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Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, mom used to say in the days when Carl was still it, and nothing but it, pure and beautiful and whole, with a smiling mouth stretching wide from ear to ear, without a looming hole in the place where his eye once was.
Beautiful eye, pale blue with thin threads of silver, the same colour and shape as his father's, forming the same crinkle at the edge when laughing. Not oozing with pus and gaping, showing the inside of a socket, with a pink scar that spread onto his cheekbone. Beautiful, mom would say back then, peering at him with her warm, brown eyes. Just like dad's.
Not anymore.
Now a thick bandage covers the side of his face, obscuring the monstrosity from view. Carl never takes it off, hides the open wound—forever open, a caved path into his brain—beneath the soft material, and only lets his dad and their doctor touch it. He'd prefer to sew it shut, or fill it in with something; anything, but the best he will be able to do is an eyepatch – when it heals enough for leather not to chafe it.
Dad gifted him the eyepatch. He fished it out of the bin at his recent supply run, cleaned up and brought back for him. He made comments about how cool Carl would look wearing it, just like the pirate from that cartoon you used to watch when you were little, do you remember? What was his name? Do you remember—
Carl doesn't remember.
He remembers when he used to be whole and his dad didn't avoid looking at him. When dad's gaze felt like warm sunlight on his cheeks, not a weight bearing down on the side of his face as though it could pierce through the bandage. Heavy with guilt and self-loathing because Carl knows—and if he hasn't guessed already then Michonne would have told him—that dad feels responsible for it.
Dad might call the eyepatch cool but the way he refers to the wound itself makes it clear that it's something to be hidden, something hideous. Something that makes dad frown when he looks at it and refrains from touching unless strictly necessary. His hand still clasps the back of Carl's neck as it always has, affectionate and protective, while he takes a cloth to clean off the pus and blood, but there is some hesitation to it now. Like Carl is disgusting. Like he is tainted. Ugly.
He's no longer a treasure, not as he was before, not like Judith is. His pretty little sister, with no scars, with both eyes the same warm colour as mom's. Dad will never call him beautiful again like he would when Carl had been little, like he might have been thinking when Carl was grown as well but never voiced it because he was too old to hear it. He is not something to be looked at with pleasure anymore, not even to dad.
Not that it matters now, or has ever mattered – what others think. Just dad.
Dad, who washes the side of Carl's face with a wet cloth, as careful as can be, pressing it gently to the edges of the wound—are there any edges? It's an abyss, Carl has seen it in the mirror once, but Michonne told him not to look, let your dad take care of it—and his eyelid flutters because just as dad doesn't want to look at him, he doesn't want to look at dad either.
With his eye shut, he can imagine that it will heal, that the wound will close, that the eyeball will regrow. That dad will look into his eyes with a smile, with adoration tucked into the corner of his lips. That it's a matter of time before he regains his vision, before he can aim and shoot with no problem. That he will stop being disgusting.
Dad can sense his uneasiness and strokes his hair in a calming manner, prodding inside the wound with a cotton bud. Carl only tenses further at the touch and dad interprets it wrong because the movements of his hands slow, becoming even more careful, more static. Carl hasn't told him that he can't feel any pain there. It would make everything more real. Unreal—that's how that part of him feels.
But the harsh truth taunts him with each of his dad's dabs with the cotton bud, reminding him that there is only before and after, and in the after he's a hideous creature mended only by their medic's experienced hands and his dad's unfaltering devotion. His thoughts must show on his face now, because dad drops his hand to Carl's chin, worry clear in the rasp of his voice. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"
Carl opens his eye to meet his dad's gaze, his brows drawn together. Afraid that he hurt his son somehow, concerned about Carl's comfort above all. Sitting on the edge of Carl's bed just like he used to when Carl was little, like he did on Hershel's farm after Carl had been shot. Firm and unwavering; protective.
Carl shrugs, feeling a twinge in his chest. "Nothing."
"You can talk to me," dad's head remains close to his, his hand moving to comb through his hair. He's trying for reassuring, but all Carl pays attention to is how he avoids brushing the ugly side of his face.
"I don't like it," he mumbles, looking away.
It's vague enough for dad to hum in response, pretending to understand. He tugs at the few tangled strands on top of Carl's head. "We have to clean the wound at least once a day," he says patiently, full of unnecessary sympathy, and it makes Carl purse his lips.
"I know, it's just—" and before he can stop himself, it spills out, a worry and accusation wrapped up in one, "it's getting worse."
"It's healing."
"It will never heal," he bites, training his gaze on dad's, a similar frown marring his face, "I wanna go shooting tomorrow."
"It's too early," dad says immediately because that's what the doctor told him the first time Carl had asked, "rest some first, okay?"
Carl shakes his head. It's the only thing he is good for now, though, isn't he? To shoot. To kill walkers. Not to have bedtime stories read to him like Judith, not to have dad call him a beautiful boy with a smile, not to have anyone hold him when he cries.
"You can't protect me, dad," he says, a bitter echo from the past, a stubborn dismissal. "I need to learn how to shoot again."
Dad sighs then, his eyes downcast, but he clears his throat, raising his chin, and after a moment, he nods. "All right," he says, forcing a smile, "we'll go tomorrow."
Conflict averted, he probably thinks, but a bout of anger flares up inside Carl, suddenly and unexpectedly. He realizes he doesn't want that, he doesn't want the resigned look in dad's eyes, he doesn't want the pitiful pat on his head, he doesn't want permission. What he wants—
"You can't even stand to look at me anymore."
He feels the words slip out before he has time to think about it, so angry that he's almost surprised by them. Dad looks up, meeting his eyes, and there is nothing else on his face but guilt, surprise, disbelief.
"Hey, that's not true," he says, but something changes in his voice, and Carl stares at him until he drops his gaze again.
Vulnerability seeps through Carl's chest, anxiety fuels his fury, and it makes him spit out the words, "Does it disgust you?"
"I've seen worse, Carl."
"You think I'm ugly now," he accuses and he knows he's right because dad still won't look him in the eye.
Dad sighs like Carl is seven again and throwing a fit. No more kid stuff, he said on the farm; promised. No more lies to make Carl feel better either. "No, son, I don't think that," he says wearily, running a hand over his forehead.
"So what do you think?"
"You're in the process of healing. It's going to start looking better in a few weeks."
He's avoiding outright saying it, but it's hanging over them like a cloud. It makes something inside of Carl burst; with more anger, with uncertainty, some reckless hope. He glares with his only good eye; demands, "Touch it."
"Carl," it comes out on a heavy exhale, "I'm not going to give you an infection to prove a point."
Carl scowls and opens his mouth to say something hurtful, something to provoke him, but dad cups his cheek with one large hand and leans down. He lays a gentle kiss on the side of his forehead, another on his temple, one underneath the empty socket. Reverent, tender. Careful.
Carl's vision is blurred all of a sudden.
Dad notices—he always realizes somehow—and his arms reel Carl in, wrapping around his shoulders. "Shh, it's alright," the hand on the back of his neck keeps the good side of Carl's face pressed to his throat, avoiding aggravating the wound. "It's okay."
"You think it's ugly," Carl's voice is wet and shaky, and he hates how pathetic it sounds. Like he's crying but he's not. He chokes on dad's smell when he sniffles, mad at his own body for reacting to the whirlwind of confusing emotions within him.
"Hush, baby boy," dad soothes, stroking his back, and Carl feels like he's drowning, his breaths coming too fast, too shallow. His heart pounds against his ribs in time to dad's heartbeat. They are both silent, waiting for the other to pull away, break contact. But neither does, and Carl's so scared he wants to run, to get out, to hide somewhere.
But he doesn't.
His eye closes, his head lolls forward. Dad's fingers tighten their hold around his shoulders. He waits for dad to let go first, but dad's grip is as sure as it had been before, holding him tight, keeping him safe. He sighs into dad's chest, trying to fight off the tears, but they come anyway.
Dad's hand moves over his hair again, smoothing it, running his fingers through the tangles. He listens to Carl's uneven breathing, notices the trembling in his arms when he pulls away. He doesn't speak, just keeps rubbing his back, all the while staring at Carl with that expression he gets when he's trying not to cry.
He will never see Carl as beautiful again.