairs of arms wrap around him in a instant, and Carl hadn't even seen Michonne enter the room following his father. They hug him tightly, arms wound up and almost distracting him from the sobbing from his father.
"I'm sorry," Rick cries into his shoulder. "God, I'm so sorry."
"It's ok, Dad," Carl says. "I'm here."
And, maybe he knows that it's not "ok." Maybe he knows that it's not normal to keep a knife strapped to one's ankle in order to commit suicide whenever it seems perfect. Maybe he knows that the scars that line his arms, or the new one that adds to them, aren't normal human accessories.
But, maybe, there's a way he can work towards a better ending. Because, in the arms of his family, it feels like that could happen.