"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

sixteen, balconies and tattoos

To see her face, to hear her voice - the one that he had only heard in his dreams for maybe two years.
He was picturing her in his mind again, picturing her exactly as she was this morning, as she hugged him. She was beautiful. Even through her scars, cuts, bloodied clothes. Even with all the dirt on her face - she was excruciatingly perfect.

He walked back into the room, where she lay on the bed. Denise had cleaned her up a bit, but not a lot. Just enough to cover the scars and cuts with bandages.

"I'll give you a minute," came Denise's squeaky voice from the corner of the room. He didn't even acknowledge her as she shut the door - instead his eyes bore down into Jane's sleeping figure.

Pulling up a chair, he sat down and made himself comfortable. She was still dressed in her only clothes, which were far past wearable.
He noticed she was wearing a flannel earlier, that she wasn't now, and he didn't know where it went - infact, he couldn't even picture what it had looked like.

Scanning the room, he saw it. A white collared flannel with black and blue checkers, hanging on by it's last thread to the handle of the door. He got up, examining the fabric, rolling it between his fingers.

Then a smile hit him like a bullet, maybe faster. It was his flannel. He remembered giving it to her that night, at the prison. And she had kept it all this time?

He left it where it was and retreated back to his chair, scared that if he even touched it, it would crumble beneath his fingers. Grabbing the cloth that lay beside her bed, he dampened it under the sink and began to gently scrub the dirt from her complexion.

She stirred, but not enough to wake. As much as carl wanted her to open her eyes - he also needed her to have a good sleep. He reckoned she hadn't had one in awhile.

He thought about the horrors she had to go through as the cloth hit her skin, smoothing everything over.
The men she killed. And the ones she didn't. The nights she probably spent alone, worried for her life.

Once he was done washing the dirt off her face and shoulders, he set the cloth aside and rested his chin on her pillow. He reached for her outstretched hand, clasping their fingers together. The feeling was incredible.

Soon, he fell asleep, still clutching her hand and resting his head on her bed. Night fell, and he stayed like so until early morning - when the door caved open and Michonne stepped in.

Carl raised raised his head, groggily acknowledging her entrance. He immediately brushed his hair back, trying to act like he wasn't asleep.

"Uh, hey," he said, trying to hide the roughness in his throat. Michonne and Rick knew exactly where Carl was the moment he didn't come home.

"Been here all night?" She said, brushing one hand through his hair.
"Sorry, I fell asleep." He replied, looking down at his shoes. Hearing the undeniable scratch of a moving chair, Carl looked up, surprised to see she had pulled up a seat next to him.

They waited and waited, not talking at all, until Carl finally broke the silence.
"I'm glad it's you here, Michonne. My dad has just been a bit full on since she came back."

She smiled, showing her brilliant white teeth. Carl loved her smile.
"I'm so glad she's back." Michonne whispered, as not to wake her.