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Truthfully, at this point, Eve should be familiar with the inside of the freight shed, should be accustomed to the sights and sounds of what might be the oldest structure in the yard still standing, but this never gets any easier. Perched on one of the empty bays opposite Porter's bunk, this is the closest she's felt to being a trainlet in a long, long time, leg hauled up on a step stool as Porter flits and flaps around her. One day she'll get through to him that if he's going to be a proper repair truck eventually, he needs to keep all his tools in one place, but apparently today is not that day as he rises to his wheels with a groan again to go and retrieve a different sized wrench from the other side of the shed.
She's never seen him this ragged, or at least, maybe he usually keeps a lid on it better. Where there's usually chatter, aimless and rambling in a desperate attempt to fill the awkward silence so neither of them have to answer the question of whether these quick fixes will keep holding, today is deadly silent, with only the noises of hard work and creaking brass to interrupt the ringing in her ears. Sometimes his touch is too rough, holding onto pipes slightly too tightly as he forces blown brackets back into place, but she can't quite find it in herself to complain too much.
Because she sees it when he moves in front of her, sees the clenched jaw and the blanched knuckles, eyes wide and unblinking as he flicks through her worn manual, careful not to tear the pages further. Anger, bright as day and raw as blood, something Eve knows all too well.
Really, she should have seen this earlier, Starlight knows it's been building for a long time, and maybe she should be grateful that Porter's chosen to deal with it productively rather than punching holes in the metal walls like he used to when he first got here. Repairs was always just a curious side hobby, something he'd picked up out of necessity when Control began turning a blind eye to the injuries they all began to pick up from bar fights and less than controlled crashes, but she always knew he'd find a peace in it; maybe once all this is over, he could get a proper job in the repair shed, something reliable rather than all this drying up coal work that he's beating himself up about for weeks.
Most of this is unnecessary, overtightened nuts and screws just to make sure her boiler doesn't shift out of place again, boiler filled ever so slightly too full just in case, and it feels like he's finally run out of stuff to do as he drags up a stool to sit opposite her silently. As he grumbles and sits, knees clicking as he moves, he still won't meet her eye, but despite how simple of a man he is, she knows she won't be able to tackle whatever guilt he seems to be harbouring just yet.
"I'm sure it'll all hold," Eve assures, although it comes out more broken than she would like as her bellows get used to speaking again, "I promise you, Porter, but thank you."
A single, solitary nod is all she receives in response, crimson hair barely shifting from the movement as he stares down at the welding torch he's in the process of dismantling.
"Porter?"
Another grunt; he's managed to pop out the gas canister, and is now playing with the mechanism that controls the flame size. He's not listening.
"Porter, lovely, I promise you, it's fine-"
"It's fuckin' not, though, is it?" Porter suddenly snaps, gaze suddenly intense as he finally makes eye contact, and there's a redness to his already ruby eyes like he's been crying whenever his back was turned, "Eventide, you could've died out there."
"Well, it's a good thing I didn't then, isn't it?" She's trying her hardest to keep her tone even, keep herself calm as Porter's brow furrows more and more, but at how he recoils she knows she's failed. "Porter, I promise I'm not about to collapse, I know my limits."
A scoff as he looks away, a humourless smile tugging at his lips. "But you don't, do ya'? You just wanna' be a champion again, show off steam, let them run you int' the fuckin' ground-"
She knows he doesn't mean it, knows he's all wind and bluster at the moment where his emotions are running faster than his mouth can keep up with; he's always been the most hotheaded of the bunch, of their ragtag little group that somehow ended up under Eve's management when she barely knew how to manage herself. Somewhere between her increasingly poor upkeep and the lack of freight work coming in, maybe Control had expected her to fail, but they support her as much as she supports them, and whenever things seem unfair, it's always Porter they march in to go and argue the toss about every single detail of a manifest until the other party backs down. Like a wildfire he's relentless, all-consuming once he sets his mind to something, unlike Lumber who floats from project to project and Slick who rarely picks anything up unless there's a good enough reward at the end.
In this case, apparently, it's finding blame. Someone to point the finger at for her nearly dried out boiler, someone to get labelled as a wrongdoer or an idiot, but he's too pent up to logic it out like she's seen him do with unbalanced manifests, and he's too lost in his anger to formulate any kind of reason behind where that label falls.
"I knew what I was signing myself up for," Eve states slowly, evenly, reaching out to place her hand against his where he's laid it on the plating of her shin, welding torch mangled at his feet, "I knew full well that Hydra's tank is far heavier than anything I've hauled in a long time-"
"Then why did ya' do it?"
Glory? Position? None of it feels right, at least not as right as saying how much she just wants to feel something again. The feeling of the wind in her hair is hard to replace, something that can only be replicated in being out there, in getting cubic inch of steam in her body to push every piece of motion to it's absolute limit, and maybe that's not something Porter will ever understand. That bug never bit him like it did the others, or at least if it did, he crushed it quickly.
With a sigh, Eve leans herself back against the wall of the shed, groaning slightly against sensitive fixings, and immediately Porter is at her side, ever present as he eases her backwards with tender hands. Despite his anger, that care never seems to fade - one day, he'll make a fantastic repair truck, she just hopes she's around to see that day.
"Because I wanted to," she says plainly, looking away from him to fix her gaze on a rogue piece of rust blooming across the top of the bunk, "is that enough for you?"
"But why Hydra?" Porter asks, quieter this time - slowly, something's abating, and once she's calmed down the anger she can deal with everything else inside his head, "Couldn't you have asked Belle, or Dinah, or-"
Or me goes unsaid as he trails off, lips settling into a thin line, but Eve's known him long enough to know that's what he means. In a way, he's right, Porter was the only truck she didn't get a chance to ask before Hydra interrupted, and maybe they could have won again, like she had when they were both a lot younger, in better form, without the weight of it all that gives them both a similar hunch to their shoulders.
"Hydra deserved the chance, just like you did," Eve sighs, raising an eyebrow at him wryly, "why wouldn't they?"
The million pound question, especially since she can already see Hydra gearing up to race with Rusty in the final, a position that she knows Porter's been coveting for years.
"'Cause they're dangerous," Porter grumbles quickly, but for the first time so far, there's hesitancy, "doesn't matter what they deserve, it's about what's safe, Rusty's just as bad for fuckin' goin' along with it - now he's gonna' take your place, and either make another fuckin' fuss about this bloody coach, or keel over from tryin' to haul Hydra up Gerry's Hill, 'cause you just know Control's pickin' the uphill for the final-"
"Or he could make his own decisions, and come out on top," Eve argues gently, holding her hand open in invitation, "you never know, he might ask to race with you yet."
A crimson flush along soot-covered cheeks. This was never about racing.
"I would've raced with you if you'd asked," Porter mutters, and that edge from his voice has eased a bit, anger turning to misery as his nose wrinkles in thought, "and I wouldn't have driven you into the ground-"
"And I can handle myself," she retorts firmly, cocking her head slightly as Porter's gaze drifts over, "Porter… this isn't just about me, is it?"
For a second, two seconds, ten seconds, there's nothing, just a silence in which she could hear a pin drop amongst the background noise of the creaking shed. At least she can also hear the faint chugging of her own engine again, feel the familiar rhythm in her chest that was far too faint half an hour ago, and as if to just reassure herself it's still there, Eve reaches up to lay a palm flat against her sternum. Immediately Porter is up again, hands poised to help as his eyes widen in concern, but Eve's other hand goes to Porter's shoulder, easing him back down as he shimmies onto the bunk next to her.
"I'm fine, promise," she repeats for what must be the fiftieth time, but she's not annoyed, will never be annoyed with him, "Porter, lovely, answer my question."
A scoff as he looks down at his own hands like they might just have the answer for him, and Eve can see where her oil has stained his fingertips, coal dust from her overheated firebox outlining every scar and groove on his hands. Commitment given physical proof, an art form lost on these newfangled tankers who wipe their hands clean after every fuelling session; her, Rusty, and Porter used to be menaces for it, back when it was just the three of them, sooty hand prints left on every appliance and piece of furniture, traceable around the various sheds they operated between. These days Lumber cleans up after them, the evidence of midnight snacks and supportive grips on the bannister swept into the wind.
"It is about you," Porter states slowly, as if he's trying to formulate his argument as he's speaking, "'am mad at Hydra for only thinkin' of themselves, 'cause if they'd thought about you and your limits for one fuckin' second we wouldn't be here, and 'am mad at Rusty for just lettin' it happen and then thinkin' that this is amazin' and incredible and not somethin' that nearly fuckin' killed you-"
"I got him a place in the final, Porter, that's what he needed-"
"He needs to grow a fuckin' backbone and do shit for himself for once!" Porter's shouting now, one of those oil-stained hands twisted in his jacket. "He doesn't need to race with Pearl, any of us would have raced with him if he'd fuckin' asked, and despite the fact that you pretty much keeled over for him, I bet you he's still gonna' take his sweet fuckin' time in findin' a partner before the final."
"Control might ask for a switch around," Eve counters lightly, "so she won't be allowed to race with Electra again."
Porter scoffs again, dry and exhausted. "Dinah says Greaseball won't take her eyes off her - Rusty's got competition in more ways than one, and you know he ain't winnin' that one either."
Deflated, he leans back against the wall; the adrenaline of the repair has begun to wear off, clearly, as his shoulders fall from around his ears and his grip on his jacket begins to lessen. Always a sign he's tired, that he plays with his clothes and chews his lips, just like how Rusty will sit there and play with his hair and Dinah will pick the varnish off her nails.
"What's been going on between you two? This isn't like you, Porter" Eve asks gently, reaching out to take one Porter's hands in hers - they podiumed once, together, when her career was ending and he was freshly new to the yard, desperately trying to prove himself to anyone who would listen. The second race they'd ever done, they'd come third, and she always made sure they were together, not like the engines who shoved their racing partners to the back the moment they crossed the finish line, basking in the moment of how this might be the last time either of them ever experience this. Okay, he might not be the most eager about it, but Porter's quite a fine racer, good with his breaks and excellent at knowing when to hold back on corners if you ignore the tunnel vision he gets on the straight runs, Rusty would be lucky to have him as a partner, and she would be the first to say Rusty's rejection of him earlier was uncharacteristic.
Coach or no coach, she's never seen him brush off a friend like that, and she's never seen the light die in Porter's eyes faster.
"Nothin'," Porter replies quickly, eyes looking firmly down at his lap, "he's just bein' a proper asshole right now with all this racin' and tryin' to suck up to the engines and the coaches."
"If it were nothing, you wouldn't have looked so sad when he told you no," Eve interrupts, squeezing his hand gently, "c'mon, Porter, you can talk to me."
With a wrinkle of his nose, he hums in thought, low and rumbling. "You ain't my momma-"
"But I'm your manager, your former racing partner, and your friend," Eve insists, shaking their hands where they're still solidly linked together, and even despite his hesitation, his grip on her hand is strong and supportive, "this has been eating you up for weeks, hasn't it?"
For a second, she thinks he isn't going to reply. Wouldn't be the first time, Porter's a master of petty silent treatment whenever hit with a question he doesn't want to answer. Slick redirects, Lumber always goes with flat honesty, but Porter clams up half the time, and unlike with the other two she's never quite sure if she should push or give him time.
She hasn't worked Hydra out yet. Maybe that can be her goal once all this has blown over.
"We- we were kinda' - Stars, this is fuckin' stupid," he begins, and if she squints there's a faint glitter in his eye, so she urges him on with a squeeze of his hand, "we were seein' each other for a bit, nothin' serious, just like, nice, goin' on wee dates an' such."
There is it. Guilt that makes way for jealousy, raw and true, and if she wasn't so happy to have gotten through to him, she'd be wondering how this had all happened under her nose without her realising. As he speaks, his face is a picture of innocence, boyish love and tentative admission, and it takes a moment for Eve to realise quite what he's talking about. Previously she's seen the types of relationships Porter is drawn too, late nights in the mess shed and collar drawn up tight to his chin the next morning when he shows up for work with a new dent in his armour, and Rusty is far from that, so far divorced that she would never have paired them up in her mind.
Usually, Rusty likes a sensitive soul, someone who will take things at his pace along with him, which is why he's usually drawn to pretty coaches with soothing voices and gentle touches. Porter, on the other hand, has never committed to anyone in his life as far as Eve is aware, preferring physical, casual things with the same engines he complains about. As hard as she tries to keep her nose out of her workers' personal lives, it's impossible when they all basically lived on top of each other until Control finally funded Rusty his own shed rather than squish into hers.
"And it was nice, y'know? I stayed over at his a few times, just like, I'd hold him and he'd let me complain about work or whatever." He sounds almost mournful, a sudden change from the fiery anger from before, and with a heave, Eve shuffles over, close enough to let him lean his head on her shoulder. "It wasn't anythin' like-"
"You don't have to justify it," Eve soothes, and she can feel him crumble slightly where he's tucked himself close, "I always thought you two would've been good for each other."
A sarcastic laugh as his hands go to start fiddling with his jacket again. "Right, well, I fucked that up then. Called it off a week ago, we were gettin' at each other's throats - no work and idle hands and all that."
Of course. The resentment, the speed of Rusty's rejection, the way Porter didn't fight him, the awkward looks from Lumber and Slick that seemed to go right over Hydra's head.
"And I made it worse by suggesting he race with you and getting your hopes up," Eve hums gently, hissing slightly as she moves to hold him closer, "I'm sorry, love, these things are never easy."
Just like they hadn't been smooth with Memphis, with how on and off they were until Eve had finally won a championship and proved that she had a future, proved she was worthy of such a fine car. It's awful, she knows Rusty's her protege as the only other steamer she knows, but she's always seen more of herself in his coal truck; that hotheadedness, that cheeky sense of humour, doing things he probably shouldn't when he gets too caught up in whatever Slick's planning. She's been there, done that, got the caution points on her file to prove it, and the marks of Memphis' gentle repairs to show how much her then-ex-girlfriend cared underneath all of that refusal to race with her.
"So yeah, angry with Hydra, 'cause Hydra's a twat, angry with Rusty, 'cause he didn't try and fix it, angry with you 'cause you nearly died for those idiots," Porter lists off, although his voice has lost that strained quality that comes with barely contained rage, "I'll be fine, as long as you're fine, sorry."
Without a doubt, she will be fine. Never once has one of his repairs broken or one of his welds burst, and when he's ready to let go of role and job and an old, unwanted identity, she'll be his first reference.
"I'll be fine as long as you keep yourself out of trouble," Eve counters, and she can't help but notice the way Porter's shoulders tense - she doesn't want to know about that, lest her mind run away with it, "I'm sure he'll come round - maybe he's just gotta' get Pearl out of his system."
"And make sure Hydra doesn't get there first," Porter mutters gravely, as if he thinks she can't hear him - that would explain the anger at Hydra nicely too, something personal beyond how irresponsible them racing is, and once again, there's this strange sense of accomplishment that she just knew something else was up.
With a hum, Eve pulls him in again, placing an affectionate kiss on the crown of his head. One day, she'll stop worrying about him, stop worrying about all of them; one day she won't have to fret about whatever Slick's got herself stuck in now, or why the electrics seem so keen on hovering at the yard gate whenever Lumber and Porter are out and working, or whatever strange situation Rusty has ended up in now by sheer virtue of him being too kind for his own good. Maybe that day will be soon, maybe in a year or so, but she's been praying weekly for their happiness, and the Starlight hasn't let her down yet.
Maybe soon she'll get to have Porter at her dinner table not just as a friend, or a worker, but a son in law, as family, no matter how many others Rusty brings along with him.
"I'll need to check over your boiler before you go to work again," Porter eventually muses, louder this time to make sure she hears him as he sits up and wrenches himself out of her arms, "need to make sure everythin's holdin'."
"Porter?" Eve asks gently as he stands, dusting off his uniform trousers awkwardly, and his head turns quickly, eyes wide and amicable smile suddenly tight on his lips, "promise me something?"
He nods once, smile fading for a second as he turns from where he was about to dash. "Aye, Eve, anythin'."
"Promise me that once this is all over, you'll apply for a repair truck job." The writing's on the wall, the bell is tolling somewhere in the distance. It might be too late for her, but it's not too late for Rusty, and the last thing she wants to do is drag Porter down with her. If Hydra's right, and there's a very good chance they are, it'll be her and Porter thrown to the wayside unless they do something now. "You've got a talent, son, and I'd hate to see it go to waste."
Faintly, his cheeks light up, bashful and proud as that terse smile fades into something small and genuine. For a while she's been telling him this, but this is definitely the first time he's listened. "I'll… I'll think about it - do- do you think Rusty would convert?"
Rusty is many things, but he's not an idiot; he's young, reckless, selfish at times, but when pushed through his malaise, he's got a will to live stronger than anyone Eve's ever met, and that might just be the perfect storm of requirements that Hydra's after. Coal is dying, after all, amongst climate action and politics and the rising cost of their very existence, and if this is the change he needs to live, the route he has to take to stay alive whilst avoiding the arrogance of diesel and the smarm of the Electrics, then so be it - she isn't going to stand in Rusty's way, or Hydra's way, and she needs to make sure Porter doesn't, too. "We have to be prepared for it, Porter."
"Alright." Slowly his smile fades, melting into something as serious and determined as she feels, and his toolbox is opened, tools methodically filed away in some organisation system that they definitely weren't sorted into before. "I know Vial's been talkin' about takin' an apprentice on for a few years, he probably won't appreciate bein' haggled until the races are over."
"Just promise me you'll ask?" Eve repeats, as she kicks her leg off the stool to stretch her back out, and confidently, for the first time today, Porter nods.
"Promise - as long as you don't push it and make yourself a repeat customer," he jokes, flashing that happy grin that she's been seeing less and less of these days, "if I'm on the clock more I won't be able to keep an eye out for you."
"I don't need looking out for," she assures, clinging onto the side of the bay as she rises to her wheels, "but thank you for looking out for me today, lovely."
Maybe one day, soon, he won't have to.