AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Carol sat on the toilet and tapped the plastic stick against the edge of the sink, much like she remembered her mother tapping the old glass thermometer they'd had against her palm. Carol slowly let the tapping fall into a slightly musical rhythm. She wasn't trying to reset the stick. She wasn't trying to change it. She was waiting for the timer on the sink to ding so that she could see if the third stick confirmed what the previous two had said. She didn't know why a third stick was necessary—the other two were in agreement, and so there would naturally be a majority—but something in her brain said that she needed the third test.

Andrea had included the kitchen timer in Carol's "Baby Making Kit," as she'd come to think of the supplies given to her. It was a plastic timer, and it ticked slowly down to a shrill bell that made Carol jump even when she was watching it and expected the sound.

She had everything in the kit that she needed to make a baby—except the one main ingredient.

Carol jumped when the timer went off. She'd jumped the last two times, though, so that was to be expected. She flicked the test she'd been playing with into the sink where it clattered into the other one that she'd tossed there earlier. She picked up the third, sucked in a breath, and held it for a moment, eyes closed, before she looked at it.

When she opened her eyes and released the breath, she began to consider things. With her racing pulse, and her aching stomach, she considered all of it.

No matter her feelings, it was a big move to make, and her hands shook slightly as she snapped a picture of the third stick which, consequently, said the same thing as the first two.

She focused on stilling her fingers a moment before she typed her message.

"Want to make a baby? I'm off work at four thirty today," she said. She tried to think of something cleverer to add. She couldn't, though. Nothing came to her. Her mind was, at once, completely full and completely blank. Her hands were still shaking when she sent the message, wiped, flushed the toilet, dropped the plastic sticks into the trash can, and washed her hands.

Carol washed her face with cool water and patted it dry on the fluffy yellow towel that brought her more happiness than a towel ever should. Looking at herself in the mirror, half-hugging the yellow towel, a sob escaped Carol that she'd felt rising up in her chest for the last little bit.

If God was handing out blessings today, she'd go to sleep tonight carrying Daryl's child for him—a child that he wanted more than anything in the world, and a child that she wanted more each and every day.

Of course, she knew that's not how things worked—not exactly—but her heart cared very little for details at the moment.

She laughed to herself. Maybe those feelings were also somehow related to the hormones her body was producing at the moment—hormones that were preparing her for the conception of a baby, according to the plastic stick.

Whether due her unadulterated feelings or a hormone-soaked perspective, Carol went about getting dressed for work while humming to herself and imagining the whole thing. She could admit to herself that she let her imagination go a bit wild at moments, but that was what imaginations were for.

The only tension that she felt was in her belly, and it circled around wondering what Daryl would say and how he might react to the early-morning message that told him that today a decision had to be made.

Her pulse jumped up a notch when her phone dinged, and Carol snatched it up from the bed where she'd tossed it to rest while she dressed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened Daryl's message. She smiled at it. The nervous feeling in her stomach was suddenly different, but oddly welcome.

"I'll be off by five thirty. Coming straight there. Send me your order. I'll bring Chinese food."

In some imaginary world, that wasn't, perhaps, how Carol imagined the journey toward motherhood beginning, but she realized, in this world, she wasn't at all bothered by it. In fact, she found it endearing in a way that she wouldn't have tried to explain. She didn't question, for a moment, if her feelings were sincere or simply the hormone-soaked feelings of a woman exchanging text messages with the man she expected to father her child.

111

"Son of a bitch!" Daryl barked at nothing and nobody. "Son of a fucking, fucking, asshole bitch…fuck!"

His hands were not cooperating. They were not behaving the way that he wished for them to behave. They had caused him to nearly drop the Chinese food twice just trying to get it into the truck. They had caused him to drop every single tool that he'd picked up all day long. They'd caused him to get a small cut on the side of his face that had seemed to bleed for fucking ever because he hadn't been paying attention and had smacked his face on the bottom of an open car door as he'd been rolling around on his creeper, being too damn distracted to pay attention to what the hell he was doing.

If his hands had been sewn on ass-backwards, he could have used them more effectively.

The outburst had come from the second time he'd dropped the same cigarette—thankfully not lit—and he retrieved the cigarette from the foot. He was breathing hard after screaming out his frustration at his own uncooperative appendages, but he felt better. He was able to light the cigarette, at least, and that made him feel even better.

Carol wanted house lo mien and an eggroll. Daryl had bought her enough of both to feed a small country. In fact, the woman at the Chinese restaurant had clearly imagined he was feeding an army with all the food he'd bought—wanting to make sure that Carol could have anything she desired—because he'd seen her pack about ten fortune cookies into the bag for his numerous guests. Daryl hadn't had the heart to tell her that he'd simply over-ordered, so he'd thanked her profusely, tipped her more than necessary, and used his stupid fucking non-functioning hands to clumsily get the food out the door and into the truck.

Carol would come to the door soon. She would look out. She'd see him in the truck. She'd probably wonder why he was sitting in there, with more Chinese food than the two of them could eat if they holed up in the trailer for a half a month, hotboxing himself with a cigarette. She might even think that he'd changed his mind. Maybe she'd change hers.

Daryl dismissed the thought as quickly as he could. She wasn't going to change her mind. She'd promised him that. Each day when he'd sent her a text asking about the stick, she'd eventually ended by telling him that she wasn't going to change her mind—especially when he'd finally asked her, and assured her that he wouldn't be angry with her, if she'd actually had a positive stick at some point and had simply lied because she wasn't sure how to tell him that she was changing her mind.

Now, she was waiting on him. The stick had been positive. Daryl hadn't known how to read the damned thing, but he trusted her, and she'd sent him a picture of it. She was waiting on him now to do this—to make a baby.

Tonight, if luck was on their side, they'd create his son or daughter together.

He still wasn't sure exactly which way Carol might feel most comfortable doing that, but it didn't matter. He'd support her however it was that she felt most comfortable. However she wanted to do it, tonight they would hopefully make a baby.

When his nerves were a bit steadier, and fortified by the fact that he didn't want her to see him in the truck and begin to worry, especially since being relaxed was important for her and important for their future, Daryl got out of the truck. He gathered up the Chinese food, ignored his slightly shaky knees, and focused on not dropping everything he had to carry.

His stomach felt jittery when he saw her, but he was relieved to find it was a different kind of jittery. She met him at the door, and she was smiling, holding the door open for him to pass inside.

She looked relaxed—which was just how he wanted her to look—in sweatpants and a t-shirt that he'd seen at least a half a dozen times since they'd moved her into the trailer.

"Is someone else coming for dinner?" Carol asked as Daryl put down his burden of food on the counter.

"No," he said. "You and me are the only ones comin' tonight."

Immediately, he felt his face grow warm. Carol's cheeks colored pink as well, but she smiled and raised an eyebrow at him.

"With any luck," she said. "I got my list from Andrea, and that's actually top of the list."

Daryl hummed and nodded.

"Got the same list," Daryl said. "Along with—keep it warm and…raise your hips, you know, afterwards." He shook his head. "It never sounds less embarrassing, does it?"

Carol shrugged her shoulders.

"It's just—necessary," she said. "You—bought a lot of food."

"I wanted to make sure you didn't get hungry," Daryl said.

Carol smiled at him. His pulse kicked up. He wondered if his cardiovascular system would be capable of surviving the night.

"Can I have a cigarette?" She asked.

"You ain't supposed to smoke if you're pregnant," Daryl said.

Carol laughed.

"I'm not pregnant," she said. "Not yet, at least, and…I think it'll be OK."

Daryl nodded. He produced his cigarette pack and she grabbed a bowl from the cabinet for them to share as an ashtray as they stood in the kitchen and smoked.

"So—I guess we gotta talk about things," Daryl said.

"Might be a good time," Carol said.

"You wanna—eat first or…?"

"I think—I'd like to…work on making the baby first," Carol said. "You know? Andrea said it's better to do it more than once, you know? As many times as we can for it to have a better chance of taking."

Daryl wondered if Carol was as overwhelmed as he felt. The not-fading redness on her cheeks indicated that she might be.

"OK—yeah—good. We can…do what we need to do, and then we can eat while we wait. I can make you a plate, or whatever, while you're doing that thing with your hips. I mean—if you want me to do that."

Carol's smile hadn't faded.

"I would love for you to make me a plate while I…do that thing with my hips," she said. Her voice broke with a quick little bit of laughter at the end. It made Daryl feel a new rush of heat, but he didn't mind it.

"So—you figured out how you wanna do this?" Daryl asked.

"What do you want?" Carol asked.

"I want you to be comfortable," Daryl said. "That's what I want."

Carol laughed quietly.

"Maybe that's what I want, too," she said. "For you to be comfortable."

Daryl shook his head.

"Don't do that to me," he said. "Don't put it on me."

"You're putting it on me," she challenged. There was nothing in her tone that suggested anything other than playfulness. Daryl was relieved by that, but he still felt the weight of the moment.

"Please?" He asked. "You told me about him, OK? You said—you felt obligated. Forced sometimes. He done that to you. I don't wanna force you into shit, and I mean that. So—do me this favor and don't put it on me."

Carol's expression went serious for a moment.

"OK," she said, drawing it out a bit. "Well—Andrea did say that it's better if we make sure it's the right temperature and…Merle wasn't wrong. Those syringe things seem a little uncomfortable, and I'd have to handle that all on my own…"

Daryl's heart thundered. He heard the racing of his blood by his ears. His dick, which he'd been willing into submission far too much recently, twitched like he'd just suggested it might get to go out for a walk.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to…" Daryl said.

"I thought it was on me," Carol said. "I thought I was deciding. I thought that was the point."

"It is," Daryl confirmed, trying to rein in how much he wanted her to say that this was unquestionably what she wanted. "Is it—what'cha want?"

"I think it might be better," Carol said. "For—for making a baby. I think…it would feel more natural. More comfortable. Less…clinical. But what do you think? You're part of this, too."

"I think—you oughta know something," Daryl said. She opened her mouth slightly and furrowed her brow. It was enough to ask him to continue. "Merle said I oughta tell you the truth. Said communication is key. Said I oughta tell you what the hell I want. Tell you that—my whole ass goal, if we do this, is to…is to…shit…I can't say it…"

Carol moved a step closer to him. He could feel the warmth of her body—or at least he imagined he could. His dick swore that it could and, like the best soldier he could ask it to be, started to rise to any occasion for which it might need to be prepared. Her proximity was enough, it seemed, to raise its spirits, hopes, and everything else it had that needed raising for the task at hand.

"Say it," Carol said. "Whatever." She laughed quietly. "We're talking about—making a baby, Daryl. Our baby. Everything that means. I think—you can say whatever you want to say."

Daryl licked his lips. He bit his own lip, looking at hers, and imagined biting her lip. If he'd ever channeled his asshole older brother in his life, he tried to do so now. He looked for the little piece of Merle that had to be inside of him—the piece they had to share as brothers from the same parents—and nodded his head gently.

"I wanna make you feel good," Daryl said, truly feeling sincere. "I wanna give you every damn thing you need tonight. Shit—I wanna make your pussy feel as good as its ever felt before. Better than it's ever felt. Wanna blow your fuckin' mind until you can't think about nothin' except how damn good you feel. How damn good I'm makin' you feel."

Daryl couldn't quite interpret Carol's expression entirely. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open in an "O," but she didn't look like she was rejecting what he'd said. She was still close enough to him that he could smell her—the scent of shampoo, soap, and natural body odor that he'd shamefully inhaled the few times that they'd been close to one another—and his dick swore it could feel her warmth. She didn't move away.

"But—I've never done this before," Daryl confessed. "And—I don't know how to do any of that."

"Oh," Carol said, her voice completing the sound that it seemed her mouth had been soundlessly making earlier. "Oh," she repeated. She touched Daryl's chest. The feeling of her fingers through his shirt made his heart react. Instead of looking horrified, she looked happy. Her smile was soft, and not at all mocking—though he couldn't blame her if it had been. She spoke softly, in a tone that ran through Daryl's body like a lightning bolt. He shivered in response to her tone alone. "Well—I don't think that's anything to worry about. We can work around that."

"Even though I don't know shit about it, really, and I've never done it? You think I'ma still be able to—to get you there?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed quietly.

"If we're being honest? I think you're already off to a pretty good start…and you haven't even touched me yet."