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Chapter Text

Duke arriving on the Skarloey Railway after so many years of being a less-than-willing bergentrückung was a cause for celebration. Sir Handel and Peter Sam had been ecstatic to see their Granpuff again, and even though it was a little odd becoming reacquainted after how many years they'd been apart, the warmth of his smile and his joy at seeing them brought them both a nostalgia and a comfort they hadn't known they'd wanted until just then. However, the two now had their own stories to share, proof of their own growth since joining the railway, and the laughter that arose from those long nights was music to the ears of every engine in the shed (even Duncan, although he would never admit it).

As such, one quiet evening about a month after Duke had officially begun working on the railway, Peter Sam and Sir Handel found themselves simmering comfortably in their berths near the left side of the shed, waiting for him to come back. Their crews had gone to speak to the manager, so they had a little bit of steam left in them still, and the two of them were using it to stretch their wheels and get comfortable. They even had the gift of a relatively empty shed as the rest of their band of brothers were still out and about.

"Oooooh, I hope we can get some good tales out of Granpuff tonight," Peter Sam giggled, a slight note of tiredness in his voice from a day full of work well done, but even that wasn't enough to dampen his enthusiasm. "It's been so nice hearing his stories again."

"I know what you mean," Sir Handel grinned back, in an equally good mood. His disposition had improved considerably with Duke around, to the point that the others had taken to teasingly (albeit kindly) commenting on it. "That said," he mused, his good cheer giving way to something more pensive, "do you feel as though he's still treating us like we're new builds?"

"Mmm... a little bit, I suppose," Peter Sam considered, "but I don't know that I mind too much. It's how he's always acted around us."

"Well, I don't like it," Sir Handel pouted. "We're respectable engines now, and he should respect us as such!"

"Just give him time," Peter Sam soothed. "He hasn't seen us in so long, and he's missed so much. We might be the only ones who can give him any sense of being grounded."

After a few more minutes, the two little engines spied a familiar shape pulling into the yard. Peter Sam was about to whistle a greeting, when all of a sudden, the other engine turned and headed for a siding next to the shed, seemingly the one just outside. "Wasn't that Granpuff?" Sir Handel hedged, somewhat unsure if his eyes were playing tricks; after all, Duke always whistled when he came in.

"I think so...?" Peter Sam murmured, just as confused. Adding to their confusion was the sudden appearance of another engine, who gave a quick peep peep! of greeting before following Duke. Soon after, four vaguely human shapes left from that same direction, also heading for the office. "That was Rheneas," Peter Sam observed, "and those people were his and Duke's crews." His brows furrowed in thought. "I wonder what they're doing over there..."

"...I'm going to go find out," Sir Handel replied, his lips pressed into a thin, determined line. "C'mon, Peter Sam. Let's go."

"Wait, what?" the other engine blurted, eyes going comically wide at the absurd suggestion. "But... no! Sir Handel, that's eaves... ease... um... easydropping! We can't do that!"

"And why not?" Sir Handel retorted hotly, already calling upon what steam he had left to inch his way forward, trying to get close enough to listen in on the elders' conversation. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it's got to be interesting! Besides, we're not new builds anymore; even Granpuff has to see that. We deserve to know if something's going on."

"Mmm... alright. But if we get caught, I'm blaming you."

Without further ado, the two crept forward, hoping that the ambient noise of the yard would cover up their approach. Finally, the two managed to get into a decent position, where they could vaguely make out Rheneas and Duke staring out into the darkling sky.

"--But that's just it, Rheneas," Duke hummed pensively. "They've grown up so much, and yet, there's so much I don't want to tell them. Do they even remember the worst of the old days?

"They look at me and see the nostalgia, the times that I came through for them, but I fear that if I tell them what really happened, they'll remember all of the terrible times, the ones that they've blocked out. How could I do that to them?"

"Well, I can't say that I've been in your wheels," Rheneas replied somberly, "but they're both good engines. Sir Handel especially has grown up a lot. You've heard it in their stories, haven't you? They can look back at their own failings and see the humor in them, instead of being embarrassed. It's not my place to say, but keeping it from them instead of letting them work through it with your support might not be a decision for you to make."

"...

"...Let me tell you a story, Rheneas," Duke began, a weariness in his tone that Peter Sam and Sir Handel had never heard before, not in all of their years of working with their Granpuff. "Back on the Mid-Sodor, there were a few of us working the line. Our No. 5 was a good sort, but he could be... foolish.

"One day, he made a mistake. He was to pull an enthusiast train, but left behind a coach. Notably, this was a coach for highly important guests. I ended up pulling the coach myself and it was rebranded as a Special, but the manager knew the truth. He punished him terribly by..." Duke paused a moment, and while his granchuffs couldn't see his expression, the sorrow in his voice couldn't be denied. "...They splashed him with industrial acid. His screams rang in my ears for days."

Peter Sam's eyes flitted over to Sir Handel, who was staring at Duke and Rheneas with disbelief before his gaze slid back to meet Peter Sam's. "Do you remember that?" he mouthed, and Peter Sam's face seemed to crumple in on itself.

"Not at all."

However, their attention quickly returned to the two older engines as the conversation resumed. "Is it right?" Duke asked plaintively. "Is it right to afflict that upon them? I can see how much they've grown, but is it fair to remind them of the horrors they don't remember?"

"I'm afraid I don't have an answer," Rheneas sighed, "but again, it may not be up to you. After all... most stories, whether you like it or not, tend to attract an audience."

"What do you--" At Rheneas' words, Duke instinctively turned to look around, only for his gaze to land on his two granchuffs.

Three sets of eyes widened in horror, followed by an extended silence. None of the engines seemed to know where to start, the quiet almost suffocating in its entirety.

However, after a long moment, Rheneas sighed and let out a long whistle. The sound of footsteps soon echoed from behind them, and eight confused humans suddenly assembled before the engines. Before any of them could even begin to ask what was wrong, the older engine began: "Please put me up, and let Peter Sam and Sir Handel sit with Duke. They have some things to talk about."

The various engine crews shared some glances, but did as they were asked, and soon enough, Duke was flanked by his granchuffs, all of them settled on the sidings with a promise from their crews that they would be back soon.

Finally alone, the three ex-Mid Sodor engines looked out upon the expansive sky, now featuring a shining moon attended to by a number of glittering stars. It was beautiful, certainly, but the feeling was rather diminished by the growing shadow of awkwardness between them. At long last, it was Sir Handel who broke the silence. "Granpuff... please tell us. Please tell us the stories you couldn't tell us before."

His demeanor, usually so insistent, was instead respectful in its softness, his words a quiet request rather than an imperious demand. On Duke's other side, Peter Sam let out a quiet noise of agreement. "Yes, please. We can handle it."

Duke said nothing for a few moments, but finally, a tremulous voice escaped him. "I shouldn't be surprised that you both were listening in, but... are you sure? Are you sure that you want to know? There are so many things better off forgotten. I didn't want to tell you for your sakes, certainly, but also, perhaps... for mine."

Sir Handel, earlier so full of conviction, suddenly found himself faltering, but he felt obligated to answer the question anyway. "We've... we've grown up, Granpuff. We've learned so much here. And if there's anything I've learned, it's that forgetting only makes things worse. If you forget, nothing is learned."

"He's right," Peter Sam chimed in. "We know how much you love us, Granpuff, but neither of us remembered what you told Rheneas. Even so... I think we should know. We can't run away from that which scares us."

The silence continued when suddenly, Duke seemed to shiver, and a single, crystalline tear dripped down his cheek. "Oh, my boys... when did you two grow up so well?"

Gentle chuckles escaped his granchuffs as they stared at him affectionately, and at last, Peter Sam asked the most important question. "Granpuff... won't you tell us a story?"

Duke let out a shaky sigh, but managed to crack a tired smile. "Alright, alright. They won't all be nice, but... perhaps they're still worth telling."

Chapter Text

One mid-summer evening saw a truly odd assortment of figures sitting around the living room table of a well-furnished, albeit slightly "vintage"-looking Wellsworth apartment.

In one doily-laced chair sat a woman with elegantly curled blonde hair, lusciously red lipstick, and a Coach-branded purse, all of which paled in comparison to her eye-catchingly bright green pencil-skirt-and-blazer ensemble. What was even more incredible was the sheer confidence that enabled her to pull off such an audacious look. "Well, I don't know about YOU, Mavis, but I'm afraid that I'll have to move the game along, now! Look at THAT."

With a flourish of her manicured nails, the transfixing Ms. Daisy pulled a single card from her hand and placed it atop the pile, revealing that only four cards were left. However, far more importantly was the card she had played, that being a green Draw 2 card. "Rejoice, my darlings, as this round will soon belong to me!" she crowed, unable to contain her joy.

"Hmph! I wouldn't be so sure, Daisy," came the heated retort from Daisy's left. The game's next player was a sturdily built woman in a yellow and black crop top, dark gray overalls, and red socks, whose well-worn work boots were at rest by the doorway and thick jacket hung up in the hall. "So what if I have to draw two? I bet this won't go so well for you!" Mavis quickly took her two cards, but a flick of the wrist quickly revealed the source of the woman's confidence: a green Reverse card, pointed right back at Daisy, who gnashed her pearly teeth in disdain.

"OOOOOOH! Mavis, you... you! UGH!" Daisy drew a card from the Draw pile, pouting all the while as she added said card to her hand. Mavis, now with seven cards in her hand, grinned triumphantly.

"Goodness, you two sure are cutthroat. No wonder we can't play poker anymore." This cheeky reply came from the player on Daisy's right, who was clad in a full-body orange jumpsuit and could often be seen subconsciously adjusting their hijab. Although their words could be taken as rude, their easy smile and the laughter in their voice showed that they weren't being serious. Finally, they picked a card and placed it on the pile, this one being a Wild card. "Alright, we're going with yellow."

"Yellow again, Rusty?" Mavis groaned, narrowing her eyes at the shortest among them. "Did you just manage to get every yellow card in the entire deck?"

Rusty simply shrugged, a twinkle of amusement in their eye. "Don't ask me; BoCo shuffled."

As summoned by the sound of his name, their host shuffled out of the kitchen, removing his apron as he did so. Dressed in a kelly-green button-up with simple black pants, Beaufort Connor Metrovick was somehow the most understated of the assembled group. BoCo took his place at the table, giving a relieved sigh once he learned that he hadn't missed his turn. "Alright, what's the color?"

"Yellow."

"Yellow again, Rusty? Let me see... Draw 2, Mavis."

"DAMN IT!"

With a snarl, Mavis drew two more cards from the deck, muttering to herself all the while. However, her dismay soon turned into a grin of triumph as she looked over at Daisy, grabbing for one of her newly drawn cards and practically throwing it on the pile. The group's eyes went wide as the card was revealed: a Wild Draw 4, aimed squarely at Daisy.

"Ohhhhh, no you don't," Daisy groused, staring daggers at her aggressor as she pointed a sharp finger in her direction. "You have eight cards! There's NO possible way you don't have a yellow card!"

"Are you challenging me, Daisy?" Mavis smiled, her grin almost predatory with the thrill of victory.

Her confidence made Daisy retract her finger, hesitation now worming its way through her. To challenge Mavis and lose meant that she would be drawing six cards, AND lose her turn, to boot! But with so many cards in her hand, there was no way Mavis could back up such a play. She had to be bluffing. She had to be!!

Rusty simply watched this showdown play out in tense, expectant silence. Daisy and Mavis had always been good friends, but game night brought out their competitive streaks, and it was the most entertainment Rusty got to have all week, besides Duncan doing... Duncan things. BoCo, for his part, was keeping an eye on his watch and hoping that he was getting the timing right on his pot roast, but still found time to lock eyes with Rusty and give the other a cheerful wink.

Finally, Daisy made a decision. "Alright, Mavis! Show me your hand!" With deliberate slowness, Mavis rose from her seat, and with exaggerated grace, revealed her hand to her opponent. A green 7... a blue 1... a red 5... a green Skip... Daisy's eyes desperately jumped from one card to another, but she felt her heart sink in her chest. Despite Mavis' large hand, there was indeed not a single yellow among them, no matter how many times Daisy looked or checked for stuck cards.

At last, Mavis pulled away, leaving Daisy to hang her head in disgrace. Steadfastly displeased, but not about to lose any more of her dignity, Daisy reached forward and drew six cards, brow furrowing in increased displeasure. "Red," Mavis smirked as she sat back down, pure satisfaction dripping from that one word.

However, before Rusty could dare to consider what card to play next, a loud riiiiing came from the kitchen. Daisy glanced up at it like it was her lifeline, while Mavis frowned. Barely suppressing a smile, Rusty looked over at BoCo. "Is that dinner?"

"Sure is," the taller man smiled, a hint of relief on his face. "Pot roast's ready. Let's take a break from this and go eat, alright?"

"Yes!" Daisy practically shrieked, while Mavis simply shrugged and stood up once more.

The four made their way into the kitchen, ready to enjoy their meal, and over glasses of wine, delicious food, laughter, and good company, it could only be said that for these four friends, game night was anything but a bore.

Chapter Text

It was a lovely day on the island of Sodor, and in James' opinion, it would have been far lovelier if he was, say, pulling some coaches or enjoying the washdown. Instead, he was at Kirk Ronan, of all places, tasked with helping organize their meager little dockyard, which was currently overwhelmed with cargo. James couldn't help but let out a groan, already dreading such utterly unglamorous work. He knew full well by this point in time that Useful engines did as they were instructed (and that complaining was completely pointless), but knowing such a thing and mustering up the energy to do tasks like this were distinctly different things.

Not wanting to dwell on the sea of work awaiting him, James instead turned his attention to the yard manager, who was currently explaining the situation. "Look, there was no helping it," the manager rumbled, sounding just as displeased as James felt. "There was an issue with the delivery ship, and it had to dock here instead of at Brendam. We just need all of this sorted and taken away by the end of the day. Good news, though; Sir Topham's sending another engine to come help you out."

"Well, you heard him, James," his driver sighed, giving the engine a quick pat. "Someone'll come by soon to help. In the meantime, let's just do what we can, alright?"

"Fine," James snapped. "Let's get it over with. The sooner I'm done, the sooner I can do anything else."

Within an hour or so, James had managed to wrangle about a quarter of the yard into shape before the sound of a whistle caught his attention. Peep peep! It was a vaguely familiar whistle, one that he remembered hearing but couldn't quite recall whose it was. It wasn't until he saw the engine himself that it clicked into place. "Oliver?" James questioned, mouth agape. "YOU'RE the one Sir Topham sent to help me organize this?"

"Yep," Oliver replied, giving James a... it wasn't quite a friendly smile, but it did appear as though the olive tank engine was fairly fired up about their assigned task. "It's been slow on our branchline today, so Sir Topham asked me to come help as soon as I'd finished pulling my last train."

That made sense; it was no wonder that Oliver had taken so long if he'd had to come halfway across the island. Still, James couldn't quite say he was entirely pleased with the fact that he'd be working with Oliver, of all engines. He'd held nothing but admiration for him when he'd arrived, but now... he wasn't quite sure how to describe it, but something about Oliver rubbed him the wrong way.

"Right, well. Get to work, then," the red engine directed, a sneer in his voice. "I've already done a good quarter of the work, so you'd best make up for lost time."

The smile on Oliver's face fell at James' words, but his eyes were fiery. "Will do."

And with those words, as if a flag had been dropped, the two engines set to work.

James began pushing at trucks and organizing goods, maintaining a good pace but also keeping an eye on Oliver. The red engine had to admit that Oliver was doing a pretty good job; he was setting about his work with a single-minded determination, and every so often, James thought he saw Oliver sneaking a glance his way as well.

Suddenly, James spied Oliver heading for a particular line of cars. "H-HEY! That's MINE!" the red engine called, mouth set in a grimace as he stared angrily at Oliver.

The tank engine, however, had the gall to scoff at him in response, continuing on his merry way. "Sorry, James, but I got here first. It's MINE."

"Cinders and ashes!" James grimaced, angrily shunting another line and ignoring the protests from the hapless trucks.

And so it went, a back-and-forth tug of war between the two. Oliver may have been behind, but he wasn't kidding about catching up. "Hah, the manager will tell Sir Topham that I contributed the most!" Oliver cheered, causing James to gnash his teeth and continue his shunting with renewed determination.

"As if! Sir Topham's going to praise me!"

Such shouts rang out across the yard as the two worked, and by the time the sun was starting to set, the yard had not only been organized, but various trains of cargo had been delivered to their destinations. At last, the manager came out to see them. "You two did what I asked," he remarked, "but James, you were too hard on the trucks! With all that banging around, it's amazing you didn't cause an accident! And Oliver, you were moving about much too quickly and taking turns too tightly! Both of you ought to be more careful!"

"Yes, sir," the two engines murmured, eyes downcast.

"Still... you both did well and put in a good day's work. I appreciate it."

With that, the manager took his leave. All that remained were a rather tired Oliver and James, left to simply stare at each other as their crews stepped away for a break.

"You... haah... I didn't think you'd work that hard," Oliver panted, his gaze no less intense despite the breathlessness of his words. "I thought you hated working with goods."

"Tch, I can't say I was expecting it from you either," James retorted, equally as winded. "I thought you hated trucks, given your reputation."

"It's not that," Oliver defended, brows knitting together into a scowl. "It just took ONE incident, and that's all they'll ever know me for. It's why I was trying to be careful with them, but it meant I had to make up time in-between. At least... I thought that was what I should do."

The green engine seemed to slump at the thought of his scolding. "But whether it's passengers or goods, I just like variety in my work. Don't care what it is; it's nice to do different stuff once in a while. But what about you?"

"Well, I'm certainly not fond of working with goods," James admitted with a sigh, "but I'm not against it like I used to be. I just need to do what I need to do, and prove that I'm a really Useful engine."

At the last part of that statement, Oliver went quiet, his expression becoming oddly thoughtful. "I know what you mean," he finally replied, his words strangely hesitant. "I was pretty full of myself when I first came to Sodor. Everyone had so many nice things to say about me, and it was just so different from back on the GWR. Back then, I was a nobody. I didn't have anything going for me, anything that could help me stand out. But here... I mattered. And, well... it's easy for that sort of thing to go to your smokebox."

James listened on, enraptured. What Oliver was describing were feelings he knew well. Very well, in fact. "I understand," he began. "To tell you the truth, I had an accident on my very first day. My builder sold me to Sir Topham for cheap. I wasn't wanted, so I wanted to do my very best and prove myself. I thought that if I talked myself up, they'd think I was a good engine and they wouldn't... well. Send me to scrap."

A full-body shudder ripped its way through Oliver, and James' eyes widened. "Ah! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have--"

"...It's fine," Oliver grunted through clenched teeth, and James watched as the engine opposite him took several deep breaths, trying to relax. "It's fine. But it seems like you get that feeling too, huh? Always trying to live up to those titles of splendid or sagacious, and always feeling like we haven't quite gotten there."

"..."

Hearing it said out loud caused James to tremble, his eyes slipping shut for a moment as he considered his words. When his gaze met Oliver's again, he found the green engine staring at him with an odd expression of empathy and understanding, not a trace of pity to be found. Somehow, James' firebox felt a little warmer at the sight, and a watery smile found its way onto his face.

"...Yes. I do. But we still did well today, didn't we?"

Oliver's expression turned into one of surprise, and James took the opportunity to continue. "I used to handle my failures a lot worse, but Edward told me something once. He said that there's no such thing as a perfect engine. You should always strive to do well, but if something goes wrong, then you do your best to fix it and move on. You just have to do your best day by day, and as long as you don't completely mess up, you'll have a chance at being splendid again tomorrow.

So... let's both try to be sagacious and splendid tomorrow, yeah?"

The tank engine blinked, then slowly allowed himself to smile, a quiet half-thing that was far more genuine than the smile he'd shown James earlier today. "You're right. We weren't perfect, but we did well, and we'll have the chance to do even better tomorrow. Thank you, James. Perhaps I should be calling you sagacious."

"M-me?" James sputtered, suddenly somewhat embarrassed. "Well, I don't know about that. But... I am glad that I could help."

Soon enough, the two engines' crews came back, pleasantly surprised to see Oliver and James talking and laughing like good friends do, an odd yet somehow fitting new friendship having been formed between them.

Chapter Text

Joyous sunlight glittered through the clouds swimming across the sky, making the pounding rain from that morning seem like a dream. Such a picturesque sight was actually quite common on the island of Sodor, but Gertrude Last couldn't get enough of it, a wide smile on her face as she stood at the platform at Crovan's Gate station. With her short blonde hair tucked away beneath her smart black hat, and her favorite blue dress as wrinkle-free as she could get it, the 40-something typist could only marvel at the beauty that was her home.

This island, as pastoral as it was, really was a far cry from the bustle and burdens of London that Gertie remembered from her childhood, and she wouldn't change a single thing about it. Sure, there was the off chance of some kind of engine-related incident slowing things down, or an idiotic cow munching on one's skirt, but such anecdotes only added color to her days, memories of her time on Sodor unfurling in her mind like technicolor photographs.

However, she didn't have time to dwell there for long; the sharp sound of James' whistle pulled her back into the present, and now re-situated within reality, Mrs. Last eagerly looked on as the red engine pulled proudly into the station, stopping to allow his passengers off.

One such passenger shuffled off the coach with a dour look on her face, dispassionate eyes rising up to meet Gertie's. Primly coiffed hair, now flattened by travel, threatened to start frizzing at any minute thanks to the island's high humidity and the name brand clothing she wore was now wrinkled in a way that was more or less an inevitable result of rail travel. Nevertheless, Augusta Cormer graciously accepted her luggage from the porter and walked over to Gertie, briefly setting down her suitcase before giving the taller woman a hug.

"It's quite nice to see you, Aunt Gertie," the 15-year-old greeted serenely. "Although we do quite miss you in London. For the life of me, I still can't grasp why you and Uncle Langston chose to move clear out here."

"Oh, it's a lovely island, dear Augusta," Mrs. Last chuckled. "I know it's a far cry from city life, but I promise that you'll find something to enjoy about it."

Augusta made a face that all teenagers instinctively know how to make, a look of naked disbelief mixed with two tablespoons pity and half a cup of scorn. However, it soon smoothed out moments later into a polite mask as all Gertie actually received was a neutral "Hm."

Just then, another whistle sounded out. Peep peep! This whistle came from the opposite platform, as a crimson-clad Peter Sam pulled up proudly and let off his own passengers. "Aunt!" Augusta shrieked in alarm, scrambling for her suitcase. "Come now! We must hurry; our connection is here!"

Much to her niece's chagrin, however, Mrs. Last only laughed and sauntered off to the platform crossing, Augusta's eyes worriedly flitting between her and the train every few seconds. Finally, Gertie and Augusta reached the platform, only to see that everyone else had already boarded and the guard was staring in their direction. Although he was smiling, Augusta couldn't help but flounder. "I'm so sorry, sir. My aunt was being slow. Thank you for waiting."

The young lady was prepared to receive a scolding, but certainly wasn't expecting the guard's hearty laughter. "Oh, no need for that, Miss. We're well aware of your aunt's tendency to 'take her time,' shall we say. Go on, then. We wouldn't head off without you."

"Thank you, Evan," Gertie smiled, and without further delay, the two ladies paid their fare and boarded Lucy, ready to be taken up the line.

Once they'd settled in and were well on their way, past Cros-ny-Cuirn and making their way to Glennock, Augusta looked askance at Gertie, worrying at her lip with her teeth. The older woman couldn't help but chuckle, already knowing what her niece was dying to say. "Out with it, darling. You'll chew a hole through that lip of yours."

That was all the permission that Augusta needed as she turned to face her aunt, expression indignant. "Really now, Aunt Gertie! Making the train wait! It's quite lovely that they did, but that's quite rude as a passenger! Papa says that keeping the train is the height of disrespect, since they're always so busy!"

Augusta's face had scrunched up into a pickled ball of hot air, only to deflate as her aunt let out a charmed laugh. "Oh, Augusta! I'm sure that any big-city engine would be pleased to hear that, but that's not how it is out here." Gertie's eyes turned from her niece to the windows, where the gorgeous hills of the Skarloey Valley rose up in welcome.

"Out here, trains are even more important than they are in the city. These engines mean everything to us; without them, getting to the market or even seeing family would be so very difficult. They are the lifeblood of our valley, my darling, and they know it, but they don't let it get to their heads... mostly. They see us as dear friends, and know us by name, and help us however they can, whenever they can. And when they need our help, we--Oh!"

There was a sudden lurch as the train came to a stop, jostling the passengers and causing a chorus of "oofs!" to resound throughout the coach. "What in the world was that?!" Augusta screeched, patting herself down as she began looking about.

"Hmmm... we had a right storm blow through this morning," Gertie murmured in response. "Poor Peter Sam might have slipped."

As it happened, Mrs. Last's prediction was right on the money. The wet rails hadn't yet dried, and while making a turn, Peter Sam's wheels had slipped, causing a slight derailment. All of this was explained by the guard, who was now making his way down the aisle of the coach. "So! Might I have some volunteers to help put Peter Sam back to rights? Every little bit helps!"

"Tch," Augusta scoffed, crossing her arms. "You'd never catch me doing anything of the--AUNT!"

Just as Augusta was winding up to deliver a haughty refusal, Gertie was already pushing past her, leaving her items on the seat as she joined the steady stream of passengers alighting from the carriage. Augusta scrambled to the window, pressing her face against the glass as she caught a glimpse of the passengers in the other cars as well emptying out of the train and taking up position at Peter Sam's side. Some of them had sleepers, and some of them had only their strength, but all of them had the same determined expression on their faces--including Augusta's blue-clad aunt, who had taken her place in the line.

"HEAVE!" called the guard.

"HO!" echoed the line.

"HEAVE!" cheered the driver.

"HO!" chorused the line.

There was a great heaving of metal, a loud thud, and then, just like that, Peter Sam was back on the line and the passengers were boarding the train once more.

Augusta pulled away from the window, leaving only her breathprint behind as she looked around the coach, and saw that, for those long minutes, she'd been completely and utterly alone, the only witness to it all. There was a gentle clamor as the passengers filed back in, but very few angry remarks; to the girl's disbelieving ear, they all seemed to be along the lines of "as expected," and "well, that wasn't so bad."

Finally, Gertie came back to her seat, passing Augusta and moving her things so that she could get comfortable. Her blue dress had an oil stain on it and her shoes were caked with mud, but she wore a brilliant smile as she stared down at her niece that somehow overshadowed all the rest.

"As I was saying, darling, these engines are our dear friends, and in times of crisis, we always help our friends."

Peep peep! Without further delay, Peter Sam began to move once more, and Augusta could only stare out the window in silence, considering all she'd seen and quietly, privately, thinking that she might have understood her aunt's thinking at last.

Chapter Text

Normally, the island of Sodor's Skarloey Railway was known for being a quiet, picturesque line that served its community and its many tourists with ease and dignity, promising a lovely ride through the storybook fantasy land that was their valley. Quaint and peaceful, the towns and spas dotting this line, promising romantic getaways and wonderfully cozy winter vacations, as well as health retreats and historical tours for the interested, all contributed towards Sodor's largest draw for tourism by a fair margin, and the railway took great pains to maintain that inviting image.

On this day, however, the terminus of the railway, Crovan's Gate, was absolutely abuzz with activity, completely shattering its usual tranquility. This was because the railway was doing a special event, a Meet and Greet for the staff that also promised the opportunity for families to see the engines close up and look at (but not touch) the cab's inner workings. The air was filled with the sounds of chatter, from excited exclamations about meeting the crews to checking the schedule to wondering if there would be any special guests.

While you weren't necessarily one for noise, you were excited for the event. You'd always loved trains, ever since you were little, and taking one down from your home in Glennock to where you worked in Ballahoo could sometimes feel like a long trip, but it was always worth it, thanks to the lovely trains and staff that made your journey pleasant.

That said, although you were a local and took the train every day, you still couldn't help but hope for opportunities like this to see and talk to the drivers and firemen. After all, you'd never really gotten the chance to truly make their acquaintance, only catching fleeting glances at best as their engines rested at the stations and people filed into the coaches.

As only one of the many among this unruly crowd, you clutched your bag close and unfurled your map, trying to see where the actual meet and greet table was. It took no small amount of meandering through the mob, squeezing through gaps and mumbling apologies to anyone you'd inadvertently shoved out of the way, but you finally managed to make your way to your destination. It was quite crowded, as expected, but fortunately, it was already past noon and Skarloey and Rheneas Fletcher, drivers of the SR's No. 1 and No. 2 engines, had already made their public appearances. From what you'd heard, it had been a madhouse; as the drivers of two of the island's most famous engines, and local celebrities in their own right, they had been absolutely bombarded with requests for pictures, autograph signings, and more. As much as you would have liked to have met them in person, it was probably best for your sanity that you had missed the line.

That said, you were just in time to catch the driver you'd really wanted to meet.

As you got in line behind an older lady corralling an over-excited 10 year old and behind you came a group of eager teenagers snapping pictures, your mind flashed back to two weeks ago, which had turned out to be a defining moment for you. You were hurrying home from work, running late, when a sudden storm overtook the island. You hadn't brought an umbrella, and you weren't dressed in your thick jacket, so unfortunately, you were quite drenched by the time you got to the platform.

Your sodden shoes had just touched the edge when the guard's whistle sounded, your eyes going wide with anxiety as you broke into a run. Fortunately, by a great stroke of luck, you'd made the train, with the guard giving you a hand up as he helped you into a coach. It was warm and roomy, with not too many people on it, and you'd managed to grab a row all to yourself, although the warmth wasn't quite enough to stop your frigid body from shivering.

It took you a few minutes to realize, however, that the train hadn't started moving yet. As you looked towards the door, wondering what was the matter, it suddenly swung open to reveal an eager young man with blonde hair and bright green eyes, wearing a dampened yet still warm-looking overcoat. A wide smile was on his face, and he looked around for a few moments before locking eyes with you and striding over. "Pardon me, but... I saw you from the platform. You seem like you could use this."

From under his coat, the man produced a perfectly clean, fluffy white towel, which he then held out to you. Bewildered, you accepted his offer, only for you to gasp sharply at just how comfortable and warm it was. "I had it heating up near the fire," your benefactor smiled, his grin somehow even warmer than the towel. "I was saving it, but you looked like you could really use it, and I figured nobody would mind a little delay. Don't catch a cold, now!"

With that, your savior turned on his heel and walked off, heading for the carriage door. A few minutes later, you heard a peep peep! and away you went, up the line towards home.

You couldn't help but keep staring at the towel, utterly mystified, and across from you, an older woman chuckled. "Hoo hoo! Oh, that Peter Sam. He's always been such a good lad, and looks out for his passengers."

Your train of thought suddenly screeched to a halt. THAT was Peter Sam?! The driver himself had come to give you his towel after seeing how soaked to the bone you'd been?!

At seeing your gobsmacked expression, the woman laughed, clearly bemused by your surprise. "Like I said, he's a good lad. Dry yourself off, dear, and count yourself lucky!"

Absently, you began to dry yourself off, immediately feeling better as your thoughts began to wander. Work had been awful today; you'd been yelled at, forced to leave late, and had gotten caught in the rain. Yet, now that you were on your way home, with this towel in your hands... somehow, you didn't feel half as bad. A stranger's kindness really had gone a long way.

Thus, when you'd heard about this event, you immediately saw an opportunity. You thoroughly washed the loaned towel, and packed it up in your bag, intending to give it back to him. The woman and child in front of you were just finishing up. Here was your big chance!

You approached the table, nerves suddenly spiking. Oh no. How in the WORLD were you going to make this less awkward? Those handsome green eyes turned to look at you, and after a moment, recognition lit up his face as the driver of the SR's No. 4 gave you a bright smile. "Oh! It's you! I hope you didn't catch a cold after last time."

He remembered you. Something about that suddenly gave you the ability to breathe again, and you promptly opened your bag, grabbing the towel and holding it out to him. "Th-thank you! I really, really needed that."

Peter Sam's grin had momentarily wavered as he beheld the towel, confusion written all over his face, but his smile returned in full force once it all clicked. "Hey! Thanks for returning it!" He took it from you graciously and put it in his bag, eyes bright as he turned back to you. "I'm glad I could help. It wouldn't have felt right to just stand by!"

You couldn't help but smile back, warmth bubbling up all throughout your body; Peter Sam's sunshine smile really was just too potent. He probably gave great hugs. As soon as you has that thought, however, embarrassment coursed through you as you realized that you really wanted one, and that you'd probably never get this chance again. Besides, the worst he could do was say no... right? "Erm, if it's alright with you," you stammered out, "could I please... give you a hug?"

Peter Sam looked at you with surprise, but his smile remained intact, seemingly fine with such a bold request. "Sure! I don't mind!" As he stepped out from behind the table, you wrapped your arms around him and he followed suit, both of you sharing a quick hug before pulling back with twin grins on your faces.

"Thank you," you murmured quietly. "For everything, I mean. I'm a local, but I'd never met you before, and now, I'm really glad that I did."

Peter Sam let out a hearty chuckle in reply. "Me too! Hope to see you around sometime!"

With that, the driver turned to walk back to the table, but not before giving you a little wave. You gave him a little wave back, grin undiminished as you hoped that next time would be soon.

Chapter Text

One fine day found Nia working at the docks. She enjoyed such work, as the sea had proven to be endlessly fascinating, and spending time with Edward and BoCo had made the transition to living on Sodor significantly easier. While they could never truly understand what exactly she'd gone through to get here, they were both kind and sympathetic engines, always willing to offer nonjudgmental advice or a pep talk if needed. She had been rather embarrassed by how obviously self-conscious she was when she'd first arrived, but she had always reminded herself to never forget the small kindnesses, and Edward and BoCo's kindness was a blessing.

Less of a blessing, however, were the so-called Bees. Bill and Ben were, much to the chagrin of the Brendam regulars, easily bored. It was also quite the unfortunate fact that when they were bored, it quickly became everyone else's problem. Until the twins had been thoroughly amused, there was no stopping their japery, no matter how many lectures they received, and their cackling laughter could be heard echoing throughout the dockyard as its collective residents could only shake their heads in resignation.

For her part, Nia was determined not to let the two get the better of her today. They had already embarrassed her once with their silly game, and she was determined not to let them undermine her again.

Unfortunately, her bright orange livery was quite unmistakable, and within the hour, the two tank engine twins had come up beside her, wicked grins on their faces. "Hehehe! It's Nia!"

"Yes, it is! Maybe we'll steal her trucks again."

"Ooooh, that'd be fun!"

Nia couldn't help but clench her jaw at the duo's obvious provocation; there was no way they would steal her truck. They weren't the type to do the same thing twice; the riddle was what they would actually do, or attempt when she wasn't looking.

A riddle.

Suddenly, an idea flashed through her head, and she let out a loud laugh, interrupting Ben's chortling. Both tank engines' eyes went wide as they looked at her like she'd gone mad, gazes flitting between her face and each other. "Alright, listen up, you two!" Nia began to explain, a conspiratorial grin on her face. "If you two are bored, then I'll send you on a scavenger hunt! Find for me a color you can't see. Do that, and I'll handle the rest of your work for the day!"

"Don't wanna!" Ben frowned, looking rather disinterested. "We've already done all of our work!"

"Then I'll handle your work for tomorrow," Nia pressed, doing her utmost not to roll her eyes. "Go on! What have you got to lose?"

The twins, who had watched her with gazes of suspicion, suddenly lit up at the thought of not having to do their work tomorrow. "Hah!" Bill chuckled. "That'll be easy! C'mon, Ben."

"Mmhmm!" his brother chorused, and they both shot smug glances at Nia as they pulled away, searching for something that the orange engine was quite confident couldn't exist. After all, one of her former friends had been stumped over this particular riddle, and she also had never come upon the answer. Hopefully, these two would be at it all day, and leave her to do her job in peace. With a small smile on her face, the tank engine returned to her work, and began organizing her consist.

Nia's glee was short-lived, however, as the twins returned an hour later with wide smiles and a thick sack, which could be seen poking out of Bill's cab. "We found it!" Ben exclaimed, clearly quite pleased with himself. "It's the color you can't see!"

"It's... in the sack?" Nia questioned, suddenly unsure of herself. She HAD chosen an unanswerable riddle, right?

"Yep!" Bill laughed. "There's no light in there, so it's all black! But you can't see it, 'cause there's no light, and we KNOW you need light to see! Black's the only color you can see..."

"...without seeing!!" Ben finished, both of them practically vibrating with pride at having solved her puzzle. Nia, for her part, could only crack a disbelieving smile, feeling her mood plummet but determined not to show defeat in front of the twins.

"Well, look at that! I... well, I suppose I'll take your work for tomorrow, then—"

"Wait!" Ben cried, his expression one of alarm. Nia couldn't help but blink in surprise, especially upon seeing that Bill was sporting a similar expression. "Um... let's... erm..."

"Double or nothing!" Bill suddenly interjected, coming to the aid of his flailing brother. "Give us another one, and if we get it, you'll have to do our work tomorrow AND the day after!"

"Yeah!" Ben cheered, suddenly perking up in excitement. "Double or nothing! C'mon, Nia!"

Nia geared herself up to shoot down the absolutely ludicrous idea. She already had to do one of their workloads, and now they wanted her to come up with another riddle? Forget it. There was no way that she—

"Please?"

With a single word, the world was shocked into silence. Nia stared disbelievingly at the twins in front of her, both of whom were looking at her with pleading eyes. It was strange, she thought; she'd heard about these two wheedling and wanting things before, but somehow, this request felt oddly genuine, in a way that she'd never have expected from them. If Edward and BoCo were here, they'd likely be similarly shocked.

Perhaps it was simply due to the strangeness of the moment, but in her heart, Nia's animosity mysteriously vanished, and the smile that stretched across her face was quite sincere.

"Alright. Double or nothing. Here's what I need next..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The riddles continued until the sun began to set. With her work for the day done, Nia patiently waited by the entrance of the clay pits, waiting to see what the twins might bring. Sure enough, after a few minutes more, the two Bees hurried towards her with wide eyes and bright laughter.

"Look at this!" Ben crowed, with Bill shooting a glance at what was currently coupled up behind the former. With a chuckle, Nia obliged, and saw that on the flatbed, carefully tied down, was a mostly completed, hand-carved wooden jigsaw puzzle.

"We asked around, and a woodworker gave us this!" Bill began. "It's a puzzle that he made, but it's missing a piece!"

"Yeah!" Ben grinned, picking up the thread of conversation. "And since it's handmade, it's one of a kind! It's just what you asked for: an unsolvable puzzle!"

Nia could only laugh, not feeling nearly as disappointed as she'd thought she might be. "Look at that! You've solved all of my riddles! Looks like I'll be doing your work for the next week."

"Oh, you don't need to do that!" Bill exclaimed, eyes alight and his mouth set in a wide grin. "This was really fun! Edward and BoCo are nice and all, but they never give us challenges like this!"

"He's right!" Ben agreed, his expression as satisfied as his brother's. "We're bored because the work is easy and nobody wants to play, but you did! And you even made it HARD! Thanks!"

In that moment, Nia felt enlightenment dawn upon her. It wasn't just childishness that drove the twins to play pranks; they were clearly quite clever, but equally starved for something that made them think. If she wore their wheels, the orange engine had the sense that she might resort to something, anything, to alleviate her boredom as well.

Besides, if she was being honest with herself, she'd also had fun seeing what the twins had come up with.

"Alright," she grinned, giving Bill and Ben a conspiratorial wink. "As your prize, I'll come back soon with some new riddles for you!"

"Yessssss!" Bill cheered, as his brother replied with "It's a promise!"

"It's a promise," Nia laughed, and as she pulled away and headed for her shed, she could only guess at how she would solve her next riddle: getting Edward and BoCo to believe any of this.

Chapter Text

Flying Scotsman couldn't help but look up at the stars, marveling at their beauty just as he had so, so many times before. Nene Valley truly was beautiful, and Scot always felt a thrill at being out on the rails, running up and down the line and feeling the very wind part before him as he ran. Many passengers had come to see him, taking pictures and showing off their die-cast trains and other collectables, and the frame-deep satisfaction at being showered with love by an adoring public wasn't something he could ever get tired of.

(It was far better than being ignored, sheeted, left to rot, not knowing if-- no. Don't think of that. Not today.)

Yet, once visiting hours were over and he was put up in his shed, Scot found himself alone, save for his crew. Without his attention firmly fixed on his passengers and trains, it was difficult to resist the intrusion of the thoughts bubbling up from the depths of his mind. The stars were beautiful, to be sure, but even they couldn't distract Scot from the feeling of something... lacking. His birthday and the celebration for it had been quite lovely, but the joy had been superficial, sugary icing on a tasteless cake. What was far more substantial was the deep-seated melancholy that had squirmed its way into his firebox, settling in comfortably as it often did around this time of year. The feeling had been there for his 100th birthday (and THAT had been quite the adventure, with parties and exhibitions and enough happening that he could barely keep his own schedule straight) and even more so for his 101st. Now, here it was, crawling back just in time for his 102nd.

What was it, anyway? That strange tightness in his boiler, that odd heaviness of his tender? His entourage had looked him over and had seen nothing wrong, and Scot was inclined to believe them; they were professionals, after all. Still...

(The best human equivalent for what he had were, as he understood it, donated organs. Salmon Trout's cylinders and boiler; Harvester's tender. Scot could only wonder if he was living up to their expectations, as he certainly couldn't do anything about their legacies, and at this point, their fates were all tied up with his.)

(What a cruel joke.)

The ringing of a cell phone jolted Scot back into reality, causing him no small amount of confusion. His crew had installed a cell phone that ran on voice commands in his cab, and had set him up with a private number. Who could possibly be calling at this hour?

"Answer call," he commanded the phone, and with a beep, the connection was established.

"Hello, Scotsman," came Gordon's low rumble, and for some reason, the pressure in his boiler eased slightly.

"Gordon!" Scot answered, trying not to sound quite so jubilant. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, don't be coy," Gordon huffed, and Scotsman could practically see the look on his brother's face: the puffed cheeks and furrowed eyebrows were quite easy to envision in his mind's eye. He had to quickly stifle his laugh, however, as he didn't want Gordon hanging up just yet.

"Yes, yes. Thank you for calling, dear brother. Do you have birthday wishes for me?"

"Hmph. Of course I do. Happy birthday, Scotsman."

The conversation quickly turned to small things; mostly an exchange of news about Gordon's railway and about Scot's travels, small little anecdotes that nevertheless made Scot smile. However, once there was a brief lull in the conversation, the celebrated engine couldn't help but steer the topic toward something more somber.

"Gordon, tell me... when you reached 100, how did you feel?"

"Hm? Well, there was a grand celebration! It was all quite exciting, of course, and everyone showed their appreciation for me, as one might expect--"

"No, Gordon," Scotsman sighed, willing himself to be patient. "How did YOU feel?"

There was silence on the other end, long enough that Scot thought the call might have dropped. After a moment, however, his brother's voice came back through, albeit more hesitantly than he would have expected.

"I felt... strange. I'm hardly the oldest engine on this island, but I still felt old. I watched the world go to war, I've outlived our siblings... in fact, I've been around longer than the entirety of British Rail. We are the lucky ones, Scotsman, and yet, being the last ones of our class is such a strange burden to bear. I wish..."

Scot listened intently, but Gordon didn't seem inclined to finish the thought. Well, that was fine; he understood it well enough anyway. "I know. Me too. At one point, we were all revolutionary, and now, you and me are all that's left." Scot couldn't help but swallow, emotion suddenly lodging itself in his tubes. "Do you think we've... do you think we've done enough to honor them? With everything we've been through, would they be proud of us?"

"...I don't know."

Scotsman blinked, eyes wide with surprise. That... had not particularly been the answer he was expecting, and especially not in that world-weary tone. Not from Gordon.

"I don't know," Gordon continued, and his voice was oddly gentle, as exhausted as he sounded. "But there's also no way to know. We can't live for the dead, Scot. We can only live for ourselves, and the railways which have become our homes."

We can't live for the dead, Scot.

Somehow, Scotsman was vaguely aware of the pressure in his boiler retreating, of his weighty tender lightening. His eyes slipped shut, considering what Gordon had said. "...Yes, I suppose you're right. Perhaps I should just be grateful for what I have."

"Yes, you should," came the brusque reply. "After all, you have your life, you have your health, you have our cousins, and you have me. So chin up, Flying Scotsman. You owe the dead nothing."

"...Hahahahahahaha!" Scot couldn't help but burst into laughter, Gordon's impeccably blunt wording causing him no small amount of amusement.

"What's so funny?!" his brother demanded, sounding quite put out, and Scotsman struggled to get himself under control before he said something that Gordon would take offense to.

"Nothing, nothing! Just that you have quite the way with words, dear brother! Hahahaha!"

"Yes, yes, you're welcome. Now, I must go, as I have an Express to pull tomorrow. But once again, happy birthday... little brother."

"Oough..." Scotsman wheezed, coming down from his giggle fit, yet as he parsed Gordon's parting words, his smile grew that much wider, his body feeling lighter than it had in some time.

"Thank you again for calling... big brother."

The astounded "WHA--" from Gordon as he hung up the call was the best birthday present Scot could have possibly asked for.

Chapter Text

Rusty's phone went off with a buzz, causing him to blearily lift his head from the pillow, then groan when he saw what time it was. However, it wasn't the incessant whining of their alarm that had awoken them, as they dimly realized; instead, it had been their message tone, which revealed that he'd received a new text.

Rusty quirked an eyebrow, curiosity waking him up faster than caffeine might. Who in the world was sending texts this early? Not even Skarloey and Rheneas, the oldest people in his apartment building, sent texts before 9:00 AM.

As he opened the message and read it over, the last vestiges of sleep disappeared as if by magic, replaced by a growing excitement.

"Hello Rusty!" the message read. "I'm Gonna Be In Your Neck Of The Woods Next Weekend For Work, And Thought It'd Be Nice To Catch Up If You've Got Time! There's Supposed T' Be A Carnival Happening Too, So Lemme Know If You'd Be Up!! (Down?)"

":-)"

Rusty couldn't stop themself from grinning as they texted out their reply. "Hi Gramps! Yeah, I'll be free. We can meet up by the big fountain in the middle of Crovan's Gate around 10. It'll be great to see you! 😄"

With that, Rusty set about clearing their calendar, already buzzing with excitement at the thought of getting to see his Gramps again. His visits were few and far between, but when they did happen, they were always a treat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next weekend found Rusty in a comfortable black hoodie, well-loved jeans, and sneakers, waiting by the Crovan's Gate fountain and idly playing with their hijab. They were keeping an eye on the crowd, waiting for their Gramps, when suddenly, a familiar figure caught his attention.

Evidently, they'd caught his too, because Thomas, clad in a windbreaker and sweatpants, came barreling up to him with clear indignation written all over his face. "Rusty?! What the heck! You said that you wouldn't be online today, but you're just out here hanging out!"

Rusty shot Thomas a rather unimpressed look. "Hi, Thomas," they replied, the words almost viscous with sarcasm. "Nice to see you too."

Thomas deflated a bit at the pointed greeting, but then rallied, slightly shaking the grocery bag he was holding (he'd doubtless been sent to pick up some things for Edward, if Rusty had to guess). "Yeah, well, what's so important that you're skipping out on the weekly guild raid?"

This time, Rusty rolled their eyes; Thomas was a good friend, but he never did well when personal inconvenience was involved. "I'm meeting someone today. My Gramps is going to be in the area, and I always try to see him when I can."

Thomas quirked an eyebrow at that, clearly confused. "Your Gramps? I thought you didn't have any family around here."

Rusty shook his head, trying their hardest to push down their exasperation. "We're not blood-related or anything, but he's--"

"RUSTY! There y'are, lad!" A sunny greeting floated over to the two, and both Rusty and Thomas looked over to see an older gentleman in a bright yellow fedora with a green band, a long beige overcoat, and a white polo shirt and black slacks underneath. He also sported a thick, bushy mustache (with a small goatee) and aviator glasses, giving the pair a hearty wave.

"Gramps!" Rusty grinned, waving him over. "Gramps, this is my mate Thomas. Thomas, this is Stepney, but I call him Gramps."

"Dunstan Stepney, at yer service, lad!" the older man chortled, holding out a hand for Thomas to take. "But y'can call me Gramps too, if ya like."

"Um, thanks...?" Thomas questioned, adjusting his groceries so that he could give Stepney's hand a good shake. At Thomas's words, however, Stepney's eyes lit up.

"Ah, a fellow Brighton boy, eh? Never thought I'd see another so far from home!"

Rusty was a tad surprised by that; he'd never have guessed that Thomas was from that region, given how much his speech and mannerisms took after Edward's. That said, Rusty was even more surprised at the shadow that suddenly crossed his friend's face at Stepney's comment. "Yeah, well, y'have. But don't be blabbin' about it t' others, thanks."

Sensing that he might have caused offense somehow, Stepney held up his hands in mock surrender. "My lips are zipped, lad. All I meant was I can tell jus' by lookin' atcha that yer a hard worker who means well. Rusty's got a good friend indeed with you around."

"O-Oh," Thomas blinked, somewhat taken aback but appreciative of the compliment all the same. "Well, uh, thanks." A small, genuine smile crept across his face as he turned to look at Rusty. "You two have fun; we'll hang out later, I guess." With that, he made to leave, giving them both a wave.

"See ya 'round, lad!" Stepney called.

"Bye, Thomas!" Rusty waved back.

"He seems like a good sort. But now," the older man grinned, "shall we head for that carnival?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dang it!" Rusty groaned, giving a forlorn look at the array of still-stacked milk bottles. He'd had five tries to knock them all down, yet hadn't managed even one! "Guess I'm just not cut out for this game."

"Aw, don't beat yerself up, Rusty," Stepney chuckled. "Maybe the ring toss'll do ya better."

The two headed over to a setup of glass pop bottles, where a sign proudly proclaimed that for three pounds, players had five tries to get the rings on the bottles. One ring earned a small prize, two rings a medium prize, and three rings a large prize. As they approached, a mother and her daughter were just starting to walk away from the booth empty-handed, a clear expression of dejection on the girl's face. "Alright, lad!" Stepney instructed, handing the bored-looking attendant a five-pound banknote. "It's all in the wrists. Give it your best!"

As Stepney pocketed his change, Rusty took the proffered rings, and flicked one toward the bottles. It clanked off the side, falling to the floor, and Rusty bit at their lip in concentration, determined to get the next one.

Despite Rusty's best efforts, however, five tosses had not yielded them any meaningful results, and all he could do was sigh in frustration as they turned away from the booth. "Sorry, Gramps. Now I REALLY know I'm not cut out for carnival games. Let's get---"

"WAHHHHHHH!"

A sharp cry drew both Stepney and Rusty's attention, and they looked over to see that the girl from earlier and her mother were now sitting at a nearby bench, the poor thing now bawling her eyes out and pointing to the booth. "But I WANT the big bear!" she wept, and Rusty and Stepney looked up to see that one of the large prize options was a large brown teddy bear with a bright yellow bow, perhaps as large as the girl herself.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," her mother soothed, "but it just wasn't meant to be. How about we go get an ice cream instead, hm?"

"NO! I want the BEAR!" the girl moaned, her tears even more bitter than before.

Rusty shook their head and sighed; it really was too bad, but it seemed like that poor mother had an uphill battle ahead of her. Stepney, however, seemed to have other ideas. With a small sigh and a resigned smile, the yellow-clad gentleman turned back to the booth attendant and drew out another three pounds. "One more go fer me please."

The attendant shrugged and handed Stepney the rings. "Now, watch closely, Rusty," his Gramps grinned. "It really is all in the wrists." With a careful flick, Stepney let the first ring fly. To Rusty's disbelieving eyes, it landed with a perfect clatter atop one of the many bottles.

"How did you do that?!" they exclaimed, not at all sure just how Stepney's technique could have differed from his own.

"Jus' takes practice. Had a lot of time for it while I was in th' Army."

Four more rings shot from his hands, and four more clinks could be heard as all five of Stepney's rings stood proudly atop the bottles.

The attendant, mouth agape, finally managed to ask what he wanted, and Stepney pointed to the bear, as well as one of the medium prizes, which happened to be a much more reasonably sized teddy bear with yellow-ish fur and a blue bow. The smaller bear was handed to Rusty with a wink, and before Rusty could get a word in edgewise, Stepney was already walking over to the girl and her mother, handing them the giant bear.

Rusty couldn't help but laugh at the earsplitting screams of delight which followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once they had finished meandering around the carnival, Rusty and Stepney purchased some lunch and found a comfortable hillside to sit at while they ate. With hot sandwiches and warm tea in hand, it was the perfect time to relax. "Thank you for taking me out today, Gramps," Rusty smiled, polishing off the last of their meal and making sure that his bear was stain-free. "It was great fun."

"Hahaha, I'm glad you enjoyed, lad!" Stepney beamed. "It was just what I needed too." His good humor didn't last long, though, as a strange melancholy overtook him, one that Rusty wasn't particularly used to seeing from his Gramps. Dread suddenly pooled in his stomach, sensing that whatever Stepney had to say, it probably wouldn't be good. "I... I don't really know how to say it, but... this may be the last time I get t'see ya in a long while."

"What?" Rusty exclaimed, disbelief pouring out of that single word. "What do you mean, Gramps? What's going on?"

Stepney sighed, and somehow, the sound made him feel old, particularly given the way his body seemed to reflexively hunch in on itself. "I'm turning 65 this year, Rusty, and my body's not what it used to be. My joints are creaking, and my lungs aren't in good shape. The doctors say I may need to go in for surgery soon."

Stepney's eyes rose, staring up at the sunshine-lined clouds as they floated lazily by. His gaze, however, seemed to be looking at some point far away and long ago, beyond what Rusty could possibly see. "Before you rescued me from the streets in that bad part of Barrow, I was convinced there was nothin' left for me. I had no contact with my family, no home, and thugs lookin' to take what little I had. I was just a washed-up old man with nothin' left. Then you came along, helped get me some veterans' assistance, and now I have a job in Sheffield Park, promoting the Bluebell Railway.

"I'll forever be grateful to ya, lad, but... that doesn't change the fact that I'm old. My sister's close by, but she has her own life to live. I nev'r got married, I have no kids, and you're the closest thing I've got to a grankid. I jus'... I dunno. Dunno if goin' through surgery and all o' that's worth it. Maybe it's about time I just let things take their course."

"NO!" Rusty shouted, the volume uncharacteristic of him but with how emotional they were, it could only be considered understandable. "No! Please, Stepney! Don't give up! You love your job, and you're so much fun to be around. I love when you visit. I..."

There was a long pause as Rusty struggled to keep back tears, and a gentle hand came up to rub comforting circles into their shoulder, Stepney giving them a smile tinged with resignation. "Yer a good lad, Rusty. I'm so glad I metcha. But the occasional visits and texts aren't quite enough to keep th' loneliness away. I've led a good, long life, and I've done some bit of good in th'world. What's there to be upset about?"

Rusty sniffled, pulling some tissues out of their pocket and blowing their nose as Stepney pulled his hand away. "Well... what if I helped you find someone? Maybe you could give dating a try?"

"Hahahaha!" Stepney's course laughter was genuine, yet there was obvious disbelief lingering at the edges. "That's sweet o' ya, Rusty, but who'd be interested in an old man like me? I hate t' say it, but I'm not really interested in the company o' ladies, if ya catch my drift, and I doubt there's any gentleman out there who'd be interested either."

Rusty frowned, wanting to retort, but just then, a beep sounded from his phone. They pulled it out, shooting Stepney an apologetic glance, then looked it over and texted something back before putting it away. "Sorry about that. My neighbor asked where I was; he's just coming back from his job and wanted to drop something off."

"Oh, that's fine," Stepney reassured him, seemingly grateful for the change in subject. "You always have such nice things t'say 'bout the others in your building; it'll be nice to meet 'em."

Soon enough, a familiar face made his way up the hill, with Rusty giving him a wave of greeting. "Rheneas! Over here!"

Rheneas Fletcher, professor of physics at Furness College, was the quintessential definition of a silver fox. As he bounded up the hill in a button-up, vest, tweed pants, and dress shoes, clearly having attended some kind of lecturer's meeting, he waved back to Rusty, a calm smile on his face and a grocery bag gripped tightly in his hand. Between his short ponytail, streaked with streams of silver; horn rim glasses; and thin moustache, Rheneas was rumored to be an incredibly popular professor for a number of reasons.

Clearly, Stepney also thought so, given the way his eyes were transfixed upon the approaching gentleman.

"I brought back some cinnamon rolls from the meeting, enough for everyone in the building to have at least one," Rusty's neighbor explained, gesturing to the bag. "I can give you yours now, and one to this handsome stranger as well."

Rusty blinked, eyes suddenly jumping to Stepney, whose ears had gone slightly red at the compliment, and felt, deep in their bones, that the turning point had arrived.

"Rheneas," he interjected hastily, "this is Stepney, a friend of mine! He's amazing; he won me a prize at the carnival, he's been in the army, and he's got so many interesting stories! I bet you two would get on famously!"

Stepney paused, giving Rusty an unsure look, but clearly didn't want to leave Rheneas hanging. "Ah, well! Pleasure to meet you, Rheneas," he greeted, holding out a hand, and Rheneas took it, giving a firm handshake.

"A pleasure indeed. I would love to have dinner with you at some point, unless...?"

The words went unspoken, but even though Rusty lagged slightly on what he meant, Stepney understood immediately, and held up his left hand, showing that it was bare. "Ah, no conflicts of interest on my part. I would, ah, quite enjoy dinner with you some time."

"Excellent," Rheneas smiled warmly, and doled out a cinnamon roll to each of them before checking his watch and taking his leave, but not before exchanging numbers with Stepney.

"Well, Gramps," Rusty grinned in between bites of cinnamon goodness, "now that you've got a date, wouldn't you say there's something worth living for?"

Stepney shook his head, eyes disbelieving but a smile still on his face. "Well, it's a bit early t' say that, but... who knows. Maybe there's still some life in these ol' bones yet."

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Duncan!" Peter Sam chirped one morning as he and the rest of their shedmates got steamed up. The process of getting their fires lit and building up steam could take time, especially given how much preparation was required to ensure that they were all ready to run. As such, it was fairly common for the engines of the Skarloey Railway to idly chat amongst themselves in the morning as their crews got them ready for work, mostly in the hopes of waking up a little more quickly.

Duncan, who was still trying to shrug off the last gasps of sleep, gave a disgruntled sigh as his gaze slid over to Peter Sam, then at the weather outside. Today, clouds were gathering over the island, and promises of rain could be heard on the whispers of the winds. "What kinda 'goo' mornin'' are YOU forecastin', huh? It's gonna come down hard!" Duncan frowned, already not looking forward to being out in such weather.

"Well, you never know!" Peter Sam retorted. "It might clear up later."

Duncan could only sigh in response, begrudgingly amazed at his fellow engine's ever-present optimism. "Good Lird, Peter Sam. Have they ever tried bottlin' somma yer cheer? Maybe we'd save on coal if we could all run on that."

Peter Sam just laughed in response, and from the next berth over, without missing a beat, came Rusty's voice. "I don't know, Duncan. It might be too bubbly for you," the little diesel called as they puttered out of their berth, heading out to start his day.

"Tch," Duncan scoffed, the closest thing he'd ever allowed himself to get to a laugh, and just let the conversation drop as his fire continued to burn pleasantly in his firebox. Peter Sam, however, was clearly not yet finished, and an idle thought, casual as could be, slipped from his lips.

"Say, Duncan, do you remember your birthday?"

Once again, Duncan's eyes shifted over to Peter Sam, but this time, there was a slight tension in the air that soon became sour.

"No."

This growl was all that Peter Sam received in return, causing him to quirk an eyebrow. If he noticed the shift in the air, he certainly didn't seem bothered by it, much less intimidated. "Really? I know that you told the Controller that you don't want a birthday celebration, but I thought that was just because you don't like noise."

"I don't," Duncan hissed, "but I also don't remember my fuckin' birthday, so there's no sense in havin' a party for it. Hell, I didn't even get to have a NAME before I came here. So FUCK OFF."

Peter Sam's eyes went wide. "Wait, you didn't have a--"

His exclamation was interrupted by a loud weesh, evidence of the fact that Duncan had finished working up to his required level of steam, and without another word, the surly engine headed off to gather his first train. In his wake, Peter Sam could only watch him go, his eyes forlorn as he waited for his turn to leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days flew by, fast becoming weeks. Neither Duncan nor Peter Sam mentioned birthdays again, but every so often, whenever the topic was brought up, the No. 4 engine caught Duncan looking pensive, as though he'd suddenly remembered something that he didn't particularly want to think about. The look never lingered long, but even so, to Peter Sam's eye, there was a pain there, an anger, that he couldn't bear to look away from.

Thus, there was only one thing he could think to do.

"Skarloey, could I have a moment?" Peter Sam asked the older engine one morning, slowly pulling up to the outdoor shed. He was already in steam, but fortunately running ahead of schedule, and most of the other engines were already out and about, getting their trains together. Skarloey himself was still getting steamed up, so this was the best opportunity he had to talk, particularly since he wanted the privacy.

"Of course, Peter Sam," Skarloey smiled. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," Peter Sam hedged, "it's... about Duncan. I asked him about his birthday once, and he said that not only did he not remember his birthday, but he hadn't even gotten to have a NAME before he came here. Can you believe that, Skarloey? Not being given a name?"

At Peter Sam's indignation, Skarloey's expression fell, his tone somber. "On some other railways, that's the norm, Peter Sam. The people of Sodor have always treated us engines quite well, but in many places, engines are not considered fellow employees, so much as... exploitable labor. I am of the opinion that Duncan's time in the factory was not a pleasant one, to say the least."

The old engine took a breath, his eyes moving away from Peter Sam to look out into the abyss. "It may be that birthdays are a painful concept for him, as he was built to serve in a place that treated him horribly. I cannot say that I would enjoy being reminded of such things either, even if celebrated with the best of intentions. However, he might still want to be celebrated, given who he is."

"Oh..." Peter Sam's voice was small, but after a moment, he pushed on, a newly born resolve shining in his eyes. "Then, what if we threw him a different sort of party? Nothing too loud or crazy, but... what if we do something like this?"

With that, Peter Sam began to outline his plan—hesitantly at first, but as Skarloey gave his own input and encouragement, the younger engine spoke with more confidence, the idea coalescing from a vague thought into a plausible proposal. By the time they were finished, both engines had wide smiles on their faces. "I hope he likes this," Peter Sam murmured, his grin falling slightly; despite the two engines' confidence in their plan, that didn't guarantee that Duncan would be pleased with the result. Across from him, Skarloey simply chuckled, giving Peter Sam a wink.

"I'm sure that he will, Peter Sam. Of that, I have no doubt."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another month passed, and soon enough, a certain day came. Duncan wasn't one to remember specific holidays beyond the major ones, but there was something special about today: today was the day he'd first come to the Skarloey Railway.

Not that anyone else would really care, of course.

The thought made him feel somewhat bitter, but then again, he'd brought this upon himself. He didn't want to remember his actual birthday and his horrible stint in the factory, but he couldn't deny that he wished that his existence could be celebrated, just like everyone else's. To be thanked for his service, to be praised and appreciated for living and working another year... he never could have conceived of such a thing back in the factory, but now that it was something that he could have, he wanted that too.

He wanted to be seen, to be recognized.

He had a name now, not just a number. He had a home, not just somewhere he was forced to stay. Supposedly, he was something worth celebrating, just like any other engine on the railway.

He wanted to be like all the rest of them, happy and proud of their lives well lived.

But such thoughts were worthless, and there was no use in dwelling on them. He'd already squandered his chance by demanding that his birthday go unrecognized, and it wasn't as if his actual birthday was worth celebrating anyway, name or not.

These thoughts, bubbling up and being quashed down throughout the day, caused his mood to become even more dour than usual as he trundled his way back to the shed. The sun had already begun to set, and by the time he got back, it was already dark. In his misery, Duncan failed to notice that all of the other engines were also back, staring at him excitedly. "Oh, there he is!" Peter Sam called. "Ok, everyone! DO IT!"

As Duncan suddenly snapped back to his senses at hearing the shout, he was greeted by a wave of cheers and sound.

"HAPPY REBIRTHDAY, DUNCAN!!"

The No. 6 engine could only blink, absolutely dumbfounded, at the many smiles, both engine and human, aimed his way. His eyes jumped from one cheerful face to another, until he found Peter Sam's.

"Peter Sam," Duncan began, barely knowing where to start, "what in the fresh hell is all this?"

"Do you like it?" the other engine grinned, his smile wide as a cake was slowly brought over and set before Duncan, marked with several glowing candles. "We know you don't like your actual birthday celebrated, but this is the day that you came to join the railway and got your name, isn't it? It's your rebirth! So, we're celebrating your rebirthday!"

The logic was simplistic at best, but Duncan couldn't help but marvel at the gentle warmth that flooded through him at the explanation. The day that he'd gotten his name... the day that he'd joined this railway... the day that his life had changed so truly for the better... Tears threatened to fall, and it took all of Duncan's willpower to hold them back. "I... thank ye. Thank ye so much," he managed, his voice heavy with emotion, and across from him, all of his shedmates smiled.

"Thank you, Duncan," Skarloey spoke up, his eyes warm and his voice kind. "Thank you for coming to our railway, and for all of the work you do. We are truly lucky to have you."

"Hear hear," the other engines called, and one by one, they began to speak.

"Thank you for carrying all of that heavy slate, Duncan."

"Thanks for getting me back on the rails last week!"

"Thanks for nothing, you--"

"SIR HANDEL!"

And so, amongst the din of the sheds, surrounded only by friends and the ones he might secretly call family, Duncan finally let the tears fall even as the most brilliant smile any of them had ever seen spread across his face.

Duncan may not have been one for noisy parties, but considering that this time, it was for his rebirthday... well, perhaps it wasn't so bad.

Chapter Text

Some had called it vanity, while others called it foolishness. Wearing as delicate of an accessory as a crown while working was practically inviting disaster, given that it could so easily be lost or damaged, and given the engine involved, such a thing would have most certainly caused a massive upset.

For Rajiv, however, wearing his crown was a necessity. Whenever anyone inquired about why he was so attached to it, Rajiv would proudly proclaim himself to be a "royal engine" and patronizingly explain that royal engines wore crowns, hence why he too needed to be wearing his at all times. Such an answer had promptly quashed the curiosity of anyone he'd worked with, from the railway staff to his fellow engines, although Charubala often seemed to think that there was something more to it. If there was, however, Rajiv seemed particularly disinclined to elaborate, and his Controller never wanted to push.

One fine evening, after the day's work had concluded, the cleaners came as they usually did to clean out Rajiv's cinderbox and ashpan, as well as take his crown for its monthly polishing. The two had barely started their work when Rajiv shouted "Oh! Be gentler! That's no way to treat a ROYAL engine. And when you clean my crown, be sure to get every speck of dust! I cannot be SEEN looking anything less than my best! And furthermore--"

The duo soon tuned out his demands, shooting each other weary looks. No wonder Rajiv's staff experienced such a high rate of turnover; nobody had managed to last more than six months tending to His Prissiness and by the look of it, this group wouldn't last long either. It was a wonder that his crew put up with him as they did.

Once the rest of the cleaning was done, one of the cleaners put up a ladder, and gestured for the other to operate the hook and winch. Slowly, the hook came down, and the one on the ladder adjusted the crown so that he could easily attach it to the hook. Rajiv swallowed nervously, but did his best to stay as still as possible, allowing the duo to work, and before long, the crown was being lifted off of his head and placed on a cart nearby to be taken into the back for polishing.

"Be GENTLE with my crown!" Rajiv called. "It musn't be damaged!"

"Of COURSE not, Rajiv," one of the cleaners, a burly man with a long, trim beard, called out. "We will have this polished and returned to you--"

"Hmph! Of course you will; it's your job, after all."

"You know," hissed the other, a muscular woman with a pierced lip and fierce brown eyes, "you could say 'thank you' once in a while."

"Yes, yes," Rajiv replied, his tone dismissive. "Now hurry up! I want my crown back as soon as possible!" A thin undercurrent of anxiety could be heard in his tone, but it went unnoticed by the two cleaners, who were too busy shooting him disgruntled looks.

As the cleaners rolled the cart holding the crown off toward the workshop, one of them suddenly had an idea. "Hey, Nikhil," the woman said. "That bratty engine needs to be taken down a notch. How about we tell him we can't find his crown, and magically spot it once he actually thanks us?"

Nikhil raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, Tina," he replied, his hesitation evident. "Charubala might have something to say about that."

"Oh please," Tina groaned. "She knows his attitude's a problem, but others have tried bringing it up to her before, and she hasn't done anything. I'm sick of it!"

Nikhil bit his lip, clearly mulling it over, but after a moment, he nodded. "...Alright. If this is what it takes to get some respect around here, then fine. I know of just the place to stash this."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And that's what we want, Charubala," Nikhil explained the next morning, arms crossed alongside Tina as they stared down their Controller. Rajiv's wailing this morning had brought her running to the sheds, only to find that his cleaners were claiming that his crown had "somehow gone missing" and that "maybe if he was kinder to them, it would be found." She'd quickly shuffled the two cleaners into her office to explain the situation, which now left her at a crossroads.

"All we want's a little respect," Tina agreed, nodding toward Nikhil. "We don't know why His Ponciness is so obsessed with that crown, but the way he treats us isn't right."

Charubala took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm. "I understand your feelings," she began, "but you have stolen railway property. There must have been some other way to air your grievances other than--"

"Ma'am, you must realize how often people quit this job," Tina interrupted. "Frankly, we don't feel that we've been listened to. Rajiv continues to be rude, disrespectful, and force us to work overtime to meet all of his demands. Hopefully, this is what it will take to get you both to listen."

The Controller's expression was steely, her face drawing in tight in an expression of carefully controlled ire. "I am listening, alright. I appreciate that you both have brought this to my attention, but your actions were out of line. You both will be put on four months of unpaid leave for this. As for Rajiv... it seems that it is past time that I addressed this."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clack clack clack. Charubala's shoes echoed on the floor of the shed as she approached Rajiv, who was still quite beside himself with distress. His crew were currently trying to soothe him, but their efforts seemed to be of little help. The other engines looked on with pity in their eyes, but they didn't say a word--it was not their place to be involved.

As she approached, the brightly colored engine's eyes snapped up to lock with hers. "Did... did you find it?"

The Controller sighed. "Not yet. I have people looking for it, but it will take some time. In the meantime, Rajiv... the people who lost your crown have been quite upset with how you've treated them. I know that your crown is important to you, but you must be more gracious to the ones who take care of you."

Rajiv said nothing for a long moment, his eyes wavering, before he seemed to slump, as if ashamed. "I know, Charubala... but it's my crown. It's more important than anything. I'm... I'm not..."

Rajiv bit his lip, and his Controller took a breath, preparing herself to wade into somewhat touchy territory. "Rajiv... why do you feel so strongly about your crown? I have long known that it is incredibly important to you, but you have never told me why. I would like to know."

Charubala spoke softly, just loud enough for Rajiv and his crew to hear, but not the rest of the shed, and the engine before her took a shaky breath, suddenly seeming more unsure than she'd ever thought he could be. "I... it's... phew. It's because... of Fairy Queen."

The name of India's most famous engine caused Charubala to blink, surprised at the fact that Rajiv was bringing her up now. However, she didn't speak, simply allowing him to organize his thoughts.

"Fairy Queen is so famous and beautiful," Rajiv murmured, as though confessing to something deeply personal. "I'm based on her design, with some modifications, but she's way more famous than I could ever be. I know I was only entered into the Great Railway Show because she couldn't make it."

Charubala's eyes widened at that; she'd thought that knowledge had been under lock and key, but somehow Rajiv had found out... or he'd just intuited such a thing. Either way, she was rather shocked that he'd felt this way for so long, yet hadn't said a word.

"I know that I was just a modified replica," Rajiv breathed, as though he was struggling to get the words out. "I know that. I'll never be as beloved as she is. But I... wearing my crown is the only way that I feel like I can be. It's the only way for me to feel like a famous, special engine; not a version of Fairy Queen, but just me, Rajiv. I..." Tears began to fall, rivers running down his cheeks as Rajiv's frames heaved with emotion, a long-suppressed secret bursting forth at last.

"Is that how you truly think of yourself, Rajiv?" Charubala asked in dismay, slowly reaching up to wipe her engine's tears away. "You are in no way inferior to Fairy Queen. Naturally, she is your predecessor, but you are your own self, living your own life. Who could compare you two?"

"Everyone does," Rajiv choked out. "I heard it constantly at the Great Railway Show. Everyone wanted to see Fairy Queen. They thought I was fine, but... I wasn't her. Even while filming the movie, people said things like 'too bad we couldn't get Fairy Queen, but Rajiv is alright.' It's everywhere. Only with my crown do I feel like... like maybe I could also be a King or a Prince worthy of respect."

Charubala sighed, her hand slowly rubbing at Rajiv's cheek. "Well, even if that's what people say, you and I both know that you are so much more than a version of Fairy Queen or her substitute. You are Rajiv, my wonderful, hard-working engine. You do not need a crown to be respected, nor do you need to compare yourself to Fairy Queen. All I ask is that you remember to respect those who care for you. Respect is not earned through accessories and showmanship; it is earned by being respectful to others in turn."

With a shuddering breath, Rajiv's tears finally tapered off as he once again locked eyes with Charubala. "I... alright. I'm sorry, Charubala. I've been a really foolish engine, haven't I?"

"I would not call you foolish," Charubala soothed, "but I will expect you to be better in the future. In the meantime, I shall work on finding your crown."

"Alright," Rajiv agreed, a look of relief crossing his face. "But until then... thank you, Sanjeev. Thank you, Sheena. For everything."

Rajiv's driver and fireman, who had both been rather quiet during this discussion, looked up in surprise, before wide smiles crossed both of their faces. "Of course, Rajiv!" Sheena, his driver, smiled, her voice gentle. "It's our pleasure. Thank you for telling us about your crown."

"Indeed," chimed Sanjeev, Rajiv's fireman. "We've long known how you can get... touchy about your crown, but we had no idea it meant so much to you. Even without it, though, you are truly a magnificent engine."

The words caused Rajiv's fire to warm, and for a moment, he thought he might start crying again. "I... thank you! Let's get going!"

"Alright!" Rajiv's crew clambered into his cab, and Charubala explained their assignments. Once they were off, the Controller couldn't help but smile to herself.

"Perhaps our Little Prince has finally grown up."

Chapter Text

Culdee's visit had been brief, but fun—at least, to Skarloey and Rheneas. Sir Handel and Duncan had enjoyed themselves somewhat less after hearing Culdee's story about Godred, but after a few days, normalcy thankfully returned on the Skarloey Railway.

That said, given what had happened while their visitor had been here, Sir Handel was now more sure than ever that he did not much care for Rheneas. The SR's No. 2 had returned just last year to great fanfare, and as far as the younger engine was concerned, the whole affair was rather overblown. Truthfully, Sir Handel been quite excited when Skarloey had returned from his overhaul, but that was because Skarloey had at least bothered to teach and encourage him; all Rheneas had done ever since they'd (properly) met was give lectures and be naggy.

"Sir Handel, you were late again."

"Sir Handel, you were awfully rough with the coaches!"

"Sir Handel, you really shouldn't beg for your driver to throw crisps into your firebox."

Nag, nag, nag, on and on. It wasn't as though he wanted to be late, or rough, or anything else! He was trying his best, same as any other engine here, yet only he seemed to be on the receiving end of Rheneas' criticism. (He had wanted to try his driver's crisps, though.) It just wasn't fair, but beyond that, far beyond what Sir Handel was willing to admit, he couldn't deny that he was a little scared. Scared that because Rheneas was such a pillar of the railway, his disapproval could mean that his years on this railway would all be for naught. The thought was enough to make him even grouchier than usual, much to the displeasure of his crew.

So, Sir Handel had taken to avoiding Rheneas as best as he possibly could—difficult, given how closely they all worked, but still possible, at least to an extent.

One fine, sunny afternoon, Sir Handel was back at the sheds, happily enjoying a wash and a polish. His eyes were at rest as the warm sunlight washed across his face, blanketing him in its quiet serenity. The cleaners were attending to him carefully, removing every spot and splotch, and the engine felt himself relax, settling as happily into his frames as a cat in the sun as he basked in the care of experienced yet gentle hands.

Despite how much he longed for this comfort to continue for eternity, like all wonderful things, it was bound to end eventually. The peace and quiet of the moment was soon disrupted by the sound of wheels on the track and the familiar hush of steam that heralded another engine's approach. A long shadow encroached upon Sir Handel's sunlit cheek, growing longer and longer still until it eclipsed the sun as Rheneas pulled up to face him, parking himself only a short distance away. The older engine said nothing, but his crew quickly clambered out of his cab, made small talk with the cleaners, and headed for the station, clearly taking their break. The cleaners and Sir Handel's own crew, perhaps prompted by their co-workers, set aside their rags and suds and followed their fellows, leaving the two engines to their lonesome.

As Sir Handel cracked open one lazy eye, annoyance written all over his face, the cloudy expression of the engine before him implied that this was not likely to be a pleasant (or quick) conversation.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Sir Handel's premonition was correct, as the first words out of Rheneas' mouth were "I've been looking to speak with you, Sir Handel. It's about what you said last week."

The No. 3 couldn't help but groan. Of course. Rheneas didn't want to talk about how well he'd done at being on time, or about how he'd improved at shunting, even if he didn't particularly enjoy it. No, this was about the coaches, because God only knew that the coaches were FAR more important than he could ever be. "Yes, yes, you're here to lecture me about saying that those cattle trucks ought to be scrapped. Well, I'll say it again, if you'd like. Those cattle trucks ought to be scrapped."

Rheneas furrowed his brow, and Sir Handel felt a momentary thrill at the idea of rendering even Rheneas speechless. "You shouldn't say such things," the older engine managed at last. "Even if they can be stubborn, they are your co-workers, and you would condemn them to death for doing their best?! Even as a joke, that's going much too far!"

With a roll of his eyes, Sir Handel let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, please! Doing their best? I'm the one who does his best for this railway, and yet they can't get it through their thick paneling that I'm not out to get them! I just want them to do their jobs so that I'm not always played for a fool! Is that so much to ask?!"

A look of contemplation seemed to pass across Rheneas' face, and after a long moment, the older engine murmured, "...This is about more than just the coaches, isn't it?"

Sir Handel hated himself for the way he flinched at that comment, and he quickly fished through his thoughts for any kind of rebuttal. However, before he could come up with anything, Rheneas pushed forward, seemingly disinclined to let him deflect. "You've been here for about 10 years now, Sir Handel. You're a hard worker, even if you can be fussy. Skarloey says that you've come a long way from the engine that you used to be, but you seem to have some issue with the coaches that, from the sound of it, is actually about more than that. I know that we haven't exactly seen eye to eye over the past year that we've known each other, but still... what's going on? I can't help resolve things if I don't understand the issue."

The younger engine's eyes narrowed in response to Rheneas' words. "I don't see why you'd care. You clearly think more highly about those blasted coaches than about us other engines, so what's it matter to you?"

The barb landed, and just as Sir Handel had hoped, a spark of anger now burned in Rheneas' eyes. Good. He much preferred to fight it out than admit anything to this old rustbucket. In the back of his mind, Sir Handel began assembling his next stinging comment, when suddenly, Rheneas closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened them, the anger had been doused, replaced by a certain determination. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Sir Handel. I truly am. However—"

"NO!" came a shout that Sir Handel belatedly realized had come from him. A beat of silence passed before another quiet "No" escaped him, weary and warbling. "Don't. Don't act like you're sorry. You always take those coaches' side, but you don't care about what happens to us!" A fever was overtaking him, and even though he wasn't in steam, Sir Handel felt like fire was streaking through his tubes, dancing along his cylinders. If he did have a fire going, it would most surely have been at the level of a raging inferno. "I am trying! I AM! And I am NOT going to be sent away and lose my place here just because you keep finding a hundred little things to fault me on and those stupid coaches won't cooperate! I won't go! I won't—"

"SIR HANDEL!"

At Rheneas' shout, the younger engine suddenly realized just how much he'd said, and about what, and promptly bit his lip as if to muzzle himself. The No. 2's eyes were wide, and his expression was akin to the terror and worry felt by someone beholding some small, wounded creature that was still quite capable of lashing out. "Sir Handel, I... I have no intention of getting you sent away. Absolutely none. I..."

Another shaky breath, and then: "What are you so afraid of?"

To that, Sir Handel had no ready answer. The silence stretched between them like a chasm, wide and yawning, with neither engine completely sure of how to proceed.

However, at long last, Sir Handel seemed to find both his words and his nerve. "I... well, I just..." After a little more hemming and hawing, the younger finally forced the feelings into coherent words, practically spitting them out. "I don't want to lose my home again!"

Before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out like a deluge, his tongue practically tripping over itself as he spoke. "I just want to be safe, ok? Is that so much to ask? The MSR closed, and even though it was a terrible railway, it was still home. Then, the aluminum plant decided it didn't want us anymore, even though we did everything we could. And now, those stupid cattle trucks make me look bad, and I know what kind of punishments bad engines get. They could be turned into pumping engines or generators, or scrapped, or any such thing—"

"Alright, alright," Rheneas interjected, attempting to stymie Sir Handel's spiral. "I promise you, Sir Handel, that nothing of the sort will happen to you. Truly. I don't know what kind of life you've lived before coming to our railway, but our Controller would never do such things to you, and he certainly won't send you away. Not for this. I'm sure that he can see how much you've improved, and truthfully, all of my nagging is because I want to help. You can ask Skarloey; I nagged him quite often when we were young, all in the name of helping him better himself."

It now seemed to be Rheneas' turn to bare his soul as the older engine licked his lips and continued to speak, his voice as fragile as glass. "I... well, for almost a century, it has always been myself, Skarloey, and our five coaches running this line. I only met you and Peter Sam briefly before I was sent away for overhaul, and when I came back, there were now four of you, and five more coaches. It... it was a lot of change all at once, and I confess that I... have not been the best at processing all of it and knowing how I should act. I'm... I'm truly sorry to have failed you as badly as I have. I have not been as good of a mentor as one would hope, and..."

"...I am sorry that I have ever made you feel unsafe in your own home."

There was another long silence as the two engines could only stare at each other, as though peering into each other's souls and trawling up what laid at the depths of their hearts. Rheneas' eyes implored him to understand, although he also appeared to have no intention of running from or denying his faults, a trait that the younger engine could only respect. Sir Handel felt all of the fire that had been coursing through him suddenly vanish, just as Rheneas' ire had extinguished itself earlier. In the face of such a genuine apology, Sir Handel couldn't bring himself to feed it, letting the embers simply burn out.

"...Thank you."

That tiny voice that crawled up through his tubes was hardly how he usually preferred to present himself, and yet, as small and delicate as it was, it overflowed with emotion, genuine and real, and earned him a watery smile from Rheneas.

"Of course. You're one of us, and have been from the moment your wheels met our rails. If anyone tries to imply that you don't belong here, then they will have to answer to me."

That got a quiet, relieved chuckle out of Sir Handel, and in the calm of their newly forged accord, Rheneas whistled to call back their crews. "Now then, shall we get settled in for the evening?" the older engine smiled, eyes flicking up to the sunset-streaked sky, and Sir Handel took a breath, his body feeling even more relaxed than it had been after his cleaning.

"Yes, please. And, if you don't mind... tonight, I'd like the spot next to yours."

Chapter Text

At first, there was nothing but blackness, all-consuming and omnipresent. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, floating in the thermlessness of the void—only that there was the feeling of anticipation, like something was going to soon happen.

That something came into clarity as soon as he blinked his eyes open for the first time, taking in his surroundings. He appeared to be in some sort of workshop, with gray brick softly illuminated by the afternoon sun. Tools and paints were scattered about, although he wasn't entirely sure what many of said tools were used for. This was quite different from any place he'd seen back in the Valley, back in his—

At the thought of his home, the breathtakingly beautiful Skarloey Valley—named for the lake whose shores he lived on, with the richest red apples on God's green earth and home of the best place on Sodor to see the starry skies—he couldn't keep back a gasp, memories running like a river through his mind.

Calling for his brother. Watching his face turn from excited to horrified as the ice coating the lake began to crack. His brother's mad dash to get to safety. Running forward. Grasping at his younger brother's arms and propelling him to shore, with not a shred of regret in his heart. Falling beneath the ice, and being unable to resist as Skarloey's waters took his breath away for the last time.

He... had died, hadn't he? He'd saved his brother, certainly, but he was quite certain that he'd perished that day. At least... he'd thought so. Yet none of his confusion changed the fact that as far as he could sensibly tell, he was... here, wherever "here" was. As if by impulse, he tried moving his hands, but found that he was quite incapable of doing so. In fact, he couldn't move anything at all, not even his neck. Given his vantage point, which made him certain that he was not on the floor, was he being restrained and suspended somehow? Maybe that was the case, especially with how his body felt so heavy, heavier than anything he'd ever experienced before. He could only liken himself to how a turtle must feel, although, once again, he couldn't move himself, no matter how much he tried.

"Ah! You're awake!" A cheerful voice sounded from somewhere to his left, and his eyes snapped over to take in the sight of a workman in a flat cap and homespun shirt looking up at him with a smile. This also caused him to see for the first time that there were two shiny pieces of polished metal jutting out in front of him, connected to a red-colored bar, which also held a hook and latches of some kind. "You're almost done, Skarloey. You'll be put through your trials and paces, and then you'll be sent off to Sodor!"

This information caused him to blink, eyes quickly searching to see if the workman was talking to someone else instead, but no, it appeared as though he was being addressed. "Um... Skarloey, you said?" Thankfully, his voice didn't sound as off-kilter as he felt.

"That's right!" the workman grinned. "That's your name, according to the folks who commissioned ya! Named you after this pretty little lake, or so I heard."

What was this man talking about? Why would he be called Skarloey? That didn't make any sense. Skarloey was, as he'd said, a lovely lake, but it was still a place, not a name (although it was a very... memorable place, to be fair). He had a name, didn't he?

Then, it all clicked. Of course! This was a dream. A rather strange and overly realistic dream, to be sure, but how could it be anything else? Yes, that must be it. He must have had a nightmare about his death, and this dream had followed that one. Never before had he had dreams as realistic as these, but there was a first time for everything!

He would have marveled even more at how detailed it all was, but the workman's smile was staring to droop with impatience, so he decided to stow that thought in the back of his mind and follow wherever his mind wanted to lead him. "You mentioned, erm, trials?"

"That's right! We've gotta make sure that you work properly before you're sent off."

"But... what do you mean, 'work properly?' Does this have to do with why I can't move?"

This time, the workman's brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you daft, lad? Still groggy, maybe? Ya can't move because your brake's on. Come on, let's get you out for your trials. Maybe that'll help wake you up."

Before he could react, the man walked towards him, then disappeared from sight. He would have asked where he was going, but was interrupted by the sudden sense that someone was now close behind him, as if standing on his back. Even stranger, that person was somehow manipulating him as well, yet this coercion was not through words; it was like hands were directly touching his nerves, adjusting and pulling. It didn't hurt, but the sensation was absolutely alien, to the point where he thought he might be sick. The feeling only intensified when it felt like another person had joined in, and that now there were two people behind him and manipulating his body in a way that he couldn't even remotely begin to describe. It was a feeling that should have felt wrong, but the fact that it didn't was almost more distressing.

As he contemplated this accumulation of several small horrors, he was thankfully distracted by a pleasant warmth sizzling to life within him. If he'd had to describe where, he would have said that his heart and stomach were both alight at the same time, filling him with a heat that made his once-inert body seemingly animate of its own accord. Abruptly, he got the sense that another change had been made to some internal process, and suddenly, instinctively, he felt that perhaps he could move now.

"Alright, lad!" called the workman from earlier. He had no idea how he could hear the words, only that he could; the man's voice was as clear as if they were standing right next to each other. "Back out slowly, alright?"

He didn't really understand the command, but he just had to back up, right? Like putting one foot behind the other? He gave it a go, but found that he couldn't; it was as if he didn't have two feet to move. Instead, it was like they were glued together, requiring him to hop backwards. The motion should have felt awkward, but instead, it felt much like he was gliding, and before long, he was moving more fluidly, much to his delight. "Haha! There we are!" he cheered, and the two people behind him whooped and hollered, equally delighted.

As he was backing out of the shed, he couldn't help but notice that next to him, albeit facing the opposite direction, was what he thought to be an oddly shaped vehicle, one that he'd never seen before. How funny that his dream would have created something as bizarre as this! He'd never imagined himself to be a particularly creative sort, but apparently, he'd have to re-evaluate.

The vehicle, if it was in fact one, had four wheels and a strange metal dome on its back that reached down to cover even its sides. It also carried what looked like a polished brass bell, and had a long tube atop its head adorned with a golden band. Most of its frame was painted green, and on its side was written "Talyllyn." As he stared at it, he noticed that somehow, it even had a face like a human, although it looked like it was sleeping at present.

"Um... excuse me?"

"Hm? What is it?" called the workman, who he was pretty sure was the one controlling him.

"What is that? That... vehicle over there."

There was a pause, one that he vaguely thought was surprise. "You... you don't know? You two are twins!"

"Twins?" he echoed, disbelief coursing through him as he continued to move, along with a dreadful certainty that the man wasn't lying. "Then, if that's the case...

"Sir... what am I?"

The workman laughed, giving him a pat on the back. "Hah! So many questions! What you are is a marvel of engineering, lad.

"You, Skarloey, are a steam engine."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His trials were completed in due time, and before long, he was fastened to a ship to be sent off to Sodor. How marvelous it all seemed to his wonder-filled eyes; he'd never seen the sea before, but he had read about it, and he had to marvel at how well his mind had managed to conjure up even something like this, from the salty smell to the gentle rocking of the waves.

He did have to admit, however, that he was beginning to adjust to life as Skarloey the steam engine. It still felt strange to be called as such after the same-named lake had become his tomb in his last dream, but he could never dislike it. After all, both he and his brother were born in that dear little house on its shores, and whenever he woke up, he'd be back in his familiar bed, just in time to help his grandmother with the sheep and the fields, and hopefully enjoy some apples for his troubles.

It was a bit strange how long it was taking for him to awaken, but he supposed there was no rush; not when everything was so new and interesting to his eyes! At 27 summers old, he had lived and expected to die in his valley, and after receiving his education (from a college-educated teacher, at that!), he was just happy to come home, read to his grandmother from the hymnal, borrow a book or two from the library, and tend to all that needed to be done.

...Was it common in dreams to miss one's family? He didn't know, but either way, as much as he was enjoying himself, part of him did want to wake up soon. It would make him feel better knowing that his brother was safe, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before long, Skarloey had arrived on the mainland, met an ugly yet charming box tank (who would have thought that he was also considered a steam engine! Apparently it had more to do with how they moved than how they looked, which to Skarloey, was truly a marvel), and got himself acquainted with the new manager. He'd chafed a little at the thought of having to work, even in his dreams, but that was fine; once they all understood each other, and that kind workman (whose name was Mr. Bobbie) came over to help out, Skarloey found that life as a steam engine wasn't so bad.

The strangest part, however, was building out the line and becoming "re"acquainted with his home; parts of it were still the same, but many things were different from what he'd remembered. How odd that his dream would have all of these little differences in it! It was these contradictions, and the gnawing worry about why he had not yet awoken, that served as nourishment for the seed of dread which had rooted itself in his soul. If, by some strange chance, this wasn't all a dream, then... no. No no no. Best not to think about that which surely couldn't be true.

Instead, he had much more interesting ideas to consider, such as the impending arrival of Rheneas, another engine that had been built in the same workshop Skarloey had. He couldn't deny that he was quite excited to meet Rheneas; Talyllyn had been fine company, but she'd been sent off to work on another railway, and he privately hoped that perhaps he'd be able to gain an actual friend in this worryingly lengthy dream of his.

Soon enough, the fateful day arrived. Neil arrived with Rheneas in tow, proudly clad in the Skarloey Railway's livery, and the SR No. 2 was carefully removed from the flatbed and helped onto the rails. Skarloey couldn't yet see the other engine's face from his position in the shed, but he was still determined to make a good first impression. "Hello!" he chirped warmly. "Welcome to the railway! It's a pleasure to have you!"

"Hello," came a shockingly familiar voice, and Skarloey's body suddenly seized up like his fire had been doused by ice-cold water. The new engine was slowly turned around, and as soon as Skarloey saw the other's face, it took every ounce of his willpower not to let out a bonechilling scream.

"My name is Rheneas," the other steam engine greeted in his brother's voice, the tone and cadence identical to an eerie degree, as he looked at Skarloey with his brother's eyes.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Rheneas' third day on Sodor, and the two engines were currently in the process of getting steamed up and ready for the work ahead. "This really is a lovely line," Rheneas commented, eyes alert and looking every which way, as if to commit it all to memory. His mannerisms were so similar to Skarloey's brother that it could be called uncanny, and now, more than ever, the dread sprouting in Skarloey's soul whispered what he could only pray were lies. They had to be; this couldn't be reality. He couldn't really be a steam engine, and Rheneas couldn't really be his brother. He'd saved his brother. But wait, that had been a dream too... hadn't it?

Had he really died? And now... he was a steam engine? And if so... was Rheneas actually...

Skarloey could only absently murmur his assent to Rheneas' comment, the burden of all of his unanswered questions piling onto him more and more as the dread blossomed, its petals practically choking him. Rheneas glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. However, the tiny, dejected sigh that he gave, imperceptible to anyone but those who knew him, resounded like a trumpet blast to Skarloey's ear.

No. He couldn't run away from this. He couldn't.

"Say, Rheneas..." Skarloey began hesitantly, quite unsure of how he should even begin to initiate this conversation. "Have you ever... had weird dreams?"

At this, his companion's face scrunched up in thought. "Weird dreams? No, I can't say that I have."

"Really?" Skarloey pressed delicately. "No dreams of, say, fishing on Skarloey, or falling in? Or maybe any of being human, perhaps, or..."

"No," Rheneas repeated, slightly more firmly this time, and with a note of concern in his voice. "I've never thought, or even dreamed about, being human. Not once. I've also never dreamed about the lake, given that I've only been here for less than a week. If you are, well, all I can say is that perhaps you ought to focus more on your duties."

Skarloey couldn't help but flinch at the answer. That matter-of-fact tone was very particular, and it was one that his brother had used when someone was being silly. However, it had always been reserved for people he didn't know well. To hear that tone used against himself, it was akin to the cut of a whip across his heart.

"I want to wake up," he murmured, averting his eyes from Rheneas. "Please. Please let me wake up. I want to see my brother. Please, please..."

Mr. Bobbie, sensing that something was wrong, came over to give his engine's bufferbeam a pat. "Aw, Skarloey, did you end up hearing about that tragedy? The one about the poor bloke who fell into the lake and died?"

At that, Skarloey's eyes went wide, and his gaze snapped to Mr. Bobbie. Thinking that he was on the right track, the driver turned to face the others, gearing up to tell the tale. "Yeah, there's a sad story 'round here. Last year, 1863, some poor lad living with his granma and brother fell into Skarloey."

No.

"He wasn't that old, either; 27? 28?"

No no no no no.

"He'd gone out to call for his brother, who was out fishing on the lake. The brother was on his way back, but the ice started cracking. He was almost to shore, but wouldn't have made it."

Oh God. Skarloey urgently needed Mr. Bobbie to stop talking. His fire felt like it couldn't decide whether to flare up or fizzle out.

"The lad managed to save his brother by going out onto the ice himself and grabbing his hands to swing him toward shore. The brother survived, but there was no hope for our poor bloke; it was winter, and he was in light clothes from helping in the house. Went under in a flash and froze to death right quick."

He couldn't breathe. All of the steam he'd built up was getting caught in his tubes. It was real. All of it was real. All of it—

His brother.

Oh God, his brother.

"Mr. Bobbie!" Skarloey practically screeched, causing all assembled to wince. "The brother! What happened to him?"

"Easy, lad!" Mr. Bobbie groaned, rubbing at his head. "I don't know! Hell, I don't even know their names! Nobody does!"

Skarloey blinked, everything else shoved aside save for complete confusion. That didn't make sense; he'd had a name! It was—

...What was it?

...

Deep breath. What was his name? He knew this. He'd obviously had one! What was it?

...

However, no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't remember. It was like it had vanished, been magicked away somehow.

A tide of panic began to well up, and quickly, Skarloey tried to think of any other train of thought by which to distract himself.

Right! His brother! What was his brother's name? Once again, Skarloey searched the depths of his memory. He remembered his childhood, running through the fields of this very valley. He remembered attending school. He remembered assisting his grandmother. He remembered playing with his brother until the sun began to set.

And yet. Despite all of that, despite all of those memories, no name could be found. It seemed to have been lost to the void.

"—Loey! SKARLOEY!"

"H-huh?!"

"Lad... yer crying," Mr. Bobbie murmured, lifting a gentle cloth to Skarloey's face. Oh. He hadn't even noticed. "Alright, no more ghost stories for you," the driver decided. "Forget I said anything. We'll give you some time, and come back for you in the afternoon, alright?"

Skarloey had long learned that he couldn't actually nod, but he did murmur out an assenting "mmhmm." With that, and one last appraising look from Rheneas, the No. 2 engine set out to go.

"He's a little... delicate, isn't he?" Rheneas whispered to Mr. Bobbie, but in the close confines of the shed, Skarloey could naturally hear every word.

"He's not usually like this," Mr. Bobbie consoled. "I think he just had a nightmare. Who wouldn't, if they'd heard about a death as horrible as that?"

Every word was a nail stabbing past his iron skin, his brother's pity the hammer driving each one in. This was reality. No more could he pretend that he was just stuck in a happy dream where eventually, he'd wake up and laugh alongside his brother and shear the wool for his grandmother. No, he was a steam engine now, and that had become more starkly apparent than ever.

But what about his brother? His brother, whose name he couldn't even remember—

Breathe.

His brother, if this was real, was also a steam engine. After all, whenever he saw Rheneas, he saw his face, heard his voice, recalled his every subtle action. Given what had happened to him personally, he could only assume that his brother had also somehow died, even after his best efforts to save him. But how?

Perhaps he could find out later. For now, in the blessedly empty sheds, the tears bubbled forth once again as Skarloey began to sob, his frames heaving and smoke pouring from his funnel as a torrent of emotions overtook him. Regret. Mourning. Fear. Anguish. They all mixed together such that he could barely tell them apart.

The gold-painted word on the side of his tank was no longer just his name, no longer just a landmark, but in a cruel twist of fate, his epitaph as well.

Chapter Text

One evening, game night was to be held at Rusty's apartment in Crovan's Gate. The building was rather worn and somewhat small compared to the other high-rise apartment buildings in town, but it was incredibly cozy and had well-priced rent, with only two tenants to a floor.

Rusty shared his floor with Duncan, who by day worked as a construction worker and by night was a guitarist for an amateur punk rock band. He'd been forced to soundproof his office/studio after one too many noise complaints from the other residents, so there was no real need for Rusty to worry about his neighbor; rather, they were far more worried about the chaos that Daisy and Mavis might bring to the table tonight. After all, they really didn't want to have to talk to the insurance company again, and he was proud of his reputation, which included following the rules, paying the rent on time, and staying in good standing with the building manager. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin that.

With a quick sigh, Rusty looked over all of the preparations he'd made. They had snacks. They had homemade biscuits, along with Jaffa Cakes (Mavis' favorite). He had a vegetable platter, at Daisy's insistence, as well as some fruit. And, of course, they had already ordered the pizza in advance. Rusty themself, glad to be free of their repairman's uniform, was clad in a comfortable orange hoodie, black sweatpants, and light blue socks, and their hijab was properly pinned in place. Everything was set and accounted for. Now, all that remained was—

Knock knock knock!

Three sharp raps rang out against Rusty's apartment door, and he hurried over to open it. Daisy was naturally the first to arrive, a whole 15 minutes early, and with a flourish, she removed her faux mink stole and jacket, laying them on the back of one of Rusty's battered armchairs. "Thank you for having us, darling," the secretary purred, presenting Rusty with a bottle of wine that looked expensive, but was almost certainly trash; such was the norm, given Daisy's taste. Still, they accepted it gratefully and set it aside; maybe it would see use tonight. Who knew.

As Daisy got herself settled at the kitchen table, Mavis was the next to arrive, carrying with her a box of chocolates that was promptly handed to Rusty. The quarry forewoman, as usual, removed her boots and coat, trying to figure out where to leave her dust-cloaked coat such that it wouldn't make a mess, but eventually gave up and tossed it to the floor, where it landed in a heap. With that, Mavis made a beeline for the snacks, which given how loudly her stomach was rumbling, seemed to be sorely needed after a long day.

The final arrival was BoCo, who arrived punctually and with little fuss. Even off of work, he still had his "teacherly" aura, and he greeted Rusty with a calm smile, a cheese tray to enjoy, and greetings from Edward.

Once the visitors' snacks had been added to the smorgasbord of pedestrian delights spread out across Rusty's kitchen counter, the youngest of the group (which happened to be Daisy, at 26; Rusty's baby face and middling height did NOT seem to correlate with their 32 years of living) headed over for the coffee table, where a silver briefcase lay, and picked it up, bringing it back toward the group as fingers tapped against the table in anticipation.

With a semi-dramatic flourish, Daisy opened the case to reveal lines of plastic poker ships, as well as some dice, decks of cards, and other such goodies. The other three players all looked to each other and grinned as everything was handed out, and the cards were passed to BoCo, who began to shuffle them up and deal them out. Before long, everyone had two cards in front of them, and it was time to play some blackjack.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, COME ON!" Daisy groaned, pushing her chips over toward Mavis, who was clenching her fist in victory. "I haven't won a single hand!"

"Well, that's just how it goes," Mavis crowed happily, adding her winnings to her now-towering pile. The group wasn't playing for money, but the promise of prestige amongst the collective four of them was somehow intoxicating enough for both Daisy and Mavis to be playing for all they were worth.

Naturally, playing for all they were worth meant very little in blackjack, but really, who cared when this much entertainment was free?

BoCo, for his part, had a modest stack of winnings and a content smile on his face. Rusty, who had managed to consistently get 16s and 18s for the past three rounds, somehow found themself in second place, albeit far behind Mavis, who was leading by a country mile and not slowing down in the slightest. She'd managed to pull no less than three hands of 21, a streak of good fortune that nobody could seem to rival.

However, that just wound Daisy up more.

"Alright, that's it!" she screeched, standing from her seat with a loud huff and bringing her palms down hard against the table. She stared daggers at Mavis, who was sitting across from her, but Mavis only smiled sweetly back and gave a little wave with her fingers. Daisy's jaw clenched, eyes practically popping out of her skull.

"I'm making this next hand WORTH SOMETHING! I'm going to make a bet: if I win, then one of you has to cook for me! Tonight, right here!" Daisy's eyes met each of the three other players, her ire morphing into a smugness that she most certainly shouldn't have had. "And if I lose, which won't happen, by the way... I'll cook for YOU!"

Rusty and BoCo both gasped, eyes frantically meeting each other in horror. It was quite well-known that Daisy did not know how to cook, and they were quite uncertain as to if she even knew what a recipe was, much less how to make one.

"That's not necessary, Daisy," BoCo began. "We have so much food already—"

Mavis, however, with a steely glint in her quickly widening grin, only added fuel to the flames.

"Oh, don't discourage her, BoCo! I'd love to try Daisy's cooking! Deal us in, Rusty!"

With a hesitant look on his face, Rusty reached for the cards, and shuffled them carefully, willing their palms not to sweat. Suddenly, far too much was now riding on this round. They swallowed, eyes flicking between Daisy, who had finally sat back down and was now glaring at him impatiently; Mavis, who looked about as relaxed as she could be with her hands behind her head and a smile reminiscent of the cat who caught the canary; and BoCo, who looked as though he was praying to whoever could hear that this would just be over with as quickly as possible.

Thus, with a prayer in his heart and resignation in his soul, Rusty dealt the cards.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I know what a pan is, Rusty!" Daisy screeched, her well-coiffed hair now somewhat frizzy as her elegant nails scrabbled at Rusty's kitchen cabinets, searching for what she'd need to cook Mavis... something. Rusty could only sigh; the pizza was due to arrive in half an hour and there were still plenty of snacks available, but noooooo, Daisy HAD to cook, and with Rusty's ingredients, no less. She'd promised to pay him back, but they were far more concerned with whatever the result of this would be than however much groceries cost. The game lay abandoned on the kitchen table, worthless chips and lifeless cards cast aside in favor of this debacle. Mavis (eagerly) and BoCo (less eagerly) looked on, quite interested in seeing how this would all play out.

Eventually, Daisy found herself some chicken, olive oil, and a fancy apron that Rusty had won during a "Best Dressed" competition at last year's (this year's?) New Year's party. "Alright, even I know how to cook up some chicken! Just you wait, Mavis!"

In the background, Rusty pretended that he didn't hear the conversation between Mavis and BoCo, which was currently following along the lines of whether or not Mavis actually wanted to eat Daisy's chicken, the answer to which was a gutteral laugh followed by an "absolutely not."

"Just remember that my stove is old," Rusty warned. "If you need help, I'm happy to—"

"Thank you, Rusty," Daisy drawled, "but I'm just making chicken. It's not as if it could be that hard."

A thousand and one retorts leapt to Rusty's lips at that fate-provoking sentence, but instead, they simply kept quiet, and thumbed at his hijab nervously.

Seemingly satisfied, Daisy donned Rusty's apron and reached for the olive oil. Applying a light coating to the bottom of the pan, Daisy flicked on the heat and looked over at the package of chicken thighs. "Right. Let's open these up..."

Thankfully, Daisy managed to open the package and, once the stove was up to temperature, placed the chicken into the oil without a problem. Rusty felt themself relax; perhaps he'd been too harsh with Daisy. After all, she seemed to know what she was doing—

"And now, for the WINE!" Daisy laughed, and in the background, Rusty could barely hear Mavis' spirited "DO IT!" over their own growing horror. Before Rusty could stop her, turn on the vent, or do anything else that might prevent the worst-case scenario, Daisy grabbed for the wine bottle she'd brought, opened it with ease (of COURSE it had been cheap wine!) and poured it without a care into the heated pan. "I saw this on a cooking show, Rusty," Daisy explained matter-of-factly, briefly turning away from her pan and pouting at Rusty's horrified expression. "Wine makes everything better—"

"DAISY, THE PAN!"

Daisy managed to turn back just in time to see that Rusty's pan was now ablaze, fire leaping up in frightful lashes that caused the unsuspecting cook to flinch back in terror. "EEEEEEK!"

"And this is exactly why you have to be careful!" Rusty shouted, running for the cabinet in which they kept their pans and pulling out a lid. Without delay, he hustled to the flaming pan and half-slammed, half dropped the lid on top of it, swiftly depriving the flames of oxygen.

For a moment, there was a beat of silence, then BoCo let out a tiny "phew"—

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

As if waiting for their cue, the fire alarm and sprinklers went off, dousing all assembled in disgusting, fetid water. "Alright, everyone out!" BoCo bellowed, quickly putting on his teacher voice. The other three made a break for it, with Daisy managing to nab her faux stole on her way out. As they headed for the stairs at the end of the corridor, Rusty saw Duncan hurriedly following, his favorite guitar clutched in his hands. Thundering down the spacious stairwell, the footfalls of the building's other residents seemed to abound from all sides, with the tremendous beeping of the fire alarm ringing in their ears. It was enough for anyone to get disoriented, but soon enough, Rusty found themself on the building's front lawn, his friends and neighbors all gathering around in confusion.

In the distance, Rusty could vaguely make out the blaring sirens of fire trucks. Beside him, his friends looked terribly awkward, and his neighbors utterly confused. Right in front of him, however, the building manager, Mr. Sam, was hurriedly and angrily making his way toward him, eyes wide and neck bulging with barely suppressed anger, flanked by an overwhelmed-looking pizza boy.

"Rusty," the manager managed to eke out with paper-thin patience, "what happened? Why did the fire alarm panel say there was a fire in your unit?"

Rusty's eyes fluttered shut, thinking back on everything that had happened that night. The wins, the snacks, the laughter, the tears. Then, all of that fled from their mind, replaced by eternal gratitude for Skarloey convincing them to get renter's insurance.

"Well, sir," Rusty finally managed, his tone resigned as a wry smile crossed his face, "as it happens, we were all playing poker..."

Chapter Text

None had been more surprised than Skarloey himself to see the return of a face as familiar as Neil's, the first engine he'd ever met on Sodor's shores. Years of memories had cascaded like rapids, washing over him like a tide—all at once, with astounding clarity, Skarloey could suddenly recall those sepia-drenched days of talking for hours beneath the moonlight, laughing about nothing of great importance but everything of minuscule importance. To see his face and hear his laughter after decades of grim silence, heartbreak, and finally hope had been nothing short of a miracle.

After their tearful reunion and many a day spent reminiscing, laughing, and getting to meet all of the "new" engines on the line, Neil had settled in to the railway's day-to-day dynamic quite nicely. He had been formally instituted as the Skarloey Railway's standard-gauge multipurpose engine, used for when the little engines needed to be transported places or for bringing slate and other goods trains wherever they needed to go when nobody from the NWR was available. Such an arrangement worked out incredibly well, especially given that Neil was not often called upon for such tasks and could often be found spending his days enjoying the warm sun and chatting with whoever was in the sheds at the time. Skarloey's outdoor shed had even been modified to fit a dual-gauge track, and he and Neil happily slept buffer to buffer, their fireboxes warm despite holding no flame.

One day, about a month after Neil had arrived on the railway, Skarloey's driver Tabitha had a thought. "You know," she grinned, as they finished up their last run for the day, "we could always set you two buffermates up on a date."

Skarloey couldn't help but sputter in response, eyes wide as a bright blush blossomed across his cheeks. "Wh-what?! A date?! I... what?!" From his cab, Mazel, his stoker, suddenly squeaked in alarm as his flame flared up, and Skarloey took a breath, willing himself to calm. "I appreciate the idea, Tabitha," he replied stoically, his reddened cheeks returning to a more normal color, "but what kind of date could we possibly have? We can't exactly... erm... Mazel, what do humans do on dates?"

"O-oh! Um, let me see... go see a film? Walk around the park? Go out to eat?"

"Yes, those sorts of activities. We don't have hands, and we can't exactly move by ourselves, so I simply don't see how we could go on something as... personal as a date."

Tabitha could only roll her eyes affectionately at Skarloey's rebuttal, giving his frames a gentle pat. "For how old you are, you sure can be silly. No, you daft engine, here's what I'm thinking..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later, about an hour after the last train had finished its run of the Main Line, the clouds had all fled for further horizons and the stars, usually so shy, had all come out to dance. Stellar bodies waltzed their way through the sky, keeping time to a song they'd heard since birth and giving their due deference to the moon, who watched from her perch with an imperious eye.

Far beneath her alabaster gaze, thanks to the help of the terribly good-natured cleaning crew, Skarloey was being carefully loaded onto a flatbed, and secured with high-strength cables. The crimson engine fussed in place a moment, testing his restraints, then gave a little hum of approval before his eyes turned to gaze at his companion for the evening.

Neil was staring up at him, absolutely transfixed. The box tank's eyes overflowed with adoration, and he smiled so gently that any observer would think he was admiring a priceless work of art. Skarloey couldn't stop himself from smiling back, somewhat embarrassed by the attention but equally craving it.

As the two engines waited for the workers to finish their final check, they found that they only had eyes for each other, both of their minds immersed in memories of those fateful days in 1865. "This is just like the day we met, isn't it...?" Neil marveled, his eyes skirting from Skarloey's down to his buffers, then to the flatbed he was secured to before rising back up, and Skarloey chuckled in reply, his smile somehow growing even wider.

"I was just thinking the same, my darling."

"Alright, you sappy coupling," Tabitha interjected, a quiet smile on her face and a barely contained laugh sitting just behind it. "Mazel and I have been practicing with Neil for these past two weeks, and we've gotten the hang of how to operate him. We've gotten permission from Sir Topham and Mr. Sam to take you both down the Main Line, where we'll turn around at Maron. You'll both get to finally see a new part of it, after all this time."

Skarloey and Neil's eyes widened almost comically in sync, expressions brightening with a youthfulness that strangely suited them. "Oh, thank you, Tabitha!" Skarloey cheered, while Neil shot both driver and stoker a grateful smile.

"Yes, yes. Now, as always, do keep a look out, but we'll be extra vigilant ourselves, so you ought to enjoy yourselves." Without further ado, the two humans took up their positions behind Neil, and soon enough, the train was off, two more dancers waltzing out into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once they began to move and find their cadence along the rails, Skarloey and Neil couldn't help but gasp in awe, marveling at scenery that was so new and different to their old eyes. Yet, despite the plethora of new sights, their attention was mostly focused on each other, with the two of them talking and laughing in tandem, sharing stories of what had happened during their time apart. It couldn't have been easier to fall back into their old rhythm, picking up where they'd left off with an ease that most would envy.

"...and that's when Sir Handel's ego finally deflated, and he never mentioned steam-rollers again!" Skarloey laughed, and Neil chortled right along with him, having no trouble imagining the scene.

"You all were quite the busy sorts! But look at ye now; ye made it through everything that's come yer way. That's real special, Loey. You've overcome some real odds."

"...Yes, well."

At this, the little engine's tone took a turn for the melancholic, his smile slipping away to allow for a more somber expression. "I have... overcome much, I suppose."

A beat of silence passed; as much as Skarloey tried to hold fast to his now-fleeting cheer, he instead only found himself left with a dread he'd tried so hard to hide, and had mostly succeeding in doing so. Unfortunately, given the seriousness of Neil's expression, it was abundantly clear that he could see it plainly.

"Neil, I..."

As much as Skarloey tried to will the words forward, for some reason, they forsook him, instead gathering behind his eyes as tears. Neil, being the engine that he was, did not rush Skarloey in the slightest. He simply waited, going along at a relaxed speed, and Tabitha and Mazel did their best to blend into the background.

Finally, Skarloey managed to form the words, forcing them past the lump in his tubes such that they came out so quiet as to be almost unintelligible.

"Can you... can you still love me as I am now?"

Once the last word left Skarloey's lips, slight rivulets began tracing their way down his cheeks, although his eyes never left Neil's. It appeared as though he was waiting for some kind of judgement, or perhaps absolution for some perceived crime.

"I'm not the same engine I was when we met. I've been through too much. I've changed beyond recognition. I've been broken so many times and pulled myself together; I'm not... I'm not..."

His voice broke like a wave upon a rock, and steady as he'd ever been, Neil could only furrow his brow, looking up at his love like he'd said something unconscionable. "Oh, my Skarloey... how could I not love ye?"

Skarloey felt his frames start shaking, making him all the more grateful for the restraints, and he could only try to take quick, fast breaths, his tears now running more like streams. Seeing that he was in no position to speak, Neil decided to continue his thought.

"Sure, ye've changed 'cause of what life's thrown atcha; that's just how life is. All those ups 'n downs'll change anyone. But who ye'are atcher core hasn't changed a bit. Yer smile hasn't changed. Yer heart hasn't changed. The Skarloey I know who loves the whole wide world is still right here, wit' me. I know, because I see how all yer li'l brothers an' all the people who run our railway look at ye. They love ye somethin' fierce, and that kinda love is only given if given to them first."

In the deep quiet of the Sudrian night, Neil gave his beloved a wry grin, willing him with all his heart to understand. "Ye did yer very best wit' whatcha had, Loey. Despite it all, ye held on and made it through. Don't ye let anyone, even yerself, say otherwise."

The air was silent, save for the sounds of Tabitha and Mazel desperately trying to hold back tears. Conversely, Skarloey's tears had stopped falling at some point and his body had ceased its shaking, leaving him with an expression of wide-eyed wonder that soon turned into besotted, disbelieving laughter. The negativity that had rooted itself in his soul hadn't quite been weeded out, but Neil's words had certainly drowned out the worst of it, at least for now. "Neil, my dearest, how is it that you always know just what to say?!"

"Well, y'know how it is, beau'iful," Neil retorted, his familiar grin making a reappearance. "We Sco'ish steamers are plain-speakin' folk! We call 'em like we see 'em, n' I 'appen t'have a real good eye fer engines!"

Just like that, the gloom seemed to lift, replaced with something not quite as cheerful as earlier, but even more warm-hearted. With stars in their eyes and the years in their smiles, the love-struck coupling proceeded with their journey down the line, and then back up again, their eyes and words only for each other.

Chapter Text

Donald couldn't restrain himself from rolling his eyes as James dazzled his way into Knapford station, whistling his greeting loud enough to get the attention of the trains, the dames, and probably even the planes. After all, while he hadn't been on Sodor long, he had learned that James wouldn't know subtlety if the word had been circled in the dictionary and the book thrown at his head.

That said, there was work to be done, and Donald was not about to let James' grand entrance distract him from his job. Even though his and his brother's safety were now a sure thing, that didn't mean that he could slack off; if anything, now was the best time to prove his usefulness and show Sir Topham that he'd made a good decision. Thus, he decided to simply ignore the bright red eyesore and instead focus on his own work, which today involved putting together a train of goods bound for Vicarstown.

However, James would never let an opportunity to show off go unrecognized. "Ohhhhhh, Donald!" he called, smugness practically radiating from every rivet. "Take a look! I am pulling an enthusiast's train today!"

Donald blinked, then sighed, quickly coming to the understanding that the sooner he indulged James' vanity, the sooner this conversation would be over and he could get back to his job. "Oh, yes! Look at ye! Soooooo important 'n splendid!"

James frowned in response; the sarcasm in Donald's voice was laid on so thickly that one could spread it on toast, but he decided to take it in stride. "That's right! I'm glad you noticed."

Behind him, James' coaches were currently being tended to. "Oh, my wheels are so wobbly!" complained Janice, one of the coaches accompanying James on this particular outing. "I think that I may need maintenance."

"Hm... alright," agreed the stationmaster. "We want these passengers to have a comfortable ride, so let's get you switched out for a relief coach. Donald!" he called over the din of the station, and Donald perked up, awaiting instructions. "Could you please fetch Abigail from the yard? She should be in good condition, and Janice here needs to rest."

Donald internally sighed; another distraction was not particularly welcome, but it wouldn't take him long to find the coach and sort this out. He chuffed away, looking around for Abigail, while on the platform, James could only huff, eyes darting around and lips pulled down into a frown. "What's happening? Why are we waiting around?"

"I don't know, old boy," his driver frowned. "Let me go check." The driver hopped out of the cab, heading over to the stationmaster and attendants, who were trying to get the enthusiasts out of the coach. After a moment of discussion, James' driver returned with the news. "They're switching out one of the coaches. We'll just need to hold tight."

"Urghhhh..." James groaned, clearly displeased by this turn of events but in no place to protest. Thankfully, Donald soon returned, gently pushing Abigail up to the station. With a minimum of fuss, Janice was uncoupled from the train and Abigail pushed forward. In a rush, all of the enthusiasts quickly headed for the coach, practically pushing each other over in their mad dash to board.

Unfortunately, this meant that in the passengers' haste to board and with the stationmaster and the other railway staff concerned with their safety, nobody noticed that Abigail was not actually coupled up to James' train.

The guard blew her whistle and got onto Abigail, and James, with a loud "FINALLY!" gave a quick peep peep! and began to pull away. However, the issue very soon presented itself.

"STOP!" Abigail called.

"WAIT!" Donald cried.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!" the enthusiasts wailed.

"Donald!" the stationmaster called, urgently running over to where the No. 9 still waited by the platform. "Could you please push this coach to the next station? I'll explain the situation to Sir Topham. Please help us out!"

"Oughhhh," Donald fretted, his gaze falling to his buffers as his driver patted his cabside.

"Alright, laddie. Right now, we're gon' haveta run a push-pull service, but wit' only th' push! We're not gon' leave these people waitin', are we?"

"...No. No, we're not." With a deep breath, Donald set his jaw as his hesitation disappeared like steam in the wind. He quickly coupled up to Abigail, and with a whistle from the stationmaster and the cheering and hollering of the thrilled enthusiasts, he was off, chasing after James.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

James had made good time in getting to Crosby, his smile wide and his soul soaring. His good mood improved even more as he caught sight of Gordon, who was currently getting a drink from the water tower.

"Hello, Gordon!" James called, whistling out a cheerful greeting to grab the other's attention as he came to a stop. "I'm bringing the enthusiast's train today!"

"So I see, little James," Gordon drawled, "although only two coaches of passengers is hardly a... notable special, wouldn't you say?"

"...Two?" With dawning horror, James concentrated and realized that, in fact, he did only have two coaches traveling along behind him.

"Hold here, James!" called the Crosby stationmaster, coming out of his office and waving his arm to get the engine and crew's attention. "You forgot a coach back at Knapford. It's being—"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I FORGOT A COACH?!" James screeched, causing the stationmaster to cross his arms across his chest, his face now sporting a rather impressive scowl.

"It's exactly as I've said, you silly engine. The stationmaster at Knapford called to say that your third coach wasn't secured properly, and it was left behind. Donald is bringing your last coachful of passengers."

"He's... he's pulling part of MY train?!"

"Pulling, no!" came a tired voice, and behind James came the sound of Donald's weary puffing, having pushed Abigail as fast as he (safely) could from where they'd started at Knapford. The roar of excited enthusiasts filled the air, all of them thrilled to have had such a unique experience. As Abigail was finally brought forward and coupled up, the enthusiasts filed out of the coach, thanking Donald profusely.

"Hahahaha!" Gordon's laughter suddenly filled the air as he looked on, causing James to blush in embarrassment. "Well well, little James!" he bellowed, a wide grin splitting his face. "Look at you, with your oh-so-important enthusiast's train! Aren't you lucky that Donald brought the rest of it for you!"

"Aw, shut yer trap, Gordon!" Donald snarled, eyes flicking over to the large blue engine. If he had hackles, they'd most certainly have been raised. "James can be full o' himself, but he's a hard worker, and this wasn't his fault! So take yer 'constructive criti'ism,' an' SHOVE IT!"

Gordon's amusement had quickly morphed into shock at being addressed so roughly, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Well! I have better things to do than stand around and be insulted. Farewell, you two. Enjoy your train."

With that, Gordon puffed off, leaving only Donald and James at the platform. James worried his lip, seeming like he wanted to say something, when suddenly, the guard's whistle sounded and the flag was raised. At hearing the familiar sound, the red engine could only sigh and shoot an uncertain glance in Donald's general direction before resuming his run, even the peep of his whistle sounding not quite as robust as before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fortunately, Henry had managed to get Donald's goods train to Vicarstown in the end, and now, with the sun setting behind him and the yard cast in a golden light, the Caledonian was preparing another train to bring over to Kirk Ronan as his last job for the day. Just as he was assembling the consist, the peep of a familiar whistle—albeit one that was shockingly modest, given whose it was—caught his attention, and he looked over to see James puffing into the yard, a surprisingly pensive expression on the mogul's face.

"Donald, could we... could we talk?"

The No. 9 blinked once, then twice, before his eyes slid over to the assembly of trucks and tankers. "Alright, but first I have to put this train together..."

"Ah... right." There was an awkward pause as James considered, but then his gaze returned to meet Donald's, eyes determined. "I'm done with my work, so tell me what to do."

Once again, Donald found himself too surprised for words, but after a bit of effort, he managed to communicate his instructions, and they both got to work organizing the evening's train.

With two engines of their caliber on the job, the trucks and tankers were organized in no time. Once the last truck was in place, Donald backed down onto the consist, with James settling himself onto the track beside him. "Alright, James," Donald began, giving the red engine a small smile. "Thanks fer yer help. What can I do ya fer?"

There was a pause, and then in a small voice, James began to speak. "I... wanted to thank you for speaking up for me earlier. It was nice of you to do that."

Donald quirked an eyebrow, somewhat surprised at the comment. "'Twasn't 'bout bein' nice, James. Gordon was outta line, n' I meant what I said 'bout ye bein' a hard worker. I wasn't doin' it ta make ye feel better; I said it 'cause it's true."

It was now James' turn to look at him with surprise. "O-oh. Well, erm, still. Thank you."

There was another pause, and then Donald spoke up again. "Why d'ya let 'im treat ye like that, anyway? Like he's so much better than ye?"

James' eyes fell to his buffers, biting slightly at his lip. "I... I just want him to like me, I guess. He's one of my oldest friends, you know?"

At this, Donald blinked several times in disbelief, and before he knew it, the words came rumbling out. "Ah cannae believe I'm sayin' this, but ye should be more confident! Gordon doesn't respect ye as a friend if he's treatin' ye like yer below 'im. Yer not! N' ye shouldn't act like ye are either. Ye ken be a real pain in th' tender, but ye do have yer moments ah bein' truly splendid too, n' ye shouldn't let 'im look down on ye like that."

James simply stood there, eyes wide and jaw hanging open, absolutely gobsmacked. For a moment, Donald couldn't help but worry that he'd gone too far, but then, James finally managed to find his words. "I... I don't think anyone's ever been quite so... blunt with me before. I mean, I feel like I should be angry, but as strange as it sounds, I'm not. I..."

James' eyes drifted back up to meet Donald's, a complicated expression crossing his face. "...Thanks for being honest with me, I suppose."

"Eh," Donald hummed, "Ah'm not the type t' pretend n' say pretty words ah dun' mean. That's what ah think a' ye, so do wit' that whatcha will. But maybe ye should try t' be more honest wit' both yerself an' others; ye'll probably be better off fer it."

So saying, the No. 9 began to pull away, his consist in tow. "Thanks again fer the help! See ye 'round!" With that, Donald headed off with his train, the last rays of the sun streaking across the sky, and James, upon returning to the sheds, had much to mull over that night.

As it happened, when word got around the railway the very next day that James had stood up to Gordon, leaving the big engine speechless for once, it was Donald who was the least surprised—and laughing the loudest at the news.

Chapter Text

Mighty and Mac were widely considered by the other Skarloey Railway engines to be something of a strange duo. Not in a bad way, truthfully, but they were proof that sometimes, two heads were not necessarily better than one.

This was especially apparent when they struggled to coordinate whose idea to follow in any given situation; although the twins had long ago come to the consensus that whichever of them was facing forward should be solely responsible for driving, that didn't stop the other from chiming in with suggestions and pouting when their advice was ignored. (Oddly enough, the same seemed to apply to when they told stories.) Even worse, they could sometimes be paralyzed by their opposing viewpoints, leading to neither of them getting anywhere fast—particularly in the literal sense.

However, for being such oddballs, they also had some particularly special talents. Given that one of them was always facing the coaches (or trucks) and had naught to concentrate on but what they and the passengers were saying, both of the twins had developed a stellar memory, as well as a wide vocabulary to match. To compliment this, the two also had quite the ear for gossip, and had plenty of information, both interesting and utterly inane, to share with their fellows when night fell.

More important, however, was their strength; despite their bizarre construction, their actual motive power was quite impressive, and it was this quality that gave them their most important job on the Skarloey Railway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sir Handel had been having a bad day. The skies above were gray with the threat of rain, and every truck in his line of five was being noisy, cackling and giggling. "Rain, rain! Come our way! Let us splish and splash and swaaaaaaay!"

"Oh, stuff a lump in it, you lot!" Sir Handel snarled, trying to hide his worry beneath a veneer of annoyance. Increasing his pace, the little blue engine's eyes drifted up to peer at the ominous skies, nibbling lightly at his lip as his crew sported similarly nervous expressions.

He had just gotten through that worrisome tunnel between Rheneas station and Glennock when a boom of thunder rocked the skies. As though taking that as their cue, raindrops began to fall; lightly at first, but then with increased intensity, quickly bathing the rails below him. His crew quickly began sanding the rails in front of him as Sir Handel squinted to see through the storm, speeding up a little bit more. Unfortunately, that speed proved to be their detriment against the force of chaos that was the trucks.

"YAAAAAAAAY!" the foolish trucks cheered, gleefully rocking around. "It's wet! It's wet! And this is what you'll get!" As Sir Handel turned a curve, the trucks suddenly swerved hard into the bend, causing them to tip over. Unfortunately, their momentum, along with Sir Handel's own, was more than enough to cause him to tip as well, making him land onto his side with a crash as his crew jumped clear.

"Oughhhhh," the No. 3 groaned, eyes bleary as his vision readjusted. His smokebox felt like it was full of fluff, his thoughts refusing to order themselves, and the cackling of the trucks was starting to give him a migraine.

"Hold tight, lad," his driver urged as the two of them approached, giving their engine a quick once-over. "I'll go call for help, while Simon here stays with you. The breakdown crane will be here before you know it!"

Sir Handel would normally make more of a fuss, but in this moment, he was cold, tired, and achy, so all he managed was a brief "Hurry up," his words barely audible over the din of the rain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Earlier that day, Mighty and Mac had been helping out in the yard at Crovan's Gate, happily shunting about. As much as they enjoyed pulling passengers at times, shunting was definitely where their strengths laid, and with them today was Peter Sam, who'd been helping them out before his next train was scheduled to depart. Although the rain had started to come down, none of the engines were terribly bothered; as annoying as rain could be, it wouldn't stop them from carrying out their tasks.

"So, have either of you heard any interesting stories lately?" Peter Sam asked, a smile on his face and his tone inquiring. After all, there was nothing better than a good story to help pass the time and combat some of the gloomy atmosphere.

"Oh, yes!" Mighty grinned as the duo shunted a tanker into place. "I heard this one from the Refreshment Lady. She—"

"Did you know that her daughter is married to your driver?" Mac cut in smoothly, causing Mighty to sigh.

"I... no," Peter Sam replied, eyes wide with surprise. "I don't think I did."

"ANYWAY, as I was saying," Mighty emphasized, sending a glower over to nobody in particular, although it was clearly meant for Mac. "The Refreshment Lady heard from her daughter's husband's best friend's son's schoolmate's mother that this dog Lucille—"

"Lucille is a chihuahua, about 7 years old."

"Do you mind, Mac? I'm the one spinning the yarn here!"

"Well, you shouldn't omit the details!"

"I wasn't going to, you—"

Peter Sam considered interrupting for all of five seconds before deciding against it. He'd just get the story later in the sheds that night. However, just as he was about to resume the shunting and let the duo sort things out on their ends, there was a commotion as the Crovan's Gate stationmaster ran towards them.

"Mighty Mac! Sir Handel's come off the rails just past Glennock. Bring the breakdown crane!"

All at once, like a switch had been flipped, the Double Fairlie suddenly went quiet, Mighty's brow furrowing into a look of deep determination. "On it! C'mon, Mac!"

"Right!" his other half chorused, and without a moment of delay, the duo were off, coupling themself to the breakdown crane.

"We're off!" Mighty whistled, Mac's whistle echoing, and Peter Sam could only look on in amazement as the twins took off.

"I can never get used to that," Peter Sam stared on in wonder, and beside him, the stationmaster could only shake his head in amazement.

"With the way those two usually bicker, neither can I!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The duo picked up a small group of workers, including Sir Handel's driver, at Glennock, heading up to proceed with their rescue. "Alright, Mighty!" Mac called. "You remember the way?"

"Yep!" Mighty confirmed, his gaze focused forward as his crew kept watch. Behind him, Mac also kept careful eyes on the track, ensuring that there would be nothing to hinder their way back down.

Soon enough, they reached the groaning mess that was Sir Handel, and the men quickly alighted from the crane's cab to get the poor engine straightened and coupled up to the train. Once he was settled, the trucks were swiftly righted and coupled up behind him. As the workers straightened things up, Sir Handel's exhausted eyelids cracked open, allowing him to behold his rescue party. "Finally. Took you two long enough."

"Yes, yes," Mighty replied, his smile serene and unbothered by the tired jab. "Alright, we'll take you back to Crovan's Gate. Mac, you're up."

"Finally!" the other twin grinned, and without delay, the men all boarded the crane, and the entire cavalcade headed for home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn't take the group long to get back, and as Sir Handel was deposited at the works, the trucks dropped off, and the crane shunted back into its proper place, Mighty Mac returned to the sheds amidst a chorus of cheers.

"Well done, you two!" Skarloey complimented. "It never ceases to amaze me how well you both manage the breakdown crane."

"He's right!" Peter Sam laughed. "You both were bickering one moment, then off on a rescue the next! It was quite impressive, actually!"

"Hahaha!" Mighty laughed, his expression warm as he glanced back toward his twin. "Well, as difficult as Mac can be sometimes, we're stuck together, so we may as well make the best of it. There's no engine I trust more than him."

The assembled engines were all smiles at Mighty's statement, and from behind him came Mac's voice: "He's right. We didn't ask for this, but he's my brother, and I trust him too."

There was a beat of tender, comfortable silence, which was then abruptly shattered by Mac's follow-up:

"At least... with the important things."

All at once, Mighty's happy expression turned as stormy as the weather outside. "And just what's that supposed to mean?!"

"You know exactly what it means, you—"

As the twins resumed their regular, albeit good-natured bickering, the other engines in the shed couldn't help but laugh. As silly as their fellows could often be—and over the most trivial things, no less—there were few engines more reliable in a pinch than the twins called Mighty and Mac.

Chapter Text

Relax, Gina told herself, trying to breathe as little as possible. Fortunately, this was a fairly easy task, given that she didn't need to breathe, but funneling in no air meant that she also couldn't talk. Still, that didn't matter right now. All that mattered was that she relax and keep a cool head. That's right. Remember your standard protocol. Just relax.

With her eyes shut and her fire doused, the Italian tank engine was now going through her mental mantras, doing everything she could to keep calm. Such a thing was far easier said than done, but now, more than ever, it was critical.

Right now, Gina wished that she could be admiring the Earth's natural beauty, and assisting with archeological digs as she usually did. In fact, that was how this particular nightmare had started out. However, due to some reason or another that she couldn't possibly have foreseen, after she'd gotten a good ways down, the walls of the mine that she'd entered had begun to collapse. That earthly beauty now surrounded her from all sides, overwhelming in its completeness, no escape afforded to her in any direction she could see. As such, what once was a marvel had swiftly become a terror.

Even worse, she was not the only one to feel this way. In her cab, her driver, Flaminia, and her fireman, Vincenzo, had both put on filtration masks and were keeping their breathing shallow yet even, trying their utmost to not waste the oxygen afforded to them. The only fortunate fact about their current situation was that the cave-in had left them in a cavern with enough air to breathe, but unfortunately, it had no airflow, meaning that time was ticking.

"...Alright," Flaminia whispered. "Let me try the radio again. Gina, lamps on." The tank engine quietly obliged, activating her lamps so that her driver could find the radio with little fuss. Both of her crew members flinched, but her driver reached out and took the mic in hand, lifting it to her mouth. "SOS. I repeat, SOS. Gina and her crew are trapped in mine 23S01. Emergency assistance requested." Flaminia calmly spoke into the mic, but as soon as she'd finished, she let it drop from her hand, where it clattered loudly against Gina's footplate. The sound caused Vincenzo to flinch, but he said nothing, only letting himself slump to the ground as he tugged his knees to his chest. With the communication finished, Gina was required per protocol to extinguish her lamps in order to save power, so with only a moment's regret, the cavern was once again plunged into that tyrannical, all-consuming darkness.

Carefully, Flaminia pressed her back to the wall of the cab, some distance away from Vincenzo. The weight of the despair, increasing slowly yet steadily, forced their shoulders to bow and their heads to droop. The driver reached for her neck and hooked her thumb beneath a fine golden chain, drawing forth an elegant, gold-plated locket, which she then clasped between her thumb and index finger.

Gina couldn't see her crew, but she could feel their worry, their sinking spirits. Flaminia reached for the radio again, mechanically rasping out the emergency call, but her words were less spirited than before. Vincenzo hadn't spoken since they'd been trapped.

The tank engine bit at her lip, trying desperately to think. She couldn't talk, as that would be a waste of air that she didn't need. She couldn't move. All she could do was keep her crew safe however she could, but in this moment, she had never felt more useless. What was the point of her steel frames and flawed immortality if she couldn't even help those she loved?

It was then, however, that Gina had an idea.

In addition to her radio, Gina had also been equipped with a music player. It wasn't anything fancy, mostly being a CD player with an AUX port, but it did allow her crew to enjoy the occasional piece of music, as well as share it with her. Even though she couldn't use her lights, so as not to drain their power prematurely, her radio and music player used separate power sources, so it wasn't against protocol to use. Thus, with a little concentration, the dulcet sounds of Dame Bella Canto soon wafted through the air, making her driver and fireman look up in surprise, then smile through their masks. Flaminia reached down, gloved hands tracing words into her footplate. Grazie, mia cara Gina.

Although she couldn't answer, Gina simply smiled, Dame Bella's beautiful voice filling the darkness and quelling the monsters of the mind lurking within.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fortunately, they'd only listened to about a third of Dame Bella's Collected Works before the crackle of static could be heard over Gina's radio. Immediately, the tank engine paused the music as Lorenzo's voice, albeit slightly unclear, finally came through. "Gina?! GINA! Are you there? Can you hear me?"

Flaminia grabbed for the radio, holding it up to her lips. "Lorenzo! We are here! We've been trapped in mine 23S01! Send help at once!"

"O-OK!" the engine shouted, and in the background came shouted snatches of Italian as orders were relayed and instructions given.

"We're going to be saved," Vincenzo breathed weakly, a limp smile on his face, and Flaminia patted Gina's cabside.

"Alright, lights on. They'll be here soon."

With a smile, Gina turned her lights back on, and resumed the music. Now that they knew rescue was imminent, engine and crew felt themselves relax, sharing grateful smiles with each other. The darkness had been pushed back further, and now, the cave once again felt beautiful, even cozy.

However, once those first rays of lamplight finally found them, Gina and her crew beamed and allowed themselves to be pulled out into the sunlight, once again appreciating the beauty of the Earth around them but more mindful of its majesty as well.

Chapter Text

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you smile like that, Duncan," Rusty grinned as a tiny kitten—with her mother's permission, of course, and under the fastidiously watchful eye of a workman—was placed on his bufferbeam.

"Oh, shove it," Duncan retorted, but there was no heat to his words, which were undercut even more by the lopsided grin on his face as he looked down at the little lioness mewling up at him.

This adorable girl had been named Poll, and she was about two weeks old. Her mother, Wick, had wandered near the sheds one rainy night, pregnant and starving, her steps so weak despite her heavy burden. She'd come in soon after the last train had finished, and the moment they saw her, the Skarloey Railway staff had unanimously decided to offer her a home. As such, Sir Handel, who had just finished his run, had been set up with a makeshift bed in his cab so that she could enjoy the warmth of his firebox and the promise of safety that a more confined space offered. Sir Handel, contrarian that he was, had protested the treatment for all of 10 minutes before Wick had mewled at him so pitifully that even he could offer up no further protest.

Now, a full month later, Wick had been immunized and properly fed, as well as given a proper bed and perch. Beneath her watchful eye, five little kittens, all in good health, were now carefully exploring the sheds, as well as acquainting themselves with their noisy metal neighbors. Poll was the oldest, followed by Glas and Hawin, who were twins, and then Foss, with the youngest being Faarkey. All of these new feline neighbors seemed quite pleased with their larger shedmates, and the reverse was also true... at least, for the most part.

"Please don't," Rheneas murmured wearily as Nathan, his fireman, held out Glas, clearly intending to place him on the engine's bufferbeam. "I don't want any of these cats near me."

Out of all of the engines on the Skarloey Railway, the one most opposed to Wick and her kittens sticking around had been Rheneas. Back when it had only been Wick, he had strongly pushed for her to be adopted at the earliest opportunity, but had been swiftly overruled. When the kittens had arrived, Rheneas had once again urged them all to give them up for adoption, but as that wouldn't be viable for another 12 weeks, he had simply insisted that they not be allowed near him and refused to engage with or even acknowledge them. Thus, it wasn't too surprising that his fireman's attempt at letting one climb all over him, as good-natured as the gesture was, had been met with firm refusal.

"Really?" Nathan questioned, surprise written all over his face, but he obligingly passed off Glas to Sir Handel's firewoman, who then placed him on her engine's running board. "I wouldn't have guessed that you didn't like cats, Rheneas."

"Neither would I," came his driver's voice, although his tone was more hesitant, a thoughtful softness to it. "After all, I've seen the pictures; we have some photos dating back to the 1890s of you and Skarloey with cats."

"That's right!" Skarloey chimed in, gaze soft and staring toward his younger self. "If I remember correctly, over the years, we've had Jerome, Tuppence, Sylvia, Morrigan, Danforth, Eliza, Trinity, Piper—"

"Enough," Rheneas abruptly cut in, his voice almost a growl, and his brother immediately buttoned his lip, somewhat taken aback by the venom directed his way. "This conversation is over. I'm taking the first train out, so please get me ready."

With how flat Rheneas' voice was, nobody was quite willing to reopen the conversation. Instead, their eyes did the talking for them, especially the concern in Skarloey's gaze as he stared unwaveringly at his brother. Rheneas, on the other hand, stared steadfastly ahead, obviously more than willing to ignore what it was that his brother was saying. Soon enough, as the cats were returned to their mother and the cleaner keeping an eye out to make sure they didn't escape, each of the engines were steamed up and sent out, off to start their day in uncharacteristic silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rheneas would certainly have preferred to let the entire matter drop, but alas, he and Skarloey were set to double-head the 4:30 PM train, which meant that he would have nowhere to escape the question that was sure to be on his brother's mind. True to his expectations, that very question was the first on his brother's lips, the moment he'd been coupled up behind him: "So, Rheneas, what was all of that this morning?"

The leading engine let out a deep, deep sigh, part of him wanting to ignore or deflect the question, but also knowing that there was no point to doing so. His brother had an unfortunate way of being incredibly patient when it came to getting the information he wanted out of others, and he would get it eventually, so there was no real point in hiding it.

Thus, Rheneas instead tried to figure out how to formulate his thoughts in a way that made sense. "It's not that I don't like cats anymore," he began, "but I—"

Peeeep! The guard's whistle let out a shrill shriek, and Rheneas couldn't help but make a small noise of relief. "I'll tell you later. Let's go."

The train soon departed, three of the coaches following easily along, and the two engines made their way out into their beloved valley. It was another beautiful day, warm and inviting, and yet Rheneas felt himself shivering slightly despite the warmth of his flame. Behind him, Skarloey was quiet, but the silence between them felt more anticipatory than companionable, the other engine clearly watching and waiting for when his brother would finally crack.

Unfortunately, it had been proven time and again that playing the waiting game until Rheneas could take it no longer really was the most effective way to get him to actually talk about and work through his feelings. Thus, Skarloey, damnably loving brother that he was, who cared for him as genuinely and completely as he did, would continue to do so.

Once they'd passed Cros-ny-Cuirn, Rheneas finally took a deep breath. Now that they were on this part of the line, with no interruptions forthcoming for quite some time, he could stall no longer. "I... how well do you remember Piper?"

"Quite well," Skarloey replied, his tone light. "She was supposed to be the Crovan's Gate stationmaster's cat, but she was unquestionably yours. She loved rubbing her face on your cheek, and your cab was her favorite place to sleep, right by your firebox."

"Right... well, do you remember the day... when..."

He couldn't bring himself to say it, but fortunately, he didn't have to. "I do," Skarloey solemnly replied. "But there was nothing to be done. She had been sick for quite some time, and there weren't any treatments for that sort of condition back then."

"I know," Rheneas whimpered, his misery palpable. "But still, I... all of those cats were wonderful in their own ways. And yet, here I am, after all this time, having to watch them go. People are like that too, of course, but they live far longer than cats. I just..."

With another shuddering breath, Rheneas briefly closed his eyes and willed himself not to let go of the tears that were so very close to falling. "You remember them for how they lived; I can't help but remember them as they died. How many cats have I allowed into my life, only to have to watch them live out their last moments curled up on my bufferbeam? I... I'm so tired of it, Skarloey. I don't want to grow attached to another cat, only to watch them die all over again. And I don't want to get to know Poll, or Glas, or Foss, and have them choose me as their favorite, and trick me into loving them, only for me to outlive yet another wonderful friend. Well, no more. I don't want to. I'm done."

There was a long silence that followed in the wake of his words, before Skarloey finally spoke, his voice soft with understanding. "I understand, Rheneas. It's always hard to lose our friends, especially the ones that have come to mean so much to us." The knowing echo of heartfelt scars contained in his voice was immediately recognizable. "If that's how you feel, then I'll bring it up with the others. After all, a railway is not exactly an ideal place for cats to live."

"Precisely. Thank you."

"That said... it's also been decades since you've had a cat. To me, it sounds more like you're telling yourself why you shouldn't want to bond with one rather than genuinely not wanting to."

"...Tsk."

Damn it. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Rheneas could only curse his brother's perceptive nature. "Maybe, but so what? You said it yourself; a railway is no place for a cat to live."

"No, but we have friends who'd love to have these cats around, I'm sure. Then you'd still get to see them once in a while, and they would be in good hands. How does that sound?"

"Oh, like Piper? Piper, who—and you said it yourself, mind you—was most certainly my cat despite belonging to the stationmaster? Piper, who always liked me best and tried no less than three times to eat my coal?"

Oh no, now he was smiling, and he was quite sure that Skarloey could hear it, given the teasing tone of his reply: "Why, yes, that Piper! The 'little black rascal,' as we called her! The very same!"

"Haaah... she... she really was a good cat," Rheneas replied, swallowing down the tears from earlier. "I... don't think I realized how much I still miss her."

"Well, there's still time," his older brother soothed. "These kittens can't be away from their mother for another few months. If you're still set on letting them go, then we can arrange that. I'm sure there will be plenty of people willing to take them in. And if you change your mind, then that's fine too. Besides, there's no guarantee that any of them will bond with you; remember Danforth? He didn't like anybody."

"HAHAHAHA! That's true!" Rheneas laughed, startling himself with the memory of the hermit-like gray tomcat. "That's true..."

For a few moments, Rheneas let himself bask in the glow of memories, of warm days with furry friends long past, before giving another small sigh. "Well, I suppose you're right. I don't have to make the decision now, and running away from it is no way to conduct myself. But... I still think that I'd like to keep my distance from them for now."

"Perfectly understandable," Skarloey smiled behind him. "We'll take our time and see what happens. In the end, all we can do is enjoy the time we have while we have it."

Rheneas said nothing, but pondered his brother's statement as the familiar fields of Glennock finally came into view. It was true that while he had a tendency to remember their passing first and foremost, he had also spent many years with each of the Skarloey Railway's cats, and made memories with them all. Jerome, whose favorite food was freshly caught fish brought up from Kirk Ronan; Tuppence, who loved nothing more than getting herself filthy by playing near the coal piles; Sylvia, who despite her size, always picked fights with the controller's dog; Morrigan, who had always been the best mouser among them; Danforth, who was as much of a hermit as esteemed St. Machan himself; Eliza, who made friends everywhere she went thanks to her sweet voice and social nature; Trinity, who always accompanied the Sunday church service and seemed to be the Father's best listener; and Piper, his eternal favorite, the little black rascal who couldn't go a day without causing some kind of mischief.

As the two pulled into Glennock and allowed the passengers to board, Rheneas could only smile at the thought of all of the cats he'd had the pleasure of meeting, his heart holding love and longing for each and every one of them.

"Enjoy the time we have while we have it," he murmured, loud enough for only Skarloey to hear the tenderness in his voice. "I suppose you're right about that too."

Chapter Text

Sometimes, 11 couldn't help but feel jealous of the human workers swarming around the factory. After all, when their workdays were over, they got to leave the drab steelworks, with its gray walls and even grayer windows, and go "home," which is apparently where people who loved them lived. They even got to see something called "the sun," which 11 certainly would have liked to see for himself if it was anything like the "giant ball of fire floating in the sky" that the workmen said it was.

As things were, however, 11 had never seen, nor was he likely to see, the sun. The steelworks in which he was imprisoned was a massive complex, and the day he'd arrived in this factory, it had been raining hard enough that not even a drop of sunlight could pierce the gray veil of the weeping clouds above. It well matched the gray livery he found himself wearing, nothing interesting or fancy; simply functional.

Thus, 11 had been given his number and his jumpsuit, and was sent to toil away, day in and day out, bringing large shipments of ore, finished steel, and everything in between wherever it needed to go. He'd be roused before dawn, long before the sun came up, assigned his work, then put away long after the sun had set. If he didn't know better (and he DID! He wasn't STUPID! Wasting time by asking questions got you in trouble, anyway; a lesson he'd learned the hard way), he would have called it a conspiracy.

Still, even if he couldn't see the sun, there was one bright spot in his life, and that was his driver (who also doubled as his stoker), Jill. Jill was a well-built woman with scars up and down her arms, a seemingly permanent scowl on her face, and deep brown eyes like bogs. Apparently, she had come to work in the steelworks during the Great War, and simply never left. It paid the bills, or so she claimed, and that seemed to be enough for her—or at least enough to put up with all of the bullshit she dealt with on a daily basis.

In fact, it had been Jill who'd walked 11 through life in the factory, giving him all of the guidance he needed. "You listen t' me, bud," she'd instructed on his first day of work. "I'm goin' t' tell ya like it is, n' anyone who tries ta give ye th' runaround? They're bad news, so stay away from 'em. They're not yer friend. Hell, nobody's got friends here; there's only people ye can stand, and truces wit' th' people ye can't." The driver had crossed her arms, her scowl deepening as she locked eyes with her engine, before coughing lightly into her sleeve. "Ye can't trust pretty words, so I'll say what I mean, n' yer gonna listen. Anyone who tries butterin' ye up or tryin'a get some'in outta ya's no good. Got it?"

"Y-yeah, I got it," 11 huffed, hoping he'd answered correctly, and this earned him a small nod from Jill, as well as a flash of a smile that the engine wasn't entirely sure he'd actually seen.

"Good, 'cause I'm not repeatin' myself. Now let's go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This initial lesson had ended up being one of the most fundamental, as 11 had come to find out.

He'd been parked in a corner of the steelworks, waiting for Jill to return from talking with someone, when all of a sudden, another engine pulled up. This was 14, as evidenced by the number on their cabsides, and they and their driver were looking at him rather expectantly.

"Wha... what d'ya want?" 11 asked, cursing himself for how clumsy that sounded; Jill had been crystal clear that if he wasn't tough and could assert himself, he'd be run right over by everyone else. The people and engines in this steelworks were quite adept at taking advantage of kindness, or at least, that's what she'd said, and she hadn't steered him wrong thus far.

"Oh please, 11, wontcha help me wit' my load?" his co-worker 14 asked, delicately batting their eyes at him. From their cab, Duncan could hear snickering, but his attention was quickly drawn back to the engine before him as they continued, voice trembling slightly. "Ah could really use th' help, n' yer so strong..."

"Err, well, mebbe..." 11 stammered, eyes looking every which way, somewhat caught off guard by their approach. He'd been warned not to let himself get pushed around, but their request for help seemed genuine, and he didn't have much more work for the day. It wasn't as though he'd intended to ignore Jill's warnings, but 14 really looked like they could use his assistance.

This train of thought, however, was quickly interrupted by a swift "Ohhhhh, no ye don't!" as Jill strode over, eyes blazing. Even her steps seemed to cause tremors as she tromped towards the two engines, and the barely suppressed laughter from 14's cab suddenly ceased as those fierce brown eyes turned to look their way. "Git outta here n' do yer own damn work, 14! Ye can't expect others t' pull yer weight fer ya! Now haul yer metal ass down t' the smelter's! GIT!"

"Tsk!" With a click of the tongue, 14's sweet, bright-eyed expression twisted into a disgruntled sneer, their driver steering them backwards in retreat. "You'll get what's comin' to ya, ye damn bitch!" 14 swore, their fury barely contained as it practically radiated off of them in waves. It almost gave 11 whiplash to see one of his colleagues go from being as angelic as they'd seemed to downright devilish in only a matter of moments.

Once the duo had left, Jill rounded on 11, who stared up at her with disbelieving eyes, as though he hadn't quite finished parsing what had just happened. "Ye DAFT engine!" his driver screamed, her eyes wide and teeth bared as she stared daggers at her engine. "YE DON'T LET OTHERS TAKE ADVANTAGE O' YE!" Suddenly, her yelling was interrupted by a loud, hacking cough that caused her entire body to shake, and the driver shook her head rapidly as if to clear her mind before looking back at 11 with a grim expression. "That hunk o' rust woulda done whatever they had ta do t' make ye do their work an' run ye down instead. Ye gotta think o' yerself, 11! Ye can't trust anybody!"

"Even you?"

The question was soft, yet tremulous with emotion. Wide, dark eyes met bogs of brown, and all of Jill's ire seemed to seep out of her, leaving her with only a bone-deep exhaustion. "Aye, well... Ah guess ye can trust me. Heaven knows Ah keep havin' t' look out fer ya like m'own bairn, or sommat." Yet, despite her resigned tone, Jill's lips had curved up into a smile more gentle than 11 had ever seen before; even her eyes seemed to smile along. "Now, let's get our work done, yeah? We may not have much t' go, but it's still gotta get done."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cough! Cough! The sound of hacking and wheezing coming from Duncan's cab hadn't ceased for some time, and the longer it went on, the more the engine couldn't help but worry. "Jill?" he asked quietly, trying not to let his emotions show for fear that the others might think something was strange. "Are ye... are ye alright?"

"Haaah... jus'... jus' lemme rest, 11. We have some time 'afore we need t' get our next load. Ah jus'... need a breather."

"Oh. Um... alright." With that, 11 settled in where he was, eyes drifting around the rest of the factory. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them, thankfully, but he still didn't want to chance being ambushed.

"Hey, 11..." came a weak voice from his cab, and the engine had to strain to hear. "Didja know... that I was married once?"

"Married?" 11 echoed, uncertainty in his voice. "Ye had... a family?"

"Not a family," Jill corrected wearily. "Jus' a husband. We wanted a family, but th' war called, and... never brought 'im back."

"Oh..." 11 wasn't quite sure what to say; it was rather hard for him to grasp just what Jill was feeling, but the genuine sadness in her voice told him that whoever her husband was, he was someone she'd trusted. "Um... Ah'm sorry."

"Mmm." Jill murmured, but said no more. All around them, the sounds of the steelworks continued to echo; engines taking their loads, workers feeding ore into vast machines, inspectors looking over clipboards overstuffed with forms and reports. However, in this moment, 11 and Jill had a pocket of time and space all to themselves, invisible to the steelworks' uncaring eye.

Finally, Jill spoke once more. "My husband n' I... we always said that if we 'ad a li'l boy, we'd name 'im Duncan, fer me faither. An' if we had a girl, she'd be Eilidh, fer ma Nana. Ah ne'er had bairns o' m'own, but at some point, Ah started thinkin' o' ya as me own. Started thinkin' o' ye as Duncan."

11 could hardly breathe, dread and gratitude warring for dominance in his heart. Jill... Jill was giving him a name. Duncan. Duncan. The more he tasted the name on his tongue, the more he liked it.

"Duncan..." Jill murmured, her voice now weaker than he'd ever heard it, and the engine forced his attention away from the joy of his new name to refocus on his driver. "There's just three more things Ah gotta tell ye, so listen close."

"Jill, what—"

"Ah said listen, Duncan."

"..."

"...There's a good lad. Now, first, if there's somethin' ye want, then ye gotta fight fer it. Nothin's free in this world, n' ye only get whatcha want when ye push fer it n' fight tooth n' nail. Er... funnel n' buffer. Whatever."

"Two," her weary voice continued, not even giving Duncan the chance to interrupt. "Ye can't let others disrespect ya. Know where ye stand, n' what yer worth. Don't let others use ye t' save themselves."

Duncan didn't speak, but simply bit his lip, listening closely and willing himself to act like everything was fine. However, he must not have been doing a good job of it, because other engines and drivers were starting to notice, eying him like vultures who saw their next meal. Vaguely, he was aware of some kind of liquid splashing on the floor of his cab.

"Third," Jill gasped breathlessly, "cherish th' ones who're good t' ye. Ye may find that there're some good people er engines out there; ones ye can trust, like me. Ones who'll try t' do good by ye. If ye do find one, n' if they've yer best interests at heart, then hold 'em close n' listen to 'em good.

"That's... that's all."

More wet coughs sounded from his cab, and by this point, Duncan couldn't hold back his alarm. "DOCTOR!" he called, the panic in his voice and eyes clear to all assembled. "We—we need a doctor! Right now!!"

However, only silence greeted him. The assembled engines and their drivers stared over at him for a few moments before going back to their tasks, all wearing masks of indifference in a macabre masquerade. "H-Hello?!" Duncan shouted, anger and desperation filling him as he tried making eye contact with someone, anyone, but every single other person simply looked away, with the greatest reaction coming from 14, who shot him a smug smile before heading off to continue their work.

Duncan felt like he was a hair's breadth from exploding, practically hyperventilating as his eyes darted around, seeking help. Finally, the door opened to admit the Foreman, who was staring down disinterestedly at his papers, and Duncan took advantage of his arrival to call out in his direction. "Foreman! Sir! It's Jill; she needs a doctor! Hurry!"

Duncan's plea was passionate, but it may as well have fallen upon deaf ears as the Foreman rolled his eyes and strolled over, clearly not inclined to move with any sort of urgency. "What's all this, then?" he drawled as he finally approached, meeting Duncan's gaze with utter disinterest. "Why'd ye... oh."

This dispassionate response had come from seeing the slumped body of Jill laying awkwardly in Duncan's cab, dark stains dotting the floor. The scene would have, should have, inspired some kind of response in anyone with a human heart, but alas, the only one here was the Foreman, who'd likely given up his ages ago.

"Fine. I'll get her t' th' doctor. Let's go, 11." With that, the Foreman stepped into Duncan's cab, pushed aside Jill's body, and took to the controls, navigating Duncan out of the factory and into the afternoon air.

Once again, it was raining.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

25 years later, the steelworks' No. 11 had come to be known as the one to avoid. If left well enough alone, he would do his work without fuss, but if you talked to him, he would blast you with profanity until you fled. Furthermore, he didn't respect anybody, least of all his drivers. In fact, most of his drivers tended to quit after only 6 months on the job.

It was this attitude that led to the Foreman, accompanied by a well-dressed gentleman in a bowler hat, walking over to him one day. The stranger glanced at him this way and that, as though appraising him, and Duncan sneered in response. "And this is the one for sale?" the well-dressed man asked in an even keel, causing the Foreman to nod in response.

"That's right. E's a 'ard worker, but we don't 'ave room fer 'im anymore. Ah'll give ye a good price fer 'im, so..."

However, the Foreman trailed off as the stranger approached, looking Duncan in the eyes. "Do you have a name?" he asked, voice soft, and Duncan felt his scowl recede, albeit slightly.

"We don't give names t' our engines—" the Foreman began, only to be cut off by the engine's quick reply.

"'S Duncan. M' name's Duncan, n' I won't take no nicknames."

The straightforward reply seemed to shock the Foreman, but the guest seemed unperturbed.

"Duncan, is it?" the stranger hummed thoughtfully. "Tell me, would you like to leave here and come work on my railway? We could really use a powerful engine like you."

Immediately, the engine squinted in suspicion. "What's th' catch?"

At this, the guest blinked, clearly not expecting such a question. "Catch? There's no catch. Just that we have plenty of work that needs doing, and we need another engine. You'll be coming with me to Sodor, and working on the Skarloey Railway. It's a lovely line, really, with beautiful mountains and hills, and—"

"Is there sun?" Duncan interrupted, his unflinching gaze meeting that of the stranger's. "If Ah go wit' ye, can Ah see th' sun?"

There was another pause from the stranger, and then, a smile. It was the kind of smile that Duncan hadn't seen for 25 years, and even then, only on those strange, rare occasions. Yet, here it was now, on the face of this odd, kindly stranger. "Yes, every day."

Duncan's eyes fluttered shut as he considered the offer, and his mind couldn't help but think back to Jill and all that she'd taught him.

His driver would have wanted him to take this deal, of that he was sure. After all, this man's eyes were honest.

"...Alright," the (former) No. 11 agreed at last. "Ah'll go wit' ye. When d' we leave?"

"Tomorrow," beamed his new owner, as he turned to the Foreman to get everything prepared.

The very next day, Duncan was being steamed up and escorted out, his new owner actually being the one to drive him, and for the first time, as if congratulating him on his new beginning, Duncan set eyes on the sun at last.

Chapter Text

Kirk Darrow couldn't have been more pleased as he left the stationmaster's office, having been told that management was seriously considering him for a position as a driver. The winter cold bit at him like mad, but his entire body felt warm and light, like he'd just enjoyed a hot toddy. He'd served as a fireman for a number of years, and had the honor of crewing BR No. 57646 alongside his brother, Dirk. The two of them had, just as they'd arrived in the world together, signed up to join the railway together many moons ago when there weren't any better prospects to speak of back home.

While Dirk had been certified as a driver for a few years now, Kirk had always known that he could have taken the exams, but truthfully, he hadn't felt terribly motivated to do so. After all, he got to work alongside his twin and their engine all day, so why would he ever want to drive some other engine? It was only through the urging of his brother and No. 57646 that Kirk even bothered to consider it, though, mostly because, in Dirk's words, "if som'thin' 'appens n' I get laid up in th' hospital, ye'd better be able t' take care o' 'im!"

Unfortunately for Kirk, Dirk was known to make snap judgements and rash decisions, some of which had landed him in the hospital before, so it was that rather sound argument that had led to him studying for (and thankfully scoring high on) his exams.

As Kirk rounded the bend and approached the yard, trying to figure out how best to share the good news—should he play the fool? Offer to buy beers? Make it out to be a Christmas miracle?—what he saw instead made his good cheer evaporate in a flash.

No. 57647, an engine that their own held close to his heart, snarled throatily at one of the new diesel railbuses that had so recently entered service, this one having transferred here only a few short days ago. This particular diesel was 79959, and from the very start, he had made a rather strong impression on the rest of the yard. Kirk didn't much care for him himself, but at least he knew how to keep his damn distance. Unfortunately, from the way the two engines were facing off against each other, anger bleeding off of them both, one of them—or perhaps both of them—had decided to pick a fight.

"Ye'd best take that back, ye oil-huffin' ninny!"

The diesel only sniffed imperiously at 57647's words, clearly unimpressed. "Oh, look. Th' hothead's barbaric brother is here t' play noo! Ohhhh, Ah'm so scared!"

Condescension dripped from every word, and the diesel's eyes slowly turned back to 57646, a cocksure grin stretching across his face. "Ye 'eard what ah said, but ah'll say it again! All ye steamies are jus' washed up, no-good, hunks o' rust, an' you, ye dumb engine, are th' worst of all. Always givin' me orders, always thinkin' ah'm not as strong or as important as ye. WELL! Ah can do whatever you can, an' so much more! Ah can't wait 'til yer in the scrapyard, beggin' fer yer life, only ta—"

BAM! There was a clash, metal scraping against metal, and 57647 was suddenly right in front of the diesel, the two buffer to buffer as, with a great heave of effort, the steam engine pushed the railbus right off the rails, causing him to tip over and land with a great clatter against the cold, hard ground.

"HAAH! HAAH!" the railbus hyperventilated, panic setting in as his eyes looked every which way, focusing on nothing. A great hush fell over the yard, everyone watching in collective bewilderment as they tried to comprehend what had happened, before realization finally set in and a cacophany of noise erupted. Some of the men immediately set to righting the toppled bus, who was now screaming obscenities at the twin engines, while others hurried to ascertain the state of the line. 57647, for his part, was soundly being told off by his crew, two more folks that Kirk couldn't confidently say that he liked until he'd gotten enough beers in him.

"What were ye thinkin', ye ridiculous engine?!" the steam engine's driver shouted, looking like he was a hair's breadth away from popping a vein. "Ye coulda hurt someone! Yer lucky that damn railbus' crew was on break! Yer so... GAH! No wonder th' top brass wants t'—"

At that moment, however, the driver suddenly clammed up, the fireman also shuffling his feet and looking anywhere else. 57646's brows furrowed, suspicion all over his face, and it was clear that he was about to press on the matter, when a particular sound gave them all pause.

The depot manager's heavy steps were unmistakable, and Mr. MacCullough, the dark-eyed manager, approached the two steam engines with ire in his eyes and his jaw firm.

"Unbelievable. Once again, ye've caused me some REAL trouble, 57647! That railbus was t' take passengers this afternoon, an' noo, I've gotta organize a replacement! AGAIN!"

"But sir, I—"

"Can it, ye lousy engine! Ye couldn't keep yer temper in check, n' ye started a fight. Don't even pretend; I've already heard enough testimony from everyone here!"

The depot manager took a deep breath, eyes moving back and forth between the twins. "You listen t' me," he growled, his volume low but the intensity of his voice palpable. "Ah've had it wit' ye. Yer a bleedin' idiot who can't keep 'is temper, an' ah don't need that on ma railway. Yer done. Ah'm arrangin' for ye t' be sent t' th' scrapyard at th' end o' th' week."

A sudden hush fell over the twin engines and 57646's crew as Kirk came over to join his brother and their engine, his good news seeming so monumentally insignificant in the face of this terrible announcement. "Wha... what d'ya mean, sir?" 57647 trembled, and beside him, Dirk also trembled, but certainly not with trepidation.

"Ah mean what ah said," the manager sneered. "Yer no longer useful, an' yer gettin' scrapped. As fer 57646 here, congratulations. Ye've been sold; yer goin' t' Sodor."

"SODOR?!" exploded 57646, horror, anger, and rebelliousness all coming to the forefront as the manager's words sunk in.

"Tha's right," the steely eyed Mr. MacCullough continued, seeming quite unpreturbed even though a giant steam locomotive easily more than thrice his size looked like he was currently contemplating murder. "Yer goin' t' Sodor, an' ah'll be seein' ye off in a few days so yer crew can decide whether they wanna go wit' ya. That's all."

With that, like he hadn't just delivered the equivalent of executioner's orders, Mr. MacCullough turned on his heel and headed straight back for his office, his stride not slowing in the least despite the agony he'd left behind.

"No... NO!" 57647 cried, shaking like mad as tears threatened to fall. Beside him, Dirk and Kirk slowly reached up to pat at his frames; even though 57647 wasn't their engine, 57646 loved him enough to call him brother, and thus, he was just as special to the crew.

The reactions from 57647's own crew, however, left something to be desired, especially as Dirk turned to face them with a fire in his eyes.

"What was that, Rory?!" he demanded, practically getting into the driver's face. "Ye didn't stand up for yer engine at all! Yer jus' gonna... jus' gonna let him DIE?!"

With that, Dirk grabbed at his fellow driver's shirt and practically lifted him to his tiptoes, with Kirk making no move to stop him. However, instead of remorse, Rory simply let out a harsh sigh, his expression a mess of anxiety, reluctance, and resignation.

"Th' Controller let me know this mornin'. Mick n' I... we're bein' transferred t'a new engine. There's nothin' we can do. We can't work wit' him anymore, and ah'd rather be drivin' one o' them nice new diesels, anyway."

"Them nice new diesels..." Dirk scoffed, before spitting off to the side and releasing his grip, causing Rory to scramble backwards, breathing heavily, eyes wide with fright. "Get outta me sight. I dun wanna see ye again fer th' rest o' th' time ah'm here. GO!"

Rory and Mick didn't need persuading. The two scrambled off in a flurry of limbs, their movements so comical that were the situation anything but what it was, it might have been funny.

"Ah... ah cannae believe it," 57647 whimpered, eyes wide and staring at nothing. "Ma crew... they dun care 'bout me. Ah'm... ah'm gonna be scrapped..."

"Nae," 57646 whispered fiercely, trying to keep his voice low even though all assembled could hear the emotions raging just beneath the surface. "Yer not dyin' anytime soon, y'hear me? Ah... Ah'll figure sometin' out."

"Ye mean we," Dirk corrected, causing Kirk to look over at him in surprise. "We aren't about to let ye go at this alone." The conviction in his voice brought warm smiles to the faces of the two Caledonians, and it would have been a perfect moment if not for Kirk grabbing at his brother's arm.

"Ah, 'scuse us, you two."

Kirk managed to wrangle Dirk off to the side for a moment, before staring at his twin with disbelief. "Dirk! Ye cannae make promises ye can't keep!"

Dirk folded his arms, scowling at his brother as though he'd said something ridiculous. "What're ye on about, Kirk? Our engines need our help!"

"Our engines?!" Kirk hissed, struck absolutely incredulous by his brother's audacity. "Dirk, we have one engine, an' tha's moore than enough! 'Sides, his brother's bound fer th' scrapyard! How d'ye propose we—"

"Kirk," his brother interrupted softly, his tone solemn, "if I were starin' down th' executioner's axe, wuld ye do whatcha had t' do ta save me?"

"O' course!" Kirk blurted, not even needing a second to think. "Yer me bràthair, an'—"

"Tha's how our engine feels 'bout his own," his twin interjected, his tone now pleading, almost begging Kirk to understand. "Kirk, we've gotta do sometin'. Ah already know we're goin' wit' him t' Sodor; we've got no reason t' stay, an' he may be metal, but he may as well be kin. And kin comes through fer kin."

There was a long, long silence. Kirk stared steadily at Dirk, then at the two engines, who were quietly conversing with each other, then upon noticing that he was looking at them, gave tiny, hopeful smiles that would have melted any good man's heart.

At that, a long sigh escaped the fireman's lips as he turned to regard his brother, who was already smiling at the sound of his twin's surrender. "Alright. We'll save his bràthair. N' he's real lucky, 'cause ah know our cousins, Bryce n' Blair, were also thinkin' a leavin' th' railway an' skippin' town. They'll be happy t' come wit' us, 'specially if there's steamies that need savin'."

"YES!" Dirk started to cheer, but then quickly stopped himself as the noise drew the attention of the other railwaymen around the yard. "Alright. Last thing we need's another driver, then..."

At this, Kirk couldn't help but roll his eyes. Looked like his earlier conundrum had solved itself. "Guess yer in luck once again. Ah passed th' exams; ah'm a certified driver noo."

"Really?!" Dirk's eyes widened to an almost comical degree, and a huge smile split his face. "Ah shoulda known that's why ye were lookin' so proud earlier! Between you an' me drivin' an' the Mitchells' shovelin', we'll have no problems gettin' t' Sodor! Let's tell them the good news, then!"

With that, the good news was shared and plans were laid, and despite the worries and the fear of what the future might hold, one engine and his driver, along with another engine and his soon-to-be-driver, found themselves smiling brightly. After all, nobody knew better than they did how far they'd go for family.

Chapter Text

Rebecca couldn't help but hum a cheerful tune, her soul soaring as she trundled down the line accompanied by the warm sunshine and the laughter of the breeze. There was nothing she loved more than running down the line and stretching her wheels, especially on a day like today. Furthermore, she had been scheduled to carry an important goods shipment from Tidmouth all the way over to Crovan's Gate, an assignment that made her flame dance with pride. This would surely help her make a good impression on everyone!

Her good mood was almost immediately dampened, however, as she approached the consist, preparing to back down onto it, and the Comments began.

"Easy, girl, easy... you've got it, easy now..."

The tone of her driver's voice made Rebecca want to scream. She wasn't a dog, for heaven's sake! Besides, if anything, the way they patronized her was rather distracting, making it harder for her to focus. However, the bright yellow tender engine took deep breaths and tuned her crew out, connecting with the gentlest of bumps to the first flatbed in the line.

"Well done, Rebecca!" cheered her fireman. "Seems like our advice is helping!"

"Haha..." Rebecca simply laughed weakly, but she said nothing more; the two of them really were only trying to help, and she couldn't deny that she was prone to clumsiness. Thus, there was no reason to be annoyed.

No... reason... at all.

And so, Rebecca set out for Crovan's Gate, determined not to lose her cheer. After all, it was a lovely day, and the sun was warm, and she had with her quite the important load. Yes! It was a good day!

At these pleasant thoughts, Rebecca's smile became a little more steady, and as she passed Wellsworth, she peeped out a greeting to Edward, who was seemingly preparing to set out for his own work. "Take care, Rebecca!" Edward called out with a smile. "Be careful on your way up Gordon's Hill!"

Once again, Rebecca had to bite back a retort, barely managing to keep her smile intact. She appreciated the advice, and logically, she knew that Edward was just looking out for her. He hadn't meant to tell her what she already knew, certainly! Yet, at the same time, a small spark of annoyance flickered within her; she'd been up Gordon's Hill plenty of times now, and while she had stalled before, she knew the gradient well enough now to ensure that she could approach at the proper speed. He was being kind, because he was Edward and Edward was always kind, but at the same time...

No. Don't dwell. Let it go.

Rebecca took a great breath, and continued along, her focus solely on delivering her train to Crovan's Gate. Nothing else mattered; not her crew condescending to her, not Edward trying to help, and certainly not her own misplaced upset.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rebecca pulled into Crovan's Gate with little fuss, taking the train of goods over to the yard. Looking around, she was secretly pleased to see that nobody else was around; finally, she could—

"Oh, if it isn't li'l miss sunshine 'erself!"

Curses. Of course it was Duncan on duty today.

Rebecca had nothing against Duncan, not really. In fact, she didn't have an issue with any of her fellow engines on Sodor. It was simply a matter of Duncan liking to push other engines' levers, and Rebecca was simply not fond of such a thing.

Still, she wasn't about to say any of that aloud, so she put on her favorite smile as she went to greet the other yellow engine. "Hello, Duncan!" she chirped, hoping that the slight strain in her voice wasn't as noticeable as she feared it was, as her crew and the yard workers began unloading her consist and rearranging it into smaller shipments. "How are you doing today?"

"Eh, could be be'er," the smaller engine replied, raising an eyebrow, "but ye look like ye swallowed a rock."

Rebecca felt her jaw clench, her smile becoming a little more strained even as she fought to keep it intact. "Grand. Thank you." Her tone had become somewhat clipped, but hopefully, Duncan would get the hint and leave her be.

Unfortunately, to Rebecca's dismay, her response actually seemed to make him more interested in talking to her. "Look, Rebecca, I'm not th' type t' do th' whole 'politeness' thing. Ah'm a plain'-speakin' engine, so if ye've got somethin' t' say, jus' say it."

"I... no! I can't."

"It'll be fine, Becky. C'mon, now."

At the use of the nickname, Rebecca finally felt her hesitance dissipate, heat rising to her cheeks. Ough, Duncan was just the worst! All of her ire from earlier seemed to compound and bubble up in waves, heat shooting through her as her smile gave way to a deeply annoyed scowl.

"Duncan, you... you... you are the rudest engine I have ever met!"

"..."

"..."

A long pause settled in between them, the narrow-gauge engine's expression rather inscrutable, and the longer the silence dragged on, the more the fire within her receded and retreated, leaving only the ashy taste of dread. "Oh. Oh no. Oh, Duncan, I am so sorry. I—"

"Is... is that it?" Duncan cut in, not sounding upset, or even angry. If anything, he simply sounded... confused.

Rebecca could only stare at the other engine, finding herself at a loss for words. "Um... yes?"

The Light Pacific internally braced herself for the backlash that was sure to follow; would Duncan be angry at her? Would he tell the other members of his railway about all of this? If he did, word was sure to get around; despite its size, Sodor could be awfully small when it came to hearing about others' business.

Duncan's actual reaction, however, was something that she could not have prepared herself for. Instead of being angry or anything that Rebecca had envisioned, Duncan simply laughed.

"HAHAHAHAHA! Ahhh, yer real bad at this. But that's fine. D'ye feel be'er now that ye've lighten'd yer load a li'l?"

A fountain of apologies had sprung to Rebecca's lips, only to dry up at Duncan's words. Surprisingly, her heart did feel a little lighter. Of course, she still felt bad for yelling at him in the first place, but as he didn't really seem to mind, Rebecca supposed that she shouldn't worry about it too much either.

"I... I guess so," she replied hesitantly. "But I wouldn't want to make a habit out of yelling at anyone!"

"Nah, yer not the type," the tank engine grinned. However, his smile soon curved into something more thoughtful as he looked at her, eyes more curious than anything. "But really, though, ye should speak up when ye've got a problem. I know ye ken hold yer own 'gainst th' big engines, but pretendin' t' be happy when y'aren't isn't good fer ya."

"What, are you saying I should be more like you?" Rebecca snorted. "Sorry, but I like having friends."

"Ohhhh," Duncan retorted sarcastically, meeting Rebecca's sass with his own. "Ye like havin' friends, ye say, but ye won't be honest wit' any of 'em, huh?"

The comment caused the tender engine's eyes to fly wide, the easy air from their back-and-forth moments ago having now turned tense. "Wha... what?"

"UGH," Duncan groaned, looking like he was desperately restraining himself from rolling his eyes. "Cannae believe I'll have t' explain... alright, look. Yer so worried 'bout fittin' in an' makin' friends that ye let everyone ride all over ye. Ye dun like sayin' anythin' 'cause ye think they'll be mad and it'll just be soooo terrible. Blah blah blah."

Unfortunately, as much as Rebecca wanted to refute his words, she instead found herself silent, the shameful truth of his comments almost suffocating.

Undeterred, or perhaps uncaring, Duncan continued to press his point. "Ye can't live yer life like that, Rebecca. If someone does wrong by ya, then ye hav'ta tell 'em. 'S th' only way they'll know. Ah've always said that ah'm a plain-speakin' engine, and this's what ah mean: if there's a problem, then ah'll say somethin', n' I expect the same. Makes dealin' wit' problems much easier. 'Sides..."

If he could have, Duncan probably would have shrugged his shoulders, but gave a nonchalant hum instead.

"If ye trust 'em, an' they're really yer friends, then they might be mad for a li'l bit, but they'll listen. N' if they don't listen or stay mad 'cause of whatcha asked, then they're not really yer friends, n' not worth trustin'."

The Light Pacific blinked, surprised at the depth of Duncan's insight. Such a thing felt rather unexpected coming from him, but then again, could she really say that she'd made the effort to get to know or bond with Duncan that well before now? Still, while the little yellow engine's advice was astoundingly sound, there was still something that gave her pause.

"I understand what you're saying, but... what if I'm asking too much?" Rebecca mumbled, and Duncan's expression would have been comical if her question hadn't been so genuine.

"Well, yeah, but that's jus' called bein' reasonable! Sir Handel's not one t' be reasonable! GORDON'S not known fer bein' reasonable! But YOU? Laird help me, yer fine, Rebecca. Really, now. Ah think ye have a good enough smokebox on yer frames t' know what's reasonable n' what's not, so long as ye don't overthink it."

It was then that Duncan's eyes settled on Rebecca's crew, who were finishing up with the delivery. "Oi, you two! Becky's crew!"

At Duncan's call, driver and fireman poked their heads up, surprised. "...What is it?" the driver called back slowly, seemingly hesitant, and Duncan scowled in response, all while Rebecca's panicked eyes dashed between the small engine and her crew, her mind racing as she tried to figure out what to do.

"Rebecca has somethin' t' say t' ye!" Duncan shouted, and both driver and fireman exchanged glances, but picked their way over, standing before their now-nervous engine, whose frames had started to shake lightly at the thought of confrontation.

Duncan's eyes flicked up to her face, taking in her anxious aura. "D'ye trust 'em?"

At the question, the two humans looked askance at Duncan, but Rebecca's trembling had slowed as she considered the question. Did she trust her crew? With her operation, certainly, but with her feelings...

...

Yes. She did and she would. In fact, she had to; the idea of not trusting her crew was unthinkable. Thus, the Light Pacific gathered her courage and began to speak.

"Erm... Driver, Fireman, I... I know that you're trying to help me when you guide me back onto my trains. And I appreciate it! But I don't need it. It makes me nervous. And I usually end up tuning you both out. I'm sorry! I know you're trying to help, but that's just not what I need!"

The words tumbled out in a rush, and at some point, Rebecca had closed her eyes, scared to see the looks on her crew's faces. Oh God, what if Duncan had been wrong? What if—

"Heyyyy, hey hey hey," her driver soothed, patting her cheek, and slowly, Rebecca's eyes fluttered open once again, refocusing on her crew. Unlike her worst fears, they both wore calm smiles, with no trace of disappointment or upset to be found. "Thanks for telling us, Rebecca. It must have taken a lot of courage to do that."

"He's right," added her fireman. "If what we're doing isn't helping, then it's better that you tell us so that we don't distract you."

At their words, Rebecca felt air fill her tubes once again, and she almost sagged in relief, feeling that a great weight had been lifted from her frames. "Ah... thank you. Thank you so much."

As Rebecca and her crew discussed some things, the yellow engine was all smiles, clearly less burdened than before. With the ghost of a smile on his face, Duncan quietly pulled away from the heartfelt scene; even though it had gotten him into trouble before, it was moments like this that convinced Duncan there would always be value in plain speaking.

Chapter Text

Spencer couldn't particularly say that he enjoyed visiting Sodor. It was too pastoral, too rural, and too overrun with cows for his liking; he was far more interested in spending time and sharing sheds with engines of high stature and great prestige than having to visit this backwater island with all of its barbaric little engines. Really, besides Gordon (as well as Connor and Caitlin, who he couldn't help but begrudgingly admire), there was nobody worth seeing on this godforsaken islet, and even then, it was fun visiting Gordon simply to demonstrate who was the superior Gresley between them.

On this particular trip, the Duke and Duchess of Boxford had come to enjoy the lavish surroundings of their summer home, leaving Spencer with little to do but sit around and wait. On previous trips, he'd assisted with building this very manor and even helping to restore the nearby Ulfstead Castle, but this particular venture seemingly held no such exhilaration; instead, he was made to sit and wait until their Graces wished to go gallivanting about the island, taking in the quaint local surroundings such as the zoo. Naturally, there were far better zoos available in London, but the Duke and Duchess somehow found joy in visiting all of these places of substandard and frankly insulting quality. Spencer couldn't understand it himself, but then again, what did it matter as long as he had the honor of escorting such distinguished personages?

As Spencer idled in his recently constructed shed, contemplating whether he might allow himself to indulge in the island's warm sunshine and enjoy a well-deserved rest, a bright peep peep! startled him back into wakefulness. Percy, that little green caterpillar, was fast approaching with a single car, albeit traveling at quite the slow speed.

As he pulled up to Boxford station, he gave a quick whistle, causing his crew to leap from his cab and the stationmaster (who was truthfully a glorified doorman) to leave his office and come to inspect. The smaller engine's crew opened the car to reveal a myriad of carefully packed packages, many of which were labeled as fragile. Given Spencer's close proximity to said station, it was quite easy for him to conveniently assess just what was going on; these were apparently items ordered by their Graces by which to furnish their manor, and Percy had been the one scheduled to bring them over.

Well. That was boring.

Wholly unsatisfied, Spencer let out a deep sigh, drawing the smaller engine's attention. "Oh! Hello, Spencer," Percy greeted hesitantly, eyes shifting over to meet the larger engine's. "...How are you?"

His tone wasn't as fawning or adoring as Spencer would have liked from a conversation partner, but it was a step up from that ridiculous Thomas or just about anyone else on this horrid little island, so it would have to do.

"I am well, Percy," Spencer intoned, a haughty smile coming easily to his face. "As always, I am doing my utmost to live up to the great expectations placed upon me by my illustrious designer and lineage—"

"You know, I've always meant to ask about that," the little green engine oh-so-rudely interrupted. "What is with you guys going on about your builder and your legacy and all of that?"

Spencer recoiled in shock, struck dumb with disbelief. "Are... are you serious? Do you have no pride in your origins? I, for one, was originally put to to paper by Sir Nigel Gresley himself! Of course I have a duty to uphold that great man's honor! But you seem to have no respect for your history at all!"

In the face of Spencer's passionate declaration, Percy could only make a noncommittal noise of "I guess."

"I don't know what to tell you, Spencer. I don't remember where I was built, and I also don't remember who designed me. All my life, I've worked, and worked, and worked some more. I have no idea what my history is, and even Sir Topham hasn't been able to puzzle it out."

The very idea of Percy's "obscure antecedents" was enough to make Spencer's face pucker in on itself, as though he'd swallowed a lemon. "Do you mean to tell me," the silver engine finally rasped, "that some little engine of uncertain origin has been tasked with bringing the Duke and Duchess of Boxford their precious cargo?!"

"...Yes?"

"...Ugh." The straightforward answer managed to knock all of the wind out of Spencer's metaphorical sails, prompting a scowl to peek out. "Right, well, seeing as some poor orphan like you couldn't begin to understand, I shall educate you. You see, engines like myself—and, though it pains me to admit it, Gordon—were built to be the best of the best at what we do. Our success is our designer's pride. And so, we mustn't tarnish his legacy by being anything less than exemplary!"

"Huh," came Percy's vastly unimpressed reply. "Well, congratulations, I guess."

This earned the tiny tank engine a rather severe pout from Spencer, who was fast becoming quite displeased that all of his self-aggrandizing was somehow not earning him the desired level of awe. "Listen here, Percy. Everything we are, everything I am, is tied to being a Gresley. I must prove that I am worthy to stand among them! Gordon is the First. Scotsman is Beloved. Mallard is the Fastest. So many other members of our family have earned prestige, and I... well."

At this, a rare spark of hesitation flashed across Spencer's face, but it was quickly buried beneath a smug smile. "I am still in the process of building my fame, but I've no doubt that I will do so, and take my own place in the annals of railway history."

Percy didn't immediately respond, but instead blinked owlishly at Spencer, as though trying to peer through the illusion of pride that Spencer so often projected. "But... why? Is that really what you want, or just what you think you should do?"

Spencer blinked once, then twice, his smile slipping from his face as he found that none of his prepared answers were sufficient to answer the question. Of course it was what he wanted; of course he wanted to establish himself as an untouchably glorious member of the vaunted Gresley family. One whose honor could not be questioned. One of the great families who stood above all others who rode the railways of the United Kingdom. That was a given. That was only to be expected. That was...

...

After a long, long moment, the silver engine shifted slightly in place, fixing the little green engine with a weighty gaze. "...The answers are one in the same, Percy. What I want is what all Gresley engines want, which is to contribute to the legacy of our designer, Sir Nigel Gresley, through my great prestige. That is how I will become truly Useful. Everything else is secondary."

Percy's brow furrowed in response, seemingly dissatisfied by the answer. "Ugh, I don't understand you! You're so selfish, but not even for yourself! It's all for the memory of your dead designer and a family legacy that nobody except for you Gresleys cares about anymore!"

Spencer couldn't look away from Percy as he spoke, stuck between wanting to take massive offense at his words, yet utterly unable to refute him. At Spencer's silence, Percy continued, clearly not finished with his thought.

"I may not have some family or railway legacy, but that just means I have to be really Useful through my own work and my own merit! Heck, that's true of any engine! If you think nothing matters except for approval from some dead guy and the stuffy people who care about stuff like that, then no wonder you're unhappy. I'm sorry for you."

Suddenly, there was a whistle, and Percy's crew started coming back. "Wait!" Spencer called, the sound shaking him from his stupor. "If... if not him, then who? Who am I supposed to get approval from?!"

Percy blinked, then gave the silver engine a look like he was an absolute idiot. "Are you daft? Your crew, your owner, and yourself! Duh!"

With that, the little green engine pulled away from the station, murmuring something (likely derogatory) about "trust fund engines," and Spencer could only watch him go, smokebox swirling with thoughts of what Percy had said. All his existence, he'd had it drilled into him that everything was temporary, but the Legacy was forever. No matter what he did, it was all to serve the Legacy; if scrapped, he'd be a martyr for it, and in life, he would work toward its glory. Working toward the Legacy was how Gresleys cemented their Usefulness.

And yet, here was Percy, poor orphan Percy, who found fulfillment, who fancied himself Useful, simply through the approval of the Controller and his crew. He wasn't beholden to his builder, or his designer, or any sort of legacy; all he had was his present, and yet, he could still smile so genuinely.

For once in his life, Spencer found himself at a loss for words. He'd wondered for years what had changed for Gordon once he'd some to Sodor, but perhaps he too had let go of the weight of the Legacy. Perhaps he too had shed its great burden, and that's why he shined so brightly now.

Quietly, Spencer let his eyes slip shut, savoring the breeze and the warm Sudrian sunshine. His encounter with Percy had given him much to think about, but for now, he would take his rest; something told him that he might not have such inner peace for some time.

Chapter Text

Days stretched into weeks, which then slipped into months, followed by years. Rheneas had settled into his quiet life on Sodor, working alongside Skarloey and getting to know his new home. Strangely, this railway, despite the fact that he had never seen or even heard much about it before his arrival, teased out a deep and cloying sense of nostalgia and fondness from the depths of his heart, as though he'd lived here all his life and had never wanted to leave.

Something about how the trees swayed lightly, the rich red of the flowers, and the chatter of passengers, many of which spoke mainly in English but often slipped into Sudric as well, all contributed to this feeling. Interestingly, he appeared to have a fairly good understanding of Sudric, managing to pick it up quite quickly, and Mr. Mack, the railway controller, even commented that his accent was spot-on for the valley, as though he were a native speaker. However, even he wasn't as fluent as Skarloey apparently was, because his counterpart spoke Sudric with such ease that it was as if he'd been built here. Even more mysteriously, whenever Rheneas inquired, the older engine simply laughed it off, saying that he'd had a while to practice and that he was sure Rheneas would catch up soon. Coming from anyone else, it surely would have been condescending, but Skarloey's encouragement was so genuine that Rheneas couldn't interpret it as anything but.

Overall, his impressions closely matched his initial thoughts: a truly lovely island, with picturesque views and idyllic towns dotting the hills, but also filled with some rather strange characters. One had been a railway worker, who had initially stared at him as though he were a ghost. Once they were acquainted, he introduced himself as Alexander, but seemed awfully nervous for some reason, especially after he'd asked if, by chance, Rheneas recognized him, to which the engine promptly responded that he'd never seen him before. This seemed to unnerve the worker further, and he resigned the next day.

Another strange character was Skarloey himself. Rheneas' crimson counterpart was oddly chummy and sometimes overly familiar, going so far as to call him "brother" after only a few months of knowing each other. Realistically, they were more akin to cousins than anything, but using such an intimate term in such a short span of time felt rather offputting... or at least, it should have. Once again, had it come from any other engine, Rheneas would have most certainly resisted, but from Skarloey, it almost felt... right. Or at least, not nearly as bothersome as Rheneas had initially expected. Sure, Skarloey's jubilant personality could be grating at times, but Rheneas shockingly didn't mind the closeness, even as he preferred to keep most everyone else, even his crew, at arm's length.

For some reason, Skarloey often seemed to be an exception when it came to Rheneas' deep desire for personal space, whether emotional or physical.

Still, that didn't change the fact that although Skarloey could be a genuine joy to be around, especially after he had learned his lesson about being too full of himself after getting caught in a mudslide, Rheneas' bro—counterpart could also be deeply vexing. For one thing, when they'd first met, Skarloey had appeared to have some kind of nightmare about being human that seemed to have engraved itself in his memory. At the time, he'd asked Rheneas if he'd had similar dreams, only for him to confirm that he hadn't. However, Skarloey had brought the matter up at least twice after that, with Rheneas shutting down such ridiculous notions both times until Skarloey apparently got the hint and stopped asking. It was a strange query, and one that worried him; engines weren't supposed to have thoughts or nightmares about being human. Engines were supposed to do their jobs with minimal fuss and come back to the sheds satisfied, or so he'd been told many a time. Rheneas couldn't help but be grateful that Skarloey had either stopped having that nightmare or had lost interest in the subject, because an engine that didn't behave himself properly would find himself punished, and he would never wish the other ill.

The other vexing aspect of Skarloey, however, was that it was quite clear that he was keeping secrets. While Rheneas normally wouldn't have thought much of it, it seemed as though the No. 1 wasn't telling him, but perfectly happy to discuss whatever it was with other engines. Namely, one tank engine in particular from their neighboring railway, known as Neil.

Rheneas liked Neil. He genuinely did. The box tank was calm yet kind, and often watched his brother's antics with a small smile on his face, as though he found Skarloey's various antics rather charming. However, when the two engines were together, they clearly seemed inclined to talk about something that Rheneas was not allowed to be privy to.

This had never been quite so apparent as it had been the other day, when the crimson engine was just returning to the sheds at Crovan's Gate after a long day of work. Sunsets in the Valley were nothing short of breathtaking, and no matter how many times Rheneas saw it, the sun's long fingertips caressing the land as she took her leave for the evening left him with deep sense of satisfaction. On that day, however, such a warm feeling had fled as soon as he'd come upon Skarloey, who wasn't in the shed but on the siding near the standard-gauge track, speaking with Neil. The two of them were facing away from the entrance to the yard, so they didn't notice his approach, and Rheneas found himself deeply torn between wanting to simply take his place in the shed, and whistling loudly enough to startle them both into manners.

Icy annoyance crawled up through his tubes, all of his satisfaction at a day's work done disappearing with the sun, and with a scowl, the No. 2 engine made up his mind. "You two go ahead," he murmured to his crew. "I'll take my place in a minute."

Both driver and fireman shared uneasy glances, but did as they were asked, clambering out of his cab to go get the cleaning tools. From where he was, Rheneas could just make out the other engines' conversation, feeling only slightly bad for eavesdropping and fully ignoring the uglier feelings lurking beneath.

"But that's just it! I don't think he remembers a thing," Skarloey bemoaned, frustration evident in his voice. "I've tried to bring it up with him before, but he just looked at me like I'd gone mad. He's finally warming up to me, and I don't want to ruin that by being... you know."

"Ah do," Neil soothed, the steam puffing from his funnel far less agitated than Skarloey's appeared to be. "Ah understand. But ye can't rush it; 'e'll either remember, or he won't. Worryin' 'bout it won't make it happen."

"You're right, but... what if my brother never—"

"Never what?"

The interruption startled even him, but the words were out of Rheneas' mouth before he could stop himself. Sensing that he now had their full attention, the crimson engine could only follow through on his arrival, and he pulled up on the track to the right of Skarloey, finally allowing him to see their faces. Skarloey himself looked rather guilty, as he should have been; he had been talking about Rheneas behind his back, after all. Neil's expression, however, was some mix of sadness, disappointment, and defiance, and despite himself, it made Rheneas' flame crackle.

"Talking about me behind my back? I see. So this is how you two spend your time," Rheneas spat, not entirely sure where all of this venom was coming from, but sensing that the well apparently ran deeper than previously believed. It would have been one thing if this was some secret Skarloey had. It was another that he could entrust Neil with it, but not him. Yet it was entirely something else that apparently, their secret involved him, and they just didn't seem inclined to include him in the conversation.

"Rheneas, we just..."

"Mebbe ye shouldn't talk t' yer brither like that," Neil cut in, and the way he said those words seemed to signal that there was a deeper meaning there. If there was, however, Rheneas couldn't even begin to guess at what, and that only stoked his ire further.

"Don't even try to put this on me. Anybody would be hurt if their two closest co-workers were gossiping about them behind their back!" the smaller tank engine shouted, well aware that his composure was well and truly lost, but in his defense, he could not find it in himself to care. "Besides, you mentioned that I'd forgotten something. Well? Out with it! What have I forgotten that's making you two skulk about and have private conversations about me, hm?"

In the face of Rheneas' deep anger and frustration, Skarloey simply breathed, and made a vain attempt at collecting himself. "Rheneas, do you remember when I asked you about dreams? Or dreaming about being human?"

Rheneas blinked once, then a second time. Out of all of the possible topics that Skarloey could have brought up, this hadn't been the first, or even the fifth that he would have considered. "I... yes, I do. You'd asked if I'd ever had dreams of falling into Skarloey, I think."

"Yes! That's right," Skarloey chirped, his expression brightening slightly. "Well, Neil and I have been talking about those dreams. He's... um... he's had dreams like that too. And so, we were wondering if you'd maybe forgotten that you'd had... any dreams like that... if you'd had them at all..." Skarloey's voice, originally so bright, had withered in moments as Rheneas' face shifted from blazing anger to biting frostiness in the blink of an eye.

"Are you still on about that?" Rheneas intoned, voice clipped as a chill of fear bolted through his tubes. "Has he been feeding into those ridiculous thoughts of yours?" Damn it. He'd thought this whole matter had been laid to rest, but no, apparently Skarloey was still thinking about it. What if it affected his work? What would the Controller do to him if word got out that Skarloey apparently dreamed about being human sometimes? Would he punish him? Think he'd gone mad and replace him?

No. He couldn't let that happen. Not to Skarloey.

"You should know better than to share your delusions with others," Rheneas rasped, willing the other to understand. "It's not safe. What if somebody hears you? What if they decide to replace you because of this?!"

A long silence stretched between the three engines, the sun now having completely set. The crews and cleaners were nowhere to be seen, presumably all having decided to take a longer break than usual to give the engines space.

Finally, Skarloey heaved a great sigh, one that allowed a world-weary gaze to settle upon his face. Rheneas couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the other so tired. "...I understand. You're right; I shouldn't talk about this. Someone, even someone close to me, might think I've gone mad, after all."

For some reason, the words made Rheneas flinch, and he rocked back slightly on his wheels even as Skarloey sent him a gentle smile, undercut by the fatigue etched into his face. "Thank you, Rheneas. Thank you for looking out for me. And... I'm sorry. What I did was incredibly hurtful, and it won't happen again."

Skarloey's apology overflowed with sincerity, and yet Rheneas almost didn't want to accept—not out of pettiness, but because he almost felt like he should be the one apologizing, for some reason. However, he knew better than to drag this whole uncomfortable situation out, so he simply hummed, the ice in his boiler thawing out. "...It's alright. Thank you for the apology."

Neil had remained silent throughout all of this, staring at Rheneas with a deeply complicated expression that the smaller tank engine couldn't even begin to make sense of. Yet after a moment, he too gave a simple apology and made to leave, although he shot one last look at Skarloey before he did so.

Skarloey said nothing in reply, only staring down the line with vacant eyes. Rheneas, also having nothing to say, simply waited alongside him, respecting the gulf of silence between them, until the cleaners finally dared to return.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After that day, Skarloey never again talked about nightmares or thoughts of being human, much to Rheneas' satisfaction (and relief). Thus, fifty more years plodded by, passing along in relative peace... that is, up until they didn't.

With the Great War in full swing, slate was being mined in greater quantities than ever. The railway was under new management (and distinctly better management, as after Mr. Mack had died, the two little engines had been forced to struggle through some truly difficult years together, praying that their fortunes might change), and under the patronage of Sir Handel Brown I, was doing as well as one could expect given the circumstances.

Much to Skarloey and Rheneas' surprise, a newly formed neighboring railway was being implemented, known as the NWR, or the Northwestern Railway. This of course was of great interest to the two engines, and they had both taken a shine to Edward, one of several engines who'd been sent over to assist with the building.

Rheneas liked Edward. He genuinely did. The tender engine was wise and insightful, and often had interesting news to share whenever their paths crossed at Crovan's Gate. However, while Rheneas generally enjoyed talking with Edward, one conversation in particular had left him feeling rather irate.

It had been another lovely day on Sodor, so perfectly mundane that one would be forgiven for thinking that the war happening just half the world away was nothing more than fearmongering. Both Skarloey and Rheneas were in the yard, getting steamed up, when Edward pulled up for a quick greeting before he headed off to deliver a goods train.

"So," the blue engine began, his tone light and conversational, "Skarloey and Rheneas. Have you two always had those names?"

"Oh, no," Skarloey started, but then he hesitated, almost seeming to catch himself. "I mean, there's no way my brother and I wouldn't—"

"What Skarloey means," Rheneas interrupted with a sigh, "is that yes, we've always had these names."

This shouldn't been too shocking; any local or historical record would have shown that yes, they'd had these names since their creation. Yet, as the blue engine looked at them, Rheneas thought he saw a slight flash of surprise quickly cross Edward's face, but it was so brief that he couldn't be sure.

"...Right," the tender engine continued. "Well, I was just curious. You two seem to be named for places on your line, while Thomas and I chose our names ourselves, so I was wondering."

"Yes," Skarloey replied. "Your names do seem rather... human."

At the unexpected statement, Rheneas barely managed to bite back a sharp admonishment. Human? AGAIN? He'd thought this had been put to rest decades ago, and now Skarloey was bringing it up in front of ANOTHER engine? Had he learned nothing from what Rheneas had been trying to tell him all this time? What would Edward say?

However, not even in Rheneas' wildest dreams could he have expected what Edward would say next.

"I suppose that's true," the blue engine pondered. "In fact, I've even thought about being human before; have either of you had such daydreams before?"

"Oh yes," Skarloey answered hastily. "I've thought about it quite—"

"And you shouldn't be," Rheneas snapped, severing the flow of conversation before any more damage could be done. "Edward, it was lovely to see you, but it seems as though you have a job to do. I'll also ask that you don't fill my brother's head with any strange ideas, thank you."

The silence that followed was deafening. From his wide eyes and dumbfounded expression, Edward had no ready reply to such a blistering request, and Rheneas steadfastly refused to turn his gaze toward the engine beside him, willfully ignoring the deep upset lurking in his gaze, the horror and mortification and pain blending together on his face, the way his still-building steam cut off momentarily in absolute shock as he struggled to get himself back together.

"...Yes. You're right. I should go," Edward finally murmured, his gaze sympathetic as he looked towards Skarloey. "I wish you only the best of luck."

With that, the blue tender engine gave one last peep peep! and pulled away from Crovan's Gate, leaving behind a silence wider than ever before separating the two crimson engines.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in the night, while the moon sailed across the sky and the stars flicked in the celestial sea, Rheneas awoke with a start, eyes flying open as he forced heaving breaths through his tubes. By some miracle, he hadn't woken Skarloey, who was parked right in front of him and snoozing soundly, but that was the extent of Rheneas' fortunes. "Damn it..." the crimson engine swore softly. "Not again... not another blasted dream!"

Ever since the conversation with Edward over a month ago, Rheneas had started to have strange, worrisome dreams. Dreams of an old woman he didn't recognize next to some human wearing Skarloey's face, laughing and smiling and calling him brother. Dreams of that same human grabbing him and propelling him across a lake he intrinsically knew to be Skarloey, albeit iced over... until it shattered. Having to watch that familiar face smile peacefully as he fell into what he knew was deathly cold water, a sacrifice that he himself might live. Dreams of walking alongside several other humans and hiking around the beautiful vistas of Skarloey and Rheneas, pointing out landmarks. Dreams of the falls, and a strong feeling of dread, before he woke himself up, just like he had tonight.

"Urgh," Rheneas moaned, his mind hazy and his memories bleary, everything running together like a river, confusing and loud. He needed to try to get back to sleep, but sleep seemed as though it might prove to be elusive, despite how weary he felt in his soul. What had changed? Why had he started having such strange dreams now? Was it because Skarloey had brought up the topic after so many years of silence? Or was it Edward confirming that his counterpart's odd dreams weren't simply an imagination gone wild, since he apparently had such visions too? Whatever the case, Rheneas was less than pleased about the situation; he was supposed to be sensible and rational, damn it, and this... this unnerved him in a way that he couldn't even begin to explain.

Still, with great effort, Rheneas finally fell back into a fitful sleep, and thankfully, had no more strange dreams coming to plague him.

As he awoke the next morning, groggy and lethargic, he was pleasantly surprised to hear that he and Skarloey would be double-heading the first train of the day.

"You've both seemed rather tired lately, especially you, Rheneas," their Controller smiled kindly. "Not that I can blame you, what with everything happening. So, you both can have a nice long run up to the slate quarry, and bring down a shipment together. Does that sound good to you both?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" Skarloey beamed, only for his grin to droop almost immediately. "That is, if Rheneas is alright with it."

"Of course," Rheneas immediately replied, still terribly tired, but not so much that he could ignore the pang of sorrow in his soul at Skarloey's hesitant reply. "I would greatly enjoy that."

"Then yes, I would too!" the other engine cheered, clearly relieved, and once again, Rheneas couldn't help but berate himself at the thought of being the reason why Skarloey had been so reserved lately. Maybe on this run, with just the two of them, he could apologize and clear the air.

Soon, the two of them were in steam and setting off, Skarloey in front and Rheneas behind him. They were to wind their way up from Crovan's Gate, crossing the newly built Iron Bridge as they made their way to one of the several slate quarries near Rheneas station. It was a trip they'd both made many times before, yet this time, it seemed to drag on into eternity, an air of uncertainty between the two engines as if they both wanted to say something, yet had no idea where to start.

Finally, once they reached the quarry and their crews left to coordinate with the quarry foreman and load up their trucks, it was Rheneas who spoke first. "Skarloey, I... I'm sorry that things have been so awkward between us lately. I know it's my fault, and I want to make it right. I shouldn't have been so cruel."

There was a brief pause, and then a gentle sigh. "No, you shouldn't have. You really hurt my feelings, Rheneas. But I know why you did it; you've always been worried that my talk of humans would get me into trouble. Frankly, when it came to dealing with the old management, you were right, and even I could see that. So I followed your advice.

"But now... things are different. Our Owner and Controller are kind people. We have good crews. We have more work than ever. In fact, we're practically indispensable."

There was another long pause, but when Skarloey resumed, Rheneas didn't have to see his face to perceive the tears held carefully at bay. "Do you know how much it hurts to know that your own dear brother thinks you're mad? That you're delusional?" Skarloey practically spat that last word, and it struck Rheneas deeply, for he had said such a thing, hadn't he?

"I've been trying so hard to be kind and understanding, and yet whenever I tried to talk about what was haunting me, you shut me down. So instead, I turned to other engines, and yet, I couldn't find respite there either, all because you were trying so hard to protect me in the way you thought was best, despite my feelings. And yet, I did as you wanted, because as I said, you were almost certainly right."

Rheneas couldn't bring himself to speak. Skarloey's accusations were all true, and he knew it.

"Still... just once, I wish that you would be willing to listen to me. Just once, you would hear me. It's been so many years, and yet I still feel as though I'm drowning in it all."

The emphasis on that particular word gave Rheneas pause, fragments of his recent dreams flashing rapidly through his mind, never more vivid as they were right now. With a shaking voice, he began to speak, barely stringing the words together. "I... Skarloey. When we get back to Crovan's Gate, I... I would like to hear it. All of it. Every single detail that you can muster. Please. Please tell me."

Skarloey gave a short gasp of surprise, clearly not expecting this sort of answer. "I... alright. If you'd like to hear it, I... I would deeply appreciate being able to tell you."

The sincere warmth in his voice helped steady Rheneas somewhat, and he managed to take a deep breath, pulling himself together just as their crews returned. "Alright, everything's in order! Let's get back you two," Rheneas' driver announced. With that, the two engines made use of a siding to get themselves turned around, and backed down onto the consist so that they could make their way back down from the quarry. The trip started off smoothly; although neither engine had much to say, the quiet between them was far more companionable than it had been when they'd left. However, trouble soon found them as they began to cross the Iron Bridge.

The Iron Bridge was a fairly new construction; there was another way to get up to the currently operational slate mines, but it was somewhat out of the way and was a longer route overall, so the railway and the quarry had this bridge built for convenience. It crossed the basin of Rheneas itself, making for a lovely view, in addition to a straightforward and convenient means of getting up into the hills. However, there was one problem: the Iron Bridge was quite narrow, rather high, and had no safeguards in place. Thus, a moment's distraction could lead to dire consequences.

Unfortunately, a moment's distraction was all it took. Skarloey, who had surely been contemplating Rheneas' uncharacteristic change of heart, didn't notice that some detritus had blown onto the bridge. In a split second, his wheel was slipping, only to soon touch nothing but air as he began to veer precariously off the side of the bridge. "AHHHHH!" he wailed, his fear palpable as he stared down at the murky abyss below, and his eyes clenched shut, as though waiting for the inevitable.

However, it would never come.

Not on Rheneas' watch.

Not on his brother's watch.

With great effort, Rheneas clenched his jaw and began to reverse, holding fast to Skarloey as he carefully dragged the other engine back onto the bridge. Flashes of memories interspersed themselves with reality, forming a kaleidoscopic tapestry of light and sound, stretching across past and present. His brother falling beneath the ice, all to save his life. His own death. His brother had saved him and he'd died anyway.

Surveying the falls. Saving the surveyor. A single slip and nothing beneath, the Earth grasping for him with commanding gravity.

Well. Death would not have his way with either of them today.

Finally, at long last, Rheneas managed to pull Skarloey backwards to dependable rails on firm, solid Earth, where their crews ensured that he was alright to continue. Once they'd all caught their breath, Skarloey finally managed to speak.

"Rheneas, you... you saved me! You—"

"Just like... you saved me. Only this time... we're both still here."

Rheneas' words caused Skarloey to falter, but try as he might, he couldn't continue his thought; his mind and memory were overlapping in painful flashes, to the point that he didn't even hear the concern in his crew's voices as they fretted over the two engines' condition. Trapped in his own mind, Rheneas barely even registered that Skarloey had begun journeying across the bridge once again, determined to get them both back to Crovan's Gate as soon as safely possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The slate had been delivered with little issue, and the morning train postponed. Although doing so had earned the ire of the passengers, the Controller had taken one look at Rheneas and determined that he was to take the rest of the day off. Skarloey, for his part, had asked to be parked in front of him, and even through the haze blanketing his mind, Rheneas could feel the weight of Skarloey's gaze upon him, searching his face for answers.

"Rheneas... are you... do you..." he finally murmured, not quite sure how to put what he was asking into words, but this time, at long last, Rheneas understood.

Rheneas understood everything.

"Skarloey, you... you're my big brother. You died saving me, but I... oh God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I... I..."

Tears began to flood down Rheneas' cheeks, the fog finally receding from his mind. "I kept you waiting for so long. I was so horrible to you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Shhhhhhh," came his brother's gentle voice, comforting in a way that Rheneas had never fully appreciated until this very moment. "It's alright. It's ok. You're here now, and so am I. It doesn't matter how long I've waited; what matters is that you remembered me at all."

"But everything I said... everything I did—"

"—You did for my sake. Even if you didn't remember why, you still acted out of love for me anyway. How could I ever begrudge you for that?"

Thus, in the quiet shed on a bright morning, two brothers ensouled in steel finally had a proper reunion. Even through their tears, their smiles were wide and their laughter was bright, both of their expressions heartfelt reflections of the torrent of emotions coursing through them.

It was true that they would always be burdened by who they were. However, such a thing mattered so very little, given that in life, then death, than life again, they were still together, still brothers, and despite everything, still themselves.

Chapter Text

Ryan had found that, despite everything he'd gone through regarding Sodor's "lost treasure," he'd also developed a strong love for the sea. Bringing goods down the Harwick branch line had proven to be an absolute delight with the smell of the sea following him wherever he went, and the easy breeze grasping for his steam like it was a source of endless fascination. Sure, his work wasn't glamorous, or even all that special, but it was necessary, and although Sir Topham had assured him of such many a time, it was the smiles on the faces of all of the people he'd met that, thanking him for his work, that truly convinced him of it.

He especially liked working alongside Daisy, who managed the passengers. At first, Ryan wasn't too sure how the two of them would get along, given Daisy's rather forward (and sometimes prissy, if Ryan was being honest with himself) personality, but after working together for half a year now, the two had settled into a comfortable routine. As haughty as she could be, Daisy was also both clever and reliable. Although they'd had their troubles early on, the two of them now managed their branch line with little fuss, allowing Ryan to feel that finally, at long last, he was someplace he could hesitantly call "home".

There was one other reason why he'd come to call his branch line "home," however, and that was due to the presence of the engine who'd quickly become his best friend. In fact, they tended to meet up every so often once the day's work was done, about once a week, admiring the ocean view and taking the chance to catch up and talk, confiding in each other many a fable and fear that neither were quite willing to share with their co-workers.

As Ryan took his place on a familiar siding at Arlesburgh Harbor, watching the sun start to set and cascade her flowing tresses of gold across the water, the familiar puffing of another tank engine caught Ryan's attention. Hesitantly pulling his eyes away from the sunlit seas, the purple tank engine's gaze was instead drawn to the empty space beside him, where the smiling face of the NWR's No. 12 was fast pulling up, running light.

At all other times, Oliver was generally accompanied by his faithful brake van, Toad, but only when he was meeting with Ryan did he come by himself, leaving everything else behind.

"Sorry I'm late," the olive green engine called, "but we had an extra run to do. Hope you weren't waiting long!"

"Nope!" Ryan grinned as Oliver pulled into the siding. "I just got here myself. Make yourself comfortable."

Once they'd both gotten settled, both of their crews got out of their cabs, promising that they would be back in an hour or two after dinner. Thus, the two tank engines were left alone, enjoying their shared solitude as they admired the sun.

"You know," Ryan began conversationally, "I was thinking about something the other day."

"Yeah?" Oliver hummed, eyes shifting to look over at the Gresley, although Ryan continued to stare out over the water, his expression thoughtful as his thoughts began to wander.

"Do you remember when we talked about the burden of legacies?"

"...Yeah."

Oliver sighed for a moment, thinking back to a previous evening much like this. "The Weight of the Way, as Toad liked to call it. Duck and I get along when it comes to everything but that. He used to say that it was our duty to keep it alive; I never told him just how much I wished it could die. He wasn't there when it all started falling apart, when all of those good engines younger than me were told they would be made useful in our next lives."

There was a long pause before Oliver spoke again.

"I was proud to be a member of the Great Western. I did my work, and did it well enough. But in the end, they didn't care about me, or any of the rest of us. They cared about efficiency and innovation alone, much more than any of their individual engines. As long as the hive functions, who cares if older bees are replaced with new ones?"

The tank engine's eyelashes fluttered, shivers wracking his frames, although Ryan couldn't tell if they were of deep sorrow or an even deeper anger.

"I don't mind wearing this green. I don't mind our line being called the Little Western. I don't even mind Duck's 'devotion' to the Way that he remembers. But I won't do it. His Way isn't mine, and given how ready they were to toss me aside, it never was. I don't owe it, or the GWR, anything."

Oliver's face had twisted into a bitter scowl at the recollection, but closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. Ryan had to admit that Oliver had been making great strides at that; his best friend tended to have a hair-trigger temper, always getting agitated over something, but at Ryan's suggestion, he'd started working on some effective anger management methods that seemed to be getting some decent results. The Gresley was quite proud of his progress, but saying so would only embarrass him, so he held his tongue.

"Anyway," Oliver exhaled, eyes fluttering open once again as he returned to fixing his gaze on Ryan, "why do you ask?"

Now that it was his turn to speak, Ryan suddenly wondered if he should. Oliver was his best friend, but this particular subject was one that he was rather hesitant to discuss, to say the least. Could he open up about this? Or really, should he?

Beside him, Oliver seemed to shift in place, biting at his lip. "Ryan, if... if you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. I—"

But Ryan didn't hear the rest of his words. Suddenly, he realized that he did want to talk about it, very much. And that grace from Oliver, the empathy of mutual understanding, only solidified his resolve.

"It's fine," Ryan breathed, willing himself to find his courage. He knew he was a pushover. He knew that despite how much he wanted to be, he could never call himself brave. However, here with Oliver, he didn't need to be brave. He didn't need to pretend things he didn't feel. In fact, it was quite the opposite; here on this siding, with only Oliver and the ocean to hear, he could bare his heart. Not brave, just honest.

The Gresley tank engine took a breath.

"I realized that before I started working on this branch line and got to meet you, I was always so worried about what I would accomplish. There was so much pressure to uphold the Gresley legacy, and to be an engine worthy of my name. I... for the blessing of being created, I owed the family, the legacy, a great debt. It was something important enough to die for, should the need arose."

Oliver was silent next to him, not saying a word, although the furrow of his brow and the flickering anger in his eyes spoke volumes.

"I... I wanted to be recognized," Ryan continued, "as all Gresleys do. It's why I looked up to Thomas; he was famous, but earned that fame through his own efforts, and as a tank engine, no less. He didn't pull any famous trains or be the star of any exhibitions; he simply worked hard with what he had, and that was enough to be beloved the world over."

Despite his best efforts, Ryan could hear his voice crack, shattering beneath the weight of all he had to bare. Oliver made a small noise, as though to say something, but Ryan pushed through it. If he stopped here, he would never finish, and for Oliver, he so desperately wanted to.

"I... I did everything I could to try to understand him, but he pushed me away. I shouldn't have been surprised, I guess; I am cursed to be a Gresley, after all, and perhaps he thought I was... I don't know... trying to show him up. Hell, any other Gresley would have."

The admission brought with it a frame-deep shame, one that sent a shiver through Ryan's rivets, but he pressed on anyway, determined to finish his thoughts. If not here, where? If not now, when? It had to be now. After all, only here was he safe to say such things.

"After we figured things out, Sir Topham sent me to help out over here. Now I have my own branchline, and... part of me wondered if I could be as famous as Thomas is. If I was finally going to get my opportunity to contribute to the fame of my family and pay back the debt I owed for being born.

"Yet, the more I worked, the less I found myself caring about all of that. The Gresley name, the legacy, the accomplishments... what did any of that matter when I could see the sea every day, and just be Useful doing the jobs that needed doing? Even if I did become famous the way I was raised to believe I should, would I ever get to do anything like run my own branch line, or would I be put in a static display to get gawked at?"

Ryan's eyes crinkled slightly in fondness, once again smelling the sea air and taking in the sight of the last rays of sun stretching across the water. "I was sure that I wasn't supposed to feel that way, so I thought about it more, and somehow, Ollie, I always thought of you. You, who didn't let your past weigh you down. You, who decided that you didn't have to love your burdens if they'd hurt you, but didn't judge those who clung to them. You, who wanted to live for yourself, and not some great legacy that you could never live up to. And that... that helped me make a decision."

As the sun continued to set, a newfound resolve found its way into Ryan's words, as though he'd taken the last of the sun's embers into his own firebox, letting them smolder.

"I don't want to give this up. I don't want to give you up. And so, somehow, I just... don't think the Gresley legacy really matters much to me anymore. I'm just Ryan, who works on the Harwick Branch Line, and that's enough for me."

At this, Ryan's eyes slipped over to see how Oliver was taking this, suddenly feeling slightly nervous, yet not at all prepared for the other tank engine's expression.

Oliver's cheeks were quite pink, and he seemed slightly preoccupied, like he wasn't quite present. After a moment though, his eyes suddenly seemed to snap back into focus, and he stared deeply at Ryan. "Erm, yeah! I think... I think that's good! Really good! You shouldn't let some legacy control you, especially one that hurt you. Yeah."

"Erm... thanks?" Ryan hedged, suddenly feeling a little disappointed, and Oliver must have seen it written all over his face because the green tank engine hurried to explain himself, tripping over his words.

"I, I'm glad that you feel that way! Really! I just, um... kinda got hung up on what you said. About... not wanting to give me up."

"O-oh!" Now it was Ryan's turn to go pink, eyes suddenly shifting every which way. "Um, yes! I... well, Ollie, you're my best friend and all, so..."

Another pause, another blush.

"There's nobody else I could tell all of this to. Nobody else I could be this honest with. You... you're just that important to me."

At this, Oliver blinked, and his expression became a little more serious. "You know, Ryan, I... I feel the same way. There's nobody else I can talk about all of this with other than you; Duck would never understand, Donald hates my guts, and Douglas is great, but he doesn't get me like you do. Nobody does. It's part of why I really like getting to spend time with you like this."

Another sigh, another swallow.

"I've made so many mistakes while on this railway, yet you've never cared or thought less of me for them. You see me for who I am, and who I'm trying to be, instead of the screw up who got stuck in the turntable decades ago."

Suddenly, Oliver was licking his lips, and staring at Ryan with such intensity that the purple tank engine's eyes went wide, thinking he might feel nervous but instead feeling oddly expectant.

"Ryan, you're my best friend too. We've shared so much with each other that it would be ridiculous to say otherwise. But... do you think that maybe... we could also be more?"

Another shiver shot up Ryan's frames, gaze locked onto Oliver. "Ollie... are you saying—?"

"Go on a date with me," Oliver blurted, before realizing that perhaps shouting was not the best way to get his point across. "I mean... I know that you could get with anyone you wanted. You're smart, you're sweet, and you're too kind for your own good, sometimes. But I just thought that... maybe you'd like..."

Here, his words began to falter, nerves setting in, but this time, it was Ryan's turn to pick up the slack. "Maybe I could," the N2 replied, a small smile and a bright blush returning to his cheeks, "but I don't want to get with just anyone. I want to go out with you because it's you. There's nobody I'd rather go on a date with than my best friend."

Subconsciously, Ryan's smile stretched a little wider, as if reflecting the newfound lightness of his heart, and across from him, Oliver's hesitant expression also shifted into a beaming smile, one that was bright yet surprisingly shy for the normally boisterous engine. It was incredibly cute, in Ryan's humble opinion. "Then... since our crews will come back soon, shall we go next week?"

"I'd love nothing more," Ryan replied with a chuckle, and by the time their crews came back, both tank engines were smiling and laughing louder than they ever had before. After all, given what they'd been through and who they were now, there was so very much to smile about.

Chapter Text

"You're all done, dear," Clarabel smiled gently, pulling the brush away from her darling sister's hair as Annie finished with the last of the nail polish. Their younger brother Thomas had come to them both earlier today with a blush on his face and eyes glued to the floor, stammering through his explanation that perhaps he wasn't just a boy, but also a girl, and that perhaps she wanted to try, in her words, "girl things," like makeup and fashion. However, there was nobody he trusted more to walk her through it all than Annie and Clarabel, and the two of them had been more than happy to help.

Thomas, from the time he'd been in secondary school to now at 25 years old, had always worked with locomotives. He'd started an apprenticeship with the NWR at 16, and began working as a cleaner before eventually becoming a stoker, then a driver. While he was certainly one of the youngest among the drivers, nobody could deny his strong work ethic and fiery passion for his railway. However, he'd always felt the need to prove himself, making him occasionally come off as rather prickly—at least, to everyone but his beloved older sisters.

Annie and Clarabel, 40-year-old twins, had long worked for the railway as car attendants. They usually directed guests to their seats, assisted with luggage, and operated the service cart, and had been doing so for about two decades now. It was because of them that Thomas became interested in railways—after their parents had died when Thomas was too young to remember, Annie and Clarabel became his legal guardians, and he'd often accompanied his sisters to their jobs once school let out, eagerly watching the world go by from his "special seat" in one of the passenger coaches. Thus, it was hardly surprising that Thomas felt a deep connection to the railway, and practically thought of it as a second home.

That said, although he was quite close with a handful of his co-workers and on good to decent terms with the rest, Thomas wasn't quite ready to discuss his "gender enlightenment" with the rest of the railway staff, at least not until he could be more confident with understanding and displaying his newly discovered feminine side. After all, the one known for wearing a third of his lunch on his overalls was the last person anyone would expect to be interested in fashion. Thus, here he was, asking the two people he trusted most in the world to help him further discover herself before making her public debut.

At Thomas' request, they started off by calling her "Tamsin." It rolled off the tongue easily enough, and it was a nice-sounding name, although Tamsin was quick to reassure them that "Thomas" also still felt right, and that using either was fine. However, the joy on their younger sister's face at being called Tamsin (and the surprised, yet welcoming reaction to "Tammy") was undeniable, so the twins made it their mission to use it at least as often as Thomas.

After learning her name came the request for hair and nails, which they had just finished; Tamsin's fingers were now painted in a lovely cerulean blue closely matching the livery of her engine, and finished with a sturdy top coat to help prevent damage. Her hair, normally so short and scraggly, had been brushed out into a close approximation of a pixie cut, which Tamsin had immediately taken a liking to, if her wide-eyed astonishment at her reflection in the vanity mirror was any indication. She really could look quite lovely, and given how Thomas had inherited such baby-faced features from their parents, perhaps that would be to her advantage when it came to the fun part: fashion.

"Alright, Tammy, you mentioned wanting to try on clothes! Let's see..." Annie chuckled, rummaging around in her closet. "Let's see... you're a little taller than we are, and a little broader too, but I believe I have just the thing."

Out of that magic closet came a dress that was slightly worn, but still in fine condition. It was a sweet summer short-sleeved sundress that reached down below the knee, made of breezy cotton and dyed in a rich, dark blue. Overall, it did look quite comfortable, and Annie obligingly held it out to Tamsin for her inspection.

Tamsin carefully took the garment from her elder sister, running it through her hands, and Annie and Clarabel kept a careful eye on her reaction. The fabric was much lighter than what Thomas usually wore, and the length of the dress and sleeves might be too revealing, despite it being what most women nowadays would consider to be a modest length. Still... given Tamsin's hesitation, perhaps it wasn't really about the dress itself, so much as what it represented.

"Tammy," Clarabel began, and their younger sister's head snapped up, waiting for her words. "Just go at your own pace, dear. If you're not ready, then you don't have to force yourself."

"It... it's not that," Tamsin murmured, her gaze falling back to the dress as her fingers balled into the fabric. "I'm just... what if it looks bad? What if I look bad?"

The twins shared a glance, then slowly walked over toward Tamsin, each placing a hand on one of her shoulders. "Then we'll find you something that looks good," Annie soothed.

"That's right," Clarabel agreed. "The point of fashion is to feel beautiful in your own body. We can either make you something ourselves, or find you something else you like, but for now, since you mentioned wanting to try something more feminine, why not give this a try?"

"Mmhmm," Annie smiled, easily picking up on where her sister left off. "You're no less of a man or a woman for liking or disliking any particular kind of clothing. Your femininity is not based on how good you look in a dress, Tamsin. All that matters is whether or not you feel comfortable in body and soul, and you won't know that until you try."

Tamsin's hands, which had started trembling at some point, slowly regained their calm, and she looked over at her sisters with deep relief, and even deeper love, in her eyes. "...Thanks, Annie. Clary."

"Of course, dear," Clarabel chuckled. "Now, go try that on, and if you like dresses in general, we can get or make you more that better suit your personal style."

"Um, ok!" Tamsin grinned, her smile tinged with nervousness, but ultimately bright. The driver made her way to her bedroom to change, with Annie and Clarabel already thinking to themselves about patterns, measurements, fabrics, and accessories.

When Tamsin came back, showing off the dress with an unsure pirouette and hesitantly, yet excitedly, requesting a few more, the twin sisters couldn't help but grin, already excited to see just how they could make their little sister smile next.

Chapter Text

Someone fixed Godred, and they want to bring him here.

Such was the terrifying, tantalizing thought curling within the smokeboxes of the eldest four engines of the Culdee Fell Railway once the news had broken that morning. Their Controller, Mr. Alistair Richards, had delivered the announcement in a rather unsteady voice, as though even he couldn't quite believe the contents of the call he'd received, although his disbelief was quite understandable. His grandfather had been the Controller when the... initial decision had been made, and Godred's name had long been scrubbed from all official documentation and tourist pamphlets, leaving it only to linger as a lump in the back of his brothers' throats.

All of the engines had thought about and considered this particular situation for the rest of the day, each of them feeling some kind of way about this particular announcement. Now that night had fallen and they were all back in their sheds, finally alone, it was time to discuss.

As the other six engines began to talk about the recent news, Culdee was silent. He in particular had always had the strongest feelings about Godred. He'd been the one to try and convince his brother of his foolishness. He'd been the one keeping the eldest's name alive though telling others of his demise, only for all the rest of the world to assume he was telling a ghost story or, even worse, making it up.

Now that had been an unpleasant conversation, the one he'd had to have with Skarloey and Rheneas of the Skarloey Railway. Once Duncan and Sir Handel had left, they'd so genuinely complimented him on his "made-up" story. It was the perfect thing to teach their younger engines a thing or two about safety, and no story of theirs could have been nearly as effective. Their faces so earnest, their laughter that of being in on some kind of joke. It had made Culdee want to vomit, should he have had the ability.

Instead, a long-dormant anguish, donning the guise of wrath, had erupted up from his boiler, filling his body from his tubes to his cylinders so quickly that for a moment, Culdee had forgotten how to breathe. The other two engines' good cheer had so quickly fallen away at the stony expression that stole away his smile, at the glint of steel in his once-affable gaze, leaving them both staring at him in wide-eyed confusion. "You think that I made that up?" he'd rumbled in disbelief, volcanic anger and chilly disappointment battling for dominance over each word. "You think that I would sully my brother's name and memories by lying about him? I had not realized that you both thought so little of me."

"No, it's not like that at all!" had come Skarloey's predictably panicked reply, and nearby, Rheneas had been struck silent, eyes overflowing with the clear desire to do damage control but not quite knowing where to start. "We didn't mean anything like that!" Skarloey had continued to plead, a note of desperation in his voice. "We'd heard about the accident, but all we'd heard was that Godred had been scrapped! Not anything about... his parts being... recycled..."

Culdee had taken a deep breath at Skarloey's clumsy attempt at delicacy, but decided to take the other engine at his word. "Very well. But please understand that I did not entrust you all with my brother's story just for it to be reduced to some tale. It is a tragedy, from beginning to his eventual end, and because nobody else will speak of it, I must. Otherwise... everything he died for will have been for naught."

Such a statement had struck the other two engines dumb, and thus, not another word on that particular topic had been shared for the rest of Culdee's visit.

"Culdee... y'alright?" came the quiet rumble of Shane Dooiney beside him, shaking him loose from the decades-old memory.

"Yes," Culdee muttered, willing himself to calm. In a louder voice, he started to address the rest of the shed, all of the other engines quieting themselves and listening closely as their de facto leader spoke. "Listen, everyone. Ernest confirmed that our Controller looked into the claims, and confirmed their authenticity himself. Godred is... in fact... alive."

A strong hush fell over the shed as the engines of the Culdee Fell Railway all shared glances, some of which were rather unsure, while others held deep dread. In the pit of a boiler, in the teeth of a wheel, in the base of a chimney, a certain tension had come to rest.

Culdee took a breath, and continued to speak. "Godred will be escorted here sometime next week. Patrick, Alaric, Eric, I know that you only know of Godred through our stories about him. However, I will ask that you reserve your judgement for when you actually meet him; we don't know what kind of... condition he will be in."

Nervous glances, followed by affirming sounds answered Culdee's instructions, and the No. 4 engine took one more breath before adjourning the meeting. As all of the engines settled into their berths, Culdee couldn't help but share glances with his two older brothers, as well as Shane Dooiney. All of them seemed as though they weren't quite inclined to sleep just yet, thoughts still stirring about the apparent revival of their eldest brother, long thought to have been scrapped.

Ernest had taken up the mantle of eldest ever since Godred's passing, and while Culdee had ended up becoming the leader of their little fleet, Ernest had taken it upon himself to be their representative to the management, not wanting to burden his little brother with more than he had to.

Wilfred's usual good-natured smile was nowhere to be seen; usually, he acted as the moodmaker of the group, and could reliably be counted on to bolster everyone's spirits during their worst days, but this time, he seemed remarkably somber, eyes staring off into years tinted in sepia.

Shane Dooiney, always one to make his thoughts plain, wore a deep scowl, clearly rattled by this turn of events. While he could be grouchy on the best of days, his candor and loyalty to his brothers had always been his best qualities, as well as his distaste for "nonsense and theatrics," and it was clear to see that he was less than thrilled about the return of one who'd caused them all so much grief.

As for Culdee himself... well. He still felt somewhat responsible for Godred's accident, and that feeling was likely to never go away. He also felt responsible for the rest of his brothers, both the older and the younger, given how he'd somehow ended up becoming their leader. However, as always, he would do the best he could do to get them all through the day, and that would simply have to be enough.

As each engine closed his eyes, one by one, all of the mountain engines fell into a fitful slumber. Certainly, Godred's return was something to be excited about, ecstatic even. It wasn't every day that a supposedly already-scrapped engine got a new least on life, much less one in Godred's condition. However, nobody quite wanted to admit that along with the joy they were supposed to feel, a looming trepidation skulked along in its shadow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As promised, the next week, Godred was delivered to the sheds at Kirk Machan for what his new owners had stated would hopefully be something of a warm reunion. All service had been cancelled for the day in order to allow the engines some "peace and privacy with their dear brother," meaning that all they could do was wait. A team of representatives from the group that had rescued Godred, known as PeCos, had already come by to introduce themselves. This particular group was being led by a woman named Melinda and her assistant Toby ("Hi; my name's Toby and I'm the vice-leader of this excursion. No, I wasn't named for the NWR's No. 7."), who gave their greetings and introductions to the Controller and the assembled engines. The team then performed a quick survey of the area before giving the all clear, and now, there was nothing to do but see this through.

All seven engines internally steeled themselves as the flatbed pulled up, a tarp covering what was supposedly their brother. Ernest and Wilfred put on what they hoped were warm, welcoming smiles, as Culdee and Shane Dooiney looked on with carefully neutral facades, and the youngest three couldn't hide their curiosity, tinged with no small amount of nervousness. With them stood their Controller, an expression of grim dignity on his face. Who could know his thoughts, now that he would be coming face to face with what was perhaps one of the most infamous incidents in his family legacy?

All four of the original engines remembered how Godred had looked, from start to finish. How could they not, especially when he'd been dismantled, cannibalized, piece by piece in front of their eyes? When he'd waffled between angry and apologetic, blaming them all one moment and tearfully wailing the next, cursing God and all above before pleading and praying that his salvation might still come. Telling his brothers how much he loved them in one breath and cursing them to fates as horrific as his in the next. However, whether or not any of his wishes were answered was unknown to them as his cries became softer and softer with time—up until his tubes were removed to fix Ernest. With that, Godred, the CFR's No. 1 engine, was silenced forever, his husk unceremoniously dumped in the pile to be taken to the scrap yard the very next day.

The image of such a gruesome, mangled mockery of a steam engine, a fate that no engine deserved, really, had bubbled up to the forefront of the eldest four engines' minds. Thus, they could only brace themselves, hoping and praying that seeing Godred in a supposedly "fixed" form meant that the guilt they felt building up in their borrowed parts would soon alleviate.

With the help of a crane, Godred was placed onto the tracks before them, and the tarp lifted by members of PeCos. Before the engines' eyes, there he stood: it was certainly Godred, and much to his brothers' deep and overwhelming relief, he appeared to be whole, all of his parts intact, with not even a chip on his paint to indicate that he was anything but immaculate. The only slightly odd thing was that his eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but perhaps he'd had a long trip; it seemed that only the Controller actually knew where this organization was based.

In unison, four mountain engines took a deep breath, feeling the pressure they'd carried for many a day now disperse. Finally, it was Wilfred who finally worked up the courage to call out to their brother. "...Godred?"

At once, the eyelids fluttered open to reveal an achingly familiar gaze, which bored itself into each of the assembled engines in the shed, taking in the smiles, the steady gazes, and the looks of curiosity before his eyes began to take in the sheds themselves. Although he hadn't yet spoken, the other engines couldn't hold themselves back any longer.

"Godred! You're back! Thank god!"

"I can't believe it! It's been so long! I thought... well, it doesn't matter. You're alive!"

"Can't believe how lucky you are, getting saved from scrap like that!"

"So this is Godred? After Culdee's story, I thought..."

"Well, what else were you expecting? A zombie?"

"Oooh, that might have been cool..."

"Everyone, quiet." This command had come from none other than Culdee, who was staring at his eldest brother with appraising eyes. Immediately, the chatter around him ceased, all eyes quickly settling upon him before shifting toward Godred, who still had not yet spoken, but was shaking in his frames, looking around the sheds with wide eyes and naked panic on his face. "Ha... haah... haaaah..." His voice was barely intelligible, so quiet that his panting could have been passed off as the laughter of the wind, but this was no laughing matter; from every angle, it appeared as though Godred was having a panic attack.

"Godred..." one of the PeCos members began, and reached out to touch him, just as Culdee yelled "NO!"

Yet, despite his warning, it came a moment too late; the touch was enough to push Godred over the edge, and with wild, unfocused eyes that clearly weren't seeing the present, Godred forced himself backwards, away from all assembled.

Unfortunately, when he'd been unloaded, his brake had apparently not been applied, because the jerking motion that Godred made was more than enough to send him careening backwards, off the track, and sending him skittering back down the bend toward where their rails met the NWR's main line.

"GODRED!" the PeCos members shrieked, and they hurried over to the prone engine, with Toby shouting orders as the others scampered to comply. The other engines could only watch on dumbly, not entirely sure how to parse what had just happened; even the Controller appeared to be at a complete loss for words.

Suddenly, biting through the silence as surely as a pinion against a track, one solid, steady command rang out amongst the cacophonous quiet. "Sir. Please steam me up. We won't be going far."

Mr. Alistair Richards' eyes swung towards Culdee, who was staring back at him with steep determination, and amidst the rest of the confusion, it comforted the Controller somewhat to know that at least someone had a plan amidst this... this farce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After about an hour, it became abundantly clear that Godred was in no condition to be either moved or touched, given the way his crazed gaze landed on anybody who dared approach. Not a word had escaped his lips, but his discomfort was clear enough to be understood by all assembled. Toby, the vice-leader of the visiting PeCos team, was roundly scolding his subordinates, particularly the poor soul who'd made the mistake of touching Godred during his panic attack and another who hadn't secured the brake properly, and was clearly trying to get the situation under control while Melinda, who was supposedly leading this team, simply looked overwhelmed.

With such a mess on their doorstep, Culdee was steamed up by the Controller himself and driven down a short ways to the site of the wreckage. After taking in all there was to see, the No. 4 locked eyes with Melinda. "Excuse me, could you please tell me what's going on? You said that my brother was coming to visit for a warm reunion, but now he's in this poor state. Please explain."

Culdee's tone was polite, but his eyes were stone cold, and Melinda seemed to shudder as she looked up at the engine and his Controller. "Well, you see... ever since we finished his repairs, Godred has been... less than communicative. We've tried everything we could think of, but after nothing appeared to work, it was suggested that we organize a visit here, to his old railway, to help him open up more. However, it seems that—"

"It seems that you miscalculated," Mr. Richards cut in, his words pretending politeness although his tone was ice-cold. "I would think that for billing yourselves as an engine rescue organization, you would do your research before exposing an engine so clearly in need of help to a place that was a source of such great trauma to him."

Melinda had no ready retort, and so could only bite her lip and nod her head at the criticism. "I understand. We will take full responsibility—"

"Of course you will," the Controller once again interrupted. "What shall we do now, Culdee?"

"..."

After a moment, the No. 4 sighed. "Please bring me closer to him."

The Controller silently obliged, with Melinda and the other PeCos members getting out of the way as Culdee trundled steadily forward.

Once Culdee was about as close to Godred as he could get, the CFR's No. 4 licked his lips and began to speak.

"Godred, ghöred Sie mich?" [Godred, can you hear me?]

One moment passed, then another. Godred continued to pant on the ground, but his eyes seemed to slowly blink back into clarity at the words.

"Ich bin's. Din chliine Brüeder." [It's me. Your little brother.]

"...Culdee..."

The reply was scratchy, forced out through a voice raspy with almost a century of disuse, and the listeners were barely able to make out that he'd said a word at all. However, for the first time since his rescue and overhaul, Godred, the CFR's former No. 1 engine, had spoken.

Culdee's eyes widened with delight, and for the first time that day, a small smile found its way to his face.

"Ja, da bisch du. Ich han gwüsst das es schaffsch. Du hesch dini Stimm wieder." [Yes, there you are. I knew you could do it. You have your voice back.]

"...Ich scho?" [...I do?]

"Ja. Ändlich chani dini Stimm wieder ghöre. Es isch so lang här..." [Yes. I can finally hear your voice again. It's been so long...]

There was a long silence for a moment, Godred's eyes fixed solely on Culdee and his gentle, sweet voice, before, to the amazement and sorrow of the onlookers, tears slipped out, running freely down the downed engine's cheeks. Those eyes, once so full of ego, had been broken, mellowed out by time and circumstance, to be softer now. It was a look Culdee wasn't used to seeing on such a proud face.

"Äxgüsi. Es tuet mer so leid. Bitte verzeihed Sie mir. [I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.]

"Ich het sölle zuelose. Ich hetts müesse wüsse." [I should have listened. I should have known.]

Culdee's eyes fluttered closed at the admission, trying to stifle the tears welling up behind his own eyes. After all these years of wondering what he could have, should have, done differently, of blaming himself for pushing too hard, and for not pushing enough, the simple acknowledgement so neatly cut through the cluttered emotions entwined around his heart. All at once, he'd been freed, from just a few simple words.

"Ich bin nur froh, dass du no läbsch." [It's alright. I'm just happy that you're alive.] Culdee replied sincerely, his smile growing slightly wider than before. In front of him, Godred's sobs continued, although they seemed to be tapering off, his gaze never leaving Culdee's as the No. 4 stared at him with a gentle expression.

"Es tuet mer Leid, dass ich so hässig uf eu gsi bin. Es isch nie eui Schuld gsi." [I'm sorry that I was so angry at you all. It was never your fault.]

"Muesch so viel Schmerz gha ha. Mached Sie sich kei sorge." [You must have been in so much pain. Don't worry about it.]

"..."

There was another beat of silence as Godred seemed to process all that Culdee had said, no longer shaking as the worst of his panic attack finally seemed to pass. As Godred's breaths evened out, his voice, despite still being in such poor condition, seemed to be a little stronger as well.

"Segeds mer. Bin ich eu allne nützlich gsi?" [Tell me. Was I useful to you all?]

At such a question, Culdee couldn't help but regard his brother with eyes warm with appreciation, mixed with what could only be heartbreak.

"Meh, als du jemals wüsse chöntsch." [More than you could ever know.]

Godred must have seen the pain in Culdee's face, but he didn't ask for clarification. Instead, he just continued to stare before a tiny smile crossed his face.

"Dänn langets ja." [That's good, then.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After another hour of discussion between the two brothers, Culdee finally turned to Melinda and Toby, who'd finished cleaning up as best they could. "It seems that my brother is ready to go back now," Culdee announced to the two, and both of them nodded, grateful smiles on their faces as they directed the crane to lift Godred from his position. "But please... let there not be a repeat of this."

"We won't let this happen again," Toby nodded solemnly, shooting a pointed look at Melinda. It seemed that someone might not be staying at PeCos much longer. "We'll keep you updated on his progress, and thanks to you, we have a much better idea of treatment options moving forward."

"That's good to hear," Culdee smiled, watching on as Godred was carefully transferred to the flatbed once again. "This place is no longer his home. I sincerely hope that he can be happier with you all."

As the PeCos staff worked to get him settled, Godred's eyes didn't leave Culdee, and Culdee's eyes didn't leave Godred.

"Chönnte mir..." [Could we...] Godred croaked, his expression hesitant, but he left the thought unfinished. Culdee, however, already knew what he wanted to say.

"Mir chönd rede, wenn immer Sie wend. Ich bin da." [We can talk whenever you would like. I'll be here.]

Thus, Godred was safely transported back to his new home. As the weeks passed, several calls came in to the CFR from PeCos headquarters, all asking for Numbers 2 through 5. Ernest's calm, steady voice told their brother about all of the interesting passengers he'd met and fun gossip he'd heard along the line. Wilfred performed his most recent rendition of his catchiest mountain-climbing songs, which earned him a round of applause from his many listeners. Shane Dooiney grumped about the weather, the trucks, and ridiculous passenger demands. Even the newer engines got their turn, introducing themselves to Godred and telling him about their most famous exploits.

For Culdee himself, however, he actually had very little to say. Instead, the CFR's No. 4 was perfectly happy to listen as his brother spoke about PeCos and his brand new life, smiling all the while.

Chapter Text

The sun had long set by the time the cleaners had finished their work, leaving Jinty and Pug to their lonesome in the sheds up at Ffarquhar. Although the two had been given the option to join their three fellows over in the main sheds at Tidmouth, Jinty was stationed on this branchline anyway, and Pug, who served as Tidmouth's station pilot, was frankly quite tired of noise and bustle and was far more inclined to find a comfortable berth next to his best friend.

The two loaned engines couldn't help but stare up at the starry skies; neither of them had worked so far away from a city before, and the heavens here were overflowing with stars, as far as the eye could see. The wind teased at their faces, and a short distance away from the berths, wildflowers swayed to and fro in the breeze, the entire island like a picture postcard or perhaps even a book illustration.

However, despite the tranquility of the picturesque surroundings, Jinty found himself in something of a snit as he recalled what had happened earlier that day on this very branch line.

"You know," the Fowler grumbled, breaking the easy silence, "this island's real nice n' all, and Perce wasn't kidding when he said this place was so lovely it could be out of a storybook, but the people here are weird."

"You're telling me," Pug chuckled, but it came from a place of exhaustion rather than humor. "For the past week, I've been made to do shunting work at Tidmouth, and I've worked until my axles ache. Then, what does the yard manager say to me? 'Oh, you did pretty well.' When I ask him what I should do better, he says 'Oh, it's not that. Just that Duck usually organizes all this by midday.' Well, what am I supposed to say to that? I'm not some ex-Paddington shunter like Duck is!"

With a groan, Pug let out a long sigh, lips pinching together in consternation. "I like the work here, and I like the people here, but man, they act like any engine who's not their engine is just... wrong somehow! I like Duck well enough; he's a bit stuffy for me, but all of those GWR folks are. I didn't realize he was God's gift to shunting yards, though!"

"You're telling me!" Jinty agreed, plenty willing to commiserate. "I run this branch line just as Thomas showed me. Guy's a riot. He's telling me about his race with some bus, tries showing me, ends up crashing into the buffers."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. You told me about it when it happened, too."

"...Right. Well, I'm running this branch line just like he told me, trying to say hello and be polite and all that, and what do I get? Complaints for being too polite. People thinking I'm being uppity. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Does Thomas say hello to everyone he meets?" Jinty continued to ramble. "I have no idea. And they keep watching me, like they're waiting for me to make some kind of mistake or pull some crazy stunt. I don't know about you, but I'm not Thomas; I can actually read and respect the danger board, yet apparently, some passengers had the gall to be disappointed! 'What a boring ride,' they said! Has Thomas somehow learned to juggle? Is that his secret?"

Pug let out a loud, nasally laugh in response, seemingly happy that he wasn't alone in feeling slightly out of place on this island, when suddenly, a thought struck him.

"I heard Jumbo, who's doing the goods work and standing in for Henry, has to keep pulling those giant fish trains."

"Oh, yeah! He keeps complaining that he smells."

"Well, he smells better when he's fishy than when he was pulling his previous hauls."

"Can't argue with you there."

Their banter went on for a while longer, turning to Gordon—"All of the passengers say Semi's less of a wildcard than Gordon is, but they're so used to his antics that Semi's just too quiet by comparison!"—then James—"Jumbo does his work too, and apparently he doesn't smile enough... or cause enough trouble to make it worth waking up early for?!"—and finally Edward: "Ol' Yorkie's doing his best, and apparently, everyone loves him. Supposedly, he reminds them of Edward. Maybe they're all enthusiasts of old engines."

Once they'd had their share of laughter about the engines and their strange passengers, the two visiting engines fell silent, contemplating all that they'd said.

"You know," Jinty hummed, "the passengers may be strange, and the engines may be oddballs, but I wouldn't mind sticking around. You know that Toby? I could learn a thing or two from him; I watched him weesh a whole flock of chickens back to their pen while he was here. Besides, you can actually see the stars and smell the air here."

"Mmhmm," Pug agreed, eyes drifting toward the starscape once again. "It'd be nice to work with Perce again. He seems so happy here."

"Wouldn't you be? Everything's so slow and quiet here."

"...It is."

"..."

"..."

"Do you miss this too?"

"Can't miss what you didn't have, but... I think I will once this is all over."

The air between the two, once happily companionable, shifted into something more melancholic, more pensive, as Pug began to speak.

"Jinty... this is our last job, isn't it?"

Jinty's eyes slipped over to look over at Pug, who was still staring out into the night sky, as though committing every last inch of it to memory, before his own eyes settled on the waving wildflowers nearby. "Yeah, I think so too. Who knows how long we'll be kept around once we're sent back to the mainland."

"Do you think Sir Topham will take us, maybe? I mean, we are doing what we can..."

"I don't know. Maybe he will, but I doubt it; he's only got eight engines on his railway as-is. I don't think he can afford us too."

"Mmm... maybe you're right."

"Still, to be honest, I wouldn't mind if this was my last job. I'm tired, Pug. They won't pay for my overhaul. If I break down, that's it. If this is the last real job I do, then... I'm glad it could be here."

The stars continued to dance above the sheds, the wildflowers waving. The wind breezed by, and the moon had come up, languidly crossing the sky along her invisible track. All of these tiny miracles, no longer found in the depths and depots of the bustling cities. They were lucky, really, to have gotten to see them, as well as work a job where they could be really Useful and stretch their wheels one last time. What more could they possibly ask for?

"Yeah," Pug murmured at long last, a grateful resignation in his tone. "Those lucky engines... their island is weird and they're all so strange, but... I can only wish 'em the best."

Chapter Text

Rheneas so greatly enjoyed spring mornings in the Skarloey Valley, taking in all of the wonderful sights and sounds as he was steamed up and prepared for the day's work. Birdsong filled the air, flowers waved in the wind, and—

"UGH, why d' ye have t' keep snorin', Sir Handel?! An engine can bar'ly get any sleep wit' the way ye carry on!"

"Ohhhh, I'm sorry, Mr. Rock n' Roll! Trust me when I say nobody can stand your noise either!"

"A' least ah can turn mine off!"

"I wish I could turn you off!"

Ah, there it was. His two loudest shedmates, squabbling over absolutely nothing of importance or substance. What lovely—and definitely not repetitive and annoying—background noise to wake up to.

Were he more awake and aware, the SR's No. 2 engine surely wouldn't have made the suggestion he did. His most faithful advisors, common sense and rationality, would certainly have reminded him of the foolishness of proposing ideas that would have been perfectly good plans, were it not in the context of two particular engines—namely, the two currently being addressed.

Unfortunately for Rheneas, his tongue had awoken before his mind, and with a loud yawn, the old engine sighed. "If you have this much energy, then perhaps you two could take on the task of getting the trucks in order. We got some materials in last night, and they need to be organized. I'm sure you two can figure it out."

Immediately, Sir Handel and Duncan's eyes widened, their interest piqued, and their gazes met, huge smiles on their faces.

"Alright, since Rheneas said it, let's do it! We'll have a shunting competition!"

"HAH! Fine by me! Ah'll win fer sure!"

"As if! I'm going to finish first!"

"An' AH said ah'll be winnin' this, ye li'l idiot!"

"I don't want to hear it, you shabby shunter!"

"Ohhhh, ah'll give you somethin' t' hear about—"

"You already are, with the way you can't seem to shut up!"

By this point, the entire rest of the shed had been roused from their slumber, and many of the Skarloey Railway's fleet glared hatefully at the two bickering engines, with Rusty and Peter Sam being especially displeased at having to wake up to the sound of shouting. Skarloey himself shot a critical glance at Rheneas, having been awake enough to have heard what he'd suggested, and his brother could only give him a sheepish half-smile in return, now having realized just what exactly he'd said to motivate the two hot-tempered engines.

The Thin Controller, once he'd heard all of the hubbub and was informed of what had transpired that morning, could only sigh. "Very well," he announced, "I will allow this, given that the sorting does need to get done. However! Duncan, Sir Handel, you must be careful sorting all of this! Some of the materials are fragile, and if they are broken, our clients will be quite cross!"

"Dun' worry 'bout it," Duncan grinned, his confidence almost tangible. "Sir Handel and I will get this all shunted, and he'll see how much better I am."

"Hah! I'LL be the one winning today!" Sir Handel laughed, the two engines staring each other down before looking expectantly at their controller, as though waiting for his signal. All of the other engines simply watched on, holding their breath, as the tension in the shed heightened in anticipation.

"...Go?"

Peep peep! The two engines took off as fast as they could towards the yard, their squabbling still audible despite their distance. Behind them, the other seven engines watched them leave, expressions ranging from complete disbelief to resigned unsurprise, although one engine in particular had a slight grin on his face.

"...So," Skarloey smirked mischievously, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice as his glance met those of the other engines, "20 quid on Duncan?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sir Handel and Duncan, focused as they were on their task, were only dimly aware of their colleagues' swiftly organized betting pool. Both engines took to the field with great gusto, starting to organize the trucks and flatbeds into the necessary consists. Several cars full of groceries to be brought up to Skarloey station for the hotel guests. A series of flatbeds containing lumber and other construction materials for use at Glennock. More lumber to bring up to the McColl farmstead. Specially ordered parts to fix the funicular railway.

All of these varied materials were shunted and organized by the two little engines, Sir Handel and Duncan often sharing glances as they worked. Sometimes they would frown if they sensed that the other had pulled ahead, but neither of them could stop from smiling as their competitive spirits burned brightly, each determined to prove his prowess to a rival worthy of beating.

Whenever they had a moment to breathe, however, the two would fling insults at each other, continuing to add fuel to their fires.

"You seem like you're slowing down, Duncan! Had enough, yet?"

"As if I'd lose t' the likes o' an engine like you; yer tank's almost as big as yer ego, n' both of 'em may as well be landmarks!"

In the backs of their minds, both engines could hear their drivers speaking, but neither engine could find it in them to focus on that when they were too busy looking for just the right retort.

"So what?! You rock n' roll SO much, they should cut you up and turn you into ballast!"

"Oh, well I think—"

"DUNCAN, STOP!" cried his driver, causing both engines to suddenly snap their attention back to their task, but it was too late; Duncan had gotten too steamed up during this last exchange and hadn't slowed when he'd needed to. Thus, his driver had been quick to close the regulator, causing him to come to a sudden stop and bump the truck he'd been shunting much too hard. As his truck hit the next one, there was a loud shattering noise, and the remains of a truckful of glass panes that had needed to go to Glennock for construction now lay all across the track like glittering confetti, causing all further shunting to grind to a dead halt.

Naturally, the Thin Controller had stern words for them both. "What were you both thinking?! I only approved this little competition of yours because I was sure you both could get this done, but now we'll have to postpone some of the shipments and get the cleaners out here to clean this mess up! Both of you will only shunt slate for the time being, and you may consider yourselves done for the day."

With those icy words, the Thin Controller reluctantly headed for his office to make some phone calls, well aware that a pounding headache was soon to follow.

Once Sir Handel and Duncan had been put up in the shed and cleaned and prepared for tomorrow, it was just them; everyone else was still out working, given that it was only mid-afternoon, and so they had plenty of time to commiserate.

"...I'm sorry," Sir Handel murmured into the quiet, and for a moment, Duncan thought he'd misheard.

"...What?"

"I said I'm—haah. I'm sorry. We got into this mess because I suggested we turn this into a competition."

Duncan huffed in response, half-rolling his eyes. "Nah, this isn't on you. Ah wasn't payin' attention, n' I broke th' glass. Nothin' ye did makes it any less my fault."

Sir Handel knew that Duncan was right, and truthfully, he did want to accept the claim at face value; he hated feeling guilty, and being able to alleviate that blame just by agreeing with the other engine was a tempting prospect. However, he couldn't quite bring himself to do it; the same annoying sense of guilt that had driven him to apologize in the first place still lingered, and as such, he could only give a non-committal "hm" instead before following a different thought.

"Well... it was fun, at least."

Duncan blinked at the change in mood, but couldn't help agreeing. "It was, wasn't it? Yer pret'y fun t' 'ave a go wit'."

"Heh, I could say the same for you. Nobody else gets quite as fired up as you are, even if you DO have a big boiler and a bigger ego to match."

"Well, ye've got steam-roller wheels, so we're even."

A comfortable silence settled between the two, small smiles crossing their faces despite the shame they felt over their silliness; while it was true that they should have been more mindful, it had been good fun, fun of the kind they could only have with a friend who pushed them to work as hard as they could. Perhaps if there was a next time, they could have another go, maybe even a race.

As Sir Handel was considering this, suddenly, out of the blue, Duncan started to laugh. "HAH! Ah'll tell ye this, Sir Handel. There's one good thing comin' outta all this."

The No. 3 engine couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, giving his shedmate a skeptical look. "Are you mad? No, don't answer that. What?"

Despite his provocation, however, Duncan just grinned that much wider, as though suddenly looking forward to something. "All our fellows made bets on our shuntin', right?"

"...That's right."

"Ah can't wait t' see the look on Skarloey's face when 'e realizes he's out 20 quid."

Sir Handel blinked as he processed this, then couldn't help but laugh, and Duncan also broke into laughter, the sheds filled with the sound of their mirth. Duncan was right; perhaps there was a silver lining, however slight, awaiting them after all.

Chapter Text

Once his overhaul at Crewe had been completed, Henry truly did feel like a new engine. Long had he lamented his small firebox not being able to provide enough power to the rest of his body, and many years' worth of comments and complaints on the subject had left in their wake countless emotional scars and self-esteem issues. Sir Topham Hatt's criticism of his performance and anger over being swindled had colored every interaction they'd had, and Henry knew better than anyone how much of a burden he was to the newly birthed railway.

(Sir Topham's anger was justified; of course it was. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of a scam, and all he'd gotten was Henry, useless Henry, who had tried stalling himself in the tunnel so that his coal wouldn't get wet and he'd have even bigger problems, who had lied about it and pretended vanity to cover up his weaknesses from both others and himself. Every unkind word had been deserved, because what use was an engine who couldn't serve, who despite his best efforts to work, to talk himself up, simply could not live up to the standard of being Really Useful?)

As he'd been lying there in the snow after his crash, the wind's chilling laughter having already blown out his fire, the cold had reached up with an uncountable number of unseen fingers and stolen all of the warmth from his frames, leaving him a shivering husk with no distractions to keep his thoughts and fears at bay. The pain in his side, so sharp and piercing at first, had faded into a dull, throbbing ache, the physical hurt easily drowned out by the mental anguish.

Would he finally be scrapped? Would he be sold off to some new owner who would be disappointed with him all over again?

Either way, he would miss the Kipper. It gave him pride; it gave him purpose. An important job that no other engine could do (or wanted to do, but that was beside the point) had been given to him, and what more could any engine possibly ask for?

Henry's eyes fluttered shut, the snow making for a frigid, albeit effective, pillow. He had done his best, despite everything. Perhaps in his next life, once he'd been melted down and his metal used to birth something new, he'd be more useful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The one most surprised by the news that he was not going to be scrapped or sold off was, in fact, Henry himself. As Sir Topham prepared to send him off to Crewe, Henry couldn't keep himself from smiling, rather overwhelmed by the opportunity. "Oh thank you, Sir!" he laughed, for what must have been the seventh time that day.

Sir Topham Hatt patted his bufferbeam, letting out an awkward laugh. "Yes, well. My good man Stanier will fix you right up, and from now on, I'm sure that you'll be Really Useful going forward. You'll be rebuilt into one of his Class 5s, and I will expect great things from you!"

With that, Henry was sent off, off to be reborn into a Really Useful engine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now, he'd been finished and tested, with no faults to be found. Henry rested in the yard, still marveling at how good he felt, when he was approached by two of the other Black 5s. These two had also been recently built at Crewe, and were quite curious to meet their new buildmate.

"Hello!" one called, giving Henry a wide grin. "I'm 5000-19! Good to meet you!" Behind them, the other pulled up on an adjacent track, a shy smile on her face. "This is 5070-4," the first engine continued, eyes flicking over to the newcomer before looking back toward Henry. "You're the one called Henry, right? The one on the Northwestern Railway?"

"O-oh, yes! That's me!" Henry grinned, giddy at the thought of getting to talk to these new engines as his new self. "I'm Henry! I was sent here for a rebuild after an accident, and now, I'm a Black 5 too!"

"So you are!" the leading engine laughed, and beside them, 5070-4 gave a quiet giggle. "I saw you when you came in; you were in bad shape! Glad to see you looking better now. You're much more handsome when you smile."

"M-me? Handsome?" Henry sputtered, quite taken aback at the unexpected comment. His cheeks pinkened, and he quickly swallowed, willing himself to get it together so as not to embarrass himself. "Um, thank you! Yes, I... I do feel a lot better."

So saying, Henry couldn't help but look away, eyes flitting down to the tracks, the euphoria of being complimented quickly replaced by a creeping sense of shame. "I... I was built wrong. I caused so much trouble for my Controller. I probably shouldn't say this, but... I'm glad that I crashed, since it means that now, I can be... right. No longer a burden. As handsome as you say I am. Or at least, I... I hope so."

The two Black 5s looked at each other, perhaps picking up on the deep undercurrent of anxiety in Henry's tone, yet this time, it was the quieter of the two who piped up. "Henry... I don't know if this will make you feel better. A-and if it doesn't, then I'm sorry! But... here's what I think."

5070-4 bit her lip, eyes sweeping around a moment, before continuing on.

"I think that you must have done your very best, because I don't know a single engine who doesn't. And it wasn't your fault if you were built wrong; how could it be? We don't get the choice.

"But it doesn't matter now, does it? Because now... now you were built right. Be proud of yourself, Henry. You made until now. Call it luck, if you want, or something else, but you did your best, and you made it, and your Controller decided that you should be rebuilt properly. The past is in the past, you know?"

Suddenly, the engine blushed in embarrassment. "Ah, sorry! I rambled again. B-but I hope that helped!"

5000-19 smiled at her encouragingly before turning back to Henry, their wide grin now softly curved. "She's right, you know. What does the past matter? You're a Black 5 now. And you're lucky; you've already been through the hard parts in your old shape, so you have the benefit of experience while feeling like a new build. I wish I could be in your wheels."

They wish... they could be like me... With great effort, Henry barely managed to keep his tears from falling, giving the two engines a watery smile instead. "I... thank you. Thank you both so much. For the first time in a long time, I'm really looking forward to going to work."

"That's the spirit!" 5000-19 laughed, and 5070-4 grinned widely beside them. "You'll do great. Be proud, Henry! You're one of us now!"

"Yes!" Henry smiled, and deep in his firebox, his new, large, proper firebox, a dazzling array of warm, new feelings sparked: hope, pride, excitement, and strangest and most precious of all... satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Emily had finished her goods run right on time, delivering the last flatbed to Brendam Docks just as the noon lunch break was being called. With a pleased smile, she allowed the men to take the delivery, then looked around to find where she might be parked to wait until her next run. It was then that she spied Edward calmly waiting at the station, his tender facing her, and she asked her crew to move her up alongside him, so that she could have some company to talk to while she waited.

Peep peep! "Hullo, Edward!" the Stirling Single called as her crew got her settled, then headed off for lunch.

"H-huh?!" came the flabbergasted response as Edward blinked his eyes open, having been rudely awoken from a nap, but he forced a smile onto his face. "Hello, Emily! How have you been settling in?"

"I've been settling in well, thank you!" she chirped, a pleased smile on her face. "I've been doing my very best at my work, and Sir Topham Hatt has been quite pleased with my efforts. Of course, being in an environment like Sodor is quite different from what I'm used to, but working again is quite the enjoyable thing!"

At her comment, Edward blinked, picking up on a slight nuance in her words that he wasn't entirely sure Emily herself had meant to share. "Working... again?"

The emerald engine blinked, suddenly realizing what she had said, and her gaze shifted down to the tracks below her. "Erm, well..."

An awkward silence fell between the two engines, but Edward didn't push; his instinct, honed from years upon years of listening to the plights of engines younger than he, bade him to give Emily the time to decide whether or not to answer. Either way, although he wanted to get to know his new co-worker, he would not run the risk of alienating her by pushing too hard to fast.

Once again, Edward's instinct proved to be correct. After a long moment, Emily sighed, and looked back over at him once again.

"Well, I suppose I don't mind saying. I'm sure that you'll hear about this soon enough, anyhow."

There was a slight hesitance in Emily's voice, but she pressed on, slightly emboldened by the fact that nobody else was around to listen.

"I... well. When my class was withdrawn, I was purchased by a private collector, and put into static preservation. I had been happy to work, but I suppose that at some point, I suppose that I simply became accustomed to being static. No longer expected to work in the wind or the rain, no longer forced out into the snow... I could just sit and be cared for, even if the cost was that my wheels would no longer touch rails again."

There was a wistful note in Emily's voice, her eyes looking not at the docks, but at some distant point far away and long ago.

"My owner loved to see me. She was so proud to be the owner of a Stirling Single, and ensured that I was treated well. I was polished and cleaned regularly, my paint immaculate... everything about me was perfect. She treated me like a daughter."

The dreamy smile on Emily's face, so blissful as she described her experience in preservation, suddenly turned down into a deep frown, pain blooming in her eyes.

"But then... my owner died. In fact, she died in front of me, and I hadn't even had the steam to whistle. I had to watch her breathe her last, staring at me as though she was happy I was the last thing she'd ever see. And her son, that bastard... he was perfectly happy to sell me off to the highest bidder. He hated how much his mother enjoyed my company as compared to his, and was determined to get rid of me at the earliest opportunity."

A deep, pained chuckle escaped the emerald engine, one that Edward could empathize with. While it had been many years since the Furness Railway had turned its back on him, and he'd long enjoyed his last laugh, that didn't mean he'd ever forgotten the pain of that betrayal.

"I was sold to a preservation group. They treated me well enough, but none of the trustees were like my owner; they didn't see me as a companion, but as a model, a doll, for onlookers to fawn over. None of them tried to get to know me; just brought enthusiasts by the plenty to gawk at me. And then, after that group fell to ruin, I was supposed to have been bought by another preservation group, but now, HERE I AM!"

The bitter laugh that accompanied her proclamation at the end, the tears hidden beneath, and the wild look in her eye all gave Edward pause. He'd wondered about Emily's past, given that she was a Stirling Single who'd only recently joined them, a statistical anomaly given what was happening on the Other Railway, but now, it seemed to make much more sense.

"Ahhh... I'm sorry, Edward," Emily sighed, finally composing herself. "I shouldn't complain. I'm still alive, and still able to work. I know that my circumstances are far more fortunate than so many others. I just...

"...

"I miss not having to compete with others for attention and affection, is all. Even if I was static, I was at least loved dearly. But here... here, I have to establish my place all over again. Prove why I am worthy of praise. And I fear that I've gotten so complacent in my preservation that I've forgotten how."

"Don't say that," Edward interjected kindly. "You said it yourself; you've been doing your very best at your work. It doesn't matter if it takes you time to get used to doing it again. As long as you put in the effort, then you'll get all of the attention and affection you could want."

Despite the fact that his words were intended to be encouraging, however, Emily just sighed. "That's what I'd feared you would say. I'm simply going to have to muddle my way through things until I am successful."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"How can I not?" Emily replied simply. "I had everything I could want; an owner who loved me, safety, and a home. And now, I am getting to enjoy what so many other engines would love to have, and I cannot even seem to appreciate it because it means that I will have to build myself up from nothing."

The emerald engine closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before her gaze flicked back to meet Edward's. "Do you think me selfish?"

Edward blinked at the unexpected question, but he still had his answer. "No, of course not. It's not as though you had expected to come and work on Sodor. I can understand why being made to work again may seem like a rude awakening for you, especially if you were expecting to stay preserved. But the fact that you're still giving it your best effort despite that... I feel that's truly an admirable thing."

Surprise crossed Emily's face at the words, followed by a small smile. "Well, thank you, Edward. I try. I know that I sometimes fail, but... this is my home now, and the least I can do is make the effort. My owner only wanted the best for me, and even though she is no longer with us, I will still strive to make her proud by doing my best."

"That's all any of us can ever do," laughed Edward, and together, the two old engines decided to enjoy the view of Brendam Docks, leaving the past in the past.

Chapter Text

Once all of the confusion around Donald and Douglas staying on Sodor had been settled, Dirk and Kirk (as well as their cousins, Bryce and Blair Mitchell, who'd served as their stokers during their travels) soon found lodging, as well as cheap furniture, that they paid for with their advances. Thus, after about two weeks of being on Sodor, the two crews decided one night to stay behind in the Arlesburgh sheds once the cleaners had left and turned over a few empty boxes to serve as chairs while they enjoyed some beers and good company.

"Did ye see th' look on all those engines' faces when they'd 'eard ye both were goin' ta stay?!" Dirk cackled, already five beers deep and seemingly perfectly fine with enjoying a few more. "They were all so 'appy fer ya! Kirk n' I, we already knoo, mos'ly 'cause Sir Topham told us that mornin'. But seein' y'all in a tizzy... whew! Sure gave me a good laugh!"

"Ah'm glad ye all had a good time o' it," Douglas frumped, clearly not willing to be quite so jovial about his predicament, and Kirk could only chuckle, about two drinks in himself and already feeling pleasantly light-headed.

"'E's right! T'wasn't all easy ridin'! Douglas was saved from th' jaws o' death by his bràthair, and the four giant fools who went with 'em! Now we're here on Sodor fer good, all thanks t' them provin' themselves! Slàinte Mhath!" Kirk called, raising his bottle, and the other three laughed and echoed his call before knocking another one back.

Douglas' sour mood couldn't last in the face of such mirth, and he ended up giggling instead, his brother laughing beside him. In many ways, it was hard to believe that the six of them had so recently been huddled together, nervousness etched deeply into the grooves and shadows of their faces, as the Controller decided their fate.

All of this merriment contributed to the growing din in the sheds, much to the displeasure of the sheds' third resident engine.

"Excuse me," piped up Duck, the NWR's No. 8, "but it is getting quite late, and I know that you will all have to be here quite early tomorrow. Why in the world are you celebrating to such an extent? And are you so certain that you all should be... imbibing, at this hour?"

"YES," Dirk grinned, holding out his beer so that the narrower end pointed towards Duck. "We all have a lot t' be thankful fer! I don' have t' see me ex-girlfriend again--"

"Which one?" Kirk interrupted, finishing his beer and deciding that one of them would have to be responsible for the rest. "Th' one tha' turned ye down fer an engineman, or th' one tha' turned ye down fer an engine?"

"In m'oown defense,' Dirk scowled, pointing an accusing finger at his brother, "if ah had a tender like tha' big ol' Jumbo, ye'd best believe I'd be gettin' hens t' look mah way!"

"Och, aye," Donald laughed, "but if ye had a tender that size, t'wouldn't be just th' hens; th' people who'd be lookin' at ye wit' th' most interest would be th' doctors!"

Once again, all four men howled with laughter, giving another toast before Dirk turned his attention back to Duck. "RIGHT! Things t' toast about! Um... Blair, ye should go."

"Alright, um... well! I got meself a chance t' fire up an engine comin' t' Sodor! Ended up gettin' the job... fer a steal!"

"BOOOOOOO!" called Dirk, although he was laughing way too hard to truly come off as unappreciative. Douglas also couldn't help but chuckle at his stoker's terrible joke, and from his place around the circle of fools, Kirk sent a small smile his engine's way. He'd been worried that Douglas would have a hard time trusting them after his previous crew's betrayal, but fortunately, that didn't seem to be the case; although the journey to Sodor had been tense, it had also given the crews the chance to prove that they truly did have the brothers' interests at heart, and Donald and Douglas had expressed their thanks numerous times. The fact that they could all sit and laugh together like this made his heart warm.

"Alright, alright! Bryce, 's yer turn!" Dirk called, and their cousin thought for a moment before holding his bottle up high.

"Thank fuck ah can see th' sun more than once a year!"

"Ah, now there's somethin' werth cheerin' fer!" the others laughed, once again taking a drink.

"An' last, but no' least..." Dirk smiled, giving the three engines in the room with them a warm, genuine grin. "To th' engines of Sodor, who're all gonna keep bein' real useful engines! Here's t' you, lads; yer good sorts, an' we're lucky t' know ye. You too, Duck!"

Duck blinked, then blushed slightly, clearly pleased to be included, and Donald and Douglas laughed, the good cheer intoxicating. "Then ah've got a toast!" Donald grinned. "'Ere's to th' fools who run us, who gave up ev'rythin' t' 'elp us get Douggie t' Sodor, who're kin o' mine even if yer flesh n' blood 'stead o' frames n' oil! Th' world's no' a nice place, but ye four are somma th' truly good men. Slàinte Mhath!"

"Slàinte Mhath!" the two crews cheered, and finally, it was Douglas' turn.

"Duck," the tender engine began, startling the pannier. "Ye asked why we were celebratin' this much, n'... well, th' answer's tha' t'wouldn't feel real otherwise!"

The truth of his words made the smaller engine blink, and both his brother and the two crews stared up at him, waiting for him to explain.

"Like me driver said, ah was saved from certain death," Douglas continued. "Ah've been havin' nightmares fer weeks aboot what might happen t' me, 'specially if Sir Topham wasn't so kind. Th' fact that ah'm here, wit' me bràthair n' a crew ah can truly call m'own... i's werth celebratin'! Tha's the only way it's sunk in tha' 's all real!"

This gave Duck pause, but the crew smiled as they watched on; Douglas was exactly right. The whole point of celebrating was to drive out the uncertainty and the worry. They were on Sodor now, proper members of the railway, and it was good to celebrate, to really make sure it sank in that they were. No more running, no more hoping, no more stress. They had made it.

"Slàinte Mhath!" they all called once again, and in the comfort of the sheds, happy knowing that their new home was one so welcoming, the two engines, two drivers, and two stokers, along with their new shedmate, continued to laugh and drink for another hour yet, relishing in the relief and joy of not just safety, but that they were all here, safe, together.

Chapter Text

One harmonious night on the island of Sodor found the moon quietly making her rounds in the skies overhead, with many of the engines having been put up in their berths for the night. All was silent—or at least, it would have been, if not for the sounds of absolute madness currently assaulting Cranky's poor ears. "Alright, alright!" the crane growled, "settle down! Tonight, we are conducting a test of the inter-crane wireless communication channel, so—"

"Oh, this is so EXCITING!" came a loud, static-filled voice from the radio, and Cranky had to bite back a curse before he said something... regretful. "I can't believe I get to be part of the group! Oh, this is so thrilling. I—"

"Kevin," the larger crane forced out through gritted teeth, effectively silencing the smaller vehicle. "Do you remember what we talked about? Our operators aren't here right now, so they can't manage the radios for us. We're all live right now, so DON'T. INTERRUPT."

"...Yes, Cranky."

"Right," the large gray crane sighed. Already, he was starting to think that this had been a terrible idea, but the managers had insisted that they test the system after hours, in the event that there was an emergency and appropriate personnel needed to be notified. Of course, HE had also been put in charge for some godforsaken reason. Some shit about being "the most patient and responsible crane among them."

Well, whatever. He had a job to do, and the sooner he did it, the sooner he could get to sleep. "Alright, we're doing roll call. Carly?"

"HERE!" burst a loud, excitable voice, and in response, a loud chorus of assorted "ahhhhh!"s and "owwwww!"s, as well as some "ughhhhhhhh!"s and a good old "goddamn mothercrankin—" for good measure all made their way onto the airwaves as the feedback from both Carly shouting and her shout being picked up by Cranky's mic as well.

"Ok, OK!" Cranky grimaced. "Carly, no shouting! Ever!"

"...Got it."

"Thank you. Big Mickey?"

"..."

"...Big Mickey?"

"...Hello."

It took every ounce of Cranky's willpower to not blurt out something nasty, but the tantalizing idea of actually getting some good sleep when all this was over forced him to hold his tongue. "Ok. Good. Harvey?"

"Oh, yes! I'm ready!" a cheerful voice resounded. "I'm always ready to go; in fact, I could go all by myself! Hahahahahahahaha!"

"THANK YOU, Harvey," Cranky drawled before the engine's booming laughter gave him an even bigger headache to compliment the one already forming deep in his plating. "We all know how talented you are, what with being able to move by yourself. Quite amazing. Rocky?"

"Yes! Just let me know what's going on, and I'll notify the appropriate people."

Short, sweet, and to the point. These were all things that Cranky liked about Rocky, and truth be told, it was something of a shame (well, relatively, given his line of work) that he didn't tend to find his way to the docks that often. "Excellent. Thank you, Rocky. Judy? Jerome?"

"Yes, Cranky!" "We're here!" "Quite awake!" "And raring to go!" "Nothing to report so far, of course!" "Nothing except the lovely evening. Can you see the moon from where you are?" "Oh, of course he can, Jerome! Don't be silly!" "I'M silly?! Look here, Judy—"

"Yes, good, thank you," Cranky interjected, feeling The Look that Carly was shooting his way crawling up his tower, but Cranky had already used up his daily allotment of fucks trying to handle a kerfuffle over a shipment of Thomas the Tank Engine poseable plush toys this morning, and so he had come to the conclusion that he simply could not be bothered with politeness. It wasn't his fault that there was ALWAYS some reason or another why he couldn't be bothered with politeness. "Next is Kevin—no, you don't need to speak. I already know you're here."

Choosing to ignore the slightly dejected "Awww..." that came through the speaker, Cranky continued with his list. "Colin? Are you there?"

"Yep! Glad to be here, and I'm glad I get to talk to you all! It's so quiet over here, so I'm happy that we'll have a place to chat!"

Cranky felt his jaw clench and his eyes screw shut as he hissed out, "May I remind you, Colin, that this is a channel for emergencies? It is NOT for socializing!"

"But... isn't that what we're doing now?"

"NO! We are testing the system!"

"But can't we have a good chat while we're testing it? Or is that not allowed?"

If he had hands, Cranky would most assuredly have ripped himself from his perch and thrown himself in the ocean, destroying his radio forever so that he would no longer have to be part of this conversation. As it was, he could only suffer through it, the promise of a good night's sleep swiftly slipping through his, as established, non-existent fingers. "No. No irrelevant conversation while we are testing the system. Besides, we're almost done, and then we can all get some sleep, as we should. Reg? Are you here?"

"Nope."

"...Do I dare ask what you mean?"

"I'm not at Brendam Docks."

Oh. Oh, great. Of course, Reg had chosen NOW to joke around. But no, he'd responded. That was all Cranky needed, and now he could be done. "Fine, fine. Are you there?"

"Yep!"

"Good. Excellent. Alright, we're done here. The testing has concluded. Thank you for participating, and good night."

Cranky was about to shut off the radio, when he heard a quiet "Thank you, Cranky."

"...What are you thanking me for, Kevin?"

"For running the meeting. This sort of thing is good to have, and you're the only one who could get everybody to listen."

"...You know, he's right. That did go by fairly quickly..."

"Huh! Well, that's true. And I guess without a guy like Cranky running things, they might not let us have this."

"It's true! Some of you are so easily distracted!" "Oh, speak for yourself, Judy!" "Oh, SHUT IT, Jerome—"

Cranky tuned out all of the chatter, immersing himself in his own thoughts instead. He'd just been doing his job, all to try and get to sleep. He hadn't done anything special, especially since he had been against this idea the whole time. Kevin's kindness was wasted on him. Still... it was hard to deny the little spark of satisfaction that flared within him at the gratitude. Maybe he didn't deserve it, but it was always nice to be thanked.

"...You're welcome," he finally replied, interrupting whatever conversation the others had been having. "I didn't ask for this or anything, but... I'll do my best. Anyway, I'm going to sleep, but..." He paused a moment, then sighed. Sometimes he surprised even himself by how soft he was. "It's not like I can turn off any radios except for mine. So it's not like I would know if any of you ignore my good advice to go to sleep and keep talking, since our testing is over. Now... good night."

With that, Cranky directed his radio to turn off, and settled in for the night, allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the ambient, joyful noise filling the air from his fellows' radios.

Chapter Text

Gray clouds clustered overhead, causing Donald to shiver in his berth. However, it was neither the promise of impending rain nor the breathless chill that caused his discomfort; no, it was the fact that he rather missed these sensations, even if he would have once called them annoyances. Never again would he feel the rain prickling at his skin, cold as the lowest circle but refreshing all the same. Never again would he bundle himself beneath good Scottish wool to stave off the cold, for he had something far less soft to serve as his armor.

The first raindrops began to fall, pattering against his paintwork with light tink tink tinks that might have been melodious under other circumstances, but Donald wasn't in the mood. Too many other thoughts raged like flames in his mind, the fire within crackling and sputtering despite the pounding of the water without (and the fact that he wasn't even in steam today), resulting in what he could only articulate as an awful headache.

Suddenly, the sound of a whistle caught his attention and held it fast, forcing his eyes up towards the source. Piercing through the gloom was a bright headlamp, a distant star in the dim autumn afternoon, and before him came an engine bearing the number 57647. Of course, Donald couldn't have cared less about his number—not when he knew this engine's name. "Douggie? 'S that you?"

"...How many times do ah have t' tell ye, 57646? 'M not 'Douggie,' or whatever name ye keep tryin' t' put upon me," retorted the other engine, although there wasn't much heat in his voice, simply a token resistance as his crew got out, heading inside to take a much needed rest away from the deluge. "Still, tha's not important. Why'd ye do it?"

"Do what?"

"Don't play daft," Douglas snorted, and this time, he actually sounded angry, a lick of fire warming his words. "Ye stood up fer me. Claimed the trucks ah broke were yers. Why... why'd ye do it?"

Donald didn't even pause, didn't even think twice. Why bother, when the answer was obvious? "Because yer my bràthair, n'—"

"AGAIN wit' that?!" Douglas roared, then seemed to remember where he was. He hurriedly glanced around, then upon seeing that the coast was clear, lowered his voice before any interested railway workers came to investigate the noise. "Ye gotta stop this, 57646! You'll just get yerself scrapped!"

Instead of speaking, Donald simply stared at the engine before him, a collage of memories from a lifetime ago piecing itself together in his mind. For some reason, the way Douglas had said those words reminded him of their father, a kind, fearful man whose heart was forever bleeding for every bird who'd chanced to fall upon the grass. He'd never been known for being the most courageous sort, but he'd also take care of his own with a warmth the likes of which none could match.

Donald, on the other hand, had moreso taken after their mother, a storm wrapped in the form of a woman with a voice of warm, protective fury to match. They'd always been like this, contrasts and complements, and that was how Donald knew without a doubt that this was his brother. As strange as this situation was, that was one of the few truths he could hold onto, and was perhaps the only reason he hadn't lost his mind by now.

"Well?" Douglas muttered, less angry this time, but nevertheless, it shook Donald from his thoughts.

Right. He'd been asked a question, and he ought to answer it. "Then if ah do, ah do. Ah dun' wanna be scrapped, but ah'm not gonna forget who ah was and who ye were jus' 'cause it'd be easier. Ah wish ye'd believe me, but if ah jus' have t' keep tryin' 'til ye do, then fine."

Donald had expected some kind of retort from Douglas, but instead, the other simply stared, then let out a long, tired sigh. "Yer mad. Ye've got ta be. But still... thanks."

"O' course," Donald replied, covering up his growing frustration and anxiety beneath a wide grin. "Ah'd do anythin' fer ye, Douggie."

For a moment, Douglas' eyes widened, and was clear that he'd heard the depth of genuine affection in Donald's voice, just beneath the layer of frame-deep fatigue right on top of it. Before he could reply, however, Douglas' crew came back from their break, clambering into his cab and shoveling some coal into his firebox so that he could build up some steam. "Alright, lad!" his driver called. "Let's go!" At his driver's command, Douglas began backing out, away from Donald. He had just enough time to shoot Donald a hesitant, unsure look, his face conveying more than he could possibly say with words.

Donald merely watched him go, then settled back down with a sigh. The rain had intensified now, tinking even harder against his frames and metal, and his flaring headache had cooled, snuffed out to cinders. He often had to wonder to himself what the point of it all even was; Douglas didn't remember him, and treated him like a madman. Mad... engine? Whatever the case, hell, maybe he was.

And yet, it was moments like these that hurt the most. Moments when Douglas would look at him with an achingly familiar expression, and Donald could convince himself that surely his words were getting through. Already, he felt that torturous spark of hope in his soul alight, defiant against all that threatened to drown it out. Surely, his brother would one day wake up and remember who he was. Surely, all of Donald's suffering would be worth something.

Until then, he would just have to hold out, and fortunately, keeping his eyes on the greater goal had always been something he was good at.