The Dixon's Best Friend. [Daryl Dixon Fanfiction.]

What Daryl hates and what Daryl knows.

Daryl couldn't sleep.

He hadn't slept well all week.

He lay in bed at night, his mind racing, his palms sweating, tossing and turning, never finding a comfortable position. Never settling his mind.

The bed still smelt of the girl he had nearly lost his virginity to. He hated that.

Next door Merle didn't sleep either, he paced around his room, not caring for the noise he made. He hated that.

His mind never shut off, it wasn't that he was confused or dazed, it was that he was transfixed. On the image of girl with brown hair, matching brown eyes, a laughing smile, a deep Georgian accent. He couldn't rid the memories from his brain, the thoughts of her from the inner parts of his mind. When he did sleep he dreamt of her. When he lay awake he never stopped thinking about her. His head was packed with her, every memory, every image, every thought associated with her that he had pushed away.

He acted normal when he was outside of his own bedroom, yet he hardly left it.

Daryl had never felt this alone. He missed everything about home. He missed everything about his old life. He didn't adjust to change well. Neither did his brother. When things changed they lashed out, becoming worse tempered than they actually were.

His brother knew Daryl was down, Merle always knew how his little brother felt. Even if Daryl would never show his feelings. He kept his walls built high, with a little doorway at the side and only two people in the world have a key.

His brother.

And his best friend.

Daryl groaned softly to himself and clenched his hands into fists and then brought them up to his head, he whacked himself several times, cursing his mind. His heart ached, his mind burned, and he could faintly smell the scent of the metal from his crossbow on his hands.

It reminded him of home, of hunting, of the woods, of the Georgian air. His mind travelled back to the science project he did with Athena in Freshman year. He smiled remembering squirting half the class with squirrel blood.

That had been too long ago.

Freshman year, when he was sixteen. Daryl was nearly eighteen now. He'd moved away from home, lost one of his closest friends Jessie to his fathers experiments, he'd lost his father to his brother's fury, he'd lost his best friend to his own weakness, he'd lost his mind over how much he'd lost. Daryl had grown, in size and in mind. Daryl was changed, he was different, he hated that too.

He wanted to go back, he wanted to run softly through a woods his crossbow in hand, Merle a metre or two to his right, and Athena a metre or two to his left. Flanked by his nearest and dearest, hunting the species that were made to be hunted. The weaklings.

Daryl never felt more powerful than when he starred down an animal and then shot it straight dead. Daryl never felt more weak than when he let his fear of something he wasn't certain of, control his decisions towards what made him happy.

Daryl, he wasn't happy. Daryl, he was sad. He was just sad. Nothing was happy about New York.

Their apartment was always messy, always unclean, always dirty. There was never enough food, and Merle got drunk more than he used to. He hated that too.

Work was awful.

Merle was the eldest so now he was in charge. The men fell into line with Merle leading them, yes he was younger than all of them, but he was also louder, and stronger, braver, meaner, and smarter. Merle knew how to run a good drug company, and he knew torturing to create new drugs wasn't the way to do it.