Authors Note: A continuation of "Inside my Head (there's a Record that's Playing)". I recommend you read it prior, for continuity.

She spends April in the woods, just him and the cabin.

Making love and beautiful music. And later, they'll discover, Lila.

But that's later.

And this is now.

When the label heads tell her she's touring with Taylor, it's like a dream come true.

She's not stupid; she knows that the highest selling country singer right now is the 24 year old blonde, unlucky in love, but lucky in album sales. This is her moment to prove her worth, in an arena, surrounded by thousands of screaming, joyful fans.

Of course, there's a lingering twinge of disappointment.

They're not Miranda or Blake, or Tim and Faith. She doesn't belong on The Brothers Dixon tour, just as they'd be out of place on hers. She's country pop and he's outlaw rock and maybe one day, it'll be Beth and Daryl, a genre of their own. Right here, right now, the world's not ready for that. For them.

But one day.

A week before the tour starts, she heads home.

Daryl's in Australia (huh) on tour, and he sends his gruff regards, clearly relieved he can't make it.

The last time he was there, she spent the morning convincing her parents they were simply friends and collaborators, pretending they hadn't fucked in the barn the night before. She knows he's not eager to face Hershel Greene's questioning, would rather face a thousand members of the press than an old veterinarian.

Beth doesn't hold that against him.

Being home, there's no place like it. She could write an album full of songs about this place and still it wouldn't fully capture the peace and safety it brings. Her youth spent riding Nellie, playing her guitar on the porch, singing folk songs around the piano with her mother and Maggie.

She tells this to the interviewer and photographer over the lunch her mama makes. Answers their questions - her musical aspirations, industry struggles, and finding happiness.

And Daryl.

"It's such a private, beautiful thing," she says wryly, twirling her hair subconsciously, "when I'm with him everything is clear."

That's all she says on the matter. That's all they ask.

When the article goes to print, in the small indie publication, her interview reading more like a story, she thinks maybe they've understood her better than she's ever understood herself.

This happy dreamer, this girl in love.

This picture of bliss.

Merle is an unavoidable third wheel.

There are label parties that they are expected to attend. The press takes a small thrill in their mismatched pairing, keep waiting for the breakup and the drama. He's volatile, it's true; too often is he quick to let loose on paparazzi that accost her in his presence.

(She's always quick to tug him along, to rein him in and soothe with gentle words.)

But for all Merle's name calling (sweet thang, lil' Greene), he doesn't intimidate her like he used to. He means so much to Daryl, who takes the good with the bad in equal stride. He gave him a guitar, he led him to Nashville, built them this life, and for that, she will always be grateful.

(She doesn't pretend she doesn't know that, push come to shove, when the day comes and he has to choose, Daryl will pick her. Every time.

And he doesn't pretend he doesn't know that either.)

Beth knows who she is at these functions. Knows that she has to smile pretty and talk to the right people and be utterly charming. She cannot sit in the corner with her moody boyfriend, or laugh it up at the bar with his unhinged brother.

That is not her image. That is not her brand.

But she can slip away, when the evening is in full swing and the industry heavyweights are taking advantage of the open bar. She spots Daryl at the bar with Merle, drink in hand, smiling a rare smile. Sidling up to the brothers, she grins when his arm finds its way around her waist.

"Boys," she drawls.

"Lil' Greene," Merle tips his drink in greeting, "Come to join the real party?"

"Is there any other?" she smirks, signalling to the bartender, "Peach schnapps and lemonade."

Merle hoots with laugher.

"Peach schnapps! What kind of drink is that?"

"A suitably girly drink," Beth retorts, "I can't be drinking Jack like you boys. I have an image to maintain."

"A boring image," Merle snorts.

"An image that does not include re-enactments of Coyote Ugly," Beth says pointedly, prompting another peel of laughter from the elder Dixon.

"In that case, barkeep, she'll have another!" Merle yells and Daryl shakes his head, smirking.

"We're going home."

"We are?" Beth raises her eyebrow.

"Yep," Daryl nods, "spent too much time tonight having to share you. Say goodnight, Merle."

Merle takes a swig of his drink.

"Goodnight Merle."

It's the same old story; a discrete exit caught on film, she's kissing him before he can get the limo door shut and it's plastered across the tabloids the next day.

Such is their life.

In June, she finds out the hard way.

Puking in green room bathrooms, running off stage during sound check. She even bursts into tears during a meeting with the label heads, but it isn't until a makeup artist tells her she's glowing, that Maggie storms out and comes back an hour later with three different pregnancy tests.

The results are positive. Three from three.

Her sister's expression is torn between anger and concern and when Beth finds her voice, her reaction is underwhelming.

"Huh."

"Huh?" Maggie exclaims, "Huh! How the hell did this happen Beth?"

"The usual way," Beth replies meekly.

"Don't get smart with me!" Maggie all but yells, "Did you stop taking the pill or something?"

"What, no!" Beth replies, mortified, "I'm not an idiot, Maggie."

"Well, somehow you're here, pregnant, on the verge of making the big time. What about Daryl?"

"Are you asking me if he's the father?" Beth asks, incredulously.

Maggie sighs.

"I know he's the father, the paternity of the child is not the issue here. What I'm asking is, did he use protection?"

Beth blushes.

"We stayed at the cabin for a month. We sort of ran out of condoms after a while…"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Maggie looks like she wants to bang her head against a wall, "a country music criminal on the wrong side of 30 knocks up a 22 year old whose fan base is made up of tweens."

She looks her in the eye.

"You know you're going to have to marry him."

Beth's gulp is audible.

If she were just a normal pop star, she wouldn't have to do anything.

She could have the baby, let marriage and everything progress naturally. That would be easy. That would be best.

But she's a country star. And while the tweens might not care, their mothers will. The Christian Right will. They will demand the shotgun wedding of the year. They will be holding the shotgun. Because God forbid their daughters listen to the songs of a 22 year old unwed mother. God forbid they end up like her.

God forbid.

She waits for the tour to end.

It is July. She has not started to show. Probably won't until the sixth month, her mama tells her, smiling down the phone line. Then she'll pop.

Still, she's sick in the mornings and her emotions are running haywire. She is so unbelievably horny and it doesn't help that Daryl is winding up his world tour and even counting down the days makes her see stars.

Maggie is working out contingency plans, quietly researching nannies and daycares. There are no books on raising a child while on the road. No 'How To' manual on shielding your child from the paparazzi.

(It's not easy being a celebrity.)

When Daryl is back, in Nashville, in her arms, her only thought is him. His hands that she has dreamed of for months trace every inch of her body. She moans his name as she finds her release again and again and again and all Daryl can do is smirk up at her from between her thighs.

"I'm good, babe, but I'm not that good."

"I'm pregnant." She blurts out.

"Oh."

She was 18 when she told her father she wanted to leave the farm and go to Nashville.

Beth would be lying if she said she had thought through every detail of her plan. She knew some people through her YouTube channel that had a spare room. Knew some other people that could help her get a job.

In hindsight, she trusted too easily. Believed too hard in the kindness of strangers. But hers is a charmed life and when her father gave her his reluctant blessing, she settled into life in Nashville in a homey house with like-minded souls, and saved every penny she could from her long hours waitressing to fund her dream.

She played in pool halls and kids birthday parties. She came close, several times, but fell short several more.

When the stars aligned, she was not surprised.

Hers is a charmed life. And, as her father would say wryly, it was only a matter of time.

"Daryl?" her voice is barely a whisper, "Please say something?"

"I can't be a father, Beth."

It's not the response she expected. So used to heartfelt promises in the dead of night, their future sketched out in songs, she doesn't expect this rejection.

"I'm keeping it," she says, stubbornly, feeling anger building up inside of her, "I'm going to do this with or without you, Daryl Dixon."

"Christ, Beth!" he exclaims, grabbing her by the hand, "That's not what I meant. I just… I can't be a father! I don't know how."

"Oh," she murmurs, "Oh."

And it falls into place.

Every insecurity, every fear, every scar he carries, both physically and metaphorically, was given to him by his father. She feels a bit like an idiot, that she should have seen his apprehension a mile away and known that with her revelation, years worth of pain would be dragged to the surface.

"Daryl," she breathes, curling into him, "I know you think that you'll end up like him, but you won't. You're a good man, Daryl Dixon, and you're going to love this child with every fibre of your being. And that's enough, you know. It's enough and everything else is just semantics."

For a while, he's quiet. Just holds her and breathes her in and cradles her tight and close.

"I'm going to do right by you, Beth Greene," he murmurs, a promise.

His fingers caress her ring finger and as far as shotgun proposals go, it's perfect.

Maggie plans her wedding like she planned her career.

Steps and stages. Rolling out phases on a strict timeline.

"You got a ring yet?" she asks, over tea as she scans the gossip pages, always on the defensive.

"Not yet," she sips her tea, trying to keep the nausea at bay, "he's getting it made."

"Really?" Maggie raises her eyebrows in surprise, "he didn't just go down to the local pawn shop and get the biggest one under a grand?"

"Maggie!" Beth chastises, frowning, "Don't be like that! He wanted it to be special. Wanted it to be the start of our family history, okay?"

"So you wanted that and he went along with it?" Maggie's surprise turns into a smirk.

"We both wanted it," Beth insists, "he cares about these things too, you know."

"Hmm," Maggie muses, "how you going to break it to the press?"

Beth shrugs.

"Do we have to? I mean, I'm sure the paps will see the ring and make their own assumptions."

Maggie rolls her eyes.

"You're 22 and getting hitched. Sell them romance. Instagram it with some sort of sappy caption. Give them the fairytale, not the reality."

"So the baby is…"

"A wonderful surprise that came after the ring." Maggie is matter-of-fact about the issue.

Beth is silent for a while, drinking her tea while Maggie moves onto the next paper in her stack.

"You're going to be an Auntie," she says with a slow smile. For the first time since the pregnancy test, Maggie matches her with a smile of her own.

"Yeah, I am."

She has a giggling fit right there on the stage.

Beside her, the host tries to offer her water, while the audience laughs along with her.

"She's adorable, isn't she folks?"

They clap and cheer and her breathing returns to normal as she struggles to regain her composure.

"I'm okay, I'm okay."

"You're more than okay, you're engaged!" the host exclaims, and the audience cheer and whoop yet again.

"Is Taylor Swift going to be your bridesmaid? I think I'd pay good money to see her waltzing with Merle Dixon!"

The image makes her giggle again.

"I think I'd pay money to see that too!"

"But, seriously," the host turns to her slightly, and she forces her nerves away, "for the curious folks watching with us, what's a Daryl Dixon proposal like?"

She blushes.

"It's ah, it's indescribable," she smiles with a shrug, "I mean, it's a private thing, but it's perfect. He's the reason it was perfect."

It's that moment; Maggie will tell her wryly, that she made the world fall in love with Daryl Dixon. It's that moment, when the critics stopped asking why.

It's that moment when they make perfect sense.

"What do you want to call him?" Beth asks, curling into his side. He strokes the bare skin of her stomach, fingers lingering where the small bump is barely protruding.

"Or her," he murmurs, and she sighs.

"I think it'll be a boy."

"You can find out, you know. We have the technology."

She giggles.

"Was that a joke, Mister Dixon?"

He smirks, kissing her neck.

"Don't act so surprised. I've been known to make them."

"Sure, sure," she grins, "What about Dylan?"

"Nah," he frowns, "too pretty."

"Hmm, can't have that," she teases, "what about Jack? Or, better yet, Daryl Junior? DJ?"

He grunts in disapproval.

"Well then, do you have any better suggestions?"

"Sure," he smiles, kissing her stomach reverently, "what about Rosie or Maisie or Annie?"

"You're so convinced it'll be a girl!" She exclaims with a grin, "why are you so sure?"

"Dunno," he says quietly, "easier to picture a little girl. With her Mama's hair and voice, climbing trees and learning guitar."

She knows he's plagued by self-doubt. Worries that if they have a son it'll be too easy to fall back into the old patterns he knows so well. She knows that he hopes for a daughter because she'll look like her and it's easier, a miniature version of herself. A miniature version of him will just be like looking in a damn mirror.

"He or she, it'll be perfect," she insists. Perfect and loved – words she doesn't say but he hears, loud and clear.

The ring on her finger is testimony to that.

It rains the morning of her wedding.

"It's good luck!" her mother exclaims happily as Beth stands in her childhood room, inspecting the dreary sky.

Rain or shine, she doesn't care.

The clouds part by lunch, giving way to a beautiful blue sky and sunshine. Maggie fusses over her hair, flowers interwoven in braids and her Mama all but cries as Beth comes out of the bathroom in her white, tea length dress.

"Bethy, you look beautiful."

In the doorway, her father stands, gazing at her smiling. She smiles back, shyly, and her mother takes Maggie's hand in her, crying happy tears.

It's a small ceremony; her father walks her solemnly down the aisle and their siblings stand as best man and maid of honour. Their vows are traditional; they don't need their own words to tell one another how they feel when their songs speak louder than any homemade vows can.

They are old fashioned, til' death do us part and she knows, for Daryl Dixon, once he falls in love, that's it. That's all there is. She is his and he is hers and this is forever. As long as they both shall live.

At the reception, they sing the song that started it all, and a couple of new ones too, ones they wrote for their unborn child. Merle sings for a bit, Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard and even his best man speech is surprisingly touching.

They consummate their marriage in the barn. It's only fitting, really.

She taps his ring with hers.

"I love you."

He taps hers right back.

"I love you too."

When they announce the pregnancy, it's no shock when the media throws around terms like 'shotgun' and 'accident'.

Hell, it's words she's used herself, time and time again.

But Daryl Dixon doesn't let anyone tell him what to do. Doesn't let anyone try and explain his actions. So he writes a song, tells the critics to fuck off with his pen and guitar and Merle, and suddenly, overnight, The Brothers Dixon evolve from whiskey drinking, womanising, truck driving, redneck lotharios, to straight up family men.

The music journalists have a field day.

It warms her heart, knowing it's her and their unborn child that's the catalyst. That she's Beth Dixon now, legally, and with that comes the fierce protection from her husband and his brother.

"We Dixon's look after our own," Merle tells her one day, sober and serious for once. "And we don't roll over for anybody."

With that knowledge, she feels as though she could conquer the world.

The true test comes, however, when they buy a house.

His bachelor condo won't do and she's still living with Maggie and her fiancé Glenn, despite the extra zeroes in her bank account. She doesn't do well alone, loves looking after people and filling the silence when she can.

They decide against anything too big. They're not Belle Meade, never will be, no matter the record sales or itunes downloads. They both settle on a 3-bedroom house with a barn and a large workshop. It's cosy on the inside, but there's more than enough space were their family to grow.

(It's a practical decision that both scares and excites her.)

But he doesn't care about drapes or rugs. Doesn't care about paint swatches or light fixtures. Doesn't care about picking a couch or a bed or anything.

And it's infuriating.

She loses it when she finds herself painting the nursery by herself, dizzy and pregnant (who can forget that?) and he's nowhere to be found. When she hears his truck pull up, she's all set to give him a piece of her mind.

It's what's carefully tied down in the bed of the truck that makes her anger disappear.

"Did – did you make that?"

It's a handcrafted wooden crib, equal parts beautiful and elegant. She runs her hands across the finish and feels teary – for the first time in a long time not because of the hormones.

"Daryl?"

"Yeah," he nods, running his hand through his hair, "I know you think I'm an ass, leaving you to pick out everything by yourself. But you know I never had any of this. I got no idea how to match a couch to a rug or shit like that."

She chokes out a sob.
"I just wanted you to feel like this was your home too. Not me filling your space or whatever."

Gripping her chin in his hand, he raises her head, dropping a quick kiss on her lips.

"You're my home. You and this kid. And yeah, I made this. I know you don't trust the cribs in the store, but you trust me right?"

She nods forcefully.

"I made a vow to protect you, Beth Dixon. I might be shit at paint samples, but I'm going to keep you and our kid safe. No matter what."

Their history might be entwined in her ring, but their future?

Their future is carved in wood.

When her tour ends, she's still barely showing.

Keyword, barely.

It's flared dresses and high waists and in the shadows she hears a stylist lament that you can't wear crop tops with stretch marks and she starts to cry.

In her dressing room, watching Taylor on the camera feed, all short shorts and tight dresses, she feels like a whale.

Dialling his number, she presses the phone against her ear, trying desperately to stifle the sobs.

"Beth?" he answers on the fifth ring, voice rough with sleep.

"Tell me I'm pretty," she demands, feeling every part sad and ridiculous.

"Beth, what's wrong?"

"Tell me I'm beautiful," she whispers, choking back a sob.

"Where's this coming from?"

"Just tell me you'll want me, even when I can't wear crop tops because of all the stretch marks!" she exclaims with a cry.

"You want to hear that I want you?" he murmurs down the line, "you want to hear that I want you, every single waking moment of every single day?"

She sniffles quietly.

"Yes please."

"Well I do," he growls, "I want you right now, in my hotel room, convulsing around my cock."

Holy hell.

"What- what about when I'm the size of a house?"

"Oh baby," he chuckles darkly, "you don't think I fantasize about you, your belly swollen with my child? And how we'll walk into those fucking stupid industry events and they'll all know that I did that to you. And afterwards we'll go home I'll fuck you on all fours until you're positively begging for my cock."

Subconsciously, she squeezes her thighs together.

"Daryl."

"Past, present, and future tense, I want you," he tells her, voice filled with lust, "and the best part of it is you're mine, Beth Dixon. And I'll have you any which way I want."

"Jesus, Daryl," she murmurs, feeling flustered.

"That what you woke me up to hear?" he asks gruffly and she sighs, smiling.

"No. But that was way better."

Her pregnancy progresses much like any celebrity pregnancy does. She has her baby shower on the Ellen DeGeneres Show (with Taylor making a "surprise" appearance), she does a look book for maternity wear, and is continuously hounded by the paparazzi.

So, normal.

They still haven't found out the sex. And truth be told, they don't want to.

Merle makes a game of it, playing the role of bookie. She can't help but laugh and encourage his antics.

"I just want him, or her, to be healthy," she whispers to Daryl, in the middle of the night as he traces the growing curve of her stomach, "that's all."

"Yeah," Daryl mutters, placing a gentle kiss on her stomach, then her lips, "I want that too."

At eight months, when she gets into a car accident with an overeager paparazzo, she expects Daryl to set the world on fire.

And he does, in his own way. He yells and curses at the press that gather outside the hospital. Snaps at the hospital staff and when he reaches her room, his eyes are dark with anger.

"Daryl-" Maggie is by her side, ready to placate him.

"What the fuck Maggie?" he yells, so enraged that even Maggie takes a step back.

"You've got to calm down, Daryl," Maggie demands, "The stress isn't good for the baby-"

"Neither are car accidents!" Daryl explodes, and Beth flinches.

"The baby's fine," Beth says quietly, speaking up for the first time, "I'm fine. I only bumped my head-"

"Only? Only bumped your head? What the hell were you doing driving in the first place?"

"I'm pregnant, not bed-ridden," Beth says firmly, fixing him with a glare, "you can't lock me away until the baby is born!"

"I can try," he says gruffly.

"The press are already having a field day," Maggie sighs, "TMZ caught your blow-up at the paps outside."

"Don't care," Daryl mutters, "they're lucky that's all I did."

Maggie sighs.

"I'm going to call Daddy and Mama before they hear from someone else."

When she's left the room, Daryl is silent.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, fiddling with the bed sheet.

"Not your fault," he says gruffly.

"These things happen," Beth offers, "part of life, you know."

"Not to my family," he replies stubbornly.

"You can't wrap us in cotton wool," Beth says gently, "kids get hurt. They scrape their knees and break bones. All we can do is pick them back up and try and put them back together."

He grunts in response and she smiles.

"Look at you, Daryl Dixon. You're going to be a great father."

He grunts again and she positively beams.

The baby is born just after 2am, on a cold January night. It snows and she can still feel the flakes and how they settled in her hair as he rushed her from the house to the car. She remembers how they swirled gently as he drove silently, watching her bite her lip through the early contractions.

It was fitting, really.

She's perfect; she decides when they place the whimpering baby into her arms. Her blue eyes are startling, with a tuft of dark hair on her head and her fingers are so so small.

Daryl stands quietly beside her, his hand on her shoulder. He doesn't say much, not when the midwife congratulates them or when they wrap her in a blanket. Not when he cuts the umbilical cord with shaky hands, like he's never held a blade in his life.

"Daryl," Beth whispers, cradling her gently, unblinking - like she might disappear when she closes her eyes, "want to meet your daughter?"

He takes a couple of tentative steps closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. She carefully transfers their fussing daughter into his arms. The baby immediately quietens, looking up at him, seemingly transfixed.

Beth snaps a sneaky photo. She won't tweet this one, not yet. For now it'll be her wallpaper, screensaver, and contact cover for the most important people in her life.

"Lila," he says, voice rough with emotion, "Lila May."

They threw around the name Lila when they were first going through the possibilities. He thought it sounded too "Princess-y", but with the reverent look he's giving the tiny girl, Beth knows that's all she'll ever be in his eyes.

May for his mother. It was always an unspoken given.

"Lila May Dixon," Beth smiles a teary smile, "it's perfect."

She finally succumbs to her exhaustion, happily content with the knowledge that when she wakes up, her husband and daughter will be waiting for her.

Daddy dotes and Mama fuses. Maggie morphs into a softer version of herself and Merle…well, he's Merle. But she loves him anyway.

Loves them all. This is her family, after all. The one you're born into and the one you choose.

It's in these moments, surrounded by the ones she loves, that she feels the most grateful. Feels the most blessed. This is the life she's carved out for herself, when she took a chance on an impossible dream. And she wouldn't change it for the world.

These little perfect moments. These small twists of fate.

They spend April at the cabin, again: her, Daryl, and Lila.

Take two? He jokes and she giggles, hitting him playfully. In her lap, Lila squeals with laughter.

She could write a thousands songs, but none will sound as sweet as her child. And Daryl, with his eyes thoughtful and fingers strumming his guitar, she knows he feels the same.

But they're musicians. This is their lifeblood.

They'll keep trying until they do.