AN: Here we are, another piece to this one. There will be one more piece before I wrap this little story up.
I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know!
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Carol didn't say anything to Daryl for a long moment. She pulled a small collection of keys from her pocket, and she set about unlocking everything that kept the outside world from entering into the little sanctuary she'd made. As soon as the gate was open, she stepped through it and immediately wrapped her arms around Daryl. He held her as tightly as he could, the evidence of what they hadn't yet discussed pressing into him physically and, to some degree, mentally.
"Carol…" He said, still not attempting to release her. She tightened her hold on him and nuzzled into him a little.
"I knew you'd come," she said. "I told the baby you would come…and you came."
Her voice sounded soft, and peaceful, and welcoming. It sounded like he dreamed of it sounding—like she always sounded when she was happy with him and at peace for some precious, quiet moment that they were able to steal from the world to spend together.
Daryl held her close. He breathed her in. He accepted that she was real, and she was there. He had found her. He felt his whole body relaxing. Nothing else mattered but this moment.
He had found her, and he was home. He couldn't find the words to say that, exactly, so he squeezed her back and hoped that his affection was enough.
"Come inside. Come…come inside," Carol said, pulling away from him and mopping at her eyes with quick swipes of her fingers. Her voice caught slightly. Daryl didn't speak, because he didn't trust his own voice. He didn't trust his own words not to come out wobbly and shaky.
She held the gate open for him and he rolled his bike inside. She locked it back. She smiled at him softly, the light failing around them as darkness fell. He smiled at her, his heart pounding in his chest. Her smile broadened, and she laughed quietly in her throat—the only sound exchanged. She walked toward him and slipped her arm into his, and he treasured the moment of feeling of her next to him, again, so casually holding onto his arm. He let her lead him up the little walk and up the steps to the house that she'd chosen.
At a glance, Daryl thought she'd chosen well. The fence looked sturdy enough to keep out Walkers—not that there were nearly as many Walkers these days as there once had been. He could report, if he'd found the voice and the words to do so, that his trip had at least taught him that. There were fewer Walkers than there once had been. The hold they'd once had over the world was ending, as they seemed to die out. There would always be more, each time someone died alone and wasn't put down, but there would be fewer.
The house looked pretty sturdy. The steps they walked on sounded sturdy and reliable. The porch seemed sound. As they reached the door, Daryl reached a hand out and touched the frame where she'd painted "Dixon" in black paint.
"Do you mind?" She asked.
"It's how I knew you were here," he said. "If it weren't for that…for the mailbox."
He stopped and shook his head. He didn't want to think that he might have kept going. He might have made a camp for the night and kept going, in the morning, in a feverous search for her, completely blind to the fact that he'd already missed her and left her behind.
"But you came," Carol said, practically breathing out the words and tugging affectionately on his arm. "You came…and that's what matters."
Daryl looked at her and nodded. He believed that. He believed what she said. What mattered was that they were there, now, together.
"I ain't goin' anywhere again," he said. "Not by myself…and if that means I don't go anywhere but here…well…"
She nodded and gave him a renewed smile.
"Come on," she said. "You must be hungry. Let's get you something to eat."
His stomach growled, much without asking him, at the simple thought of something Carol had prepared to eat. It didn't matter what it was, he liked everything she made. Whether it was reconstituted eggs or a soup she made out of wild onions and field mice, once, he'd liked it.
He was pretty sure, though, that it wasn't the food that he liked so much as the way she looked at him when she served it to him. He was certain that he could taste a difference in what she served him and what he'd eaten from anyone else in his life.
Maybe, he thought, he could taste her love in it, and that was his favorite seasoning.
Carol led Daryl to a table in the living room of the little house—close enough to the fire to eat without being cold. She brought him a bowl of stew that was heartier than he might have expected with her being out here on her own.
"Deer?"
"Shot it myself," she said. "Cleaned it, too. The smokehouse out back is makeshift, but it does the job well enough for now."
"I can help you make it better," Daryl said.
Carol sat down with a bit of dramatic sigh. She rubbed her hand all around the swell that they hadn't talked about yet. Daryl had watched her, since they'd come inside, noting the way she moved now—entirely differently than she once had when she wasn't carrying something so obviously cumbersome. She'd stopped, several times, and let her hand run the circuit it was running now, clearly catching her breath from the weight of it all, he assumed.
"I'm sure you will," she said, when she seemed to catch her breath.
"We gonna talk about it?" Daryl asked.
Carol smiled to herself. She laughed quietly. Her hand continued on whatever path it was travelling.
"I guess we have to," she said.
"Don't gotta talk about it, if you don't want to, but…"
"It's the elephant in the room," Carol said. "Or—I am?"
"Stop," Daryl said, demanding she not even start with the self-deprecation.
"Are you mad?" She asked.
He furrowed his brow at her.
"What do I have to be mad about?" He asked.
She half-shrugged.
"Sometimes—people are mad about things like this," she said. "Unplanned. Inconvenient. A burden."
"That some of Ed's shit?" Daryl asked. "Words he left behind?"
Carol had a sudden and vested interest in the floor.
"Maybe," she said.
"Don't wanna hear what he had to say," Daryl said.
Carol looked at him. Her eyes were damp.
"I haven't heard what you have to say, yet," she said.
It was Daryl's turn to shrug.
"I don't even know," he said. "None of that shit, I can tell you that. And I'm not mad. Just—I don't know what to say."
"Are you going to ask me if it's yours?" Carol asked. She drew in a breath and let it out. Daryl assumed that was evidence that she was feeling overwhelmed or, perhaps, anxious about the whole thing. She was trying to breathe in such a way as to help relieve that anxiety and stress.
Seeing her distressed, and feeling that tension practically crackling in the air around them, made Daryl's chest ache.
"Hell—it don't matter one damn way or another, does it?" He said. "I already said I wasn't going anywhere. I meant that."
He thought she might cry. Her eyes puddled with tears, and they spilled over, but she wiped them away. He lifted himself from his seat enough to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and offer it to her. She held it, looked at it, and laughed to herself before she thanked him quietly and actually employed it for its intended use.
"It's yours…you wonderful…wonderful…asshole."
Daryl couldn't help but laugh.
"Nobody's ever called me a wonderful anything," he said. "Guess I'll take wonderful asshole."
Carol let out another of her dramatic sighs. She mopped at her face. She leaned forward, toward him, like she might tell him a secret. He waited, and she righted herself before leaning back again, her hand as busy as it had been before.
"You'll be a wonderful daddy, too," she said. "If you want to be."
Daryl ate some of the stew, more to give himself something to do—and an excuse not to use the voice that he didn't quite trust—for a moment. When he could swallow the stew without feeling like he might choke to death, he figured he was ready to speak again.
"You know I want that," he said softly. "I mean—if I'ma be a daddy…which it sure as shit looks like I am…wouldn't mind being wonderful at it."
She smiled and nodded. She laughed again, blowing out her breath. Her emotions, he figured, were half-drowning her. He knew that women were emotional anyway, and pregnant women even more, and since he was choking on his own emotions, he could only imagine hers…so she breathed through them.
"Oh—you will be," Carol said. "Both. A daddy…soon…and a wonderful one."
Daryl hummed around a bite of stew that was buying him time again, as he chewed through its ingredients with much more care than he ever normally employed when eating food. He nodded.
"What about—other things?" He asked.
Carol had stood up. She was walking around—keeping busy. She stopped, fed a piece of wood to the fire that didn't need it, straightened a pillow on the couch that didn't matter, picked at inconsequential odds and ends leftover from a life this house had known before she'd gotten there—all the while rubbing circles on her belly with her unoccupied hand.
"Other things?" She asked, her back to Daryl. She paused, waiting for his answer, her hand on the mantel, holding onto it, as she seemed to steady herself for whatever he might say.
"You and me," Daryl said.
"What about you and me?" Carol asked.
"Well—you painted 'Dixon' on the door," Daryl said. "On the mailbox."
"If you want me to paint over it…" Carol said.
"Didn't say that," Daryl said. He tensed, already feeling misunderstood before he'd even said what he wanted to say. "Would you stop puttin' words in my mouth?"
"I didn't mean to put words in your mouth," Carol said sincerely. She released her hold on the mantel. She turned around to face Daryl. "What do you want to say, Daryl? I want to hear it. All of it."
Daryl's stomach squeezed as he faced the fact that this was it—it was time to say what he wanted to say, even if the thought of saying it and, more than saying it, having her react some way he didn't want her to react, terrified him.
He could put it off with another bite of soup, but what would be the point? The words would come out no better in three minutes than they would now.
"What if—that was your name, too?" Daryl asked. Carol simply stared at him. She wasn't putting words in his mouth. She was waiting for him to come right out with it. "I've watched you be with everybody else but me. And—it was OK…long as you were happy…"
"You didn't…" She said. She stopped.
"I know," Daryl said. "I didn't ever say it. In fact…I said some shit I didn't mean. Shit I've regretted a thousand times over. Said things that would've made you think I didn't want…well…this."
Carol drew in a breath and let it out as a long sigh.
"So—you do want this?" Carol asked. Daryl nodded. "All of this?" She asked. He nodded again.
"And more," he said.
"What else is there?" She asked with a laugh.
"Want you to be a Dixon," Daryl said. "I know it don't mean anything now. I know last names and shit—they're just words. Nobody hardly cares about them."
"But you do," Carol said.
"I do," Daryl said. "I never thought it was a name that was worth all that much, but…it'd be worth more, if you were to share it with me."
Carol was teary-eyed again, and the use of the handkerchief made that clear. She walked toward Daryl, her arms somewhat out toward him, as she moved with heavy and slightly incumbered steps. He stood up quickly and met her. She practically melted into him, her belly pressing into him. He held her tightly.
"It's always been worth something," Carol said. "Because you have always been worth…so much. More than you knew."
Daryl's throat and chest ached. His eyes prickled. He needed the handkerchief back. He ought not to be so damned emotional. Merle would have given him hell for it. But she wouldn't.
"Only to you," he said. "But—hell—that's enough for me." He pushed her back enough to look at her. He used his hands to wipe dampness from her face. He kept his hands resting there. She smiled at him. "So—you gonna marry me, or what?"
"Of course, I will, Pookie," she teased. "I've been waiting forever for you to ask." She laughed.
"Asshole," he said. "What do we do to…make it happen?" He stroked her hair because he wanted to—and he felt free to do it. She'd said she would marry him, after all.
Carol drew in a breath and blew it out, clearly calming herself.
"There's no need for a wedding," she said. "Unless—you just want to do something. It's only us here. We could just say…this is it. We're married because we want to be."
"It's that simple?" He asked.
"Vows are just words," Carol said. "All that really matters is the part that comes afterwards. The actions…the life together."
"Then—you're my wife," Daryl said. "Because I said it. And because I love you."
She laughed.
"And you're my husband," she said. "Because I said that. And because I love you, too."
"And we're gonna do the whole life thing together, from now on," Daryl said.
"From now on," Carol agreed.
Daryl kissed her, and she kissed him back. Somewhat tentatively, he dropped his hand to her belly and pressed his palm against her. It felt strange to touch her like that. It felt good, too, though. His pulse kicked up.
"It's—uh—it's really busy in there," Daryl said. "Got a lot goin' on or…somethin'."
Carol laughed again. She hummed, the hum coming out as something of a groan at the end.
"A whole lot," she said. "I'm afraid…the honeymoon might have to wait, Pookie. You're my husband…but you're also going to be a daddy."
Daryl felt a sensation almost like a coldness running down through his body.
"Soon…" He said, not knowing if the word was a question or a statement, himself.
"Very soon," Carol said.
"How soon?" He asked.
"Hard to tell," Carol said. "Oh—but definitely by morning…"
The reality of it all slammed into Daryl much like he imagined a swinging anvil on a string had once hit Bugs Bunny or Elmer Fudd.
"Fuckin' hell, Carol! Why didn't you say something?" He asked.
"We had other things to talk about," she said. "And—I knew it could wait."
"What the hell do I do?" Daryl asked.
Carol laughed.
"Exactly what you are doing, Daryl," Carol said. "Just—be with me." She hugged him, and he felt oddly reassured. This was, arguably, much more about her than it was about him, and if she could be calm, he could too. "Just—stay with me."
He closed his eyes and held her back, happy to have her in his arms. He was nervous about what was to come but, admittedly, he was excited, too, about the idea that this was the beginning of so many things for both of them—the three of them, he thought, with a smile.
He kissed her head and nuzzled her.
"I ain't goin' anywhere. You gotta tell me what to do," he said.
"Don't worry," she breathed out, still holding him. "I will. You're going to do wonderful."
Daryl laughed to himself.
"Ought to be me saying reassuring things to you," he said.
"You're here," Carol offered. "I don't need the words. But—if that matters to you? You'll figure out what to say, too. We've got time."
"Not a lot of it," Daryl said, "if that kid's comin' before morning."
"Not a lot," Carol agreed. "But enough. And then, we've got a lifetime."
Daryl smiled and squeezed her gently.
"I like the way that sounds," he said.
"Me too," she agreed.