Disclaimer: Nope, Randomcat23 does not own The Walking Dead

Note: This story takes place after my story "Buried Coals" but it also more or less stands on it's own.

Enjoy!

Red and yellow lights twinkle around Sheryl's window frame, little fireworks against the dark glass panes. Candles flicker on every end table, filling the room with a warm cloud of cranberry and cinnamon. The mantel overflows with Santa statues over a bright fire. Their eyes, painted and glass alike, squint with laughter.

In the kitchen, the women are at work rolling fresh dough out over the granite countertops. A towel swings from each hip. Kassandra's is decorated in holly, Josie's with wreaths and the word "Joy." Carol's green dish towel has stitched ornaments in every corner. On Sheryl's, eight reindeer, their tiny legs bent mid prance. Even their wine glasses carry holiday cheer with individual charms wrapped around each neck. They are on their second bottle of wine and their third batch of cut out cookies. It's a scene out of a movie, right down to the old Frank Sinatra records crooning in the background.

Carol tugs at her turtleneck and the freed skin cools to warm instead of sweating before the collar snaps back into place. Not a minute later, Sheryl babbles something or another and again her neck itches for relief. She can't decide if the shirt is too tight or if the conversation is literally strangling her.

"I'd love to get some real Christmas cheer in here," Sheryl continues, perfect red nails flashing under the kitchen lights. She holds the dough roller like its diseased, the slimmest amount of contact on her palms to push the squishy mass only slightly thinner.

Carol rolls her eyes discretely. "No wonder her cookies don't bake right."

The floor is spotless, a dark grey normally reserved for prisons, now reclaimed by upper class houses as modern and chic. When Sheryl mistakenly mars her floor with a fleck of dough and scoffs, Carol nearly rips her shirt off entirely.

Carol had wiggled her way into Alexandria's inner circle of gossips and busybodies, not because she cared about Kassandra's opinion on ceramic planters or actually wanted baking tips from Sheryl. No, it was for the intelligence. Hidden behind manicured hands and mascara-thickened eyelashes, these women gave away the community's weaknesses.

Like, Pete wasn't the only one with an alcohol problem.

Or, sometimes Daniel liked to tease walkers trying to get past the gate.

Ultimately, however, her spying was a failure. True, these character flaws were useful, but there was nothing damning like a secret cash of guns, or a past of cannibalizing citizens who crossed Deanna. So far, the only thing threatening Alexandria was spoiled ignorance. And there was no way to fight that with oven mitts on her hands, pretending she also cared about all the eligible bachelors.

"I used to get a real tree every year! If only someone thought to plant pine trees within the walls," Sheryl laments. "Then at least we could decorate them with lights!"

"You could go get a tree," Carol suggests and hates the way her sweater rubs on her throat.

"Carol!" Sheryl laughs shrilly and the other women titter nervously as if bringing up the outside was like inviting in the devil. "It's far too dangerous." Their host sighs dramatically and smiles at Carol as if she told a good joke. Then, as if they all forgot her decorating, Sheryl waves her arm in a grand arc. "No, no, we must make do with this and whatever else is in our attics."

"I still have that fake garland, if you want it," Josie says, trying to be helpful. She's the only one brave enough to step in. Kassandra hides from Sheryl's hawk-like gaze behind her wine glass.

Nothing compares to Sheryl's display of course and she waves away the offer; as someone who lived in the neighborhood before the fall, Sheryl is one of the few who still has all her belongings. Everyone else has had to make do with scavenged items. As it turns out, Christmas decorations were not a priority for supply runs. The pickings were slim. Sheryl's collection was this community's Macy's window displays.

And she loved pointing it out.

Carol fumes as Sheryl basks in their praises of her decorating. It's useless social currency that the woman hoards to herself. Complaining about it to make people miss what they once had, knowing full well she possessed the best collection. It boils Carol's blood.

Just as Sheryl begins rolling cookies again Carol bites out, "You could ask Daryl. I think he's going on a run tomorrow."

The only thing missing from the sudden gaping mouths is the skipping record player; Frank Sinatra sings on.

Sheryl recovers first, flipping her towel over her shoulder. "Ask him for what?"

"To get a tree." Carol coats her reply in sugar to make everyone doubt the venom underneath.

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that."

"Why not?" Carol snaps, louder than intended. Trying to regain her cool, she fists her towel in one hand.

"Well..." Sheryl trails off and then flinches with a laugh under Carol's gaze. "Sorry Carol, sometimes I forget you two were in the same group."

"What do you mean?" She spits out, even as her cheeks burn.

Sheryl tucks her smile into her shoulder, resurfacing only when Kassandra laughs too. "He's certainly cut from a different cloth. A coarser one! I wouldn't want to impose-"

"You said you wanted a tree," Carol deflects, though her ears continue to ring. Out of the corner of her eye, Carol spies the sideways glances and the confused frowns. She swallows.

Sheryl makes another grand gesture and it somehow wipes away the entire situation. "Forget I mentioned it." The oven emits a wave of heat and the latest batch of cookies emerges. "Tsk, forget the tree, Carol. All this talk of the outside burned our cookies!"

The edges are brown, not burnt.

Carol flashes a brilliant smile in apology and whisks away the cookies. Lips pressed together, Carol dumps the unsatisfactory cookies into the trash. The women return to safer topics, like tomorrow's menu (gingersnaps) and the taste of wine. Unwilling to cause a scene by leaving, Carol spends the rest of the evening kneading a new batch of dough. The spice containers rattle every time she smacks the mass against the counter.

Sugar, powdered and grainy. Dusty flour and flecks of cinnamon. Carol had scrubbed last night after the day of baking, yet the smell and grit lingered underneath her fingernails. As she rubs the sleep out of her throbbing eyes, whiffs of nutmeg, almond, and vanilla assault her.

She flexes her fingers and then flops her arms to her sides. "Time to do it all again."

Below, the screen door creaks and then taps shut.

Daryl.

She winces at the memory of Sheryl's comments yesterday. "Stupid bitch. I'll get her a tree."

It would patch up the kerfuffle from yesterday, cement her place in the kitchen again so she can continue to gather gossip. Carol sighs, already exhausted at the prospect.

As practiced, she counts to sixty and then swings her legs off the bed and dresses. She mindlessly picks out a soft cardigan by touch alone and pulls on matching slacks. The rest of the bedrooms are quiet. Each closed door gives her peace of mind and a small smile. Rick and Judith, Michonne. In his basement abode, she bets on Carl sleeping till noon. A peak outside the front window reveals an empty street. She grabs her coat and gloves and eases her way outside. Next door, smoke rises out of Glenn and Maggie's chimney. Across the street she spies Abraham's pile of boots by their door. It's all quiet, but the kitchen light is on, probably Eugene tinkering with something or another. Family accounted for, Carol follows Daryl's footprints into the snow.

She balls up her fists in her vest's pockets and swings her shoulders to shake the chill off her spine. There's a good inch of snow coating the ground and with a squint up at the sky, Carol determines there's good chance for more later today.

She wonders idly if she should worry about covering up their pair of tracks. Evidence. Signs that this house on the street was different than the others. But with one look all the dark windows she discards the thought; it would just be wasted energy.

Down the street, she veers toward the retention pond in the middle of the community. The small cluster of trees is dense enough to hide him in the summer and autumn, but as the leaves fell, so did the cover. She spies him before the drop; Daryl's hunkered down on a rock, sharpening a knife.

He looks up at the sound of her ginger steps on the stones. He's a wolf in a zoo, she thinks with a sad smirk. All shaggy hair and hunched shoulders. Trapped, but safe. Fed, but desperate for solitude and a break from the stares. Her heart warms regardless; Daryl looks good. The nights on the couch have been an effective remedy for the purple stains under his eyes, his stare is measured and thoughtful instead of just haunted.

She squats down beside him, her sweater cheery against his muted black shirt and her chest tightens unexpectedly. "Are you going out today?"

He rakes his eyes over her, assessing and asking something simultaneously. Whatever it is, he abandons it. Daryl frees his lip from his teeth and nods, "Mmhmm. Gonna check the snares, maybe do a little hunting."

She disturbs the frost on a rock as she twists to glance over her shoulder. The street was still empty, still quiet. Carol sighs, "Grab some pine branches while you're out there. Sheryl's dying for a real Christmas tree."

At his snort, she laughs too and the dense bubble between her ribs pops. In an effort to keep up appearances she had limited her time with him. Sometimes they went days without exchanging a word. Finding their friendship intact always felt like finding a buried treasure that had not been pillaged.

"She want a fruitcake too?"

His humorous grumble is inviting. Warm. She's tempted to get her knives from under her bed and hide out with him all day.

"Better grab it if you see one." Carol bites her lip and looks up at the street again. The first light snaps on in a house, the beginning of the end for their time.

After a long moment and another strike against the blade he asks, "Wanna come with me?"

Carol blinks at the invitation and then down at her outfit. She folds her arms across her chest and deflects, "You know cookie ladies don't get their hands dirty."

"Didn't ask for a cookie lady," he answers huskily, halting his task.

Carol breaths out through her nose, but her I can't catches in her throat.

She shouldn't. There were cookies to ice and roasts to prepare. Gossip to gather, appearances to keep. How could the timid housewife go outside the walls? It would ruin the lie she's crafted around herself. And yet, her stomach clenches at the mere thought of sugar. Her teeth grind, trying to rid the echo of Sheryl's laughter from her ears.

Her voice is weak when she eventually answers, "Alright."

"Be ready in ten. Ain't waitin'," he threatens with a nod to the sky before standing. Daryl's up and out of sight before she can correct herself. As Alexandria wakes, Carol sits on the rock, brimming with apprehension.

Despite his warning (and the minutes she spent stunned on the rock), it's she who ends up waiting at the gate. Her knit gloves are already damp from her breathing into her cupped hands. There's still time to retract her answer, go back inside and throw on her apron. She mulls over recants as she stomps her feet.

But when Daryl finally strides down the street, she teases, "You're late."

"Put these on," he drawls.

Something soft hits her in the face. She manages to catch it before it drops to the ground. Lined gloves. She pockets her pair and slides on the new ones. Carol flexes her fingers and, satisfied with the range of motion, smiles at him.

"Thank you."

"Mhmm."

While the gate opens, Carol checks her knife and the day bag she packed. She ignores the curious glance from Tobin, who writes down their departure time. When she doesn't show up for baking, word will get back to Sheryl. Carol pauses then, imagining the horror that will plague them, and then the suspicion.

"You ready?" Daryl asks, shattering her doubt. She nods.

It's easier than expected to stroll through the open barrier. All that balled up anxiety dissipates when the gate closes. Outside, everything is fresh. New. From the crisp air rushing into her lungs to the snap and pop of the frost under her boot. Carol soaks it in and her entire body hums. Unlike the kitchen, with its overly sweet scent, her nose picks up smoke and ice. There's a hint of pine too. They dart off the road and into the woods just as a few snowflakes twirl down from the clouds.

It's the first time she's been outside the walls since the leaves were green and her pockets hid stolen weapons. A practical move, she thought, justified and right and obvious until Daryl shook his head.

Nah. I'm good.

Him turning down that pistol shouldn't have felt like a personal rejection, but she had spent that night awake feeling like, instead of starting over, they were spiraling in completely different directions.

"It's been awhile," Daryl tosses over his shoulder, echoing her thoughts perfectly. He plucks the last dead leaf off a low-hanging branch. It crumples easily between his fingers and the shreds of brown fly off with the wind. Daryl notes the breeze direction and then adjusts their course.

She is both drawn to and frightened of the softness in his voice. Gruff to any other ears, she recognizes the concern and pain in it. Her chest tightens.

"I know."

Four months since he held her in that barn. Four months of khakis and fake smiles. Four months of Daryl scowling from the porch steps at her carting casseroles from neighbor to neighbor.

"I'm sorry," she adds.

He shrugs. "You still think they're trying to kill us?"

"No. Worse, they're incapable," she admits. "They still don't know I stole those weapons. That I'm not..."

He's halfway through a thicket when he turns around at her pause.

Disbelief dragging at her like an anchor, Carol asks, "How did we manage to find the last vestige of humanity?"

Daryl snaps a branch in two and then a second one, clearing the path further. "Dunno. Just did."

The farm. The prison. Terminus. They had every reason to expect the worst, every reason not to trust. While Rick convinced (or forced) Deanna to make changes, Carol braced for the pushback, the fallout. But there was none. Two months ago, Rick abruptly declared it safe and their family dispersed into the community. Yet, she's been stuck, expecting the worst. And maybe, too, a little hesitant and fearful about starting over with Daryl.

She watches his back, the little cock of his head as he listens. The memory of his body cradling hers resurfaces. She shivers and regret flutters in her stomach.

"It's been good for the kids," Daryl rationalizes softly. "Don' hafta be scared to leave their house. It's what we've been workin' for."

A place to grow roots. Somewhere to sleep at night without fear. Sure, they still took precautions; a team was always on watch, walkers still needed stabbed. Keeping bellies filled would always be a struggle. That was the world now. They just finally found a place that would allow them to thrive in it.

A true place to start over.

"I know," she sighs.

"Come on," he beckons and she ducks through the thicket after him.

He has each snare's location memorized and plots out their walk accordingly. Carol follows him as he winds through the trees, shoulders broad and straight. They step over an icy creek and Daryl picks up another one of his catches, a second rabbit. He resets the trap, but ignores the scraggly spruce nearby. Carol glances between the tree, Daryl, and the sky, but follows him without questioning. When they pass several more pines and he makes no move to trim a few branches, Carol grabs the nearest one and states, "I'll get some."

"Don't bother. Got a place in mind." He slings his few trappings over his shoulder and winks at her.

Curious, she releases the branch, letting it fly back into place.

As they move deeper into the woods the coniferous increase in number until they are surrounded by prickly needles. Carol shields her face from reaching blue tinged spruces, softer fir branches. It's a little too diverse for a natural forest. Perhaps an old tree farm grown wild. She closes the distance between them, using his back as a shield against the encroaching branches.

Suddenly, they burst into a clearing and Daryl says, "Take yer pick."

Here, the trees are smaller, maybe six or seven feet. There's still space between them and nearly all of them hold that perfect Christmas tree shape, abet with wild shoots. As she considers grabbing a few branches of each kind (because of course Sheryl would be disappointed with not getting a choice between soft or sharp needles), Daryl kneels next to one of the trees.

He breaks off some of the lowest, brown branches. Carol cocks her head at his efforts. Only when he produces a saw from his bag and makes the first notch in the exposed trunk does she get it.

Carol balks, "You don't have to get a tree for Sheryl."

"Pfft. Ain't for her," he quips.

She steps closer, frost crunching under her boots. "Who then?"

"Carl and Judy, o' course."

Her frown softens and she whispers, "Of course."

Carol joins him in the snow. The saw wobbles only once when it gets caught in a knot. Soon enough wood shavings mix with the snow until the tree emits a loud crack. Daryl flicks his hair out of his eyes before standing with a hand around the trunk. After giving it a little shake, he grins boyishly.

"Wanna finish it off?"

"Haha, step aside!"

She slides in between the branches. Their arms brush as she pushes the tree. With a loud crack the final bit gives way. The tree kicks up a cloud of powdered snow when it collapses, the impact not as loud as she thought it would be. Maybe it's noise is muffled by her thundering heart.

She sucks in sharply when he doesn't move away. Daryl glances down his nose at her and she swears his blue eyes flicker to her mouth. As heat rushes her face, Carol steps back, casually turning her eyes to the sky. The exchange is over before she can blink. Undisturbed, he bends over and ties a rope around the tree trunk. Cold creeps up her feet as Carol stands dumbfounded while Daryl stuffs pine branches into a garbage bag.

When the spiky pines press against the plastic, he hands it to her.

Recovered, Carol flips it onto her back. "Hmph. Sheryl might deserve coal."

"You can be the judge of that."

The walk back is more strenuous than the journey in. The additional snow drags at their feet and no matter how strong Daryl is, dragging a tree through the woods is no easy task. Especially when one hand is always free in case he needs to grab his knife. Soon enough, they are expelling steady visual wisps of moisture with their effort.

More snow coats the branches in a delicate blanket of white. The reduced visibility doesn't unease her. Walker growls are too unnatural to miss; the dead are also slow in the cold. Carol gaps at the winter beauty. The crystal-like icicles draped over the rocky outcrops, the intricate lace of frost on tree branches. It's lovely, but her gaze always falls back to Daryl.

After a time, Daryl drops the tree and takes shelter under the umbrella of a giant pine. It towers over them, branches heavy with pine cones. He dusts the snow from his shoulders, pulls out a flask, and takes a swig before offering it to her. Pleasantly surprised, she takes a drink; it's smoother than the cheap wine Sheryl had stocked away. She nearly giggles and is tempted to take another sip.

"Where did you get this?" She asks.

"Found it on a run last month. Didn't feel like sharin'." He catches the contradiction as her eyebrows raise. Daryl half smirks and clarifies, "Yer different."

"Well, I'm honored."

They pass the bottle a little slower this time, letting their fingertips touch. With their throats warm, they watch the snow rain down around them.

Tiny flakes stick to her lashes and she blinks them away. Overhead, the deep green needles poke through the fog of white. Silently, Daryl points to a flash of red in a distant tree. Carol smiles at the cardinal as it flits from one branch to another. The bird puffs itself up and then flies skyward. Carol follows its path until it disappears into the pines behind Daryl.

"It'll be dark soon, should get back," he notes, but makes no move to pick up the tree. Instead, he unscrews the cap of the flask again and raises it to his lips.

"We're not far." She grabs the container from him with shaky hands. As the liquor slides down her throat, her belly and her fingers flood with warmth. "It won't take long."

Dipping his chin, Daryl pockets the flask. Through his shaggy locks, he catches her gaze. He's asking a different question from this morning, one she's carried the answer for since the prison.

Maybe before that too.

The wind shifts through the trees, dusting them with more snow. She steps closer to him, hunching her shoulders up against the chill.

A rouge snowflake lands on her cheek and Daryl quickly brushes it away. Excuse gone, he cradles her face, tracing small circles along her cheekbone. As her pulse spikes, she shyly mimics his nervous smile. When Daryl tries to go back for the flask, she lays her hand over his. With a final hint she tilts her chin upward.

Four months is too long of a wait, and yet, he is incapable of rushing.

Daryl kisses her like a man treading across a frozen lake, purposeful, but hesitant enough to backtrack if the ground gave way. It's quick and wonderful and not enough. When he draws back, she follows, leaning into the smell of him, an icy musk spiced with pine.

Her eyelashes flutter as she licks her lips, searching for the taste of him. Finding only whiskey, Carol fists his coat and pulls him down for a longer try. He's warm and solid even as they bump a low hanging branch and dust themselves with snow. Shaking off the cold flakes, Carol releases his coat with a involuntary laugh. Not willing to let go just yet, Daryl draws her in close and steadies them against the tree.

"Now we can go back," she says, nuzzling his neck.

His satisfied chuckle sends goose bumps over her skin. He frees her. "Now yer ready to go?"

"Yes." The certainty buzzes over her tongue. She gestures to the bag of pine branches and then entwines their fingers. "I got more than what I came for."

Daryl huffs before pressing his lips to her knuckles. "Me too."

Shouldering their gifts, they leave the cover of the pine and walk out under the gray sky. The falling snow covers up their tracks on their way back to Alexandria.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! This story has been sitting on my computer for over two years, so I'm really happy to finally have it completed. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Happy Holidays!-Randomcat23