AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Carol thanked Daryl as he opened the truck door and helped her out. She didn't need help, really, but she leaned on his arm anyway and thanked him before hugging him as soon as the door was closed.
She didn't need help, but he wanted to help and, after having a husband who hadn't even wanted to be kind to her very often, Carol knew the importance of the gesture.
Daryl appreciated all of it, and he nuzzled her face before kissing her, not caring at all if anyone else in the parking lot saw them or thought they shouldn't be quite so affectionate outside of the little Christmas tree lot that popped up once a year well outside Living Springs' city limits.
The old man that ran the stand had run it every year for as long as Carol could remember. She didn't know him—not personally—but she knew of him, as did everyone in Living Springs. She hung back with Daryl while they waited for the two families that had arrived just as they'd gotten there to have a moment to speak to the old man. He liked to help people find trees—the perfect tree—and, from what Carol had been told, that was really part of the experience of buying a live tree in Living Springs.
Carol and Daryl, both, were willing to wait on the full experience.
Finally, when it was their turn and the others had cleared out—with Daryl helping one man load the Christmas tree that he'd chosen for his family—Daryl and Carol had stepped forward to get the attention of the jolly old man.
Clyde Burrows. He offered the name as he offered his hand, first to Carol and then to Daryl.
"I'm Daryl," Daryl said. "And this is my wife, Carol."
Clyde nodded. There was a certain twinkle in his eye—a Christmas twinkle, Carol thought, laughing to herself at the overly-poetic thought that flitted across her mind. If he'd had a long beard, instead of the short white one that he sported, he would have looked just like the rosy-cheeked depictions of Santa Clause that Carol remembered from the old Coca Cola signs.
"We—uh—this is our first Christmas," Daryl said. "And—we got us a baby comin', too. Our own kinda Christmas miracle."
Carol bit her bottom lip. She hadn't expected to be so abrupt with their life story, but she had told Daryl that she wanted him to handle everything. She wanted him to have absolutely the most perfect Christmas tree buying experience that anyone ever had—so many movies, after all, showed the careful purchase of that perfect tree. Carol knew she'd be happy with anything that Daryl picked out—and she knew that he'd pick out the most perfect tree on the lot—so she mostly wanted him to have this exactly as he had always envisioned it, in his daydreams, while he'd watched his Christmas-themed movies and dreamed about this moment.
If he wanted to tell their whole story, Carol was willing to let him.
If Clyde Burrows, who'd insisted that they call him Clyde despite the fact he could possibly be a grandfather to either of them, was surprised by the story, he didn't show it. Perhaps everyone gave too many personal details when buying a Christmas tree.
He simply renewed his smile—warm and welcoming—and turned his attention more to Carol than to Daryl. She felt her face run warm with the attention when both Daryl and Clyde were smiling at her.
"Well—congratulations…how 'bout that? That sure is…it's sure a thing, isn't it? A real…big thing. A good thing," Clyde had mused. "I never had any children. My wife—God rest her soul—and I had hoped for them, but…it wasn't in the cards. I do love children, though. Such a blessing."
Carol thanked him for the words that, she was sure, were heartfelt. Just his tone and the sincerity of his smile and the little shake that he gave her hand—a second one, now, as though he were sealing in his words somehow—made Carol's chest tighten. She held Daryl's hand, and she barely heard another word as she followed Daryl and Clyde.
Daryl told Clyde his specifications—how tall the tree should be, or thereabouts, and how full it should be. Clyde led Daryl through the lot and showed him a couple of trees, but finally said that he was certain he had the perfect one.
Carol didn't know if the tree was perfect or not, but she was almost certain that Daryl's eyes lit up a little when he saw it. She'd tightened her grip on his hand and hugged his arm. He'd smiled at her and leaned to kiss her forehead. Rather than appear horrified at the excess of affection there among his Christmas trees, Clyde's smile had only brightened. He'd invited them back to pay for the tree, knowing already that was the one that Daryl would take, and he'd led them back to the area where his little register was set up.
Daryl counted out the bills for the tree—Clyde only took cash, something that was advertised on the painted wooden sign that popped up with the arrival of his trees each year—and Clyde thanked him for the extra that he slipped in as a Christmas "bonus."
Behind Clyde was a table filled with tiny trees—scraggly, crooked, practically naked, or otherwise "damaged." Despite their obvious shortcomings and general undesirability, Clyde, Carol assumed, now that she knew he was a widower, had fixed each of them a little stand. They were advertised as selling for five dollars. He turned around, studied his own table of tiny trees, and selected one. He held it out to Carol. She furrowed her brow at him in question and he smiled.
"A gift," he said. "A little Christmas tree for your little miracle."
Carol couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to do so. She couldn't even mutter a thanks or a refusal. If anyone had told her, just a year ago, that she'd shed tears over a damaged little Charlie Brown Christmas tree, she might have called them crazy. The tears, though, were warm as they slid down her cheeks.
Clyde looked concerned, and she couldn't even wave that away. Daryl, luckily, took care of that for her. He dropped an arm around Carol.
"Don't worry," he said. "She—uh—leaks like that, sometimes." He laughed to himself and Clyde looked relieved. "It ain't a bad thing. Just—happens these days. Baby and all. And—it means we appreciate it, but…let me pay you for it."
Clyde waved it away.
"It's a Christmas gift," Clyde said. "And not very much of one. The little trees aren't much of an attraction. But—they'll never make anything that I can sell, and…I do hate to just throw them away. They're not perfect, but they are God's creations." He winked at Carol. "Just like all the little blessings. Come on—I'll help you bind that tree."
Carol stood, holding the little tree, and waiting for Daryl to load their purchase in the truck. Before she left, she was finally able to say a less-sloppy thanks to Clyde as Daryl helped her into the truck and passed her the little tree to hold for safe keeping.
When they were in the truck and headed home, Daryl slipped a hand over and caught Carol's hand.
"You like the tree alright?"
"It's beautiful," Carol assured him.
"You like that little tree, don't you?"
"I love it," Carol said.
"Our Sprout's got himself a tree now," Daryl said. "You gonna cry about it again?"
"I might," Carol said, laughing to herself since she did feel her throat tightening and the tears welling up in her eyes.
"That's alright, then," Daryl said. "Long as it's the good kind."
"It's the good kind," Carol said, letting out the breath she'd sucked in to try to calm herself. "It's—I think this is the first gift that we've gotten…if I remember correctly. We didn't really have wedding gifts or…and it's Sprout's first Christmas tree."
"We skipped all that stuff," Daryl mused. "Merle and Andrea, too. I reckon that you an' Andrea could still have like a wedding shower or whatever they call it, right? Where you get wedding gifts?"
"They don't do those for people our age," Carol said. "I mean—we all have pretty much everything we need. It's not like we were without towels, or plates…or whatever. We did skip it, though. You missed your bachelor's party. Merle, too." Daryl hummed. "You could—still have one, if you wanted. It might be nice for the two of you. Maybe you ought to have that. I mean—for the experience? I could—turn a blind eye to a…stripper…or something…just this once." Even as she said it, she felt sick. Honestly, she hated the idea of Daryl looking at another woman—even if that woman was just doing her job and wasn't interested in him at all—but she wouldn't tell him that. If it was something he might decide he wanted, she'd support it.
Daryl squeezed her hand in response.
"Nah," he said. "I don't want no—party. At least not that kinda party. And I don't want no stripper."
"I thought every man liked strippers," Carol said, her insides slightly untangling themselves.
"Maybe they do," Daryl said. "But I got no interest in seein' no woman get naked for me except for you." He turned and smirked at her across the truck cab. "You could be my stripper, if you wanted. But—we ain't invitin' Merle. It's like a private show."
Carol smiled to herself. Her face ran hot.
"You've seen me naked, Daryl," Carol said.
"So? I liked it, too. Wanna see it again. There ain't a single time I see you naked that I don't get turned on and think…hell, even then, that I can't wait until the next time I get to see you naked."
"Asshole," Carol teased. "You don't have to flatter me. I wasn't fishing for compliments."
"And I weren't panderin' to your ass, neither," Daryl said. Carol scoffed at him and he laughed. "What? You don't believe me? Look here…" He brought her hand over and rested it over the clear evidence of his erection. "He don't lie, and his ass can't be bribed. If he ain't into it, he ain't into it…and if he is? There ain't shit gonna stop him from showin' his interest because he don't listen to me for shit."
Carol snorted at his description of things.
"You really want me to strip for you?" Carol asked, pulling her hand back.
"Hell yeah, I do," Daryl said. Immediately, he moved his thumb to his mouth to gnaw at his cuticle. "I mean—if you want to…you don't gotta do it."
"I don't know how to do it," Carol said. "I mean—not like a professional or anything."
Daryl laughed to himself and shrugged his shoulders.
"Like I give a shit? You'll be the best damn stripper there ever was. At least for me. I can guarantee that."
Carol's heart beat fast and her face ran hot. She was intrigued by the idea, flattered by Daryl's clear desire for this, but she also felt a little bashful and embarrassed. Why should she feel that way, though? There was no shame, she reasoned, in stripping for her husband's pleasure—and, no doubt, for her own as well.
"OK," Carol said.
"OK?" Daryl asked.
"OK," Carol confirmed.
"Like you really gonna do it?"
"If you want me to…"
Daryl smile made it clear that he did, indeed, really want her to do so.
"When?" He asked.
"When we get home?"
"We'll set the tree up first," Daryl said. "Just—so it don't get the droops. Get it in the stand since I already got all that set up an' get it watered."
"While you're working on that," Carol said. "If you don't really need my help, I could change."
"I can handle that," Daryl said.
"But—what'll my stripper name be, Daryl? Strippers always have a name like…Candy. Something…themed."
"Fuck Candy," Daryl said. "You're Carol."
"That's not a very good stripper name, Daryl," Carol said, pretending to scold him. He smiled to himself and reached for her hand. She let him have it and he kissed it.
"Christmas Carol," Daryl said. "You my lil' Christmas Carol…the hottest damn stripper outta the North Pole." He looked at her only long enough to wink at her before he returned his eyes to the road.
"Christmas Carol?" Carol said, laughing to herself. Daryl hummed. Carol's face ached from smiling and, looking at Daryl, she couldn't help but imagine that he might feel the same.
"And when you done? I got a Christmas tree for you…no…shit…that don't…that's not good. I got some Christmas wood, any damn way. I don't know how to fix that. Make it sexy."
"A yule log?" Carol offered. Her face ached more. The teasing and the puns were terrible, and both of them might choke on their laughter over them, but it was fun—and Carol loved the fun as much as anything else, when she was with Daryl.
"I'ma deck your halls, how about that?" Daryl offered. Carol laughed.
"You want me to—jingle your bells? Since I'm your ho, ho, ho?"
"Shit," Daryl said. His face was crimson, but he didn't look like he minded too much. "Shit—this is terrible…fuck…I don't wanna…hold on…I got somethin'. I don't wanna see you in nothin' but your Christmas stockings."
"I can't wait to—open the present you've got for me," Carol said. She coughed, choking slightly on nothing more than saliva.
"You OK?" Daryl asked.
"I'm fine—I got strangled. Your turn."
"I'm out," Daryl said. "I can't come up with no more. Gotta admit, though. I'm so damn excited about all of it, that I can't wait to get you home."
"I know," Carol agreed. "I can't wait to get tangled up in the tinsel with you."
Carol winked at him when he cut his eyes in her direction and smiled. She laughed to herself and, squeezing his fingers tight between hers, she held the little tree and looked out the window—practically counting the miles until they got home.