AN: Thanks for the love on i'm the last pretty girl (you're the last decent man) everyone! Here's yet another AU that I hope everybody enjoys. Once again, I don't own any of the canon content or characters. Sorry for any mistakes. I am the sole editor of this piece so my eyes are probably weary.

Desperate Measures

Chapter I: Have a Piece of American Dream

"I quit! I can't take it anymore! You're on your own, Dixon," the flustered publicist roared, the heels of his dress shoes clunking against the granite floors as he slammed the door behind him.

"Please, let's talk about this!" Daryl heard Rick Grimes call out from his perch on the onyx leather sofa, but the publicist (Daryl could never quite remember his name) was already gone, likely to never return.

At the sight of the slamming door, Grimes emitted a sigh that relayed his feelings of carrying the weight of the world on his weary shoulders. Daryl grimaced at the sound, avoiding Rick's gaze and running a hand through his unkempt brown locks. The gesture revealed his guilt more clearly than anything he could have said. It was a nervous gesture, a tick that he had picked up as a child when his mama would catch him lying to her or his father found out that he had been skipping class to neck with a girl in the school parking lot. Two decades later, Daryl still found himself feeling like a young boy about to be scolded.

Perhaps it was the distraught look on Rick's face that always brought about the guilt trip, Daryl mused. His publicist had been an asshole, so he really didn't feel any remorse about making the guy up and quit. Daryl did regret, however, making his best friend's life more difficult than necessary. The guy already had enough to deal with, what with having to pay alimony to the ex-wife that he was still in love with, and continuing to fight for the right to see his own children on weekends. He certainly didn't need any more shit hitting the fan on Daryl's account.

Rick strode across Daryl's spacious living room in the same way that a restless panther would stalk the plains in hopes of discovering some quarry he had missed upon previous inspection. He scraped a hand across his grizzled beard before turning to Daryl, exasperation etching lines into his face and hardening his expression.

"Why, Daryl? This is the fourth publicist that you've chased away in two years! Couldn't you have just listened to his advice?" The older man sank onto the couch beside Daryl, rubbing his eyes before gazing blearily at his client.

Daryl shrugged nonchalantly, leaned back into the cushions to better assess his friend's expression. "That reporter was encroachin' on my personal property. On the red carpet, the paparazzi can snap as many photos as they need to pay the rent. PR events are fair game. I don' have a problem with that. When they're 'round my building—where I live and go to escape everyone—then all bets are off. The guy deserved what he got. He was askin' for it."

Rick raised his eyebrows in challenge. "You broke his nose and knocked two of his teeth loose! He could sue, and he might very well be justified in doing so. Surely the publicist's advice to avoid physical confrontations with the paparazzi at all costs was valid?"

"No matter what some city-slicking, hotshot publicist may think, I got a code. I don't throw my fists around for nothin'. I only went for the guy 'cause he was in my private space. I protect what's mine, and that includes my privacy. He was trespassing, and that ain't alright with me. I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna listen to someone who tells me that I have to knuckle under and let the press walk all over me. I'm sorry if that makes your job difficult, Rick; I really am. There's just nothin' I can do to change that." The older man answered, his voice gruff and his accent becoming thicker with sincerity.

Daryl had never been very eloquent when it came to expressing his feelings, but for Rick he tried to be. The man was his oldest friend and closest confidant. They had known each other since they were old enough to get into trouble, and they had been inseparable ever since. Naturally, when Daryl had been discovered by a local talent agency in their hometown—the scout had been looking for actors to play minor roles in a small production—Rick had immediately encouraged him to audition for the role, had even gone with him into Atlanta to wish him luck. Daryl had gotten the part, and from there his career had skyrocketed. What Daryl had deemed to be a two-bit role as a redneck trucker had catapulted him into the limelight, and after finishing college, Rick had taken the position of Daryl's manager without hesitation. He had been by his side ever since.

It had taken some adjusting for Daryl to become used to all the attention that he now received, his life becoming increasingly unfamiliar with every magazine cover and meet-and-greet that came his way. He didn't mind signing autographs for his fans—they were the lifeblood of his occupation, after all—but he often ached for the quiet life that he had always imagined for himself. He had always dreamt of opening up a little garage in some middle-of-nowhere town, where he could fix up vintage motorcycles and be left alone to his hunting and his own thoughts. Now, situated in an extremely overpriced loft in Manhattan where a parking spot costed more than a mid-sized sedan, Daryl found himself constantly restless and edgy. Though the loft was large enough to fit a family of five comfortably, the actor often felt like a caged animal without enough room to roam. He was used to being a wild thing, and captivity was not something that had settled comfortably in the pit of his stomach. His enviable view of Central Park only reinforced his feelings of seeing freedom but always being just out of its reach.

Rick tried his best to give Daryl his space, allow him time to himself, but his job was demanding and he had expectations to fill. On occasions such as the one that presented itself today, when Daryl had already been experiencing a restless spell for several weeks, the actor hadn't been up for polite conversation. The satisfying crunch of cartilage under his fist had gone a long way to easing the tension in his shoulders.

With that thought, Daryl brought his attention back to his exhausted best friend, who was currently squeezing the bridge of his nose as if to wish away a headache fit for an elephant. His jaw was tense, as if gritting his teeth against the amount of work ahead of him.

"I'm going to go make a few calls, see if I can find another publicist for you as soon as possible. Someone is going to need to run damage control if there's any hope of making your right hook look like it was warranted. In the meantime, don't go anywhere until I can get someone over here to release a statement. Order some takeout, take a nap; I don't care. Just don't leave this apartment," Rick ordered, rising from his seat and pulling his beloved iPhone out of his back pocket.

On his way out the door Rick turned, phone to his ear. "The prospect of managing you would terrify a lesser man, Daryl Dixon."

Daryl shrugged his leather clad shoulders before walking to the freezer, finding a bag of frozen peas to ice his swollen knuckles. "Guess I'm glad you stuck around, then."

With a quiet grunt of affection, Daryl nodded for Rick to close the door and get back to work. After a few minutes of assuaging the pain in his fingers with the help of the peas and two dry-swallowed Aspirin, Daryl made his way up the staircase to his bedroom.

Daryl kicked off his boots at the foot of his bed, draped his worn leather jacket over the sturdy armchair in the corner of the room before shucking off his jeans—for Armani, they scratched like hell—and falling face first onto the mattress. For the amount of time that it took Daryl to fall into slumber, his thousand-thread-count sheets could have been a bed of nails and he wouldn't have noticed.

Beth Greene was shopping for wedding-night lingerie with her sister, Maggie, when she received the call from Rick Grimes offering her the position of Daryl Dixon's publicist. It wasn't her wedding night, of course. She was simply being the dutiful maid of honour. La Perla had already delivered on her share of overpriced lingerie, her loot now sitting on her lap, cleverly wrapped in a discreet ivory bag where it would remain until Beth had an excuse to wear it. The items she had chosen were delicate, feminine to the utmost, and were destined to remain unseen until further notice.

If it hadn't been for Maggie, Beth wouldn't have spent three-hundred dollars on lingerie. However, she also wouldn't have already been halfway across town when she answered Rick's frantic request. She easily accepted the offer to meet him and her perspective client at Daryl's loft on the Lower East Side, as she secretly coveted the knowledge of what the reclusive Daryl Dixon's home looked like. She could easily imagine that it was infinitely nicer than her closet-sized walk-up in the Village. She loved New York City, the whirl and flash of the traffic and the idea that one was never truly alone there. However, she didn't agree that what she paid in rent to her landlord for the privilege of living there was totally justified.

It had been with only a moment's hesitation that she had agreed to abandon her sister's mission, wishing Maggie luck and calling out a promise to call her later to see how the shopping venture went as she rushed out the door of the boutique. Her sister had replied distractedly that she didn't really need her help, and that it wasn't like Beth knew anything about what her fiancé liked in bed anyway.

As she caught the subway to take her uptown, she checked her phone once again to make sure that she was heading in the right direction. She had promised Rick that she would be there in thirty minutes, and she didn't want to sabotage the validity of her word simply because she hadn't thought to get directions.

Beth ran a hand through her tousled blonde hair before placing her black bowler hat onto her head once again. She adjusted the wayfarer sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, slouching back into the hard plastic seat beneath her. Her scuffed mahogany ankle boots gleamed dully in the artificial light of the subway car as she crossed her ankles in front of her, trying to minimize the amount of people that were able to make a grab for the handbag she had slung onto her lap. She had decided to leave her recent purchases in Maggie's capable hands, as she doubted she would seem professional with a bag full of lingerie between her fingers.

She had only a few minutes to worry that her outfit—a white tee, paired with a grey and maroon cardigan and black high-waisted shorts—were too casual before the subway doors opened in a gust of warm air and she was back on the street.

The apartment building itself was dull-bricked and unremarkable; that was Beth's first clue that there was serious money to be made on what was inside. The blonde also remarked that the residents could assuredly afford the price of living in such an establishment.

A doorman in a subtle uniform asked what her business was in the building, and she replied that she was there to interview for the position of Daryl Dixon's publicist. The doorman had laughed and said that that position seemed to have an incredible turn-around time before opening the doors and giving her directions to the elevator.

She pressed the button for the seventh floor with a swoop in her stomach, her nerves making her fingers clumsy and unreliable. Beth didn't understand why she was suddenly so nervous; it wasn't as if she hadn't been in a celebrity's home before. In fact, she was currently managing two other clients with great enthusiasm. In theory, the prospect of doing PR for Daryl Dixon shouldn't phase her in the slightest.

In practice, however, she was shaking like a leaf because he was Daryl Freaking Dixon. She had had a mild crush on him since she was fifteen, and it had simmered beneath the surface of her skin for the next decade. In fact, Beth figured it had only grown with every new movie he starred in and every magazine he appeared across the pages of.

To be in the position that she now found herself was as daunting as it was exciting. If she had any hope whatsoever of representing the actor properly, Beth needed to set her juvenile crush aside and focus on what was best for Daryl as an individual. If Beth happened to be able to spend a lot of time gazing at him when he wasn't looking while she did so, then so much the better for her.

Rick was waiting at the end of the brightly lit hallway as she exited the elevator, and Beth sighed in relief when she no longer had to navigate the building alone.

"It's so good to see you! Thank you so much for doing this, Beth!" Rick sighed out as she approached, reaching his arms out to pull her into a bear hug. Beth returned the gesture with equal fervor, his comforting scent of baby powder and soap as familiar as it ever was.

The two had known each other for several years, as Rick had helped her get her first client: an on-the-brink artist who had had a lot of enthusiasm but not so much talent. Beth was ever grateful to him for giving her his contacts and using his connections to help her out, and she had often volunteered to watch his son while he and his wife had tried to work things out. The attempt had been unsuccessful, but she had gained dear friends in the process, and had been flattered by the crush that Rick's son, Carl, had developed on her while she did so. They were good people, and Beth had always had infinite time and energy for good people.

"It's me who should be thanking you!" Beth exclaimed, following Rick's lead as he stepped through the arched doorway.

The older man hastily fled from her field of vision to head up the cast iron staircase, and Beth took advantage of his absence to explore the spacious loft.

To Beth, the living space was masculine but not overtly so. It was industrial: exposed brick walls, stainless steel appliances, and dark wood beams. Sleek black leather couches were offset by the natural light that flooded in through a rear wall composed entirely of windows. Beth practically salivated as she stroked a hand over a flannel throw blanket, gazing out the window into the jades and emeralds of Central Park in summertime.

The loft was utilitarian, everything having a purpose as well as a place with very little clutter and few knickknacks to speak of. This man, Beth realized, is either very strict about cleanliness or lives here very rarely. This place doesn't look lived-in at all.

As she perused the living room, she noticed only two personal relics, and she remarked that they were the only ones she had seen in the whole place. The first was a small bookshelf tucked into the far corner of the room, a home for several dusty volumes that appeared to be well-loved. Her eyes skirted over the titles briefly, recognizing several authors that she was familiar with herself: Hemingway, Lee, and Salinger. The spines of his copies were broken, the pages yellowed with age. Beth wondered how many times Daryl Dixon had reread the tomes, filled his mind with stories of bananafish and old men who've lost themselves simply by living. She wondered about Daryl Dixon in general, about what kind of man would think to file Brave New World and Beowulf next to Fight Club.

Moving from her perch in front of the bookcase, the second personal memento caught her attention: a pristine crossbow hanging along the wall opposite the flat-screen TV. Beth knew next to nothing about weapons—though she had lived on a farm, Beth was never allowed to slaughter the animals or go out hunting with her father and brother—but she could easily see that this man treated that crossbow like a violin needing constant tuning and attention.

"Didn't anyone tell ya that snoopin' is rude?" A grizzly voice asked from over her shoulder, startling her. Beth whirled around, suddenly face-to-face with the object of her fascination: Daryl Dixon.

If consulted on the matter, Beth Greene would not have said that she fell in lust with Daryl Dixon at first sight. However, this was only because she had seen him for the first time almost a decade earlier in an issue of GQ. She had purchased the magazine solely for his spread of photos, and since that day had only ever permitted herself to hang a single photograph of him on her wall. She had been quietly captivated by Daryl ever since.

She was familiar with his face, of course; the sleek lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the rough stubble that shadowed his face and highlighted the softness of his mouth, the smooth slope of his nose. Beth had looked upon his face a million times before, and yet it was as if she were seeing him with new eyes as she took in his three-dimensional, living, breathing form.

It was his eyes in particular, a startlingly vivid blue, that were a surprise. They were too sharp, too wary to inspire lust in Beth's belly as they often did in his photos. They were deep-set and feline, framed by sooty lashes the same colour as the hair that fell across his forehead. They seemed to be able to see right through her, their steady gaze penetrating and unsettling. His eyes had certainly never before had that effect when she beheld them on the poster in her bedroom. Their intensity had a blush burning across her cheeks, her skin suddenly too tight against her bones.

"Didn't your mama ever teach ya not to sneak up on people?" Beth demanded, running a hand through her sunny blonde locks in a flustered gesture.

Daryl's eyes narrowed to slits, his lips pursed in consideration. "You must be the new publicist that Rick's wrangled up."

Beth nodded, giving him her best and brightest smile before holding out her hand for him to shake. "Beth Greene. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The actor didn't return the gesture, simply nodded and jerked his head toward the eating area behind him. "Rick's ordering pizza. You can join us, if you want. We'll discuss terms and negotiate an employment contract after we eat."

Beth's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Don't you want to interview me first? Check to make sure that I'm not just a stalker who poses as a publicist in order to get into the inner circles of celebrities and post inappropriate pictures of them on social media?"

The corners of Daryl's mouth quirked up in a lopsided smirk, the gesture pairing with the curious tilt of his head to make Beth's heart beat just a bit faster than it already was. "Are you a stalker who poses as a publicist in order to get into the inner circles of celebrities and post inappropriate pictures of them on social media?"

"No! Of course not!" Beth exclaimed, her eyes wide in horror.

Daryl nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer, while his gaze burned into her flesh as if he could read all of her secrets in the fine grain of her skin. "Then I'll hold you at your word, and you'll have no issue from me."

The older man turned on his heel and headed toward the door, where Rick was struggling to carry the pizza box while maintaining the phone call he was making. Daryl's bare feet were soundless against the dark floors, and the blonde couldn't help but recognize that very few of her clients would ever think to meet with their publicist without shoes on. Beth also couldn't help but admire the way the threadbare white t-shirt he wore clung to the cut of his biceps and shoulders, the snug fit of his worn jeans against his hips.

Yes, Daryl Dixon is a beast of a different breed, Beth acknowledged as she tucked her chair into the aged cherry wood table where Rick was dishing out slices of pizza. He's certainly nothing like I ever imagined him to be.

Beth couldn't find it within herself to hide her smile as she imagined the prospect of unravelling the enigma of Daryl Dixon bit-by-bit, getting past the surly exterior to whatever lay beneath. When said enigma caught her grinning like an idiot, eyes narrowed in suspicion, she simply took another bite of pizza, chewing until he looked away and she could continue her train of thought in relative safety.