AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

Warning for discussion of miscarriage.

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

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl drank her in from head to toe. She was beautiful to him, and he told her that all the time, but he understood that she didn't always believe him and, in fact, there were times when she rarely believed him.

Daryl's eyes stopped as they rested over the one part of Carol that was unfamiliar, and his stomach tightened at the thought that it would someday seem commonplace. Not yet, though. Not really. The rounded swell of stomach, right now, was foreign, and Daryl's eyes stopped there longer than they normally would.

Maybe, because she saw the drift of his eyes, Carol touched her fingertips lightly to the spot where his eyes had lingered.

He brought his line of vision back to the soft smile that was playing at her lips like she wasn't sure if she wanted to give into it or not. Her cheeks colored a bright pink.

"Well?" She asked.

"You like it?" Daryl asked.

She dropped her hand and huffed out a breath with a clear sound of exasperation. Daryl was absolutely certain that three words hadn't merited such a reaction of absolute frustration, but he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt that Sprout had his own input into her reactions and that, very likely, she'd already been working herself up in a number of ways before she'd even stepped out of the little room.

Daryl smiled to himself.

"You look pretty," Daryl said.

"Don't just say that," Carol said.

"I'm not!" Daryl said quickly. "Swear it. You look like—a lil' bit of spring right in the middle of winter."

The smile that had been playing around the corner of Carol's lips earlier reappeared now.

"What about—this?" Carol asked. She pressed her hand against the pronounced roundness and examined herself in the long mirror.

"Looks good on you," Daryl said.

"You're just saying that, aren't you?"

"No," Daryl assured her. "I'ma be happy when it's real."

Carol hummed, but she didn't stop examining herself in the light-colored dress dotted with small flowers of just about every springtime color imaginable. For just a moment, Daryl saw a flicker of the sadness that seemed to constantly linger just below the surface these days. He was certain—almost absolutely—that it had something to do with the baby girl that he was coming to know, as much as anyone could know her, in bits and pieces.

The suddenly-appeared and dramatically-pronounced roundness to Carol's belly wasn't real. It was nothing more than some kind of padding that she'd been given to see how the clothing would likely fit as their Sprout grew. One day had passed since Carol had come home with hardly anything from the store. It had been a day in which she'd dressed, almost reluctantly, in a simple pair of pants from the bag of clothes she'd bought and one of her own shirts that was still plenty big enough to allow for the barely visible evidence of a growing Sprout. She hadn't looked happy in her new clothes. There had been none of the so-called glowing that Daryl thought he'd seen before. Daryl had allowed her one day of that—and he'd sent her off to work, hoping her mood might improve with doing what she enjoyed at the café—but this morning things had gone pretty much the same way.

Carol wasn't being cold or distant with him. She wasn't being difficult or disagreeable. She wasn't even denying him any request that made of her. But there was a sadness surrounding her that hung thick in the air.

So, Daryl had gotten home from work as fast as he could, showered, and changed, and he was ready and waiting when she got there. He gave her a few moments to freshen up, and he told her they were going to dinner and to do a little shopping—they needed the makings of a gingerbread house and the gingerbread cookies that they intended to make for their holiday festivities. Carol hadn't argued at all. She'd simply gone to the bathroom and joined him in the truck.

She'd only started to argue when they'd pulled into the parking lot of the maternity store—he'd gotten the address from Andrea when he'd sent her a text earlier saying that he might want to pick something up for Carol's Christmas.

Daryl had simply told her he wasn't going to hear it when Carol had begun her protesting over a visit to the store. They were going in, they were going to look around, and she was either going to try on something that interested her, or else he would be forced to pick out things for her to try on.

Daryl couldn't feel more out of place if he tried. He did not belong there. The store was a woman's place and, more than that, it was a pregnant woman's place. There were big poster-sized pictures of babies and pregnant women in loving poses. There were clothes and things that Daryl didn't even understand all over the place. Every woman in there was either visibly pregnant or, in some cases, Daryl assumed were simply like Carol—waiting for a little one to really lay into the growing portion of their existence. Most of the women, though, were heavily pregnant.

One of the shopping women, who was heavily pregnant but also had what appeared to be a two-year-old hopping around in her cart, had already been making eyes at Daryl, though he liked to believe that her cooing over him wasn't actual flirting because he felt it was a bit too bold to flirt with him while his wife was two feet away from him, picking out clothes that he was holding for her. She had assuredly, though, locked eyes with Daryl at least once and made an audible cooing noise in his direction that made his whole face burn hot.

Daryl was willing to be uncomfortable, though, if it got his point across to Carol.

He stepped up behind Carol, looking in the long mirror to see what she saw. He wished, for a moment, he could see it all exactly as she must see it. Maybe that would help him know everything that was on her mind—everything she was even the slightest bit reluctant to share.

"You the best lookin' Mama in this store," Daryl offered.

Her cheeks ran red.

"Stop," she said. Daryl smiled and shook his head.

"Ain't gonna do it," he said. "I'ma keep sayin' it. You gonna get this one?"

"It's—not practical," Carol said.

"The hell ain't practical about it?" Daryl asked. "It's a dress. It's pretty. It looks like it fits you real good—especially when Sprout grows up a lil' bit."

"It's—light-colored. It'll get dirty…stained."

"We got a washin' machine," Daryl offered. "It looks comfortable. You sure do look good…I can't wait until all this is real." He wasn't lying, but he was making sure to lay it on extra thick for now.

"You really like it that much?" Carol asked.

"I love it," Daryl said. "But—I ain't gonna make you get it if you don't like it."

Carol looked like she was struggling with whatever she saw in the mirror—like she wanted it, but she was fighting herself. Daryl put his hands on her shoulders to ground her.

"You wanna tell me who the hell kicked you in the teeth the last time you was here?" Daryl asked, lowering his voice. "Because—I might like to have a damn word with her 'fore we leave."

"If that were the case," Carol said, turning to look at him, "then I wouldn't want to tell you at all. But—it wasn't anybody here."

"So, you admit it was somebody," Daryl said.

"I don't want to talk about this here," Carol said.

"OK," Daryl agreed. "Then—we buy the dress…and that last one you tried on, and we go. We talk about it in the truck."

"After we get home," Carol said. "I'm hungry. And I don't want to ruin my appetite."

"Fine," Daryl said. "But—you eat dinner, and you pick out at least one more thing here."

Carol sighed.

"I could get some leggings to go with the dresses…"

"You like 'em?" Daryl asked. She nodded. "Then I'll be satisfied with that. Go change. I'ma—look around or somethin'."

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

"It's kind of late…" Carol said.

She was wearing her pajamas—the red plaid ones that she practically took out the dryer after washing them to put them on again. She didn't know it, but Daryl had already bought her a pair of green plaid ones and a pair of blue plaid ones, just like the red, and they were wrapped and hidden in the back of one of the closets where she rarely went for anything. She looked adorable in them, and she clearly found them comfortable and comforting.

"Come here," Daryl said, holding his arms out in her direction and inviting her to sit. She moved to sit directly on the couch, but he pulled her into his lap. "We gonna talk. I'm not budgin' on this shit. I'm tired of puttin' it off. We gotta talk about this."

"We both have work tomorrow," Carol said.

"If we gotta call in sick, it's worth it," Daryl assured her. While she'd been showering, he'd changed into his own pajamas, and he'd set the mood—a relaxing one—by lighting candles and turning on the Christmas tree. "We're not goin' to sleep tonight until you tell me what the hell is wrong and we fix it."

"What if we can't fix it?" Carol asked, sincerely.

"Then…we do the best we can," Daryl said, accepting that there were some things they couldn't fix. "I need to know what happened."

She stared him down, but he stared right back at her. Finally, with a sigh, she contemplated the couch with more scrutiny than the piece of furniture deserved.

"It's not all one thing," Carol said.

"Hardly ever is."

"Most of it's just—thoughts," Carol said.

"Some of the worst damn things in the world," Daryl said.

"There's a lot that…you'd have to know to understand," Carol said.

"I wanna know it."

"It could take a while…"

"I told you we got all night. I was serious about callin' in sick."

Carol sighed and Daryl let her have her moment.

"Michonne's girls are close to the same age," Carol said. Daryl nodded. "She had them one right after the other. Almost as soon as Angie was born, she was pregnant with Celine."

"I know they real close in age," Daryl said. "You worried—about somethin' like that happenin' to us or…somethin'?"

"No," Carol said. She took a second longer, but Daryl simply shifted a little to get more comfortable and hugged her against him. He kissed the side of her face, content to have her in his lap in the happy glow of the Christmas tree lights. "Dean—he was her husband before Ty—cheated on Michonne when she was pregnant with Celine. Or, I guess you could say she caught him cheating then. He'd been cheating the whole time. She never really got over that."

"Cheatin' ain't somethin' you really get over, I don't think…" Daryl said.

"No," Carol agreed. "Not really. I guess—it breaks trust, if there's trust there to break."

"What does this have to do with us?" Daryl asked, his stomach starting to ache with a dislike of the conversation. "You wouldn't cheat on me…"

"No," Carol said quickly furrowing her brow at him. "Never…no…"

"I'm not cheatin' on you," Daryl said, feeling some relief. "Is that what the hell you're worried about? Carol—I wouldn't ever cheat on you. Hell…you're the only damn woman I wanted to be with forever, so why the hell would I fuck that up with cheatin'? And who the hell would I cheat with?"

"It's not really about the cheating. At least, not for me…"

"OK…" Daryl said, pressing her forward. He'd accepted this might take a while. He'd accepted that she needed to get through certain things she needed to say. He wanted her to say whatever it was. He could be patient while she did what he'd requested.

"After the whole cheating thing, they got divorced. He signed away his rights to the girls. Walked away and never looked back. He left Mich to handle it all on her own—figure it out. Michonne doesn't really trust men," Carol said. "Not after that. I'm not even sure she trusts Ty. Every man's a cheater, and if he isn't? It just means the opportunity hasn't come up yet."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I'm not a cheater," he offered. "Did she upset you with this bullshit? Because—I just ain't gonna cheat, Carol. I don't know exactly how to promise you that so you'll believe me, but…I just…I got no damn interest in it."

"I don't think you do," Carol said. "It wasn't that."

Daryl's stomach tightened. He knew, now, that something her friend had said to her had set this whole thing in motion, but he wasn't exactly sure what had been said.

"Go on…" He pressed.

"Dean—told Mich that he wanted the whole thing. He wanted a family. He wanted to be a father. When he cheated, he told her that…he'd changed his mind."

Daryl's stomach did ache, then, significantly.

"And you think—I'ma change my mind."

"I don't think you'll change your mind…"

"But you still worried."

"The last time someone changed his mind…"

Carol stopped, and Daryl saw her face start to screw up. He hugged her close against him.

"I know," Daryl said. "You don't gotta say it…unless you think sayin' it, gettin' it out, is gonna help. I'll help you carry it, if you want."

Carol squeezed him, hard, and Daryl let her hold onto him. He held onto her right back. She wasn't crying, or at least she wasn't sobbing, but she seemed to want to simply be there in his arms, and he was happy to have her there. Finally, she spoke, but she didn't look at him. She kept her face against him, rubbing him with her cheek almost like a cat.

"I was eighteen weeks pregnant," Carol said. She rooted into him, and Daryl instinctively held her tighter and rocked her gently in his arms. "I thought I could feel her kicking, but…I don't know if I really could." Daryl thought about assuring her she could—wanting her to have every single good moment that she recalled from a painful time in her life, but he simply held her instead. "He changed his mind…about the whole thing. He really hated me that night. I'd done something wrong. And—nothing was right. He hated her. He didn't want the whole thing. He didn't want to be a father. I can't even remember what the fight was about—what started it. I just know he said…he didn't want to have a child. Not with me. I don't remember why or…what I did…"

"Don't matter…it don't matter…" Daryl managed to say, squeezing her in his arms until he had to remind himself not to crush her with his instinctive need to wrap her in his arms so that nothing could get to her. He couldn't, no matter how much he might want, save her from a memory.

"I called 911…he left for a minute; I don't know why. I don't know here he went. He left, and I called 911. He came back, but they came and…he told them I'd had an accident."

"They believed him?"

"I don't know. I don't…really remember."

"It don't matter," Daryl assured her. She nuzzled her face against his neck affectionately. It was damp. He could feel her tears, but she wasn't sobbing. She was clinging to him hard enough to choke him, but he didn't mind. "Go on…if you wanna tell me."

"I only got to hold her once," Carol said. "Just for a little while…and she looked OK. She looked…perfect to me…just not ready yet. She wasn't ready…"

"Shhhhh," Daryl cooed when the tears got worse for a moment. He meant what he'd said. If she needed all night, they'd stay here all night. He'd call Jacqui for her, first thing in the morning, and he'd call Tyreese, himself, and tell him that it just wasn't possible to come in. He'd tell him that he was too sick. And, given how he felt right this moment, it wouldn't be a lie.

"He told them…"

"You don't gotta…not if you don't want to…"

"He told them to…dispose of her…she wasn't garbage…"

"Hey—no—no—she weren't garbage," Daryl said, swallowing against the painful lump in his throat. "No—she weren't. He was fuckin' garbage, Carol…but she weren't." Daryl pulled her face up to him, now. It was red and white—patchy and tear-streaked. The pain she felt was genuine, and it bored into Daryl's chest like someone was running him through with a hot iron pole. He held Carol's face in his hands, and he made himself look at the pain in her eyes with the hope that she would see the sincerity in his. "She weren't garbage," he said, his voice cracking slightly. He shook his head at her. "She weren't. And you aren't—never were. And if I could…get her back for you? If I could…somehow…go back and let her…fuckin' finish…bein'? I would."

Carol nodded her head quickly; it was all she could do to say what Daryl could hear without her putting voice to the sentiment: "I know."

"Did Michonne tell you I would do that…to you? To…Sprout?"

"No," Carol said quickly. She mopped at her face with her hands, and Daryl reached for the tissue box he'd put nearby, anticipating that such a thing might be desired. He handed her some tissues. "Thank you…no…no…she doesn't even know. Not even Andrea knows. I just…she was saying all men change their mind and…"

Daryl brushed her cheek with his hand and pressed his fingertip against it to move her eyes into line with his again.

"Listen to me," he said. "I don't change my mind, OK? I don't change it. Not about this. Not about shit that matters. I knew what I wanted my whole damn life…or at least since I had the sense to know that kind of shit could even exist. I don't know what the hell other people got or don't got. I don't know if they happy with what they got. I don't give a shit, really. But I do know that I know what the hell I got, and I ain't changin' my damn mind…OK? Not about you and not about Sprout. I'm sorry about what the hell other people done, or have to deal with, or whatever, but that ain't us. We already put off our gingerbread house a whole damn day an' you lost two days you coulda been wearin' shit that made you feel pretty, and happy, and fuckin' I don't know…for real pregnant or whatever it is you feel. We lost enough to someone else's insecurities already."

Carol was nodding her head, mopping at her face with tissues.

"Daryl—if something happened to…Sprout…"

"It ain't," Daryl said quickly. "And if it did? It sure as shit wouldn't be me that happened…"

"But if something did…" Carol said, clearly needing to say this. She stopped, and Daryl nodded.

"Yeah," he said, feeling like he understood. "Alright…if somethin' did happen? I ain't gonna say he's garbage, OK? I ain't…and we'll…shit…I don't wanna think about this…it hurts…"

Carol kissed him. Her face was wet and, maybe, Daryl's was too. He hurt. There was no other word for it. He knew, too, that she hurt.

"It hurts," she echoed in a whisper when the kiss broke. The kiss had clearly calmed her just a bit, giving her a much-needed distraction. "It hurts. But…so does not talking about it. I don't want to not talk to you about what I'm thinking."

"Yeah," Daryl agreed, hugging her close to him and absorbing some of the comfort of simply feeling her there. "If we gonna hurt, I'd rather we done it together." He pulled away enough to look at her face. "If somethin' was to happen to Sprout? We'd…do somethin'. OK? I don't know what, but we'd do somethin'. OK? We'd do somethin'…"

"I want him…" Carol said.

"Me too," Daryl assured her.

"But if…something happens?"

"Yeah—we'll do somethin', OK?"

"OK," Carol said, nodding her head. She looked drained—almost blank. It had been heavy, and like having a festering splinter removed, she was feeling relief. That relief, though, came as a wave of obvious exhaustion.

"Do I get to—say something?" Daryl asked. The exhaustion was evident in her eyes. She nodded at him. "I think you need to tell your friends about her. I think…you need to share her. Because she weren't garbage, OK? And they would wanna know about her, I think. And—I think—I don't know what, but I think…we oughta do somethin' for her."

"She's gone," Carol said. She frowned again, deeply. Daryl shushed her and kissed the corners of her mouth, closing his eyes against the pain he felt. The sound of a sob caught in his throat, no matter how hard he tried to hold it back. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't been able to entirely swallow down a burst of emotion like that. Maybe it had been when his Mama had died.

"She's gone, but…she ain't forgotten," he said when he felt like he could speak. He mopped at Carol's face with tissue he pulled from the box. "She ain't…and that's all that matters. And I—I ain't never gonna change my mind on you, Carol, OK? I ain't. Not on you. You got it all—I give…every damn thing to you. My mind, my body…my whole damn heart."

"I love you…" Carol said, her eyes locked on his. She didn't need to say anything else. Daryl heard everything—everything—in those three words.

He gave her the best smile he had at the moment, the sincerity of those words starting to clear the pain in his chest.

"Good damn thing," he said. "Because—if you were to leave me? I wouldn't have a damn thing."

"I'm not going anywhere," Carol said. "Ever."

"That ain't entirely true," Daryl said, laughing to himself. "I think—we oughta go to bed pretty soon. You look just about ready to fall off my knee."

She smiled. She still looked tired—exhausted, really. She looked, though, like a weight had been lifted off of her. She would, Daryl thought, be much better after a full night of good sleep, and so would he.

"Asshole," she said with a quiet laugh. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah," Daryl said. He kissed her again, and she kissed him back. He ran his thumb over her cheek. "I do."