AN: Here's another little piece to this one.

I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do consider letting me know!

111

Daryl decided that, when he was alone with them, he would thank their friends—their family—for their delicateness. Nobody had said or done anything to really make Carol uncomfortable and, for that, Daryl was thankful.

Alice had examined Carol carefully. She'd assured her that there was no need for any sort of examination that Carol might feel was invasive or, in the freshness of her confession, a bit too overwhelming for her emotional state. There was no need to determine if she was, in fact, pregnant. Anyone could see that she was. If she felt well, there was no need to question whether or not the pregnancy was continuing to develop toward a natural and successful end.

Alice only examined Carol in the same way she had all of them, looking for signs of deficiencies and malnutrition. She listened to her heart and her breathing, and Daryl thought that even he could hear, without a stethoscope, that Carol's breathing was a bit easier than it had been.

Daryl had held Carol's hand, her fingers resting absentmindedly against his lips as he held them there, while Alice had gently probed her belly, using her fingertips to check the growth of the baby.

Twenty-four weeks.

Daryl didn't know how he should feel about any number, but something about that number, when he had first heard it, had made his knees feel just a little shaky.

The number was only Alice's estimation, but it sounded as good as anything else. Nobody had any reason or ability to argue it. Time, after all, was something they didn't even bother to mark these days. Each day was just another day. The sun came up, it spent some time in the sky, it went down. Each of them had a list of things that must be accomplished, and a list of what they hoped to accomplish. Everything else, really, was inconsequential.

It had almost been easy to believe that time, other than marking seasons for which they needed to prepare, for growing food which they needed to survive, or for keeping up with the patterns of animals on which they also relied for survival, simply didn't matter.

It had mattered, though, to the miniscule baby that was, by Alice's estimations, twenty-four weeks old.

Daryl turned over and over, in his mind, the fact that there was one more person in the world—because the baby was, in Daryl's mind, already a part of the world—that had been there for twenty-four weeks, and they hadn't talked about its presence yet.

There was one more Dixon in the world.

Daryl was a father.

A Daddy.

Their child was twenty-four weeks old, and the only way that Daryl felt he could respond, outwardly, to that knowledge, for at least a while, was to close his eyes, squeeze Carol's hand, and rest her fingers against his lips as a reminder that they were together, with nothing between them.

Mama and Baby look healthy.

Alice had said those words, and Daryl had held onto them during dinner. During dinner, he'd thought of them with every bite of food he'd taken. He'd turned them over in his mind while he'd helped to wash the dishes—appreciative that, tonight, they were being relieved of chores that normally filled nearly the whole of their evenings.

Carol had been silent during the meal. She'd been silent since Alice had entered the room and started the examination, really. Daryl could barely remember having heard a word from her beyond a few half-whispered responses to Alice's questions during the examination.

The secret was out, and everyone was free to talk about it, but they seemed to understand that they still needed some time before it was the happy topic of active conversation.

They were still processing the whole thing, together.

Lydia had gone to bed early with Dog on her heels and book under her arm. She'd kissed Carol on the forehead. She'd brushed fingertips over the cantaloupe swell of Carol's belly. Daryl had watched both of them from where he'd been sitting, pretending that he was reading, too, when not a word from the page had even been clear in his line of vision. Carol had tensed. She'd offered Lydia a tight-lipped smile. Lydia had offered her a soft smile, though not too much less tight-lipped. Carol had squeezed the girl's hand and Lydia had said something about helping with breakfast before she'd told Daryl goodnight with something of an awkward wave that was unusual for her.

She wanted them to have time. She didn't know how to say it, but Daryl could feel it. She wanted them to have time. She thought it was important.

She was right.

Carol left the living room first. Daryl didn't say anything to her—not that either of them had said much of anything to anyone all evening. He pretended to focus on the book that he wasn't reading. He gave her a little time—a little space to breathe. When he felt like she might be ready for him, he closed the book and took the lamp from the table beside him.

He found her in the bathroom connected to their little bedroom. When he stepped into the doorway, he found her naked, her back to him, contemplating the floor or her feet—though he wasn't certain what her view of her feet really was these days. Perhaps, he thought, she was contemplating that.

"My biggest focus for a while's gonna be to get the grid where it's more reliable," Daryl said. "Oughta be able to handle a good, hot shower, though."

"Yeah?" Carol asked.

Daryl hummed in the affirmative. The bowl was there. The pitcher, too. They often filled it and bathed from it, but they seldom showered. The grid supported it, but they all seemed to believe it would fail at any moment—maybe because it sometimes did fail—and so they simply avoided certain activities or pretended they were impossible, even though they weren't.

Carol loved a good shower or a good bath.

"Bath—if you'd rather have it," Daryl said. "Good one. Full tub."

Carol didn't look at him. She didn't have to. He could feel everything radiating off of her. His chest ached just at the way her neck curved as her head hung forward, the backs of her arms visible to him as they curved in front of her.

Daryl walked up behind her. He leaned close to her. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her and the day she'd led. He kissed the back of her neck. He kissed the crook of her neck. He kissed her shoulder.

He rested his chin in the crook of her neck and brought his arms around her. He let his hands find her hands. He held them a moment, his fingers resting against the warm, freckled skin of her belly.

He dropped her hands. He slipped his down, for the first time like this, beneath the sweet little smuggled cantaloupe, and he cupped it. He could feel the weight of it in his hands—a weight that felt far more significant than the actual physical weight of what Carol had gained in growing their child thus far. Gently pressing his palms against her, Daryl lifted slightly, pulling up on Carol's belly. Her hands covered his, and she leaned her head back against his shoulder, her whole body arching backward slightly and pressing into him.

The sound that escaped Carol sounded grateful and satisfied—the same kind of sounds she might make in other situations, when she approved of some choice that Daryl made regarding her body. He felt a shiver run through his body in response, and he felt some rising interest in himself, brought on by the sound.

"You been quiet," Daryl said.

"So have you," Carol said quietly.

"Tell me it ain't 'cause you sorry it's mine," Daryl said. "As long as that ain't what it is—I can handle whatever the hell it is."

Carol made a noise. It was a quiet laugh. It made Daryl's heart beat fast—jumpstarted, practically, by the sound. It was a happy sound, and he'd needed it.

"The fact that it's yours is…one of the best things I can imagine," Carol said. Her fingers rubbed over his, and he didn't release the light burden that he somewhat held with his palms and fingers. "I'm just so…sorry."

"Talk to me," Daryl said softly. "Tell me what you're sorry for. Let me help you put it down, Carol. Don't carry it no more. This is all you gotta carry. This right here. And I'ma help with that, much as I can. But let me help you put the rest down."

"We bring lives into this world, Daryl, for them just to end," Carol said.

"Not always," Daryl said.

"I do," Carol said.

"No—you don't," Daryl insisted.

"Everything I love—everyone—every…child—just…"

"Stop," Daryl said, making sure he was at least a little firm. "You ain't cursed. You hear me? You ain't. We ain't."

"Sophia," Carol said. "Lizzie. Mika. Henry."

"Judith. RJ. Lydia. Beau," Daryl said. "You can love and not lose. You. Ain't. Cursed. We ain't. You hear me? We come out here to leave that behind. We come out here for a fresh start. That's what the hell we got, Carol. We got a fresh start. Look at what the hell we got—look at this…all this. We got family. Friends. We got our health. Look at this, Carol. Look at what I got in my hands. You and me—we got this. We made this. This right here? This is a fresh ass start if I ever seen one. Twenty-four weeks old. You heard Alice. Practically brand-new."

Carol turned around, and Daryl let her go as she pulled away from him. She didn't leave his arms long. As soon as she turned around, she reached for him. He didn't deny her his touch for even a moment. With her face close to his, he held her.

"What if…?"

"Let's try somethin' different," Daryl said. "Just—for a little bit, OK? What if the only what ifs we could ask were good ones? Hmmm? What if…it all works out? What if…we find everything we need, and we get them greenhouses goin' strong, and the winter ain't too bad, and we plant in the spring, and we find all the livestock we need, and the grid don't have no more problems, and you and me? What if we get us a happy, healthy baby? What if we just ask the good what ifs, Carol, just for a while?"

A hint of a smile that Daryl believed played at Carol's lips.

"Seems pretty—limiting," Carol offered.

"No more limiting than only thinkin' the bad," Daryl said. "Seems we've done it your way a while. Let's try it mine, OK? Just—for a bit. Every time we get to thinkin' a bad what if, we gotta change it to a good one."

"So—what if…"

Daryl smiled, hearing that she was leaving it open. She was asking him to finish it.

"What if this twenty-four week old Dixon we got us between us just keeps on growin'?" Daryl asked. "How long do we bake the little asshole at 98.6 degrees?"

Carol laughed. Daryl laughed, too. His throat felt tight just to think that he'd amused her. He felt her fingertips dig into his back as she squeezed him a little.

"Forty weeks," she said. "Give or take."

"Doin' hella good," Daryl said. "That's—that's over halfway."

"Mmmhmmm," Carol hummed. He noticed her looking at his lips. He wondered if she could feel some of his lingering interest with her body pressed against his. His pants would only hide so much, and it wouldn't take much for the interest to surge, so to speak. She brought her eyes to his. "I'm sorry I waited so long."

"No," Daryl said, shaking his head. "No more sorries. There's nothin' else to be sorry for. What if—instead of bein' sorry for what's behind us, we're just thankful for everything in front of us?"

Carol's smile grew. She leaned and kissed him. He leaned into the kiss and returned it with all the feeling that had been boiling up inside of him. His interest, elsewhere, grew, but he didn't care if anything came of it, really.

Still, from the kiss, he thought she might be interested—and he certainly was, if she was.

When the kiss broke, he noticed her pupils. As large as they were, they darkened her eyes.

"Can I say I'm a little overwhelmed at—twenty-four weeks?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed quietly.

"You and me both," he said, raising his eyebrows and nodding gently in agreement. "It's OK, though. Good, really. Just means—we got twenty-four weeks outta the way, right? Done. Like…what'd you say? Forty? Like…that's…sixteen to go."

"Give or take," Carol said.

"Give or take," Daryl said.

"If I go full term…" She said.

"Don't try to slip one in on me just because we're on some shaky ground on how damn much I know about all this," Daryl said. "Is that a good what if?"

"What if—I go longer than I did with Sophia?" Carol asked. "I didn't make it all the way with her. There were some…complications."

"Some…what kinda…complications?"

"Some Ed complications," Carol said.

"We won't have no Ed complications."

"So—what if I go longer, then, than I did with her?"

"Then—we got more time to get ready," Daryl said. "We'll get everything ready early, though, just in case. There won't be no Ed complications, but…just in case."

"I'll try to be positive," Carol said. "I do have worries, though."

"Me too," Daryl said, nodding his head. "Maybe we don't ignore them. Maybe we just—make 'em sit down for just a little while. Week or two. Then, we'll revisit them and see if we need to talk about 'em."

"Give me one of yours?" Carol asked. "Just one…please?"

Daryl's throat ached again. He nodded his understanding. She wanted something he was feeling—something negative. Perhaps, she wanted it just to know she wasn't alone, and he wasn't lying to her, and he had fears just like she did.

He had a lot of fears, but helping her to feel better was far more important to him than indulging fears. He had to help her get through her things. If he could help her—if she could get through her things—he knew he'd be fine. She'd pull him through. He could get through anything if he had her there with him.

"Fine," he said. "What if—I ain't no damn good at this at all? What if I'm a terrible-ass daddy?"

Carol smiled. She laughed quetly.

"I thought we were talking about real fears," she said. "Genuine fears."

"We are," Daryl said.

"You can't be serious," Carol said, furrowing her brows at him.

"You didn't know him, Carol," Daryl said. Her expression sobered a bit, and she nodded.

"No," she said. "I didn't. But—I knew someone like him. Well. And—I know you. Very well. And that's not a what if that I have at all, Daryl. Because—I already know that you're going to be the best Daddy in the whole world."

"At least I don't got a lot of competition left," Daryl teased.

"Asshole," Carol said. "The best there's ever been, how's that?"

Daryl laughed. He had to admit that, even though his own worry did gnaw at him, deep down inside, he did feel a bit better about it.

"One worry a day," he said. "Each. We…get to pick, and we deal with it, and we move on. All the rest has got to be positive what ifs."

"Can we repeat?" Carol asked.

"You mean like you still worryin' about the same thing?" He asked. She nodded. "Fine. We can do the same one however many times, but you still only get the one, so you gotta choose what's really botherin' you. Deal?"

"Deal," Carol said.

"You got one?" Daryl asked.

"You're really not mad?" Carol asked.

"That's your worry?" Daryl asked.

Carol shrugged a shoulder.

"For today," she said.

"But I already told you," Daryl said.

"Tell me again? Just—one more time?" Carol asked.

Daryl touched her chin and then kissed her again. This time, it was simply slow and thorough. She didn't seem in a rush to go anywhere, and he didn't rush, either. When it broke, he cleared his throat.

"If that didn't say it good enough, I'm not mad. Not even a little damn bit. So—you can go ahead and throw that one out. We don't need it no more."

"I would be," Carol offered. "If I were you."

"Good thing you ain't me, then," Daryl said. "What about that shower or a bath? Oughta relax you. Then, we can go to bed a little early. Figure out some way to fill the time until we fall asleep."

"Will you—wash my back, Pookie?" Carol asked.

Daryl smiled at her.

"I'll wash anything you let me, Woman," he assured her.