AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

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

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Maybe there were some men who would be frustrated by the fact that their wife could get upset at the smallest thing, but Daryl wasn't that man—and he vowed never to be, if he could possibly help it. After all, he had the distinct impression that Ed had been that very kind of man, ready to spring to the attack over every little thing.

Driven out of bed, perhaps, by Sprout's overall dislike of lingering too long in the bed—and, to Sprout, it seemed that any time after midnight constituted lingering too long—Carol had gotten up long before Daryl and started her day. Since it was Sunday, Daryl had pulled the blanket back over his head and had given himself permission to get a little extra sleep with the promise that he would send Carol to take a nap later in the day, when their miniscule offspring would be promoting the idea that Carol should fall asleep, immediately, if she even got still for a second.

By the time that Daryl woke up, still at an early hour according to most people, Carol had cleaned much of the house and had dragged out the decorations that Daryl had brought, in boxes, down from the attic and piled into the extra bedroom for them to go through whenever they had the chance.

Daryl found her, tearful, sitting among her boxes, unpacked decorations, and a small mound of soggy tissues.

It had taken only about ten minutes to get her to admit that she was upset because the decorations, when she looked at them, felt worn and shabby—and not good enough for Daryl's perfect Christmas.

Daryl couldn't be too upset that Carol's emotions were all over the place. After all, Sprout had some contribution to her general sogginess—sometimes over happy things and sometimes over sad ones—and Daryl had made an undeniable contribution to Sprout's presence among them. In addition, he recognized that most of Carol's tears were over the fact that she often felt that, somehow, she would fall short of what Daryl deserved.

Daryl knew what it was to feel like he might fall short of some mark—imaginary or otherwise.

So, he'd collected his soggy wife from among the Christmas decorations, reassured her that she was perfect and their Christmas would be perfect, and he'd insisted on making breakfast for them, since she was the one that usually made it.

By the time they'd eaten breakfast, Daryl had talked her into simply parting company with most of the decorations that made her most unhappy. They were leftovers from Ed, mostly, and Dollar store finds, otherwise. The store uptown would sell relatively cheap decorations that would serve their purpose and would be perfect because, in the end, all that really mattered was that they would be decorating their home and their tree. He told her he was certain that Merle didn't have much in the way of decorations, and maybe Andrea might like a few nice things to bulk up what she already had. And, by the time he'd washed the breakfast dishes and put them away, Carol was headed to the bedroom to get dressed and go shopping with Andrea for a few Christmas surprises.

Daryl had a few surprises of his own to take care of, and he spent his time getting ready, after Carol left with Andrea, reassuring himself of what he wanted to do.

Daryl knew where Carol was headed to buy Christmas decorations. He'd told her he had a few errands to run and things to take care of, so seeing her around town wouldn't raise suspicion of any sort, but he also didn't want to spoil everything entirely.

Daryl chose one of the other small stores to buy what he needed. He made his selections carefully but quickly, and stowed them in the truck. Then, he headed out of town toward the tree stand.

When Daryl pulled up, the place was open, but essentially abandoned. He parked, alone, in the parking lot. He wandered toward the area where you officially entered the little pop-up stand.

Clyde Burrows sat on a folding chair and whittled at a piece of wood he'd more than likely taken from a tree that was happy to hand it over. He looked at Daryl when he walked up and smiled. He stood, and Daryl waited patiently so that the old man didn't have to feel overly aware of how slow he was in getting to his feet. If Clyde felt bothered by it, though, he didn't mention it. He put his wood and his knife down on his chair before dusting his hands off and walking over to offer one of his hands to Daryl—just as he'd done the night before.

Daryl smiled and shook the old man's hand.

"Daryl Dixon," Daryl offered, after Clyde told him his name again. "Daryl."

"I remember you," Clyde said, furrowing his brow.

"I was here last night," Daryl said.

Clyde nodded and smiled sincerely.

"Where's your little woman?" He asked, looking over Daryl's shoulder.

"Off buyin' a few Christmas things with her best friend," Daryl said. Clyde seemed to like the idea of Carol going Christmas shopping. His face lit up with the news, though he had no genuine reason to care.

"Some things for—for your little Christmas miracle?" Clyde asked with a quiet laugh to himself. Daryl caught it. The man's joviality was absolutely contagious.

"How'd you remember that?" Daryl asked.

"Are you suggesting I'm senile?" Clyde asked. His smile didn't fade and there was no malice in his voice. The teasing was the same as if they'd been friends for decades and Clyde enjoyed simply giving Daryl a hard time.

"I'm suggestin' there's a lotta people that come through here last night," Daryl said.

"Not every one of them was newly married, with a Christmas miracle on the way, and the hope of a perfect first Christmas in their hearts," Clyde said. "You remember some stories. The ones you hope turn out good."

Daryl nodded.

"I'm hopin' it turns out good, too," Daryl said.

"What brings you back? Tree weren't the right one?" Clyde asked. "You know I got a guarantee."

Daryl laughed to himself. On one of the many signs that led up to the tree stand—all of them stuck in the ground on old wooden stobs—there was the painted promise that every Christmas tree was guaranteed to be the best one or your money back. Daryl assumed there weren't too many people who were willing to haul a tree back and say it wasn't right, but he appreciated that Clyde wanted to run a good, honest business and, therefore, offered such a thing if someone were deeply unhappy with their tree purchase.

"Tree's good," Daryl said. "Great, even. And that lil' tree you give my wife? Hell—I think she likes it better than the big one, actually."

Clyde smiled at that and then furrowed his brow.

"Then—what seems to be the problem?"

Daryl glanced around. There was nobody there. In fact, at this hour on a Sunday, this stretch of road seemed entirely abandoned. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette from his pack. He offered the pack to Clyde, and the man shook his head.

"Care if I do?" Daryl asked. Clyde shook his head again. "Have a seat, if you tired of standin'," Daryl said. Clyde nodded and accepted Daryl's offer to sit in his own chair. He seemed to recognize that Daryl had something to say—another story to tell—and he didn't seem to mind that. The place, after all, was practically abandoned and Daryl got the distinct feeling that Clyde, a widower, might like the company just a bit. Daryl took a drag on his cigarette. "I don't know how to say this, except to say it."

"That's usually the best way to go about saying things," Clyde agreed, moving his knife and partially whittled stick to the grass beside his chair.

"I need a couple more trees," Daryl said.

"You're really going all out for your first year," Clyde said.

"Yes and no," Daryl responded.

"Tree in every room?" Clyde asked, amused. Over the years, he'd probably seen and heard just about everything.

"One of the trees I need," Daryl said, "needs to be just about this big." He showed Clyde, with his hand, where he imagined the tree might come. It would be a large tree—bigger than the table-top ones—but it wouldn't be a full room tree, so that it wouldn't take up too much room or get in the way too much.

"I'm sure I got somethin' just about that size that'll suit you," Clyde said, nodding his head.

"It's for a friend," Daryl said. "It occurred to me that—she prob'ly don't got no tree, and she prob'ly don't got nobody to come and get her a tree. I thought she might like one. I'd like to take her one."

"A Christmas tree will brighten up anyone's holiday," Clyde said. "I can find your friend something that's just perfect."

"The other one I need is—another one of them little trees," Daryl said.

"I have a whole mess of them," Clyde said. "You could take one, if you want, as a gift for bein' a good customer."

"I don't want it for free," Daryl said. "I'll pay for it. That ain't no problem. I'd like it to be—full. I don't know. A nice little tree. Nicest of them little ones you got. It's kinda important to me that it's pretty."

Clyde hummed to himself. He rose up out of his chair, taking his time as he had before, and walked around to study his table of tiny trees. He waved Daryl over. Daryl walked over and perused the small trees.

"I have just the one, I think," Clyde said, offering Daryl a little tree that wasn't too bad to look at, not as far as the scraggly little crooked trees went.

"That one oughta do it," Daryl said.

"Look at the others," Clyde offered. "Make sure there's none that you like better. Most of these—they're gonna get thrown out at the end of the season. Fuel for a few bonfires, more than anything."

Daryl perused the table of sad little trees leaning this way and that. Clyde had done his best to straighten them with the little cross-shaped stands he'd made for them. It was clear, to Daryl, that a good bit of care had gone into his work with the unwanted little things. That, Daryl thought, made them perfect for his purposes.

"I think you picked the best one," Daryl said. "Can I leave it here while we get the other one?"

"There's nobody likely to take it," Clyde said with a laugh.

Daryl rested the tree back on the table and started to follow Clyde through the maze of other trees.

"There ain't nobody here," Daryl mused.

"Hardly ever is on a Sunday mornin'," Clyde said. "Sunday evenin'—they'll be a handful, maybe. Sunday's a slow day all around. People are with their families and friends."

"Then why even be out here, especially so early?" Daryl asked.

"Those that come want their trees," Clyde mused. "You came, didn't you?"

"I'm glad you're here," Daryl said. "Don't get me wrong. But the money I spend on what I'm buyin'—it don't hardly merit you spendin' a whole morning out here."

Clyde laughed.

"That's where you're wrong," Clyde said. "I'm not here for the money. Not this morning. I'm here for—whoever needs a Christmas tree."

"You worried there's bound to be a whole slew of Christmas tree related emergencies?" Daryl teased, catching some of the man's enjoyment of swapping words back and forth in a somewhat playful manner.

"When you get to be of an age like I am," Clyde said, "it's not the money that matters so much as the people. I don't have too many needs, and a little money covers just about all I've got. I don't have an abundance, really, but…I don't have no shortage of money. What I do have, at my age, is a shortage of company."

Daryl's chest tightened. He understood that. He had worried, honestly, that he would feel that kind of shortage. He'd worried that, one day, Merle would leave him—being ten years his senior—and there would be nothing for him but the silence of an empty house and a suffocating loneliness. Now, he was blessed to have so much more than he could have ever imagined, and the most wonderful promise of so much to come.

He didn't say anything, as they looked at the trees that Clyde pointed out—all of them on the smaller side and standing just about as tall as Daryl wanted. Finally, Daryl selected one that Clyde called the best choice of them all. Clyde sat the tree to the side and offered to help Daryl tie it up for moving it.

"I could really use a hand," Daryl said when he had paid for it, and it was tied and ready to go, "takin' this tree to my friend and settin' it up. I know it'd be a lot to ask, but…I'd really appreciate the help and…she'd prob'ly be pretty thankful for the company. You reckon you could see fit to—close up for a while and give me a hand?"

Clyde looked more pleased by the suggestion than Daryl had even imagined he might. And, even though Daryl knew that Clyde knew that he didn't need the help at all, Daryl allowed the old man to help him move the two small trees and load them into the back of the truck. Clyde put up a little "Closed" sign on his chair by the register, and he took the money—nothing more, today, than what Daryl had just handed him—and shoved it deep in his pocket before he considered his little stand properly closed and followed Daryl to his truck.

Once they were buckled in, and Daryl had thumbed in a message on his phone telling Carol at least part of what he was up to—so she wouldn't worry when she didn't see him for a bit—he cranked the truck and started back down the highway toward Living Springs.

"Just do me a favor," Daryl said.

"What's that?" Clyde asked.

"When we get to my friend, Agnes's house? Don't mention my lil' Christmas miracle none, OK? We got a surprise for her, and we ain't told her yet."

"I wouldn't dream of ruining a Christmas surprise," Clyde offered, sitting happily in the seat and smiling at the practically empty road that stretched ahead of them.