Chapter Text
It was Thomas The Tank Engine himself.
Not the happy blue cartoon from children’s television, but the real life thing—a compact, wiry little locomotive with a short-tempered whistle and paint that had seen more touch-ups than a politician’s resume. He was currently wedged between 98462 and 87564 like a sausage in a sandwich, his buffers grinding against theirs as they shoved him toward the turntable with the grace of two bulldozers in a ballet.
"Oi! *Gerroff!*" Thomas's whistle shrieked like a scalded cat as 98462's buffers ground against his smokebox door. The little blue tank engine's wheels skidded on oily rails, his pony truck twisting like a kicked terrier. "I've got *shunting duties*, you great—"
"Shuttit, pipsqueak," 98462 growled, her Wiltshire accent thick as cold axle grease. Her buffers ground against Thomas's cab with the grating shriek of rusted iron. "This turntable's for proper engines, not for little tea trolleys like you."
You felt steam hiss between their teeth—not in anger, but in the same instinct that makes a terrier snap at a bigger dog bothering a pup. "Oi!" The word tore from your... funnel? (You know what, you have to choose something, and your boiler is practically your stomach you think so the funnel works) before they could think, their whistle sharp as a shunter's coupling pin. "Hands off the little guy!"
"Little Guy?!'
98462's buffers froze mid-shove, her smokebox door and eight driving wheels wrinkling in what could only be described as locomotive disbelief. "You *what*?" Her voice dripped with the sort of condescension usually reserved for toddlers explaining why they'd eaten mud.
87564 the cut in, her buffers scraping Thomas's cab side with the screech of rusted metal. "Oh, look what's *finally* here—the blinker beast itself!" Her voice dripped with the sort of venom usually reserved for boiler inspectors on Monday mornings.
Your steam pressure spiked before you could stop it—a hot, hissing surge that rattled your valves like an angry teakettle. "Oi! I said to keep your buffers off him!" you whistled, the sound sharp enough to make 98462's crew wince. Your wheels ground forward without thinking, uncoupling from Marigold and Thistle with a metallic clang that echoed across the station like a dropped toolbox.
Harris's boot slammed your brake cylinder. "Christ alive, Phoenix—!"
Too late.
You were already rolling, your pistons hammering with the reckless rhythm of a shunter who'd spotted a runaway wagon. 98462's driver—a wiry man with a mustache like a frayed brake hose—froze mid-shove, his mouth hanging open as your shadow swallowed Thomas whole.
The little blue tank engine blinked up at you, his safety valves puffing in startled bursts. "I—you—*what?*"
87564's fireman—a round-faced man with eyebrows like two caterpillars wrestling—dropped his shovel with a clang that echoed across Tidmouth's platform.
"Now then you two, I already know you haven't done your jobs, so how about instead of hanging up and tormenting someone else just to feel better about yourself, you go and do them, hmm?" Your voice carried across Tidmouth Station with the crisp authority of a locomotive with years of experience, your buffers barely an inch from 87564's coal bunker.
98462 recoiled like she'd been sprayed with cold water, her boiler pressure dropping visibly. "You can't—I mean—*we're* the ones—" Her spluttering died as Tidmouth's stationmaster—a man whose eyebrows could've been mistaken for runaway caterpillars—strode forward with the gait of someone who'd spent decades breaking up fights between locomotives. His pocket watch swung like a pendulum of doom.
87564's buffers ground against Thomas's cab in one last spiteful shove before she hissed steam in surrender. "Fine. But this ain't even close to being over, *blinker beast*." The nickname slithered out with all the warmth of a slipped coupling chain.
Tidmouth's stationmaster—Mr. Patrick Percival, according to his brass-buttoned uniform—cleared his throat like a steam injector clogged with rust. His pocket watch glinted like an accusation in the afternoon sun. "Right. Seeing as how we've got the Wild Nor' Wester in *eight minutes early*—" The pause stretched like cold coupling chains. "—perhaps we might *not* have engines shunting each other like dockside coal wagons?"
98462's whistle let out a strangled *peep*.
And so, 98462 and 87564 violently chuffed away.
Thomas then looked up at you with fascination, if you had to chose a word for it, "You're the biggest engine I've ever seen. You're even bigger than Henry!"
You blinked your steam momentarily puffing in surprise. "You're *Thomas*," you said dumbly, as if announcing the sky was blue or coal was black. The reality of seeing the cheeky little tank engine—whose exploits you'd half-remembered from childhood—hit with the force of a runaway coal wagon. His blue paint was duller than you recalled, streaked with oil and soot, and his buffers bore the dents of countless shunting-yard scuffles.
Harris spat onto the tracks with the wet smack of a fish hitting pavement. "Aye, and yer Phoenix, and I'm a Scotsman wi' a death wish fer takin' this job," he muttered, mopping his forehead with a rag that might've once been white. "Now if ye'll excuse me, I've a sudden urge tae drink myself intae next Tuesday." He stomped off toward Tidmouth's station tavern with the gait of a man who'd just survived a boiler explosion.
Lewis—still half-buried in your firebox—snorted loud enough to send coal dust puffing from your ashpan. "Dinnae mind him. Uncle Harris gets like this after seein' engines act like bullies. Reminds him too much o' Glasgow." His shovel hit the floor of your cab as he also walked off to who knows where.
"You already know who I am?"
Oh right... Shit.
Thomas' safety valves popped like a string of firecrackers, his wheels shifting nervously on the rails. The little blue tank engine had that look—the one terriers get when they've been caught digging in the vicar's rose garden. "I—you—" His whistle squeaked like a stepped-on rubber duck. "*How* d'you know my name?"
Your steam pressure dropped momentarily, your deflectors twitching like a startled cat's ears. The truth—that you had grown up with plastic versions of Thomas rattling across bedroom floors—wasn't exactly railway protocol. "Edward talked about you when we passed Vicarstown," you lied, watching your words puff into the damp Tidmouth air like guilty smoke signals.
Thomas seemed to just accept that, thank God.
"While I'm not little, thanks. But it's Phoenix right?" Thomas said, puffing himself up to his full diminutive height. His wheels shifted again, glancing nervously toward Tidmouth's turntable where 98462 and 87564 were now sulking by the coaling stage. Their crews shot venomous looks back your way between shoveling lumps of coal with unnecessary violence.
Okay, you understood and expected that from the engines, but what the fuck was their crew's problems with you?
"My full name is Iron Phoenix, but that's not really a proper name, now is it?" You lightly joked. Thomas blinked at you, his wheels shifting nervously on the rails like a terrier caught chewing slippers. The little blue tank engine's safety valves let out a confused puff—half-amused, half-suspicious.
"Yeah it's not," Thomas finally snorted in agreement, steam curling from his funnel in amused puffs. His wheels shifted again—not nervous now, but restless as a terrier who'd spotted a rat. "Proper names don't have 'Iron' in 'em unless you're some museum piece." The cheek in his whistle could've curdled milk.
Your regulator twitched. That stung more than it should've—probably because it was true. Your name *did* sound like something scraped off the side of a Victorian locomotive exhibit.
Thomas didn't wait for your reply. His wheels spun with the restless energy of a terrier spotting an open gate. "Anyway, proper or not, it's so nice to finally meet another big engine besides Edward that isn't such a bossy boiler!" His whistle shrieked mid-sentence, startling a flock of pigeons from Tidmouth's roof.
Wait, Edward was a big engine?
Anyways, you gently sighed, "Well, I can't say that I'm as kind as Edward, but I didn't have anything better to do than help you from those two," you said with a half chuckle.
Thomas' wheels clattered against the rails as he adjusted his position, steam puffing in short, excited bursts. "So you're staying then? Proper-like?" His voice carried the eager pitch of a terrier who'd just discovered a fresh bone.
"I'm staying as long as I can keep my firebox lit," you began as you looked out onto the yard and it's disorder, "welp, I don't suppose you want some help with shunting? I still have about twenty something minutes before I have to take the Wild Nor' Wester Express back up to Vicarstown."
Thomas' whistle let out an excited *peep* that startled a sleeping pigeon off the water tower. "You'd *help* with shunting?" His wheels skidded slightly on the rails, sending up little puffs of steam like an overeager terrier. "Tender engines never want to shunt! Well, except Edward, but that's just Edward being Edward—"
Your coupling chains rattled as you rolled forward, your buffers nudging a string of milk vans with the precision of a drunk surgeon's scalpel. Thomas watched from the turntable, his safety valves puffing in amused little bursts.
"Mind the brake van," he called, his whistle sharp as a shunter's coupling pin.
You snorted steam—half in amusement, half in frustration—as your tender clipped the van's corner with a metallic screech that set Tidmouth's station cat bolting for the luggage office.
Harris chose that moment to reappear from the tavern, his gait unsteady and his breath smelling suspiciously like distilled regret. He took one look at your shunting attempts and spat onto the tracks.
"Christ alive," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Ye shunt like a blindfolded donkey."
Yeah, you kind of already figured that by now, thanks.