a_littlefaith | (no subject)

The apartment looks amazing, so at least there's that.

Beth has put a lot of work into the decorations, the lights and the tree. There are wrapped gifts under the tree, most of them for Judith and Carl, and there are cookies and candies and chocolates on the table. The rest of the apartment is more or less the same, she doesn't have a lot of extra money to be buying Christmas place settings or anything like that, but she thinks she's done a good job regardless.

And it's a good thing, too, because she's not sure dinner is going to turn out the way it's supposed to.

It's not bad, not from what she can tell, but it's just not very good either. Nothing is burned or overflowing, nothing is undercooked and nothing looks like it might possibly poison someone accidentally. But she's tasted everything and it's all just kind of bland.

The only thing this dinner has going for it is dessert, which is apple crumble and the one thing Beth did learn how to bake from her mother. It's still in the oven and it smells delicious and she's sort of hoping no one will notice that cinnamon and apple is the only smell in the apartment when they arrive for dinner.

She doesn't say anything about it, not to Daryl, but she sits down at the piano and plays a soft, melancholy song, something that's got no place at a bright, cheery Christmas dinner.

Threaded | Flat

By the time everyone's there, she's not quite so upset about dinner. If it's terrible, no one has to eat it, she's sure they'll figure something out. Besides, what's most important is that they get to spend the evening together. They're all here and they're safe and alive, and that's the important thing. That's what matters.

Which isn't to say she's forgotten the people who aren't here.

In the store, she'd found tiny sparkling snowflake ornaments and she'd bought one for every person who isn't here but should be. One for her father, one for Maggie, one for Glenn. One for Carol and Tyreese and Sasha. One for Shawn and one for her mother. Lori, Shane, Dale, Andrea. So many people who should be here and aren't, and Beth stands by the tree for a moment, touching one of the snowflakes, her gaze distant.

Beth hasn't said anything about it, not about dinner, but she really doesn't need to, because after weeks back home and then half a year here Daryl knows how to read her pretty well. And it's not even just dinner - which he thinks is fine, given that he's never even had a Christmas dinner before. It's everything else, and he's feeling it too. It's been wonderful, all of it, every second, even the stupid fucking dancing snowman, but there's something about it now that's making him feel the empty spaces just as much as the people who are here.

They've all lost so much. They've made it, they're here, they're together and this is the closest thing to real family he's ever had, but they're not all here, and it doesn't matter how many people you have to learn to live without. It never gets easier. You never stop missing them.

But he has a mug of eggnog that's probably equal parts rum, and Anthony seems to have decided that she's going to ride everywhere on his shoulder, and he's not about to kick her off. The little black kitten is eyeing everyone else a bit skeptically, but then she butts her head against the back of his jaw, and it's hard to feel sad.

They're here. Right now, that's what matters.

Carl isn't even sure how many Christmases he'd missed. It had to have been two, at least. They'd all kept track of time, as best they could, but he'd shied away from thinking about holidays, especially after his mom died.

Now, the first Christmas he would celebrate without his mother, Carl didn't really know what to do. His dad was doing his best to make it nice for Carl and his sister, but nothing was like he remembered it to be. It was all a little more dim, a little less magical.

When the world had ended, he'd still gotten presents from Santa Claus, his mother trying to keep up the ruse, even though the other kids at school had told him Santa wasn't real, three years earlier.

The dinner was bland, but after years of prison previsions, wild game and scavenged canned goods, he couldn't really complain. Still, he found himself pushing the food around on his plate, trying to ignore the lead weight in his gut.