"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

thirty nine, all too well

She hadn't quite noticed the cold throughout the night, but it seemed it had nipped at her and gone completely unnoticed - signs being that her lips were grey blue and her eyes heavy. The hair on her arms had pricked towards the ceiling, and as she cracked her vision into place, she realised where she was, and what had come of the night before.

The first thing she saw as she huffed sleepily was Carl's hand, lying beside her head that had conked onto the side of his bed without her own knowledge.
The second thing: Rick Grimes's arm, and then, his head resting atop it. He was so close she could almost feel his chilling breath, and she realised he had come in at some point and followed her path of falling asleep beside Carl.

She wondered if he'd thought the same as her, maybe even felt the same? That longing for just him; his presence; to watch him breathe to just make sure he was still alive.

It was so nice, seeing him there with her, it helped in a way that nothing else did.

Rick was still asleep, she was sure, so she got up quietly, tiptoeing to the counter where someone (definitely Michonne) had left two glasses of water and a stack of fresh clothes. She noticed some of them to be carls, as she still did not have any of her own back home. She'd been borrowing from Rosita for awhile, before giving up and just sharing Carl's wardrobe.

Ontop of the neatly folded pile was Carl's torn (but comfortable) navy zip up hoodie. Not caring to change the clothes she'd been wearing since yesterday - bloody and not noticeable to be their original colours - she slipped it on to combat the biting draft that flew through the room.

Crossing her arms over her body, she eloped to the window to close it with a rewarding click. Circling back to Carl, she placed the back of her palm to his cheekbone to determine how cold he was. He didn't seem too bad, but she pulled his sheet further up his torso anyway just for good measure.

Her eyes lingered on Rick for a little longer, scanning from his silver watch to his greying curls. If she had a blanket in her possession, she'd have tucked him into it; it just seemed like the only thing she could do for him. Instead, she swivelled on her heels and crept out the door into the fresh cold air of the morning.

Not a soul was up yet, which was a relief as Jane didn't really feel like talking much. That was another thing she liked about Rick: he said what was necessary and nothing past it. Exhaling out, she noticed she could see thick fog form on the tip of her tongue, and a slight frost coated over the settlement that made everything sparkle in the new light. She wished Carl could see it, he'd get all excited - he always said his mom told him frost was a sign of snow, and, well, how could he not love snow? - she thought about him dragging her out into it, with Judith in his arms: a big fluffy coat hanging off his shoulders as he flung snowballs every which way.

This didn't make her smile. In fact, it made her eyes turn downwards towards the floor and stare intensely at the step between the grass and the wooden porch of the infirmary. Lowering herself down to it, she hugged into knees trying to keep the cold out. It didn't quite work, but she didn't plan on moving. After a few minutes of isolation, her nose was painted a salmon pink and her lips started to quiver. Though she certainly felt the freeze, she dismissed it, in an attempt to turn to stone and expel the pain.

"Michonne made tea," said a slum voice from behind, and though she knew it was rick, it still startled her. He handed her the scolding liquid as he came into frame, cup in hand. She wanted to say thanks, really she did - but nothing seemed to be able to get past her mouth that wasn't a choking cough. Her eyes shifted to the tea - to avoid rick's pining gaze. She didn't feel like drinking tea, because it reminded her of Carl - when he'd made some for her the morning after the line up. In the end, she surrendered to it, because the cold was everlasting and catching up fast, but the brew did not taste kind: a mixture of fruity warmth combatted with slightly out of date milk.