The Wall Wolf - C. Grimes x OMC

by Agent_Mothman

Summary:

The wolf slinks along the Alexandrian walls every night, and Carl's there to greet him, but not with open arms.

When a nameless boy with a W carved into his forehead stumbles into Enid and Carl's path, he gets the beating of a lifetime. What Carl doesn't expect if for the boy to show up at the Wall, again and again, unphased by the assault. Slowly, young Grimes begins to grow attached to the finicky stranger, and the feeling seems to be mutual, if not for the ever so odd behavior that the new acquaintance displays.

---
OMC x Carl Grimes, Ron x Carl [Past], Trans OMC

Chapter 1: Authors Note

A/N:

This fic is being edited and rewritten to fit my current style of writing. A lot of the contents of this story is outdated, particularly details surrounding the main character, Lucas. I wrote most of this when I was 16 years old. As of now, I'm almost 21 and a junior University student, working as a Graphic Design Major and Creative Writing Minor. I think I had potential with this story, but I wasn't really sure how to go about writing this character in full, as I was still coming to terms with my own Transgender Identity. I began socially transitioning (FTM) in 2016 at the age of 16, and medically transitioning in November of 2019. This character was a huge outlet for me throughout high school, even though I did not publicly write about him much after the last published chapter of this fanfic. He continues to be an outlet for me, and I hope to share how much I have grown in my writing as well as how much I have fleshed out his character. I hope everyone who was interested in this story and the characters is still intrigued. I want to continue this with the same basic plot-points, but just different details such as ages, backstory details, etc. I hope you enjoy. Note: Any chapter without [WIP] in it's title has been edited to fit the narrative I'm going to continue writing. Chapters with [WIP] in the title remain unedited and original to what I published in 2016.

- RJ

Chapter 2: I

Tree bark is far more unforgiving than the hard-packed ground. He presses me against the tree as my breath escapes in sharp pants through my mouth, my nose giving yet another audible crunch. Two sets of hands are gripping me, one with handfuls of my hair, the other scrabbling at the shoulders of my jacket, trying to pull me away from the tree. Again, I’m thrown against the pine, knocking the wind from my lungs.

She's yelling at him. Harsh words full of venom that escape my comprehension, because the pain is intense, and the ringing in my ears loud— but he stops when she hits him hard with the flat of her hand against his slack face, startling him into letting me go.

My nose is pouring blood, and it's thick and heavy in the back of my throat. Broken, maybe, not that it matters, because their guns are on me before I can even properly right myself. He's short and lean, blue eyes wild with anger and aggression, and she’s taller and better filled than him. It’s a wonder he stood up against her for so long.

Flicking my tongue out to run over my front teeth, I note the chip in the top row from my first header into the bark.

"I thought there weren’t any more Wolves," His voice is raw with emotion, angry and easily predictable now.

The boy is still shaking with adrenaline, and would jump at the opportunity to finish what he’d started. Opening my mouth with my own anger still hot on my breath would get me nowhere but on the ground. Nevertheless, my face must give way to bitter thoughts, because he lunges again, and the girl has to grab by the strap of his bag to keep him off me as I step out of his reach, regrettably unsteady.

"Don't be stupid," she's growling under her breath at him, trying to ease the strain in his muscles with her muttering through grit teeth.

As they argue, the world sways and I can't suppress the strangled gargle I make before doubling over against the tree to choke up the slugs of coagulated blood that have slipped down my throat. They're both disgusted by me, but don't look away, not even as I actually throw up. It burns like hell, but my airway is cleared once again, and I shakily look up, wiping sweat from my scarred forehead, fearing a concussion.

"How are you alive?" She asks the question with disbelief, but I don't understand what she's asking until she mentions the others. "You all came into Alexandria an’ killed people, but we haven’t seen any of you since. We thought you were all killed by Saviors, or walkers." She's getting angry, and I know she won't hesitate to let the boy loose on me if I don't watch my tongue.

“I wasn’t with them,” he manage, rasping around the rawness in my throat, “We split off into smaller groups—”

He scoffs, and then he's talking over me. "Bullshit. He’s lying.”

The girl has a scowl set low on her brows as she pieces the information together. The nod is curt and small, but I know what it means as I turn tail and break into an aching run. My boots fall light over the over needles as I run away from the Alexandrian border, my shallow breath loud in my ears. A panicked laugh wells up in my throat, but I only let it out when I'm out of earshot of the Wallers. I rub my face, gingerly avoiding my nose as I huff out breath after breath.

I can feel his phantom fingers in my hair.

Chapter 3: II

I'm not sure as to why I feel the need to poke the metaphorical lions of my life with pointed sticks, but the desire for that rush of adrenaline in the thrill of the chase is always under my skin, prickling like a fever that I'm trying to sweat out.

Even now, two days after my nose stopped bleeding, I'm back to the metal wall, hands pressed flat to the night-cooled surface as if I'm trying to feel the security that lies on the other side by simply touching. What a feeble dream Alexandria must have started out as, a plea for safety from the infected. Pulling my hands away, I smell my palms for that rusty metallic scent. How long will these walls hold before the elements eat right through it?

He's watching me. I saw him before I approached the wall. I made sure he was on guard before I moved from the shadows. He's staring with his pale gaze, jaw set around the smoldering butt of a cigarette, smoking the filter at this point, but he doesn't seem to care.

I lift my hand further, carding my fingers through the mats of my choppy hack-job of a haircut, wondering what it must look like to the people who have lived the past few years of their lives inside these walls.

"Do you think you would have hurt me like you did if I didn't have this?" I ask him as the pads of my fingers brush over the scarring on my forehead.

He doesn't seem alarmed. In fact, he shows no sign that he’s surprised at all. He's at least 15 feet in the air, sitting on the docking of the watch post as he looks down on me, but I can hear him as clear as if he was standing behind me, through the quiet of the night.

"No," He says truthfully, and I smile my entire chip-toothed grin. How stupid of him to hesitate to kill anyone. How stupid of him to not have killed me the moment he'd seen me.

"You deserve what’s coming for you, then" I tell him, and he nods thoughtfully, as if keen to hear my explanation. "I might have killed you, letter in my skin or not.”

"But you didn't," he says coolly.

"And I got my ass whooped for my kindness.”

He flicks the butt of the smoke at me, but misses by a few feet. “Coulda gave me a light, too. Ain’t that polite?”

"I think we're past being polite," but his pack of cigarettes lands at my feet, closer this time. "You should go. Daryl takes the shift after me, and he doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”

"Noted," I say, picking up the pack. Inside are 2 bent and beaten cigarettes and a worn, purple lighter. His eye burns like embers through the dusk, despite their watery color.

I don't smoke the cigarettes. In truth, I’ve never had an actual cigarette before, only the crooked hand-rolled things that were passed around open fire from time to time, and those were always cut with a little something more than tobacco. These are straight and smell different, and memories of car rides with my mom drift to the forefront of my mind.
I hold them in my hands, fumble them with my fingers, toy with them until they break, and when they do, I don’t throw them away. I don't know why; it's not as if I wouldn’t mind smoking them. I was tempted to light them before I was even clear of the wall, but for some reason, I didn't. I haven't.

The lighter is not as forign to me. I have quite a few in my bag, of many shapes and sizes, but this one seems to burn hot in my pocket as I walk, and I find my hand gripping it in a vice in the quieter moments of the night.

I don't sleep well at all, which in itself isn't an oddity, but my train of thought doesn't leave Alexandria. In the little sleep I get, I dream of big rust-smelling walls and an ice-hot gaze on the back of my neck.

. . .

My eyes sting as the sun rises, glowing drearily through the storm clouds that occasionally rumble overhead, both a blessing and a curse. I’ll leave more tracks behind in wet mud, but I can fill all my water bottles without having to boil or drain them of dirt. The rotters will also become waterlogged as it pours, and will slow down to near stand-stills, less they rip their soggy skin in the effort to move their bodies, weighted down by the rain.

I have to collect wood now though, while it's dry. I go about scooping up a few larger fallen limbs. Snapping them into smaller sticks doesn't take too long, and in the course of a few minutes, I have a sizable collection. It barely fits in my bag after being folded up in the large plastic tarp I usually sleep on, but it's better than spending the night wet and cold.

I don't need to see my reflection to know how I must look. The tautness under my eyes informs me of the heavy bags that come with lack of sleep, and I'm unable to fix my hair without my fingers getting caught in the knots. Compared to the boy on the wall, I might as well be a wild animal.

The hours slip by in a rain-misted haze after I settle my things on an incline so my new resting place doesn't become flooded while I sleep. I don't know how long I sit silently, watching the drizzle of rain drops fall from the leaves, puddle around rocks and flow over the rotten forest floor.

I eat, of course, pulling chunks of fruit from a beaten can with my bare hands. Most days are like this.

But now, there's a new step in the schedule, and every time I remember my planned trip to the wall, a swoop of nervous anxiety overtakes me. I wait until the sun has set once more, until the glowing winks of fireflies light up the underbrush, and then I set out, leaving my bag in the gnarled cradle of an old tree's lower branches.

He's not there at first. An older woman is, scanning the tree line lazily, obviously bored of her job, but it's not long before she climbs down and he climbs up, hair is up in a ponytail and looking just as tired as I feel. That blue eye searches the trees sharply, but he doesn't see me.

There's something about watching people who don't know you're there that makes your nerves come alive with adrenaline. He paces back and forth for a moment before he settles, sitting on the wall with his legs hanging over the edge. He has another pack of cigarettes now, and he lights one from between his teeth, only looking up when I slink out.

Though he doesn't show any direct signs of being pleased to see me, I know he must be, because the tension in his shoulders seems to ease and he doesn't threaten or demand I leave.

"You look like shit," he says, and I shrug, kneeling down to yank at some wild yarrow that is growing along the brush. The plant had helped very much with my nosebleed, and since my nose is still susceptible to bleeding, I decided it couldn't hurt to carry some with me.

"Seen any frogs?" I ask, and he laughs a bit humorlessly at the vague question. "I live on frogs half the time," I continue, shoving handfuls of the fern-like leaves into my pockets. "Not my favorite, but I don’t make a habit of complainin’."

"What's your favorite?"

I look up and he tilts his head at me, looking honest in his curiosity.

"I would like grilled cheese more than anything, right now," I reply.

He nods, taking a long drag that leaves him coughing a little. "Why are you here?"

Settling in the grass, I slowly fold my legs under me, raising a brow indignantly. "Isn't it my turn to ask a question?"

"We're taking turns?"

"Yeah."

"Go on then," The corners of his lips twitch, but he doesn't smile.

"What's your name?" I've been wondering since my first sighting of him and that girl.

"Carl," he answers without any hesitation, surprisingly . "And you?"

"Lucas."

"Fits you. Your turn."

There are many questions unanswered, and I find myself nervous that his good mood will fizzle out the longer I stand here looking up at him. “How old are you?”

"What is it, August now? Nineteen, maybe. Twenty? It's hard to remember. Do you know?"

“Twenty, twenty one in December.”

The silence falls heavy between us, and slowly, I stand up.

"Where are you going?" He asks, sitting up slightly.

"Catch dinner, before it's too dark to see anything," But he cuts me off, demanding I stay put as he vanishes from behind the wall for a moment, and returns with two apples that he tosses down to me one at a time. I fumble with them, but don’t thank him. There always seems to be a catch with these sorts of things, but he tells me 'goodnight' and I leave with my dinner, brows furrowed.

Chapter 4: III

There’s a callous hate in the eyes of dogs. I didn’t always see it, but I was a stupid, naive kid, and I didn’t know what those teeth could do.

The spit dries sticky at every pull of skin in her wide-smile mouth, panting hot on my face with the scent of age-rotted teeth. Pa never cared for them like he should. He fed ‘em right from the table, or poured the dry kibble across the linoleum to watch them scrabble and fight for a nice big mouthful.

But this one is old, and she seems to sag into the ground, summer flies buzzing around the red of her eyes like they smell her death coming. She hates me for it. I know that, looking level with her from where we sit in the kitchen. She hates me, and if she had the teeth to do it, she’d bite me like she did before.

And as though she could read my thoughts, she opens her mouth wide, wide, and wider, stretching until her skin rips in long rivets and she’s snapping at my face without the restraint of tendon. She could swallow me, horrific in her size and strength, the scent of putrid decay vice-like.. Death. This is a dead dog.

. . .

I don’t usually have those kinds of nightmares. Strangely, the busier my mind is when I finally drift off, the less I dream. I could not stop my thoughts from running wild with the walls and Alexandria, but I found myself thrashing myself awake anyway.

Two days pass without me venturing to the wall. I spend my nights half awake, eyeing the darkness with rising suspicion that the dead will lurch from the shadows, the white of exposed bone flashing in my mind’s eye. I feel stuck, as if picking up camp and running isn't an option, which I know is untrue, because there is absolutely nothing stopping me from leaving Alexandrian territory— from leaving Virginia.

But I don't. I don't even consider it until I’m literally yanked from my daze, eyelids half-mast in the darkness of the evening woods.

Carl's sticky hand claps over my mouth and nose, and I can taste the salty sweat on his palms from holding his handgun. A knee jerk reaction urges me to fight, and my front teeth snag flesh, biting down hard. His hands retract like angry vipers and he lets out a bit of a strangled yelp, gripping his injured hand close to his chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The words feel sluggish, as if dribbling from my mouth like the mixture of spit and blood from his hand. I wipe it on the hem of my sleeve, and gawk at the long-haired boy, shocked to see him here outside the walls again.

Carl seems to swallow his anger, returning to concern as he reaches out again, hands patting over my sides, feeling for wounds. “Are you hurt? Bit?”

"No— No! What the hell—"

"Shh!"

"No, I'm not bit. I'm not stupid. Why are you out here?” I crane my neck to scan the forest around us, but he shakes his head, wordlessly letting me know he came alone.

"You didn't show up last night or the day before," He sits on the back of his ankles, knees digging into the leaf-strewn forest floor, and I can see his clothes are damp from trekking through the foliage, looking for me, God help him.

"Why do you care?" I snap, the soreness in my busted nose giving a symbolic thob now that I’m face-to-face with him again.

"I don't.”

"Then why are you out here stalking me?"

He's not much of a talker. Neither of us are, but somehow the silence between us is comfortable, despite our previous aggressions. When he doesn’t give me a straight answer, I walk my usual twenty five foot radius around my small camp twice, and he follows me the entire way without questioning why I do it. Once I'm settled on my tarp again, peeling the bark off several damp sticks, he settles across from me, watching my hands move with the aid of the knife.

He doesn’t question this either, must know that peeling the bark from the wood allows the bark to dry faster and become brittle enough for small fires. After a moment, he begins to skin the sticks as well, and my pile of wood scraps grows twice as fast with his help.

"They're going to find you out here, you know." I don't know how long we've been sitting there before he speaks, and I look up, reserved in what he's saying. "My dad, him and Daryl. They hate Wolves."

"Lucky me," I croak, voice raw from lack of use. "A few days ago, you were beating the shit out of me," I gesture to the bruises and scrapes that I'd been running my fingers over all day, trying to see them with just my touch. "And now you're warning me about your dad."

"This is weird for me, too," he argue, lips pulling into a sneer. "If Enid hadn’t stopped me, I would have bashed your head in."

"Oh, aren't you just daddy's little opportunist?"

He's on me. "Stupid— Stupid fucker—!"

"Fuck you!" I attempt to spit, but his fingers wrap around my throat, and it suddenly isn't as good as an idea as I'd originally thought.

"I just don't want you to fucking die," the words leave his mouth in a shuttering, breathless hiss, and his grip loosens before he's even done any damage. I blink dazedly, and his eye is burning again, a simmering pool.

"Could have fooled me."

. . .

Visiting the wall at dusk becomes a habit very quickly, and with each day, I feel as if I know the boy on the wall a little more.

First, he’s hardly a boy, but less than a man. A strange limbo, stuck like the rest of the kids who spent these past years fighting for our lives. He’s got that one eye, set deep in his skull, and round cheeks that are starting to hollow out. A baby-faced killer.

I know now that he wasn’t always behind the wall, but that he came later, maybe 4 years ago or so. I know that he’s got family hidden away inside, that he has a sister named Judith who’s name he let slip in a moment of sloppiness, cursing me after I asked one too many questions.

I learn that Alexandria is having trouble with the Saviors, though Carl seemed surprised that I knew who Negan was.

“The compound isn’t exactly far,” I say, a bit annoyed with how these wall-dwellers view other survivors. “Thirty miles or so.”

That gets his attention. “You know where Negan is?”

“You don’t?” My eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise, “You, the all-knowing Alexadrian?”

Carl’s scowl sits deeper on his features as he looks down from the wall, “Don’t mess around. It’s important. He’s killed people, people I cared about.”

“Join the club,” but he looks so desperate, so violent in his emotion, that I cave. “I don’t know exactly. The general area, yeah. If you brought a map or something, I could—”

“Yes,” He interrupts, voice pitching a bit in his desperation for answers. “Yes, I’ll bring a map. Tomorrow, same time.”

And I agree, though I’m not pleased about the turn in our conversation.

Then he catches me off guard again. “Be careful. There's talk in town about the weather being bad. The old people say they can feel it in their bones."

"You believe it?"

"Maybe. They say their joints ache before a storm."

"Like a super power," I'm not sure why I say it, but his eye seems to light up, and the small of my neck itches under his scrutiny.
"Yeah," He says softly.

. . .

I promise myself to heed the warnings of old souls more often. The storm that brews over my head is wicked like I've never seen before, with tendrils of lightning writhing out from the mother clouds. I lay low to the pine needles, soaked to the bone. Compared to the heat of the summer, the rain comes down in stinging cold sheets, making my goose bumps raise and jaw clench against the violent shivering that comes soon after. The thunder is deafening, and it seems to shake the trees from their rhythmic whipping in the wind, throwing them into a bout of groaning shutters before they take up their jerky sways once more. It is no longer safe without shelter. I come to this conclusion when a loud splintering fills the air and overlaps all the other sounds. To my left I can see, if I squint hard enough, a tree snap like a massive toothpick, and take a second pine with it. Fear charges my spine like electricity, and I scrabble to my feet, flinging mud in my rush. The wall isn't far. I know this from my now countless visits, but there is not much help a wall can give me. Yet, I find myself staggering through the mud flooded forest, almost completely blind to my surroundings.cI can't get turned around, or I risk being lost until the storm passes. I also can't wander helplessly, for fear of running into dead ones, who will be stuck in place, waiting for a meal to stagger into their reach. The trees quickly become sparse, and it's only moments before my mud caked palms are clawing at the slick surface of the wall. I shout, for who, I’m not sure, but it's drowned out by the roaring of thunder and carried away by the whistle of the wind. Slowly, I crouch low, back to the forest and face to the wall, head bowed in an effort to protect myself against the worse of the storm, hood drawn up over my face. I settle in the soaked dirt and grass to wait for it to pass.

Chapter 5: IV

I don't know when I fall asleep, or if I actually sleep at all, but the rain eases up as the first rays of light begin to lighten the dark skies.

Either from sleep or a dazed and wandering mind, I'm roused by his loud whisper.

"Lucas." He seems to be demanding something with his tone, for me to look up at him or respond, I don't know, but anxiety is loud in his voice and lurks deep in his gaze when I look up, the hood of my jacket heavy and soaked with rain.

He looks grim and seems to sag with relief as I move. "Jesus," He says, "What the fuck happened?"

I'm unsure what he means until I remember the mud. I'm covered in dirt. It's dried and cracked in some places on my coat, over my backpack, and has stayed tacky and sludge-like in most others. I look like a monster from an old horror film that I only half remember.

"I imagine," I grunt, attempting to get to my feet despite my stiff muscles, "that the storm got pretty bad there for a minute."

He doesn't respond, blue eyes wide, staring down at me as he leans on the wall.

 

Getting inside the safe zone unnoticed wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it'd be. Carl simply opens the protective cage door and unwinds the chain that holds the larger door closed.

Now, standing on the other side of the wall, the air feels light and cool. Carl grapples with the doors for a few moments more and makes sure they are properly locked before his gaze sneaks back to me.

"You can't be seen in here," he warns. I nod in agreement, but he pushes further.

"I'm serious." We’re moving towards the rows of houses at a brisk walk, his eye scanning the vacant streets for witnesses. "We're going to one of the spare houses. You're going to get cleaned up and wash your clothes, and then you have to go."

It seems harsh, but I understand the pressure he must be under, a fight between humanity and loyalty warring inside his head. I follow him, gathering my wet coat about me in an effort to keep out the chill.

We hop a fence, he a bit more gracefully than I, making our way to the back door of a somewhat large four square. Before I can question the locks, Carl changes direction, and I find us standing, reserved, in front of one of the house's glass windows.

"It's unlocked," he says.

"The house?"

"The window."

Annoyance bubbles in me, and I set my face with a scowl, stepping forward to push the creaking sill until it slides upwards, allowing me enough space to crawl inside.

"Aren't you coming in?" I ask, attempting to hide the fact that I'm out of breath already.

"After you unlock the door.”

 

Inside, the house is horribly modern and dusty, and I assume its neighboring twins are quite the same. The floor is hard wood, and the furniture in the living room is covered with tarps and bed sheets. It smells strangely of moth balls with a hint of saw dust, and my nose itches.

Crossing from the living room into the dimly lit hallway, I take note of the lack of doors— rather, the door frames are unoccupied, leading to the other parts of the house which I can only guess are the dining room, a pantry, and kitchen. Entering the last doorway on the right, the kitchen is an ugly shade of mustard yellow that doesn't give the lighting of the room justice. With clumsy hands, I turn the lock on the sliding glass door and open it.

The yard is deserted, and I blink slow and sluggish before Carl moves in from the left with a croaky "boo".

A delayed flinch is all I manage, fixing him with a dull stare. He fidgets. “I’ll go turn the water heater on.”

 

As I climb the stairs and wander the hall, I resist the urge to clear the landing like I would a home outside the walls of Alexandria. It's safe here, and I have to keep reminding myself as I gently push open each door until I find the bathroom.

It's extravagant, but I expected as much, considering the size of each house on the block. It's nothing like the apartment back in Richmond, and I feel a bit uncomfortable with the open and airy atmosphere the flawless tile floor has. Everything is evenly spaced. While there is no bath, which I assume is in an entirely different bathroom, there is a walk in stall with a shower head sprouting from the wall. Rather than a curtain, its door and alternate wall are made of warped plexiglass.

The sink is somewhat ordinary, not that it matters, and I drop by bag, starting the clean-up process by washing my hands with a cracked chunk of bar soap that was left in a little shell-shaped dish on the counter.

When I finish, it appears as if I'm wearing gloves where the grungy, unwashed dirt on my wrists ends. It's something only a shower can fix, so I begin to strip.

The extent of my disgustingness is made clear as I face the mirror. My shirt has dried everything on it. Blood, sweat, grease, bile, mud, and even some unrecognizable stains that I can't seem to place. I peel the rag off, kick off my shoes, and shimmy my pants down until I'm left standing in boxers, socks, and the strips of sports tape.

The undergarments are equally as stained, and only now, inside someplace so clean, do I realize how bad I reek. The tape, which I don't recall having removed in weeks, sticks to my flesh and leaves my skin aching and burning as I peel it away, leaving red rashes in its wake.

Carl knocks loudly on the bathroom door, and I practically jump out of my skin, throwing the tape into the sink in a single jerky movement.

"I need your clothes so I can wash them," he says, voice muffled through the door, and I breathe deeply for a moment before slipping out of the rest of my undergarments and handing off my clothes through the crack in the open door.

He's gone as soon as he has them in his arms, and I calm myself by locking the door. The bathroom suddenly does feel cramped.

The shower water runs warm after only a few seconds of sputtering from the head, and I step into the spray with the feeble bar of soap in hand.

The water stings horribly at first, burning my sore shoulders in a way that keeps me wincing and shying away from the otherwise gentle shower. My skin has become tender and overly sensitive to even the warm water, but thankfully, I am beginning to get used to it. Soon, I'm clean of most of the dirt that'd covered every square inch of my body.

There’s a few soap bottles sitting on a ledge of the shower, but I don’t bother with them, able to imagine the mini ecosystem undoubtedly blooming inside. Instead I lather the bar of soap until it is difficult to hold and my hands are beyond clean, beginning to palm it into my starchy hair. My scalp aches at first, but the more I massage the soap into my choppy locks, the better it feels.
The water runs cold long before I’m done, my body scrubbed raw and clean but my hair still knotted and tangled in ugly clumps. I give up once I begin to shiver, stepping out of the shower onto the cool tile to peer into the steam-fogged mirror. The condensation wipes away in a strip behind my hand, little rivers of water racing down the reflective surface, and I take in the state of my hair, now twice as long, the ashy color standing out as stark as the pristine white bathroom.

It’s unsalvageable. The knots are made mostly of broken hair, frayed and dead. There would be no point in trying to brush them out, even if I had a brush. Digging into my bag, I pull out the ziplock bag I’d stored away a set of clothes in after Carl had warned me of the oncoming storm, now thankful I’d had the good sense to take the precaution. One too many times I had no dry clothes to wear.

The rest of the contents of the bag is soaked, no surprise there, including the roll of sports tape. Upon further inspection, it still seems reasonably sticky, so I go about replacing the strips I’d removed before my shower.

The flesh of my ribs stings like it’s been burned, and even worse as I press the sticky side of the tape against it, pulling my breast flat to bind my chest in place.

I’m lucky, I think, eyeing the mirror with that familiar feeling of disconnect. I’m lucky that it’s only this bad, and not worse.

Finding scissors proves to be easier than I’d imagined, sitting jumbled in a bin under the sink among other bathroom items that have been left to sit for years now. I’m almost sure they are actually meant for hair. They’re light in my palm in comparison to the usual knife, but I set to work trimming my hair as short as I can, snipping carelessly at the large matts until my scalp shows through the blond, short and uneven, but clean. Finally clean.

“Are you almost done?” Carl calls, not close to the door by the sounds of it, but not too far off.

“Almost,” I call back, brushing hair from my shoulders into the sink.

My skin feels raw from cleaning it, pink and stinging under the fresh tape, and my chest aches and throbs in protest to the movements I make to dress. I look god awful, I conclude, facing the mirror with the air of someone who's afraid of their reflection reaching from behind the tempered glass. Not possible, but the lump in my throat doesn't give in to my own rationalized thinking. Carl mumbles on the other side of the door once more, closer now; my hand finds its handle, and I gracelessly fumble my way out of the bathroom.

Chapter 6: V

As he kicks at my fire pit, sending ash drifting into the air, I contemplate if it’s worth sticking around until he’s gone to retrieve the little of my gear he leaves behind. He's destroying everything that the storm hasn’t, his hair is clumped and matted, and for a wild moment, I think I'm looking at another Wolf. He certainly looks nasty enough, coated with sweat and grease, but then I see his partner, a much cleaner man, well-dressed, even. He isn't touching my things, but he's watching with his gun drawn, eyes scanning my strewn supplies.

"They don't have enough food," he comments, but the dirty man snorts, obviously in disagreement.

“‘Course they do. Huntin’, got little traps set up. I’ve come across a few ‘past few weeks.”

I keep my breath shallow as they move, walking circles around the set up I’d stepped away from for only a few minutes.

"Why's it all here?" The more-groomed man says, gaze skipping right over the tree that I've plastered myself against. "Why didn't they take their bag? Their tarp?"

"'Cause they planned on comin' back," the other replies and sick dread settles low in my stomach. I'm not getting my things back, and I’ll be lucky to get away without being seen. They'll be after me like dogs on a scent and I can only hope that the rain washed away any prints that’ll track me to the wall.

I’m too caught up in my thoughts and their conversation to notice I’m being watched, so when a twig snaps loudly to my right, I go rigid, not daring to move.

It wasn't me. That takes a moment to dawn on me, as I finally take notice of the man that can't be but 10 paces from me, face obscured by a beard and dressed in a long trench coat. Even from that far, I can see the look in his blue eyes that tells me that him stepping on the stick hadn't been an accident.

In the pause I take to look at him, the other men have me by the shoulders, and I am quickly reacquainted with the stench of a nose full of dirt and a fresh nosebleed. The struggle is silent, only the grunts of our grappling audible. I quickly stop fighting, knowing that it would end badly for me. The weight squarely between my shoulder blades is mind consuming as the air leaves my lungs nearly all at once.

"Ease up Daryl, you’re crushing him.”

Some of the pressure gives, and my chest makes a horrible rattling noise that leaves my head swimming.

“How did we not hear him?”

“Wolf. Look,” a rough hand laces under my chin, firmly tilting my head upwards where three sets of eyes peer at the scarring of my forehead.

“That’s a nasty break. Did you do that?” The bearded man asks, referring to my nose, and the greasy one shakes his head, letting my chin go. “Didn’t slam ‘em that hard. Musta been broken before.”

The blood dripples over my chin in a steady flow, and my stomach writhes unpleasantly at the familiar taste of blood at the back of my throat, leaving me woozy and lightheaded.

“Don’t pass out, kid,” the well-kempt man says. “Hey, look here—” but his voice is fading fast as he snaps fingers in front of my face, and I’m just so tired. So, so tired.

Their faces draw in close again, more concerned now, and the pressure on my chest lifts completely, but the darkness is already drawing in.

. . .

The room is empty. All the shelves are stripped, the door is locked, and the window is boarded with planks of sturdy wood. It has to be a garage; the floor is made of gray concrete with an empty workbench built into the right wall. I spend close to an hour nursing my pounding headache and stumbling around, searching for something to use as a means of escape.

Nothing. Nothing but loose, bent nails that I pry out of the drywall with my bare hands. Even that is no good, and in a fit of fury, I throw them at the wall, watching them ping off and fly into separate corners of the room.

I'm missing my shoes and socks, and the cold tile turns my feet blue in record time. The knife that I keep tucked into my belt loop is missing now, no surprise there, as well the belt itself. I had a small pouch of tools tucked inside the inner pocket of my jacket, but it’s hardly any use, given that my jacket is among the items taken off my person.

There are no clocks in the garage, so I'm not sure how much time passes with me sitting on the workbench to avoid the chill of the concrete garage floor. If I had to guess, a handful of hours have passed by the time the door that leads to the rest of the house unlocks from the other side, and a stern-looking woman steps out cautiously.

It’s the first time I’ve seen someone use an actual sword as a weapon. It is long and curved, and well sharpened by the looks of it. It’s such a shock to see, I almost don’t notice the gruff man and his familiar eyes.

He’s on the shorter side, bow legged with a full but trimmed beard, salt-and-peppered with age— or maybe stress. The resemblance to his son is a bit uncanny, in the narrow eyes and set jaw.
The woman orders me down from the work table, and I don’t hesitate to comply, all too aware of the blade she keeps hanging at her side. The man approaches, patting quickly over my pockets and the hem of my pants. Satisfied I haven’t found anything in the garage to use as a makeshift weapon, he steps back again, giving her a curt nod.

The woman returns his stare, the muscles in her arms visibly relaxing the grip on her blade. Side by side, I can see the wordless communication going on between them, written in their body language and the sharp glances. They’re a team, and I’m not going to get anywhere by giving either of them a hard time.

He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, before continuing. "What's your name?"

"Lucas.”

"How many walkers have you killed?"

It’s a strange question, and I haven’t heard a question like that since the beginning. It doesn’t seem very important these days, but I answer as truthfully as possible, “I— I don’t keep count. One or two a day? More if I come across them.”

He nods, must have heard that reaction before because he doesn't show any annoyance. "And how many people have you killed?"

This is it. This is the question that could peg me as a murderer or a liar. It can be so difficult to get into people’s heads, to figure out what they really want. Surely, these people have been killed. Surely, that blade has seen blood.

I could lie, or I could tell the closest to the truth that I can. I know my answer, everyone knows their answer. Wording it is different though, thinking of every face, every life that you ended. All the scenarios, all the different circumstances. How many? How many people have I killed?

"Seven." I choke on the word, and I know I must be trembling, because my muscles are tense, trying to keep me still trying to keep me from giving in under the pressure.

"Why?"

"Because," I croak, eyes lingering high on their faces, avoiding eye contact but not lowering my head. Everyone has killed someone. Everyone. "of what would happen if I didn't."

. . .

Falling asleep in the garage is made easy by the pattering of rain on the roof. In no way is it comparable to last night's fall, being far more soothing, thunder rumbling in the distance rather than directly overhead.

The softest surface happens to also be the desk's table top, being made of wood rather than concrete like the floor, so I'm left to make myself comfortable on the counter.

My sleep is light, thanks to the uncomfortableness of it all, and whether that's a good or bad thing, I don't know, because I jerk awake, cracking my head against the cabinet that's mounted above me, at the sound of the garage door opening.

Carl stands in the frame, staring hard at me with what appears to be mixed emotions before he shuts the door behind him after a quick glance over his shoulder. "Are you fucking stupid?"

The question bites, but I don't answer, occupied with gritting my teeth and cradling my ever pounding head.

"I spent the entire day oblivious to the fact that you're locked in my garage." He walks into the room, gaze set level with mine in a way that would leave me cowering if set on anyone else's features. After those long hours spent talking to him, I feel somewhat immune to his testy expressions. “I go up on the wall and wait, and you don’t show. I come back, and lo-and-behold, Daryl says you’re out in the garage. I thought I told you not to get caught—”

"Piss off," I cut him short with a bite in my tone, but he snatches my hand from my forehead, peering at the blood that stickies my face. The cabinet did no real damage to the back of my head, but as he probes at it with gentle fingers, I let a small hiss through my teeth at the tenderness.

“Your nose is broken, too.”

"Geez, I wonder how that happened. It’s been broken.”

His brows draw close and knit, which looks strange with the scarring that covers the majority of the right side of his face. I continue, "I met your dad," The words come out croaky and cracked, and I clear my throat heavily.

"Yeah? Sure that was a fuckin' blast."

"He asked me some dumbass questions. Like father, like son, I suppose."

Carl shakes his head ever so slightly, that blue eye full of exasperation. His stance is offensive, not quite aggressive, but an attempt at intimidation. I don’t mirror it, instead leaning back against the wall, keeping my own body language loose and haughty.

"How are you going to get out of this?" He asks, and I'm struck off my guard, eyebrows jumping upwards.

"I don't know, Carl, I was hoping someone who knew me prior to this mess would put in a good-fucking-word for me with his Pa so I'd be less likely to be killed, but I'm not sure if I know anyone that meets that criteria—"

He reaches out, grabbing a fistful of the front of my jacket, and for a moment I flinch, preparing to be hit in the face, but he yanks me a bit, his breath breezing over my face. I smell coffee, cigarettes, and toothpaste, I feel the pulse of life in his fingers and the heat of his body, the closest he’s been since our tussle on the forest floor after he came looking for me.

I kick him in the gut. The air leaves him with a soft grunt and he lets go, one hand flat to his abdomen as he stares, seemingly at a loss of words.

“Fuck off,” and he does, locking the garage door behind him.

Chapter 7: [WIP]

The large garage door moves upwards abruptly with a deafening screeching of rusted chain and grinding metal.

"Go on, get." Carl's father seems tense with anger as he holds the garage door's handle above his head, scowl set deep on his unshaven face. Naturally, I peel my lip upward and over my teeth in what I know to be a fowl sneer, silently mocking his cockiness and unguarded belly. Had he not taken my knife, it would be buried there and I would be halfway to the wall by now.

His words snap me from my imagination as he spits again, urging me to move, and I do, making my way into the light that blinds me now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the garage. The rays of morning rays peak over the roofs, illuminating the dewey, overgrown lawns, and I stand bare footed on the sidewalk, arms crossed against the chill that hangs in the air.

"You're letting me go?" I ask, he snorts, slamming the garage shut with a jarring noise that seems to ricochet up my spine and to the base my skull.

"Hell no, just bein' more humane."

I know the tone. His hand is being forced; he doesn't agree with what he's doing, but he has no choice. My first thoughts are of Carl, but I'm not sure that he has that much power over his own father. The bearded man doesn't seem the type to give in so easily, especially not into his own son.

He continues, "You're gettin' cleaned up. We're gonna let you stay here--" Before I can open my mouth to protest, to inform the man that he's sorely mistaken in assuming that I DESIRE to live behind the walls, he plows on, those blue eyes flashing with annoyance that I often saw in Carl's.

"-- an' don't give me any shit about wanting to be out there with the walkers, I know Carl let your ass in here at least once."

"It was storming," I argue.

"I don't give a flyin' fuck. You wanted in, you're in." But I wasn't buying it. I wanted to know the price of safety, because there was one, and I wanted to know how closely I was going to be watched-- how free I truly was.

"Personally, I could care less," he said, his bow legged gate taking him on down the sidewalk as he gestured for me to follow. I obey, the ache of hunger in my stomach leaving no room for revolt. "I'd prefer you out there, but Mich thinks it's better we start letting people in, better we start trustin' people."

"Mich? The woman that searched me?"

"Yeah, her. You're lucky she's so kind, kid. If it were up to me, you'd be dead."

The words didn't do much to ensure me of my safety and I glared at the back of his head as we walked, silently wishing a painful, drawn out death upon him. He truly was an asshole.

___

The stench of food in the kitchen was overwhelming, and my stomach lurched with hunger as bacon-- real actual bacon-- sizzled on the stove, tended by a greying, short haired woman. At the table, many people sat chatting and eating, some of which I recognized from my capture in the woods, but all stopped to stare at me as Rick shut the door behind us.

Carl looked up, his smile fading and chewing slowing as his single eyed gaze landed upon me. No, it wasn't him who'd urged for my release. Funnily enough, I find myself missing the solitude of the garage.

"He's stayin'," Rick supplied, as if that explained everything, tugging his heavy boots off at the welcome mat.

Breakfast seems to resume, save for the quick glances in my direction as the grey haired woman begrudgingly makes me a plate. I eat at the counter alone, not bothering much with my fork as I mop syrup up with pancakes and suck bacon grease from my fingers, eager to quell the ache of hunger that has become nearly unbearable.

The family-- they are a family, are they not? They act like one-- are quiet, perhaps unsure of Rick's decision, or unsure of me in general. I don't stop eating when they do, their chairs scraping across the tile as they set their dishes in the sink, each in turn. Carl stays behind to wash the plates and silverware clean when the rest seem to carry on with their lives, scattering about to tend to nameless jobs and errands, and Carl washes on, scrubbing sticky syrup from the plates that clink in the water.

Neither of us say a word. I simply eat and he cleans, the clatter of dishes and spray of tap water thick in the air. There are no words between us until I finish and move to add my plate to his work, and he gives me a sharp look, biting back something I know will be hurtful. I welcome the insult with a tilt of my chin.

"You don't belong here."

I smile at him in a way I hope chills him to the bone and makes his stomach roil before I lean in closer, once again face to face with the strange Waller.

"Neither do you."

I sent my plate in the sink.

Chapter 8: [WIP]

I will never get used to the bipolar weather that hangs over Virginia. I've lived here my entire life, have run along the heat warped streets bare footed and trudged to the gas station through a foot of snow, but there is no adapting how quickly it can change. I longingly recall the chilled rain slipping down my back, soaking me to the bone as my sweat does now, the bounce of the truck doing nothing for my mood.

Carl can't drive. He's complete shit at it, even on the clear roads of Alexandria where he rides up on the curb of the side walk as often as he can, his grin flashing at me from the rear view mirrors. It's hard to believe he's enjoying himself.

Fed up, I beat the window of the cab, screwing my face up in what I hope reflects my annoyance, and sure enough, the trunk slows to a crawl and then a complete stop. I hop out the short bed, grateful as my feet find solid ground and comfort in the burning tar under my boots.

Carl leans out the window, his hat shielding his freckled face from the relentless sun, a smug look on his faceo, and in the moment, I'm sure he was driving like an idiot on purpose.

"Problem?" He asks, and I resist the urge to pop him in the nose.

"You drive like you're missing both eyes instead of just one," I supply with a shrug, and he seems to consider that, worrying inside of his cheek with fiend contemplation. I know now he's just trying to make me angry.

"That's not nice." The soft twang in his voice should be infuriating, but I find it oddly satisfying matched with his voice, deepened by his age.

"Move over," I order, yanking the door handle until the door gives entirely, and he obliges, unbuckling his seatbelt to slide into the passenger's seat, the sense of excitement flooding the air once more at the prospect of racing down the empty street again.

"Have you ever driven before?" he asks, and again, I suppress the urge to hit him, instead settling for a dramatic eye roll and a gruff, "yes".

We're not friends. We established that back when he bashed me face first into that pine tree. There's still hatred and distrust there in his gaze, but also curiosity...  He's intrigued by someone else his age, which leaves me to wonder if there are any other kids here at all, aside from the small child that'd been introduced to me as Judy.

I'm drawn from my thoughts by my own sharp turn, which throws Carl up against the car door with a heavy grunt. It's satisfying, the small act of revenge, and I pretend not to see his discomfort. He buckles his seatbelt again without a word.

...

He enjoys fighting. Not verbally; he's bad with words, stumbling over retaliation and insults that tend to drip from my lips like venom. Silver-tongued, my Pa used to call it-- like my Mom.

No, Carl is physical and brute, giving me a small shove as we trudge through the waist high grass that occupies the lawns of the distant vacant houses. I stumble on my feet, looking back at him with a withering glare, but he only shoves again, leering what I assume as playfully.

Turning to face him, I steady myself, readying myself for his next move.

My legs give to solid ground. He's heavy, pressing air from my lungs and thoughts from my brain as he struggles with my wrists in an effort to keep my clawing nails away from his face. Only his expression reminds me that it's all fun and games.

The air smells of grass and now sweat as we tumble through the weeds, grunts being pushed from our throats in large gasps of air, and I manage to grasp a handful of his hair, yanking hard.

The noise from him is raw and his voice cracks, sending a swoop through my belly that, in the moment, I much enjoy, yanking again simply to hear the noise once more.

His palms press into my shoulders painfully, and I'm suddenly aware of his legs intwined with mine, struggling to keep me pinned. My hand falls slack and I heave in air, unaware i was holding my breath as I glare up at him.

"You got something to say?" He pants, and his breath his hot on my face, the faint trace of toothpaste making it tolerable; other than that, he reeks of what can only be described as boy.

"Yeah," I manage, "You moan like a bitch."

Chapter 9: [WIP]

Luring the walker closer is easy, what with the red hot blood pumping through my veins. It's as if the beast of carnage can hear the thudding of my heart from behind my ever aching rib cage, urged forward by the promise of a living body to rip into. The gnats buzzing around her milky, unblinking eyes do little to quell the turning of my stomach, but I force the feeling down, walking backwards over broken branches, leading the dead one away from the wall that could only now be described as home.

"Just kill it," comes the mocking tone that I loathe so much, but I ignore the voice in favor of making kissy noises at the infected woman that is grinding her jaw in perceived frustration with her useless ankles, as they snapped and lurched, making her gait awkward and unpredictable. She comes closer only for her prey to dance away quickly, unaware of the boy with the knife until the blade is buried deep in her decay-softened temple.

I falter, watching the body fall from Carl's weapon and to the grassy ground.

"Why the FUCK did you do that?"

I'm more angry that he felt the need to interfere than I am the actual act of him taking the walker down. This notion in his head that I was a lesser person - a weaker survivor - was infuriating to no end.

"You were just letting it get closer! It was a stupid move!" He's panting, chest rising and falling with the exertion it took to still the woman long enough to knife her. I can't help but note the sweat dripping down his face, the glaring sun bearing down on us like the enemies of nature that we are.

"I was getting it closer to the pile so we wouldn't have to carry her so far!" I retaliate.

"Last thing I need to do is deal with an infected jack-ass with a god complex."

Ah, there they are. The insults. As expected, if not a little late. I take my chances with silence, simply ignoring him by finding interest in the broken fingernails of the walker. They were yellowed and dirt caked. How long had she been dead?

"Are you even listening? Do you even care if you get bit? I sure fucking don't. You're DISPOSABLE."

He's going to bring my headache back, I'm sure of it. His voice grates my nerves in this particular way that sends my senses into anger-fueled overdrive, and my skull begins pounding.

"LUCAS!"

He's pathetic. I can rein my anger in, as he seemingly cannot, and I take pride in this detail, allowing a smug smile to show through my previously indifferent mask. This seems to infuriate him further.

And then, all at once, the fight goes out of him, and his once tense shoulders soften.

"We should get back before lunch," he says in a tone that, for a moment, doesn't seem to make the blood in my ears roar.
"So Mich doesn't worry," he adds.

Perhaps he's making an attempt at not giving me what I want. The thought brings a bitter taste to my mouth. As much as I dislike to admit it, riling Carl up is often the highlight of my day.

Begrudgingly, I shrug, and with that, we agree to finish up, pulling the last walker to the mound that we'd grown throughout the morning, ready to be burnt.

Sometimes I can pretend I don't hate him. But only sometimes.

...

I like Enid.

She's real with me, nor does she put up with Carl's bullshit. The kind of person I can trust to have my back.

Her boots are kicked up on Carl's unmade bed, not a care in the world as she flips through a beaten porn magazine, eyebrows raising with each turn of a page.

"God damn."

Her casual comments and whistles make me smile despite myself and I glance up to catch a glimpse of Carl's uncomfortable expression. His hands are busy as well, cleaning the slide of his handgun almost religiously, sitting only a few feet from me on the carpeted floor.

"Look at that," Enid shoves the high definition print in my face, and I laugh, swatting the visual assault away.

"What size are those, do you think? Double Ds?" She flashes the photo at Carl, who quickly looks away, his ears glowing with embarrassment.

"Maybe," I shrug.

"You guys are no fun. I thought we had similar interests."

Again, I glance at Carl, who's ruby complexion seems to be spreading.

"What's wrong? Don't like tits, Carl?" I mock him openly, looking for a bit of fun. Carl, on the other hand, seems to panic.

"I'm not gay," he supplies, only to be met with scoffs and laughter by Enid and I. "I'm NOT!"

"Alright, chill out."

"We asked if you liked tits, not if you ate dicks." Enid goes back to her magazine, leaving Carl to his embarrassment and me to my thoughts. I recall our time spent in the garage, face to face, just inches apart. Then, the field, with his body pressed up against mine with all bloodlust and no shame.

It was hard to believe him, but my own doubts drag at me, and I know that I must look sick to my stomach, because Carl gives me an odd look, cocking his head to the side.

My gut is in my throat, and I focus on the ragged home improvement magazine I'd been flipping through absentmindedly, jaw set tight. He doesn't know, I remind myself. Michonne is the only one who might have any idea, and that was only because she had felt the bandage that binds my chest flat under my baggy, ill-fitting clothes. He must think I have a dick.  There's no other explanation for his insistence and embarrassment, but otherwise interest.

The thought of him finding out sends me into a full fledged panic, and I stand to make for the bathroom across the hall, hoping to hide my face for even a little while.

I'm not sure why I care, anyway. It's not as if I would let him near me again.

...

He eats those words straight out my mouth.

The clock above the scrubbed oven reads 2:34 a.m.

Carl Grimes is aggressive in everything he does, his grip on my wrists tight as if to steady himself. And, oh God, I let him, despite how clumsy it all is. His lips are practically bruising mine, and it's hard to get air because he doesn't want to breathe.

It's an awful kiss, as far as I'm concerned.

I'd expected to be punched when I'd commented snidely on his lingering gaze, but instead, when he'd cornered me in the dimly lit kitchen, Carl had surprised me with a hooded eye and worried lips.

Now his hands are roaming, and fear jolts up my spine like electricity, settling in the pit of my stomach. It's my turn to take charge.

My hands snatch at his, shoving him from my body quickly and leaving him in shock for only a moment before I bite at the stubble that lines his jaw, skin catching between my front teeth. It must have hurt, and my height over him seems to intimidate him, because he suddenly looks scared.

Backing him into the counter, the sounds of our breathing accompanied only by the squeaking of our shoes on the tile and crickets outside, he braces himself quickly, eyes now blown wide with fear and what I can only assume is excitement.

I'm about to go back to kissing him, fistfuls of his shirt gripped tightly, until my knuckles turn white, but he chokes.

Finally.

"S-stop."

I do, sulking backward, sporting a painful grin that is forced, if anything. He's had enough, and is now coming to his senses, now coming to terms with what he'd done.

Kissed a boy. Kissed the disgusting little wall lurker that he hates so much.

Carl bolts from the kitchen.