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It’s rare when nothing is going wrong. A routine trip to Port Prosper, to top off supplies before heading to Albion. As far as the Revenue Men cared? Our Lady of Holy Death most certainly didn’t have blood red gaoler’s honey hidden away in the train, bound for the Mausoleum. Still, it’s an... uneventful trip. There's not much longer until port, Delfina expecting them by the end of the day. The dog is asleep on her bed, the useless cat curled up in the middle of the dog’s body, the Navigator underneath it’s massive head completely engrossed in a book from a Neath author. He asked, very politely with a foot in the way, if he could hide in her cabin long enough to finish the last half of the book. No hull issues, no terror, and they were making good time with just enough supplies in the hold to make it to port. So, she said yes.
All of her officers were taking breaks, there’s no pressing need for them and they take merry advantage of it. It’s a matter now then, of a walk around her locomotive to triple check everything because she’s been captain long enough (almost three years, she realises) to always doubt lucky days like this.
The galley could pass as clean, the bridge operational with nothing of interest to report, so then she walks to the engine room. The stokers were working, the pace of the job not caring about calm everywhere else. Still with no engine problems, they work easy, and there’s no need for them to be watched by an officer.
The Driver keeps a half eye on them, but they’re at ease, taking the moment for reflection. Despite the cinders and acrid smell, they’re drinking tea, a pot all to themself. Delfina smiles, and leans against the frame of the engine room’s threshold. It’s been years since their father’s funeral, years since they took the verdant fragment back to the Nature Reserve.
How the time flies. How happy they look.
“Hey, Stainrod.” The surprised look they give her melts into a warm gaze, and they nod at their captain. She doesn’t miss the soft gleam in their eyes, and when she’s sure the stokers are glad to be ignored does she afford a softer gaze for them. Somehow, nobody found out about a, certain assignation, in the cargo hold the first year they were on board, but everyone still knew the Driver as the ‘captain’s favourite.’ Whatever, she thinks every time she hears it, let it be true. “How are ya holding up?”
A nod and a smile, and taking another long sip of tea. Neither move, they don’t elaborate, but it’s an unspoken confirmation. Well, at least they're not upset about docking in Port Prosper, however brief it'll be. It’s used to be rare to see them so at ease, but considering that they nearly slept for days post Verdancy, it’s a nice sight for both of them. But that’s not an answer to her question, so she sighs and tries again.
“I mean, you don’t need to be in here. Galley might be better.” The stokers can’t see the soft way her eyes look over them, her furrowed brows, nor can they see the way the Driver’s grin grows, the way their eyes close fondly. Years, and she still can’t ask a direct question, so she tries again. “You alright?”
And they don’t answer, not immediately. Instead they set down their mug, and move to a cupboard. Opening it reveals greases and oils, cogs and levers and they dig around noisily. She frowns, it’s no fair they’re taller than her and can reach the very back without standing at the tips of their feet. They pull out another mug, cocking an eyebrow and appraising it for a minute. When they’ve deemed the amount of grease left on its outside porcelain acceptable, with who knows what inside, a mostly clean rag is taken off of their sky-suit, and they get to work cleaning it.
She stands there, leaning against the doorway and is content to watch their hands move with a deftness and thoroughness they never would’ve had years ago. They look up, nodding and smiling when she’s still there, and they go back to their waiting pot of tea on the makeshift stove when the mug is cleaned. It’s her cue to step into the engine room, a mug being poured for her and question still hanging in the air. Her hands go over theirs instead the mug, taking advantage of the stoker’s distraction to share some kind of moment with them. Still nothing is said, even when their cheeks go just a little bit red at the contact, and then she finally takes a sip of tea.
“It suits me here. Just the right amount of risk.” After everything, is it any wonder that they don’t want to be coddled? But they also know by now that she'd never obsessively shelter them, just worry exceptionally so over them, and she hears the loyalty in their voice when they speak. They grin over their own mug, eyes gleaming.
“Be safe,” she starts, the most she can get away with in front of an audience. “I’ll be making rounds so long as my own cabin’s occupied, so let me know if you need anything.” Oh, that catches their attention. Well, they decide silently, glancing back at the stokers, they can afford to step out.
“Actually, there’s something I need in the cargo hold if you’re not too busy?” The cheek. How fortunate the stokers can’t see the two growing Cheshire grins, their captain’s eye roll and flushed cheeks. How even luckier, she thinks, when the smokebox chugs and she times a kiss to the burst of noise and activity and they don’t notice. Are they sheepish suddenly? Cute.
"Occupied, singing practice, 'd rather not bother him." Their face doesn't fall, just a nod in understanding. "Can... I keep you company?" They answer by topping off her mug with more tea, and leans them in the engine room in silence until they dock, glad that for just a snippet of time, a thousand deaths that hung in the sky couldn't reach them.