AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
As I have said previously, and I'll say it again for those that are just dropping in, I've updated this one a bit in the past few days (since I've been really involved with it), so you might want to go back and make sure that you haven't skipped any chapters. This one, for instance, is the second one today.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.
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Daryl practically plastered himself against the wall in the waiting room. Every time Carol asked him to sit with her, he shook his head quickly and sharply and remained with his back to the wall, right beside a table that displayed pamphlets and magazines.
He was clearly uncomfortable, and Carol wished he hadn't come. She didn't like seeing him uncomfortable. But he'd insisted on coming, and the information she'd only half been able to listen to when the nurse had called her that morning—while she'd been trying to get Sophia out of the car at school—had made it sound like it would probably be easier if he at least attended Carol's intake appointment.
Carol could see why. After she had her temperature taken and her blood pressure, weight, and height recorded, she had to fill out a veritable novel of paperwork. The appointment was about her, but the paperwork was about both of them. To keep Daryl from having to sit against his will, and to keep him from having to yell out personal information across the room, Carol finally decided to drag a chair over to sit beside him while he stood and pretended to be reading pamphlets on breastfeeding and birth options.
When Daryl saw her get up, he scrambled forward, and when he realized what she was doing, he dragged the chair over to the wall so that she could sit near him.
"Is there any particular reason you don't want to sit?" Carol asked quietly.
Daryl looked around.
"Everybody in here's pregnant," he said.
Carol laughed to herself.
"That's kind of the idea," Carol said. "Either you are or—well, if you're here, you are or you're hoping to be. I guess that's how it works."
"Yeah—but it's just about full in here and if they run outta seats? I'd just as soon stand up," Daryl said.
"There are still chairs," Carol said.
"I'm comfortable where the hell I am, Carol," Daryl said.
Carol accepted that Daryl didn't want to sit and she didn't push the point any further. She asked him if he wanted to fill out his information, or if he'd rather dictate it to her, and he chose to stand beside her and answer things for her to scribble information into the forms. She'd barely turned in the forms, each containing as much information as either of them were capable of giving, before a nurse came to call her back.
Daryl moved her chair back to the circle of pregnant women before he followed her, head somewhat bowed, through the small maze in the back of the office area.
"Right in here," the woman said, pulling a flag beside a door. "There's a gown on the table. You can go ahead and get completely undressed. Dr. Fannigan will be in as soon as possible."
Carol thanked the nurse and went into the room. Daryl followed her inside and closed the door.
Being in the office started her heart thumping rapidly in her chest. Suddenly the whole thing seemed very real whereas, before, it had been a bit more like some kind of daydream or something that she could imagine, but it wasn't really going to happen. Now she was in the doctor's office, surrounded by equipment and the smell of a wholly sterile environment.
"What do I do?" Daryl asked.
Carol smiled to herself. It was hard to feel nervous when it was clear how out of place Daryl was feeling.
"You can leave, you know," Carol offered. "I promise—I'll be fine. I appreciate you coming. Helping with the paperwork. I even appreciate that you wanted to be here, but you don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable."
"Might need somethin', didn't you say?" Daryl asked.
"Sit in that chair," Carol said, directing him. He did sit and she started to undress. She was aware he was watching her as she undressed and folded her clothes. She let him watch. He might as well get something out of the torture she was putting him through. "They might need some information. I don't know how in-depth they get but—I guess they might need some samples."
"Samples?" Daryl asked. "Like—piss in a cup? Blood samples?"
Carol hummed.
"Or they might need to—look at your stuff," Carol said. She had Daryl's attention, but not necessarily in a good way. "Relax," she said. "They'd give you a cup, probably. A dirty magazine. Tell you to go—do your thing. Just to make sure it's me that's got the problem."
"What if it ain't you that's got some kinda problem?" Daryl asked. "You got Sophia. I don't got no kids." Carol's stomach churned in response. She found she couldn't say anything. Daryl stood up. "Come here," he said. "Let me tie your gown?"
"It doesn't matter if it's tied," Carol said. "He's going to be—moving it around."
"Then—just let me kiss you?" Daryl requested. Carol smiled to herself and accepted that. Daryl rubbed her face when he pulled out of the kiss. The skin on his hands was rough and it scratched, but she'd come to find the feeling pleasant. "No matter what he says, it don't matter, OK? We just here to listen to options. That's all. But no matter what he says—about neither one of us an' what kinda problems we got—it don't matter."
"I love you," Carol offered.
"Good," Daryl said. "Because I love you, too. And I'm gonna love you no matter what the hell they got to tell us in here. Now—what the hell is all this shit? Looks like medieval torture devices."
Carol laughed and got onto the table to wait. She watched as Daryl walked around, examining everything in the room. She told him, more than once, not to touch anything and, for the most part, he listened.
"You get all spread eagle in these things?" Daryl asked, toying with the stirrups after Carol explained their use.
"Leave those alone, please?" Carol asked.
"Ask 'em where we can get some," Daryl said. "Mount 'em up right there on the bed at home." He laughed to himself. "Stop you from closin' your thighs on my head like you do sometimes when it gets good."
"And what'll Sophia think?" Carol asked. "When she comes in and sees that in our room?"
"That it's a fuckin' jungle gym," Daryl said. "And we won't never tell her no damn different, neither."
Carol was still laughing at Daryl when the door opened and a man who looked to barely be in his forties came through the door with some papers under his arm. Daryl recovered quickly, and did his best to look like he just happened to be standing around. He stuck a hand out, immediately, toward the doctor.
"Dr. James Fannigan," the doctor said.
"Daryl Dixon," Daryl offered. "And this is Carol."
"Carol Peletier," Carol said, extending a hand toward the doctor. He smiled at her warmly and shook her hand.
"But—not for long," Daryl said. The doctor looked at him and Daryl's face ran a little red. He headed quickly for his chair in the corner. "She—I mean—she ain't gonna be Peletier for long. Gonna be Dixon. Like me."
"We're engaged," Carol offered.
"I wasn't going to judge either way," Dr. Flannigan assured them. He pulled a stool near Carol and sat down. He looked through the folder he brought with him, making notes with a pen as he did. Carol tried to peek to see what any of it might say, but she couldn't see much. It looked like a terribly thick folder for her first visit, but then she remembered how much information she and Daryl had filled out. "OK—I know you already answered these, but I just have a couple of quick questions for you and I'd like to—I'd like to examine you just to…see you for myself."
Carol nodded her acceptance and the man got up. He started from the top, examining her eyes, nose, throat, and ears. His inspection of her body felt normal. Typical. Like a doctor trying to get to know his patient for the first time, and Carol quickly relaxed under his touch. She answered a few basic health questions before diving into thick of things.
"You've been pregnant before," he said. "According to your paperwork."
"Twice," Carol said. "I have a five-year-old daughter, Sophia."
"And the other terminated."
Carol hummed her agreement. He moved her gown aside and worked his way down her body. She moved as he asked her to move, and she lie back when he asked her to lie back, so that he could press around to his heart's content. He spent a long amount of time simply poking and prodding and feeling what she imagined to be every one of her internal organs and, honestly, perhaps a few that she didn't even realize she had.
"Everything looks good," Dr. Fannigan offered. "Great. If I could get you to put your feet in the stirrups? Move down to the end of the table."
"See—here's where I start to get nervous," Carol said, even as she moved.
He was already switching on his machine and moving things around. He moved some distance off, then, and washed his hands in a sink before he came back and took some gloves from a box.
He smiled at her.
"There's no reason to be nervous. I'm as gentle as I can be. Your—fiancé is welcome to join us," Dr. Fannigan said. "Hold your hand, if you like."
Carol looked at Daryl. For a moment he looked like he wasn't sure if they were talking about him, but then he hopped up and crossed the room quickly to grab her hand. She squeezed his hand back as a thanks.
"Have you ever had a transvaginal ultrasound?" Dr. Fannigan asked.
Carol hummed in the negative.
"It allows us to see things a little bit clearer than an abdominal ultrasound," Dr. Fannigan said. "Especially in situations where we're not sure exactly where we are in the progression of things. According to the date you put down for your last menstrual cycle, you should be somewhere around the eight-week point. If that's the case, especially after palpitating your abdomen, I'd like the opportunity to have a clearer look at things—just to be sure of what we're dealing with."
Carol's heart was pounding. She was almost certain her hand must be sweaty in Daryl's. She didn't remember what she'd put down for her last period. She wasn't even sure if it was accurate. If she'd written down anything remotely close to the actual date, and she was eight weeks past her period as he'd suggested, she could understand his concern. And, really, that understanding only sent her anxiety into overdrive. If she hadn't had a period in eight weeks, it had to be something like early menopause, and there was likely nothing he could do to remedy the situation.
When she snatched herself out of her anxiety, though, he was trying to get her attention. She'd drifted. She'd missed something, and he'd asked her a question. The only thing she could do was ask him to repeat himself.
"I was simply explaining that the wand is covered with a condom," he said. "You may feel a little pressure, but nothing should feel painful. If you feel any pain at all, please let me know."
Carol hummed her understanding and Daryl leaned close to her.
"I don't want'cha to be scared," he hissed through tightly clenched teeth, "but your nails are so deep in in the top of my hand that you tearin' off the skin."
Carol whispered an apology and purposefully released some of the pressure behind the hold she had on Daryl's hand. She closed her eyes as the doctor got everything situated to begin the ultrasound. She did feel some discomfort, but she was more than aware of the fact it was probably due her anxiety and the fact that she was so tense. If she could relax, even a little bit, she felt like she'd be comfortable.
She focused on breathing more than anything.
"How confident, Carol, were you on the dates that you provided?" Dr. Fannigan asked.
"What?" Carol asked.
"How confident are you about the dates that you provided? I'm mostly asking because—I guess I was thrown for a loop, if I'm being honest," Dr. Fannigan said. "When Dr. Walker and I spoke, I prepared for this to be primarily an introductory fertility meeting."
"We're here to hear our options," Daryl said firmly and abruptly. It sounded like he'd been practicing the command for a good while.
"Your options?" Dr. Fannigan asked.
Carol purposefully squeezed Daryl's hand this time.
"Daryl—let the doctor speak?" Carol urged. "He'll tell us everything we need to know. Dr. Fannigan?"
"There is the sac," Dr. Fannigan said, looking at the screen where he could interpret whatever results he was finding. "What I was going to say is that I apologize for things being so disorganized. I prepare differently for different kinds of appointments. When I spoke to Dr. Walker, I was under the impression that I was preparing for an introductory fertility meeting. But then when I got your results, I realized that I must have heard her wrong. And the lab didn't return anything until this morning so it's been a bit of scramble to get everything ready. Your labs look good. You look healthy. My only concern, really, is that you're reporting that you should be in the eight-week mark, so I'm concerned if there's some discrepancy in actual development. That's why I was asking about your confidence in the dates that you wrote."
Carol could hear the doctor speaking, but she couldn't understand what he was saying. At least, on a conscious level, she felt like she couldn't understand him. She also felt, though, like she was practically floating somewhere outside of her body.
"I don't know dates," she said.
"I beg your pardon?" He asked.
"I just—wrote down dates. I don't know dates. What's that?"
Carol's heart kicked into high gear and she sat up as much as her current position would allow. Flicking her eyes quickly around the room told her that everyone was on a slightly different channel than everyone else. Dr. Fannigan looked confused and a little flustered—from what she could tell, too much had been changed on him too quickly. Daryl was holding her hand, but he was no longer with her. He was leaned forward, squinting at the machine like he was trying to make out something that was written there in very fine print.
And Carol's heart was pounding as her brain sat and sorted through everything she'd heard the whole day and ignored.
It remembered the nurse speaking to her on the phone, that morning, about her labs. But she hadn't really heard the woman because she had been sure she wouldn't understand, and the nurse hadn't used plain language that would slap Carol in the face. Beyond that, Carol had been focused on getting her five-year-old out of the car and into the school while she tried to listen to the nurse on her cell phone. She had, most assuredly, missed a few things.
She remembered the nurse at the counter talking about her maternity paperwork. She remembered at least a half a dozen mentions of a baby since she'd spoken to the first nurse that morning. But she'd assumed, each and every step of the way, that they were hopeful people who believed in positive vibes. She'd believed the baby that they mentioned was one that they hoped to help her conceive.
But now she was looking at the screen.
"This is your baby," Dr. Fannigan said. "It's measuring at six weeks and—about three days. But that is not consistent with the dates you provided."
"I made them up," Carol said. "The dates. I just—made them up because I didn't think it mattered. That's—are you sure that's…"
Dr. Fannigan laughed to himself.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You seem very surprised. Were you not informed when my nurse called you this morning? She was supposed to make sure that you knew, and that you were prepared for the appointment."
"I wasn't paying attention," Carol said. "I knew we were coming and—I had Sophia and other things on my mind. Oh—please—it wasn't her fault. I just…Daryl? Do you…do you see?"
Daryl was still squinting at the screen, holding her hand, and she wasn't sure if he was even breathing.
"What is it?" He asked finally.
"It's a baby," Carol said. He looked at her and blanched just a little.
"All ready?" He asked. Carol nodded. "He's pretty damn good."
Carol laughed and, luckily, Dr. Fannigan laughed as well.
"Dr. Walker said you needed my help," he said. "I don't suppose anyone has called her yet to tell her that I'm just intaking you as a regular patient. Of course—if you'd rather go somewhere else…"
"No," Carol said quickly. "No—please…but…you're sure it's…is it OK?"
"Now that I'm sure that the discrepancy was a problem in the dates and not a problem in development," Dr. Fannigan said, "I'm confident that it's developing as it should be. Here—do you see that? The flicker? That's the heartbeat. And when I do this—I'm going to measure it. You can hear it."
Carol could hear it, though she half forgot to listen because she still couldn't believe it wasn't some kind of elaborate joke.
"Is it beatin' OK?" Daryl asked.
"About one hundred and twenty-two beats a minute," Dr. Fannigan said. "Which is just about perfect for what we're looking at."
The doctor turned his attention to his notes for a moment, making a few quick notes as he worked.
Carol shook Daryl's hand until he looked at her. He stared at her a moment, furrowed his brow, and then leaned down close to her.
"What you frownin' for?" He asked.
"I'm sorry," Carol breathed out. "I didn't know. I didn't realize."
Daryl laughed to himself.
"Makes two of us," he said.
"Are you mad?" Carol asked.
She smiled to herself when her heart fluttered, ever so slightly, at Daryl's response. He smiled at her, lifted her hand to his lips, and just barely brushed his lips against her fingers.
"It's all good," he said. He winked at her and gestured toward the screen where the doctor was doing something with the primarily dark picture that represented something neither of them had expected to see. "Watch the movie."