"I get it, don't fret." Even now Rusty is too forgiving, too kind in the face of a guy who tried to kill him. "I'm great now, better than I used to be - I dunno', I guess I should be thanking you guys in a way, I- I think I needed it, something to make me actually believe for once."
Believe? Believe in-
Oh, the Starlight.
~~~~
In which Rusty and Porter talk after the crash, and after rehabilitation, and Porter has to learn that his God might be a lot closer to him than he thinks.
(Little bit of Starlight!Rusty exploration, a bit weird and a bit unreliable, through the eyes of a devout Porter who’s suddenly dealing with his god in the body of his best friend that he also tried to kill)
A request from Discord today! Lesbian RustedCoal, and then I picked the ‘You’re Beautiful’ prompt from my current prompt list. I love them so fuckin muchhhhh man they’re so gross and silly and I sob. This is my friend’s fault for tormenting us all (/aff) with fem!Porter and she hasn’t left my head.
Click HERE to read on AO3 and click below to read on tumblr!
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"I dunno', Porter, it's not sitting right."
To say Rusty isn't used to her new livery is a bit of an understatement. With new sponsors comes new armour in new colours, new presentation and demands for photo shoots and interviews with news outlets she's never heard of before, and the whole ordeal is making her head swim. If she had known accepting conversion would come with all these stipulations, contracts upon agreements that JCB need her to sign in order to fund repairs and upgrades, maybe she would have asked a few more questions, been more hesistant about shaking Hydra's hand moments before the final race.
For the last hour, a few attendants have been trying desperately to fit her new armour, some sleek plating that couldn't be further from her usual style if she tried, and it's been a bit of an ordeal so far. Even if it weren't so uncomfortable, the material is weirdly light, futuristic carbon fibre bending under her fingers as she tries in vain to get the spaulders to sit nicely against her shoulders, and these company workers just wouldn't let Porter help despite the entire reason her being here is to support Rusty, so she'd just snapped. Not one of her proudest moments, telling a bunch of human workers to piss off through teeth gritted from sheer frustration, but they'd kept shoving her around, yanking her from one angle to another despite how much her frame painfully complained, and all Porter could do was watch.
"I think the longer you glare at it, the worse it's gonna' look," Porter hums where she's trying as gently as she can to sort out a buckle against Rusty's chest, wryly looking up at Rusty for a second with one eyebrow raised, "I think we just accept this shoot ain't gonna' be the best and give them a bollockin' for next time, pet-"
"But this is my first look," Rusty can't help but whine; between the frustration of the outfit and the ache in her entire chassis from the deep set rust the engineers haven't been have to remove yet, there's this rivet-deep tiredness from being pushed and pulled and wrangled into position over and over, and as hard as she's trying, she can't prevent it from seeping into her tone, "this is the first time anyone's going to see me as a racer, and I'm going to look like shit-"
"Not if I can help it," Porter interrupts confidently, slowly easing down Rusty's arm now the spaulder buckle is in place, "see, that fits better, right? Those fuckin' idiots were tryin' to buckle it too tight."
Of course, Porter knows how to make it fit. Porter, with her familiar touch who knows exactly what Rusty can take, with her unspoken understanding of what hurts and what aches learned from years and years of easing Rusty's armour off and helping her down into bed after a long and tedious day, and every day Rusty cannot be more thankful that she accepted Rusty's offer of tagging along with Team Steam's whirlwind PR tour. Starlight only knows what Rusty would do without her, to have someone behind her that doesn't care about the cameras and the brand image and the success, but she sure as hell wouldn't be holding it together in this moment; she'd probably still be being poked and prodded, shoved into outfits that don't fit right around her painful joints, still on her feet after hours and hours of futile fittings.
They'd nearly broken up, after the race, and the crash, Pearl and Hydra and success, nearly let fame rip them apart. As Porter pats her shoulder in satisfaction, smile curling on her face as she looks Rusty up and down in the mirror, Rusty cannot be more thankful they held together.
"Other side, one more buckle and you can rest, promise," Porter says suddenly, tearing Rusty out of her thoughts as she manoevers around to Rusty's other side, "arm up for me, hen, quicker you let you me sort this the quicker you can sit down before the photo shoot."
Unlike with the attendants, Porter is far more patient, apologising faintly under her breath as she eases Rusty's arm up above her shoulder, and for once, there's no urgency, no demand that this armour piece has to be on now when the shoot isn't for another thirty minutes. Also unlike last time, it seems to be sorted in a flash, deft fingers slipping the leather strap into place much faster than any of the company dressers. Porter just knows, Rusty thinks, years of helping Rusty in and out of her armour, yanking Lumber's shirt over his head when he gets disoriented, making sure all of Slick's safety latches are all clicked in before she tries to haul anything. Years of looking out for them all, years of taking care of Rusty whether either of them realised or not, until she knows Rusty's body better than she knows her own.
"How's that sittin'?" Porter asks, fingers trailing across Rusty's shoulders as Rusty rolls her arms against the new, strange armour, "oh shit, sorry-"
Immediately, Rusty's vision focuses, and it's clear from the moment she looks up what the problem is; great streaks of coal dust trace where Porter's fingers were, leaving mucky smears of black against crisp emerald green that dull the luminous metal. Before she can say anything, Porter's scrubbing at the mess, sleeve of her jacket pulled up over her fingers to act as a cloth, but part of Rusty wants her to stop, wants to reach out and wrap her fingers around Porter's wrist to still her. All day they've been here, all day she's been forced into outfits and armour that pinches and constrains, all day has Porter been forced to stand away from her and watch on in frustration, and that muck is the only thing so far that's made her feel normal.
Back home, she's happily be covered in this, laugh as Porter peels back her protective goggles to silly looking markings around her eyes, and no one would question it, but here it feels like a taboo. This entire centre doesn't seem to have a single screw out of place, a single scuff on any piece of metal, but Rusty's mucky, grimy, a machine of grease and oil and hard work, not shiny presentation.
"Porter- Porter, hold on," she quickly hisses, unable to stop the smile curling along her cheeks for the first time today, "stop- you don't need to-"
"I do," Porter grumbles immediately, frowning as the stubborn stain refuses to shift, "you're gonna' be all grubby for your big debut, and it's my fault."
"Maybe I want to be grubby," Rusty replies slowly, curiously, and just as slowly Porter's hand moves away, frown melting into a mischievous grin as she connects the dots, "it's just- y'know, I'm not particularly squeaky clean am I? I'm a steam train, for fuck's sake."
"And steam trains are disgustin'," Porter agrees conspiratorially, and right now Rusty could kiss her, "might as well start as you intend to go on, aye?"
Before Rusty has a chance to agree, Porter swipes her fingertips across Rusty's cheeks, wiping away cloying foundation to replace it with smudged coal dust and whatever grime has built up on her uniform from the job she came straight from, and as she does, something previously painfully taut inside of Rusty eases. With each swipe of Porter's thumbs across her cheeks, her jaw, her shoulders and chest plates, she relaxes just a bit more, aching joins easing back down at Porter's familiar, loving touch, and in turn her hands almost instinctively wrap around Porter's waist, slotting under her jacket as if to savour every ounce of warmth from her generator.
And as Porter pulls her palms away from Rusty's jaw having successfully stained where her jaw meets her neck, she leans in, warm lips connecting with Rusty's just momentarily. Not long enough for Rusty to melt, to lose herself in the kiss, but long enough to feel warm for the first time today, to feel something like a semblence of herself, and as Porter pulls away she's grinning widely, crimson paint smudged slightly from the contact.
"Sorry," Porter laughs, and Rusty knows for a fact she's not actually apologising, "you're beautiful, do y'know that?"
Stars, Rusty isn't quite sure how she got so lucky.
Her turn to reach down and kiss the corner of Porter's lips quickly, that familiar scent of sulphur and ash enveloping them both to remind her that home travels with her these days. "It's nice to be reminded."
"And I'll remind you whenever you want." Porter's hands are splayed around her waist, strong and supportive like she's holding Rusty together. "I'll be at the back, waitin' for you to finish posin' like a model, and when you're done I'll help you out of this-"
"Porter-"
"Not like that," Porter grumbles with an eye roll, squeezing Rusty's waist again, "I mean, unless you wanted-"
"Stop teasing me," Rusty interrupts with a laugh, pushing Porter away jokingly, "I need to go, Hydra and Pearl will be wondering what the hold up is."
Another eye roll from Porter, but at least she lets go, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "They know what the hold up is-"
"You're insufferable," Rusty moans, trying her hardest not to smile any wider at Porter lest she take that as invitation to carry on, "I'm serious, I need to go, but I'll see you soon, yeah?"
"I'll be watchin'," Porter confirms, teasing tone suddenly becoming warm, serious, supportive, and she skates over just for a second to take Rusty's hand in her own grip and squeeze reassuringly, "go smash it, hen, they'll love you."
And as Rusty turns to leave, for the first time today, she recognises the reflection in the mirror looking back at her.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Lumber barely knows life without Porter. All he knows is that without him, life is miserable, bland, without soul. Partners will come and go, colleagues will move on, but Porter is always there with him regardless.
Until he isn’t.
(Component Porter AU. Lumber has a breakdown for 7k)
Teehee @lesbian-slick you know JUST how to get me I loveeeee coalectra and I’m sure that’s new information to nearly all of you :3c (/sarcasm). Thought I would flip this on its head a bit and put Electra through their paces so I hope this is okay!!!
Warnings for medical adjacent situations for this one
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Click Here to read on AO3, or click below to read on tumblr!
The last place Porter ever expects to see Electra is the repair shed.
Usually, any of their repairs are handled by Wrench, in the quiet of private rooms and hushed, factual statements of what's gone wrong and what needs improving. By the grace of the Stars, Porter's only had to see it once before this; Electra's a miserable patient, whiny and obtuse as they demand Wrench work as quickly as possible, and Porter had been called to their side in a rare, vulnerable fit of fear over some replacements being made to their core that needed them to power down momentarily. As expected Wrench had been efficient, and the upgrades had gone smoothly, but even Porter could spot their clearly rattled nature under the swagger and arrogance.
He'd only popped in for a quick check, a once over by one of the on site repair trucks to tick his yearly bill of health and confirm nothing was going to give in anytime soon. Mercifully he'd gotten assigned to Ampule, his favourite of all the repair trucks who turned a blind eye to the creaking of his knees so that he could live to haul another day, so he was in for less than half an hour, enough time for a joke about the weather and several hushed warnings about his slowly shearing couplers. Enough time to hang around waiting for Hydra that he peers through an ajar set of doors off of the main corridor, to focus on the quiet voices inside.
He'd recognise them from a mile away, could pinpoint their tone in a crowded room or a cacophonous chorus. Electra, in their rundown, mundane repair shed, and the quiet sounds of wheels leaving out of the far side of the room, so he dares to peek. Maybe Killerwatt's hit someone too hard or decked one of the diesels again, or Joule's burnt something down, or-
Just Electra, alone, perched on the edge of the flat bed gingerly. At first glance there's nothing wrong other than the sheer dismay etched into their beautiful face, and then Porter connects that one of their legs ends at the knee.
There's just, nothing there. Sickeningly exposed wires trail out into the open air and spark as they connect from the slight tremor in the engine's body, and he feels distinctly like he shouldn't be seeing this, like he should back out of the room, run and wait and pretend nothing's happening. But also there's fear in him, anger that his engine is in pain and alone and trembling behind closed doors, and he knew nothing-
"I can see you, wretch."
Too late.
"Just me," Porter quickly assures, stepping into the cavernous workshop and shutting the door behind himself gently; it's impossible to miss how Electra's eyes widen, how the strength in their shoulders collapses in seconds, and it takes every ounce of his being to not run over to them, "sorry, I didn't-"
"I can hardly find anger at your curiosity, truck." It's almost jarring how differently Electra regards him when the sun is up to when they're both tucked into Electra's bed late at night. Whatever is sparking between them is new, untrod ground, and Porter isn't quite sure yet whether he's stepping onto solid earth or a land mine. "But speak a word of this to anyone and you'll be melted to scrap before you can speak a defence."
"You have my word," Porter states lowly, hesistantly skating over as Electra reaches out for him; their hands are cold, colder than usual, and the tremour reverberates through to their fingertips no matter how tightly Porter clutches them in his, "'Lec, what happened?"
"An old injury," Electra scoffs, like that makes the whole situation fine, "don't worry yourself with it."
"Maybe I want to worry myself with it," Porter retorts; there's something deep in his chest that's gotten lodged there, heavy and twisted, and the words he speaks feel distant to his own ears as Electra's face twists peculiarly, "tell me what happened, I don't care how embarrassin' - hell, you know how bullshit some of the scrapes I get into are."
In an attempt to lighten the mood, he laughs humourlessly, but Electra doesn't join in, normally dramatic, glitter-covered lips setting into a thin line in displeasure. For a second, the hand in his tightens its grip, and Electra's strength catches him off guard for a second as they hiss a breath of pain.
"After that ridiculous crash, my repairs were… hasty," Electra begins, voice quieter than Porter thinks he's ever heard it, "Wrench had concerns about my chassis surviving, so didn't have time to gather the correct materials as per my guidelines."
Porter can't help his head cocking in concern, and waits patiently for the guilt he knows that's going to come trickling in like sewage. Okay, he didn't cause that mangle, but if Slick hadn't crashed Rusty they wouldn't have been in that position in the first place, and if she'd told him the whole story maybe he could have talked her out of it. Stopped Rusty from needing to have half of his frame reforged, stopped Slick from not being able to hear properly, stopped Electra from whatever the fuck has happened to them. It doesn't feel right, this beautiful, confident engine trembling and alone on a flat bed, and its making him want to put his fist through a wall.
"Did the repairs not work?" Porter asks gently - he's worried if he tries to speak normally he'll end up yelling out of anger.
Electra's gaze darts away, almost like they're embarrassed of having to survive. "We had to use off-market pieces, they didn't last very long - and now Wrench has concerns that they caused lasting damage to my joint by not connecting correctly, so the whole area is being replaced."
How lucky of a thing they are, that they have the luxury of just casually being able to replace whole parts of themselves when something goes wrong. Porter's own knee has been crying out for replacement for the better half of a decade now, but all he can do is shove new pistons and supports and springs in it and hopes they'll survive until payday.
"Guessin' Wrench and Vial have your leg?" Porter hums, and Electra nods almost pitifully, small despite how they're towering over him once again, "brave of you to be awake for it, Rusty always gets knocked out for his repairs, says they hurt like a bitch."
"I fully intend to do the same." The tremour has reached their voice, eyes distant and faded as their LEDS don't burn as bright as usual, and Porter dares to take another step forward until he can cradle their conjoined hands to his chest.
For the first time, he sees terror in Electra. True, proper, fear. Maybe this was what they were like back in the mangle.
"You'll be okay," Porter assures gently, looking up at where Electra's gaze is jumping nervously, "you just let me know when you wake up and when you want visitors, and-"
The hand in his tightens painfully once again, and Electra tucks their head down to their chest almost shamefully, embarrassment etched into the icy blue flush on their cheeks.
"Stay, please," Electra interrupts, so softly Porter thinks he's hearing things, "I- I would like you there when I wake."
"Then I'll stay right here." He daren't go anywhere else, not when his engine needs him for maybe the first and only time in their existence. "If Wrench'll let me I'll hold your hand the whole time, it would take an army to shove me off, hen."
As if to demonstrate, he presses his lips against their knuckles again, holding them against the warmth of coal-heated synthetic skin for a second, and Electra makes no attempts to pull back. For once, they're lax in his grip, and their second hand shifts to hold him tenderly around his waist, closely as if some unseen force might try and wrench him from their grip.
"Promise me?" Electra asks, but it sounds more like a plea for a split second, "promise me you'll be there when I wake up."
"Swear on it." He's never meant anything more seriously in his life. "I'll keep you safe, hen, if it's the last thing I do."
Electra has security trucks for that, research and money and defences that could all outperform Porter, but he doesn't care. For this engine, he'd keep vigil for millennia, tirelessly watching over them until they could return to him. Stars, he hates how quickly he's gotten so attached to Electra, but loves it all the same.
"Thank you," Electra hums, voice barely audible under the sparking of wires, "breathe a word of this to anyone, and you're-"
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It has been a long shift.
Despite everything, rest sounds wonderful right now, and they can't help but sigh in defeat as Killerwatt slowly makes his way out into the darkness. The last thing they want to be seen as is weak, so surely they're not actually this tired; just stressed, definitely, it's been a horribly long shift with some awfully ungrateful bastards who don't realise what excellent of a service Electra is providing for them to get from A to B in time for whatever ridiculous festivities they have planned for an equally ridiculous holiday. Nothing is so important that someone should be rude, least of all to Electra who had been doing them all a favour by not slamming their breaks on and demanding an ounce of respect-
~~
Electra struggles with a horrible, nasty, overwhelming shift. Porter is here to pick up the pieces, whether Electra wants him to or not.
the "sorry, sorry, sorry- ah fuck" or one of the other ones about like, harming the person fixing with a hurt Rusty? Bro is a pressure vessel who can skoosh 400C scalding steam in a jet small enough to inject dirty water under skin, leak scalding water on you or choke, blowback and spew hot ash evergwhere, I'm sure you could find something fun to do with that.
okay!!! Side of tendersteam for u bc I miss them :} I. I know nothing about steam trains and this was mostly a bit of fun with Hydra panicking over something little I don't actually know if this would be a thing that would be a problem. but it was fun to write!
Click Here to read on AO3, and click below to read on tumblr!
Want a little StEx fic? Send me an ask!!
There are many things about working with Rusty that Hydra is having to get used to. Some are easier to get used to than others - the early mornings, for one, but that's only because they've gotten used to the freight train working until late at night and not getting up until late into the day. The dust and grime too, since Hydra thought Rusty would be generally cleaner now that he's running on hydrogen rather than solid fuel, but coal dust and armour-staining grease seem to be inescapable from his morning warm up of a few hunks of charcoal to ease his cold plating up to temperature.
And yet the inner workings of a steam train will forever be a mystery to them.
They know where the fuel lines are, and how a firebox works, and where the hydrogen goes, and that's where their knowledge starts to become a bit hazy. Anything to do with the boiler, or the water lines, or where the steam goes once it's used, it's all a bit beyond them, and yet-
"I'm sorry," Rusty repeats for maybe the fifth time, hands splaying in the dewy grass for a second before curling up again as he hisses in pain, and all Hydra can do is hover, "I should have checked my pipes before we left, I didn't realise how big that patch of rust was getting, sorry, sorry- ah, fuck, Hy', your hand-"
"Please stop apologising, babe," Hydra interrupts with a wide grin, and hopes it doesn't look as false as it feels as they root around in their backpack for the emergency repair kit Porter had gifted them with a slightly too knowing look in his eye, "it's just a little crack, right? Let me patch you up and we'll be solid."
Said 'little crack' is a chunk about the side of Hydra's palm that's run thin and flaked away from one of Rusty's external pipes, hot steam jetting out the side and right onto where Hydra's right hand loops around his couplers neatly. On the back of their hand now sits a shining scald mark where the metal of their knuckles was seared clean, and maybe once they've worked out how to solve Rusty's problems, they'll register how much that shit hurts. Right now, they have other priorities, since what is visibly just a small crack is inevitably causing their partner so much pain, and all they want to do at this very moment is kiss it better and get him home.
With a grimace, Rusty reaches out with his other hand, nails digging into Hydra's knee as the repair kit clatters to the soft ground with a thud. Hopefully just one plate should do, it just needs to hold until they can get home, and they're not far from home so it doesn't even need to hold for very long. Or hold very well. Just enough to get Rusty home, just enough to get Rusty safe-
"Does anything else hurt?" Hydra asks brightly, absentmindedly, almost just trying to fill the silence with anything other than Rusty's shaky sobs as they line up the bracer plate across the gap and try not to wince from the heat, "c'mon, talk to me, just let me know that you're okay."
With a hiss, Rusty sucks in breath between his teeth, like the act alone hurts beyond belief. "Just- could you hurry up? I'm really sorry- sorry, I know you're trying."
With a nod, Hydra clicks on the blowtorch - they've done this before, practice with Porter, spare plates welded against Porter's slightly more unfeeling leg so that he could comment on welding angle and flame control. Except right now it's much different, the dry but supportive tone of their fellow freight replaced with Rusty's pained whimpers and the rush of superheated steam whistling out of holes in delicate pipework. Before had been so easy, a laugh about how shitty Porter's receptors are and the promise of a pint afterwards for a job well done; Porter had been so insistent that they learn, that some engine had taught him and now he taught everyone else 'just in case', and Lumber and Slick had watched with quick wit at the tip of their tongues at Hydra's shitty technique.
Except now, there's no jokes behind them, no promise of a drink for a job well done if Lumber can give Porter's shin a kick with the plate falling off. Only the knowledge that if they don't do this right, Rusty's not getting home in one piece, possibly not at all if he can't direct the right steam in the right places to move everything. They've seen pictures, they've read books, all kinds of things can go wrong with steam engines and pressure chambers, how boilers can explode and pipes can shoot out like spaghetti, and their hands are trembling as they hold the torch up to the corners of the sheet.
"Alright, just- hold still, yeah?" Hydra confirms with a shaky grin, leaning in for one second to press a quick kiss against Rusty's overheated forehead, and despite the pain his smile is blindingly beautiful, "this shouldn't take too long."
Immediately, they set to work. Metal glows red then white, globules of liquid metal seeping into the cracks in the piping, and a strangled, pained noise cuts from Rusty's throat over the roar of the blow torch. It's not the best, in an ideal world it'll be riveted and supported with splice plates and a metal ultrasound to check for further metal fatigue, but Rusty doesn't have time for that. It'll hold, it has to hold, they have no choice. If it doesn't, Rusty isn't getting home, and they don't have time to wait for the repair truck, which Hydra barely remembers calling probably less than five minutes ago; the metal of Rusty's armour is hot against their hands as they support him on shaking wheels, far, far hotter than it should be with searing steam building and building under the surface like a geyser.
It will hold.
"C'mon, lets get home," Hydra urges as soon as the burner clicks off, but Rusty's grimace doesn't ease, "think you can do that? Just a little further, babe, promise-"
"I'll try," Rusty breathes, corners of his lips pulling up despite everything, "hold on tight."
