Hey, everyone!
Thank you all so much for the overwhelming love. I'm super-excited to get reviews and pms with your favorite chapters –and a little surprised with some of your picks too! Love how your votes are split among so many chapters: 1, 5, 8-9, 14, 17, 23-24, 30, 32-33-34, 36-37, 41, 44, 45-46-47, 48… LOL! As far as my personal favorite? Not a single vote!
But so far, the 'As I Lay Dying' three-shot is the absolute winner! Funny given how loud you were screaming at me for those back to back cliffhangers. And funny that I find it so intense I have trouble rereading it! Can you believe it's me who says that? Anyway, you'll find a snippet from that story you seem to particularly like in this chapter as well *wink wink*
Enjoy!
8 1/5 months pregnant
Lying supine on a straw mat at the remotest side of the yard, Carol stroked her belly, groaning a little as her back cricked, protesting for the awkward posture that dulled her muscles. The sensation of the warm sun beams licking her body was invigorating at least. April was flickering away, withering like a wildflower losing its violet pedals one by one. Birds chirping, insects buzzing, butterflies tangling together as their resplendent wings flapped in the sultry air, salient tree toads straddling each other, the realm of wilderness long ago indulged in a procreating orgy of lustful tangos. Carol was happy. Huge, cumbersome like a well-rounded boulder embedded in the soil, but happy.
The crisp country breeze wafted around, winnowing the sweaty curlicues of her overgrown hair as they clung to her temples, and she drew a breath, lungs filtering the incoming oxygen, eyes shut. She was happy, save from her constant worry every time Daryl was out beyond the fences –and that happened far too often for her liking. But even the thought of using the baby as a bargaining chip to tether him inside the yard was off limits. Daryl was a sylvan deity. She had loved him as such, she had accepted him as such and that counted more than any apprehension on her behalf.
Grateful for the silence and the relative loneliness of the early afternoon, Carol allowed her mind to drift to days gone by. The closer the birth date came the more difficult it became to close off Sophia's memory. It wasn't like a switch she could flip and have the latch drop to seclude everything Sophia-related. Her little girl was always in her mind, but lately that translucent presence seemed to stalk her, encompassing her like a bleary halo. Everything was so much easier back them, during her first pregnancy. Nurses, obstetricians, maternity hospitals, drugs, surgeries, whatever the term modern medicine entailed were a given.
And everything was so much harder at the same time. Ed, despite his superficial resemblance to Daryl, was nothing like her hunter. His beatings, verbal and physical abuse, sexual harassment and cruelty were curbed for a while –not due to concern of hurting the baby, but due to sheer disgust he didn't even bother to mask. They were merely hibernating, though, stored, pent up to detonate later. Ed was crude and unrefined, brutal and indifferent. Daryl was crude and unrefined too, but caring and protective to both lives dwelling in her body. This diametrical contrast between the two men of her life had never been so stark before. She had spent those nine months in brewing fear and agitation and she spent most part of these nine in calmness and security, even with the dead roaming the earth, even with gnashing teeth bashing on their defensive fences. The first were all Ed. The second were all Daryl and it made all the difference in the world; enough for Carol to be happy.
A shadow clouded the daylight lapping around her face and a familiar gruff voice, the sound of pebbles bouncing off the nailed thorns inside an Aztecan rainstick, drumming like rushing waters, breached her bittersweet reverie. "Enjoyin' the sun?"
"You're back." She smiled, slowly opening her eyes. "Thought you said you'd be back around nightfall."
Daryl just shrugged and smirked triumphantly in response, plopping on the ground next to her. It was nice being out in the open and relatively alone for once. Carl playing with Judith who trotted around merrily were the only people in the yard during the siesta hours and it worked miracles for Daryl's mood and his forever whimsical reactions to public displays of his affections. Privacy was nothing short of a luxury in the crammed up prison and each quiet moment thoroughly-relished. Of course, he'd always have to keep Carol's jabbing pokes in check, more so since that day she called him a 'cuddler' and he had almost choked on his stew.
"Lying in my face about how long you'd be gone? Nice diversion for my not hanging on the fence, I gotta give you that," Carol went on.
Stifling a smug chuckle, he opted to play innocent, hands ghosting over her belly, seeking for movement, but the baby seemed to be slumbering at the moment. "Brought a crib, too," he said. "Beth's gone bananas about it; reckon the girl must be crazy or somethin'." He had found Carol in a light mood, too, and was glad that his fury to rush back was nothing but his being paranoid. Lately he had noticed her growing more and more pensive, the subtext of Sophia ruminations engraved in taut expressions and forced smiles, and it only deteriorated the nauseating twist in his gut. He'd go to great lengths, way out of his comfort zone, set on the unswerving purpose to distract her and make her laugh –as much as possible. Most of the times, he succeeded.
"She's just thrilled to have another baby coming," Carol admonished him gently. "She has a knack for kids, they give her hope, too, like they do to me. Someday Beth will make a great mother."
"Hell, if she tries snatchin' the baby and run off, I'll put an arrow in her ass and you don't get to be pissed."
"Nobody's snatching the baby, Daryl," she giggled, lacing her fingers with his. "By the way, would you wanna consider giving Bob a break? He's complaining all the time that you've practically incarcerated him and he's not in the wrong here." It was the plain truth, even an understatement of it –nobody remembered the last time Bob was free to step outside the gates without a certain redneck going ballistic. Carol had made repeated cases to defend the man, but it was of no avail since it only seemed to trigger Daryl once again losing his shit about it. After the walker attack in D-block, Daryl had made it crystal clear that he was banned from every supply group and the undertone of his growl left no leeway for further negotiation, but Carol was positive that Bob hadn't gone anywhere a good couple of months before that incident.
And evidently, even when at his best spirits, that adamancy never shriveled a notch. "Don't rile me up with that jerk," he grouched, sulking at her. "All worked up for runs and walks and fuckin' pick-nicks the whole fuckin' time. Once the baby's born, he has a free pass to go get himself killed any time he feels like it." Shooting her a pointed look, he still failed to maintain his scowl at the sight of two lazy eyes gazing at him adoringly. "But after, not before." And he had yet to make her laugh.
There was no point insisting more and Carol dropped the topic, tracing his eyes practically boring holes into the breasts popping through the low-cut cleavage of her shirt. "I know," she muttered playfully. "They're about to explode any moment now."
Face flustered when he was caught with both hands in the cookie jar, Daryl chortled. "Ain't complainin' here."
"Never been so swollen in my life, I swear. And the man who calls me a perv is ogling me like I'm dinner."
"You don't appreciate somethin' until you lose it," Daryl drawled sagely. In this advanced stage of pregnancy they were no longer permitted to have sex and as much as he'd hate to admit it –being the tough guy he was and all- this hiatus was swiftly getting the better of him. Convinced beyond doubt that he suffered from the rare pervesion for salivating over a full term woman, he still found Carol sexy as fuck.
"An eye for an eye for every time you made me beg," she giggled.
Wasn't that comeuppance or what? "Not a clue what you're talkin' about, you perv."
Carol groaned, but the amused twinkle in her look didn't falter as she shifted her weight to find a more comfortable position.
"Ain't your back killin' you lyin' on the ground like that?"
"Well…" she droned contemplatively as if pondering on her options. "I have to squirm, roll, prop on my side, crumple a little, scramble up on all fours and still it's debatable whether I'll get up or not." A nonchalant lift of her shoulders and then the verdict. "It's just not worth it."
"Lazybones," Daryl sneered, squatting behind her to lug her off the mat and draw her in between his spread legs until she slanted across his sternum.
"Aww… You're only being adorable to get a better view of my boobs."
Grumbling incomprehensibly under his breath, he started massaging the stiff muscles of her nape and shoulders extracting inhumane noises of pleasure and relief from Carol.
"Mmm…" she reveled and sagged in his arms, neck craned to rest against him. His hands journeyed down her breasts and ribs and stopped their diligent wandering at both sides of her belly, rubbing regressive, soothing circles over the stretched skin. "That feels so good."
Carol groaned in frustration when a vehement kick stuck out a bulge in her tummy, causing Daryl's palm to recoil at the brunt. "Hey," he snickered, kneading the spot. "Take it easy, lil' guy."
"Little guy?" she quirked a brow, glancing up at him.
"What?" he mumbled. "It's a boy, Dixons always have boys."
"Hate to ruin it for you but it's a girl actually."
"How do you know?"
"Maternal instinct," she grinned with considerable fanfare.
"Bullshit," he scoffed. "You're a handful on your own. Would make a very sick joke to have another version of this medicine around."
A gargling laughter bubbled up, peppering the air with a melodic draft. "Life can be a real bitch," she hummed, pecking at his jaw line.
Enveloping her mouth with his, he kissed her deeply until she was gasping for air and then he shook his head in fake disapproval, tongue producing consecutive tsk sounds. "And now you're swearin', too."
"Those who lie down with dogs get fleas."
"That wasn't very nice now, was it?" he chortled, nuzzling his scratchy stubble in her neck, fingers running across her sides.
Carol giggled, flapping spineless in the ticking embrace, too trapped to break free. "Stop!"
"Hate to ruin it for you, but payback's a bitch, too."
xxxxx
Daryl had lost hope.
And as that devastating sense of desperation crept in, prevailing cell by cell, he just wished he was rabid instead of miserable, edgy instead of numb, in dire need of blowing off some steam instead of collapsing in a corner, sobbing. He wished. But he wasn't.
When he reconnected with the prison reality it was already night, but he had no idea about the late hour until he trudged back to C-block to find it immersed in a bleak silence. The storm had stopped and everyone was fast asleep –it must have been past midnight. Everyone, save the members of their core group, the group that valued and loved Carol. Like he did.
Michonne, Ty, Carl, all of them restless, aimlessly meandering around, fidgeting nervously, sighing, eyes darting warily, waiting on pin and needles for news; because they loved Carol. Like he did.
Rick and Hershel were nowhere to be seen since the moment Hershel shouted for the former and they both disappeared hastily inside D-block, most possibly to give a hand, offer some assistance to save Carol– Daryl didn't want to know, long beyond help himself; because they loved her. Like he did.
Glenn and Beth had never returned to C-block with him – Daryl felt bad for not even remembering hitting the boy, but seethed with the latter's initiative to dare walk over to him cradling it in her arms- and chances were they were lingering outside the infirmary, anticipating for fresh info on Carol's condition; because they loved her. Like he did.
So many people who loved her; like he did. And yet nothing like that. If Carol died, and the mere thought hurled up bile to flood his mouth with a tart taste and cast his surroundings into a frantic spiraling, if Carol died, all these people who loved her would grieve, cry, swallow hard and move on with their lives as they would still possess one. But he wouldn't.
Daryl thought he knew fear. He thought fear was an omnivorous mammal with a shaggy coat, like the sonorous growl of a grizzly bear, sinister and lethal, reverberating in his head, but it resembled more with the still, watery gaze of a deer in dither as it apprehends the hunter lurking in the shrubs, moments before a bolt catapults into its skull. Fear was the trail of the bear's foreboding shadow, not the bear itself. Fear wasn't the blow; it was the anticipation of it, it spread in the interval between the foresight of the looming calamity and the moment it struck and it was mute, soundless, the clamping force of a vise pinching and bustling his innards. Fear was not the roaring lion ripping your fleshes apart; it was the termite mincing and gnawing at your heart. Fear never meant scorching in hellfire and brimstone; it was merely the vertigo while tiptoeing on a tight rope over the simmering cauldron.
Now helpless, useless, passive, powerless over matters of life and death, devoid of every grain of vigor to act and react, rig up a plan to get Carol and himself out of that maze, stuck in an endless wait and entirely dependent on others, he knew that fear was quaking the core of his existence. Daryl Dixon was afraid; terrified that Carol would choose Sophia over him and their newborn daughter.
Sprawled over the massive board that constituted the table of the common area, head braced on a shaky elbow and chest wriggling with overwhelming dread, he looked up when Rick walked in, pale and heavy-footed, pressing a small puff of cotton in the inner side of his elbow. Plopping down on the seat next to him, he answered the unspoken question. "Bob wanted me to give blood. I gave a bag a few weeks ago, but he wanted another one, just in case. I'm O negative, general donor."
Daryl inhaled raggedly, eyes stinging with unshed tears he abrasively brushed away with the heels of his hands. He hadn't cried in front of Rick since they stormed onto that Atlanta rooftop to detect no sign of Merle other than his maimed hand and, quite frankly, public breakdowns were way off limits for his aloof demeanor. He hadn't cried in front of anyone since then, save Carol; he had allowed his steadfast composure to shatter in her presence after finally putting down the walker Merle for good. That was pretty much how things between them moved to the next level.
"She never told me," he rasped.
"Yeah… She didn't want you to worry too much and Bob needed to be ready for every complication, so…"
"One hell of a sixth sense if you ask me," Daryl muttered grimly. "The guy must be a fuckin' psychic or somethin'."
Rick's hand rapped his back and rested on his shoulder with an encouraging squeeze, his whole stance oozing compassion and sincere concern. "This ain't Lori Part 2, Daryl."
"You go tell her," he choked out a strained scoff.
"We have a doctor, we have equipment," Rick continued undeterred with his warm, convincing tone. "Carol's gonna make it."
"She should have been eatin' better, takin' care of herself, bein' more careful," Daryl ranted, tears now spilling over through his frantic blinking. "Fuck, I should have tied her up in that bed feedin' her all day long!"
Rick shook his head; hard to locate a more qualified person than him to recognize the irrational guilt, the denial, the self-battering, the blind urge to blame someone, even oneself. "She did everything right, Daryl. Everything. And so did you. She's gonna be fine."
Michonne ambled inside dragging a crib behind her and Ty appeared shortly after, soothingly rubbing the newborn infant on the back.
"Thought we'd keep a closer eye on this beauty if the crib was here and not in their cell. Just until Carol takes over and kicks my ass for hauling her around," Michonne offered gently with that rarely-viewed smile of hers, seemingly addressing Rick but eyes lingering on a very distraught Daryl who had already averted his gaze the opposite direction.
Rick nodded in approval and turned to his friend. "Did you see her?" In the absence of even the remotest acknowledgement to his question, he pushed more. "Go see your child, Daryl. You have a daughter and a beautiful one. Jude's throne is squeaking."
"I can't look at… h… it. It reminds me that-" Daryl moaned, voice trailing off.
Ty placed the baby in the crib with Carl hot on his heels while Michonne prepared a bottle of formula. That was a lesson learned the hard way after Lori's death –be prepared.
"Carol will be pissed as hell when she finds out you didn't want the baby," Rick droned close to Daryl's ear.
"Like you were so fond of Jude when she was born," he retorted harshly. "I'm positive you didn't touch her for three days in a row."
"Picking up on my screw ups now? I ain't no damn role model, Daryl. You've done way better than me this far," Rick snorted a humorless laugh and turned his attention to Carl who was grinning at the baby.
"Dad, come on over here. Jeez, she's so much chubbier than Jude was! And I think she looks a lot like Carol!"
Rick stood up and smiled at the adorable sight.
"Man, I swear, when my daughter was born, I couldn't breathe and my chest was all clenched up, you know? Thought I was having a heart attack," Ty mused, lost in past memories.
Daryl let slip a growling breath and squirmed in his place, turning his back to the rest of them. He had thought the same thing back in the infirmary the moment Carol gave birth to the baby. When the first wail echoed, when he saw the tiny fists flinging in the air, he had thought the same thing exactly –that he was having a heart attack. And then… Burying his face in his hands he cried quietly, impervious to the level of commotion and the number of people around him.
Michonne put the bottle on the table with a deliberate bang and left the common area escorted by Ty.
"What do we call her?" Carl asked with overflowing excitement. "We need a name."
"Reckon that's up to Carol and Daryl to decide, son." Skittering a meaningful, conspiratorial look between Daryl's back and the baby to avoid Carl's protests at his following suggestion, he then continued. "Time to call it a night, Carl. Let's go check on Jude and put you in bed."
Carl caught the innuendo and complied easily, the two of them walking out as well, leaving Daryl alone with the baby.
He didn't move an inch when the funny sounds of a childish purr wormed through his haze, waiting for someone else to assume control. Nothing happened, though, and soon the buzzing thrum escalated into a fussy squall. His tear-stained face snapped up, scanning around for the others… What the fuck? And the cries only intensified. Marching hurriedly to the door, he found the hallway empty. He swore loudly, vacillating under the threshold, half inside half outside the common area. There had to be a decision made there, in or out. He still had choices to make, uphold his promise or not. "I'm all in," he had declared to Carol when they decided they were in this together and back at that moment his signature was imprinted with chisels on a blank check for whatever the future served them.
Heaving a shaky sigh, he ducked his head and walked back in the room. He wanted a job done, he knew the drill: Autopilot mode. Short, curt commands. Military style. No out of the box thinking.
Go to the table.
Take the bottle.
Get to the crib.
Put the bottle on the banister.
Don't close your eyes.
Damn.
Look at it.
Look at her.
Look. At. Her.
Carol wants you to look at her, you jerk!
Look at her!
Once his eyes shot open, it didn't take long. Instantly spellbound, his jaw dropped in a rictus of breath-suspending awe and fascination. Something deep inside his stomach jolted, knees quivered, heart pounded as he reached out and lifted the now sniffling baby, carefully nestling it in his arms.
His daughter. Carol's daughter. Their daughter. How had he managed to reject this precious existence? Carl was dead on. That was one healthy, chubby, miniature princess, beautiful and mesmerizing, radiating a glowing aura, just like her momma.
He brought the bottle to his daughter's mouth and she snagged it firmly, greedily nibbling to the pacifier while staring right back at him, with a staunch gaze identical to the one he met in his mirror. "That what all this fuss was for, sweetheart? Little belly of yours empty?" he cooed. "Now we know where all this food I shoved down your momma's throat went, don't we? Daddy's so glad you'll have piggish table manners, can't hack another shitty eater."
The baby downed the contents of the bottle and shoved it away just in time to prevent his panicked hollers for someone to get there and fix some more. Perching her on his shoulder as if she was the finest and most fragile of porcelains, he rocked and tapped her back until a loud burp lacerated the absolute hush of the wee hours, causing Daryl to giggle like an idiot. He snuggled her in his arms like a cradle and those two tiny fists scribbled abstract designs in the air once again. "Yeah, you got it right," he hummed. "This is exactly how daddy's gonna punch every asshole snoopin' around his little girl."
Croaking out a toothless sound he interpreted as laughter she locked her hands around the calloused finger tickling her belly, perfectly content with her current situation, eyes already drooping sleepily. "You didn't have to cause a fuckin' hurricane to get noticed, you know. We were payin' attention," he chuckled before a pained scowl obfuscated his features."She's gonna be fine, ain't she? She's a fighter, your momma. And you're her little hope, remember? Our little hope. Yeah… That's right. You're Hope."
xxxxx
Kaleidoscope: A tube-shaped optical instrument that is rotated to produce a succession of symmetrical designs by means of mirrors reflecting the constantly changing patterns made by bits of stained glass at one end of the cylinder. As the viewer looks into one end, light entering the other creates a colorful pattern, due to the reflection off of the mirrors. The name derives from the Ancient Greek kalos, "beautiful, beauty", eidos, "that which is seen: form, shape" and skopeo, "to look to, to examine", hence "observation of beautiful forms."
An awe-struck Sophia had registered the definition with radiant-eyed enthusiasm when Carol fished out the tome of an outdated encyclopedia and emphatically accentuated the key words, backing them up with illustrative gestures. Sophia laughed out a cheerful squeal, adjusted the tube above her eye and tucked her second one shut, wowing at the whirlwind of arbitrary patterns waltzing around in symmetrical excellence. It had been her eighth birthday.
Carol found herself floating, spiraling downwards in a kaleidoscope of illusions and memories –blissful at the beginning, smeared with blood and reeking putrefaction later.
Sophia as a toddler, bouncing on her butt on the rainbow-colored carpet of their nursery. Sophia rolling in the garden, gathering grass and etching dirt on her clothes. Sophia cuddling a kitten and Sophia smooching Carol. Sophia twittering and grinning cheekily. Sophia calling for her mommy and opening hers arms.
Sophia.
Carol reached out to grab her in her embrace and bind their giggles together, but Sophia's image evanesced in shards of smoke and the spinning patterns darkened.
Sophia.
Sophia weeping for each blow Carol suffered. Sophia shriveling away from Ed. Sophia hiding whenever he was home. Sophia planting soft kisses to every bruise and fissure in her mother's face. Sophia growing silent and Sophia bowing her head.
Sophia terrified, hiding under an abandoned car in the highway. Sophia chased away by a walker. Sophia crying out for her mommy to help her. To save her.
Carol failed her once, she wouldn't do it again. Arcing her body to grab her, she plunged deeper and deeper, but Sophia disappeared again. A redneck, crossbow yielding hunter emerged, blocking her way. Carol shoved past him, desperate to search for Sophia, to find her, but she finally recognized him; Daryl.
"Sophia wasn't mine!" he yelled andCarol flinched away.
Another cry. Not Sophia's. A baby cry.
A cry without a face amidst the helically whizzing images.
A real cry.
Life out of the kaleidoscope. Did this even exist?
In a whole different dimension light years away, in an another reality, another life, another world a baby was crying and a masculine shadow was leaning against the wall, blazing eyes transfixed on her.
Did she care? If Sophia was trapped inside this elaborate device, why would Carol ever consider escaping it?
The cry peaked into a wailing.
That baby again.
Right. Her baby.
Daryl's baby.
They needed her, they loved her; she couldn't abandon them.
But Sophia was stumbling out of the barn, her sapphire tee shirt blotched with dried blood, gaze milky and mouth growling. And Carol adored Sophia; all she wanted was to protect her, salvage her somehow even with great delay, even if it was beyond due time, even with switching places with her to redeem herself for being too weak when her daughter needed her, for growing strong and fearless just a tad too late.
Carol launched forward, but a steel arm around her waist rooted her in place. Another déjà vu. She didn't succumb to his superior stamina, though, not this time. She fought him off with everything she had because Sophia was right there, almost in arm's reach, staggering to reunite with her.
And the cry still echoed.
Her baby, her second chance, her hope; and the man who always stood between her and death, the man she loved.
Sophia wasn't his. If she was, nothing would have ever happened to her. And in retrospect, Carol deep down knew he wished she was.
But this baby was. And that meant nothing but hope for the three of them.
And it was too late to die in Sophia's place. Sophia was gone no matter what.
Carol could sacrifice herself into that fatal embrace and Sophia would still be dead.
But Daryl wasn't. The baby wasn't. She wasn't. They were very much alive, all three of them.
She was oscillating; divided, torn, indecisive between the great loves of her life.
Granted neither a shortcut to get to Sophia nor a detour around bereavement and excruciating pain, Carol knew that she couldn't cling to both worlds. Not anymore. Sophia, Daryl , the baby and her couldn't coexist in the same universe.
There was a choice to be made. A hard one; the hardest. Life versus death. Hope promising clean slates versus beloved ghosts in sedge-coated graves. Both bestowing different sorts of consolation, atonement, benediction.
She had to make her choice.
Either dying with Sophia or living with Daryl and the baby.
History versus hope.
xxxxx
A keen-edged spear scratched the inner side of her retinas, pupils burning up. The bright, fluorescent light of the infirmary kindling and shining upon her prone form. Carol levered her wilting lids with outlandish exertion in virtue of sheer desire, feeling stoned and light-headed, vision thinly-veiled through a blurry, warped mirror.
The first thing she noticed was the misshapen scheme of Daryl's outline across the room, hurrying to the door, wavering and talking indistinctly to someone. A cuckoo clock somewhere was ticking indolent seconds in a world where time bore no significance, jiggling the eerie silence of the interior. And that was the second thing she noticed; the dead stillness inside the infirmary. No baby cries jarred the atmosphere, not even the hollow breathing of a sleeping person. Muscles howled their stiffness and stupefied daze when Carol gritted her teeth, willing her limbs to move. She noticed the needle in her vein when she angled her elbows to prop her dead weight and hissed at the stabbing pain, eyes following the pellucid cord up to the IV bag dangling from the overhang next to the bed.
If there were sinister omens skulking in every sanitized surface of the chamber or just her pillaged mind swindling her, she couldn't discern. Scanning her bearings with escalating panic, she failed to word the brimming question, mouth too rusty to keep up with the wheels swirling override in her head when Daryl came in again, just a split second before she burst into tears.
"It's a girl," he announced huskily, resuming his previous stance against the wall, arms crossed and gaze blazing. "Healthy as a horse. Maggie will bring her in a minute. You were out through the night."
Exhaling the huge amount of air she had been withholding for far too long, Carol fell back on the pillows, heaving a few stabilizing breaths to clear her swimmy mind. "Daryl… What? Don't I get a hug and a kiss?" she joked faintly, eyeing him warily, and outstretched a hand.
He remained statue still, however, and said nothing in response, eyes skittering the opposite direction.
Dappled-grey rings were crowning the azure shadows of his gaze, indisputable emblems of lassitude and insomnia, and her heart clenched. "You realize that this is a very inappropriate moment to get mad at me, don't you?"
Chewing his lower lip, he tarried in his closemouthed ferment, casting a surreptitious peek at her.
He looked older, as if he had fast-tracked years of hardship and mincing agony overnight, the thin lines of his face deepened into curved, permanent wrinkles. "Ok, maybe I bordered on overly dramatic for a moment, I'll give you that, but you know me. I'm a drama queen, want your attention," she tried again, hand anticipating patiently.
Banging his head on the wall, Daryl snorted his sarcasm.
In the luck of any hint of success in coaxing him closer, she renounced her banter, too spent to prolong the otiose effort. "I promised to fight my damnedest and I kept my promise," Carol implored heatedly, fingers curling and unfurling, aching for his touch.
Squinting her way through a slit, he ran an exhausted hand across his face.
Her hand fell limply on her stomach and Carol shut her eyes again. "I'm so tired, Daryl," she maundered. "Please, come and be mad here." Before she could muster the mettle and stamina to say anything else, two vast arms were shoring her up, ensconcing her in a shielded nest and her racing heartbeat devolved into a normal pace. It was ridiculous how ripe to plunge into some sort of bleak despair she was, as if his feelings for her could be annihilated the moment she misbehaved. She was being an idiot, but a desperate idiot anyway.
With strength threatening to break all her bones, he snuggled her closer, nails plowing into the peanut green dotted garment of the hospital gown. "Fuck you, Carol," he bit out.
Despite her wooing shush, her voice rang weirdly distant when she snaked an arm through his smothering clinch, fingers twining through tousled strands of hair. "Yeah, I'm planning on getting back to that in no time. Screw around everywhere."
"Fuck you," he sputtered again, but there was a crack in his precarious composure and the bolstered dam crumbled under an unprecedented onslaught of whatever it was attacking him. No possible escape route for the dread tamped down there, towering inside him like a colossal tsunami raring to devour the last vestiges of sanity throbbing deep in his chest.
"I love you too, honey," she crooned, holding him tight in this artless hug while he was shuddering head to toe, jerking by consecutive electrical currents zapping him in and out. "I'm so sorry."
"Fuck you," he groaned one last time and drew back to frame her face, taking in the misty gaze staring back at him, the dented eyes and the black circles engulfing them, the ochre paleness of a blood drained body. Sighing, he wheezed an inward breath, whitish remnants of dried tears arraying in scattered, zigzag lanes down his face, overlapped with fresh ones as he struggled to come to terms with the plain fact that, as beaten as they both were, they had made it.
"I know, honey, I know. I didn't mean to scare you. I love you, too," Carol whispered, dainty fingers curling around his wrists. She was the lucky one, being unconscious all those long hours of creeping contingency whereas he was as sober and awake as it could possibly get, shackled into a dire default of 'what ifs' and hazardous probabilities. The only way to requite his undeserved and unjustifiable backlash was by exhibiting her unconditional love. Daryl was Daryl, he didn't know how to cope with fear and, most likely, never would learn. Rough around the edges, taciturn, clammed up, jostling skittishly when wounded and detained. And she hadn't done him any favors in the last twenty-four hours, she knew. She would be angry, too, if he kept trying to die on her with that impeccable persistence that had grown into one of her more identifiable traits every moment she left him unsupervised. "I told you, you fool. I'm nowhere near done with you yet."
"Good."
He wanted to tell that if someday she was really done and over with him, he'd rather she was merciful enough to never say a word and slit his throat while he slept instead. He wanted to tell her that he had already dug a grave to bury her once, a grave that in virtue of an exceptional blast of serendipity had stayed vacant until he weeded out the wooden cross and scuffed the shoveled clay. He wanted to tell her that mourning her loss once was too much for a man to bear and he had no idea how to survive that twice. He wanted to tell her that he intended to go search the woods for a Cherokee rose to put in a bottle on her nightstand, but didn't dare to leave from fear that she'd snatch the opportunity to slip away from him in the meanwhile. He wanted to tell her that she had never been more beautiful and he had never loved her more than that precise moment when she dabbed the wet trails of tears in his face, smiling and crying in sync like a midday sun melting away in the sky with an outlandish glory, and their mutual yearning soared in the air between them. Only he couldn't verbalize any of it, nothing vocal about a pain running too deep.
"It's ok, I know," she solaced nobly, cutting him off amidst his melee with fleeting words. "You can tell me later."
"Good," Daryl soughed. "Good." When he kissed her it wasn't the usual insatiable urge that steered most of his passionate advances, tugging her along in a roaring arena where two gladiators crossed their swords in a duel to vie for dominance. It was more of a feathery kiss, mouths hovering and lingering, lips grazing together to savor each other's scent and taste as Carol kept whispering soothing reassurances and he kept nodding mutely.
The light thump of approaching steps and a merry chat between Maggie and Glenn rounded the corridor and Daryl leapt on his feet, hastily walking away to wipe his eyes with his back turned to the entrance. There was definitely no reason for the pair to add their names to the long list of people who had already witnessed him weeping earlier.
Two bright faces entered, a baby cradled securely in both their arms. Their daughter and HJ. Glenn hushed them all, pointing at the sleeping forms as Maggie approached Carol, offering her the baby but was turned down by a wild shake of her head.
"No, no. I can't yet." Too weak. She was still too weak physically and the fear of dropping and hurting her precious daughter paralyzed her limbs even worse.
Reassuring her that it was fine, Maggie stooped closer so that Carol could see her baby, but Daryl cringed at the way she refused to hold it and returned next to her, studying her facial expressions. However, much to his appeasement, she looked hands down hypnotized.
"We're up for some huge competition between Jude and this little princess about the most beautiful girl around," Maggie whispered with a wide smile. "But you can say she's a heartbreaker. My poor HJ…" Dismissing the unsolicited gratitude with a light sway of her head when Carol choked out a barely audible 'thank you', Maggie went on, her smile broadening even more. "Carol, you just met Hope."
"Hope?" Glancing up at Daryl, she clasped his hands and pulled him nearer, watery eyes searching his with enigmatic inquiry.
"Daryl came up with her name."
"You hate it?" he rasped in a state of palpable agitation.
"I love it!" Carol grinned at him, bringing his knuckles to her mouth. "Sounds just like her." Her warm praise for his initiative hurled a wave of ecstatic joy in his gut and, despite the physical proximity of the two other people and the scorching crimson slithering on his skin, he crouched over and kissed her head until his ears charred, red as a rooster's comb.
"You know, Daryl," Glenn's voice percolated the ivory tower of their intimate moment, tone frolicking with shafts of good-hearted humor. "I half expected her to come out with a mini crossbow on her back. I'm kinda disappointed in you, buddy."
"Better watch that mouth of yours, smartass, or she'll be practicing shots on your ass," he half-huffed, half-growled in mock belligerence.
"My son will protect me," Glenn jibed pompously, motioning to the flaked out and slightly snoring HJ in his arms and Daryl scoffed his contempt.
"Your son, my ass. All of you Rhees can go pack your shit and move into another cell block and make sure that kid never stomps into my daughter."
They all chuckled in unison and Carol's gaze darted around, realizing that it was the first time she really observed the Asian man since his and Maggie's arrival when she noticed the shiner wreathing his left eye. "Glenn, what happened to your eye?"
Her concerned interrogation ignited a breeze of nervous fidgeting in all her companions. Maggie stared at her laced hands, Glenn swallowed hard and focused on HJ striving for the right words and Carol's eyes instinctively flicked back on Daryl who was mangling his impaired thumbnail with remarkable scholasticism.
"Let's- Let's just say that you gave us a good scare and it was touch and go for a while," Glenn mumbled defensively. "Your redneck over there nearly lost his mind worrying himself sick and we all did some pretty reckless stuff and- and-"
His fumbling slur knotted up in a very inarticulate stuttering and Carol read between the lines of the subtext, easily connecting the dots. "And you had… an accident?"
"My fault entirely," Glenn asserted matter-of-factly, grabbing the opportunity to sidestep the topic with both hands, a tint of plea twisting his tone.
Carol cocked her head to meet Daryl's gaze but he was completely unresponsive, too preoccupied pouting and frowning at his boots with the thumb still snared between his teeth and she turned to Glenn again. "I'm sorry I scared you, honey," she said sympathetically, attempting to include all the reasons for her apologies in one thankful look. "And I'm sorry you were reckless enough to apparently go and bust your face somewhere." Daryl's fist, that was. "But thank you for not leaving Daryl alone." Or his fist.
Glenn winked at her and she knew that no more explanations were required for the victim of Daryl's berserk spree, not to the man who had wrestled walkers with his bare hands to protect Maggie and their newborn child during the walker attack two months ago. A silent understanding linked their rag tag family seamlessly.
"We'll give you some privacy," Maggie offered and stood up, not knowing what to do with the baby in her arms.
Daryl let go of Carol's hand, walking over to where the girl stood. "Give her to me," he said, bending his knees until the baby was comfortably settled in his arms. He closed the infirmary's door noiselessly behind the couple and inspected Carol quizzically, still mulling over her previous reluctance to hold it, but she was regarding him with a dreamy glimpse in her eyes, taking in the image of him wobbling the tiny creature dazzle-eyed, as if witnessing a magical show. "What?"
Vaguely registering the question addressed to her, Carol eased back on the pillows, never peeling her gaze off the two persons she worshipped with every cell of her frail body. What a visual feast they provided… He, with that sublime muscular constitution, beautiful, honorable, dauntless and invincible; and their baby, sleeping peacefully in the cradle of his arms, so Lilliputian wrapped around a pinkish blanket that it'd look like a stain on his shirt from a longer distance. If she wasn't completely spent, her ovaries would have exploded with a deafening clamor.
"I just wish I had a camera," she beamed at him and Daryl grinned back, gazes locked.
Nothing could threaten their baby; nothing. Because she'd die before the slightest menace reached that child and because nothing, nothing, would ever get past Daryl. She was confident now that a long life was spreading ahead of their baby and the sole purpose of their life would be to guard and ensure this simple fact. That and desperately loving each other with the mate devotion they shared and had now expanded naturally to envelop their daughter.
Family –they were family. There were no delusions about their status. She and Daryl weren't Maggie and Glenn; there would be no wedding, no ceremony, no formalities, meaningful or meaningless whatsoever since any kind of behavioral and societal norms ricocheted off them. They could never be another version of the younger couple. Too much history. Too many years, decades of abuse loomed their shadow over them. Too much past. And Sophia's loss; a death they both considered as their respective ludicrous fiasco. They weren't molded from the same material normal people were, not in the conventional connotations; they were Daryl and Carol, too large to be limited within any definitions. But they were family nevertheless. Long before she brought their daughter in life, long before her pregnancy, they were soul mates, laced together intrinsically in an unbreakable bond.
An awakening mewl shattered their silent exchange and two set of eyes drifted to the stirring body in Daryl's embrace as he moved to Carol's side, scooting next to her and lowering the baby so that she could lean over it.
"Hi, Hope. Hi, sweetheart," she whimpered. "I'm your mommy. I love you so much. And you've already met daddy. He loves you just as much."
Daryl nodded contemplatively, flashing out the erudite speech he gave at his first encounter with Hope and feeling a little humiliated and dumb. It wasn't his fault, though. Maybe his screw up, but surely not his fault. If Carol hadn't abandoned him alone to deal with that bewitching creature, he'd imitate her, whispering words of love instead of yapping like a chatter box about nutrition, punches and hurricanes.
"Yeah, that's our name, mommy," he said, voice hitching to duplicate a childish timbre. Almost listening to the rattle of words mauling up Carol's throat to form the unspoken question of how he came up with the name, he shook his head, watching everything evanescing right on the tip of her tongue. "Don't ask," he pleaded, his bloodshot eyes brimming again. Offering a tight-lipped smile in comprehension, she cupped his cheek with her free hand and stooped over Hope, unfolding her tiny fingers and showering each one of them with tender kisses. "Hold her," he ordered sternly.
"I can't," she murmured, voice wriggling with emotion. "Not yet."
But the superficial unwillingness failed to mask the glistening expectation flickering in her gaze or the tensed digits longing to touch the baby and suddenly it dawned on him that Carol wasn't rejecting their child, not like he had done. Her qualms had nothing to do with not wanting Hope in her life. Quite the contrary. She wanted her too much. So much that she dreaded hurting her, absurdly ranking the current situation with an irrational parallelism of how she failed Sophia. "Bullshit," he grunted and started gliding Hope in Carol's lap, elbowing the IV cord out of his way.
"Daryl, no," she exclaimed, arms looping around instinctively to shelter the precious cargo. "I'll drop her."
"Bullshit," he repeated in a stringent reprimand, stilling his hold on the baby and wrapping an arm around Carol's shoulders. "Come here." Carol was panting and quivering like hay flailing in a tempest as she secured her grip around Hope the same moment Daryl's arm slid beneath hers for support. "See? She's fine. I got you," he drawled softly, yet confidently in her ear. Hope was calm and cozy, scrutinizing Carol with conspicuous credence and steadfast faith. "She knows you."
A cage it was, his arms, his embrace locked around her; an unyielding, inescapable tether. Only not restraining. Nothing she was submissive to, nothing imprisoning her, trapping her into a compulsive suffocation. It was protective and liberating, propelling her forward to delve into longitudes and latitudes that made earth a tiny, trivial, blue dot, veered off any measurable context, out of proportion to what the common sense of a human brain could grasp and process. Not a prison, but rather an escape-free container, insinuating her from every peril and bestowing her infinite potential that only astronomical magnitudes could hurl. And so Carol relaxed and sank with Hope in the steel grapple of Daryl's body clamped around her, assured that he could brace their weight. All of it.
Too overwhelmed with emotion and with stifled sobs perforating her chest, Carol swallowed the lump that instantly bloated in her throat and lifted a shaky hand to caress her daughter. A soft tickle of her forefinger on Hope's fluffy neck and her daughter clutched it, releasing a groggy toot. "My baby," Carol whispered mesmerized, tears freely streaming down her face.
"She's eating twice as much as Jude did," Daryl whispered, pressing his lips on her temple. "And she'll be strong enough to beat the hell out of HJ before she even crawls."
"Already has you wrapped around her teeny tiny finger, hasn't she?"
"Learned from the best." It was nothing short of a miracle the sight of Carol interacting with their daughter, chanting sweet nothings and extracting enthusiastic reactions from the infant. When he stroked Hope's supple pleats of baby skin, it was coarse against soft, tanned against pale, sturdy against delicate; a match founded on contradiction. When Carol reiterated this identical movement, it was soft against soft, pale against pale, delicate against delicate and a torrent of sentiment rampaged his chest at this affinity founded on celestial harmony. No degree of eloquence sufficed to describe the injustice this world had done when Sophia was ripped away from her; Carol was meant to be a mother. And the fact that, ultimately, he was the one to give her that fulfillment, amped up his self-esteem, bequeathing to him an entirely new level of self-value. That was the only outstanding piece of masterstroke he ever recalled holding in such great prestige.
Turning to him, Carol regarded her man proudly, meeting his lips for a kiss. "Another Dixon," she whispered.
"The world's doomed now, in case there was any doubt left," he chuckled, eyelids flapping the dampness away. "Carl said she looks like you."
Hope tugged at Carol's gown, exigently demanding her parent's attention to flaunt the marvelous accomplishment of a spittle bubble puffing out of her rosy mouth. They both gawked at her with dumbfounded amazement and a simultaneous gasp when the bubble popped and Hope blinked. Daryl wiped his watery eyes off Carol's shoulder, but she didn't even bother to try –there was no drying out the avalanche of salty droplets drizzling from her eyelashes.
"He's right. She's beautiful," he smirked, noses nuzzling against each others. "Like you."
"No," Carol sniffled, gazing at him tenderly. "She has your eyes."
"Poor kid."
"Why? You're cute."
"Stawp," Daryl chided, scowling into the infamous Dixon countenance."Men ain't cute."
"I'd say handsome, but I'm afraid you'll get cocky and go find a knockout blonde half my age," she teased, eyes flicking back to Hope who had just let out a labored moan.
"Pfff," he scoffed. "Quit tauntin' me, will you?"
Carol laughed. "Don't keep your hopes high just yet."
"Shit."
She cracked up when Daryl whiffed the air like a hound, nose scrunched up at the revolting stench. "What the fuck is that smell?" he asked with utter disgust.
Oh, well, that gave me hell to write! Hope you liked it :) Next story will be the penultimate one and posted really, really soon!
Hey, just 6 days left, hiya! Caryl on!
