In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, relaxation is as scarce as a clean pair of socks, but Rick Grimes, the ever-resilient former sheriff, and his son Carl decided it was high time they had a moment's peace. After days on the run, they stumbled upon an oasis--a serene pond, dappled with sunlight that filtered through the leaves of sheltering trees. "Would ya look at that, Carl?" Rick said, his eyes mirroring the sparkle on the water's surface. "A bit of heaven right here on Earth." Carl, who had grown into the spitting image of his father, complete with the hat that seemed to symbolize hope in a hopeless world, nodded. "Yeah, Dad... heaven with frogs." With no walkers in sight, they shucked their worn-out clothes with abandon, until they stood as nature intended--two Grimes, free and unencumbered. Rick's physique was a testament to the survival of the fittest, muscles defined from years of fighting off the undead and the living alike. Carl, in the throes of young adulthood, had yet to reach his father's breadth, but the lean muscles of someone who has never known the ease of modern life were there. They entered the pond, the water cool against their weather-beaten skin. Rick moved with a practiced ease, the water lapping against the scars that marked his body like a road map of all he'd endured. Carl followed suit, the water reaching to his waist as he moved, the chill eliciting a shiver that he tried to play off as a shrug. They found a depth comfortable enough to lounge, shoulders submerged, the tension easing from their frames for the first time in what felt like forever. "Remember the days we'd go fishing, Carl?" Rick said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "You mean back when the fish didn't try to eat us?" Carl chuckled. Their laughter echoed across the pond until, suddenly, it was punctuated by a rumble from Rick's stomach. This was followed by another from Carl's direction. They exchanged a guilty glance and then surrendering to the inevitable, they let nature take its course. The surface of the pond rippled as if a stone were skipped across it, and a horrendous stench wafted through the air. Rick raised his eyebrows. "That's my boy!" Carl grinned, relief washing over him. "Must've been those canned beans, Dad." The tranquility of the pond was broken as a few unfortunate fish went belly-up, evidently unable to cope with the unexpected biohazard. The Grimes didn't miss a beat. "Dinner is served!" Rick said with a roguish smile. They splashed toward the floating fish, snatching them with the expertise of survivors making the most of an unexpected bounty. Back on shore, they gathered wood for a fire--careful to avoid dry foliage that might alert walkers to their presence--with spirits lifted from the day's rare indulgence. Rick deftly struck a spark into the kindling while Carl prepared the fish, their bounty from the pond--their laughter and chatter never ceasing as the fire crackled to life. "I guess we can call this, 'catch and release,' right, Coral?" Rick quipped, pronouncing 'Carl' in the way that had become a meme beyond their post-apocalyptic understanding. Carl rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his amusement. "Yup, catch, release and cook." As the sun dipped low, casting amber hues across the water, the smell of roasted fish overtook the lingering evidence of their aquatic indiscretion. Father and son sat side by side, the warmth from the fire battling the chill of the evening as they feasted on their hard-earned meal. "Not bad for a day off, huh?" Rick mused, savoring his fish. "Not bad at all," Carl agreed, "But let's maybe not mention the part about the fish to Michonne, she'll never let us cook again." They laughed, the sound mingling with the crackle of the fire. In that moment, they were just Rick and Carl, father and son, finding a moment of peace in a world that knew very little of it.