Chapter 6: The Late Afternoon Post

"Luck-e! luck-e! Luck-e me..."

James had really done it this time. And he knew it, too.

Just yesterday, the potential consequences of the accident had him worried for his life. In all his years, in all his blunders, he'd never taken such damage before. And though he hated how obvious it had been, there was a while where he'd legitimately wondered if the Fatt Controller would see him worthwhile to repair at all.

By the morning, however, his fear had finally all fizzled out. He was confident now that he would be repaired and kept in service, just as Sir Topham assured him he would—whether or not he deserved to be so was irrelevant. That morning, he and the flatbed he was chained to were pulled from Tidmouth Sheds, and left on a siding outside Wellsworth station. They'd have to wait for Edward, who had no choice but to take care of the shunting James was supposed to do today. Everyone else was busy.

With that fear gone, humiliation had settled in its place.

That, and soreness. His buffers were broken, his cheeks were scratched, and his front plate was gashed inward, near the middle. And he became increasingly more aware of the ache the longer he waited to be mended. He still had over an hour until Edward would be finished.

The kindly, uniformed and jacketed station master overheard the pessimistic engine and flashed him a bright smile. "Cheer up, James," he said as he crossed the platform with boxes of fruit for the nearby market stalls. "Things could be much worse, y'know."

"Easy for you to say," the engine replied, rolling his eyes. "You're still mobile."

"Just be grateful it's stopped snowing," the station master told him. "It'll be a much faster trip now that Thomas has cleared the tracks."

"Yeah, yeah. Thank you, Thomas, for being the most useful engine on Sodor, yet again," he muttered sarcastically. But the station master had disappeared into the warmth and darkness of the building with his boxes, and hadn't heard him. By his lonesome again, James let out a hot steamy breath cloud. "Come on, Eddie, hurry up. I'm in agony, here..."

To distract himself from the pain and the chills, James focused his energy on his anger. That of course, on the arrogant engine who provoked him to speed in the first place.

At least Spencer wasn't around to see him like this. He was sure to have a thing or two to-

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

Recognizing that voice immediately, James grimaced. "Oh… great…"

Sure enough, gliding to a smooth stop on the track on his right was the Duke of Boxford's private engine. The silver steamy hungrily took in the site of the broken and disgraced James. "Don't tell me you're going to pull a passenger train looking like that, are you?"

James seethed. "As a matter of fact, Spencer, mangled fenders and scratched faces are all the rage on London's rails these days. I'm shocked that you're not up to date on the fashion! Please save yourself the social embarrassment and run yourself into the nearest brick wall, ASAP!"

"Is that what happened?" Spencer snorted. "Honestly, James, one would think an engine of your years would learn by now to take more care to avoid such silly accidents. But I suppose with how excitable you are, that would be like trying to teach a dog not to chase the postman."

If looks could kill, James would be the first engine in recorded history tried for murder. Making fun of his accident was one thing, but for a younger engine to remind the ever vain James of his age was prodding the tiger with a stick. He felt his body rattle, the water in his tank warming even without a fire. But without free range of motion, there was nothing he could do.

"What a shame. Well, the show must go on, as they say," Spencer went on proudly. "I'll just have my driver relay a message to the Fatt Controller's office, and we'll make sure there's a respectable engine on the rails tonight."

"Too late," James spat. "He's already chosen a replacement engine for the Father Christmas Trains. Thomas is filling in for me."

Abruptly, Spencer frowned. "He—he already chose a substitute?"

Seeing a weakness, James took full advantage. "Yes, he did! After all, as you said, the show must go on. And naturally, he was going to pick a replacement from the original steam team of Tidmouth Sheds who knows this island like the underside of their wheels. Not some one-trick pony who only comes here on holiday."

Spencer sputtered. "Wh-why you—"

But for once, James was on a roll. "But don't worry, now. I'm sure another opportunity will come up for you to be the understudy. And I'm sure it'll be more grand, prestigious, and dull than some little old Christmas Trains that excite us little engines. Now if you don't mind, I'm practicing my meditation before my good friend Edward arrives, so why don't you carry on with your jobs before sunset. You won't be able to pick up the slack tomorrow."

At last, Spencer choked out some words. "Well! It's a shame your mouth took no damage! Though I'd have the repairmen take a look at your funnel, because it's looking awfully crooked to me!" And he began letting off steam. But just as he was pulling away, he had this to add: "Oh, and by the way, tell your good friend I'm sorry I couldn't stay to listen to the other part of that story of his. Simply too much to do around here when you're not chained down to a flatbed like a heap of steel. Ciao! Oh—and Merry. Christmas."

That last part came out with such venom, James inspected the tracks behind Spencer for a trail of saliva. And to think Diesel was thought to be the most snake-like engine on the North Western railway.

Having put that smug engine in his place made James so proud, he beamed. He didn't know he had such a comeback in him. But maybe it was one of the few benefits of age.

Still, Spencer had left him with one comment he found troubling. Story? Edward… and Spencer? James wasn't aware anyone really talked to Spencer. Let alone Edward. Some years ago, Edward had beat Spencer to the Duke and Dutchess of Boxford's summer home, while pulling their heavy furniture. After such an accomplishment, James was under the impression Edward need not say anything to him from there on out. Except maybe the occasional, tongue-in-cheek, "need some help with that?"

James didn't like not being in the know about things. And to think that he worked so often with Edward, and didn't know he and Spencer might have formed a friendship irked him. What kind of story could Edward have been telling him? Something about the island? Some secret only a veteran of Edward's years would know? James gulped. Edward wouldn't tell Spencer a story of one of James' former blunders, would he?

No, thought James. I trust Edward. If I only could trust one engine around here, it would be him. He's the only one who can't be bothered to get in the middle of petty alliances and conspiracies. Besides, I've known him forever! A lot longer than Spencer has, anyway. If Edward is doing anything with him, it has to be benign.

Has to be.

Still, just making him think twice about Edward bought Spencer more of James' hatred. "Ugh. I swear, if I ever get back on my wheels again, the first thing I'm gonna do is shunt that platinum colored pretty boy into the ocean."

He was still picturing such a lovely scene of Spencer's untimely demise when another engine appeared on the opposite track. Thrown off by their filth, he almost didn't recognize them. At least not until he heard their voice. "Stupid… stupid..."

"Emily?"

Sure enough, it was her. Scowling, steaming, and caked in flour dust, but it was her all right.

"Good grief!" Taking in her dishevelment, just for a moment, he didn't feel so bad about his own appearance.

It's only too bad that Emily caught on. "Well, aren't you bold. Giving me the up-down when you're in the worst mangle of your life."

"What's happened to you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said bitterly.

"I do. That's why I asked." Though even he had to admit to himself that it was rare, coming from himself, and so he didn't blame her for reading into his concern. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the train tonight?"

"Oh, bother that bloody train," she said in a hushed breath. "It's the last thing I care about right now."

Her voice broke at the end of her sentence. When he studied her face, James could tell Emily wasn't really angry. She was using a scowl to dam up her tears. He would know—this was how he reacted long ago when he needed a passenger's boot lace to help finish his first coach trip. It was so much easier to hide one emotion when faking another.

But James wasn't practiced in the art of soothing another. So even though he cared, he fumbled for words that would help. "Well… whatever it is, it can't be worse than where I am right now."

"So sure of that, are you?" Emily shifted her gaze towards James. Her eyes were glossy, but she had an iron hold on her tears. "I've been such a fool. Now look at me. Totally humiliated."

"Hey, at least your shame can go away with a good bath! I'm the one who should be upset! I'm going to miss out on the whole job, all because of that stupid, infuriating Spencer. Not to mention whatever genius had the brilliant idea to leave a side track ending in a wall of BRICKS!"

Emily sat quietly for a minute, listening to James panting loudly. "Sir Topham?"

The red engine snapped to attention, looking Emily's way, and suddenly remembered who decided the railway's layout. "Oh." He shifted his gaze to the tracks and tried to step over his mistake. "Why can't I have one thing? ONE thing! That's all I ask for! One night where everybody sees me as grand and handsome! A night where Sir Topham might actually be proud of me!"

"He is!" But when James didn't look back or reply, Emily continued. "Listen, he knows you didn't mean for this to happen. It was just an accident."

"But it doesn't make a difference does it? It still happened. This kind of thing only happens to me."

"Oh, quit such talk!" Emily told him. She watched the backend of Spencer's train disappear over the horizon before speaking again. "I don't know why you let him antagonize you."

Even though nobody could say they liked Spencer, it seemed that everyone except James quietly tolerated him. Even Gordon seems to have forgotten the jealousy he felt for Spencer since he arrived.

"Sometimes I wonder if I was built differently," James muttered.

"Huh?"

"You know. Flawed."

"James…" She dug into her mental memory box for reasons to give James to make him feel better. Instances when he proved himself to be a uniquely useful engine, in some way, shape or form. Shamefully, however, Emily realized that she couldn't recall any.

So James went on. "Like they looked at me and went 'hey, I wonder what happens when you make an engine who can't do anything right! Better yet, stick him on trains with Mr. Goody-Two-Wheels Edward, because it'll really show!"

At last, Emily cut him off with a frustrated whistle. "That's enough! You can loathe yourself all you want, but leave Edward out of this. He's done nothing wrong!"

"I know he hasn't!"

"Then why do you treat him like your verbal punching bag?"

The observation had James speechless. Is… that really how I sound?

But silence was James' enemy, and he couldn't stand it for long. "Well… it is my fault Edward's gotten a rotten deal. Whatever reason he doesn't want to do the Christmas trains, he doesn't deserve to miss the Christmas Party tomorrow. At least working at the smelter's yard, he'd have been home in the morning to see it."

Emily's eyes widened. "What are you talking about? The smelter's was Thomas' job."

"Yes," James said slowly, unsure about why she was surprised by this. "But after you and I were picked for the Christmas Trains, Edward agreed to give him some help with the iron tonight. But obviously, that's not happening now. He's got a wide load of idiot to haul to the works."

"What?"

"What 'what'? I just told you! You speak the Queen's English, don't you?"

Emily sucked in a breath, and exhaled, letting off a careful, thick cloud of steam. "Hold that thought, James," she told him, pulling away. "I need to have a word with a certain tank engine… immediately."

"You have SOME kind of nerve, Thomas!"

Sitting face out in front of his berth, a crewless Thomas looked up in surprise. Having just arrived back at Tidmouth sheds, he thoughts about where to search for Toad that the others hadn't considered were abruptly halted. "What?"

Emily neared the turntable and screeched to a stop, just before it. She couldn't wait to cross it before tearing into him.

Thomas believed he'd never seen her so out of sorts. Not only was she still covered in dirt, dust and flour, but the corners of her eyes were bloodshot. On top of that, she wore an expression that could scare bats back to the underworld. "You cheeky, rotten backstabber!"

Thomas blinked at her, helplessly baffled. "What are you talking about?"

Little did Thomas know that she was so angry, that she'd actually stormed right past the bathing tower. Overriding her driver's authority yet again, just to get to the sheds in time to confront him, face to face. "What am I talking about? Where do I begin? Oh, I know! Let's start with the fact that you decided to tell the whole world all about how I feel about Edward, and then laugh about it!"

"I wasn't laughing at you!" But when Emily didn't respond, he sighed. "Alright, maybe… I was. A little. But it was just payback for you telling everyone about Mira! And besides, you know secrets like this don't stay a secret forever. Nothing around here does! Especially not with you drooling over him when he passes by!"

"But you sure decided to make sure of that, didn't you?"

"Well, look at you! You're no saint! You blew me off on Christmas Eve, on purpose! Even after I said I was sorry!"

"I. Just. Forgot," she said through clenched teeth. "It was a mistake. And I was going to apologize, but you wouldn't give me the chance! It's not every day we get assignments like this. Am I not allowed to switch jobs?"

"That's not the point! The smelters' is our thing! It's always been our thing! You hurt my feelings, Emily!"

"Oh, I'm sure you were hurt. That's why less than two minutes later, you decided to ask Edward to take my place at the job instead. How convenient that this happened right after our fight."

"What? Are you kidding me?"

"The holiday load is always a small load," she argued. "You know you would've been fine on your own, just this once. You just wanted to guarantee that he would in no way be able to spend the night with me!"

"He wanted to help me! It was his idea!"

"I don't believe you."

"Ask him, then!" Thomas said. He was so angry, his valves were starting to rattle. "If you can't believe better of me, then at least believe better of Edward!"

"I do believe better of Edward, thank you very much! Just as much as I believe James is just as innocent as he is! I'm only sorry he isn't still pulling the other train after all if Edward doesn't want it. He doesn't stick his nose in other engines' business!"

"That's because he spends half of his time looking for his reflection in snow puddles!" Thomas told her. He felt the words hitting his lips before he could stop them. "He couldn't be bothered to get involved with the lives of his friends, even if he was aware of anything that went on beyond the length of his buffers!"

"Well, maybe he does better off keeping out of it."

"I can see that, now," Thomas conceded. "I'm only sorry I didn't realize it sooner."

"So am I! Just because your love life is a wreck doesn't mean you have any right to attempt and wreck mine!"

Thomas almost didn't believe what he had heard. "Excuse me?"

"I cannot believe I actually tried to talk you up to Mira," she muttered, looking away. "Even if she was meant to stay on the island, she's well and above out of your league. Watching you chase after her was like watching a chicken chase a robin."

The male engine paused only momentarily to process her words before he let out a tremendous laugh. "Okay, Emily, you know what? You're right! Clearly, I'm the delusional one here! I was under the impression that Mira and I had plenty of chemistry after only a few weeks, but that must've just been because you were so considerate to talk me up to her. Meanwhile you've worked next to Edward for decades, and I should pay no mind to what seems like the undeniable fact that he barely notices you exist!"

Emily's mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Not even a gasp.

But Thomas was too furious to stop now. Hearing her say such things about Mira affected his unhealed wound in a way nothing, not even the radio, had ever done before. "Whether or not you chose to believe me, I really did try prying Edward for proof that he returned your feelings. And I got nowhere. But clearly, I just wasn't trying hard enough! Oh, but that doesn't matter, because for whatever reason, he still doesn't want to pull that stupid train! Gee, can't fathom why that could be! When this is shaping up to be the most miserable Christmas ever, and all you can think about is how it all affects you! I can't believe anyone would turn down the opportunity to run side by side with you all night! Obviously it has to be me trying to screw it up for you! It couldn't possibly be that Edward finally put his footplate down, and decided that the last thing he deserves is to be associated with some selfish, miserable, bitch like YOU!"

His voice boomed with that last word. He'd neared the full volume an engine's voice could have, and it proved to be tremendous.

It echoed through the empty sheds, and across the yards. The cloud of hot breath which carried his curse rolled across the snow laden land, and into the air, where it finally disappeared.

It felt like time had stopped, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd really said what he thought he said. But his own voice played back in his ear. An echo that wouldn't cease.

… Like you.

… Like you

With horror, Thomas realized they weren't alone. Besides Emily's crewmen, who were rendered speechless, the signalmen momentarily stepped out of their box, looking over to the tank engine, to see what was wrong. Staring at the engines, they appeared transfixed.

He couldn't blame them. They'd never, ever heard an engine cuss out another like that before.

Thomas braced himself: No doubt in his mind that Emily would explode on him with a fiery comeback the likes of which the world would never know.

So he was quite taken aback when he dared to peek at her, and the only thing that had changed was that her lips began to quiver.

Keeping the hot, salty tears at bay became too much, and at last, a single tear broke through.

She wouldn't look at him anymore.

Taking control back while she was distracted, her driver forced her into reverse. Before one more word was said between the two engines, Emily chugged away. Backwards, and away from the sheds, going faster by the second. If one didn't know any better, they might think it was simply to intervene before things got more out of hand. Leaving was so much easier than trying to talk it out right now.

Dread began to settle on Thomas as he made out the telltale sound of her sobs, just barely audible in the distance.

And just when the tank engine thought it couldn't get any worse, a deep voice called to him beyond his line of sight. "Classy, Thomas."

Thomas knew that voice. He gritted so hard that it hurt his teeth. "Sir."

Unfortunately, the Fatt Controller had not been back in his office when this happened, even if the echo may just have carried over there, anyway. He'd heard the argument and rounded Thomas' front, looking at his face studiosly. "Using such language against one of your friends and fellow engines, right next to my office."

"I'm sorry, I-I snapped!" He sputtered. His face was getting hotter by the second, as panic set him. It felt like the snow around his wheels began to melt. It was incredible how a human, so small by comparison, could provoke such a reaction from a creature as big as an engine. "I never thought I could…" At last, he sighed. "I don't know what came over me."

"I realize that," said the man, tapping his foot. "Still… you're… getting up in years. Just am I. I can't quite punish you like one of my children, with a bar of soap to the mouth. It wouldn't be proper."

Too afraid to speak, Thomas didn't reply.

Finally, Sir Topham finished his thought. "We will discuss your punishment later. I want you back in your shed until it's time to leave."

At once, the engine found his voice. "You... still want me to pull the train tonight?"

"The other engines are preoccupied." Even if he wanted to strip Thomas of this special job and ground him, Topham didn't have a choice. "And, if I'm being honest, as it is, I think you feel bad enough."

Thomas watched the man make his way back to the office in baffled silence. He didn't know what he had expected to happen there, but he thought it was going to be a lot worse for himself. At the very least, he expected to be shut up in his shed for a while as punishment.

Then again, that might very well happen after tonight. And at the moment, Thomas wanted no less.

He only wished he didn't have to face Emily again so soon.

"Oh, Thomaaaaaas!"

A sing-song David stumbled upon a tank engine who was silent and melancholy. The altercation between him and Emily outside the sheds less than an hour ago was replaying over and over in his head. And each time, the memory of his voice became harsher. Unfamiliar.

And her face changing became sharper. The widening of her eyes, the crease of her brows. The shimmering tears as they rolled down her face.

I can't believe I made her cry.

I've NEVER seen HER cry.

He was still wondering what he could have done to prevent things from getting so bad when the doors swung open before him, casting light and shadows onto his face. "What are you doing here so early?" he asked, squinting.

"Oh, I think you know." The fireman produced a long, white envelope from his jacket pocket. "But go ahead and take a guess."

Thomas eyed it for a moment before the realization clicked. If this were about anything else, he might be too upset to care right now. But knowing what that envelope meant, Emily was almost instantly forgotten. Mira's driver! "S-she got back to you? Already?!"

"She might've sent this out before she got my last letter," his fireman explained. "But it was still a welcome surprise."

"What does it say? D-does it mention Sodor at all?"

"I hadn't read it yet. I thought it was only fair that I wait until I could share it with you. I thought about opening it tonight after the coach trip. But I couldn't wait. I just had to read it now. That means showing up a little early." And as he straightened the suspenders of his overalls, letter still in hand, he winked at Thomas.

"Well, open it!" encouraged the engine. "I can't stand the anticipation either!"

The fireman ripped open the envelope with his finger, unfolded the paper inside, and tucked the envelope into his pocket. He then cleared his throat, and started from the top. "Dear David," he began. "Take it as a note of my comfort with you that I will take you up on your offer that I should write with my dialect intact. As such, I start with this simple salutation: Well and how're ya. Do apologize if this letter makes it to you after Christmas. Difficult to chart when posts arrive when one moves around so much, 'tis."

Thomas snickered as David did his best, and surprisingly accurate, impersonation of the woman's accent. "You asked for an update on Mira, did ya? She goes on and on about Sodor, y'know." David winked at Thomas. "Just this afternoon, we caught a broadcast on the radio about it. Though of course, a place that's home to so many steam engines is a right paradise."

Thomas was bursting with excitement. "Yeah? Yeah? Go on!"

And the fireman did, gladly. It pleased him to see his engine so happy again. "We've been contracted yet again to work in the States, so our sails have taken us away from Europe. With any luck, we'll be back before long. But in the meantime…"

All of the sudden, the fireman's face turned down.

Thomas frowned. "What?"

The man continued to read the letter to himself in silence. After thirty seconds, he began to fold the letter back up in his hands along the crease lines. He didn't speak.

"What?" Thomas asked, more desperately this time. "You have to tell me what it says!"

"I can't," the fireman said at last. "I..." he sighed.

"Come on! You can't hold me in anticipation like this!" Thomas shouted. "Tell me!"

With a heavy heart, the fireman reopened the letter, and said out loud the lines he'd just read to himself. "In the meantime, me Mira continues to make many a friend, as well as make many a fierce enemy..."

"Oh no…"

"Loud and boisterous, so much that she's the irritation of the engines she comes to help, especially diesels. And never has there been a prouder driver because of it. Thankfully, she always tends to have a craic with some of the local engines." The fireman paused to swallow. His mouth felt as dry as paper.

Thomas' eyes widened, surprised. He didn't know where this was heading, after all.

"There's one she's gone gawking at in such a way that I… that I can't help but laugh. That starry eyed look she gives him, it reminds me of the way I felt when I first saw you."

David dared to look up from the letter, just for a moment, to see how the engine would react. If he would tell him to stop there.

But Thomas wanted to hear this. He had to. Even if he was absolutely, utterly dreading it.

Reluctantly, the fireman went on. "Not that he's not a fine lad, that Alton. Sure is handsome. Chrome exterior. Long and sleek. Front like a Knight's helmet. An American Zephyr for the midwest Burlington Route, he is. Age is about the same. He's a heap too large for her, though. Hast'a be 'least twice her size. Can't believe me nippy little Mira would ever take a fancy to one of those massive diesel-electrics. but, here we are." He paused again, but when Thomas had nothing to say, he carried on. "Figures that she'd have me former taste in men. But she and Alton get on fine. And Mira's a tough lass. I know she could hold 'er own if he makes the mistake of giving 'er trouble. Still, one mess up, and by jaysus, either he or his gammy driver is gettin' a clatter. Ha-ha." The fireman maintained the accent, but his laugh was totally hollow. "Fill me in on the news regardin' Thomas and Sir Topham Hatt's railway since 'es other engines returned from repair. If an extra pair of hands is e'r needed, ya know who ta call, don'tcha?…"

David finished, looking up from the letter, now crinkled in his hands. "Grace O'Malley." After that, he couldn't look at Thomas.

A tense silence fell between the man and the engine. Neither of them dared to break it. Neither of them felt they had the right.

And neither of them seemed to grasp how much time had passed until Thomas' driver appeared in the doorway. "Thomas? David? Time to go."

Without a moment's hesitation, David removed the envelope from his pocket, crammed the letter back inside, and shoved it deep into his pocket once more.

Matthew paused when he peered into the berth and saw them both, David standing before Thomas, in awkward silence. Between that, and the look on their faces, he could tell that something huge had just taken place. Sure, he was unsympathetic at times, but he was not an idiot. And maybe it was just a tinge of jealousy over David and Thomas' closeness, but if it wasn't important enough to tell him right now, then Matthew decided it wasn't worth asking about. Business first, questions later. "Come along, you two. We have to rush Thomas to the washdown."

As if the words broke a spell, Thomas' dry eyes finally gave way to a much needed blink. "Oh. Yeah. Need to washdown for the job." He'd forgotten that he was covered in a fine layer of soot from his last trip to the coaling depot. This might be passable on a regular coach trip, but Sir Topham specified that the engines were to arrive at Knapford spotless tonight.

"Matthew?" called the voice of a shedmen somewhere outside the doors. "The office sent me with a box of those decorations for you."

The driver sighed tiredly. "Alright," he replied, leaving the fireman and Thomas once more.

Alone again, David lingered to the side of the engine's boiler, frozen with a sadness no less powerful than that of the father of a jilted bride. "I'm sorry, Tenderheart," he murmured. His voice was low and mournful. He remembered his own first heartbreak well, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not his locomotive, and one of his closest friends.

"No," replied Thomas, finally finding his voice. "It's nothing for you to be sorry about."

His fireman headed for the engine's cab to start his fire, but Thomas stopped him. "David?"

The man stopped mid step, coming back around to Thomas' front. "Yes?"

"Are you going to want to keep that letter?"

"This letter?" Slowly, he pulled the jagged envelope back out of his pocket, turning it over in between his pointer and middle fingers. Its hurried opening seemed like such a joke to him, now. "I… hadn't thought about it." And although the question had David puzzled, the engine could tell he was being truthful. "I don't think I need to. Why?"

"Do me a favor," Thomas said. "When you make my fire, take the paper out, unfold it," he instructed, articulating every syllable very carefully. "And burn it."

Aaand so ends chapter 6. This was one of the heavier chapters. And in fact, the first draft of Thomas and David reading the letter was one of the first scenes I wrote for this fic. Coming straight from finishing Thomas and Spring Fever I was in a "wanna give myself whiplash" kind of mood I guess. And the whole TomxEmily ship gave me that kind of "oh OKAY, we're doing this now" kind of vibe that drove the creation of this fic in the first place.

Lately I've been on the fence about how I write the character's dialog. On one hand the dated language (Ex "that dizzy thing, Harold/Oh dear!/They dither about….") that they use puts you right back in the show. But on the other hand, I am tempted to break from the show and try and shake up each character's verbage a little based on their personality, and the casual speak of the 1960s? I mean it makes sense in some ways for them to talk similar, since they all live and work together. But I imagine someone like Percy having the more chronic instances of stammering and the most casual wording (ex. "I guess" instead of "I suppose.") Not due to his intelligence, but due to how humble he is. I imagine someone like Thomas uses more big words from time to time, especially when reciting stories, but for the most part, he speaks like an average joe/a blue collar worker. (ex. "Excuse me?" instead of "Pardon me?" and generally a modern use of contractions.) Spencer of course speaks in the most haughty manner, and James… well, he's gonna speak flamboyantly, because I'll be damned if that Alec Baldwin narration of him didn't stay with me, lol. (I'm so tempted to pull a line from my sixth grade teacher and have him shout "oh HECKY NO BECKY!" at some point in this, but I dooooon't think it fits the period.) Obviously Edward's not going to have the same, however, even though he's in the malexmale ship here in this fic. I imagine also speaks more blue collar, but with more allusions to God and religion sprinkled into his speech (and this is going to have more relevance later on.) Emily has what sounds to be a slight Scottish accent in the Michael Angelis narration and while I'd like to work that into her dialog, it doesn't really affect her verbiage in the script. In fact, in the American dub you would never know she's supposed to have a different accent.

So there's my explanation. If the characters start using words that seem out of place for Thomas, I'm just trying to make their personalities a bit more distinct in the dialog. Also I did my best with an Irish accent for Mira's driver. I realize there's different dialects, and I didn't want to sound too hammy, but I did want her to have a distinct enough way of speaking that it becomes her 'thing' for lack of a better word. Since we have Douglas, Donald and it *seems like* Emily being the Scottish heritage engines.

With that out of the way, I think I can let this bad boy go. *crosses fingers*

As always, let me know about any typos/issues, glaring and minor. I'm not the most well versed Thomas fan ever, and I'm definitely not an engine expert, but I'm doing my best with what I do know.