Chapter 7: Surprise Santa

"Ready to go, James?"

After the world's longest pause, at last, the damaged engine replied, in his heaviest voice. "As ready as I'll ever be."

By six PM, the tender engines were scheduled to head off.

Ideally, they would've left much earlier. But because they were down an engine, the Christmas Eve schedule for the steam team had been shuffled around. only after the sky began to darken did Edward return to Wellsworth station.

He would've much preferred to go back to Tidmouth and slide into his berth for his well deserved holiday sleep-in.

But no. He had to open his mouth. He had to refuse to ride with Emily tonight. While pulling a couple of coaches loaded of holiday makers wouldn't be easy on him either, at least he'd have been home by midnight.

And at the very least, he'd get a proper rest before he had to leave again, just as Thomas was allowed to sit in the shed before his wash down.

Proper rest. Right.

After only ten minutes sitting next to the platform, Edward was backed up onto the siding, and coupled to James' flatbed.

To add to his quiet dismay, because of the flatbed being of inadequate length, he was behind James, who's smashed buffers would hang over the front, pushing him rather than pulling him. This shifted all the weight on Edward's frontside, which wasn't damaged enough not to shut, but ached like a son of a gun, anyway.

Edward's only consolation in all of this was that in being removed from the tracks, James no longer had even remote control. He can hum and haw all he wants, Edward thought resolutely. I'm going at my own pace.

Though that pace was a bit pathetic, even he had to admit. At his age, pushing another tender engine all by himself wasn't easy. He remembered pushing Thomas all the way to the works before, and even that had been strenuous.

The works was a long way away. Much longer than the trip with the freight train yesterday, had it actually arrived. And though he hated to admit it, there was a reason James was the pilot engine in that arrangement. He had all the strength.

Edward was on his own with this one. Even with no trucks, and James' tender emptied of all its coal to make the load lighter, he felt his cheeks begin to grow hot, his breaths become more labored.

As the platinum white sky faded away from gray, to black, so did the weather with it. Chilly winds began tickling Edward's boiler, reminding him that he was going to be out with this job all evening in the cold, instead of resting in his own little wind proof berth.

"Signal! SIGNAL! OUCH!"

Edward's driver slammed on the brakes. As a result, James had slammed painfully forward into his flatbed chains. "Ow…"

A meek "sorry," came tumbling from Edward's mouth.

"It was my fault, James," Charlie said more loudly, taking blame for the error. "Didn't see it."

But Edward didn't feel like his driver deserved the blame. He knew this section of track just as well, but he'd been so preoccupied with his thoughts he hadn't paid attention to where they were, what landmarks they were passing. Or remembered the signal.

"Well could you stand to be a little more careful?" demanded James. "I'm not a truck. I'm an engine in agony, here!"

Edward let out a noisy, hot breath through his nose, so intense that made a steam cloud in front of his face. He didn't appreciate anybody talking to his driver like that, even if it had been his fault. But he didn't want to start an argument. Not when they had a long night ahead of them.

He also respected his crew too much to divulge into an argument in front of them. To maintain composure, Edward studiously reminded himself that they weren't the luckiest fellows, either. Someone had to drive himself, so they were stuck working on Christmas Eve, too.

Determined to keep the comeback behind his teeth, Edward pressed silently onward, up the grade. Maybe if I had a line of trucks behind me, the error would be forgiven.

Between James's griping, and the weight of his flatbed, this chore was beginning to feel more and more like a mistake. He was almost beginning to miss the troublesome trucks. And that was saying something. But at least he could make them hush and behave. Edward was something of a car whisperer among the engines. While not all of them were swayed, with most of them, his patience and kindness went a long way to earning their respect.

Whenever his junior engine got under his skin, Edward told himself what he told himself every time he was in the midst of doing something unpleasant. It's temporary. It will be over soon.

It just has to be.

"Ughhhhh!"

James groaned. Charlie pulled Edward to a stop once more, this time with ease, and peered out of the cab with confusion.

This time, Edward took the liberty of speaking. "What's wrong now?" he asked, a bit more annoyed than he had meant to come off.

Could James even tell? Did he even care?

"To your right," James clarified at last, his tone defeated. "Just look at Knapford."

The engines reached the crest of a hill, just besides a cliff. As the train slowed to manage the curve, Edward felt the relief of the grade leveling off, and took a moment to see what James was talking about.

Indeed, even from miles away, the familiar terminus was visible from this far up. The big station glowed like a shiny ornament in the dark and calm night.

A feeling of homesickness enveloped the senior engine. Never in all his years on Sodor had he been away from home on Christmas.

As well as a sense of… unease that he couldn't quite explain. Down the hill was home, and everything Edward knew. Life before Sodor was getting hazier the more the years ticked onward, but the island was so familiar to him. Still, there were parts he knew better than others, and pressing on through familiar stations onto lesser known, less heavily trafficked country tracks in the dark was ominous, in a way he couldn't describe.

But he didn't know why he felt this way. Was he just that tired? Either way, without a proper explanation to put to his dis-ease, Edward decided not to trouble his crew about it. "It does look beautiful," he admitted, from what little he could see of the station. And only in saying that did he realize that no matter how one diced the situation, no matter who's fault it was, James was missing out on Christmas, too.

That. This situation. This was not beautiful. They were far and away from beautiful, on a cold and lonely hilltop.

Edward felt colder just chugging away, until the warm and inviting station was once again out of view. But before they began moving again, Edward seized the peaceful moment of silence to turn his eyes to the sky. He had no hands for which to fold into prayer formation, so facing his gaze in the general direction of the heavens would have to suffice for the Lord—even with James' tender in his face.

In times like this, he knew He was watching. And if He was judicious as Edward believed, He rewarded those who extended themselves to the greater good.

But, even so, he couldn't help but wonder when such reward would be bestowed upon him. It wasn't like he was asking for much. He could care less about being Mr. Father Christmas Engine, if the opportunity came up again next year. A comically large hat to fit over his funnel might have been a luxurious thought for James, but it wasn't how he wanted to be recognized for his hard work.

Just receiving a thank you for once would be like coming across a bright, yellow flower in a field of snow. And all the hope it encompassed.

Please, Edward pleaded. If you can't make this better, at least see to it that Thomas and Emily are making better of their own situation.

Alton.

Alton.

Alton.

Oh, the circles that name ran in his head. Like the toy engine that went 'round a Christmas tree in Knapford's temporary toy shop. A flashy, expensive, overpriced, delicate toy. Blasting a fake, obnoxious little electric horn in his ear that blocked out all other sounds.

Mocking him.

The sun had already set when he puffed into the main station. He hadn't said a word the whole ride there, and while David knew why, Matthew was still in the dark about it. Thankfully the diligent driver had been too preoccupied to notice Thomas's strikingly unusual silence.

Either way, the evidence was long gone. Before his driver stepped foot in the cab, he pulled out Mira's driver's letter, and let it catch fire from the coals at the bottom of Thomas's firebox. The fire seemed to have been encouraged by the addition of such precious kindling, and in seconds, the paper was nothing but ash.

Thomas let off a strong, steady puff as he breathed out. And there it went, into the air, and away on the frosty wind, just outside the sheds.

But even if the letter was gone, Thomas was sure that that name of her engine would echo on in his head for some time. Right now, however, it was another name that was occupying his headspace.

Alton. What a weird name,

the tank engine thought bitterly. What a stupid name. Sounds like a wanker if ever there was one. But what do you expect from a diesel? No—Diesel electric! Ha! And he looks like a knight's helmet, does he?

Before collecting his coaches, Thomas' crew got him ready for the special train. With the help of some spare workmen, he was washed, dried and polished in such a maticiolous way that made his paint shine like new. Draped along his boiler and cab were ornaments such as large, black leather buckles and wreaths filled with holly and pine cones, attached carefully so that they would stay firmly planted on the moving locomotive. The pine cones were scented with cinnamon and made Thomas a delight to smell, as well as behold.

At last he was capped off with a large Santa's hat atop his funnel—the last of which would be carefully removed before takeoff, so his funnel could breathe. It was only there for pictures with the passengers.

At last, Thomas pulled Annie and Clarabel from their siding. They had been accessorised in a similar manner to match him, but with no Santa buckles. Instead, shiny, silver, bells were attached along their wreaths to accent their femininity, and they jingled every slightly as Thomas pushed them to the platform.

Annie gushed when she saw him. "Oh my!" she gasped when they were face to face. "Thomas, don't you look handsome!"

Thomas barely remembered to respond by the time he pushed her and her sister to the platform. "Thanks."

"Why do you sound so down?" asked Clarabel. "You look stunning, we look stunning, and in a couple of hours, it'll be the happiest day of the year!"

Despite his sadness, the engine appreciated their excitement. Him being chosen for the Christmas trains meant they were chosen by default. To be lavishly decorated and filled with lively passengers was all a coach could ask for.

Thomas thought for a moment before speaking. Even if their words of comfort would be lovely, it wasn't worth ruining their joy. "Oh… it's not worth getting into."

"But we're your friends, darling!" insisted Annie. "We just want to help."

"Please, just—I'll perk up," he said, pausing to take a deep breath. He didn't want to lose his patience with them. They didn't deserve it. This night was like a big game of dress-up for them, and they deserved to enjoy it. "When we start rolling, and I get some fresh air, I'll be fine. I swear."

And out of respect for their faithful engine, Annie and Clarabel zipped their lips.

Thomas quietly went around to their front, facing out of track 1. To distract himself from what had happened back at the sheds, he decided he was going to pitch Percy's idea of rounding up a search party for Toad himself, ASAP. However, Sir Topham would have to agree to letting the engines and their crews arrange time in their schedules to comb the island. And Thomas knew he'd have to wait to ask him. He probably wouldn't get the chance to see the Fatt Controller until the day after Christmas.

He kept to himself as the passengers slowly began trickling in. Whenever someone stopped to take a picture with him and the coaches, he faked a smile just long enough for the picture, and hoped it looked convincing when the film developed. For getting to pull the Father Christmas train, his mood was anything but jolly.

However, when it came to kids, it was a different story. They had come to wait with their parents in the time that remained, most just after visiting Knappford's famous toy store-or at least gazing at the overpriced toy in the window-only to discover the locomotive that would be taking to the docks. This made Thomas feel the tiniest bit better. He might have been small, but he was real and functional. Much better than some flashy little electric toy. Thomas hadn't received this much attention in a long time. It was hard to stay so bitter with so many children who were genuinely delighted just to meet an engine who could talk.

In the brief ego boost, however, it took a moment for Thomas to realize that the chorus of 'ooo's and 'aaa's, was not for him alone. Curious onlookers pointed to the tracks behind him, including adults, children, and his own coaches. "Oh my!" he heard Annie say excitedly. "My dear, look at you!"

Only then did Thomas notice the characteristic gust of steam of an engine. Another engine, approaching from the back. But he couldn't fathom who it could be causing such excitement, until he turned his gaze to the right.

The surprise of what he saw made his eyes huge, and caused him to let off a powerful surge of steam from his funnel, sending the Santa hat flying straight into the air.

When the steam cleared, there sat Emily, and she was a sight to behold. Away was every last speck of the soot and dust from funnel to footplate. She'd been washed and waxed until her paint was so shiny, her cab and boiler reflected the white and colored lights wrapped in the roof ornamentation. Her brass twinkled like a new wedding band. And either side of her was draped with silver and gold tinsel, selected to match her pinstripes.

To top it off, her face had been colored. Her lips had been painted a festive, deep red, while her eyelids had been given the faintest shade of brown.

He hadn't been so moved by her appearance since the day they first met. The shine and polish was simply essential. But her lips—he'd never seen her lips painted before.

His fireman quickly noticed the hat plummeting onto the platform floor, and nearly thought nothing of it. Nearly. Maybe Matthew had caused Thomas to let off his steam too early.

Or maybe he was happy to see the other engine.

Either way, he went out to retrieve it with a smirk. And when he came back into the cab, he leaned out of the opposite door to get a look at the female engine himself. "Blimey, Marty," he said, letting out a long whistle of approval. "You got Emily looking classy."

Emily's driver patted the inside of her cab, proudly. "Hehe. She always did clean up well."

Annie and Clarabel were gushing over her, too. "Emily, you look just like a brand new china doll!" Clarabel sang.

"Utterly exquisite," her sister confirmed.

But their words seemed to bounce off Emily, who's gaze would not leave the tracks before her. Despite finally being clean, tidy and ornamented, she seemed uncomfortable. Like she wanted nothing more than to shrink away from this and everybody around her. "Ridiculous," she muttered. "Painting me like a clown."

Thomas was surprised. Not only would he have thought Emily would have clammered for the chance for her looks to be enhanced, but to think she looked like a clown was pure denial. Had anyone even shown her a mirror?

In fact, the longer he allowed himself to look, the more he got used to seeing her this way. Whoever had done Emily's makeup knew exactly when to stop. Combined with her sparing accessories, it played up her...

Well. Like taking charge of his controls from Matthew, he forcefully broke his train of thought. Friends appreciate when their friends look presentable. Don't they?

Yet never could Thomas recall a time when something as simple as painted lips could make him feel this way.

But he didn't realize he'd been staring until Emily's eyes flickered back to his. It broke whatever strange spell of fascination that had taken hold of him. "Well… you don't look like a clown," he grunted, shifting his gaze to his left. "I'll give you that."

"How generous," David chirped at Thomas from the cab.

The tank engine scowled, but decided not to acknowledge that.

Of course, Emily didn't acknowledge Thomas either. However, her lack of a retort, and the softness of her face told him the comment had helped, if only a little. Whether it was reassurance from another engine that she did not look fit to be a court jester, or specifically a male engine, was something Thomas would wonder about later on in the evening. Either way, he felt the tension between them ease a bit. But maybe it was just wishful thinking.

Clarabel sighed her most dreamy sigh. "I wish somebody could paint me like that. I'd love to have a nice pink lipstick for a day!"

The kind of mental image conjured by this statement, at last, made Thomas chuckle. "Thinking about exchanging your Christmas wish?"

"Oh, axle grease!" she cried. "Do you suppose it's too late?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" said Thomas's driver.

This statement had the tank engine boggled. "Huh?"

But soon enough, as soon as he looked on ahed, he understood what Matthew meant. In front of platforms 1 and 2 came two separate flatbed cars, adorned with tinsel, bells, lights, and each one a long, oak horse sleigh. Repurposed antiques from the turn of the century, with a set of screws and rods to attach their wrought iron runners to the flatbeds. This gave them an impressively real appeal, with rose red, cushioned suede seats, and a new paint job over the original finish to fit the bill as part of Santa's fleet. And each of their fronts was attached with a modern, tall, wide, shatterproof windshield, to protect their occupants from the cold winds of the journey.

But it was the figures who were to be seated in these sleighs that caused a new ripple of cheers throughout the crowd.

On Thomas' left, emerging from the crowd dotted with flashing polaroids, was a rotund gentleman. He had a long white beard, a velvet red and white suit, and a matching hat. It was complete with a fluff ball, whiter than snow, which swung from ear to ear as he waved to the passengers with his black, leather gloves.

When he turned to the tracks, Thomas recognized the face behind the beard. "Sir!" he gasped.

Sir Topham Hatt winked wryly at the tank engine as he stepped onto the flatbed and into his sleigh. "Ho, ho, ho," he said, putting on his most boisterous, booming voice yet. For good measure, he turned around in his seat and pressed his gloved index finger to his lips. Shush.

"Well, this is a surprise," Thomas's fireman mused. "Suppose the couple that was supposed to be the Mr. And Mrs. cancelled on 'em?"

"I don't think there ever was supposed to be a hired couple," his driverman replied, smirking at their boss. "He's always full of surprises."

It was Emily's turn to be coupled to her own sleigh car. On her right, on platform 2, appeared a tall, thin woman in a long, red, dress length jacket, adorned with a simple lace apron. Her brown hair was up in perfect ironed curls, topped with warm, fluffy white earmuffs.

Lady Hatt was a vision of beauty. On the edge of the platform, she pulled her gloved hand out of her glowing white muff and waved to the excited girls on the platform in such a way that she could be mistaken for a blue blood. So often had the children seen Father Christmas, in shopping centers and in parades. But it was a rare treat to see his wife. The homemaker. The other half. The unsung heroine of Christmas.

Even rarer that they should be allotted equal attention, with their own respective sleighs. Lady Hatt turned to her husband on Thomas's track and smiled at him from behind her false glasses. And he smiled right back.

And it was then that Emily noticed that Lady Hatt's lips were painted a deep red. This soothed her, if only a bit—if she was to match the good Lady tonight, and the good Lady looked so pretty, then certainly, she herself couldn't look too foolish.

As the passengers boarded their trains on either platform, Lady Hatt gracefully boarded her sleigh. She took a real good look at Emily before she sat down, however. Lady knew Thomas, but she and Emily had never seen each other before. "I say, darling," she said to her husband. "I didn't realize y—I mean, Sir Topham, had lady engines."

'Father Christmas' turned towards Emily with a grin. "This is Emily. She's one of the few, but she works just as hard as the boys."

"Fancy that," she said, smiling at Emily. "Hard working, and gorgeous."

Emily was honored. Her cherry red lips stretched to a wide smile as she embraced the compliment—she never would've expected such kind words from the fat controller's wife.

Thomas was surprised, too. Lady Hatt didn't give out such compliments Willy-nilly. This was the same woman who criticized Annie and Clarabel years ago before they were repainted. She wasn't easily impressed. And knowing she was eased Thomas's mind about having stared at Emily when she first rolled into the station. It wasn't just him.

Emily had pulled her own coaches to the station, and they, too, had been tastefully decorated. Just a light amount of green tinsel and dark, red bells ornamented their sides. Thomas didn't know a great deal about them, except that in juxtaposition of him having female coaches, Emily's coaches were both male. And they didn't talk much, which made it harder to gauge their personality.

They served their lady engine in silence, gliding behind her with the tight lipped respect of the Royal Guard. At least Thomas thought of them this way. He wondered what they thought of Emily now, and how she looked. Did they even notice? Their silence was oddly intimidating-when it wasn't asinine, anyways. Were the coaches intimidated by her? Does Emily ever talk to them? Do they know what Thomas said to her, earlier that evening? The hell were their names, anyway? Does Emily even know? Why were all of these questions hitting him now? How could so many years have gone by with so little learned about her? Maybe he'd ask her someday.

If she'd ever find it in her heart to speak to him again.

Everyone on platform one and two climbed into the warm coaches.

The clock struck eight, and the guard blew his whistle. Now able to let off steam, Thomas made a billow of steam from his funnel, large enough to fog up the glasses of the last men standing in platform one. Thankfully, they were good humored enough that their cries of protest were followed by chuckles, as they removed their frames and rubbed the lenses on their jackets.

In turn, Emily vented her own steam. Proving that they had more than enough puff for the journey, the two engines were ready to leave.

Side by side, the last trains before Christmas chugged out of the security of Knapford station, and into the early, lamp-lit twilight.

A/N: Some notes about the chaptah:

So I don't know if I conveyed it well but this is the chapter that's starting to hint at Edward getting closer to his breaking point. Anybody can only take so much, and he's no exception. His dialogue with James also took me a long time to figure out, but I wanted to build up to the next chapter, when shit really starts going wrong. Oh joy for them!

I really hope Edward and James' segment in particular wasn't boring, aaaaaaa their side of the story will get more interesting in the next few chapterrrrs

The inspiration for the tradition of their being Santa-themed trains was based on this tradition the Chicago Transit Authority used to do when I was a kid, that involved pushing a sleigh car with a Santa actor in the front of the light covered, ornamented train cars across town (at least I recall there being an actor in the sleigh car, though now I'm wondering how the poor man didn't freeze. For the sake of the fic we'll say for a one way trip from Knapford to the docks, it's not miserable to the point Hatt and wife wouldn't be able to tolerate it.)

Not sure if the UK does or did anything similar, but for the sake of fiction, I imagine it could happen, and this is what Sodor's new tradition here is based on. And Thomas encapsulates vibes of a simpler time when going overboard with decorations alone was an excitement for people, especially kids. Hence all this anticipation and hub-bub for what is essentially just another passenger trip.

Also, whether it's Ashima with her tattoo (could her rainbow paint be a stand in for henna?) style paint job, or Emily with some "lipstick", I dig this idea that Thomas has a weakness for painted girls, lol.

To Jobey: Yoo, I should've replied to your review of chapter five before I moved onto chapter 6. Your feedback is just the loveliest thing, and I thank you so much. Once again you've given me a lot to chew on, so you'll have my responses to both chapter reviews in the DMs! :D (since it's about half as long as the chapter and I might spoil a few things hahaha).

To Scarcepare: Thanks for those kind words, I'm glad you're digging this story so far!

With that complete, time to let this chapter on it's journey. Comments and criticism alike are just lovely. Feel free to bash me in the head over typos.