Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: For the USS Caryl's "All Good things must come to an end" fanfiction/fanart challenge. I chose the "Caryl baby" option.

Warnings: Contains general spoilers for all five seasons, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content, smut, Daryl's shitty childhood and Carol dealing with the loss of a child in Sophia and wading through her own emotions of bringing an unexpected child into the world. Clear references to: past domestic violence, spousal abuse, child abuse, vague allusions to abortion thoughts, child-birth, etc.

Empires Fall (so that the children of the new might lisp a plan)

Chapter Two

"It's a boy!" she heard Maggie say distantly.

She'd barely recovered from the last push, but that giddy rush of words was enough to draw on whatever was left of her body's reserves. Allowing her to inch up on the bed, propping herself up on the mound of pillows, sweaty and exhausted to see. Body still coasting – vulnerable and uneasy - through more than a few conflicting sensations. The pain and relief that came out like pleasure after that final push. Knowing it was over. That for better or worse the baby was here.

"He's alright! Looks healthy!" Maggie added, moving back into her view. Wrapping the wriggling bundle in a warm blanket as the little one proved that much in spades. Angry cries rebounding off the walls, hushing into the late autumn as the entire community seemed to take its first tenuous breath in just under nine harrowing months.

He'd come early.

Just like his sister.

Impatient.

The vibrant red of Eric's head blurred between her legs as he snipped the cord and wrapped it quickly. Efficiently bundling up the stained linens from underneath her and replacing them with new ones as Maggie hovered overhead. An exhausted grin lighting up her face as she dipped low, giving her the first sight of her second child, sticky with fluids and blood. She felt something in her melt when she took in that wispy shock of dark brown hair. Motherly pride at an all-time high as his little face screwed up, wrinkled and screeching. Red-faced and tiny as a muted cheer rose up in the lower part of the house.

Sophia had been born with just enough hair to be called blonde.

This one though, he took after his father.

Dark to the root and completely unapologetic about it.

"He's perfect," she hummed, content to simply watch as her son kicked up a ruckus. Heart tenuous and light as she looked up at her second born. Seeing Daryl, Sophia, herself, her father, even her great grandmother as the early morning light cast shadows across his blotchy face. The ugly sort of beautiful that only your own flesh and blood can be as she sent up a silent prayer. The first in a long time. Just in case.

They'd made it.

Both of them.

It almost didn't seem real.

"You can come in now, Daryl," Eric called, taking the baby over to the washing station they'd already set up. Stretching his pre-med studies to their limit as he did a couple of basic tests. Humming serenely as the baby wriggled and punched. Kicking at nothing, vigorous, fat and healthy.

She was so relieved she could have slept for a month.

Daryl was through the door like a shot. Hair wild and expression just a few inches shy of either nausea or full out bloodshed. Making her wonder just how successful Aaron's attempts at distracting him with rabbit hunting and some unplanned crossbow lessons had been when her water had broken unexpectedly that morning.

Poor thing.

She would have smiled if she'd had the energy for it. Catching sight of Rick, Michonne and Carl in the background, milling in the hall – chuckling as the baby warbled – helping spread the word as the others started getting the celebrations going in full swing.

Her lip quirked. Any excuse for a party.

She looked up, only just realizing that Daryl had stopped dead in the doorway. One hand fisting the threshold like it was the only thing holding him up. Looking from her, to the baby then back again, as if unsure of who to go to first. And honestly, she was tired enough to let him struggle with it. Curious to see where they stood now that their new reality was currently bellowing out his displeasure to the world as Eric and Maggie quickly bathed their son clean.

She watched him watch her. Dark fringe doing little to hide the conflicting expressions that filtered across his face. Fear. Uncertainty. Disbelief. But more importantly, a wounded sort of want that burned like living coals right from the very heart of him every time a pink little limb flailed into view.

She smiled softly, letting the private moment keep her fed as Eric cooed happily, patting the baby dry as his irritated yells gradually whimpered themselves to a close. Grumbling and spitting up as he was quickly wrapped in another warm blanket and little blue hat before being passed off to Maggie again.

In the end, it was Maggie who solved the question of what happened next.

"Here," she murmured, offering Daryl the bundle. Looking up at him through long lashes, eyes shining as the baby blinked up at his father sleepily. "Carol wanted you to be the first. Here, hold your son."

She didn't realized she'd been holding her breath until Daryl finally reached forward, cradling their child in the crook of his arm – gentle and quiet – like he was holding spun glass as one tiny little hand reached up and fisted itself in the hollow of his leather vest.

"My son," he repeated, so quiet it could have been a whisper. Escaping from his throat with a scratchy sort of rawness that pulled pleasantly at her insides. Looking down at that crinkled little face in wonderment.

"My son," he murmured again, more a low croon than anything. Leaving his lips in the same way the wide of his palms were curled carefully around that small little head. Holding their son in his arms with more care then she'd ever seen someone use on so small a thing. Serious, but almost trembling with joy.

They all watched when Daryl tentatively crooked a finger, letting it ghost across the curve of a perfectly chubby little cheek. Surprising – and delighting - everyone in the room when the baby hiccuped, blinking up at his father with an otherworldly calm as Daryl stared back - enraptured.

She blinked through a sheen of happy tears as she watched them. There was something about the way he'd said it that stuck with her. Sounding out like awe and gratitude but colored by that honest sort of disbelief that Daryl always seemed to have in spades. Innocent and old every time the world managed to surprise him for the better.

My son…

My son…

It wasn't until Maggie and Eric quietly let themselves out, giving them a moment alone to soak it all in that she looked up at them. Thrumming with an exhausted, happy sort of pride as father and son looked down at her in return.

"He's perfect," she murmured, hushing him as he whimpered. Displeased at the abrupt changing of hands as Daryl settled him into her arms. Getting used to the change of scenery rather quickly when he sensed there was a meal involved. Fussing hopefully – or more to the point, hungrily - as her nipples tightened at the sound. Understanding without any further prompting as she arranged the baby at her side and put him to breast.

"Course he is," Daryl grunted as he watched them, heart-breakingly curious and just a little bit smug as his son guzzled greedily. "Came from you, didn't he?"

She smiled, coming from anyone else she would have passed it off. But with Daryl she knew better. He didn't say much of anything unless he meant it. Unless he had something he figured was worth saying.

She just arched a brow at him, hiding a smirk as their son drank his fill. Charmer.

"He still needs a name," she remarked, when Daryl caught the back of a chair with the curl of his thumb and forefinger and dragged it over to the bed. "Any ideas?"

She didn't press him when he took his time answering. Clearly wrestling with something she couldn't see as she contented herself to waiting him out. Smoothing her fingers through that dark shock of hair that graced her son's crown, quietly marveling, until Daryl shifted and cleared his throat.

"There was this old guy across the street when I was growin' up. 'Nam vet. Bit of a nut. You know how it was. He was decent, though. One of the good ones," Daryl started, speaking slow like he was remembering as he went. Savoring something rare from his childhood that didn't end in tears.

"He used to feed me up some, showed me how to take care of myself when mom was loving the bottle a little too hard," he added, smirking a bit when their son almost fell asleep in mid-swallow, a trickle of pearly-white rolling down his little chin as he snuffled uncertainly.

"His last name was Emerson," Daryl offered, looking up at her almost shyly. As if half-convinced she'd reject it right off the bat. "Never did think to ask about his first name. Hell, I don't think I've even thought about the old bat in years."

"Emerson," she tested, looking down at the tiny little thing tucked safely in her arms. Liking it immediately as the syllables did that thing that sometimes happens. Sending muted little shivers down your spine like the universe was trying to impress upon you the rightness of it all. "Emerson Dixon. I love it. It fits."

"Reckon something of his mama should be in there somewhere, though," Daryl grunted, eying his son as the baby suckled hungry. A tiny little hand spidering out across the swell of her breast, eyes closed in bliss.

"We'll figure that out later," she remarked with a smile, feeling it as it stretched across her face. Leaning into his side as he returned the pressure, still and peaceable as the fates settled their coffers, re-checked the odds, and reluctantly named them the victor.

"We have all the time in the world now."

She wrapped a blanket over her bare shoulders before she folded back the covers and slithered out of bed. Letting bed-warmed toes dance across the hardwood as she tip-toed across the hall. Mindful that the rest of the house was probably still sleeping as she avoided the floorboards that creaked with the ease of long practise.

It had been warm. Not unseasonably so, but warm nonetheless. Murky and thick, humid in a way that reminded her of Georgia in high summer. With heat that stuck with you long after the sun set, sticky and slick with sweat, trapped by the clouds until it was enough to turn the air muddy. And with no energy left to spare for air-conditioning, to say the last few weeks had been uncomfortable was an understatement. But just like all things, the oppressive heat seemed to have broken up overnight. Filling the air with the promise of rain and living things.

She found him right where she expected. Hunched over in the rocking chair by the window in the baby's room. Crossbow carefully propped up against the wall behind him, point down, but well within reach – just in case.

She paused in the doorway, one hip cocked as the rocking chair hushed back and forth in a gentle rhythm. Their son was asleep in his arms and he was nearly halfway there. Lid's at half-mast as dawn broke through the dusty window pane.

She couldn't deny the picture they made - father and son sharing a rare moment.

Framed by the sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the blinds.

But like all good things, it wasn't built to last.

"…Carol?"

"It's alright," she assured, crossing the room unhurriedly. As if to show him – with word as well as deed – that everything was exactly that. Right. It happened to all of them every now and again. You wake up, not sure where you are. Forgetting, even if it's only for a second, that you're safe. Home.

"You're going to spoil him you know," she chided, gentle and without heat as he tipped his head back, dopy and slow. Alluring enough that she stole a kiss on reflex. Leaning down to extricate their son from his clutches and put him back in his crib. Once again thanking all the appropriate deities that Emerson was host to the rare quality that almost every parent would have given up their eye-teeth to possess. The ability to sleep through just about anything. Including, lately, almost the entire night.

"Come to bed," she hummed, cold hands kneading into his shoulders with a barely-there rhythm, enough to pull a yawn and a grudging nod out of him as he wobbled to his feet – tired. "He won't be up for at least another hour or so."

In the end, he let himself be led, grumping but docile as he snuggled in beside her.

Breathing in the air of a new era.

A new day.

A new world that their son would inherit.

Funny how that thought didn't scare her like it used to.

When it all comes down to it, starting over is easy.

It's the part that comes next that's the hardest - that demands the most.

The hard part is living with the burden of making the world into something better.

Into something that deserves to be fought over.

Fought for.

The hard part is making something out of the ashes. Something wholesome and good that can be nurtured out of the razor-sharp of a million broken dreams. Something that can still grow – caught between the new and the old – as the survivors dust themselves clean and try to figure out where they'll stand after the flames have finally put themselves out.

But the catch is, you don't do it for yourself.

You do it for those that come after you.

For faces and names you will never know or meet. But will carry your blood all the same.

You do it for a future.

For their future.

Because either way you look at it, despite all odds, the next generation was already here. Arriving quickly, staggered in the form of natural accidents and long debated decisions that had resulted in Tobin and his wife deciding that a late edition to their own family was also in order.

And they were going to need more than just strong walls to rise tall.

It was time to do more than just survive.

It was time to thrive.

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete. Hope you enjoyed. Caryl!baby fics are not really my thing, but the QM and the Captain are filthy enablers and I couldn't get this idea out of my head. *throws a heart-felt salute to QM Haley.*

Reference:

* Emerson: German descent. Meaning: brave, powerful. Associated with people who are competent, practical, and often obtain great power and wealth.