AN: Here we are, another chapter here!
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
After the party, they did a quick once-over of cleaning, getting most of the trash out of the house at least, and then every willing and able body volunteered to help Merle and Andrea complete a marathon move. Everything from the trailer was moved to Andrea's old house in a caravan of vehicles. Even with quite a few hands on deck, the project of moving Merle and Andrea took most of what was left of the day. As everyone started to slowly say their final congratulations and to leave, Daryl and Merle threw themselves into fixing anything that needed to be fixed, moving furniture to more permanent locations, and putting items away in the attic for storage while Carol and Andrea started the process of unpacking the smaller items, cleaning the house, and turning it into a habitable home.
Daryl finished his work up with Merle early, and he went home to shower and clean up after the party while Carol finished helping Andrea set everything up so that she could feel calm about the fact that she and Merle had somewhere comfortable to stay while their house was being built—something she'd begun to panic about when everything was in absolute disarray and it had begun to look like they might be living in a veritable heap of their things.
There were still items that needed to be hauled downtown to the charity place—stuff where two adults with two full houses ended up with, naturally, more than they needed—and there were still a great many things they would probably choose to let go of when they were able to go through it carefully and with less of a panicked mode of packing, but at least they could move around and take those things, one-by-one, from the attic or the garage as necessary.
When Carol got home, she immediately tried to help Daryl clean up after the party, but he pushed her toward the bathroom and demanded that she take a nice bath—the works with candles and everything—while he managed the last of the cleaning. He had thumbs, he'd argued, and he was more than capable of putting away a few dishes and vacuuming up some crumbs.
When the house was pretty well clean and in order, the decorations were down, the food that they hadn't taken to Merle and Andrea's house was put away, and the garbage bags were crammed into the bins outside, Daryl surveyed his work with satisfaction. Then, he took the bottle of sparkling apple cider from the fridge, opened it, and filled a wine glass for Carol. He carried it to the bedroom with his own beer and put it by the bed.
Daryl pulled the covers on the bed back, fluffed the pillows, and brought a slice of the vanilla baby-girl-Sprout cake for himself and one of the chocolate Sprout cupcakes for Carol. He put the cake to the side, sure that they wouldn't need it right away.
He lit a candle on each bedside table and decided that, even if it wasn't something straight out of one of his movies, it wasn't half bad for an evening he'd only begun to plan while helping Merle move furniture.
Daryl stripped out of his own clothes, down to his boxers, and sat on the bed and played on his phone while he gave Carol time to soak in the tub and enjoy the little bathroom sanctuary that she'd created for herself. Her bathroom sanctuary was important to her, and it was important to Daryl. Some of their earliest text conversations, he knew now, had happened from that tub. It was where Carol liked to go when she was sad, and it was where she liked to go when she was happy. Daryl had been sure that the bathroom in their house would be built much like that one—but the tub was even a little nicer and a little deeper than the one that Carol had here. It didn't matter to Daryl how much it costed. He wanted her to have her sanctuary.
He wanted their whole home to be a sanctuary for the both of them.
When he heard her bumping around, drying off, he opened the bathroom door to let out some of the warm air.
"When the lady's bath has been finished," he offered in a fake voice that he knew would make Carol laugh, "her masseuse is ready."
She was already smiling to the point that he was certain her face had to ache. Her skin was red from the heat, maybe, or maybe from embarrassment. After all, she had to keep the water to a certain temperature for Sprout's comfort, and she was so strictly adherent to that rule from her doctor, that she kept a thermometer on the sink for testing bath and shower water every time.
"Masseuse?"
"Madame…" Daryl teased, sweeping a hand dramatically toward the room. Carol didn't bother with any kind of show of modesty. She dried off and left her towel hanging in the bathroom. Daryl didn't mind. He preferred the chance to see her, naked and beautiful as she was, walking toward their bed. He felt proud that she was confident enough to let him see her like that—in all her glory. Daryl followed her onto the bed. She was smiling when he handed her the glass of apple cider and picked up his own beer.
"What is this?" She asked, sniffing it.
"Just that juice you got, woman," Daryl said. "I'm not gettin' you an' Sprout drunk."
Her smile renewed.
"Well—what are we drinking to?" Carol asked.
"What the hell don't we have to drink to?" Daryl asked. He leaned to kiss her and she met him. Her kisses were hungry, but also playful. She was feeling good, and he could practically feel that energy through her lips. He knew, though, that hormones made every surface rocky, and there was just as much chance that she could swing and be a mess of tears in minutes as there was that she could spend the rest of the evening like this. Still, just as the pendulum swung in one direction, he could usually get it to swing back in the other. Daryl covered her belly with his hand. His stomach ached a little. He wished for the feeling of their little one moving around, but it wasn't time yet. He had to be satisfied with Carol's descriptions of Sprout's activities. "I feel like we got everything good in the world. We're buildin' our perfect house. I got the—most perfect wife in the whole damned world."
Carol laughed quietly. It was that slightly embarrassed laugh. He knew the sound of it. It came when she was flattered and, perhaps, a little overwhelmed.
"Because I have the most perfect husband," Carol said. "You know—I'm not really that good at being a wife. So, anything you're getting out of this is coming from your own energy."
"That's his bullshit," Daryl said, raising his eyebrows. "And I don't like his bullshit in my bed. Not when I'm tryin' to toast my wife and not when my damn dick is hard enough to bust concrete. OK?"
Carol's face ran red.
"Wow, Daryl," she said, laughing as the words escaped. Daryl laughed, too.
"You made me do it," he said. "Besides—don't act like you're a prude or some shit. That same dick is what helped grow us this lil' Sprout we got here between us, and you know it. Weren't some kind of immaculate conception. That's my Sprout you're growin'."
Carol touched his fingers with her own, and pressed them warmly against her belly. She closed her eyes, and Daryl wondered what she felt and what she saw behind her eyelids. He let her have the moment, and leaned forward to plant a soft kiss at the corner of her mouth, almost on her cheek, because he couldn't stand that his lips weren't touching her for the moment. When he kissed her again, he kissed her smile. The third kiss brought their lips together, and Carol moaned her appreciation.
"This is your Sprout. So, we'll toast—our happy home, and the house where we'll be rebuilding it," she said, stressing the word "rebuilding" so that Daryl would understand that she, like he, thought this was also their happy home.
"Home is wherever we are," he said. She nodded.
"And we'll toast that you're—a perfect husband."
"And you're a perfect wife," Daryl said, raising his eyebrows to her. Her smile faded slightly, but she forced it back and nodded.
"And?"
"And our Sprout is healthy, and growin' like a damn weed," Daryl said. "Active as hell. You saw the movin' around."
Carol's smile restored.
"He was sucking his little fingers," Carol said.
"She," Daryl said. Carol's smile fell. He thought, even, that she went a little pale. He was almost sorry that he'd called out her mistake at all. "You said he," Daryl said, this time softening his tone as much as was possible without whispering to her. "Makes sense. We been callin' Sprout he this long and all. But we gotta get used to sayin' she. She was suckin' her little tiny fingers. And she was yawnin'. You remember when she yawned, don't you?"
Carol laughed quietly.
"I should," she said. "We've watched it a dozen times."
"I got it there on my phone, if you wanna watch it again," Daryl said.
"Before we sleep," Carol said. "Like…"
She stopped.
"Like we usually do," Daryl said, finishing it for her and making sure to put as positive a sound behind his tone as possible. The last thing he wanted was for Carol to think that he disapproved of her request that they cuddle together before falling asleep and watch the video he'd recorded on his phone and shared with her. Those last few minutes, always with his chin tucked in the crook of her neck as he watched, spooning her from behind, were some of his favorite minutes of the day these days.
Carol nodded, clearly a little relieved that he hadn't scoffed at their accidental new tradition.
"And we drink to Sprout bein' a sweet lil' girl," Daryl said. He tapped his beer bottle against Carol's glass. It took her a moment, but she drank. "And," Daryl added, "we drink to the fact that…tomorrow is Sunday. And Monday? We're goin' into week nineteen with our lil' Sprout."
Carol did go a little pale, then, and Daryl quickly took her hand and squeezed it in his to ground her. Her eyes went to his hand and came back to look at his lips and then his eyes. Her eyes were damp, but they weren't as wet as they'd been lately.
"Take you some deep breaths," Daryl instructed. "For you and Sprout. She needs some air."
Carol laughed, but it helped to clear up a bit of her obvious overwhelm. She drank some of her cider, clearly marking her attempt to drink to Daryl's last toast since she raised her glass before she drank. Daryl matched her and drank some of his beer before he stole a sweet, apple-flavored kiss.
"Every time you say she it makes me dizzy," Carol admitted.
"Like we oughta call your doctor or—like…you're anxious and we can get through this just the two of us?" Daryl asked.
"Are you sure that…?" Carol asked. Daryl interrupted her before she could finish.
"Carol Ann McAlister Dixon, carrier of Sprout Dixon," Daryl said, squeezing her hand with each name. "I want you to listen to me. I want Sprout more'n I could come up with the words to say. And boy or girl was never—never—gonna change that. Never. Hell—I love the idea that she's gonna be a little girl. In fact, I was thinkin' that I might already have a name for her. Or a middle name or…something."
Carol's eyes widened and her smile returned. A little color returned to her face, and Daryl was thankful that this was nothing more than a passing wave of anxiety and wasn't likely to turn into a full blown panic attack.
"You have a name for Sprout?" Carol asked.
Daryl hummed and nodded.
"I mean—it don't mean we have to use it. I mean—could be that we come up with somethin' better. It's just…well…it was more a passin' thought, if she was gonna be a girl, I mean. But if you hate it, then we don't have to even talk about it, but maybe you might like to just think about it."
Carol surprised him. She kissed him. She stopped him. She saved him from himself and pulled him out of the hole that he was digging for himself with a long, sweet kiss that turned warmly passionate. It was enough to remind his dick of what it had begun to forget—that Carol was naked and he had plans for the night.
"Tell me," Carol said.
"You're gonna laugh," Daryl said.
"I probably am," Carol said, smiling sincerely, "but that's because…nearly everything with you makes me smile, and laugh, and…feel good."
"That's not true. You spend at least half your time crying," Daryl said.
"And most the time you know that's not about you," Carol said.
Daryl hummed and nodded his head. He reached a hand and brushed his thumb across her cheek.
"I do. It's the only damn reason that the cryin' is tolerable to me. The only reason that I stay to help you get through whatever the hell makes you cry. Because if I was the one makin' you cry? I'd…" Daryl stopped and shook his head. He couldn't say it. He didn't have the words. He didn't want to hear them, even if he knew them to be true. What he knew, though, was that he would never stay if he was the one making her cry like that. Even if it tore his heart out to go, he wouldn't stay and cause her pain. He couldn't live knowing he did that.
She caught his hand and pulled it around to kiss it. She closed her eyes again, pressing them closed hard, and she rubbed her face against his hand before kissing it again.
"I want to hear your name," Carol said, taking his beer and her glass and putting them both on the nightstand.
"OK—but don't give me too much shit," Daryl said.
"Minimum shit giving is promised," Carol teased. "It's not Sprout, is it?"
"Not quite," Daryl said. She looked concerned for a moment, but set her face. She was trying her best. "But you gotta admit that Sprout Dixon's got a nice flow to it. It sounds good together."
"Daryl," Carol warned.
"I'm just sayin'," Daryl said with a shrug. "I wasn't gonna tell you this, but I was daydreamin' already that Sprout was gonna be a girl. So—I was thinkin' if I had a girl that I was naming, what would I name her? And I was thinkin' about a movie I loved and…the book was one of the first ones I really liked reading, too. And, so, I was just thinkin' that maybe you might at least want to consider it before you shoot it down…"
"Daryl…spit it out," Carol said with a laugh, squeezing his hand in much the same way as he often squeezed hers. "I'm getting cold and I think I feel Sprout shivering. We need you to warm us up."
"Scout," Daryl said. "Scout Dixon. Like from To Kill a Mockingbird."
Carol smiled. It was a soft smile. It grew slightly.
"I know the book. And the movie. You like the name Scout Dixon?" Carol asked.
"I liked that—it started with a s, and I was thinking…maybe as a way to honor Sophia, you know…we could choose somethin' that maybe started with a s. Unless you hate that."
Carol shook her head.
"I don't hate that," she said. "I don't hate anything you do."
"But you hate Scout Dixon?" Daryl asked.
"No," Carol said. "I don't. I didn't say that, did I? It's the first I'm thinking about it. I think I need to—think about it. Hear it in my head. Imagine it or something."
"It's OK," Daryl said. "I've been thinking about it for a while. Just in case Sprout was a girl and all. You can take all the time you want."
Carol bit her lip and rubbed her hands over his shoulders, gently kneading them.
"Right now, I want you to make love to me."
"I thought I was givin' you a massage," Daryl said.
Carol hummed.
"That's fine, too," Carol said. "But—right now? I can think of some very, very specific places that need a lot of good, hard massaging."
Daryl bit his lip against his body's response to her tone and that sly ass little smile that she gave him, knowing full well what it did to him.
"Just so happens I'm the right man for the job," he teased.
"And you've got the right tool for it," Carol said, cocking her eyebrow as she smirked at him.
Daryl hummed.
"I'm a man of many talents," he said. "I'll employ whatever tools necessary to get the job done right. Customer satisfaction guaranteed."
Carol laughed and pulled him to her.
"Come here, asshole," she teased. "This customer doesn't feel like being kept waiting."
"Punctuality and a quick and thorough job are just other perks that I offer," Daryl teased, helping her rearrange her body to be more comfortable for the job ahead.
