AN: So this is just a little something in response to a Tumblr prompt request.

I own nothing from the Walking Dead.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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There was just something about Christmas.

It had always been true and it was no less true now than before. There was something about Christmas that simply made the whole world different. It was like, for just a short span of time, everything sort of stopped. It came to a halt and all the insanity of regular life died down and gave way to a quiet, calm, peaceful feeling.

Even in the world that they'd come to call home now, the same was still true. As absurd as it seemed, with all that they'd been through and all that they faced in the future, everyone seemed oddly at peace. Even Carol felt it and it had been a very long time since she'd felt anything but turmoil stirring inside her.

Alexandrians had Christmas decorations by the attic full. Just in their little overcrowded house, they'd brought down enough from storage to have decorated a full department store. It was silly and it was useless and it was a waste of time, but everyone had helped bring the decorations down. And everyone, too, had helped to put them up. They put aside, for a moment, their weapons in favor of tinsel and ornaments. They put aside differences to help hang garland and wreaths.

Carol put her efforts into losing herself in the complex preparation of the best Christmas meal that she possibly could provide everyone with given the ingredients available to them, and she was proud of everything that she pulled out of the oven or took of the stove. Even Daryl had taken a break from going on runs for one needed thing or another to go hunting—and in doing so, he'd bagged some birds for their table and for the tables of a few other residents in Alexandria.

Tara had found some discs of old Christmas carols and, in the spirit of celebration, she was playing the songs at full volume so that everyone could sing along—a dance or two was even inspired here or there.

They said they were doing it for Judith. They were doing it because the little girl, her eyes already lit up in wonder at the few twinkling lights that were burning and the shiny decorations that were hung about, had never had a Christmas. She'd never known what it was to experience the magic of the holiday. They were giving her that chance. She may not remember it, and it may never come to pass again, but at least they could do their best to give her something of a Christmas experience.

Really, though, Carol wondered if they were doing it for Judith or if they were doing it for themselves. She'd heard, throughout the day, more giddy happiness from her companions than she'd heard since long before the outbreak. People were genuinely happy. The magic of Christmas didn't belong just to the small child, it belonged to the children in all of them.

And Carol played along too. She danced when Glenn came over and prompted her to spin lightly and quickly around the kitchen. She joined in a painful rendition, led by Tara, of the Twelve Days of Christmas. She laughed and clapped and cheered right along with everyone else when they helped Michonne wrap Carl in Christmas lights and declare the red-faced boy a human Christmas tree. And she gladly served the meal and joined them all around their living room to enjoy it.

Afterwards, too, she served the weak hot chocolate and took her own mug onto the porch to sit and enjoy what felt like the most peaceful night that she could remember. Even the growling of the Walkers outside the fences and the churning of her own thoughts, for just a little while, couldn't distract her from the calm feeling that seemed determined to wrap itself around her.

Carol turned her head quickly when she heard the sound of the door open. Though she was determined to relax, her reflexes wouldn't shut themselves off entirely. It was fine and dandy to pretend that the world was at peace, but it didn't mean that they could entirely let their guards down. They may never do that again.

Rick came onto the porch, his footsteps heavy on the boards, and he walked a few small circles around the space before he finally stopped and, hands on his hips, took in a deep breath of the cool winter air.

"It's quiet," he said.

"Not a creature was stirring," Carol said. "Not even a mouse."

Rick chuckled.

"Yeah—a few Walkers are stirring," he said.

Carol hummed. She could hear the distant growl as well as he could, but she was choosing to ignore it.

"It's a nice night," she said.

"Nicest we've seen since the prison," Rick said.

"Before," Carol said.

"I thought there were times it wasn't too bad at the prison," Rick pointed out. He sighed and then he walked over, taking a seat beside Carol. "A few nights on Hershel's farm weren't too bad. Even back at the quarry. There have been some nice nights here or there."

Carol hummed.

"I guess—maybe," she said. "I've always had—something going on. I've always had—something on my mind. Maybe there hasn't been quite as much peace for me."

Rick looked at her. In the multicolored glow of some of the lights that had been strung around the porch, she could see an expression on his face. Maybe it was pity. It was hard to tell in the cheery illumination of the lights. Carol shook her head at him.

"I don't say that for you to feel sorry for me," she asserted. "I don't mean that at all. I'm just saying that—it's the nicest I've felt since this whole thing started."

"You're at peace now?" Rick asked. "Here?"

There was a hint of disbelief in his voice. Of course there would be. There were a good deal of reasons why none of them would be entirely at peace here. Carol had even more reasons than most of them—even if nobody knew about them. She sighed and shook her head.

"I'm at peace tonight," she said. "Tomorrow morning—I'm at peace. After that? I'll deal with it. It'll all still be there. It isn't going anywhere after all."

"Yeah," Rick said, though the word didn't really mean that he agreed with her. It was simply something to fill the silence. It was simply something to confirm that he'd heard her and he'd understood the words that had come out of her mouth.

For a moment, absolute silence fell between them. Carol drank from the mug of quickly cooling hot chocolate and listened to the sound of Rick's heavy breathing. Every now and again his chair, weather aged, creaked just a little from the slightest readjustment of his weight. Inside, there were still the sounds of lingering celebration going on as every wrung every bit of joy they could out of a makeshift Christmas Eve.

And then Rick broke the silence between them.

"What is it?" He asked.

Carol hummed out her confusion and finished off her hot chocolate. She rested the mug on the floor of the porch to get later.

"You said—you'll pick it all up tomorrow," Rick said. "What is it? You know—you haven't exactly been very open with me or with anyone. What is it that you have to pick up tomorrow, Carol?"

Carol sat there, her mind going a mile a minute, and calculated all the different things that she could say to him. She could relieve her mind a little, at least temporarily, and spill to him all the concerns that she had. She could tell him the guilt that she carried around. She could unburden herself and cry about her sorrows. But there was a chance that it would do nothing at all to relieve her. It would simply, if it were possible, create more problems that she'd eventually have to deal with.

Or, she could choose to give him a dismissive answer. In the spirit of keeping what little peace she had for the evening, she could simply dismiss his question entirely. He'd know that's what she was doing, but at least it would buy her the rest of the time she'd allotted herself not to dwell on the past and the future. It would give her, just as she'd hoped, a moment to simply live in the present.

She chose the latter option because, at the moment, it was most appealing to her. And the moment, after all, was all she was promised.

Carol sighed.

"It doesn't matter, Rick," Carol said. "It really doesn't. You have your—things. And I have mind. And everyone else in there? They have theirs too. Some of them we share, and some of them we don't. But—just like I can't solve your problems for you, you can't solve mine for me."

Rick didn't say anything for a long moment. Long enough that Carol started to wonder if he'd even heard her. Then he finally spoke again.

"I've never been good at solving anyone's problems," Rick said. "Mine or anyone else's. Every time I try? I feel like I just make a bigger mess of things."

Carol stood up and gathered up her mug.

"Then worry about your own first, Rick. Let other people solve theirs. You're a leader. And—sometimes? You're a good leader. But being a leader doesn't make you a magician and it doesn't make you the keeper of all the problems," Carol said.

Rick stood up and mirrored Carol's stance, staying right in front of her for a moment. She'd have to slip sideways to get around him and dart for the door. She wasn't moving, though, not for a moment. She was in no rush to get inside. She had nowhere to be and nothing particularly pressing to do.

"You're not the keeper of problems either," Rick challenged. "But you're keeping yours all to yourself."

Carol offered him only a slight raise of her shoulders in response to the statement.

"They're mine to keep," she added after a moment.

"Sharing them helps," Rick said.

"That's a matter of opinion," Carol responded. "Talking about them doesn't fix them. It doesn't change them. It doesn't take them away. It's just talking. It's just—bringing them up again."

"Swallowing them down drives you crazy," Rick said.

Carol smiled to herself.

"You would know?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Rick hummed.

"I would know," he agreed quietly.

"I don't want to talk about them tonight," Carol said with a sigh. She shook her head at him. "It's Christmas Eve. It's a nice night. It's a night for—family and friends. For good things. Not for dwelling on the bad. Not for dwelling on what we can't change."

Rick laughed quietly.

"It's a night for hopes and dreams, right?" He said, some teasing in his voice. "A night where—we believe that anything is possible?"

Carol smiled and nodded.

"A night where anything is possible," Carol said. "And—we believe that anything can be possible." She sucked in a breath and remembered some of the old things she'd believed about the night. Old things that she'd told Sophia when she was a little girl about the magic of Christmas. "It's a night when—for just a minute—there's a chance that anything we could dream of could come true. Just around the corner—just tomorrow. It's a night for miracles and wonder and..."

"Hope," Rick said, filling in the last word for as surely as if he could read her mind. Carol stopped abruptly and felt a shiver run through her. Maybe it was because of the cold, but maybe it was because of the word and, more than that, the way that Rick had said it.

"Hope," she echoed.

"Does that only work for material things?" Rick asked. "For packages and stocking and—presents? Or does it work for other things?"

Carol shrugged and hugged herself, the mug hanging loosely from her fingers.

"I think we have to believe it works for everything," Carol said.

"Yeah," Rick said, the word possibly working as something to fill the space again.

Carol laughed to herself.

"I know it's silly," she said. "But—I just love it. I love the magic behind it. I love the tradition of it all."

Rick swallowed. It was loud enough that Carol heard it. He stepped forward, like he was shifting his weight, but it brought him almost against her. She backed up a half step to put the space between them, once more, that she'd designated before. She found herself, though, against the porch railing. She rested against it.

"It's nice to have it to believe in," Rick said. "Even if just for tonight. It's nice to—have the hope."

He looked at her, his eyes glittering with the glow of the little bulbs that burned around them, and Carol shivered again. This time she knew that it wasn't from the cold, even if she rubbed her hands on her arms to pretend that it was.

Rick didn't seem to fall for it at all, though. He brought a hand up, rubbed it over her arm as though he'd warm her with the friction of it, and then he brought the hand to her face. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and renewed the shiver that had only just passed through her. Carol felt her stomach flutter at the way that he was looking at her. He'd never looked at her like that before, even if she might have wished that he would. If it hadn't been cold enough to let her know that she still had true sensations, she might have believed she was making it all up. She might have believed she was lost in some kind of Christmas fantasy.

Rick tucked a piece of unruly hair behind her ear and then he moved the hand back to squeeze her shoulder. He glanced up and laughed quietly before he brought his eyes back to hers.

"You know," he said, "Carl and Michonne hung those little balls of mistletoe everywhere."

Carol hummed, snatched out of the dreamlike state that she'd been in for a moment. She was a little ashamed of her body's reaction to the simple affectionate touch. It had been a long time, though, since anyone had been affectionate with her.

"What?" She asked.

Rick raised the other hand, index finger pointed up.

"You're—leaning under the mistletoe," he said.

Carol raised her eyes to see that above each section of the railing, in the roof of the porch, they'd hung a tiny ball of the fake mistletoe that they found. She looked back at Rick. He was wearing a soft smile on his lips.

"You know what that means, right?" He asked. Carol didn't respond. She didn't trust herself to respond. "You don't want to break with tradition—not on Christmas Eve."

Carol swallowed and shook her head, ignoring her pounding heart and her fluttering stomach.

"No," she managed to get out. "You wouldn't want to do that."

Rick changed his position only slightly before he caught her face and, turning it upward slightly, brought his lips to hers for a soft kiss. Carol waited, expecting him to pull away, but when he pulled away only for a half of a second before he brought his lips immediately back, she gave in and returned the kiss. And she made no protest when he deepened it, pressing her against the porch railing.

The electricity of the kiss ran through her body and she put her effort into making it last as long as she possibly could. It might be a fleeting thing. And like all the good things that the night had brought, it might only be a part of the Christmas feelings that surrounded all of them. It might, after all, only be something brought on by tradition.

But, to Carol, it was the nicest Christmas gift that she could receive.