Archive of Our Own

Carl Grimes was eleven years old when the dead start walking.

He is learning fractions in math class and is supposed to go to Jonathan’s birthday party on Saturday. He cannot wait to tell his dad that he got a hundred on his science test.

Instead, he runs out into his mother’s arms, and begins to cry.

Carl Grimes is eleven years old when his father’s name becomes taboo.

He lives in a tent with his mother, in the middle of the woods, hours away from home. It’s just like camping, but Mom never went camping with him and Dad always did. Uncle Shane has become just Shane, and Dad has become a memory. Mom doesn’t mention him, and nobody else knows him. He tries to tell Sophia about his strength, his intelligence, his warm arms. But Mom and Shane never comment on his stories.

He is a quick learner. And there are a lot of things he quickly learns. Do not ask if Dad is coming back, to start. He is not. There is no point in asking. It makes Mom upset and Shane annoyed and everyone else uncomfortable. Only look through the photo album when alone, because it’s easier that way. Besides, being alone was an easy thing to do.

Staying out of the way is the right thing to do, because the adults are busy and they won’t come looking as long as you stay quiet. It isn’t a bad thing, he decides, because they’re too worried about real problems to keep track of him.

He sneaks into the woods, because everyone mostly stays away from it apart from Merle and Daryl, and they go much farther out than he does. And as long as Carl’s back by time the women finish the laundry or dinner rolls around, nobody would notice he was gone. 

Sometimes, though, he imagined finding his dad in the woods. They would hug, real tight, because Dad couldn’t help the way he squeezed a little too hard, and then they would go get Mom and they would go home. All his friends would be waiting for them there, because surely they were the only ones who ran out in a useless panic. And everything would go back to normal.

He’d climb the trees and kick the water by the stream and throw rocks at the squirrels, because there was not much else to do.

And then he would go back to the campsite, where everyone assumed someone else was watching him. 

At eleven years old, Carl Grimes became an excellent liar.

Carl Grimes was twelve years old when he became alone.

He was barely twelve, and still felt eleven, and still at that campsite.

Glenn, and Andrea, and Merle, and others he tried to remember but never quite could, were out in the big Atlanta city. Carl imagined Dad was there too, helping people. And that was why he wasn’t with Carl. They were gone longer than usual, but every trip seemed to get longer anyway, so he wasn’t worried. 

Mom and Shane didn’t get along, but they didn’t not get along. They talked when Carl was awake, and argued when he was supposed to be asleep. Shane held Mom when she cried, and Mom nodded her head when he snuck them out into the woods. 

The forest was a nice place to spend his birthday, he guessed. 

Mom and Shane wished him a happy one, but there were no gifts because there was no way to get any, and there was work to be done because the world was still currently in shambles. He wasn’t surprised, but it would be a lie to say he wasn’t upset. He was a pretty good liar now, though.

It was getting close to dinner when Carl decided he should be heading back. 

It was dark when he realized he was lost.

Carl Grimes was thirteen years old when he met his people.

He was long from Georgia, from that little campsite he knew wouldn’t have made it long anyway, from Mom and Shane and his dead father. From Sophia and her mom and her piece of shit dad.

From the forest he thought he had become familiar with.

By thirteen, Carl knew not to trust people. He’d come across a few, here and there. Some nice, others not. Some who taught him how to shoot a gun, others tried to kill him for just existing. 

Carl learned that walkers were predictable, and people were anything but. Walkers were slow and no matter what, tried to kill you. They were loud and easy to take down. People were dangerous, but they could be nice. They could give away food and water and bullets, or they could steal and manipulate and leave you to die. They could be quiet; silent, even. Or they could be loud, and that was an entirely different type of dangerous.

It was better to just stay away from people as a whole, he’d decided.

And he tried. He really did.

But there were so many days he had nothing. Days he was starving, or freezing, or alone. Days he had to choose between dying quietly or reaching out into the unknown chaos of people nearby.

Sometimes he wished he’d never tried. Wished he’d left the world in the grass, cold and alone. And days he was surprised that decent people still existed. But good or bad, Carl always slipped away soon enough.

Carl Grimes was thirteen years old when he decided he was better off alone. It was easier that way. 

And he was still thirteen when he met the saviors.

It wasn’t a bad day, surprisingly.

He woke up hungry, not starving, and thirsty but warm. Spring was coming, and he was ready to thaw out the constant stiffness in his hands. His feet ached, but it wasn’t as hard to push past the pain that day. 

The saviors found him in a forest.

One just like the one he got lost in. 

Carl wasn’t exactly keen on following. He fought, spit and cursed. But being thirteen years old did nothing against five adult men.

Carl Grimes was thirteen years old when he became Negan.

Negan thought Carl was a survivor. Thought Carl was tough, took a liking to him early on.

Carl hated him, really. 

Negan was cocky. He had a sharp tongue and a filthy mouth, and the people around feared him.  

Carl was a selfish guy.

He stayed because he got a room to himself, boots that actually fit, and as much food as he could eat. The Sanctuary–as much as Carl hated the name–had strong walls and air conditioning and doctors.

There were people, so many people, working and living together. Kids his age, younger, older. There were babies and teenagers and elders. Families that made Carl’s heart twist with jealousy. Negan and his wives made his stomach twist with nausea and discomfort. 

Negan, Carl thought, would not be the leader forever. He was too cocky, too comfortable. Sooner or later, someone would slit his throat in his sleep and take over.

He was more than surprised when it never happened.

Carl climbed high, quickly. Negan adored him, after all. Taught Carl how to use every weapon they had. He picked them up fast, had good aim, and craved the satisfaction of mastering a new gun. Taught him how to drive too, but Carl was pretty shit at it. At least he knew how, though. Windows down, a hundred miles an hour. Saviors yelling that Carl was going to get them killed. The high of it was worth every smack on the back of his head.

He had no interest in mingling with the workers. In making friends, or meeting girls. He barely had an interest in living at all, really. He was doing it out of principle. Negan liked that about him.

It made him easy. Easy to agree to everything Negan asked. Easy to shape and mold into whatever Negan wanted him to be.

And Negan wanted him to be a soldier.

Not the ones who barely made it. Not the ones who killed when they had to, who killed for fun or out of pleasure. But one who didn’t hesitate. One who survived, no matter what. One that had no fear of walkers, or people, or dying. That was Negan’s perfect soldier. The one he trained Carl to be.

So he trained. He trained until he could fight off a dozen walkers without even the help of a gun. Until he could bring a knife to a gun fight and still win. Until half the soldiers in the sanctuary groaned when it was their turn to spar with him.

But Negan was not his only teacher. 

The wives taught him how to blend in. Go unnoticed, say what Negan wanted to hear, be what others wanted to see. 

The assassins, the women, taught him how to fight those bigger than him. From experience, which always helped that much more. He preferred to learn from them over men, if he was honest. They were less condescending, but brutally honest. It was satisfying to beat them in an entirely different way.

He taught himself where all the windows and doors were. Every exit point, every route to the roof. The fresh air, the warm breeze. The sunrise when he couldn’t sleep through the night. He taught himself to let go, when he asked one of Negan’s wives to cut his hair. The long, thick chunks of brown that fluttered to the floor reminded him of his mother.

He closed his eyes and pushed her out of his mind.

Fourteen was a big year for Carl Grimes.

Negan thought fourteen was practically an adult, so he loosened his hold and introduced Carl to things he had little interest in. Carl didn’t feel much different than when he was thirteen, but he didn’t care enough to voice those thoughts out loud.

Alcohol was gross but made his head buzz pleasantly, so he accepted the occasional drinks when they were offered.

He tried a cigarette mostly to humor the guys he was on a run with, and they clapped him on the back and called him a ‘tough motherfucker’ and laughed at him as he coughed. He rolled his eyes and accepted them when they were offered, because they weren’t all that bad and made his brain feel more at ease.

He kissed a girl, because Negan teased him one too many times, and was mildly underwhelmed. It wasn’t bad, and the girl was nice–she was his age and worked at a clothing stall–but he only kissed her just the once, because the idea of collecting wives like Negan did began to haunt the back of his mind.

He shot up a foot and was almost as tall as the other guys now, and the reinforced nutrition gave him some actual muscle. He was still lean, his dad was never a big guy and his mom was always skinny, but he still felt proud when he threw someone off of him. 

He spent more time out of the Sanctuary than in, scavenging through buildings and cities miles away. Negan was not as interested in scavenging the old world. He instead focused on the new one. By taking over communities that gave over their supplies, but Carl supposed it worked for them, and he pushed down the unease to accept it. The new world, they called it. And Carl was an essential part.

Still, Negan let him go and scavenge. Gave him a group of men who went with, and put Carl in charge.

Carl didn’t mind his men.

They weren’t bad, really. Gave him cigarettes and got a little too cocky and weren’t the brightest, but they were alright. They didn’t fight him on orders, followed where he went, and occasionally, got him to ease up.

Carl learned their names, tried not to lose patience with them too quickly, and sometimes drank a beer with them to be nice. They weren’t friends, not exactly. But Carl sometimes let things slip to them, since they were so damn curious. 

His mother’s name. The stupid hat his dad always wore. The type of comics he used to collect. The guys loved it. Asked often, held up cowboy hats and comic books and asked if he felt at home. 

He didn’t love them, not the way he loved his mom and dad and Shane. Or Sophia or Carol or Glenn or Dale. He didn’t love them the way he loved so freely when he was eleven and dumb. 

But he trusted them.

Trusted they’d give him a cigarette on a shitty day and know not to ask questions. That the comics that appeared in his room were ones they snuck past his keen eyes; never sneaky about anything but that. 

On the days where he sat on the roof and couldn’t leave his room and scared the rest of the compound with his glare, they brought food and a cigarette and a bottle of beer. 

They weren’t particularly good guys, Carl knew. They catcalled girls and started fights and cared more about alcohol than anything else. But they were something, and something was enough.

Negan liked that Carl liked them. He took every word of praise Carl said as law, as rare as it was. Carl went to the meetings and stood guard and was in charge of the runs. He was quiet because Negan was not, and quiet scared people more than cocky did. And really, because he had nothing to say. 

He wouldn’t call himself kind, exactly, but when he got too in his head he slipped into the quarters he knew housed children and left candy. The workers had it good, compared to outside. But there was little chance for them to climb up the ranks. If you were a good fighter, exceptionally intelligent, or a woman Negan wanted as a wife. Otherwise, you were set in stone with just enough.

Safe, fed, and rested. But always below the rest. 

Carl hadn’t done anything exceptional to catch Negan’s attention. He just had. He didn’t need points to get anything on the ground floor; everyone knew him. 

Sometimes it took a cigarette or some alcohol to get him out of bed. Sometimes he looked at his comics and gave them all away. He was unpredictable, as people tended to be. And that made him dangerous. As people tended to be.

Carl Grimes was fifteen years old when he heard the name “Rick Grimes” said out loud again. It was the first time since he was eleven, and in that hospital, hearing a nurse call it out. Family of Rick Grimes. Him, Mom, and Shane.

Now he was fifteen, and Negan came home grinning and boasting, a new dog with him.

Normally, this would not alarm Carl Grimes. Negan was a boastful man. But the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his grip on his holster tightened. 

“Rick Grimes,” he’d laughed, pure delight on his face, “and Daryl Dixon. I love when the tough ones break.”

And Daryl Dixon looked so different now. Carl remembered him. Always in the woods with his brother, bad temper, scruffy and tough. The type to never leave Georgia, because the stubborn ones never do, and marry but never have kids, because they were just too much. The type to thrive in a world as shitty as this one. 

Daryl didn’t recognize Carl, he knew, 

And Carl had no idea what he was going to do.

Carl Grimes was fifteen years old, and he was not his father’s son. 

He was older, taller, and colder. He was addicted to cigarettes and drank more alcohol than his father did. He’d killed people and walkers, cursed guys out for staring too long, and is not afraid to use his knife when bothered. 

He is not a Grimes at all, in fact. 

Carl is Negan.

Negan’s favorite, runner’s leader, Sanctuary’s most confusing inhabitant. 

He has also acquired a following of children. 

Carl hates them. He hates them because he does not hate them, because they are tiny and cute and he hates to see them cry. He hates that they know he does not hate them, and they do not stay away.

Carl hates that he loves them so much. 

When he is bored he throws knives or kills walkers or goes on a run. He avoids books and people and Negan. He teaches kids how to use a gun because he fears the day the Sanctuary collapses and they are left with nothing. 

Nobody knew his whole story, only bits and pieces the children and runners traded like currency. 

Nobody knew his father’s name.

Carl agreed to go to Alexandria, much to the man’s surprise and delight. 

“I’m bored.” Was all the explanation he gave. He did not interact with Daryl, mostly out of fear he’d be recognized. Fear that Daryl would tell someone, anyone, that Rick Grimes was Carl’s Rick Grimes, that Carl was Rick’s. Negan would use him to get to Rick, or punish Carl in some way. 

Alexandria was a few hours drive away. He rode with Negan, because it was a well known fact that Carl was a shitty driver and Negan was overly enthusiastic about Carl’s attendance.

It was the same as every other community they’d “saved.” Walk in, and steal half of everything worth a damn. Food, guns, medicine. Mattresses, clothes, whatever else. 

He saw a small gun on a woman standing off to the side.

Nathan was eleven now. He’d be twelve soon. If he had a gun, he could start going on runs, or with the collectors, or standing on guard. Nathan was good with the gun Carl had trained him with, but it was still a little too big, and that one would be the perfect size. He held out a hand for it. The woman glared but handed it over.

“That’s a bit small for you.” David commented. David was a runner, so Carl didn’t glare or snap. He only shrugged and slid it into his pocket.

“You’re too soft on those kids.”

“Caaarl!”

He cringed at Negan’s sing-song voice, and started towards the bloody bat. The saviors parted for him, as they always did. Negan slung an arm around him and tugged him into his side. 

“Carl, meet Rick Grimes. Ricky, meet my top man. Who surprised everyone by showing up. You’re just that special.”

Rick Grimes was a different man. 

His hair, like Carl’s, was a little longer and curled at the bottom of his neck. His face was scruffy with black and gray, making him look much older than Carl remembered. His eyes were harder, but still electric blue. And that stupid ass cowboy hat was still on his head. 

He’d never recognize Carl, he’d thought, so surely. A kid from a different world. 

And yet, he saw the very moment his dad’s face began to crumple.

Carl did not cry.

Since he was twelve, all on his own, he’d known crying did no good. So he stopped. 

But right there, at fifteen years old, he wanted nothing more than to cry.

“Are we done?” He’d asked instead, cold and dry. Negan sighed, disappointed but not surprised, and let him go.

“Go on. I know you’re bored. Don’t kill anyone unless they start it.”

“No promises.” He snapped, pushing away and shooting a runner a glare when he snickered. Negan’s eyes glinted with amusement, and Carl knew he’d hate the words before they even left his mouth.

“Maybe they have girls your age, since you refuse the ones back home.”

“Fuck off, Jesus.”

“If we find any, we’ll let you know.” Logan grinned, and he was fucking lucky he was such a good shot. 

“Or comic books.” David added with a smirk.

“I swear to God, I will skin the both of you!”

They laughed as he swung his knife around, purposefully sloppy, and watched them run off like children. With a scoff, Carl turned back to glance at Rick. Negan was messing with him now, as Negan tended to do. But Rick kept glancing in his direction.

Carl walked away.

She did not sneak up on Carl. Nobody snuck up on Carl.

She just, maybe, took him by surprise. A little. 

He gained the upper hand quickly, gun to her head, his weight on top of hers. He wavered when he recognized her face.

Sophia’s mom. Her face had hardened, and her eyes were cold. But it was still her.

“It is you.” She said, mirroring his thoughts. Her voice was soft, even with the gun pointed to her head.

“No it isn’t.” He said slowly. “You don’t know me.”

“Carl–”

He raised the gun with half a glance and shot a man through the shoulder. “The next one is through the head.” He warned. He stood up and stepped away from her. “Don’t try talking to me again, Carol. I’m not that kid anymore.”

She didn’t even look angry, which pissed him off more. She just looked sad. Like Carl was something to be pitied. 

He stormed back to where they were loading up the trucks and stole a cigarette from Logan to calm his nerves. The man didn’t protest, smacking his shoulder with an almost sympathetic smile.

“Antsy already?”

Carl made a noncommittal noise and blew smoke in his face.

“You sure you’re okay? This whole situation seems to have twisted you up.”

“I’m fine.” He insisted. “Just…old memories.”

They got that look on their faces at that. The one where they couldn’t decide between asking or listening. He rolled his eyes.

“It’s the hat.”

David shoved Bill over, a delighted grin on his face. “I told you guys! His accent too–just like yours when you were new here. You getting a little homesick?”

“Mm. You could say that. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

Carl Grimes was fifteen years old, and he was spiraling. 

Daryl became a looming reminder of Rick’s presence a few hours away, and how the man now knew of his existence. He had no idea what Rick thought about him before. That Carl was dead, probably. 

He went from smoking every few hours to constantly, and tipsy became his common state. The runners were worried about him and began to hide the alcohol, only allowing him a little here and there. It pissed him off. It was hard to care about his well being when all he wanted was out of reach.

Negan owned Alexandria. He owned Rick Grimes. And he owned Carl Grimes. So he could never know the two were connected.

Daryl was gone.

Carl knew it would catch up with him.

“I’m going on a run.”

Negan beamed, clearly oblivious to the news that his current favorite doll was missing. And Carl was certainly not going to be the one to tell him. He seemed glad that Carl was finally getting out of the house. “Great! Now? The runners can be ready in–”

“Alone.” He added. “I’m going alone. They’re annoying, I want some time alone.”

It wasn’t a request Carl never made, just one that was less often now. Negan looked slightly surprised, maybe even hesitant, but agreed. 

“Come back with a clear head, Mini-Me!”

Alexandria was not a hard place to find. 

He remembered the way, for the most part, and figured the rest out as he went. The drive was pretty uneventful without someone yelling in his ear for driving recklessly. It didn’t bother him any.

When he got to the gate, he stepped up to it without hesitation.

“My name is Carl Grimes.” He called, loud and clear. “Now let me the fuck in.”

The gates opened, and Carl’s grip on his gun tightened. He kept his head and gun held high, pointed into the face of Rick Grimes. “Do not touch me.” he said firmly. Slowly, Rick nodded.

He looked a lot of things. Sad, confused, hurt. Betrayed, maybe. He held his hands up. His hat was missing from his head.

“Carl.” Voice soft, so soft. The same softness it had when Carl was small, and lifted up into his father’s big arms. The voice that wished him goodnight and sang in the car and never raised to a yell. “Carl, I thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, well. I wasn’t the one who was left in a hospital.”

Rick offered a dry, strained smile. “I wasn’t the twelve year old who got lost in the woods.”

Carl only hummed. He didn’t lower his gun, or lessen his glare. “Well, somehow we both made it.”

“We did.” Rick said quietly. “Carl. Please. One hug? One fucking hug?”

At Carl’s lack of protest, Rick stepped forward, gathered his son into his arms, and held him close.

Carl Grimes was fifteen years old, and he was still his father’s son.

And Rick Grimes’ son began to cry.

His dad was holding him in strong arms, his calloused hand was on the back of his head, and he smelled like blood and sweat and Rick Grimes. 

Carl felt his smile in his hair, smelled the saltiness of tears from his own face and Dad’s, and pretended he was not melting.

Carl Grimes was still Negan though, so he pushed away and turned out of Rick’s sight, and fixed his grip on his gun.

“Stay.” Rick choked out, voice trembling. Carl barely held back. He shook his head.

“I don’t know you. As far as I’m concerned, my father died in a hospital four years ago.” He took a deep breath and turned his head, barely, to look into Rick’s eyes. “Just give in. You don’t want a war with Negan. You won’t win.”

And Rick Grimes laughed, like Carl was joking. And then he’d went and started a war.

Carl Grimes was fifteen years old, and he hated himself.

For a lot of reasons, but one stood out more than the others.

Carl hated that he was Negan.

The thing about Negan was that everyone hated him, but not enough. 

They said they wanted him dead. Whispered about it, dreamed about it, imagined the ways he would go. Imagined someone newer, kinder, taking over for him.

But nobody actually wanted Negan dead. Because as much as they hated him, Negan did a fucking good job. Because he kept things moving. 

He forgave, and killed without a second thought. It was harsh but quick, so the river never blocked up. And it was a damn good system. 

Negan was easy to kill. With a gun, poison, a slit throat. Anyone could have done it. Carl could have done it. 

But being Negan was easier than being nothing. And he knew now, it was a hell of a lot easier than being a Grimes.

When he got back to the Sanctuary, the top floor was in shambles. They’d discovered Daryl–and Sherri–were gone, and Negan was beyond pissed. Carl quickly slipped away, and was met with his door ajar.

“Mini-Nee!” David grinned, blocking his view immediately. Carl narrowed his eyes with suspicion. He hated that nickname. “Mini-Me, Mini-Nee!” Negan had come up with. The runners loved it, and loved his annoyance even more. 

“What’s going on in my room?” Carl asked sharply, pushing past David to find a group of them in his room. Specifically surrounding his bed, wearing mischievous grins, and fretting with a literal cat in a hat. A brown tabby in a cowboy hat. In Rick’s cowboy hat. 

“Ta-da!” Bill beamed, presenting the sight with jazz hands and a delighted face.

 “Are you fucking serious right now.”

“Personally, I think the cat is way overdue.” Logan grinned, hand sliding over the cat’s fur. “She’s a sweetheart. Nice and affectionate and all yours. I can’t believe we waited so long to do this.”

“I don’t need a cat.” He scoffed, picking the hat up and thumbing the brim. The men all made noises of disagreement.

“Agree to disagree. She’s your emotional support cat now. What’s her name?”

Carl sighed, their eager faces too much to ignore, and pondered the question. He stared into the cat’s blue eyes. “Sophia.” He decided. “Her name is Sophia.”

“What’s got you wearing that hat?”

Negan’s previously sour face was replaced with amusement as he got into the car. He shrugged. “Principle?”

“Hah! Fair enough.” He grinned, starting the engine. Carl rolled the window down. “Daryl’s a tough one. I’m not surprised he wanted out. But Sherri. That pissed me off.”

“Maybe they ran away together.” Carl shrugged. The back of Negan’s hand smacked him in the face. It didn’t actually hurt, but he made a dramatic noise.

“Not funny, Mini.”

“You’re barely taller than me, asshole.”

Negan was grinning, and Carl felt the corners of his mouth twitch.
He was just the same as the other saviors. 

He hated Negan, but hated the thought of life without him. Life without his snarky comments, his sharp grin. It would throw him off balance, he thought.

“I have to ask. What’s got you all interested this time around?”

Carl shrugged, feeling the wind on his face. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s finally time I start paying attention around here.” 

He’d stepped out of the car, after adjusting his hat, and stared into the blue eyes of Rick Grimes.

Rick Grimes looked the same. Even now, eyes devoid of tears, Carl could see the sadness in them. 

He was a good liar now. Maybe he always was, and Carl never noticed. Maybe it was something he picked up when the world ended, like Carl did. It didn’t really matter. Rick knew where Daryl was. But he didn’t show it. And Negan was pissed. Carl isn’t fazed when people die. Only the stupid ones try to fight back. And the stupid ones always die.

“We’ve got new friends, Carl.” Negan sang as he walked into Carl’s bedroom. He didn’t knock, and while it could be annoying, he knew better than to feel bothered by it.

Sophia was lying next to him in bed while he fiddled with his gun. 

“Rick thinks he's so smart, but he isn’t. You like his hat? Wait until next time. We’ll grab that gun from him.”

Carl Grimes is sixteen years old when he goes to war. 

Which is odd, because he’s always felt at war. With himself, with the world. He’s spent his whole life at war, it’s felt like. 

Negan was fumbling, but he hid it decently enough. He kept up the confident act in big groups, but Carl saw the rage in his eyes. The tight grip on his bat. The insults he spat to his close, trusted group. Carl was a part of that group.

Rick Grimes was stupid, Carl Grimes thought. Fighting against Negan, getting other communities involved. Hilltop was an essential community of farmers, and losing it would be a hard hit on the Sanctuary. 

Rick Grimes would lose the war, and Carl would watch. Because he’d warned him. You reap what you sow, someone said. Don’t ask Carl who, he wasn’t in school for long.

He did not feel bad for choosing the winning side. He did not feel bad for the people they killed, or their families. They were too stupid to be left alone, clearly.

If Sophia did not agree with his rambling, she couldn’t exactly voice it. Carl liked that about having a cat. She curled up on his chest, worming her own Sophia-shaped place in his heart. She wandered along the compound, but always came back in the end. 

He carried her around with him, because she liked it and the kids adored her. They especially loved it when she knocked the hat off his head.

He ignored Negan’s angry murmurs of The King, The Widow, and Rick Grimes. Instead, he ran off to scavenge.

Rick Grimes, was an asshole.

Locking them all up in the sanctuary. 

Negan was nowhere in sight. Half the saviors thought he was dead. The other half exploded at the thought. Carl was somewhere in the middle.

He tried to stay out of the way while the top group became tense with the idea that a new leader was needed. He slipped out of the compound covered in guts, and came back with a slightly clearer head.

He wasn’t trying to play leader. He was just the only one coming up with solutions.

When the workers got feisty because the power got shut off, he had his guys open the windows. He checked every exit, had them guarded at all times. He helped when he had nothing better to do. Entertained the kids. Gave away his food. When soldiers started fights, he broke them up with threats of throwing them out with the walkers. He didn’t bring Negan up. Didn’t reassure them he was alive, or confirm he was dead. He wasn’t trying to take over for Negan. He just did what had to be done.

Negan’s whistle of return was a relief, as shameful as that was. He grinned and flicked the brim of Carl’s hat and told him he did good.

Negan wasn’t his dad. Not even close. But Carl couldn’t help the flicker of pride at his approval. A tug on a feeling his dad used to bring out of him. It was shitty, sure. But the validation was nice. 

The workers viewed him highly after that. Carl was embarrassed at the compliments and attention, but didn’t reject any of it. He only turned away and avoided the praise as Negan laughed at him and his runners shot him grins.

The next few days were the calm before the storm. Negan’s new scientist was trying to figure out how to free everyone, while Carl was trying to push away the people who got a little too close. People who asked him for help, or gave him gifts, or smiled when he stopped by their stall.

“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” Negan asked, trucks full of guns and men. Carl shook his head.

“Nah. I’ll keep an eye on things here. Make sure the workers don’t go rioting again.”

“You’ll have to face the reality of war eventually.”

“But not today.” 

Negan sighed. His eyes were almost fond. They got that way with Carl, sometimes. “But not today.” He agreed. “Hold down the fort, Mini-Me.”

Carl would smile and roll his eyes, because he hated the nickname but he didn’t hate Negan, and then he watched him go.

That was the last time he’d see Negan free.

Carl was sixteen years old, and he was fighting in a war. 

Because Hilltop was strong, and not in the way Negan was. Hilltop was strong in the way that counted. They weren’t fighting for comfort, but for freedom. Weren’t working on orders, but for each other. 

That strength overpowered the saviors' numbers and guns. Quality over quantity, or something. 

So Carl knew, when they came back without Negan, when they knew where he was but not how to get to him, it was over.

He was sixteen years old, and he had lost the war.

He was a shit driver, but a fast one. He got to Negan at the end. Already at the mercy of Rick Grimes. 

And Carl ran. Fear was not something he felt often. It was beaten, trained, and forced out of him. Walkers did not scare him. People did not scare him. Death did not scare him. He had become that perfect soldier Negan wanted him to be, not scared of anything.

But somehow. Losing Negan to Rick Grimes? That scared him. 

Losing Negan scared him. Maybe it was because it was routine. Maybe it was because Negan seemed untouchable, now. Maybe because Carl cared about him after all.

Losing the Sanctuary scared him. For the selfish reasons, like his alcohol and comics and high rank. For the soldiers who killed and laughed and would die for their crimes, now. For the workers that may be imprisoned, may be enslaved, may be killed for existing on the wrong side of the war. For the kids who hadn’t mastered the skill of a gun. 

Carl Grimes was sixteen, but he felt eleven again, running to his dad. He felt twelve, scared and alone and squirming through arms that tried to grab him. He felt sixteen, angry and desperate and numb all at once. 

He dropped in front of Negan, because Rick was surprised and confused and conflicted. 

“Please.” He choked. “Have mercy.”

He’d begged for his life before. When he was young and alone and weak. When he had nothing but his life, so he begged to keep it. 

Carl never begged for the life of another. But now, he was.

Behind him, Negan laughed. Amusement, disbelief, hysteria; Carl didn’t know the reason. He ignored it.

“We can still co-exist.” He managed. “There’s people, real people there. Killing them all, that’s not the new world. It can’t be. Not even we want everyone dead. There’s no benefits to that.”

For a moment, it’s silent. Thick, tense air. 

“No.” A woman said, cold and sharp. The Widow, Carl recognized. “You people don’t deserve mercy.”

Carl’s eyes flickered back to Rick’s. “What gives you the right to decide that? Your strength? Your guns?”

“You tried to control us!”

Then control us!” He shouted, loud and raw. “Take our guns, take over our home, get your revenge. But killing us? What is that going to solve? How is that going to help you?”

Carl had never felt more vulnerable. Open. Weak. 

“Justice.” The Widow growled. 

“Justice is not reason.”

“Enough.” Rick said, finally. Carl’s eyes snapped back to his. “Justice does not mean death.”

The Widow’s scream rang in his ears like a song.

Carl Grimes was in prison, and he was content. Maybe that was the wrong word. He was placid.

His hands and brain ached for a cigarette, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he held Rick’s hat. Traced the brim, ran the pads of his fingers over the texture. Imagined the way his runners would tease him. Imagined being back home with Sophia curled up on his chest.

But he wasn’t upset, because Negan was alive. In a different cell, out of reach, but alive. Rick still valued his word, after all. They wouldn’t murder everyone at the Sanctuary. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”

Carl’s eyes slid open to meet Daryl’s. He shrugged. “I was a kid back then. And we were barely around each other anyway.”

“Not because of that.” Daryl huffed. He plopped down onto the ground in front of the cell. “Because you look and act so much like your daddy. And I spend a hell of a lot of time around him.”

That took Carl by surprise.

He’d spent so long thinking about how different he and his father must be. He didn’t think anyone would call them similar. “Really?”

Daryl let out a huff that could’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, kid. Two peas in a pod, I bet you were. He talked about you. All the time. He was…violent, for a long time. Wasn’t very into the whole, ‘mercy’ approach. We could all finally breathe around him when Judith was born.”

“Judith?”

“Oh, yeah. Prolly shouldn’ta said that–he mighta wanted to. Your sister. She’s about three now, or so. A real cutie.”

“Oh.” Carl breathed. A sister. He had a three year old sister he’d never met. “Well, if Rick wanted me to know, he could’ve come told me by now.”

Daryl hummed, shifting where he sat. “He will. He’s just, busy right now.”

Carl scoffed. “That’s not why he’s not here.”

“No.” Daryl conceded. “It ain’t.”

“You happen to have a cigarette on you?” He asked hopefully. “I could really use one.”

After a moment, Daryl pulled one out of his pocket and lit it before handing it over. Carl was pleasantly surprised as he took it.

“You smoke?”

“Are there people who don’t?”

“Kids don’t.” Daryl shrugged. “And your daddy don’t.”

“Well, I’m not a kid. Or Rick.” 

Neither of them said anything else after that. Daryl stayed until Carl finished his cigarette, then he left.

The next while was like that. Daryl came by, gave him a cigarette, and stayed for a while. They didn’t talk. Not about Negan or the saviors or what was going on outside.

They talked about Rick, usually. Filled in the blanks for each other about a man neither of them fully understood. 

Carl felt the words spilling out of his chest. He felt like he was back at that campsite, desperate to tell someone, anyone, about the dad he knew. He held onto every word Daryl said, eager to know who Rick had become.

Finally, Rick came in to see him.

He looked hesitant, and Carl was almost amused by it. “I won’t bite.”

Rick shrugged and sat in Daryl’s usual spot. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Alright, then. I do bite. But only when I have no other weapons on me and can’t get out. Haven’t bit anyone in a few years now. Not since I’ve been with the saviors.” Rick hummed, eyes glancing over him. Carl sighed and leaned back. “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not calling us all good people or whatever. We’re just that–people. Surviving. Not killing for the sake of killing. And the workers at the Sanctuary? They haven’t done anything wrong. They don’t even leave the compound; they aren’t allowed. If you're going to punish someone, don’t punish them.” 

“I don’t know what we’re going to do yet.” Rick sighs. He looks tired. “Or what we’re going to do with the Sanctuary.”

The answer was less than satisfying, but Carl nodded. “Have you–killed any of the saviors yet?”

After a small hesitation, Rick shook his head. “No. The soldiers were locked up, like you and Negan.”

“Bet the Widow wasn’t very happy about that.”

“Don’t.” He growled. Carl huffed. “Negan killed her husband. Did you ever meet Glenn?”

Carl paused to think about it. A man came to mind. “I think so. Asian? Always wore a baseball cap?” Rick nodded. “He was always nice to me. Good guy. I liked him.”

"She's pregnant.” Carl blinked in surprise. “You guys stole her doctor.”

“Carson? He’s still at the compound. Completely safe. Our people needed a doctor too. I’m sorry if it hurt you guys. But I’m not sorry for getting my people a doctor.”

“Your people.” Rick repeated. “You really do see them that way.”

“They saved me.” He said, almost defensively. I was alone in this world. Where people stole from me, hurt me, tried to kill me! Walkers everywhere, freezing cold, starving. You have no idea what I’ve been through, what I’ve had to do to survive. You do not get judge me for sticking with a group that kept me safe.”

The door clicked open, and Carl was pulled into his father’s arms. He buried his face into Rick’s neck, because he was too tall for his chest, and wet his shirt with tears.

“I’m sorry, Carl. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. To keep you safe.” 

Carl cried, because he’d never told anyone how heavy that burden was. Never felt accepted for just existing. 

They sat like that for a while, Rick’s hand in Carl’s hair, his face smushed into Rick’s shoulder.

“I don’t know how to have a dad anymore.”  He admitted. “All I know is how to survive.”

“You know more than that.” Rick said softly. “Why else would you wear that stupid hat?”

Carl managed a small huff. “I told Negan it was principle.” He smiled, lifting his head. “But honestly? I missed you.”

“It suits ya.” Rick smiled, tapping the brim. “Keep it.”

“My friends stole it from you, so. Sorry about that.” He said with a sheepish smile. Rick rolled his eyes fondly and gently took the hat off to kiss Carl’s hair, then put the hat back on. 

“I wondered. Saw it on  you when you showed up and thought you were the one who took it.”

“Nah. Told them it was making me homesick and they snatched it. Dumbasses.”

Rick hummed and squeezed his shoulder. “They here with you?”

“They were, yeah.”

“Well, c’mon then.”

His men were the same locked up as they always were. They teased him for not telling them Rick was his dad. Congratulated him on getting out. Started bragging about him to Rick. It was annoying, and amusing, and he left the cell feeling a lot lighter than before.

He was surprised when Rick took him into Negan’s cell next. A grin slid onto the man’s face. “Hey, Mini-Me. Nice of you to visit.” 

“I didn’t know this was where we were going.” He admitted dryly. Negan laughed.

“Fair enough. I missed you, though. Sweet of you to beg for my life out there. Even to your secret dad.”

Carl hummed and leaned on the bars separating them. “Whatever. Missed you too, I guess. Everyone’s fine, by the way. Rick won’t hurt ‘em.”

Negan nodded and stretched. “Good, good. Watch your accent, Mini.” He smirked. Carl flushed as he realized he’d already began mimicking Rick’s Georgia drawl.

“Fuck off.”

Negan laughed again. “SUre thing. Come visit me again, okay?”

Carl glanced at Rick, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

After that they wandered around Alexandria. Rick seemed to have gotten it back completely, and his people were walking around happily. Rick took him up to his house, and opened the door.

Inside was the woman with the katana. She wasn’t holding it now. She was holding a little girl with golden blonde hair and Lori brown eyes.

“Carl, meet Judith.” Rick said softly. He shared a look with the woman, and she held out a hand.

“Michonne, nice to meet you.”

“Carl.” he offered, and shook the hand. He was surprised when she used the opportunity to hand Judith over. He took her carefully, and she looked up into his eyes. “Hello, Judith.”

Rick leaned over to give Michonne a kiss on the cheek, because actions always spoke louder than words for him, and Carl shrugged. Mom was a distant memory to him. He couldn’t be surprised that Rick had moved on–and Michonne was beautiful. Carl looked back down at Judith.

“She’s cute.” He said softly. “There’s kids back home. A bunch of ‘em.” He said it just to say something, to offer up a small bit of information, trust, something. In his arms, Judith reached up and smushed his cheek with her hand. He couldn’t help but smile and pretend to bite it, causing her to let out an excited little shriek. “It’s nice to meet you, Judith. I’m sorry I wasn’t around before now.”

“Don’t apologize.” Rick said softly, arm sliding over Carl’s shoulders. He leaned into the warmth. “You’e here now. And that’s what matters.”

Carl Grimes is eighteen years old, and he is happy.

He has a Dad, and a Michonne, and a little sister, and a girlfriend. He is in charge of the Sanctuary, and visits Negan on the weekends when he sees the rest of his family.

He eats dinner with his little family and patrols with Dad and sits on the roof with Michonne. He goes on runs with his guys and tells them stories about his dad and lets Sophia come with him to Alexandria to play with Judith. He teaches his little sister moves he’d learned from different people and gives her a pocket knife with flowers on it. Michonne has a fit but eventually calms down, and teaches Judith moves of her own. 

He tells Negan what’s going on at the Sanctuary. The children who are born, his wives who are no longer claimed, and the overly eager soldiers that go out on runs with him. Negan laughs and gives Carl that fond look and thanks him. He’s an asshole who makes fun of his grown out hair and southern accent he’d readopted. But he’s Negan, and somewhere inside, Carl cares for him. Love seems like too strong of a word, but nothing else seems strong enough. It’s weird. 

He keeps the Sanctuary running with no hot irons but no bullshit, either. The workers are no longer bound to the ground floor, and the soldiers are no better than they are. It’s all just work on equal footing. People who try to disrupt the equality get thrown out to the walkers, and it works just fine. Carl isn’t foolish enough to believe it’ll last forever, but he decides he’ll wait to cross the bridge when he gets to it. 

Maggie does not talk to him but Jesus does, and that seems fine enough for everyone involved. He has no particular grudge against him, but he respects hers, and discusses the little he needs to with her right hand. Carl almost feels bad for the guy, a little too involved with keeping the peace among the communities. 

He met Enid in Alexandria, even though she lived in Hilltop, and felt butterflies in his stomach when she insulted him so harshly. She didn’t hate him for long, thankfully. He brought Dr. Carson back home, safe and sound, in return for a different doctor who had no strong ties to the community. Enid glared at him the entire time, but then the next time they saw each other, she didn’t. She was talking to Rick another time, and the conversation transferred over to the two of them somehow. She was strong and smart and beautiful and stubborn, and eventually her snippy remarks became affectionate, and her smacks to his shoulder became kisses on the cheek.

He told Negan, because of course he did, and endured the teasing. He ignored Negan’s words because Enid wasn’t the women who wore tight black dresses and stayed quiet to please their husband. Enid would kick his ass if he ever hurt her, and everyone else both in Alexandria and Hilltop would help her. Carl was comforted by that knowledge. He brought her gifts from runs and she’d smile that pretty smile, and Carl would melt.

Then he’d go greet Dad, and Michonne and Judith, and whoever else was around. Because home was all around him.

It was in the people he loved in Alexandria. The Sanctuary he led and lived in. The entire new world, not defined by violence, but what the people have created from it.