"No," he growls, using the bulk of his body and a dark glower to communicate his displeasure instead of an overabundance of words. "No way I'm goin' undercover, let alone with a damn rookie."

"Yes, you are," Rick says patiently, earnestly, then raises a placating hand to forestall Daryl's protest. "You know our resources are stretched thin with the Terminus incident last week. Look, I know undercover ops aren't really your thing, but we're runnin' outta options here."

Daryl tries another tack. "She ain't ready. She's green." He spits it out like a bad taste, but he doesn't realize how much that word would backfire on him until Rick replies.

"She's a legacy. Hershel Greene was one of our best, even after he lost his leg."

"She still ain't ready," he mutters through the dark fringe of his hair, knowing he's lost.

"You haven't even heard the mission yet," Rick says, knowing he's won.

"Save it for the briefing," Daryl growls.

"Don't have to." Rick nods to the door just as it opens. "Briefing's now. Mornin' Beth, Carol."

"Mornin' Sheriff," Carol says as the two women enter. She has that calm smile of hers, like everything is fine and the CIA isn't sending Daryl Dixon undercover of all places. "Mornin', Pookie."

"Mornin'," he says, dipping his head in greeting despite his foul mood, because his days of lashing out against Carol are long behind him.

"Pookie?" a new voice asks, and he finally turns his attention to the waif of a blonde in the room. She's looking back and forth between them, teeth bared in what could pass as a nervous smile. "Where'd that come from?"

"It's just a nickname," Carol says, then looks to Rick. "Wanna get started? I brought the files like you asked."

"Thanks, let's all take a seat."

Daryl finds himself straddling one of the folding chairs backwards, taking up as much space as possible so that neither Rick nor Carol can sit too close to him at the small table. Beth is opposite him, huge eyes trained on Rick and maybe avoiding Daryl a little too carefully.

He's seen her before, of course – the smallest of the new graduates, always singing on the shooting ranges and putting braids in her honeywheat curls. Carol is pretty good at replacing hope with realism in her trainees, but after a year in Carol's training program, here is Beth Greene trying and failing to shutter the glow of her excitement.

A folder landing on the table in front of him snaps him back to the present. He grudgingly opens it and tunes into Rick's voice as he scans its contents.

"Your target goes by the Governor," Rick begins. "We barely have a decent photo to ID him, let alone his real name. We've been gettin' reports on him for months, mostly petty crime at first, but lately it's been gettin' worse. Looks like he's been traffickin' anything that will sell – drugs, weapons, sex. We can't pin anything to him, though, which is where y'all come in."

Daryl flips past the grainy images of a dark-haired man to read a list of his suspected offenses. He's heard of the Governor before, but the charges here are new. Rick wasn't kidding; the Governor has bought and sold all sorts of illegal things, including girls as young as fourteen.

"You're both on the guestlist for a weapons expo at the Grande Woodbury Hotel tomorrow," Rick continues. "Last intel we got on the Governor says he'll be there, probably lookin' to make some new business deals."

"So we gonna waltz up to him and ask to see his tax records?" Daryl snaps, surprising himself. He trusts Ricks as his commanding officer, trusts Carol's training in Beth, trusts that they won't hand him a file unless it's a sound plan. But seeing the atrocities that the Governor is capable of – there's no way in hell the girl across the table is ready for whatever is at the Woodbury.

"No," Rick says evenly, used to Daryl's snarls. "You'll be going in as Mr. and Mrs. Jones."

It takes a minute for the words to register, and Beth goes very still just as Daryl reels back with an incredulous, "aw, hell."

"To be fair, this op was designed for Maggie and Glenn," Carol explains.

"Obviously since Glenn broke two ribs yesterday, they've been benched," Rick says. "But we can't let this opportunity pass. You'll find your cover identities on page twelve of your dossier—"

"We can't be married," Daryl interrupts, not so much snarling anymore as spitting venom. "People gon' think she's my kid!"

"Plenty of men marry younger women," Carol says.

He glances across at Beth and she looks pissed, glaring bitter poison at him but quiet in the presence of their superiors. Her self-control gives him pause for a second, just long enough for Rick to decide he's had enough insubordination for one day.

"We have one good shot at this," he says firmly. "This is the first time we've known where the Governor will be before he's there, and we might not get another chance. Now get your head screwed on straight before you compromise your own op."

"It's mostly just a recon mission, Daryl," Carol says.

He slumps back, and retracts his claws.

"There's a formal gala tonight as a general welcome to the expo attendees. You'll find the specifics in your folders." Rick looks between Daryl and Beth, as if assessing. "Both of you go get cleaned up. Car'll be ready at seven."

Daryl knows well enough that getting cleaned up means hair products and an uncomfortable suit and shoes that pinch, but he figures he has time to get down to the shooting range and blow off some steam. Rick was right earlier – he needs to be focused and clear-headed to get through this. It looks like Beth is about to speak to him, but he snatches his folder off the table and ducks out the door. They can talk through their mission in the car.

Several hours and a couple hundred crossbow bolt rounds later, and sure enough Daryl's hair is combed back in the way he hates and he thinks maybe his tie is choking him. He had been relieved to pack more casual clothes for the rest of the weekend, but damn if formal parties didn't call for the most uncomfortable getups.

Ain't my baby brother a dandy, his brother's voice mocks in his head as he put on cufflinks. A regular beauty queen.

A knock interrupts before Merle's ghost can continue. Daryl opens the door to frame a very different Beth Greene in the hall outside, and the breath catches in his chest despite himself. She is wearing a long, flowing gown in shimmery gold with her hair gathered loosely at her nape. The effect is mesmerizing, and Daryl thinks aw, hell again.

He's about to shoot off some gruff wisecrack to cover his moment of dumbstruck staring, until he realizes that she's also staring at him – except it's at the top of his head, and she looks more disgusted than dumbstruck.

"What?" he snaps.

"Why is your hair like that?" she asks without breaking eye contact with it.

"The stylist did it," he answers, suddenly defensive.

She reaches toward him and he flinches a step back, all instinct. "Sorry," she says, snatching her hand away. "It's just that, you should wear it like you always do."

He belatedly realizes that she only meant to muss his hair into his eyes, so he drags a hand through it and shakes it out. "Hated it all done up, anyway. Why do you care?"

"You look ridiculous with it combed back," she smiles innocently at him. "Can't have my husband shamin' me in front of the other ladies. Here's your ring, by the way." She pulls a plain tungsten band off her thumb and extends it to him. As he slides it onto his ring finger, he notices the sparkling diamond on her own hand.

"I do," he says sarcastically.

"Til death do us part," she says, and just like that the moment sours. Beth seems to sense the misstep and hurries to move past it. "I already sent my bags down to the car. Heard they're givin' us a nice one."

Daryl hefts his own weekend bag over his shoulder. It's disturbingly light, but the instructions were clear: no crossbow, no weapons of any kind unless they can get through the rigorous security checks. Which is exactly why Daryl hates undercover ops. "Let's go. S'gonna take an hour to drive to the Woodbury without gettin' stuck in traffic."

The walk from the residential section of the CIA compound down to the subterranean parking garage is mostly silent except for the click of Beth's high heels. His hands are full when they get there, so she steps past him and signs for the car. As a driver pulls it around, Daryl sees that it's a late-model Hummer and he mentally thanks Rick for not putting them into some prissy eco-fuel matchbox.

The valet hands him the keys in exchange for his bag and stows it behind the backseat as Beth sweeps her long skirt into the passenger side. Huffing one more time in resignation, Daryl gets in behind the wheel and puts the car in drive.

They spend the drive fine-tuning their cover identities. Devon and Blaire Jones have been married for a little less than a year; he owns a private security company overseas, she comes from old money. It's patently made for Maggie's sparkling command of a room and Glenn's knack for always landing on his feet. But with the Dream Team out of commission after a run-in with a Terminus terror cell yesterday, the CIA is stuck with Team B – or more like Team Z, since they aren't really a team at all.

If Beth is bothered by his constant glower and gruff answers, she doesn't let on. She keeps up a steady stream of dialogue as he drives, mostly about their cover backstory and some about the logistics of the upcoming evening. By the time they pull up to the front gate of their destination, Daryl actually feels a little more relaxed about the whole thing. She's obviously done her research.

The Grande Woodbury Hotel is enormous. It's tucked into the countryside a couple miles out of Atlanta, and it's more like a small town than a hotel. Just the drive up to the front entrance takes a few moments, and Daryl spends the time putting on his cover identity like an overcoat. Beth is silent, possibly doing the same.

They pull up to the front of the hotel and Daryl gets out, tossing the keys to the waiting valet with a curt "Make sure our luggage gets to our room." He walks around the car to open the passenger door, and as Beth takes his hand and unfolds from the car like a butterfly, his breath does that thing again. She's transformed for a second time – not physically like before, but in essence. It's hampered a little by nerves, but she has an effortless power, like she could bring a man to his knees with a bat of her long lashes.

Damn, girl, where did that come from? he thinks.

"Shall we?" she asks, smiling up at him.

"What?" he grunts just as he realizes they are standing arm-in-arm on the steps outside the hotel and the valet is already driving the car away.

She rolls her eyes, somehow the perfect picture of fond flirtiness. "Shall we go in, Mr. Jones?"

He responds by heading up toward the door, and together they enter the Grande Woodbury Hotel.

hi, hello. this fic is my illegitimate child after an affair with a fandom i never imagined i would get into. it's pretty much 100% self-indulgent, rumpusy fun. :) fair warning: i'll probably update slowly.