GuiltyBystanders- Truth be told, I did almost end it differently... a way that would not have left you guys with happy feelings.
Supfan- Isn't that the truth? I wish that wasn't always the case, but then I suppose that's always a reason to keeping pushing ourselves as writers, as well. Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed. :)
Enecs- Oh no! I didn't mean to make you cry! :O
Emerald Kitten- I love Cyrus! He's a sassy little cutie pie. Writing kids is such a fun time.
spygrrl99- I may or may not have originally written this ending with one of them being injured... coughCarolcough... and the other being dead... coughDarylcough. But I thought better of it. The story only just started. I couldn't kill someone off quite yet.
HGRHfan35- Ahh! I certainly didn't intend to cause early morning tears. I'm glad you enjoyed, though.
daryl-dixon's-poncho- No, no, don't be dead. Thank you very much. It's good to hear you're liking this so far.
Tell me you're still you- I would make Carol be pregnant because Caryl babies are just to die for, but I feel that, while she isn't old in the slightest, she would be getting a little older to be bearing children. Who knows, though? Anything is a possibility. :)
Bahahaval- Thanks! I love writing feel-y things! I'm happy you enjoyed. :)
Thank you, as always, for reading. :) You all are beautiful and wonderful individuals! This next bit is another one I'm not entirely thrilled with, but I think it will do. The fluff bunnies haven't been leaving my brain recently. I'm sorry if fluff isn't really your thing. The next chapter I have written out is slightly less flufftastic, but more angsty and Merle-filled. :D
-Gabby
4. Tears
When he was a little boy, Baby Dixon had decided to let indulge in the smaller aspects of life, claiming autumn was his favorite time of the year. Something about the changing leaves and the cold evenings had always made the happy butterflies rise in his stomach. His mama told him his sister, who was in heaven, always liked spring better than any other time of year. While he understood why she would have as that was when the warmth came back to the air, he always liked it better when it was chilly. He explained to his mama that red was his favorite color. During autumn there was so much red everywhere, unlike the green spring brought. That was one of his favorite things about it.
Autumn was when he took his first trip out into the woods with his father. The boy had only been five, maybe even a little bit younger, and though his mother vehemently protested taking a child into the walker-infested woods, the boy's father simply told her that no son of his was going to grow up not knowing was it was like to be in the woods. As his first time leaving their secure town, he was amazed by the fantastic world that was just beyond the walls protecting him. Trees that had to be at least a hundred times his size stood above them with their brightly colored leaves swinging in the gentle breeze. He clung to his father's side as they walked slowly through the wooded area, leaves crinkling beneath their feet.
Each time the older Dixon would shoot down a small creature, the boy would let out a small, victorious 'yeah!' before scurrying to retrieve it. It was such an adventure and a change of pace from being stuck in town. As the day wore on, his excitement never ceased, though he became increasingly pensive. "You're quiet," his father muttered, aiming his crossbow to take out another squirrel. "Ya' wouldn't shut up when we first got out here, and now, you're quiet as a mouse. What's goin' on in that head of yours, kid?" Cursing when the creature skittered into the brush, the man glanced down at his son, who stared back with wide, blue eyes. "Can't help ya' if you won't tell me what you're thinkin' 'bout."
Eons seemed to pass as the boy thought of what to say in response. Like his father, he had never one to talk much about what he was thinking, but when he did, his mother's eloquent use of words came out. It was as though he was pondering each word separately when they came to his mind. Though he would never admit it, this aspect of the boy's mama was something the father was proud his son gained. No Dixon he could remember was ever good with words. From what he could recall, most of them could barely read at a fifth grade level. Being one of the few in his family to actually finish school, barely passing but finishing no less, he was about as good as it got, so knowing his boy got his mama's brains was something that relieved him a bit. Not to say he was always using his language properly, as his mama would frequently tell him. Growing up in a post-apocalyptic world did not always facilitate children learning to use proper grammar.
"Why do the trees cry, Daddy?" the young boy finally asked, toeing the leaves at his feet with the tip of his shoe. "They don't got nothin' to feel sad 'bout, so why do they cry? They should be happy 'cause they get to be orange, and yellow, and red. They 'oughta be happy about being red the most 'cause red's the best color ever." Many would disagree with his sentiment. Red was the color of death and destruction at this time, only associated with the end of a person's days. "So, why they gotta keep cryin' like that?" The man had no idea what the boy could be referring to. Tree did not cry. He was aware of that, but for some reason, his son thought they did. "Watch."
A thin finger pointed to a singular, orange leaf that was precariously dangling from a branch. With the next soft breeze, the crisp leaf fell gracefully to the ground to join the others that had once been in the same place. The boy began to mutter something about the tree being ungrateful for having such nice colored leaves. "The tree ain't cryin'. Leaves fall off every year. Don't mean the trees are cryin'." Chuckling to himself, the father patted his son's back. Though the boy was unsatisfied with this response, he only gave a grunt to show it. "C'mon. Let's get headin' back. Need us there before anything can start tonight. 'Sides, we need to get these kills back before your mama has a fit." Before the little one could protest, his father scooped him up and perched him atop his shoulders, skinny legs wrapping around the back of the older man's neck.
Although the child attempted to stifle a giggle, he failed miserably as he held onto the top of his father's head. Content to watch the nature around him, he settled down, eyes gazing in wonder at the tall, crying trees. He chose not to believe his father about the trees. It was too difficult to believe that something could not be sad about losing an item as beautiful as the colorful leaves. "They ain't sad," his father spoke up suddenly as they approached the walls of their town. "They're happy... happy they've got nice things even if they only have those things only last for a little while."
For a moment, the boy glanced back at the forest that was now slowly but surely fading into the distance. The trees began to turn into orange, red, and yellow blobs. Trunks started to blend together in a dark brown mass below the beautiful colors. "Why they gotta cry, though? Don't make no sense to cry when you're happy. Mama, and Judy, and Uncle Rick, and Mister Hershel only cry when they's sad. They don't never cry when they get happy. That's when you smile, not cry." He spied his one-handed uncle catch a glimpse of them before whistling to someone standing below him and behind the wall. "Doesn't make sense, Daddy. They can't be happy and cry at the same time. That ain't how it works."
The gate that sealed their home from the walkers outside opened as they came to it, allowing the duo entrance. Unlike the peaceful calm they had experienced out in the wilderness, the members of their group were scurrying around a few picnic tables set up with some yellow and pink streamers. "Now, boy," his uncle called to him. "You make sure t'give your mama a big ol' happy birthday kiss and do whatever she says. Woman's done more than enough t'deserve that." He had almost forgotten it was, in fact, his mother's birthday. Well, they had assumed it had to be close at least, so a small celebration was put into the works for her. "Damnit! You fools done went and ruined the damn surprise!"
The boy's mama stood in the doorway of the building they took residence in with a look that was a mix of shock and overwhelming joy as a delayed 'surprise!' came from her friends and family. Raising her hand to her mouth, she could only shake her head and give a wide, toothy smile in response. "Happy birthday, Mama!" After wiggling for all of a second, the boy was placed onto the ground and took a running start at the woman, who was still recovering from shock. "Happy birthday!" His arms wound around her neck tightly while she lifted him into the air. One of his favorite parts about his mama was how she always smelled like whatever food she was making and dish soap. When he hugged her, he could always smell the soap and food in her neck and hair, and something about that made him smile. "I love you, best mama ever." Though her arms wrapped tighter around his thin frame, he could tell something was off about it. Tiny droplets fell into the crook of his neck. Knowing it was too cool for either of them to be sweating, he pulled away to see her crying. With a little hand resting on her cheek, he told her: "Mama, don't cry. Don't be sad. It's your birthday, and I love you. You don't gotta be sad." In an attempt to make her crying stop, he shot her a broad grin.
Laughing through her tears, she rested her hand atop his. "Oh, I'm not sad, baby. I'm not sad at all." She placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm happy, very happy. Happy to be here with all of my family. I'm thankful to have you all here... that you all did this for me." Briefly, she looked around at each smiling face around her. Life was really what everyone was thankful for. It was so rare that they were able to celebrate milestones like birthdays in the world they lived in now. "Thank you." Her eyes moved back to her son, tears still spilling from them. "Sometimes, you just get so happy that you cry. It doesn't have to mean you're sad. How could I be sad when I'm look at this face?" His nose scrunched when she pinched his cheek.
"Told you," said his daddy as the man snaked an arm around the woman's waist. "Happy birthday, Carol." Unlike Lil' Asskicker, who was standing near one of the tables, with her eyes staring greedily at a tray of cookies, the boy never even hinted to being grossed out when his mama and daddy kissed. (Even though her mama passed on long ago, she had seen her daddy kiss other ladies.) In fact, he guessed it was because she lost her mama that he was almost glad to see his parents kiss. His lips stayed pressed together in a smile as his daddy brushed his lips up against his mama's. "I know you didn't want him out today." His father nodded toward him. "Had to get him outta here, so he wouldn't spoil anything. He wouldn't 'ave been able to keep this a secret from ya' all day." He always liked watching the way his parents took to looking at each other. There was a just a certain happiness that seemed to radiate from the two that seemed rare at that time. It made him feel a giddiness build up in him to see that people could be happy. "Don't you go tryin' to help out with stuff now. This is your thing. Take a day to relax."
Not giving her a moment to argue, he led her towards the tables where everyone was gravitating. A modest spread of cookies and other snacks had been displayed across the wooden tables. "Mama, how old are you?" the little boy asked, still in her arms as he stretched to reach a cookie.
Before she could answer, his daddy flicked the back of his arm lightly. "Where's your manners, boy?" He frowned as he nibbled at the edge of his cookie. "You don't ask a lady how old she is. It ain't polite."
"Don't be silly, Daryl." She smiled brightly at the two of them. If he had known better, he would have known that what she was about to say was completely untrue. "If my calculations are correct, I'd say it's definitely my twenty-ninth birthday. Maybe even my second twenty-ninth birthday. Who can be sure, though?"