AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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"I think we can put our gingerbread hovel away for the night," Carol said.
The way she smiled at Daryl, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, in anticipation of his response made his pulse pick up.
"You got damn jokes about…a gingerbread tragedy," he said.
"A tragedy?"
"A damn gingerbread tornado come through the gingerbread trailer park an' done that. The gingerbread family is fuckin' pleased they escaped with their gingerbread lives and you got jokes about what's left of everything they ever worked for in their little gingerbread world."
Carol frowned and eyed the mess, constructed in a baking pan for easy movement, that she had been transporting out of the way. She frowned.
"Now I feel kind of bad about it," she admitted.
Daryl laughed and closed the distance between them. He pulled her to him enough to kiss the side her face, but not enough to make her drop the gingerbread hovel, as she'd called it.
"I bet you do," Daryl said. "Sensitive as Sprout's got you. But—I was just teasin'. You can put the mess away. Maybe somebody wants to snack on it later." To illustrate his point, Daryl reached and picked up an icing covered piece of the mess, topped with an m and m. He hummed in satisfaction as he chewed it.
They'd had fun with the gingerbread creation, and that was all that really mattered. They'd gone the route of trying to make their own gingerbread from scratch. The result was delicious, but their house had simply collapsed in on itself. It was a heap of gingerbread, icing, and various candies now. The house, itself, hadn't really mattered to either Daryl or Carol, though, and now they kept it around for nibbling until the pan was clean.
They had also baked a few pans of gingerbread people that they'd decorated together with colored icing and the small piping tips that Carol brought home from the café for them to use for the night. They'd both eaten, over the course of the past day or two, more than their share of gingerbread villagers.
Tonight, they were having a dinner. Daryl had been the one to set it up. He'd been the one to insist that they have it. He'd insisted, too, on a very specific guest list. Carol's "Glory Gals" and their significant others, and of course Agnes and Clyde, were invited to fill their house with what Daryl hoped would be love and friendship. By the end of the evening, Carol would share her daughter—their daughter, since Daryl had decided to fully support Carol as she dealt with feelings that had never been dealt with before—with her friends. They'd presented the gathering as simply a Christmas party. They were going out of town for a couple of days before the actual day of Christmas, and they intended to spend Christmas day together, maybe with nothing more than a simple breakfast shared with family, so this was the last opportunity they had for a large gathering before the passing of the holiday.
Daryl wrapped his arms around Carol when she put the pan down and snuggled against her back. She turned and slipped her arms around him before rooting her body against him.
She was wearing the dress with the flowers on it and the leggings she'd bought when they were together. She looked beautiful and, more importantly, she looked like she felt beautiful.
"You OK?" Daryl asked.
"I'm OK," Carol said. "You're going to—be here with me."
It came out as a cross between a question and a statement, so Daryl erred on the side of comforting Carol.
"I ain't leavin' you for shit," Daryl assured her. "Hell—I go to take a piss or smoke a cigarette, and you wanna come? You come on. I mean it. You don't gotta be by yourself for even a minute, all night, if that ain't what you want. I'll even go with you when you go to take a piss."
Carol laughed and hugged Daryl tight, thanking him with a squeeze. He rubbed her back.
"It's gonna be great," he told her. "Everybody's gonna love their presents, and when you tell 'em? Everybody's gonna love her, Carol. They are. They're gonna—they're gonna feel sad, like we do, 'cause she ain't here, but they're gonna love that she was. They're gonna understand so much, Carol, that you never even said to 'em. They're gonna support you hard—like they ought to."
"What if they think it's not the kind of thing you talk about, especially at a Christmas party?" Carol asked.
Daryl held Carol's face delicately in his hand. She could have turned away if she'd really wanted to do so, but it was clear that she wasn't too interested in fighting him. He shook his head gently at her.
"Ain't gonna lie," Daryl said. "If they feel like you sharin' this with them is some kinda damn inconvenience or it somehow ruins their invitation to this dinner, then I'd just as soon they weren't in my house no more."
"Your house?" Carol asked raising her eyebrows. There wasn't any challenge there, really. Daryl understood it. He seldom took true ownership of much, preferring to share everything with her. The house, especially, was something he was reluctant to call his own. After all, Carol had bought the house after she'd gotten free from Ed. In a lot of ways, Daryl felt it was important for her to retain the house as her "own" so that the he never minimized what it had probably meant to her when she was escaping that marriage.
It was also a reason that they'd been discussing, however noncommittally, whether or not they might consider building something out on the land that Daryl and his brother had purchased years ago. It was a move that, if they made it, would take them closer to Daryl's brother and, by extension, to Carol's best friend, but it would also bring Sprout and Peanut much closer to each other as they grew.
"If I gotta put my foot down," Daryl said, "then this is one damn reason I'm willin' to put it down. There ain't nobody that has a place here that—when you tell 'em that she was a part of your life, and you wanna honor her and not just forget her—if they got somethin' negative to say about that? This ain't the damn place for them. They don't got a place here. And I'll tell 'em that if I have to."
"Don't start anything," Carol warned.
Daryl smiled at her. She was so beautiful, and when she warned him like that, her nostrils flared slightly and the corner of one side of her mouth curled up—and Daryl couldn't help but feel a warm rush inside of him as he was reminded, as he was several times a day, of just how damn much he loved her.
"I won't if they don't," he said. "But I'm tellin' you right now that it's almost Christmas. And this is our Christmas party. And I ain't puttin' up with no damn body's bullshit ruinin' even a damn second of it."
Daryl leaned and pressed his lips lightly to Carol's. She returned the kiss with a gentle peck, and then she pressed against him, seeking a deeper kiss. He obliged her without any further need for her to beg him.
"You look pretty in your baby dress," Daryl offered when the kiss broke. Carol laughed, and that was really all he'd been after at the moment.
"It's a maternity dress, Daryl," Carol said. "And—you don't have to point out when I'm wearing maternity clothes."
"I like callin' it a baby dress better," Daryl offered, following Carol as she went into the kitchen to check the food once more. Most of it was done. Daryl had already sliced the ham. Most of the sides were done. Their guests would be arriving any time. At this point, the last thing they were waiting on was the pan of rolls that were browning in the oven. "You look pretty in it, and I can't wait to take advantage of your ass when everybody's gone."
Carol laughed.
"I can't wait for you to take advantage of me," she confirmed. "But—I'll hold off until everyone leaves. Still—you know it's not really called a baby dress."
"I know that," Daryl said. "But I just like callin' it that. And I like pointing it out when you're wearing it. I like the reminder that you're wearin' it to be comfortable, right? While Sprout does his thing."
"Sprout's thing is—probably just floating around or something," Carol said, busying herself with random things in the kitchen while they waited. Daryl reached around and nabbed a piece of the gingerbread house from where Carol had tucked the pan. He munched on it while he watched her make up tasks to keep herself busy until the bread had browned to perfection.
"He's damn good at his thing, though. Floatin' like a damn pro. Swimmin' in there, even. Doin' some backflips. Butterfly strokes and shit."
"I'm going to butterfly stroke you," Carol said, snorting at her entirely empty threat. She pushed Daryl, nudging him out of the way so that she could open the oven door without burning him. He moved, pleased with the playfulness. It was his goal, entirely, to help keep her as light and happy as he could. Talking about the baby girl would be difficult, and he knew that, so he wanted her to go into things with as many good feelings as she could hold.
For two days, Daryl had made the baby girl a regular part of their conversation. He'd urged Carol to talk about her—even if it was just to talk about everything she'd hoped and dreamed of for the baby. He'd let her cry about when she needed to cry about it, and he'd simply urged her to express her feelings.
And he thought—even though he knew that she would never be healed from the pain that she felt—that she seemed to be doing better. She seemed to be feeling lighter. Daryl had encouraged her, too, to name the little one. Carol had questioned if there was any reason behind doing such a thing. There was no record of her birth—she was born too early, and the hospital wasn't required to record the birth of babies that young—and there was no memory of her existence. Daryl had argued that there was, very clearly, a memory of her existence and, if Carol wanted her to have a name, there was no reason that she couldn't have one now, even if it only truly mattered to them and the few loved ones who would honor her for who she had been in her few brief weeks of existence. Carol hadn't immediately accepted it, but she'd asked Daryl's opinion on a few names over the past few days. Daryl thought they were close to having something to call the little one that Carol had barely known, and that Daryl had never known, but who very much felt like a part of their lives—especially as Sprout grew to occupy the space where only she had ever lived before.
"You have outdone yourself with this meal, woman," Daryl offered as Carol flicked hot rolls into a breadbasket with her fingertips. The bread was too hot, but she was impatient and unwilling to wait for them to cool down.
"You don't know that; you haven't tasted it yet."
"My nose does a pretty good job of lettin' my stomach know what's comin'," Daryl offered.
He jumped, and he saw Carol jump, too, when there was a knock on the door followed by the sound of the doorbell.
Carol turned and smiled at him.
"You ready?" She asked.
"Me? Are you ready?"
"It's your Christmas party, Daryl—I want it to be right."
"Tree's on. Lights are on. This food looks damn good. My wife is the prettiest damn woman I ever seen in her baby dress…" Daryl paused, laughing at Carol's expression. She laughed, too. "No matter what the hell else happens tonight, this is everything I want it to be. Now—I only care that it's good for you."
Carol wrapped his hand in hers and very clearly moved in for a kiss. He obliged her.
"You'll—be close by?" Carol asked.
"Right beside you," Daryl assured her. "All damn night if you want."
She smiled and nodded her head gently. Then, she smoothed her dress, ran her fingertips through her hair, and went to the door.
Clyde and Agnes were the first to arrive, and they stood side by side on the porch with Clyde carrying a small stack of boxes. As soon as the door was opened, Agnes stepped in, moved right past Daryl, and wrapped her arms around Carol.
"Merry Christmas!" She announced. "How's my grandbaby?!"
Carol laughed and hugged the old woman back.
"He's just fine!" She announced.
"Growin' like a weed," Daryl announced. "That's why Carol's got that new baby dress on and everything."
"Oh—come on…now…let me look at you…"
Carol backed up, drawing Agnes further into the house and Daryl welcomed Clyde inside. He offered a hand to shake out of instinct, but quickly took the boxes instead.
"Merry Christmas! Welcome to our home," Daryl said. "I'ma put these over here with the ones we got." He glanced at Carol, but she was involved in a very close conversation with Agnes. Given that both of them were smiling, though, and Agnes was petting the barely-there physical evidence of Sprout's existence that Carol wore proudly, while Carol seemed to be holding Agnes's hand in place there, Daryl figured they were doing just fine for the time being. He walked back over to Clyde. "You want a beer or—somethin' else? We got a whole liquor cabinet we don't hardly touch no more since Sprout come into bein', you know."
"Beer will be fine," Clyde said. "And—one of those boxes is a box of cigars I brought for enjoying after dinner. Should be enough for everyone who wants one."
"I'm sure we'll find a use for 'em," Daryl assured him. "Come on—take your coat off. Put it over there. I'll get you a beer."
Suddenly, Daryl was feeling even more optimistic about the night than he had been before.
