Chapter Text
This isn't the first time this has happened, but it's been a while since it's been this disastrous.
The first one Hydra ever remembers - or, at least, thinks he remembers - was at his first warehouse, just after commissioning. He was fresh, shiny, and unknown, and that distinct feeling of having an unseen fifty-foot aura of danger hadn't been explained to him yet, so the memories of his first yard are tinged with giddy enthusiasm as well as this strange loneliness whenever he watched another loco slowly wheel away from him. No one ran on hydrogen, or even wanted to, thought about it, or floated the idea for longer than a second, so he could only guess at what was going through that particular Control's head at the time, but back then he didn't particularly care. There was a small factory that the yard supplied which had one singular hydrogen piston, so once a week, this gruff, silent diesel would ferry him over to this factory, and ferry him back again, with never a word said between them. It was enough for him, just the fact that he was on the open rails was exciting.
They're told there was a coach, a quiet, sweet thing that would sometimes come along on the trips to the factory to give the workers a lift home, and they were told they had a bit of a 'thing' for him, childish and sweet. They don't remember his name, what he looked like or how he sounded, but they remember that he never objected to coming along with them, never seemed worried about being hitched to the back of a hydrogen tank. All he remembers is a smattering of orange and blue amaryllis like sherbet, a strange, pit-swallowing feeling of dejection, and the inability to breathe, as if their own oxygen pipe had sealed shut in line with emergency protocols. There's also a disappointment that comes with the faltering of one's own memory; no matter how hard they think, no matter how hard they try, he can never visualise his face.
What he does remember is waking up back in the research centre, groggy and uncomfortable as if they'd just woken up from urgent repair; there is a new chrome plate down his chest, and although mostly hidden by power lines and cables, it sticks out against the dulled iron of their chassis. Around him navigates engineers and ironworkers like ants, the telltale clattering of machinery and scrap suggesting they had finished whatever job they were all working on, and, despite his disjointed state of mind, they remember hearing his creator speaking behind them, as if he was never there.
"-was a risk of making it so intelligent, but the board believes this to be a necessity," an older engineer asserts, just outside of their vision - they recognise this man, he had been present at every test the engineers had put them through so far, "removing emotions would unfortunately remove the empathy we require in order to ensure it would be able to evacuate itself from dangerous situations."
There is a mutter from the group - at least, they thought there must have been at least ten people there - before a shuffling of fabric and the hard plastic of clipboards.
"Respectfully, Sir, I don't think the head of investments is querying the Board's decision regarding the prototype," a younger voice, inquisitive and determined, states slowly, "I think they want to know if the plant-life will continue to be a problem before the product is sold to the general market, this could cause a significant insurance liability."
"It shouldn't," the engineer replies, almost cutting her off sharply, "however we have thirty-six months until product launch and at least three other companies nationwide who have agreed to take part in the trial, so we have room to see whether this will be a recurring flaw."
"External Relations would also like to ask if we have lost Chiltern Victoria Railways as a testbed," asks another, a more masculine voice, and the silence after that question is stark. Most of this goes straight over Hydra's head, and still does when he thinks back on the event, but the tension of the room is enough for the memory to make his systems pump a little harder.
They hear the engineer sigh heavily. "Chiltern Victoria has refused to take further part in the hydrogen trial due to the stress put on the other locomotives. They would be interested in a finalised unit, but do not wish to be contacted until then."
The last thing Hydra hears before he passes out again is the angry scribbling of pencil against paper.
He goes through another testing railway without problems, before settling at his third yard about a year later, this time a much slower paced heritage railroad up north rather than a work yard; the engines at this place are much, much older than them, but are kind in a stereotypical Yorkshire way, brash and obvious but caring, but they're mostly just happy to have people to talk to that don't treat them like a bomb. He's here, he's told, to assist with a prototype conversion engine, one of their 'newer' steamers who has been modelled into a hydrogen engine - a sweet but slow locomotive called Pepper who likes to chat endlessly about whatever comes to her mind - so they slot happily into the daily tourist trips between the moors and the seaside villages.
They're not used to passenger trips, which isn't helped by their memory clouding up whenever they try to think of the passenger car from the first yard, but there's a peace to be found in the sedateness of it all. For the first time, he's not treated as a liability; he's given a lick of paint to match the Pullman cars behind him, so they look more like a traditional coal truck than a futuristic tanker, and the passengers are more than happy to take photos in front of them without a second thought.
Quickly the routine sets in, three days a week they spend the day going between two fixed points, the same trees and the same sky and the same hills rolling around him. Sometimes it's cold, and the passengers scramble onto the cars to get to warmth, and sometimes it's warm, with ice creams in every hand he can see. Pepper will whistle loudly to the delight of the passengers, and they'll every now and then get brief glimpses of this thing the books call the 'Ocean', this huge expanse of blue that dips back behind buildings and hills before they ever get a good look at it.
It's nice. They enjoy it. They enjoy this and definitely do not wish for anything more exciting ever.
So when Charybdis comes along, it's a shock to the system.
It's rare to see anything other than steamers here, with the railway's focus on history and heritage, but this engine is without a doubt a diesel. The stench of burning rubber and petrol fumes clouds her like a thick fog, and the moment Hydra walks into her line of sight, there's an immediate sensation of being dressed down by hungry, red eyes.
He remembers this one.
Charybdis is a whirlwind, a rule-breaking daredevil who takes corners at incredible speeds, heads onto the rails late at night to see how quickly she can take the route, and spends most of their time complaining about Control and the other engines. As she explains one evening, she's here as a shunter after her previous company went bust, and isn't used to gentle coaches, instead the hauling of massive freight and other engines in need of repair.
"Nemesis rail, you 'eard of them?" She asks cockily, running a tongue over sharp incisors, and Hydra struggles against his throat drying up.
"Can't say as I have," he replies, a little higher than normal, as Charybdis points to the hammered-in logo rusting away on her battered navy chassis.
That earns him a laugh, bordering on a cackle as the diesel swings one muscular arm around his shoulders; there's the hunger in her eyes again, just like when they first met, and the sudden closeness makes Hydra's computers begin to kick up and whir.
"Cor, it's easy to tell when you're excited," she teases, running her free hand along one fuel pipe that's fixed to Hydra's chest as she tosses her long, black hair out of her face, "I've definitely never seen one like you before, you're a treat."
This... affection, this attention, goes on for weeks, and he keeps his eyes peeled to see how the other cars react; cars and trucks tend to be in the same ball park when it comes to earning the respect of the engines, but they notice these ones steer well clear of the diesel, unlike his last yard where they flocked to bigger engines like birds to grain. They can't decide whether they actually like Charybdis' actions or not, but there's a rush to the flirtatious remarks and demands that they just cannot ignore, and the heat on their cheeks whenever Charybdis is in the vicinity tells a distinct and obvious story. No one has ever treated him like that before; he never had friends until now, let alone anyone who thought about him romantically, so the attention itself is drug before he can stop to think of the intention behind it.
So when they are pulled out of rest one night, fully unable to breathe from obstructions, he knows something is up.
He staggers out to the yard, desolate at this time of night, and finds the emptiest, furthest corner they can. There's a wheezing from his pipes, desperation beginning to eat away at their insides, and they double over before they get as far away as they would have liked. He hacks, coughs and splutters, but what escapes his lips is not the trapped fuel or lubricant they expect.
It's vines. Leaves, big and green and spiralled. Flowers, delicate little red, yellow and pink things that he clocks as begonias, their petals stark against the floor like a bloodstain. There's ice in his fuel lines too, that settle inside of him uncomfortably; he can't tell if this is fear, disgust, or sadness, but the pit in his core that threatens to swallow him whole is saying nothing about this is right.
The next day is spent in the maintenance bay, whilst Control sits on a communication device to the research centre. He can't hear what's being said, as Control has retreated to a foreman's office, so he's left to pace around the empty warehouse and pick greenery out from between his teeth. A long four hours later, Control reappears, and informs him they're to be isolated until a specifically trained repair team can get here, which should be tomorrow; this in turn means Pepper can't do her shift tomorrow, and what was the anxiety of waiting turns into the embarrassment of letting someone down. In the back of his mind, they know Pepper won't be angry - she doesn't seem to be physically capable of negativity - but the last thing they want to become ostracised again.
Then more flowers demand escape, and he's reminded there's no way they can work like this; every cough hurts as bouquets worth of flowers, seemingly appearing from nowhere, force their way through his oxygen systems, flattening themselves in odd places and getting stuck in nooks and crannies. Panic settles in like a thick fog on the moorside, suffocating and cloying, and he resigns himself to the corner, the smallest place they can find in this echoing shell of a building.
Suddenly, like gunfire, three heavy knocks on the shutter.
"Fuel truck, you in there?" Calls a familiar, androgynous voice, brash but tender, "Control said youse' was in here."
"Charybdis?" Hydra calls back, trying not to let the panic show in their voice, "yeah, I'm fine - sorry for worrying everyone, had a possible fuel leak so they're keeping me isolated until an engineer can-"
They're interrupted by the heavy wrenching of the shutters being pulled along their tracks, and as soon as the shock eases, the fear sets in, and as sunlight spreads through the warehouse they rush to remove foliage from their mouth and chassis.
"Char, it could be dangerous," he urges, but the diesel either doesn't hear or doesn't care, and the light is suddenly blocked out by this imposing figure of steel and fumes.
At first, there's a distinct look of worry on her face, before morphing into an unsettling smugness. "You got somethin' on your face there, duck."
Hydra flounders, brushing away a rogue petal. "It is spring, you know-"
"But they're not flowers I recognise," she says knowingly, and she squats down in front of Hydra. One clawed, blackened hand moves to hold his chin at an angle, revealing leaves stuck fast in the intricacies of his chassis that they hadn't managed to get rid of yet. "You ain't got no leak, I've seen this before."
"Oh yeah?" Hydra asks, eyes darting between the middle distance and Charybdis' face, trying to ignore the emerald flush on his cheeks. He's not sure if it's due to being flustered or mortified, but he knows he's never going to forget.
"Yeah," Charybdis asserts, and Hydra's head is moved to face them, "a coach at me' last yard started puking roses everywhere, only stopped once I kissed her."
Hydra laughs nervously. "That sounds convenient-"
"Would you like that, Hydra?" Charybdis interrupts with a growled whisper, suddenly very, very close, "would you like me to kiss you?"
He hardly has time to nod - he thinks this is what he wants - before Charybdis' lips are on his, rough and heavy as they're pushed backwards into the wall of the warehouse. Their senses are overwhelmed with diesel, of gasoline in their nose and greased fingers in their hair as he scrabbles for something solid to hold; his searching hands eventually find the hitching point on Charybdis' back, and although his head hurts where it hit into the iron of the wall, the warm hand now holding them there seems to ease the pain somewhat.
It's as sharp teeth take to gnawing on his bottom lip when the urge to vomit overtakes them. They can't quite move Charybdis away - the engine is much too big for that - but they can pull their head back at an angle where whatever comes out is going down their front rather than all over their new lover's face. Vile and painful, he coughs and splutters as vines upon vines of begonias take no time waiting to be expulsed from his chest, and although it feels like something has actually given for the first time in twenty-four hours, the feeling of roots detaching from deep inside their fuel pumps is horrible. He's grateful for the gentle hand that has begun stroking his hair as he heaves, the first genuine display of tenderness they think they've ever experienced.
Such a shame he had to be vomiting flowers throughout the whole thing.
By the time he's finished, there's enough greenery at their feet to constitute a garden, and they heave out huge, shuddering breaths; it's almost a novelty to be able to breathe clearly, which is a feat considering the hands on his body and the hulking engine that has been gently talking them through the ordeal. They don't want to look up, don't want to meet Charybdis' gaze out of sheer embarrassment, but a thumb on his chin gently tilts his face up to meet it anyway.
"Feeling better, pet?" Charybdis asks confidently, and Hydra can only nod, almost too tired to speak, "thought you would be - c'mon, you need to rest."
They're eventually led, not to the freight warehouse, but to the lonely diesel building instead - he's been told there used to be diesels here, back when it was a functioning railway, but now this particular hanger is used pretty much exclusively by Charybdis, and the inside is decorated as such. Large posters of racing locomotives and famous scenes have been nailed to the metal walls, broken up by repair machinery and odd tools, but they barely have time to take it in before they're pressed up against one wall, Charybdis's hulking frame towering over him.
By the time the engineers arrive, he's in a bit of a dazed headspace and hardly follows their diagnostics, but he's given an all clear once Control agrees to take them off the rails for a few days. The plants are passed off with the excuse of an overly inquisitive new truck nosing around the yard too carelessly, and no one seems to question it any further. Admittedly, it takes a few days for Charybdis to stop acting incredibly smug about the whole thing, but it's worth it to be able to breathe freely again.
He begins spending most nights in Charybdis' warehouse, whist begins to morph into most mornings, and then most afternoons. She's a bit clingy, and enjoy having Hydra within an arms length whenever either of them aren't working, such as during refuelling, demanding Hydra come with her on repositioning runs, or intense make out sessions just out of view of prying eyes. However, he learns quickly that she's also a fan of letting everyone in the yard know exactly who Hydra belongs to, whether that's streaks of oil left along their otherwise sparkling chassis or marks suckled into the exposed parts of his neck; one by one, the coaches stop speaking to them during break, especially when Charybdis is around, and eventually whole journeys are heavy with silence.
But he has Charybdis, he is reminded frequently, who always listens about how their day has been, nods and hums in all the right places, and helps them unwind after particularly fraught shifts. In turn, all he has to do is, well-
Do whatever Charybdis tells him to do.
She tells him that it's his place, as a fuel truck, to always be ready to assist engines, which part of his systems says does technically make sense; the engine is the main part of the locomotive, at least, it's the bit that's doing all the work, so it's the engine that should be calling the shots. Hydra just needs to ignore how Pepper would always check in on them during trips to make sure he was comfortable, or how the diesels at the last yard they were at were always ever so slightly too slow to avoid upsetting the passenger coaches. Those other engines are too soft, Charybdis asserts whenever Hydra dares to question, and they're told repeatedly that that wasn't how Nemesis was run. Everyone knew their place at Nemesis, that's why it was run so efficiently, and Hydra just needed to learn how to give her what she needed.
It takes Pepper to make them realise.
"You've been quiet recently, pet, too quiet," she muses one autumnal afternoon as they pull into Whitby, almost inaudible under the hubbub of black-clad passengers beginning their pilgrimage to the abbey, "we're worried about ya'."
"Ain't nothing to be worried about," Hydra says smoothly, chucking her a smile that he knows she won't see; he's quite glad of it in a way, since they know it's not their best attempt. Charybdis has been quite rough recently, and their joints and connections are struggling a bit as the weather turns icier.
"I knew you were going to say that," she replies with a sigh, "the coaches tell me they've seen you limping - that diesel isn't hurting you, is she?"
He opens his mouth to respond, before Pepper interrupts, voice laced with concern.
"I want honesty from you, kid, and I'll know if you're lying - nothing happens in this yard without me knowing."
They snap their mouth shut, a sudden embarrassment hitting them like a tidal wave; Charybdis had told him no one else needed to know, or even wanted to. Whilst trying to find a reply, their mouth goes dry, and the pickup of their systems causes Pepper to jump slightly.
"Alright lad, it's okay," he hears through the static in his ears, "how about we have a chat over a cuppa' once we're back in Pickering?"
He nods an affirmative.
A week later, they're waiting for a shunting engine from R&D to come and tow them back to the test centre, silent as the yard around him. Pepper and an older steamer stand behind him protectively, coaches forming a semi-circle to preemptively block the angry, snarling engine that could be around any corner; they were on a bit of a time crunch to get Hydra out of the yard before Charybdis returned from her scheduled maintenance, and everyone seemed aware of just how badly this could go. He had one hand on his shoulder, inevitably Pepper's, warm and gentle as the familiar engine pulls into the yard.
Surprisingly, this testbed had been marked as a success, with the converted engine now supported enough in the yard to be able to run without an extra dedicated fuel tank, and no records of a hydrogen tanker suddenly being overrun by foliage. Where he left the first yard happy but disappointed he didn't remember the failure fully, this time, with the fear of looking over his shoulder should a dominating engine demand their submission again, he wishes he could forget.
As he's pulled away from the station to the quiet goodbyes of the other rolling stock, faint, familiar yelling echoes through the silence, angry and desperate. They plug their hearing, focusing on the latent static that's been buzzing in the background since they spoke to Pepper about the whole thing weeks ago, about how Charybdis would lord over them, demand things from them they couldn't provide, and become uncontrollable should he fail.
He thought the flowers were for love, for affection, between the descriptions of the coach from the first yard and how Charybdis used to make him feel, but maybe he was barking up the wrong tree entirely.
Maybe they were a warning, maybe they were danger - their intelligence and empathy was to remove him from dangerous situations, after all. Maybe, whilst alarms blared for leaks and lights flashed for damage, the flowers were to tell him to escape.
When he gets back to the test centre, they plaster on a smile and a dramatic gesture as he's welcomed back by the familiar yard, and they're given a few days to rest on their own before the engineers go through another round of tests. Thankfully they're used to these, usually easy diagnostics to make sure all his systems are working as they should, and there's a strange relaxation that comes from being hoisted up onto the engineering platform.
"So, where am I off to next?" He asks the chief engineer once the repairs team begin packing up their tools and he's lowered to the floor again.
The chief engineer, ever the same wiry, grey haired human gentleman, doesn't look up from his clipboard. "In two months you're being dispatched to Troubadour Rail, a working yard north of London, but we need to carry out some upgrades first," he says matter-of-factly, finally looking up at the truck that towers over him with a smile, "this one does a bit of everything, so I imagine you'll mostly be in freight runs - they have two steamers singled out for possible conversation, but they want to see how you function first."
"Best behaviour, then?" They ask with a cheeky smile, carefully jumping to their wheels, and the engineer nods slowly, obviously.
"And nothing but," he reminds, "do as much as you can to show how useful you are, and let us know if there's anymore flora incidents - it was a lucky escape you had at the Moors Railway."
Hydra feels his systems kick up again, anxious at the mention; of course they're going to do what they can to avoid it, it was a horrible sensation, he just wasn't sure how to.
"What's it for? The flowers, I mean," they ask cautiously, and notices how the engineer puts his head down again, "or are they not intentional."
He doesn't get a response, but the refusal of the engineer to meet their gaze suggests he doesn't know either.
For the next few months, they don't leave the company yard, mostly undergoing various improvements to fuel stability and emergency protocol, so by the time a representative from Troubadour comes to collect him, he's chomping at the bit to leave. He misses the wind in their hair, the feeling of the rough steel and sand beneath their wheels, and the diesel who has come to pick them up - they're pretty sure their name was Silver Bullet or something flashy like that - isn't afraid to take corners sharply.
The trip to North London from their home in the midlands seems to simultaneously take hours and be over in the blink of an eye; Bullet arrives in the evening, since it's more efficient to transfer when the national rails are quieter, and they don't see another soul for pretty much the entire journey.
"You come to us at an interesting time," Bullet says as they pass through Oxford, "are you familiar with the Championship Rail Races?"
Hydra has to think hard for a second; the somewhat generic name doesn't ring any bells, but he knows he recognised the Troubadour name from one of Charybdis' posters. It was emblazoned almost in a style akin to graffiti, neatly framing a picture of a rugged diesel engine holding a battered trophy, dented chassis coloured all aggressive yellows and blacks; Charybdis used to style her hair after them, and used to whine that navy never looked as dramatic as yellow.
"I think so," they respond, "Greaseball, yeah? I think I know a few names."
"You're familiar with the former champion then, that's good," Bullet muses, and Hydra can hear the relief from behind them, "Greaseball gets pissy if you don't know who she is, she's awfully entitled like that - we don't tend to get newcomers very often, but when we do, they stay very clear of the races. I'm surprised Control agreed to have you now, she knows how violent these things turn out to be."
"Well, it's a change from my old yard," Hydra replies, and he can't help the excitement that bleeds into his tone, although they're not sure if that's just compensation from the anxiety of possibly dealing with another demanding diesel, "I was on a heritage railway for a year with a bunch of old steamers that had just been converted - super nice, but boring!"
There's a snicker from Bullet, knowing and sarcastic. "If Troubadour is anything, it's certainly not boring - the races begin in a month, you may get asked to partner with someone. Be prepared to play hardball."
Hydra laughs, but it's hard to ignore the knot of anxiety that has begun slowing down their systems. Hopefully, he'll be too heavy and dangerous for anyone to even consider racing with, and he won't have to spend the rest of the trial period fending off jumped up, demanding diesels again.
They pull into the work yard just after midnight, and Bullet courteously agrees to show him to the freight warehouse. Just from being here for a minute, Hydra already gets the sense this is by far the biggest yard they've been posted to yet, and the warehouses, shiny and neat in the shine of the security floodlights, seem to stretch on monotonously for at least a mile.
"Many engines have their own hangers," Bullet explains as they're led has row upon row of shuttering, "and around now, those who don't begin demanding them for private training. Unfortunately for you, the freight share."
"I've never had roommates before," Hydra replies with a grin, much to Bullet's surprise.
As the engine warehouses end, they open out into a wide yard, dusty with dirt and covered in wheel tracks. There's less light here, only a solitary spot that doesn't illuminate much more than the centre ring, and there's a faint outline of a large fence stretching across the far perimeter. Bullet leads him right, towards a few larger, less maintained warehouses, down a pathway that is unlit apart from individual warehouse spotlights.
Except for at the far end. Pressed up against the far fencing is a flickering orange light, warm and inviting; there's a faint smell of coal smoke that is quintessential of a steamer, although it's hard to tell in the darkness whether this furnace is attached to anything. Whilst Hydra squints, he hears Bullet grumble something under their breath, frustrated.
"That's one of our steamers, Rusty," Bullet says, exasperated, voice raised just enough for the figure to hear, "he shouldn't be out this late, I heard that if he's caught breaking curfew again Control is going to put him in storage-"
That earns a sudden, shocked jump from the steamer, and the fires of the furnace sputter as he turns on one wheel; Hydra hardly has time to register this before the engine is over in a flash, face suddenly cresting into the light of the spotlight they're under.
"Oh, hi Bullet," he says quietly, heaving a breath from the sprint, "please don't tell Control, it's just such a clear night, and with the light pollution as it is I wanted a chance to try and see Orion."
Bullet says something sarcastic, eye roll almost audible, but Hydra isn't listening. Instead, he's looking at the engine in front of him.
Rusty is younger than any steamer he's ever met, easily; there's an undeniable boyish charm to him, with this coppery flush to his cheeks that almost glitters like stars in the light. As he smiles apologetically, Hydra can spot a chipped tooth peeking through chapped lips, which is strangely charming in a way he can't describe, and the look in his gorgeous brown eyes is clear as a mirror, genuine and exuberant. Even just standing, it's clear he's buzzing with all kinds of latent, excited energy - was this all from the possibility of seeing some stars?
"-freight truck?"
He's snapped back to reality by two sets of eyes looking at him in bewilderment, one steely and harsh, the other curious.
"Something wrong?" They hear Bullet ask, "Rusty requested you introduce yourself."
"Oh," he says simply with a laugh, trying not to flush, and forcibly relaxes his body, "sorry - long day, ain't it? I'm Hydra, a prototype hydrogen tanker - JCB are testing me in different working environments to see how I do before they launch the fuel of the future, and you lot are lucky enough to be next on the list."
He holds out one hand, which Rusty accepts with gusto; his hands are warm, comforting, with only the slightest hint of a claw as opposed to the near talons of previous, older engines they have dealt with. His grip is solid, but not painful, and the scent of coal is familiar; it reminds him of Pepper, in all her maternal kindness, and relaxes him without him even being fully aware of it.
"That's so cool," Rusty replies with a beaming grin as he lets go of Hydra's hand, "I'm the primary freight hauler around here, so I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other - my name is- Bullet told you I was Rusty, so you know that already, sorry."
"It's cool, don't worry," Hydra says, trying to play the whole situation off coolly, but he's interrupted by Bullet coughing loudly.
"I was showing Hydra to the freight warehouse, and then wish to retire for the night," Bullet states in a clipped tone, and Rusty's eyebrows shoot back in surprise, "I advise you do the same, steam train, and I'll pretend I didn't see you here tonight."
"Or Rusty can show me to the warehouse and you can go straight to rest?" Hydra counters, and shoots a cheeky smile at Rusty.
Bullet huffs and pulls a strange face, almost as if they can't quite work the situation out, before nodding once. "Fine, but I will not be responsible if you are caught."
They turn on their wheel haughtily, before shooting off back towards the shinier warehouses, leaving Hydra and Rusty in the darkness.
"Wouldn't have had you down as a rules breaker," Hydra says offhandedly as Rusty turns to lead him further down the sandy path, "like, I've met rule-breaker engines, and most of them don't spend their time sneaking out to stargaze."
"Yeah, well, I like the quiet," Rusty says quietly, with a hint of defensiveness, but that small smile still on his face, "it's nice, the yard gets too loud sometimes."
"Oh, I get that, don't worry," Hydra assures him, and Rusty seems to relax a little bit, "my last yard was full of gossiping Pullman coaches, you could hear them talking about you from a mile away."
Rusty laughs at that, a clear, bright laugh that makes Hydra smile wider just a little bit wider. "You'll get used to Troubadour quickly then, both the cars and the engines gossip about you here."
Eventually, they're led to a large, slightly rusting warehouse at the far end of the track, easily the size of two of the engine houses put together. Rusty heaves the shutters open, seemingly a lot stronger than his wiry frame would suggest, and there's a small groan from inside; the warehouse is completely dark, with only the small glowing of Rusty's furnace for any reasonable light source, but gradually a faint yellow light begins to sputter into life from one of the upper storage units.
"It's late, Rusty, what the fuck do you want?" Irately asks a feminine voice, rough from rest.
"Sorry Slick, I thought Control had warned you," he replies in a whisper, "we've had the new hydrogen tanker delivered, I was showing them to their bunk."
"And I told her I'm not sharing a bunk with a pressure bomb," she snarls back, and Rusty's head whips around to face Hydra, mildly horrified as he mouths a silent apology.
"Slick, mate, don't say it to their face, they're probably stood out there thinking you're a total bitch," pipes up another voice, as a blue-toned truck on the lower level.
"I'll say whatever the fuck I want-"
"Well you can have that conversation with Control in the morning, right?" Hydra interrupts, and positions himself leaning on the shutter frame; from here, he can make out the blue truck quite clearly, and gives him a friendly wave, "for now, I'm shattered, you're shattered, and I'm sure Rusty has better places to be. I'm definitely not going to blow up tonight, let me rest and then we'll sort out living arrangements in the morning."
He can make out Slick's face now, scowled and angry, but she eventually tosses her hair back and falls back into the loading bay with a huff. They'll consider that a win for now, and they make their way over to a bay on the ground level, vacant and bare where the other trucks have obviously made theirs their home. In a strange way, he's used to this - he's never really been in one place long enough to personalise it, apart from his sterile warehouse at the testing facility, so they would have to ask the other trucks if it would be possible to string some lights up.
"I'll see you in the morning, if you would like a tour," Rusty offers, almost shyly, as Hydra rolls back to the shutters and begins sliding them shut, "I'm not needed until coach maintenance at three, so we have most of the day for meeting and greeting."
"I would like that, cheers," Hydra replies with a grin, which Rusty returns before the shutters are slammed shut.
They try to rest, but rest doesn't come easily for them, mind instead distracted with what he thinks was a distinct, sweet blush on the steamer's cheeks.
And an infuriating scratching at the back of their throat.