AN: What is this? I don't know...it's just a Cyreese Christmas fluffy because I wanted a Cyreese Christmas fluffy.
I own nothing from the Walking Dead.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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"What are you doing?" Carol asked as she leaned out of the door of the house.
Tyreese glanced at her over his shoulder. She was wearing the robe that they basically shared, the only one that had been in the house, but he knew that underneath there was only the thin pajamas she'd been sporting and the worn socks weren't going to keep her feet from freezing.
"Get back inside," he commanded. He checked his tone and softened it. "I'm just getting more wood."
"It's warm enough in here," Carol said. "You're going to get frostbite, Ty...and if you do..."
Tyreese chuckled to himself.
"I won't lose any fingers," he said. "But you might lose some toes if you don't get back inside, Carol."
Time was lost to them. It was unimportant. The only thing they had to do with their time was keep surviving until they died. They loosely marked it with the changing of the seasons and with the marks on the door frame that they scratched above Judith's head, but it wasn't a careful record of time. They could only guess, even, at how old the girl was.
The girl that called him "Papa." The girl that called her "Mama." The girl that knew nothing beyond the world that they lived in now and that accepted things fresh from nightmares as part of daily reality.
Terminus was a war zone when they'd neared it. They'd turned away, not knowing what they'd find but knowing that they couldn't handle it if it was half as bad as it sounded. They'd put their strength and their energy into saving Judith. She was all that mattered to them both. The little girl was the only sign they had that the world would keep going on—that it would just keep turning somehow. There was hope and there was a future.
They'd crossed out of Georgia. They'd made their way across South Carolina. They'd headed north because, it seemed, that every time they fled one bunch or another of the Walkers, the creatures kept steering them that way. As the terrain became rockier and the roads got steeper, it was harder and harder for them to move with any great speed, but it was also harder and harder for the Walkers to follow them. Eventually the Walkers were only in pockets. And, one pocket picked off, another took some time to reach them.
They eventually found a quiet little house, like something out of a dream, and they'd put their effort into building fences around it. Together they gathered the materials. Together they put up the posts. Together they strung the wire and hammered in the nails. Tyreese built the barn. Carol caught the chickens. The pigs they found and Carol tended the nasty bite that Tyreese suffered from learning how to deal with the wild piglets. Carol broke the ground, planted the seeds, and tended the garden. Tyreese found her the fruit trees and transplanted them. Tyreese got the well working and Carol constructed the smokehouses. Together they learned how to solar power their little home.
And, all the while, little Judith grew between them. The light for both of them. The promise that there was something good to come of this world.
It seemed like a million years lie between them and the dark past they shared—a past they both tried to bury. Tyreese could believe that most of his life had been spent in the home that they shared now, but he knew that really it had been born of a great deal of work and a little amount of time. Judith was, if he was generous, five, but more than likely she was four. She talked a mile a minute. She ran and she danced and she sang silly songs about the chickens and the pigs and the rabbits. She crawled into bed with them in the morning and she never realized that they weren't her parents—that they weren't even a couple.
All Judith knew was what she wanted to know at this point. And, at this point, all that she wanted to know was that she was safe and warm and loved—by Mama and Papa both—and that, really, was true.
The chance for a real Christmas was something that Tyreese couldn't pass up. He'd mentioned it to Carol, but she'd simply shook her head and sucked her teeth. It didn't seem right, she'd said. It seemed horrible to think about celebrating Christmas when they were alone in the world. They'd lost everyone. They'd seen and done horrible things. How could they put that aside for Christmas?
Tyreese's only thought was, how could they not?
So he'd brought in the tree that morning. Carol, as soon as she padded back inside with her sock feet and tended the fire, would realize it. There weren't any lights, but he'd already gathered together the makings for tinsel. They could pop popcorn and Judith could help him string the decorations. He'd found a box of some colored paper and he'd help Judith make some decorations.
And there was a doll, that he'd found on a run, that he had already wrapped in a pillowcase for the following morning. Santa, after all, could come in the form of a tiptoeing Papa.
Tyreese pushed the door open himself and heaved the wood over to the area where he would sort it into the pile. Carol was standing in the middle of the floor, beside the sad little Christmas tree that he'd found and brought in, with her hands on her hips. He laughed to himself. She'd probably run and hide if he told her how cute she looked standing there—to date he'd never told her all the times he'd thought she'd looked cute, or anything else for that matter.
"What is this?" Carol asked.
"That, Carol, is a Christmas tree," Tyreese said, matter of factly. "And Jude and I are going to decorate it. You can help, or you can sit over there and act like the Grinch. The choice is entirely up to you."
"Ty—I thought we agreed we weren't going to do Christmas," Carol said.
"I think that you agreed we weren't going to do Christmas," Tyreese said. "I believe that nobody asked Papa what he thought—and Papa thought Jude ought to have a Christmas."
Carol sighed and reached, pinching one of the branches between her fingertips. She harassed the tree for a moment and then sighed again.
"You keep that up and you're going to get lungs full of fire ash," Tyreese challenged.
"Decorations?" Carol asked.
Tyreese was careful not to smile over the pleased feeling he had. She was melting as surely as if she'd been made of the snow that was piling up outside.
"We're making them," Tyreese said.
She tipped her head to the side.
"Presents?" She asked.
"I already found the perfect one," Tyreese said. "Jude is going to love it."
Carol groaned, but Tyreese saw a hint of a smile playing at her lips.
"What am I supposed to do?" She asked, looking at the tree like she was asking it for suggestions.
"I butchered a chicken," Tyreese said. "Some of those canned vegetables in there? I think there's the makings for a feast."
Carol looked at him.
"But if you don't want to—I guess we could just starve," Tyreese teased.
"I'll see what we've got," Carol said. "But—don't expect too much."
Tyreese smiled to himself.
"Too late," he called to her. "You're the only woman I know that can make dirty water that tastes like heaven."
He got to his feet, dusted off the snow and the wood chips and everything else that had accumulated on him while he was gathering everything together and started down the small little hallway to the tiny room that Jude called her own. Normally he'd let her sleep as long as she wanted, but today he had to wake her up. They had things to do and she wouldn't want to miss a moment of Christmas Eve day.
And, maybe, he was a little enthusiastic too, but there wasn't any need to go into the details.
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Carol stepped away from her work in the kitchen to oversee the mess that was being made of the living room. She didn't have a vacuum and all the cleaning that got done was with an old straw broom that, thankfully, was holding its own. It was going to take her a great deal of effort to sweet up all the tiny bits of string and paper that were scattered everywhere from the ornament making—paper snowflakes were a real hit—but she wasn't going to complain.
Judith was wrapped up in it all and she had an expression of absolute joy on her face. While she worked, Tyreese had been telling her Christmas stories. As far as Carol knew, they were the first the girl had ever heard about this magical time of year and how it came to be. Tyreese was doing a wonderful job weaving in the details of the whole thing while also making it something magical that was happening right now.
Carol leaned against the doorway, watching them, and listened as he twisted and turned pieces of every Christmas story imaginable until they formed a tapestry of delightful things for the girl. There was no break between reindeer and angels and stables. There was line of distinction between drummer boys and Santa Clause and people seeking refuge from the cold and finding family.
Quietly and carefully he constructed his story and he weaved in pieces of Judith's own history—stories they hadn't told her yet—so flawlessly that she didn't seem even the slightest bit disturbed by them. They weren't her parents, he told her, not her real ones anyway. They were specially chosen for her. She was specially chosen for them. She was their angel. Their perfect little angle—born in a prison instead of a stable—and she was magical for them both. And, before she could probably remember, they too had wandered tired and cold and hungry and they'd found this warm and wonderful place that they called home. And if she was good, and she followed all of the "Christmas Rules" that he recited for her—and she didn't pout and didn't make "Mama" scold her for not going to bed like she should—Santa would come and he would reward her for being so very, very good.
And tonight they would eat well. They would sleep warm and happy and full. And tomorrow would be Christmas.
Carol choked slightly on her feelings. It was strange to her, so completely foreign, to feel so blessed among so much heartache. They'd all suffered so much loss. Some nights she still woke, shaking and sweating, choking on her emotions over everything that she'd done—everything that she'd had to do. And sometimes, still, when Judith would call her Mama or laugh and shriek for her attention, Carol would look at her only to see Sophia—small and healthy and happy—and she would very nearly lose the ability to breathe. But no matter what, whether it was the middle of the night or the middle of the day, it seemed that there were always big, strong arms right there that were waiting to catch her. Quietly they wrapped around her. They hugged her tightly to a chest that she'd learned she could bury her face in until her mind stilled and her breathing returned. She'd learned that there were broad shoulders that were strong enough to help her carry the load of everything—and soft enough that she could cry on them.
And it was all offered—all the love she felt there—without any expectation.
Carol had thought about it, and she had decided that, if he ever were to ask, she'd give herself freely to Tyreese. She'd offer her body to him to do with what he wanted because she trusted, and she trusted because he'd proved it, that he would do nothing to harm her. She'd give him anything he wanted because he rarely took, but he gave often—and what he gave, he gave with love and understanding. She could imagine that, if it were to ever come to that, he would be the same in his lovemaking. But he hadn't asked, and she wouldn't suggest. She didn't want to know, even if she might imagine it, that he would never see her that way. Keeping her dreams was worth her silence.
"You OK?" Tyreese asked.
Carol looked at him and swallowed. She realized she'd gotten lost in her daydreaming. She forced a smile, sure now that she wasn't wearing one before and she nodded a little too enthusiastically.
"Great," she said. "Just—taking a breather. I'll make twice as much today? Tomorrow we'll just have to—bake the chicken and the pie to eat again?"
Tyreese smiled.
"Sounds wonderful," he said.
"Look Mama!" Judith declared, holding up the latest of the snowflakes that she'd made. Carol reinforced her smile.
"It's beautiful, baby," she said sincerely. "Just like you."
Judith seemed pleased and returned to her chopping.
"I'll make the popcorn soon," Tyreese said. "You're making the garland with us and we won't take no for an answer. Everyone has to participate in the decorations. That's a Christmas rule."
Carol nodded at him.
"Just let me put the chicken in," she said. She turned back to the kitchen, catching his "take your time" before he launched back into the stories that were keeping the little girl entertained.
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"Would you stop doing that?" Tyreese asked, coming into the living room. Carol was furiously attempting to clean the rug with the broom that she swept with at least three times a day. She had an obsession with cleanliness—and only once had she let it slip that it was because, to her ex-husband, a mess was reason to put his hands on her in a way that he never should have felt justified.
"I'll never get all this paper up," Carol said. "And the popcorn? And the pine needles?"
Tyreese walked over and caught her arm, physically stilling the sweeping motion for a moment. She stopped in her fury and turned, looking at him.
"Tomorrow, or the day after," Tyreese said, "I'll roll this rug out and we'll take it out and beat it. If it's going to make you feel better. But—for tonight? Just let it be. Sit down. Enjoy yourself. Let your meal digest the way that God intended."
Carol shook her head at him.
"You deserve it, and—it's a Christmas rule," Tyreese added, hoping it would be enough to push her over to his side for at least a little while. He won because she sighed and let go of the broom. He took it and moved it to the other side of the room before he pointed toward the couch. She walked toward it and started to unfold one of the blankets there before she stopped.
"You want something?" She asked. He knew that she meant a drink. Water. Coffee. Hot tea or maybe hot chocolate. He shook his head at her.
"I want you to sit," he said. "I want you to relax."
She finally did sit and he joined her. With the familiarity that they'd long since established, she curled up beside him and brought the blanket over so that he adjusted it to cover both of them.
"Judith went down easily?" Carol asked.
"With excitement," Tyreese said. "I've never seen her so ready to go to bed."
"Don't forget to put her present under the tree," Carol said.
"I won't," he declared, rubbing her arm absentmindedly.
He looked at her in the dim light of the room. She stared at him for a moment and then she offered him a smile. He quickly looked away. Looking at her too long, like that, got him to thinking things that he often felt he shouldn't think. He was human, though. He was a man. And those things? He was going to think them. He couldn't hide it though, too well, in this proximity. It wasn't like, at night, when he could roll away from her or simply, with some embarrassment, blame it on some nighttime occurrence that was entirely out of his control.
"The meal was wonderful," Tyreese said.
"I'm glad," Carol said. "Because that's what you're having again tomorrow."
Tyreese chuckled.
"You'll hear no complaints from me," he said.
"I'm—happy that you decided to do this," Carol said. "Judith needed a Christmas. Thank you for—for not letting me ruin it."
Tyreese tightened his grip on her, pulling her a little closer to him.
"You couldn't ruin Christmas," he said. "You could never ruin it. It wouldn't be—Christmas without you."
"You knew you were doing this a long time ago," Carol said. "Or you wouldn't have a present for Judith."
Tyreese smiled to himself.
"I did," he said. "When it first started to get cold? I thought about it. I found the doll then. I thought, even if we didn't do Christmas, it couldn't hurt to give her a present some time. Something nice." He cleared his throat. "I—uh—got something for you too."
Carol started to sit up.
"What?" She asked.
He pulled her back and rearranged the blankets again.
"I can't tell you," he said. "You don't get to see it until Papa Christmas comes and puts it under the tree. You know the rules."
Carol laughed to herself and then she sat up again, pulling away from him. She frowned.
"You can't give me anything," she insisted. "I didn't get you anything. And—it won't be fair."
She was looking at him with such sincerity and such concern that Tyreese felt his chest tighten. He felt the overwhelming sensation, as he often did throughout the days, to tell her how beautiful she looked—how much he wanted to have permission to touch her more than he did. Permission to kiss her. How much he just wanted the permission to tell her how truly beautiful she was. Here she was, so concerned, and all he really had for her was a locket—just a shiny little trinket that he'd thought she might like. Women, after all, liked those kinds of things and she had nothing really pretty to call her own. Tyreese swallowed.
"It's nothing really," he insisted. "But—if you want to give me something..."
He could have sworn that something flashed across her face. Was it fear? He considered backing away from even the suggestion at the moment. He shook his head. It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth scaring her. It wasn't worth losing what they had.
"What?" She asked, pressing him.
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head.
"What?" She asked, this time with a little more request to her voice.
Tyreese swallowed. The worst she could do was say no. The worst she could do was say that she didn't want to—that she didn't want him. And if that's what she said, he would make it clear that she was under no obligations to him. He would make it clear that nothing had to change. She would always be safe with him. And he would always love her, the rest was simply in the details.
"If you wanted to give me something," Tyreese said, "then—I'd settle for a Christmas Eve kiss."
Carol looked at him, strangely for a moment, and Tyreese started to back out of it. All he managed, though, was telling her that she didn't have to. The rest of his excuse was stopped when she brought her lips to his.
The kiss was sweet at first—soft and innocent and gentle. Then, surprisingly, an unexpected hunger came into it and Carol twisted her body from the position it was in to deepen the kiss. Tyreese, surprised at it, didn't respond and she snatched away with apology. He did, then, the only thing that he knew to do and drowned out her apology with his own kiss, just as she'd done to him. There was no hiding, then, his interest and he didn't feel ashamed of it. He could feel, as though it were radiating off of her, Carol's desire. The kiss had been too long in coming. Both of them had been holding back from the other. And now? It was evident that there was never a need to hold back.
Without explanation and without conversation, Tyreese wrestled his way to his feet. He broke the kiss for only a moment, fully gaining his feet, and looked at Carol as she sat there on the couch, her lips pink, and stared at him like she'd been betrayed. She thought, without a doubt, that he was ending it. The only response he could muster—lacking all elegance of language at the moment—was to collect her off the couch and carry her toward the little room that they'd shared since they moved into the cabin.
Anticipating what he was doing, she reached and opened the door for him when they got there and he passed inside without having to put her down.
"What about Judith?" Carol asked, the first words that she'd muttered so far.
Tyreese chuckled.
"We've got all night," Tyreese said, pushing the door closed behind them with his foot and carrying Carol to the bed. "She knows to stay in bed—all night. That's the first rule of Christmas."