"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

thirty four, 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀

"I think you should just go." He said bluntly.
She was taken aback by his comment, but could understand where he was coming from.
"Look, Carl, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there for awhile but she needs me now. She needs us."

"No, Carol. You weren't there. I was there. When you left, she went out to look for you. Do you know where she ended up? On her knees with a fucking bat in her face. The night before the prison got destroyed, she was ready to go looking for you. When have you ever gone looking for her?" She inhaled sharply, a tear pricking her left eye.

"She wouldn't want us arguing right now, so I think you should just go." He said, grimacing.

Her face twisted, and she looked incredibly hurt. Carl almost felt bad. But, she nodded.
"I'm sorry, I really am." She sniffled.

"You can tell her that when she wakes up."
And with that, he shut the front door, turning back to Jane immediately. She was laying down on the couch, spots of blood seeping onto the cold leather. She'd been slashed a few times, choked, hit in the head.

She was far from dead, but it didn't feel like she was alive either. He knew that she was breathing, he could see it. He also knew that when she woke up properly she'd never be the same, so, really, was she alive? Was she going to be okay?

Without even thinking about it, he moved his face down to hers, feeling the prickle of her breath on his lips. He lightly tapped their mouths together, him latching onto her like he would never let go. He pulled himself away, not wanting to hurt her or take advantage. He just needed to do that, ever since he watched her get almost thrust away from him in the blink of an eye.

She wasn't completely out yet, still hanging on ever so slightly. She could see him, and that was about it - everything else seemed to blur in motionless circles around her peripheral.

"Carl," she whispered.
"I'm here." He replied, soothingly.
"Carl, I," her voice was cracked and rigid, "I didn't mean to - I thought y-you were gonna-"
"I know, I know. But I'm here, I'm here and I'm not going to leave you. I could never, ever do that."
He explained, stroking a stray piece of her hair behind her ear.

She dissociated as he started to clean up her wounds, realising this was a much bigger job than he had mustered. When he had finished, he brought her some antibiotics and pain killers from the pantry, practically forcing them and some water down her throat.

It was kind of nice, just looking after her. Of course, he hated the fact that she was even hurt at all - he was worried sick. But these tasks distracted him from thinking about what she had really done back there.

He secured one of his hands underneath the bends of her knees, and the other under her neck, lifting her off the couch and into his arms. She stirred, her fist grabbing at his shirt needingly though her eyes were closed.

He put her down on his bed, taking off her boots and tucking her in. He leaned over her for a little longer than intended, one arm on either side of her.
She still looked pretty, in amongst all the hurt. It reminded him of when she first came back, how she had laid, in the infirmary all filthy.

"I love you, so much you know. I'd kill for you, too. I have killed for you. You're not sorry for this, and I know that. I wouldn't be sorry either, if it meant that you were alive. People will say that this wasn't justified, that you're crazy. But they don't know the shit you've gone through. They don't know you, like I do. No one does. Please, please just be okay. You have to be, because it's me and you, and it always has been. I don't know who I was before you. And I certainly don't know who I'll be after you."