Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sooo, while I was going back to check a detail while writing this chapter, I realized that prior to naming Jace's father 'Tom,' I also named him two other things. ...I struggled with his name, if you couldn't tell. Sooo, if you noticed, mea culpa. If not, disregard me. Eventually I'll reload the documents and edit them... So sorry.

Also, thanks for all the wonderful reviews. I've been struggling with this chapter-I think whenever I get close to a story ending, I feel the need to focus on another, which is a problem. :) But I'm trying to focus!

Enjoy!

Chapter Ninety Seven:

After the weeks of stress and grief and explaining to Ayla, over and over, where Dada was… to wake up slowly, not to an alarm or to Ayla crying, in a wonderfully plush bed, the sunlight drifting over my face and lighting up the world was… amazing. I blinked slowly, stretching deliciously, and looked to the other side of the bed. Gil was lying there asleep, his stubble looking like it was well past a five o'clock, his mouth slightly open, drool soaking the pillow beneath him. I smiled, blessing his gently closed lids and his wildly tousled curls and the completely limp and relaxed way his form was sprawled across the bed beside me.

I heard babbling coming softly from the living room and slipped out of bed and into the first piece of clothing I found—a button down Gil had worn the previous day. It was wrinkled from the long plane ride and smelled strongly of him and of his deodorant and just slightly of sweat—not enough to stink, but enough to trigger memories of our sweaty encounter the night before. I smiled, feeling quite contented with this shining moment in time, and moved out to scoop Ayla up.

She too, seemed contented. I undressed her and took her into the shower with me, leaving her on the floor of the tub with a duck while I rushed through washing my hair and body and then lifted her up to my body to repeat the process with less haste and more care. I turned the water off and stepped out carefully, wrapping her in a towel and setting her on the floor before retrieving one to wrap around myself. She tried to stand and slipped back onto her bottom, slipping either from her wet feet on the tile or just over the long ends of the towel still wrapped around her.

Her plump little bottom lip stuck out in an exaggerated frown and I chuckled, lifting her up again.

"She pouts just like you." I jumped about a foot and shrieked, spinning around to find a very naked Gil grinning wickedly at me from the doorway. His curls were still a mess, though he'd wiped the drool from his face.

"Oh. Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry, honey." He stepped in, softly kissing Ayla's brow and then my lips. "Did you want me to order room service for breakfast, or can you wait for me to shower and shave so we can eat downstairs?"

I glanced at Ayla who was sucking on her thumb and offered him a smile. "As long as you don't take too long, I think we can both handle the wait."

He dropped another kiss on my lips. "I'll hurry."

Within twenty minutes we were stepping into the downstairs restaurant for breakfast—I had thought the idea of strolling down the street and buying a loaf of bread from a street vendor or stopping in a cute little café seemed very whimsical and French… and Gil had to remind me that we were in a city we didn't know with a hungry one year old and had no idea how far we might have to walk before we found something resembling a scene from Beauty and the Beast, like I was so obviously picturing.

We ate and Gil spent most of breakfast trying to teach Ayla "Bonjour!" but he insisted on pronouncing it with what I'm quite sure he believed was a French accent… The closest she got sounded like 'zuzu,' and he gave up, his eyes avoiding my amused smirk.

And then we did do some walking down the streets of Paris. Gil said we'd be travelling the next day to the place we'd get married, and then back into Paris for the rest of our honeymoon… but he wanted to give me a day to find something nice for Ayla and I to wear. …I would have married the man in jeans—hell, in pajamas—but I appreciated the amount of thought he'd put into the details—something I knew I could not expect from the average man.

And it was nice, just to walk through the streets, listening to tourists' many languages and accents as they mixed in with the French of the Parisians. It was almost like being swept up in a song, and I found myself smiling in a slow kind of way, just enjoying the day in a way I knew I hadn't in a very, very long time. I found Ayla a little dress of white eyelet lace, and myself a silky black wrap around with white flowers on it. It wasn't exactly a wedding dress, and Gil raised his eyebrow at me when I tried it on.

"Don't you… want something white?" He asked, concerned.

I tilted my head at his frown. "I… guess I just didn't find anything white. I thought it didn't really matter, as long as I found a nice dress…"

He nodded and gave me a weak smile, turning his attention back to Ayla, so I opted not to get the dress, despite thinking that I had looked rather nice in it. We purchased Ayla's dress, and left the store, quieter than before. We ate lunch at a cute little café that I suspected was designed with foolish tourists like me in mind, and after several long minutes of silence, Gil cleared his throat. "You, uh… didn't buy the dress you liked?"

I twisted my lips. "I thought I'd keep looking…" He nodded, focusing back on his food, and I pursed my lips. "You just… didn't seem like you liked it." I said, hoping to get to the bottom of this. He hesitated, and then lifted his gaze to me.

"You looked beautiful in it, Sara."

"Oh." I said, thinking that this did very, very little to clear things up. "Did you… want me to wear white?" I asked, thinking that this was the only clue I had, but thinking that Gil did not seem nearly that traditional.

He pursed his lips, his eyes flickered back and forth between mine, as if looking for something. He set his sandwich down slowly. "I just… you wore white in your first wedding." He said, and I frowned again.

"…So?"

"Nothing." He said, picking up his sandwich again. I frowned.

"Gil, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

"Then why are you acting this way?"

"I'm not acting any way, Sara!" He all but shouted, causing a slight lull in the conversations drifting around us, mostly in English, confirming my suspicions that this was a place more for tourists than anything. I swallowed, looking down at my own sandwich and busying myself tearing up the small sandwich Ayla was eating slowly, piece by piece. There was a long pause, and then he sighed. "I'm sorry, Sara."

I frowned further—his voice, even in apology, had sounded gruff. "It's fine." I said, even though it wasn't.

"No," he said, sounding a little calmer and more sincere. "It isn't. …Honey, I… I'm really sorry."

I glanced up at him, piling the torn up sandwich pieces on the tray in front of Ayla. "…Do you want to tell me what this is about?"

He swallowed and turned to look at Ayla, apparently unable to keep his gaze on me. "I… I want you to feel like… like this is a real marriage. A real wedding."

I looked at him in alarm and when his gaze remained on Ayla, I gently reached over and turned him to face me. "I do, baby. …Where is this coming from?"

"Well, we're… we're in a foreign country. None of your friends and family are here, none of mine… and I thought that didn't matter, but then you… didn't want to wear white and it got me thinking, you know, is this really what she wants?"

"Of course it's what I want, Gil. …I don't understand how a dress color is upsetting you so much."

He sighed in aggravation, taking a drink of his water and then sighing again. "Brides… wear white as a sign of innocence, yes, but it's also… it's about her giving herself to her husband in a way she's never given herself before. And… even if you ignore the symbolism, it's a traditional thing for weddings. And I just feel like… like maybe if we get married this way, you'll always look at your first wedding as your real wedding and this one as some kind of… rushed afterthought."

I clucked my tongue, taking his hand in mine and squeezing it. "Gil, honey… this isn't an afterthought." I squeezed his hand, willing him to meet my eyes, and when he did I smiled softly. "We've been waiting for this for years… it's the opposite of an afterthought. And I… I didn't know anything about where we were getting married, so I was hesitant to get something too formal. There weren't any white dresses in that shop back there. I wasn't not picking white because I didn't care about this marriage or because I somehow don't think it's as real or as important… I just didn't think tradition was all that important. Gil… I will be giving myself to you tomorrow, in a way I've never given myself to anyone, and it won't matter if I'm in red, black, or green… It has always, always been you."

He nodded, looking a little emotional, and then half-stood and slid his large hand behind my neck, gently pushing me forward until I half-stood as well in order to meet him in the middle of the table for a quick but impassioned kiss. "I'm sorry, Sara. I love you so much."

"I love you too, Gil." I whispered softly back to him, and together we slid back down, into our seats. Ayla made a loud smacking noise like she was blowing a kiss, and despite the emotion of the moment, Gil and I both started chuckling.

When we finished eating, Gil was cleaning up Ayla in the bathroom while I cleaned up the table… and I asked the woman behind the counter where I could find a formal dress shop. The directions were simple and I pocketed the directions. Gil came out and suggested we go back and get the black dress—I had looked stunning in it, he'd said, but he'd let his insecurities get in his way. I thought about telling him no, but was certain I could slip away from him at some point—we were still rather close to our hotel, after all.

So we bought the dress and headed back to the hotel for Ayla's nap… and apparently, Gil's as well—I hadn't expected it to be so easy, but by the time I had her laying down, he was half asleep in bed, mumbling for me to climb in with him. I did, waiting fifteen minutes for him to slip into a deep sleep, and then hurried out, making my way to the small bridal shop. Tradition wasn't necessarily important, but the message—the meaning—was clearly important to Gil. He'd never been married before… maybe he wanted the spectacle. Maybe he just wanted to feel like he warranted a spectacle as much as Jace. …Either way, I wanted him to be nothing but happy on our wedding day.

I wasn't sure how long he'd sleep, so I hurried, asking a saleswoman to assist me. She didn't speak much English, but enough for me to understand her words—she was giving me dresses to try that would accentuate my figure. It was the third one I tried on—my first time around, I'd never had that 'it' moment in which you just know. But I had it here. It was a simple, sleek fabric, all white. It was strapless, the bodice unadorned, simply a-line down to a dropped waist, and then falling long and simple and billowy from there, down to my feet. It was a formal gown—the kind Gil wanted to see—but it was also simple and functional and didn't make me feel like I was trying to be something I wasn't.

I bought a pair of comfortable, white, flat shoes to wear beneath it, and even let the nice woman talk me into a small veil… It was all expensive, but I didn't even feel guilty… I knew how happy it would make Gil. I took a taxi the few blocks back to the hotel, worried I would somehow ruin it on the long walk, and then tiptoed back through our suite, hoping both Gil and Ayla were still asleep. I knew I ought to keep it hanging rather than folded in my suitcase, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I lifted several layers of my clothes out of my suitcase, folded the dress gently inside it, and put my most lightweight clothing back on top of it. The rest was stuffed into my carryon bag and some of it into the bottom of Gil's suitcase—he wouldn't notice it until it was too late to ask questions.

I sighed happily then, curling back up in the bed with my husband-to-be. He didn't wake, but it was almost as if he knew I'd been gone. As soon as I'd settled myself, he rolled over closer to me, wrapping his arms around me and burying his nose in my neck, breathing deeply. For the second time that day, I eyed his sleeping form, and reminded myself to be aware that this was not all as easy for him as he made it seem. My passport said Sara Wendt, Ayla's birth certificate said Ayla Wendt… she still asked for 'Dada' and called Gil something that sounded like a mixture between Glasses and Gil, because she associated both words with him.

And then, there was the cloud of Jace hanging over our heads—though I had told him many times that I would choose him over Jace, I had never had the opportunity to actually follow through. In San Francisco, I had wanted to choose him even when I was at the alter, but I had thought he wasn't there… In Costa Rica, I had told him I would leave Jace, and the next time he'd seen me I'd been sobbing, wearing my ring, telling him about the ultimatum I'd been given. …In Boston, we hadn't reconnected until Jace died, and yet my grief over his death had hovered over us like a dark specter.

Maybe I was underestimating his insecurities and overestimating his confidence.

I kissed his forehead, slipping my fingers into his curls, and scooted even closer to him, vowing that tomorrow, when I married him, he would know exactly how much he meant to me—and that no man, dead or alive, could ever compare to how I felt about him. …Starting with the wedding dress.