Purpose, by MissMishka
DISCLAIMER: The usual warnings, I claim no ownership of these characters, they are simply borrowed with love and adoration from the original creators to have their stories embellished on a little more than the show may do. Not for any profit.
Daryl pulled the red grease rag from his back pocket as he straightened to admire his handiwork.
He wiped at the black gunk on his fingers and let satisfaction ease through him at realizing that he had done it.
The wrecked chopper had been restored to its former glory, despite all the doubts that had come with the machine when its owner had dropped it off at the garage weeks ago. Mike had immediately turned the damaged goods over to Daryl, knowing if there was any chance at rebuilding the customized 1962 Harley Davidson Panhead, it lay with the mostly quiet redhead who worked off the books in the shop.
It still needed a test run before the work was officially completed, but Daryl knew how that would go and looked forward to the chance to take the beast roaring up the holler to blow out the chromed exhausts he'd scavenged from a junk yard in Tallahassee.
There wasn't much that he knew or really got about this world, but motorcycles were right up there with hunting and tracking.
Before taking it out for that test drive, he walked over to the dispenser mounted on the wall and cautiously pushed against it to get some GOJO on his greasy hands. His nostrils flared in distaste at the cherry scent that wafted up from his hands and he wished like hell Mike would stop letting his bitch mess with things in the shop. Shirley was nice enough, but she just didn't understand that the things that worked for men just didn't need to be tinkered with.
This stuff was supposed to smell like oranges. That's why the hell they'd always used to have it in orange jars all around the shop.
First thing she'd done, though, when she appointed herself 'office manager' of the place was rid every work station of the old containers with their grease stained lids and replace them with the wall mounted dispenser. Now, she seemed to entertain herself by ordering all kinds of new variations of the cleanser from the sales rep that always came around and leaving the guys to deal with their fruity fricking hands in silence since their boss was nuts about the batty female.
Daryl cast a hairy eyeball the other man's way, but Mike just laughed at him, probably having been waiting for the reaction to the newest refill.
Not about to let any of the guys know that he was amused by the exchange himself, Daryl turned his attention to scrubbing the grease from his hands with the combined efforts of gel and rag. Once the task was finished, with the exception of the grit eternally stuck under his fingernails, he tossed the well used cloth in the trash, grabbed a clean one to tuck into his pocket then plucked the bike's key from the multitude of pegs on the wall.
He threw his leg over the seat he'd ordered on eBay from some low rider lugnut in California. The key slid into the ignition and turned smoothly to the "on" position.
Then came the fun part.
Balancing on the handlebars, Daryl stood on the pegs for a moment before toeing out the kick start pedal and dropping down on it to bring the engine thundering to life. The usual hoots and hollers rang out from the guys as he revved it to a deafening roar within the confines of the cement building.
Allowing a cocky smile to curl his lips ,he accepted their accolades and cocked his head in a familiar gesture to Mike, letting his boss know that he was going to go tear up some pavement. The old man just grinned back, never having had any doubts in the boy he'd taken under his wing years before.
As the open road loomed before him, Daryl heard, as always, Merle's voice scorning him for doing actual work before he opened up the throttle and let the blast of sound and speed obliterate all else.
Daryl pulled the red grease rag from his back pocket, wiping the sweat from his face before starting on the blood on his hands.
Once he'd wiped enough away to grip the hilt of his knife, he put his boot on the neck of the downed Walker then bent to retrieve the weapon. The blade had just about gone clear through the thing's head and he could see that it'd take him some doing to get all the grey matter cleaned off everything.
He kicked the corpse for good measure, not really minding the idea of the extra work.
The others looked at him with frowns at the disrespectful move, but he took that any day over their panic in the moments before he'd taken the threat out.
In his head, he heard Merle laughing out his new favorite insult, reminding Daryl of the freak they saw him as.
But as he stepped over the remains and started back to camp, he knew they followed close behind, counting on him to keep any other threats from endangering them once more.
It felt good to be good at something again. Something that mattered in this place.
Gave him a purpose and that was all he'd ever really needed.