AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Daryl assumed that all women were allowed their time to be emotional. He'd heard it, plenty, from his brothers that women were simply that way. Some brothers considered that such a deterrent that they chose to avoid getting attached to any one woman. If the women in their lives were temporary, they reasoned, then they had no obligation to tolerate the varying moods and emotions. Other brothers—like Daryl's actual brother—viewed women's changing emotions to be more like hurricanes. They were storms to be ridden out and tolerated, all the while you prayed for no irreparable damage.

Carol was, for the most part, pretty even-keeled in Daryl's opinion.

Of course, she was also pregnant, and his brothers—along with every movie or television show he'd ever seen—had made it abundantly clear that pregnancy changed the game for most women and, by default, for the men in their lives.

Daryl could handle any emotions that Carol might need to work through. As long as they came out on the other side of things, and as long as it didn't really change things too much in the long run, Daryl could handle whatever she needed him to handle.

His own nerves, though, were having a hard time accepting that everything was completely normal and that a woman, having simple woman emotions at an emotional time, wasn't the end of the world.

It was difficult to breathe as he stood outside the door at Hershel's house that led to Maggie's bedroom.

It was a sunny, fall, Saturday afternoon and they were getting married.

Andrea was going to devote her full attention to helping Carol get ready. Sadie and Alice had volunteered to help Sophia get ready and to keep her occupied until the ceremony. Everyone had been invited, and they'd been invited to come early and to stay late. The brothers that were already there were generally toasting the morning with coffee or, in some cases, a beer, and they were setting up chairs for the ceremony and tables for what they were calling the reception.

Merle had dedicated himself to helping steady Daryl's nerves.

What Merle didn't realize, though, and what many of his brothers seemed to fail to realize was that Daryl wasn't nervous for the reasons that many of them assumed he would be nervous. He wasn't nervous because he was getting married and tying himself down to one woman. He wasn't nervous because he was giving up playing the proverbial field that he'd never cared for anyway. He wasn't nervous because he was suddenly becoming a fully lawful member of a ready-made family.

Daryl was nervous because, in the pit of his stomach, he worried that Carol would change her mind. He wasn't worried about spending the rest of his life with her—dedicated to her as the only woman in his life and the true matriarch of his own little family unit. He was worried that it might not come to pass and, having tasted what it was like to have her by his side, he wasn't sure that he could—or that he even wanted to—return to a life without her.

A life without her—without what they had together—would seem empty and meaningless.

He'd felt like the walls were crumbling when Jo had come to the bedroom she shared with Hershel—the bedroom where Merle was keeping Daryl company while he pruned himself to look nice for Carol—to say that it might be better if he came with her to have a little talk with Carol.

Daryl was sure this was the end of everything, and the weight of Jo's hand on his back and her comforting smile did nothing to help assuage that feeling.

Daryl knocked on Maggie's bedroom door, knowing that Andrea and Carol would be inside.

"Who is it?" Came Andrea's response from behind the door.

Daryl cleared his throat.

"It's me," he said. "Daryl. Is—Carol in there?"

"Daryl?"

It was Carol's voice that he heard—closer and less muffled than Andrea's. She was right behind the door. All that separated them was the panel of wood. Daryl leaned his head against the door. He could hear it in her voice—sadness. Tears.

"Can I come in?" Daryl asked.

"You're not supposed to," Carol said. "You're not supposed to see me until the wedding."

Daryl smiled to himself.

"That mean you're—still gonna marry me?" He asked. "'Cause—whatever this is? We can work through it, Carol. It ain't nothin' but a thing—not if you still gonna marry me."

Whatever wall was holding back some of the tears must have given way, because Carol actively sobbed on the other side of the door.

"I'm comin' in," Daryl offered, reaching for the knob.

"No!" Carol barked out through her sobbing. "No! Just—I need a minute. Can we just—can we…just have a minute?"

Daryl's chest ached. His stomach hurt badly enough that the good smells of everything that Jo was preparing, with the help of Nellie and everyone she'd gathered to help her in the kitchen, didn't smell appetizing. His throat hurt. His skin felt oddly uncomfortable—dry, and scratchy, and like it didn't fit him well. He wasn't comfortable there, in his own body, and he didn't know how to step outside of it. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that all his discomfort came from the thought that the woman on the other side of the door might change her mind. She might walk away from the wedding. She might walk away from him and the rest of their future.

"We can have as many minutes as you need, Carol," Daryl said, leaning his forehead against the door. "Got a whole damn life I was gonna give to you so—I hope that's long enough."

There was almost silence on the other side, but there was enough noise that Daryl knew that Carol was still there. She was simply taking that minute that she'd asked for. She was taking the minute that he'd told her she could have.

He would let her have it. He'd let her have anything she needed.

"You said—you wanted traditional," Carol said.

"What?" Daryl asked, not sure that he'd heard her correctly or was following her train of thought.

"When we talked about—what we'd do today," Carol said. "How the wedding would go. You said you wanted traditional."

Daryl had said that he wanted something traditional—or at least as traditional as their little, makeshift wedding could be.

"That ain't what you want?" Daryl asked.

"There's nothing traditional about this," Carol said, her voice still somewhat shaky.

"What you mean?" Daryl asked.

"My dress isn't the traditional white and…Daryl…I'm not some blushing virgin," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself. He looked around, out of instinct, to see if there was anybody listening besides Andrea, who he knew was somewhere on the other side of the door. There was nobody on his side of the door.

"Hell—I guess I knew that already," Daryl offered. "Last I heard, you was bakin' up a little Dixon as we speak. Did I hear that wrong?"

Daryl thought there was quiet laughter on the other side of the door. He certainly hoped that he hadn't heard the laughter wrong.

"No," Carol said, her voice lower than before. "No. He's still here."

"He?" Daryl asked.

"You'd rather—she?" Carol asked.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I don't care one way or another, Carol," Daryl assured her. "I promise you that. My point was—I know about that. Everyone else does, too. It's gonna be Sophia that's in the wedding today—if there is one. I don't think nobody that's gonna be there was holdin' you to bein' a vestal virgin. Please don't tell me you ain't gonna marry me 'cause you ain't a virgin. The dress ain't white because you said you wanted somethin' comfortable and nice. Somethin' you could wear whenever you wanted to. You said you didn't want white. I don't care what you're wearing, but if it's gotta be somethin' white, maybe Maggie's got somethin' you can borrow. Or Jo?"

"My point is that—it's not traditional, Daryl," Carol said. "None of it's traditional. Nothing about this whole thing is traditional. And—that's what you want. It's what you ought to have."

Daryl heard the dam give way again, and at least a few more tears were wringed out of Carol.

Daryl's stomach knotted a bit tighter. His throat closed a little more. He reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, feeling like he ought to unbutton it halfway down his chest to allow for air to somehow reach his lungs. He'd foregone the tie because he hated them, and Carol said he didn't have to wear one. He'd chosen to wear a plain white shirt—button down, fresh, and new—and his cut. He'd bought new, clean jeans for the wedding—dark ones that would bleed the first half-dozen times that Carol washed them—and he'd polished his boots. He wasn't dressed very traditionally, really. Not for a wedding.

"I'm sorry I said traditional, Carol," Daryl offered. "If that's what this is all about. I didn't mean it. Or—at least, I don't think I meant it like you thought I did."

"How did you mean it?" Carol asked.

Daryl smiled to himself.

"I meant—everybody together," Daryl said. "I meant—an aisle, of some damn kind, and the sight of you comin' toward me. I meant—takin' your hand and holdin' it while we said some words about how damn much we was gonna care about each other for the rest of our lives. I meant—kissin' you, in front of everybody, so they knew we meant every one of them words. I really liked the idea of—hearin' Hershel say, 'you can now kiss your bride,' you know? I guess—I just always liked that part. I wanted to hear it if I ever…if there was ever somebody that I wanted to be my bride, like that. And I guess I meant—the whole reception we're havin'. The food and the music and the dancing…even though I don't usually dance too much, and I'm not too good at it. Hell…that's what I meant by traditional. It weren't like I thought you was gonna figure out how to put your cherry back or…like I give a shit about it no way."

"Jesus, Daryl!" Came Andrea's voice from somewhere far beyond the door, but still close enough to allow her to overhear what was being said.

"Didn't know we were bein' so damned proper!" Daryl yelled back at her. He heard her laugh. He heard Carol laugh, too. He was willing to go back and forth with Andrea all day if it would make Carol laugh.

"My face is still—purple," Carol said.

"I know it," Daryl said.

"Green around the edges," Carol said.

"Leftover from Halloween," Daryl teased. "Now if your dress is orange, we're all fuckin' set."

"Asshole," Carol responded through the door. She sounded lighter than before. Daryl would take it. "My dress is green, actually."

"I like green," Daryl assured her.

"But my hair is kind of orange…" Carol said.

"Fadin' out," Daryl said. "Barely a hint of it left. Pink in the right light, really." He laughed to himself. "Shit—Carol—I'm willin' to call the whole thing off…the whole production…if you'll just come out and marry me. I'll tell 'em all to go home. We'll tell Hershel to come up here. He can marry us in that room, right there, if it makes you happy. Just—tell me you're gonna marry me."

"You deserve a beautiful bride," Carol said. "For that part you like so much—where you get to kiss your bride for the first time."

"Good thing I got one," Daryl responded quickly.

"I look terrible. My face—the color…"

"Carol—I'm so sorry. I'm so damned sorry about what happened to you that I can't…it drives me crazy that I can't pound on that asshole again for what he done. But you're still beautiful to me. And it's gonna heal."

"I wanted—pictures…" Carol said.

Her voice broke again, the earlier hint of happiness gone.

"Pictures?" Daryl asked.

"I wanted pictures, with you," Carol said. "With—Sophia. With all of us. Together. A family. I wanted us to have pictures. We don't have any pictures…"

Daryl felt a ripple of amusement bubble up inside of him. It blended with the confusion that was beginning to push panic just out of his brain.

"Carol—we got enough cameras here, between everyone, that we can have all the pictures you want."

"Not beautiful pictures," Carol responded. "I don't want to look like this. I didn't want to look like this. I looked like this for most of my first marriage…and I didn't want to look like this when you married me."

Daryl swallowed, purposefully, against the tight knot in his stomach.

"Listen to me," Daryl said. "It's gonna heal, Carol. And—I wish I could take it away, but I can't. But—what I can do is promise you that I'ma do everything in my power to make sure that'cha don't never hurt like that again. But—you gotta marry me, Carol. I don't fuckin' think I can stand it if you don't. So, whatever you need or want? You tell me. I'll find some damned way to make it happen, but you gotta…I need you to marry me, OK?"

"I wanted family pictures," Carol said. "I wanted—to feel beautiful. And I wanted family pictures. To hang up in our home."

Daryl nodded to himself.

"OK," he said. "That's good. You right. We need—a whole wall of 'em. Maybe we'll do like Hershel, right? Surround ourselves with 'em. Memories of how happy we are—how happy we're gonna be our whole lives together. You can even think about how you wanna display 'em all when we build us our house out there on my land. But—Carol? We can take pictures. As many as you want. As often as you want. Maybe—we just take a couple today to remember today just like it is and then? We come out here in…a couple weeks. When you're all healed up and feelin' good. We come out here just to take pictures. What do you say? All that you want."

Carol was quiet for a moment, but Daryl could give her time. He valued quiet over the tears any day. He smiled to himself when she spoke again.

"My dress hangs loosely," Carol said. "It's—just kind of flowy now, but…I got it so that it would grow with the baby. It would be good now…and then. We could take some pictures—with the baby. When you can see him."

"Carol—I'll take pictures with you every week of my life," Daryl said. "If it'll make you happy."

"I want to make you happy," Carol said. "And I know—you didn't imagine kissing your new bride when her face is—splotched purple and green like a Mardi Gras mask."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"The only thing I imagined was kissin' the woman I love," Daryl offered. "That I was gonna spend the rest of my sorry life with. So, you gonna make me happy. I promise you that. Just as long as—you say you gonna meet me out there where everybody's gonna be waitin' on us."

"I love you," Carol offered through the door.

"That mean—you gonna marry me?" Daryl asked.

"Get outta here," Carol responded. "I've got to get ready."

Daryl smiled to himself. His heart fluttered in his chest, and the butterflies he'd been feeling all morning came out of hiding and flitted around inside his stomach again.

None of it mattered, though. Not the emotions, or the bruises, or the little imperfections that marked his life as being every bit as real and gritty as it had ever been.

None of that mattered, as Daryl walked downstairs again, buttoning the top buttons of his shirt as he went, because Carol was going to meet him outside—in the cool, crisp, fall air—and she was going to take his hand. And, at the end of it all, for better or for worse, and until death, as the story went, she would be Daryl's bride.

That was all that really mattered.