AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

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

111

The more you tried, Andrea had stressed, the better the chance was that things took. Of course, nature was still nature and, therefore, there was a chance that things wouldn't take—or wouldn't take for some number of months of trying—but they could do their best to stack the deck.

Three times, it seemed, was their limit. At the very least, it was Daryl's limit.

Three times they'd had sex together—Daryl's first three times, but he'd still call them the best. It was hard to imagine that he might ever enjoy something more than he'd enjoyed those three times. It was nearly impossible to fathom that there was anyone who had ever enjoyed sex more than he'd enjoyed them.

Three times, they'd had sex together. They'd had a shower after the first time, and they'd had Chinese food twice, snacking on it the second time without the same hunger that they'd used the first. In the interest of keeping things where they could best do what they were supposed to do, Daryl had served Carol, and she'd only been out of bed for the shower and to go to the bathroom.

With her hips elevated, and the pillows stolen from the couch to help pad the nest they'd made in the bed, Daryl and Carol had spent the time in between sex simply talking. They had talked about work. Daryl had told Carol about his day, and she'd fussed a little over the scabbed-over cut on his face—touching the area around it more than necessary with her cool, soft fingertips and, finally, placing a gentle kiss near the cut that she promised would heal it faster than anything else. Carol had told Daryl about the diner, and about the assholes in town that did shitty things because they figured that, as long as they were paying for her service, they had the right to treat her like they really had no reason treating anyone. It gave Daryl a pretty good window of insight into why it was that she'd somewhat quickly taken a shine to Merle as a customer. Merle was an asshole—and nobody in the world, not even Merle, would argue against that point—but he wasn't the same kind of asshole as some of the ones she talked about, and everyone appreciated a little kindness, even if it came in wearing asshole's-clothing.

They talked about the baby that wasn't yet in existence. They traipsed down conversational paths they'd already covered before—their steps a little different each time they covered ground there—and talked about the agreement. They talked about their hopes and dreams for a little one.

Reclining in the bed next to Carol—a pillow stuffed under her hips to symbolize all their hopes that this would result in a child—Daryl let himself truly dream that it might come to pass on a level that he never had before.

Would it be a boy or a girl? Carol, of course, wondered the same thing. Would he care? Would it matter? Carol had asked him the question at least a half a dozen times throughout the course of the night and, from the tugging sound he heard in her tone, he somehow imagined that she might ask him a thousand times more before the whole thing could see its finish. He didn't mind. Answering the same question didn't bother him—especially when she looked so worried each time it came back to her mind to ask it and so relieved each time he answered it.

It wouldn't matter.

That was one thing that Daryl was absolutely confident about. It wouldn't matter. Boy or girl—he didn't care. He just wanted a child. He wanted someone to love unconditionally that, with any luck, might love him back just the same. He wanted to know that, with any luck, he had at least contributed one thing to the world that would go on without him—a good person. He wanted a chance to be more than his daddy was—so much more—and to prove, to himself, that he could be. He wanted, just once in his life, to take part in a miracle and to do one truly good thing.

He wanted to give a child everything he thought they all ought to have. He couldn't possibly make sure that every child in the world had the kind of life he thought they should, but he could make sure that one did.

When he closed his eyes, he could almost see the child. If he focused on the feeling, he could practically feel little arms around him, hugging him. Even the dream of it all could make his heart swell and his throat tighten.

Whether his child was a boy or a girl wouldn't matter—not one bit. Daryl would love it either way. In fact, he couldn't imagine anything, really, that would make him not love the child, and he was more excited about seeing what the child might be than he'd ever been about opening any present in his life. He was spiritual—though not wholly religious, and not dedicated to things like the structure of a church—but it made his heart ache in the best way to think that the child would be a little gift picked out, specially, by God, for the world. It would be God's choice of what the world needed and, therefore, Daryl was certain that there could be nothing about it that wasn't perfect—however that may be.

But if Carol needed to hear that a thousand times a day to make her happy and comfortable while she grew his child for him, he couldn't very well think of any other way that he might better spend that time and effort.

Carol asked him to share some of his dreams for the child's future, and she'd promised not to tease him, if he'd share. She'd reclined next to him, her head on his shoulder, while he talked. At first, his stomach had been knotted and nervous that she might judge him. As his rambling, unorganized thoughts had been met with nothing but approval, interest, and some pressing for further information, though, he'd found himself relaxing and indulging a bit more in fantasy. She didn't seem to mind as he rambled on and his stories about the child grew, and he found them enjoyable, so he kept telling her everything that came to mind while she relaxed, with her hips elevated, and did her best to try, at that very moment, to start creating the very child that they were dreaming about.

"You know—there's always gonna be them that don't agree with hunting," Daryl mused. "And I say that if you don't got the stomach to go out an' do it, then you damn sure shouldn't do it. But the way I see it, what we hunt is overpopulated anyway. You seen the damage that the deer do when their numbers are gettin' too high? And—hell—anyway—there's the eatin'. Merle an' me can stock the freezers up so good that we ain't gotta buy a lot of meat through the year. Saves money. We process more'n we can eat. Take some of it around to them that can't hunt no more—and a couple old ladies around town like the deer meat, but they can't hunt it. Hell—it don't go to waste. Merle takes I don't know how much down to the children's home a couple towns over and donates it after it's been processed. So—them that don't, don't…but I don't plan to stop, and neither does Merle. I figure—I'ma teach the kid, you know? You don't know what the hell this crazy ass world's got in store, and one thing is, I ain't never gonna have my kid starvin' to death an' sayin' to themselves—you know—if only my daddy hadda taught me such and such I wouldn't be dyin' like I am right now. I'ma teach 'em what they need to know. Fishin' when they're little an' can handle that. Then—you know—prob'ly a squirrel gun first. Teachin' 'em safety and the basics. Move 'em on up from there. At least, that's what I'm thinkin', but if you got a problem…I mean…we can talk about it, but it matters to me that they can take care of themselves, because I don't live forever, you know, and neither with you…so…"

It was quiet and Daryl tensed slightly.

"You pissed?" He ventured. Carol didn't respond at all.

He moved just enough to crane his neck to see Carol. He half expected to find her glaring at him. Instead, what he found made his heart pound hard and fast in his chest. Leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, she was sound asleep.

For a few moments, Daryl ignored the complaints of his craned neck. He held as still as he could, and he ignored the sudden crying out of each of his muscles that, being told they couldn't move, suddenly wanted nothing more than to twitch, spasm, and stretch.

There was something that struck him about Carol's sleep, at the moment, though it took his tired mind—because it was tired, even if he'd been pushing back that sensation for a while—a little time to figure out exactly what it was. There were, he realized, several things that struck him, and they washed over him all at once like a tidal wave of thoughts and emotions.

She was asleep. Her body was touching his. If he focused his attention, he could feel each point of contact between their skin. It had been a long time since someone had fallen asleep on him, and he had never experienced it quite like this. This was different than when Andrea might slump against him watching movies on the sofa or his mother had slept near him when he was very, very small. Carol's body was touching his, as she slept, and it took very little imagination to think that she was, at that moment, possibly making the child that they would create between them with that very same body. While she slept, peacefully, they might be silently witnessing miracles.

Beyond that, though, Daryl thought about the things she had told him about her ex-husband. The stories had been interspersed with other stories, and she always seemed to tell them with a type of upbeat tone that was out of place for the horrors she mentioned—like it wasn't a big deal and was probably something that everyone experienced and to which they could relate.

Carol had told Daryl about a husband who felt no shame putting his hands on her body in a cruel way—the way that Daryl thought no man should ever touch the woman he claimed to love. She told him about his scrutiny of her body, and the fact that he limited her food sometimes or harassed her for eating as much as she wanted. A body that didn't look like he thought it should—which was, according to Carol, much different than the way her body had ever looked—deserved to be mistreated and wasn't worth kind touches. Daryl hadn't understood, at first, why she'd told him that until he had realized that he was serving her a plate heaped high with Lo Mein and eggrolls while she rested, naked, in bed and worked on making their child.

Carol had told Daryl that she'd cut her hair off so that Ed couldn't pull it—couldn't catch her by it, hold her, and hurt her more than he could if he couldn't quite get a hold on it. She'd told Daryl about how he'd gotten angrier, meaner, and quicker to react as time had gone on and every little thing about her had seemed to displease him. She'd told Daryl about how she'd slept little and fitfully—and how she'd stolen naps during the day when he wasn't home to touch her, without daring to sleep long enough that he would question why she hadn't done enough chores in the day. She had told him about how she'd become jumpy—reacting to every sound, even in her sleep, in case it might be Ed bringing something with him from the outside world for which he wanted her to answer and to pay.

Carol slept, at this moment, peacefully against Daryl's shoulder. She seemed, really, to be sleeping deeply. She didn't move, and she didn't twitch, and the only reason he didn't question if she was alive was because he could hear her breathing.

It seemed that her stomach was full, her body was, perhaps, busy doing the things it needed to do to sort out if they would have a little one or not, and her mind was at ease. She was at peace enough, at least, to sleep.

Daryl's stomach tightened. She trusted him enough to sleep against his shoulder like this.

He had to work tomorrow. Carol, he knew, had to work tomorrow. He moved just enough to reach his phone. The movement didn't bother her. It had been a movement he'd repeated several times—reaching for a cigarette, lighter, ashtray, phone…or whatever he needed. Her body, it seemed, had accepted it as a normal movement and rocking action. It was nothing to be alarmed by—her mind had already accepted Daryl as something not to be alarmed by.

The strange responsibility of that weighed in Daryl's stomach in a way that brought him an unexpected feeling of contentment.

Daryl set the alarm on his phone. They'd wake in plenty of time to get to work. He'd make sure of that. For now, though, he didn't have the heart to wake Carol. He needed to piss. He ought to clean up the mess they'd made and make sure the lights were all off—he knew, at least, that the door was locked. He didn't have the heart to disturb Carol, though, so he simply stayed as still as he could.

Daryl looked at her, once more, sleeping against him in a pretty solid state of abandon. He swallowed down the impulse to touch her—to feel the softness of her cheek and the curve of her shoulder. He swallowed back the impulse, too, to touch the soft skin of her tummy—of which she'd unexpectedly told him she was always ashamed—to see if he could, somehow, connect with a miracle in the making.

Instead, he simply closed his eyes and, allowing all the thoughts he'd had to race back through his mind without settling on a single one to worry him into wakefulness, he slept.