Disclaimer: Randomcat23 does not own The Walking Dead.

The back stoop is his.

It's nothing but a slab of concrete with five matching steps, just wide enough for him to spread his knees and own it. There are holes for a missing railing, a finishing detail abandoned when the dead started walking. Next to the door there's a permanent stain from his boots, ranging from a dusting in the dry months to a sloppy, muddy mess after a spring storm.

The surrounding grass hides the shavings and ashes from the days he crafts bolts with a cigarette stuck to his lips.

It is where he sips a cup of coffee on crisp mornings before fall hunts, so early Carol is still snug in bed, like the sun beneath the horizon.

It is where she caught him crying one day because he missed Merle. Eyes hard on the wall, he refused to look at her, even though his quaking shoulders were enough of a display.

He slinks in and out this entrance, unseen by the community, but Carol always tracks his comings and goings by the slight creak of the screen door and the softer tap of him easing it shut.

The front porch is hers.

She had ignored the space at first, letting the rain and wind continue their march against the wide planks. Mildew consumed the lonely rocking chair. The steps creaked under anything from the local cat to Rick's stomps.

After the herd broke through the walls and soiled every inch of Alexandria, she had scrubbed her hands raw in an effort to destroy the evidence of gore and death spewed across the front of the house. Red and brown washed away with flakes of the original paint. When the stains proved persistent, Carol coated the deck with a can of blue-grey paint she found in the garage. By doing so, she claimed it as her own.

Now, flower baskets sway in the wind, their lips just within reach of an outstretched watering can. Herb boxes line the house for plants that prefer the shade. There are no pots wasted with vain plants, everything that Carol grows has to have a purpose outside of looks.

Yarrow, for stemming blood flow.

Chamomile occupies the biggest basket, as restless nights are a plague that comes hand in hand with the apocalypse.

Marigold bursts from the corner crocks. The flowers are plucked for easing skin ailments.

Snips of stems and broken twigs fill the gaps in the floor. They slowly dry and then blow away, making room for the next round of harvest.

If a run with Aaron goes as expected, this is where she greets him. She'll stand at the top step with her hands on her hips and wait for him to draw even with her before looping her arms around him. It's where, after a run together, after checking in with Rick and Deanna, they will finally grasp each other's fingers and cross the final threshold, hand in hand.

The office is his.

Unlike Carol, who leaves stacks of books all over the house in neat piles, Daryl does all his reading in the small room on the first floor. It's where he tries to find answers for his behavior, answers for life-long questions. There are his own battered books he's recovered on runs. A few heavy textbooks, whose spines still snap when he flips the covers, were borrowed from Denise.

Dirty thumbprints mark favorite pages.

The scuffed hardwood and upturned rug indicate recent pacing, the empty beer bottles, hard thinking. There's scribbles of notes shoved in a drawer. When frustration takes over and the answers don't come, Daryl peers through the curtain and watches the street, spying Carl chasing Judith, or Glenn walking his son in a stroller.

The furniture is too nice, all modern, pristine. The corners have bruised many a knee. He started notching the seasons into the side of the desk about a month after they moved in, just to track how much time they've had together. Well, and to give the damn thing some character. The vice around his sternum releases just enough when he looks at the long, smooth wood and wishes he'd be lucky enough to notch the entire stretch.

The kitchen is hers.

The counters hold a hint of lemon from her rag. All the plates are carefully stacked, the knives never dull. Although it is directly connected to the living room, the efficiency and cleanliness of the space mark it as Carol's.

The wall between the pantry and stove holds a bulletin board covered in checklists, old survival articles from magazines, and bags of seeds. It's where anyone can find copies of the census, the run schedule, and the food inventory. It's all business except for the top right corner which is reserved for faded Polaroid's; Judith's first steps, Carl's wild grin behind the wheel of a truck, family picnics, Rick laughing at a joke from Michonne. Under a run list she keeps the one picture she has of him. He's hunched over his crossbow, head cocked, hair still shaggy. She remembers it as the day he presented her with her starter batch of nettle. Carol knows better than to look at it while he's away, preferring instead to sneak a peek as she jots down their joint runs on the calendar.

A small vase on the window sill above the sink holds various pebbles intermixed with bits of jasper.

It's her command station, where she feeds them, makes plans. Rick comes here after a bad run, paces wall to wall and the three of them mull over frustrations. Deanna gathers the community council here on rotation with her own kitchen. Something about the way Carol organizes and sets up the chairs welcomes that kind of meeting. It might be because it's small and the cushions are broken in. It could be because the other houses are busy. The counter space is generous. There's always just the thing they need, paper, pens, a map, rubbing alcohol, a book on authoring laws.

There's a screw in the deep corner of the floor, scattered from its gun parts after Rick charged in with alarm and she bumped the table.

Sometimes, she falls asleep with her cheek pressed to a notebook, the pen she was using rolled half way across the table.

It's where, when she isn't responsible for anyone but herself, she will reminisce about the things she misses most about the old world. Like the sand between her toes at Myrtle Beach or live concerts that drummed her chest with the bass. When the first crisp breeze of fall cools her throat, her feet tap out echoes of stomping the bleachers at High School football games.

She'll melt stubby candles into new ones and drop wicks into the gooey wax.

When winter rolls in and snow falls in quiet bursts, Carol will lean back against the counter and sip a steaming mug, eyes closed in bliss.

The street signs have long since been removed, but Deanna wrote the address down for Carol, a meaningless shadow of the time before. The brass numbers on the porch column remain. Every once in awhile, Carol buffs them out and makes them shine.

Forty-eight Fifty-one Buck Run Circle.

It's a small, gabled house, one and a half stories.

Water stains the underside of a gutter that had once dislodged after a heavy snowstorm. Fixing it took twice as long as it should have, due to distracting comments from Carol about Daryl's rear and his retaliatory snowball.

Her ritual pats have worn a spot on the front doorframe. It's identical to the one on her house shared with Ed, made by a steadying grip, a deep breath and a prayer. This one must be a subconscious gracious motion, because she never has to enter the house and fear the man inside.

The couch commands the living room, crimson cloth that compliments the dark hardwood. Sometimes he lets himself pause and eye the cushion where after a few glasses of blueberry wine Carol got down on her knees and undid him with her purple stained lips and tongue.

There's a spot on the wall from Daryl's fist after Carol calmly stated Pete had threatened her. The paint never dried the right color and the patched drywall edges are raised enough that a good eye does not have to look hard to spot them.

They have painted the other walls at least an off-white or tan. One is a deep plum. Two pieces of modern art flank the fireplace. On any given day, Daryl shakes his head at the ugly things, but deems them acceptable when he catches Carol nodding admiringly at them.

The end tables hold her notes and a stray feather of his.

Upstairs in the bedroom, when even the chamomile isn't enough, he'll watch her sleep, hand curled under her chin. On lazy mornings, he explores the bumps of her ribs, the swell of her breast, and she'll close her eyes to keep up the charade, until she gets antsy and strokes him too. In recent years, those slow beginnings outnumber any urgent awakenings.

Sometimes they clean his kill out the back door and take it right into the kitchen for dinner.

Sometimes she joins him on his stoop for the sunrise, nested between his legs, one step down.

From there, they can survey the garden that eats up the backyard with medicinal plants and herbs. He can always tell when she's been out there because whiffs of whatever she was picking that day greet him when she brushes the hair from his face. Mint, garlic, lemongrass, chives. While the baskets on the porch are free pickings, the garden is private.

They'll kneel in the thick of it, plants left to grow to produce as much as possible rather than trimmed to fit the fences, and go over a book of useful plants. She'll make jokes about them being old and retired, cheekiness hidden just under the brim of a floppy hat. He'll protest by flicking off the ridiculous thing and kissing her fiercely into the zucchini. Later, they'll reenter the kitchen, hair in disarray, and slyly exchange grins.

It's quiet and warm, used and cared for.

It's his in the small, hidden spaces.

It's hers, where practicality meets hospitality.

It's theirs, all the parts combined together.

Author's Note: This story exists in the same universe as my other stories "Georgia" and "Buried Coals."

Thanks for reading!-randomcat23