AN: This is just a little one shot thanks to my "gumball" friend. LOL
I own nothing from The Walking Dead. All I own are my original characters and the original storylines, plot details, etc. that I bring to the stories.
There's a warning of discussion of miscarriage/pregnancy loss.
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
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It was going to be perfect. It was going to be the greatest Christmas of Daryl's life—of their life.
They had been married seven years.
They had been seven wonderful years, too, that they had shared between them. They had been seven years full of love. Carol had married Daryl after a marriage that, in more ways than one, had nearly killed her. Daryl had married Carol after a life that had almost entirely convinced him that he was neither capable of giving nor receiving—or even, really, deserving—love. They hadn't healed each other, exactly—that was the sort of thing that belonged to fairy tales—but they'd found true love, acceptance, and happiness with each other and, with those things, they were healing themselves, together.
They dreamed of building a family together. They hoped and prayed for the "our family is growing" type of announcements that they saw other people post all over social media. They wanted baby booties, and showers, and birth announcements. They dreamed about little league, and ballet, and horseback riding lessons, and even teen angst to come. They were ready for sleepless nights and dirty diapers—and every wonderful little thing that growing their family would bring.
And after a total of what was probably a dump truck load of pregnancy tests, they'd had the promise that they would, indeed, have the little one that they were hoping to have in their lives.
Daryl had stayed with Carol the night, in the bathroom floor, when they'd started the mourning for a little life that had only just begun. Maybe there hadn't even been a heartbeat. Maybe the baby hadn't even known it had been there—but they had.
The precious second promise that there would be some kind of light at the end of it all had made some small move toward healing their broken hearts. Careful and cautious, they'd told nobody—not even Daryl's brother and Carol's best friend—about their hidden little blessing. They had nurtured it quietly and privately, showering it with love and the best wishes for a future that they had to give it.
Carol had taken the day off from work after they'd had to say goodbye, and Daryl had too. It had lasted longer than the first—but not by too much. Not by enough, not at all. The burial had been largely ceremonial, between the two of them, and the little stone had been purchased from a pet specialty store in town where the man who had made the stone had assumed, perhaps, that "Angel"—since the baby had known no other name—was a beloved dog or cat. Maybe that was why the man hadn't questioned, at all, why Carol had nearly broken down as Daryl had approved the carefully carved stone piece and carried it out to the car.
Love and the need to share it, maybe, was what had pushed them to put their names on the list, and to accept a future that looked a little different than they'd thought it would, but which was still bright. They'd been chosen quickly—so quickly that Carol had thought her heart would burst when they got the call, and Daryl had very nearly fainted.
But it was Carol's broken heart, and Daryl's inability to stand seeing her heart broken again, that had taken their names right back off the list when they'd both put on the bravest face they could and handed over the thirteen-month-old baby girl that had spent seven months with them. They had, of course, understood that it was a blessing that she was being reunited with her mother. They understood that reunification was the goal, and that it was the best thing for the baby girl.
But Carol's broken mother's-heart had not understood, at all, the things that her brain understood, and Daryl—the strongest man that Carol had ever known, in more ways than one—was not strong enough to stand seeing her lose again. Not like that.
Their names had come off the list.
And the empty room of their house had become little more than a junk room where things sometimes went to never been seen or heard from again. In the room, the wooden furniture they'd bought for the nursery was still there. The few things left from that time were still there. They existed, perhaps, as a monument to a dream they'd both abandoned.
Carol had almost felt sick the whole time she'd very quietly cleaned the room up in private. Of course, it had comforted her to remind herself that there might be reasons that she felt like it was hard to keep in her body the things that she put in there—but she fought to keep them down because she worried, too, about getting just the right nutrition.
In the hours between when she got home and when Daryl got home, she would get dinner going so that he'd have something good to eat, and she'd spend her free time cleaning and polishing—and daydreaming. And when he'd ask how she'd spent her afternoon hours, she'd tell him that she'd spent them "crafting," because she felt that wasn't a lie.
She was making something. She was making something so very, very special.
She hadn't told him yet because, honestly, she couldn't bear to see his hopes rise so high again, only to see them dashed down. He may have thought he had a monopoly on not being able to stand to see another heart broken, but she had felt his loss, individually from her own and very sharply, each time they'd lost before. She wanted, this time, to save him from that—even at the expense of her own feelings.
She hadn't told anyone yet. She hadn't, yet, told her doctor, even.
In her gut, Carol knew it was wrong. She knew she ought to have gone to the doctor the first day that she'd slipped the positive test into her purse to throw it away at work—hopefully anonymously in the staff bathroom. She knew she should have gone to the doctor, too, each of the days after that, when she'd snuck out the tests that she snuck in after work. Each day, though, she expected something.
She expected heartbreak. She expected to see that the lines didn't look the same anymore. She expected to see the blood staining her panties, and she expected the cramps that hurt worse than any she'd ever felt before—because, somehow, those were tied directly to her heart.
But, every day, the test had been just the same as the day before as she'd slipped it into her purse.
And she didn't know how long it had been, exactly, since she'd conceived, but she knew the day when she'd taken the first test. And, counting up time on her fingers toward the time when they said she could breathe easy and rest a little more deeply at night, it would be fourteen weeks, from the day of that first test, on Christmas morning.
And then, with confidence, and hope, and all the wonderful happiness in the world, Carol could take Daryl into the little room that he avoided as though it held every horrible monster in the world. She could show him how it was cleaned, and polished, and ready. She could give him the present—a canvas she'd painted for the baby's room that said "Dreams Really Do Come True" and was dated, symbolically, with their wedding anniversary date.
It was going to be perfect. It was going to be the best Christmas of Daryl's life—of their life.
There was only one little piece of her perfectly curated little plan that wasn't quite working.
Their little one, it seemed, had some ideas of its own, already.
Carol stood in front of the mirror. She felt a little nauseous, which was unusual, because it had been at least two weeks since she'd felt the almost debilitating nausea that she'd been doing her best to hide from everyone. Her attempts to hide it had only meant lying about a stomach virus a few times at work and a few times at home—telling Daryl she'd caught it from a coworker, since it kept going around the office, and leaving him to sleep on the couch because she had to pretend to be worried that she might be contagious.
Her pants were not going to make it. They just weren't. Not today, and not anymore. Not even the hair tie that she'd been using—a trick that she'd seen on a video stealthily searched on her phone—was going to make the distance. And she didn't understand, really. The pants—this very same pair—had fit the week before. In fact, looking at herself, she could almost believe that this…development…had come over night.
Carol pressed at her abdomen with her fingertips.
It couldn't be possible. She couldn't possibly be showing. There could be no physical proof that she carried a little life that, for now, seemed to be thriving. It was too soon, wasn't it? It was too good to be true, right?
"What are you doing in there?" Carol whispered, as much to her own reflection as to the little one that, she was certain, wouldn't be able to hear her. "Is that really you?"
She didn't get an answer, of course, but her heart nearly stopped, before it began racing, when she heard Daryl's knock on the bathroom door.
"Carol?" He called out.
"Just a minute," Carol said.
She wrang her hands. She opened the bathroom drawer where she kept her makeup and swept the positive pregnancy test into it—she had to have one every day, like a security blanket. She looked around for something to hide this development. Daryl saw her naked every day. He'd seen her naked last night, but the light had been off, and Carol might have sworn that this—this wasn't as prominent even then.
"It's two weeks before Christmas," Carol whispered to herself.
"Carol? Why's the door locked?" Daryl asked, wiggling the doorknob.
Carol cleared her throat.
"Is it?" She called out.
Daryl laughed on the other side of it.
"Uh—yeah," he responded.
"I don't know," Carol said. "Could have been an accident."
Daryl laughed again.
"You accidentally turned the lock?" Daryl asked.
"What do you need, Daryl?" Carol asked. "I said—it'll be a minute."
"That's fine," Daryl said, "but—my clothes are in there with you." Their closets were inside the entrance to the master bath. "Can you—pass me my clothes, at least?"
"In a minute," Carol said again, rubbing her face and trying to figure out what to do.
"OK," Daryl said. "Fine, but…just tell me, OK? You alright? You—got somethin' goin' on? You need somethin'?"
Carol smiled to herself and swallowed against a tightness in her throat. She sucked in a breath, looked in the mirror for one more long moment, and opened the drawer. She fished out the test that she'd flipped in there—afraid that Daryl might somehow make his way through the bathroom lock and into the room to see what she was hiding.
"Yeah," she said. "I've—got something going on."
Daryl's wiggling of the doorknob became a little more frantic and he knocked hard on the door, like he was knocking with the heel of his hand.
"Let me in, Carol," he said.
"I'm fine," Carol said, heading for the door. "I'm fine…I'm…" She opened the door. He was standing there with panic on his features. There was no telling what he'd imagined in those few seconds. Like her, he was still healing from a life that hadn't been entirely kind to either of them. "I'm sorry I made you wait," Carol said, meaning it with every fiber of her being, and in every way possible.
Daryl brought his thumb to his mouth and nipped at his cuticle. It was a habit of his. Just seeing him doing it made Carol's stomach tighten. She hated to see the anxiety on his face.
"It's OK," he slurred around his finger, not willing yet to stop bothering it. "You OK?"
Carol nodded.
"I'm—fine," she said. "I was…going to make you wait until Christmas…"
"To come in the bathroom?" Daryl asked, dropping his thumb and furrowing his brow at her. Immediately, he looked concerned that what she'd had going on was something like a head injury. Carol laughed quietly.
"No," she said. She sucked in a breath, gathered all her shaky courage up, and held up the plastic stick. "For your surprise. Our surprise? Our—blessing?"
Daryl stared at the stick hard. Carol could see, just by looking at him, that his breathing had changed. He looked, finally, at her.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
He didn't look as happy as she wished that he did, and she understood that. She understood it so well, and she didn't hold it against him.
"I see that," Daryl said, taking the stick from her and studying it like he might find a flaw in its display. "You—didn't tell me?"
"I didn't want you to be disappointed," Carol said. "If something happened."
"Wouldn't you be?" Daryl asked.
"Of course," Carol said.
Daryl made eye contact with her again.
"I—thought we did that kinda thing together," Daryl said.
"You're right," Carol said. "We do. I'm sorry. I would have told you. Maybe I was just…" She stopped and shrugged. "I don't know, Daryl. I just…wanted to wait. I wanted to tell you when I was sure. I wanted to tell you for Christmas."
"You sure now?"
"I'm sure it's there," Carol said, smiling at him. "Look."
She directed his eyes to her stomach, and to her pants that wouldn't fit. She took his hand and rubbed his fingertips against her skin. She closed her eyes to feel him touching her there—finally knowing what she knew.
"Is it growin'?" Daryl asked.
"These pants fit last week," Carol said with a laugh. "It's growing—fast. Faster than I expected. Faster than I thought, really, it would."
"That OK?"
"I guess it is," Carol said.
"Doctor said…what? Doctor said anything? You asked?"
"No," Carol said, shaking her head.
"Why not?" Daryl asked.
"Scared," Carol said. "I wanted it to be true. I wanted it to be OK."
"You didn't think the doctor might could help with that?" Daryl asked.
"He didn't before," Carol admitted.
Daryl nodded.
"How long you known?" Daryl asked.
Carol smiled, then, though she felt her own smile competing with tears prickling at her eyes. Daryl's expression changed. For the first time since she'd opened the door, he looked less sick and a little more hopeful. Of his own volition, he rubbed his fingertips against the soft skin of her abdomen.
"It's been—twelve weeks, Daryl," Carol said.
He blanched.
"Twelve weeks?"
"Yeah," Carol said.
"We never got nowhere close to that before," Daryl said.
"I know," Carol said. They had made nine weeks before, but in the grand scheme of things—nine didn't seem close to twelve.
"Twelve fuckin' weeks, Carol?" Daryl said. There was no bite to his tone. There was no anger, and no judgement. There was only awe and, maybe, hope.
"More than that," Carol said.
"More'n…" He stopped. He never finished.
"Twelve weeks since—since I thought I might be pregnant," Carol said. She sucked in a breath, blew it out slowly to calm herself, and sucked in another. She repeated the purposeful attempt to calm herself, and Daryl grounded her by squeezing her shoulder with one hand and simply using the other hand to cup the back of her neck. "Twelve weeks since I really felt pregnant."
Daryl went pale, and Carol reached out, wrapping her arms around him like she might hold him up if he were to faint. That seemed to draw him back. He laughed quietly.
"You and…holy shit, Carol…you and…our…our baby…you gonna hold me up?"
Carol's heart immediately started pounding, and her knees felt a little weak at the sound of those words coming out of Daryl's mouth—especially with such a sound of hope and, really, with such a feeling of hope in her own chest. She smiled at him.
"If we have to? We'll always hold you up," Carol said.
"Jesus," Daryl said. "You're serious…? There's a baby? And it's—been growin' for…we don't know how long, but…at least twelve weeks?"
"I would never…never…joke about this," Carol said. "But—I wanted to save it for you to have a good Christmas."
Daryl wrapped her in his arms.
"Ain't no damned way I'ma have a bad Christmas," Daryl said. "You and me…and…and…"
"Our baby?" Carol offered. He squeezed her tighter and lifted her off her feet. She laughed and hugged him in response.
"Holy shit—you, an' me, an' our baby…Carol. It's gonna be the best damn Christmas ever."
"I love you," Carol said, as soon as her feet were back on the floor and Daryl had stopped hugging her.
Daryl kissed her in response.
"I love you, too," he said. "But—right now? We gotta…make some phone calls."
"Phone calls?"
"Call in to work," Daryl said. "I don't care if we gotta drive to Atlanta. Find somebody. Pay for some kinda specialist, or an emergency, or whatever the hell they wanna call it. I don't give a damn. We're seein' a doctor today."
Carol's heart started pounding, and she held tightly to his hands.
"You gotta hold my hand," she said.
"Whole time," Daryl said. "They ain't got orderlies big enough to drag my ass away," he added with a smile and a wink. His cheeks were pink with color. The happiness was palpable. The hope was palpable. She felt it pulsing in her own veins.
"I'm scared," Carol admitted.
Daryl nodded.
"Me too," he said. "Me too. But—I'ma hold your hand. I promise. The whole damn time. You want? I'll hold your hand while—while they tell you to piss in a cup. Hell—I'll hold the damn cup. I don't care. I'ma be there. They ain't nobody in any hospital gonna be man enough to stop me from holdin' your hand. And—when it's done? We'll…we'll get some ice cream."
He squeezed both her hands in his to ground her and, perhaps, to drive home his words.
"It's freezing outside," Carol said with a laugh.
"Hot chocolate, then," Daryl said. "And—when it's all done? We'll…get Mama a new pair of pants."
Carol laughed at him and, just one moment more before she let him go to start their day, she wrapped herself around him and felt the warm comfort of him wrapping around her—their little one snuggled safely in between, this time, hopefully for keeps.