AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
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"You want some more potatoes?" Carol asked, already starting to her feet. Daryl reached a hand out and caught her hand before it could snag his plate.
"Sit down, Carol," he said. "You got your hands full as it is with Jack. Don't'cha think I'm capable of gettin' my own potatoes and gravy?"
Carol made a face at him, but she settled back into her chair and turned her attention, again, to coaxing Jack to pick up pieces of his food and eat. Jack was not a master at feeding himself, but he was wholly enthusiastic to learn. Daryl served himself an extra helping of potatoes, ladled a little more of Carol's good brown gravy over it than she would normally serve him, and returned to his seat.
"Most women would say it's not proper for you to serve your own plate," Carol said.
Daryl hummed. This kind of conversation had been a vein that ran through their lives forever. Carol could let it go, and he could usually soothe her into letting it go, but it was always there, in the background, and it would always surface again. The "lessons" of what was proper and improper were very deeply ingrained in her. Daryl always figured that, during the time she was institutionalized and trapped in her mind, she'd likely spent a lot of time reciting these lessons like a rosary—if she'd only done everything right, after all, maybe she wouldn't have ended up like she had. He was certain that must have been what she'd thought, during all that time, that she mourned Sophia—whom she'd only known to be lost, at the time—and felt absolutely abandoned for her failure to do or be something that was expected of her.
Daryl wasn't going to scold. It wasn't worth scolding. Soothing was just as easy as scolding, and it made for a better night for everyone—a night free of indigestion and full of affection. Instead of scolding, Daryl winked at her and smiled at her. She smiled in response, an almost involuntary movement of her lips.
"Good thing I ain't married to most women," Daryl teased. "Besides—I like the freedom to fix my plate my way sometimes."
"Because you've made a lake of gravy?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at Daryl. Her nostrils flared as she tried not to laugh at her own amusement. Daryl laughed for her.
"I was generous with myself, because I deserve it," Daryl said. "It's good gravy. Good everything, but gravy just lubricates the meal."
"You can't taste anything else with that much gravy in your plate, Daryl," Carol said. "Besides—making your plate is more about taking care of you. Showing you—how appreciated you are. Reminding you of how much I love you and want to take care of you. If you forget all of that—there's no telling what you'll get up to."
Daryl snorted. She was teasing him. There was the smallest thread of truth and concern to what she was saying—something she'd never be able to let go entirely from the lessons that she'd learned in life—but most of this was teasing. Daryl did love when Carol teased him, especially with that pink coloring to her cheeks where she threatened to embarrass herself. Underneath the table, he toed off the house shoes that June had slipped onto his feet and found Carol's leg. He rubbed her with his foot, and her expression changed slightly. She flicked her eyes toward June—a silent reminder that everything they said or did had to be carefully considered and edited. He nodded his head gently and continued to rub his foot against her calf, simply enjoying the touch for what it was worth.
"I don't know how in the world you women deal with us…downright stupid men," Daryl said. "In the time it takes me to put a spoonful of potatoes on my plate, I'm liable to forget my whole life and everything in it—go wanderin' down the street like a dog lookin' for something to give my life meaning."
"Daryl…" Carol said.
Daryl laughed and shook his head.
"I'm serious! Have you ever stopped to think—and I mean really think—about some of this…information…that people go around spoutin' off? I don't know why you'd keep us around at all. Not if we're that dumb."
"You're not dumb," Carol said.
"Forgetful," Daryl offered.
"You're not forgetful," Carol said.
"Then—why are you scared of me gettin' my own mashed potatoes?"
"Mostly because I'm afraid you'll make yourself sick with the gravy lagoon," Carol said.
Daryl laughed, and Carol echoed it.
"I love you more'n life itself," he offered. "Do you even know that?"
Carol's cheeks ran a warm pink, and Daryl saw something flash in her eyes. It was clear, though, that she was no more willing to give up the light feeling of the moment than he was.
"I had some indication," she teased.
"You know I mean it, though," Daryl said. "I love you more than I love your gravy, and that's sayin' a lot."
"I love you," Carol said. "I just—want you to know that. I don't want you to ever feel like…I don't. Or that I'm not giving you what you need and taking care of you."
"You take good care of me," Daryl assured her. "But—I'ma let you take care of me some more tonight, OK? When we get these little ones off to bed." He winked at her, and she covered over her response by drinking a long swallow from her glass of iced tea. "You told me you got somethin' to tell me about today."
Carol smiled and wiggled a little in her chair. Happiness looked good on her. It took twenty years off of her—not that he minded those years at all.
"We got a wonderful report," Carol said. "I'm healthy. The baby's healthy. The doctor said my weight is good—even though my waistline is quickly disappearing, Daryl."
Daryl raised his tea glass.
"Here, here to disappearin' waistlines and growin' Dixons!" Daryl declared. June got excited by the loudness of his toast—louder than he'd really meant it to be—and he nudged her to pick up her glass and join in the toast that she couldn't fully understand but was, nonetheless, thrilled to celebrate. Carol laughed, but she hushed Jack when, stirred up by the excitement, he started to scream happily to make himself heard over everything.
"You may not feel that way if I never get my figure back," Carol said when things had settled a bit around the table.
Daryl was no fool. He knew Carol well.
"Whatever shape it takes," Daryl said, "I will always love your figure. Any man who loves a woman for her shape, alone, doesn't really love a woman—he loves a body. And that ain't worth a real woman's time or affections." Daryl winked at June, who was watching him, fork in hand, her meal forgotten for a moment. "Remember that, June," Daryl said. He tapped her plate. "Eat some more of that chicken. It's good. You need Daddy to get'cha some more gravy?"
"Daryl…"
"I'm just offerin' to feed my child," Daryl said. "This is between the two of us. You feed those two, Carol. I've got this one." He winked at June and took her plate, putting a few more bites of everything on her plate before giving her a little extra gravy. She'd eat good tonight, just to imagine she was eating just like her daddy.
For a little while, they ate in a pleasant and relaxed silence. Carol alternated bites of her own meal with tending to Jacks' needs and making sure that he got some of the food into his mouth instead of all over the floor. Daryl kept a certain watch over June, making sure that she was settled and satisfied. She ate well, pointing out to Daryl, every few bites, that she was eating her food just like Daddy.
Daryl didn't argue with Carol about clearing the table, and he stayed with both the children while she served cake and coffee for the two of them and cake and milk for the little ones. When she returned to the table, Daryl reached and squeezed her shoulder before dedicating himself to his dessert.
"Did you ask the doctor anything about the nerves you been feelin'?" Daryl asked.
The pregnancy, without a doubt, was stirring up Carol's anxiety. Daryl didn't mind it, and he'd deal with any level of anxiety she might have—making himself into an endless font of comfort and reassurance, if that's what she needed—but he hated for her to have to suffer for any reason. Still, he hadn't admitted to her that he almost feared that someone might make the suggestion that she return to the medication that they'd weaned her off of so many years before. Daryl would rather help her over tiny humps of insecurity all day long than see her rendered empty and emotionless for what some may believe was his comfort. He couldn't stand to lose her—not in any way imaginable.
"He said to try a few drinks throughout the day," Carol said, "and to smoke more for calming my nerves."
"You tried it since you got home?" Daryl asked.
"I didn't care for it," Carol said.
"Then, you don't do it," Daryl said immediately. There was no need to debate it. If Carol didn't care for it, he didn't care for it. "This is the best lemon poundcake I've had since the last time you made lemon poundcake."
Carol laughed.
"You say that every time," she said.
"And I mean it every time," Daryl said.
"You don't think I—ought to do what he says about the nerves?" Carol asked.
"They botherin' you badly enough that you feel like you ought to?" Daryl asked.
"Not when I talk to you about them," Carol said.
"Then—you keep on talkin' to me about 'em, and you skip the prescription you don't like."
"He didn't prescribe that I talk to you about every little thing," Carol said.
"Well—then, you bring me a pencil and I'll write you my own prescription. Talk to husband about problems as needed. Repeat often. I'll sign it and everything."
"I don't want to burden you," Carol said. "You spend all day listening to people's problems, Daryl. You should come home to rest, not to be burdened with my problems."
"Your problems are my problems," Daryl said. "And I'm not burdened with the welfare of my household. Besides—I'd rather hear your problems than know you're carryin' all of them around on your own. There ain't room, and you got more important things to carry right now. You just keep tellin' me what you gotta say, and don't worry about anything else. You got anything else on your mind this evening?"
"I did spend some money," Carol said.
Daryl laughed to himself. Carol's sewing brought in a great deal of money, really, and more than enough to cover any expenses she ever incurred. Still, she treated money like most of the women he knew did—as though it were something over which he had some kind of solitary dominion.
"I'm sure it was well spent," he said. "What'd you get?"
"I bought some patterns," Carol said. "A lot, actually—two full sets."
"Being as you're a seamstress," Daryl offered, "sounds like a reasonable purchase to me."
"I bought them for myself," Carol said. "I mean—I'll offer them to anyone who wants to purchase the clothing, of course, but I bought them mostly because I wanted to make them for myself. I bought cloth, too, and I'm thinking of ordering more."
"You know what you need more'n I do," Daryl said.
"They're maternity clothes, Daryl," Carol said. "My clothes are snug and…I thought…"
"That you oughta have clothes for the baby? You ought to. You're gonna need at least enough of everything, Carol, to make it to when you've got time to wash."
She looked relieved. She smiled, even, at the fact that he was approving of her choices.
"Having a few items to show off will really be good," Carol said. "The women around town always seem to have more interest in something once they've seen me wearing it."
"Good for business," Daryl said. "And good for you and the baby. That's what really matters. You started any one of 'em?"
"Mama—can I be excused?" June asked, squirming a little in her seat. It was clear that she'd been looking for a moment when she might speak and not interrupt anything, but they hadn't allowed her much opportunity to do that. "Is it time for my program?"
Daryl checked his watch. June had some radio programs that she enjoyed, and they would keep her occupied most of the evening. They kept her calm, too, while Carol cleaned the kitchen.
"Close enough, June," Daryl said. "You ate good. Go on—you can hear what there is to hear. I'll help you get your bath in a bit."
June didn't need more permission than that. She tossed her thanks over her shoulder and was out of her seat in a flash.
"I can bathe her," Carol said.
"I got no doubt you can," Daryl said. "But—so can I. And I'd rather bathe her and Jack both than clean that chicken pan, and you know it." Carol smiled at him, and he returned the smile. "I wanna see your new clothes."
"Nothing's made yet," Carol said. "But I did start working on a dress."
"Make it a priority," Daryl said. "I don't like my wife or my child being squeezed into anything."
Carol's face flushed with obvious excitement. She stood up, and Daryl recognized that it was more of a nervous need to move than a planned action. She looked almost surprised to find herself on her feet.
"Can I—get you something?" She asked.
He could have argued with her that he didn't need anything. He could have insisted that she sit and finish the rest of her cake. He could have scolded her for her efforts to constantly wait on him. Instead, he drank what was left of his coffee like a shot.
"I'd love some more coffee," he said, giving her his coffee cup. He offered his plate to her. "And just a sliver more of that cake, if you got it to spare."
Carol beamed at him.
"Since you like it so much," Carol said, "I'll pack it tomorrow, in your lunch, with the leftovers…if you like."
"I'll be dreaming sweet dreams about my lunch all night tonight," Daryl teased.
Carol took his plate and his coffee cup, happy to refill both, and he let her have it. He turned his attention, for a moment, to cleaning Jack up so he'd be ready to go, soon, to the living room where they could present his sister with her brand-new rubber baby.
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AN: So, in keeping with what seems to be a theme for me, I have to post something here that will travel across several of my fics. Please ignore if you've already seen it.
So—you wanna hear a story about how I have good intentions but suck at following through with them?
I was informed that people don't review/comment frequently because they don't get responses for their reviews, and that makes them feel unappreciated as readers. I know that there are people who are practically professionals at responding to everything all the time. I certainly don't want people to feel unappreciated.
I meant to answer everyone's reviews forever and ever, but I found out, very, very quickly, that I just can't. My sometimes-scrambled brain can't handle it. I value and love every review I get. The knowledge that you're reading and enjoying keeps me publishing chapters. I even save the best ones in a document titled "Really Nice Reviews" to read and reread when I need a pick-me-up. However, when I try to assign myself the job of answering them, even if there's only a couple, it becomes a job. This is especially true if there's not really a lot there for me to know what to say. Then, I go into a spiral where I was taught that I can't have "fun" until I do "all my work." That means I can't even daydream about future chapters until I figure out a meaningful response to everything.
So—fast forward and I've spent two weeks AVOIDING my Caryl fics because I "can't" allow myself to write them or even think about them. I've now successfully gotten myself stuck on all of them. It's been absolutely horrible.
That being said, I'll be answering reviews, as I used to, if there's something there that I feel like I can answer, etc., but I'm going to have to just say I failed at this endeavor. I do love all of your reviews/comments, and they do help immensely with the motivation to publish new chapters, but I just fail at trying to answer everything and continue to write. If you're someone who needs that response back in order to read and comment/review to let me know that you're reading, then I respect that, and I hope that you find something that you can read where all your needs are fulfilled.
As for me, I have to do what I have to do in order to be able to keep writing, because otherwise I'm just stalling on literally everything. I'm sorry!
I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please don't forget to let me know what you think! (But, also know that I may or may not get back to you, even though that absolutely doesn't mean that I don't appreciate your words. LOL)