A/N: Thank you for everyone who has stuck around for this story. I really appreciate the love. I don't own any of the recognizable material, and I apologize for any mistakes.

Desperate Measures

Chapter III: Show Me Your Animal

"I say somethin' I've never done, and if you've done it, you drink. If you haven't, I drink. Then we switch. Got it?" Beth uttered over the soft jazz that lamented from a speaker above their heads.

Daryl narrowed his eyes warily, his eyebrows bent low on his forehead. "What are we, teenagers? I ain't ever needed a game to get lit before."

Beth shrugged, her sunny blonde hair now hanging loose on her shoulders. Her signature braided strand was tucked behind her ear. "I never played drinking games when I was younger, either. My daddy would've skinned my hide if he'd found out I'd played one. He was never good at knowing his limit. Usually he'd found his at the bottom of a bottle. It took a long time for him to get himself right again, and I never wanted to risk givin' him a reminder of the oblivion that he was missin'."

Daryl nodded, empathetic. He remembered Rick speaking of the old man Greene, along with the quaint farmhouse that he'd tended for half a century. Rick had many fond memories of being around the Greene place, having brought Carl over there often when he'd needed a babysitter. Daryl had never heard the end of how delicious the peaches were on the grounds.

Along with the good, he also recalled the unfortunate accident that took Hershel Greene's life: a tragic barn fire that ripped the Greene family apart. Rick had gone to Senoia for the funeral and had stayed there for a week. Daryl had remained in New York, thinking that he would bring attention to a quiet man's life that wasn't desired. He had heard fragments of the affair from Rick when he'd returned; Maggie, the eldest sister, had been torn up with grief and her sister, Beth, had tried to commit suicide in the days after.

Now, sitting across from her in a seedy bar on the Lower West Side, Daryl could see the faint, silvery scar that lined her wrist. The original cut hadn't been deep, he knew. If it had been, the scar would have been red and raw and ugly. A flash of his own torso in the back of his mind made the image startlingly clear. Daryl was grateful that she had been spared such a marring.

The older man wondered how this girl, so lively and warm and energetic, could ever have entertained the thought of taking her own life. He wondered if she even know how effervescent she was, how bright his world was with her in it. She was Eos, and he couldn't help his desire to bask in her light.

Realizing he was staring a little too deeply at her as she sipped her cocktail—she'd called it a Sex on the Beach, heaven help him, and the way she wrapped her pretty lips around the straw made him salivate—Daryl shook his head to clear it. "You go first, since this was your idea."

Beth seemed to consider for a moment, twirling the little umbrella in her drink with the tips of her pointer finger and thumb. Her lips pursed in thought, and Daryl wanted to smirk at how seriously she was taking this.

"I've never… had sex in a public place," she declared, her cheeks flushing rosily from the alcohol and her own embarrassment. The actor thought it was the most fascinating shade of pink he had ever seen, and he perspired thinking about how far down it spread.

Daryl felt her assessing gaze on his face, those damned blue eyes so doe-like and curious, and the wings of his cheekbones warmed as he grabbed his glass, took a swig of scotch. Beth guffawed in unrestrained laughter at his response, gripping the table in order to keep herself upright.

"Where?" she demanded, leaning eagerly forward on her elbows as if she wanted to absorb the answer with her entire body. Daryl caught a whiff of the perfume at the base of her neck, something citrusy and summery that reminded him of home.

Swallowing his pride yet again, he grumbled, "The Met."

"You had sex in the Met?" Beth exclaimed, her eyes impossibly wide and her smile just as full. She was loving this, Daryl could tell. He wanted to shrivel into a ball on the floor, but if it pleased her he would suffer it gladly because of course innocent Beth Greene with the porcelain doll skin and the fuck me legs would cut straight to the sexual stuff.

"Keep your voice down. Don't need anyone hearing that and spreading it to the paps," Daryl growled, taking another gulp of liquor to fortify his own self-restraint.

Beth reached across the table and patted his cheek, emboldened by whatever the hell was in that drink. Daryl didn't know if he should ban the stuff from ever crossing her lips again or encourage it even further. "Your secret's safe with me, Mr. Dixon. I won't tell another living soul—just my diary."

Daryl rolled his eyes, shook his head bemusedly. If she wanted to embarrass him, Daryl could damn well return the favour. "My turn. I've never… faked an orgasm."

It was Beth's turn to blush in earnest before taking a deep pull on her straw. Delighted by her reaction, Daryl mirrored her pose and pressed forward, their faces now only inches apart. The smirk that he had been trying to tame before was in full force, and his interest was piqued. His eyebrows raised in question.

Beth's nose wrinkled as she recalled what Daryl hoped to be hilariously embarrassing stories of sex-gone-wrong. She didn't disappoint. "The first time I'd ever had sex, I had to fake it because he was just as inexperienced as I was and I didn't want to discourage him. It was in the back of his truck while we were parked by a lake near his house, and it was merely a coincidence that he even had an orgasm, so that venture was really a moot point. The most noteworthy example of orgasm-fakin' was when I was twenty and goin' with a good boy. You know, one who called his grandparents once a week and never went to bed naked. He thought he was the prodigal son of Aphrodite, and I could hardly tell him that he wasn't if I hoped for anythin' to come out of it at all. In reality, it was just so bad. He gave tongue baths and obviously didn't know what a clitoris was, so I faked it like the best of 'em and never went back for seconds."

Daryl nearly spit out his drink at her story, her blunt tone and frank attitude enough to make his eyes widen in surprise.

"What?" Beth asked innocently, her lips teased up at the corners and her eyelashes fluttering. "You didn't think I had it in me to fake an orgasm?"

Daryl avoided her eyes as he swirled the drink in his tumbler. His ears were feeling warm again, even though objectively he had nothing to be embarrassed about. They were talking about her sex life, not his. "Just didn't think any guy would be idiot enough to take you on and then leave you…unsatisfied. Seems like a shitty thing to do."

Beth shrugged, agitating her straw with the tip of her pinky finger. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes in a way that made his palms sweat and drew her lush bottom lip between her teeth. Daryl's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the motion, his libido begging him to replace her teeth with his own.

"Maybe they just couldn't handle me," Beth murmured suggestively, unfazed by his undoubtedly blatant staring. Her hot baby blues beckoned, blazed, burned.

A wave of heat moved over Daryl's skin when he realized that she was offering him the challenge if he was up for it. The tightening in his jeans suggested that he was more than willing to oblige her.

Their eyes held contact for a moment, both of them not saying anything. Her stare was charged, and he wanted to speak but his tongue was as dry as sandpaper. Cheeks ablaze, Beth broke the silence in her flustered way: inane chatter. "It's my turn again. I've never… gotten so drunk that I've done something I regretted."

No, Daryl decided. He wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily. He took his obligatory swig of booze—the glass was all but empty now—but held her pinned under his gaze like a butterfly behind glass.

It seemed as if he was going to have to make the next move if he hoped to continue their earlier conversation or relieve the tension he felt in his belly. If she wanted something from him, he was willing to give it; he just had to know that he was who she wanted, what he could give her was what she desired. He admitted that he could fuck her and they would both walk away satisfied, but he could sense that she wasn't that girl. Unfortunately he had, for the majority of his life, been that guy.

Gritting his teeth and wishing for more scotch, Daryl set his glass aside and made the offer. "There's vodka back at my place. We could change that, if you wanted to."

Beth smiled sweetly, her eyes suddenly warm and mercurial. It unnerved him that sometimes she stared at him as if he held the secrets to the universe when all he could see in himself were questions.

Reaching across the table, Beth took his hands in her soft ones. His rough fingers swallowed hers, her smooth skin ivory against his sun-darkened skin tone. With a gentle squeeze, Beth stroked her thumb over the little tattoo on his right hand. "It wouldn't change anything, Daryl. But I'd love to—without the vodka, that is. I mean, if you're still up for it."

Surprised and aroused in equal measure, Daryl hailed the waitress for the cheque.

Beth Greene was in love.

Not with Daryl Dixon. No. Not yet, anyway. The blonde had to admit that the prospect didn't offend her one bit, though she imagined Daryl would jump like a scalded cat if she ever brought the idea up.

No. Beth Greene was in the love with the sheets that currently cocooned her in a swaddle of silk, light as air yet substantial enough to wrap her in warmth. Against her bare skin, the sunlight flooding in from the uncovered window was warm and inviting.

The spot in bed beside her was empty, and she wasn't at all surprised. It was his damn apartment, after all. Daryl could do what he wanted in his apartment. However, that didn't stop the little flutter of disappointment that rose in her stomach as she stroked a hand over the empty pillow beside hers.

No, Beth amended herself. It's not yours. You're just using it.

Sitting up in bed and clutching the sheets to her chest, Beth scanned the room.

It was just as utilitarian as the rest of the apartment, the navy blue bedding the only coloured accent to speak of. The dark wood that dominated the lower floor appeared again in his bedroom, the headboard and dressers sleek and serviceable.

Her favourite part was the single photograph on his nightstand: a panoramic shot of a crowded stadium done in black and white. The frame was a simple brushed steel rectangle that was as streamlined as the rest of his décor. She didn't recognize the venue in the photo, but she imagined it must have made quite an impression on him for him to react in such a sentimental way. Beth Greene had an inkling that Daryl Dixon was not a sentimental man by nature.

Slipping from beneath the sheets with a wistful sigh, the blonde sifted determinedly through the clothes on his bedroom floor. She found nothing that would cover her top half, images of her dress being tossed across Daryl's living room while she shoved her tongue into his mouth rising to the forefront of her memory. The thought gave her tingles, and she found that she had a spring in her step as she moved to his closet and pulled a sleeveless plaid shirt from its hanger.

The fabric smelled like him, smoke and wood and musk. Beth found that she smelled of him too, her skin and hair absorbing it after his constant contact with them. She liked the way that it integrated so well with her own scent, the two mingling to create something so much the better for their melding.

Buttoning up the shirt—the soft material fell past the tops of her thighs, and she was left wondering how much taller than her he actually was—she padded barefoot out of his bedroom and down the staircase.

The scent of coffee drifted to her nose as she reached the main floor. She followed it to the kitchen, where she was met with a half-naked Daryl Dixon making pancakes. Her eyes fell instantly on his back as he bent over a skillet, the sun burnished slopes of his shoulders marred with the darkened slashes of his scars.

Beth had known about them, of course. To the public, they were a result of a bad motorcycle accident. The fans knew of a tragedy, but they saw it as a story of a mishap while a badass was doing badass things. It was the image that Daryl wanted to portray, and he was successful at maintaining it. He never said a word that might compromise the lie's integrity.

It was only those closest to Daryl that knew the truth of them, knew that his father had beat him with the edge of his belt and had felt no remorse after doing so. When she had found out from Rick, Beth had said nothing to relay her sympathy, her compassion. When she had returned home that evening, she had cried her eyes out for the little boy who never had the chance to be one. Beth had never told Daryl – and for that matter never planned to—but the next time she had seen him, the blonde had seen in his eyes the knowledge that was held between them.

His stark awareness of her had made her nervous, as if he could see her secrets in her eyes and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Beth knew that he would never confront her about her knowledge—he didn't speak enough to warrant wasting his words on such things—but it was always at the back of her mind that he might not have wanted her to know what forms his demons took. She had always wondered if he deemed her worthy of his trust, his backstory.

Now, as he flipped pancakes from frying pan to plate, unfazed by her presence – she didn't believe for a minute that he hadn't heard her trample down the stairs—she couldn't make herself doubt her worthiness. He had let her feel the lovely expanse of muscle and nerve endings beneath her fingertips, drag her nails over the surface as if he were the only stable thing in a world of turbulence. She had grazed the raised tissue that created the topography of his back, the smooth plains of skin along his sides when her thighs had been rucked up around them, with an abandon that spoke of a trust she knew he had with few others.

Not wanting to intrude on his space—she wasn't quite sure how to handle the awkward morning-after scenario that she had just walked into, and getting cozy with Daryl seemed to guarantee more awkwardness—Beth hopped onto the black marble countertop, crossing her ankles in a measured attempt at decency when wearing no undergarments.

She happily watched him pour batter into the skillet, flipping the pancakes when they bubbled at the top. She couldn't help her grin of delight when she heard a grumbled curse leave his lips as the pancake he turned happened to be burnt on the bottom. At that moment, domestic Daryl Dixon became one of her favourite versions of her client. It would never beat naked and moaning Daryl Dixon, but it was certainly up there. The sheer contrast of his toned, lithe body with the spatula he held in his hand and the homey scent of cooking batter left her stunned. She hadn't realized that Daryl could be domestic, or that he would go to such trouble for her when he could have sent her on her way.

Lost in her thoughts, Beth didn't notice the plate being waved under her nose until she had practically put her face in it. The food look delicious, the man offering it even better. Daryl's eyes were sleepy, the lids drooping low over his irises so that they appeared more feline than usual. His hair was tousled from her fingers, the long locks curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

The purple blotch on the wing of his collarbone made her smile. She had never given a man a hickey before. It pleased her that she had left a mark on him, a physical reminder of what had manifested between them. Looking at it made her want to leave more of them where no one but they would see them, like on the jut of his hipbones or the base of his spine.

She could hardly believe that she had had this man writhing beneath her wandering mouth only hours before, heard his growl against her mouth as her hips bucked against his. She had fucked Daryl Dixon, the actor lusted after by millions of fans internationally, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't do it again while she could.

"Hungry, girl?" Daryl asked, placing the plate in her waiting hands.

Inspired, Beth set the plate down on the counter beside her. Taking his face gently between her palms, her eyes asking permission even as she edged closer, she purred a single word against his mouth. "Yes."

Her kiss was fastidious, a clash of teeth and lips that stirred her immeasurably. It hardly resembled their kisses from the previous evening, and Beth was overjoyed that they had come so far in such a short period of time.

Daryl had been meek when they had first come together, hesitant that he wouldn't please her and therefore shy to do anything at all. Beth had had to tease the animal out of him, knowing that he was capable of ravaging her, ravishing her. She had taken the lead, pressing him against his own front door with the force of her mouth as he fumbled to lock it behind them.

That had been all it took for him to adopt her eagerness, her urgency. After that it had been frantic, mouths and hands seeking rough and fast pleasure in any way that they could manage it.

Thinking back to it, Beth couldn't even fathom how they had made it up the stairs to his bed.

Their embrace now much resembled their earlier coupling, and she wondered if the fire they had between them would ever fizzle out. As her fingers tangled in his hair, keeping him close against her even as her legs parted to make room for him, she thought not. The motion caused the flannel shirt to ride up her thighs even as Daryl's hands followed their path.

He was emboldened now, his mouth adventurous and inquisitive as his hands stroked over the curve of her hips to jerk her closer. Her arms folded over his shoulders, keeping her torso against his even as her legs crossed behind his back.

Daryl's mouth broke from hers to trail down the slope of her neck, dipping into the collar of his shirt. The scruff on his jaw ignited the sensitive skin there, and she arched into his hold as if to better absorb the sensation.

Breathing heavily, Beth made a vague gesture toward the plates of uneaten flapjacks. "What about the food? It'll get cold."

Daryl's teeth sunk teasingly into her shoulder, the flannel having slipped down her arm in their haste. As he spoke against her skin, she shivered. "It'll heat up just fine."

Having said enough about the matter, Daryl gripped the hem of his shirt in his fists and pulled it over her head in one swift motion. He tossed it to the other end of the room, and Beth didn't have a moment to be indignant about being naked on his kitchen counter before he was laying her back against the cool marble and she could speak no longer.