Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Did you manage to clear your schedule for next Friday?"

It's late at night, and annoyingly, Electra is awake. Wide awake, not like that kind of awake where they could roll over, shut their eyes, and happily enter sleep mode; the kind of awake where they could run laps around the training rails without too intense a warm up. In theory, the conditions are perfect for rest, with their silk eyemask blocking out the dim light from Porter's small bedside lamp and the room quiet save for the hypnotic clack-clack-clack of metal knitting needles. Even just having Porter here should help - they always sleep better when there's someone next to them - but Electra still finds themselves with their eyes wide open, counting the rivets in the metal wall of the shed.

A second, two seconds, five seconds, no response. Just clack-clack-clack, a pause for the ball of wool to be unwound a bit further, then clack-clack-clack-

"Porter, darling," Electra repeats louder with a huff - he's got his earbuds in again, that MP3 player is simultaneously the best and worst purchase they've ever made for him, "did you clear your schedule? Next Friday?"

Still no response, so with a grumble Electra rolls over, florescent core illuminating the room around them as they turn. Unsurprisingly, Porter is still up - the freight train only got back half an hour ago despite Porter promising he'd be home before that, having been held up at Leamington Spa by a passenger train further up the line having problems with some drunk football hooligans, so maybe Electra can't sleep because they're grumpy about being alone for so long.

Curse this truck for making them so clingy.

At the movement, Porter finally looks down, pleasant smile on his face as he reaches up to unhook one of his earbuds, and really, the image is enough to make Electra melt. Rarely do they see their coal truck so relaxed, so casual, soft cotton pyjama shirt gentle to the touch as Electra thunks their forehead against his bicep impatiently; he's making something, currently just a few neat lines of blue and silver wool, and as his discarded earbud hits his shoulder, Electra can hear the even voice of some audiobook reader speaking to a now distracted audience.

"Sorry, doll," Porter hums absentmindedly, laying the knitting in his lap to run a warm hand through Electra's hair in apology; he's tired too, Electra can see it in his eyes, feel it in how unapologetically gentle his touch is, "did y'say somethin'?"

Rarely are they this disgustingly domestic with each other, but it's been happening more and more recently as much as Electra is loathe to admit it. More and more has Porter been finding reasons to stay over beyond Electra demanding more physical company, no matter how much the components turn their nose up at him walking through the shed like he owns the place, and Electra can never find a reason they believe in to stop him. Even now, they want to be grumpy, want to strop and whine at the sheer thought of being ignored when they're this tired, but the hand carding through their hair is nice, relaxing even, to the point where any anger they were building up dissipates into the air like dust.

"I asked if you had managed to clear your schedule for next Friday," Electra states for the third time, but with nowhere near the bite that they had originally intended, "I'm shocked that whatever you're listening to is that important."

"Chill out, 'Lec, it's alright," Porter replies easily, other hand reaching to the small device to click it off, and annoyingly, Electra feels their fight get siphoned away with each syllable, "it's all been handled - Hydra and Rusty are runnin' the school for the day, they're gonna' do a races day for the older stock."

"Good," Electra snaps firmly, or as firmly as they can - Stars they're tired, "I was worried you had ignored my requirements."

In response, an amused chuckle, and Electra feels awfully condescended. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, hen, you know that - what're the plans?"

"Well, it's my birthday-"

"I know that, you muppet," Porter interrupts, and Electra peels one eye open to see an almost smug grin on his face like a cat's, "I wanted to know if you were doin' anything, or if we were all just lyin' around, peelin' you grapes and fannin' you with palm leaves."

Well that sounds positively ridiculous, they don't even like grapes. And they don't need fanning, they have coolant systems for that-

"It's a turn of phrase, doll, I can see the gears turnin'-" they don't have gears either, they're not a steam engine- "I mean to ask if you have a plan for the day or whether we're just doin' whatever comes to mind at the time."

Something in the back of Electra's mind traitorously suggests that Porter must hold some intense affection for them, seeing as how much he hates last minute plans but is happily suggesting he follow Electra's whims unknowingly, but they're too tired to introspect on that right now.

"I want a relaxed morning," Electra begins petulantly, curling into the embrace Porter offers as he sets his knitting to one side, "there will be gifts, inevitably messages from the company, and then a yearly gala event is being held in the evening. Evangeline has picked the charity, Starlight only knows who I'm supposedly supporting this year, but it should be fun, at least."

"Blimey," Porter replies, almost slightly shocked, "I didn't realise your birthday was such a big deal that you get a whole ball over it."

"Well, I am Supercell's flagship product," Electra explains tiredly - Porter had promised he'd done some research into them, and obviously has lied, "I was unveiled at one such event, so it makes sense for the company's gala to be held on my birthday. Whilst I have been informed that's far from normal, I believe it to be fair based on my position - you will be there, of course, so you'll see this to be true."

"I- what?"

"You will be there, so you will be able to see for yourself that the scope of the event reflects my importance," Electra repeats with an eye roll, "tomorrow I will be asking Wrench to check your hearing, you seem to be struggling tonight-"

"No, no, I hear just fine," Porter argues, voice slightly more quiet than normal, "it's just, ain't those kinds of things for champions and rich fucks? I don't know how you're goin' to pass me off as one of them."

"Unfortunately for you, I'm not." Starlight knows they had tried, had spent many, many hours going over loopholes and advertising campaigns with Evangeline, "as much as I would like for you in my personal party, corporate had… concerns about your presence as unauthorised stock, so instead I signed you up as crew."

Embarrassed, Electra glances away, and for the first time they feel something close to apologetic; this wasn't how they wanted to break the news to Porter that he wasn't going to be allowed to dress up with them, and his silence is proof enough that he's heart-broken over this.

"It's not glamorous, but you'll be given presentable uniform and will likely be serving drinks," they continue, unable to stop their lips setting into an upset pout, "and I'll be able to keep an eye on you, as with you with me, but I understand this isn't ideal."

Daringly, they turn back to Porter, expecting that familiar, flat expression of disappointment whenever the world is unfair to him. It happens far too often for Electra's liking, if they had their say in it Porter would be dressed up in finery next to them; on their arm, preferably, leading them through the crowd like the gentleman he is. He's shorter than them, sure, but stockier, perfect for parting the sea of adoring onlookers-

But Porter's positively beaming, smile wide enough to display his chipped teeth proudly. For some reason he's happy about this, and Electra feels their dismay morph like clay into confusion. "I thought you would be upset about this?"

"Why?" Porter asks exuberantly, squeezing Electra tightly around the middle, "I'm stoked you even thought of me at all, doll, I thought you just wanted me to take the day off 'cause you wanted company in the mornin' - just tell me where you need me on the day and I'll be there."

There's a flare of something uncomfortably unfamiliar that suddenly trickles into Electra's wiring like treacle, sweet and decadent. Whilst they've had adoring fans, and clingy hangers-on, this is different, genuine in a way that shocks them slightly; Porter seems genuinely enthusiastic about the concept of bar work, any other one of their previous bedmates would have turned their nose up at this and lied through their teeth. Another thing to add to the list of the ways Porter seems to surprise them.

"Because you won't be able to be a true party guest, which I would have preferred you to be," Electra admits, and, embarrassed, break their gaze away from Porter back to the ceiling, "I had a vision for what you would have worn-"

"But I get to see you all dolled up," Porter counters with a rumbling laugh, gently twisting Electra back to face him as he shuffles down the bed, "it'll be fun to see you in your element, especially on your birthday."

They feel a kiss get pressed to their shoulder, warm and inviting, before two hands gently ease their face around to be kissed in turn. If it weren't for the fact that Electra shut off their connection to the components a while ago, they'd almost be embarrassed, but Porter makes this so easy as he wraps his arms around their shoulders again.

"It will be… nice, for you to be there - you'll get paid, obviously," Electra replies hesitantly, unable to help the blush that prickles across their cheeks, "I will request you are relived from your duties for a dance, if there is to be dancing, although the majority of the event will be socialising - maybe it is a relief for you to not be stuck doing that."

"It's fine, pet, stop overthinkin' it." Another kiss to their forehead, almost tender. "It'll be fun, and it'll be good to celebrate your birthday with you properly."

All Electra can do is hum an agreement, hiding their face in Porter's chest as the light is clicked off and the MP3 player discarded. It takes but seconds for Porter to draw them into his arms properly, tucking their head under his chin protectively as their legs tangle together, and the resulting silence is strangely comforting. Although there's no rhythmic movement of knitting needles to get lost in, they can feel the gentle rise and fall of Porter's chest, hear the flow of breath above him.

In theory, perfect conditions for rest, doubly so as Porter's breath slows.

And yet, as soon as their eyes shut, they flick open again.

"Porter," they ask quietly, and there's a sudden, groggy hum from somewhere above them, "what do… normal stock do on their birthdays?"

"Well, Rusty always has a little party, just us and him and Momma, and the coaches sometimes," Porter muses, slightly dopey grin spreading across his face, "Momma always makes him a cake, we usually watch a movie or somethin', and Lumber likes a day out somewhere when our off days line up - Slick fucks off with the engines but I always get her a gift, and Hydra usually requests a bender or somethin' down at the mess shed since apparently the lab never let them do that."

Intriguing. All very personal, small events, nothing at all on the scale of what Electra is used to. Quaint, almost like something out of a children's novel; they were half expect them all to play ridiculous party games and sing.

"And yourself?"

"Oh, nothin'," Porter answers easily, far too easily, "I don't have a birthday."

"Don't be ridiculous, everyone has a birthday," Electra grumbles immediately, "stop being coy."

"I'm bein' serious!" Porter replies, and as Electra pulls away from his chest they can see in the light of their core that that he's smiling, "I'm factory made, so I don't have a birthday-"

"The wood truck is also factory made, as are Joule and Wrench," Electra counters quickly - the backgrounds of the freights took little effort to dig up, a basic exercise carried out by Killerwatt when Porter began coming over more frequently, "and yet they also have birthdays that correlated with their batch sign off, so you should too."

Nonchalantly, Porter shrugs as if somehow, this isn't a huge deal. "Our company wasn't the best at record keepin' - the only reason we know Lumber's batch date is 'cause he was in the last lot ever made at our factory, so we have newspaper clippings with the date on."

"Do you not have a batch number?" Electra asks with a frown, almost instinctively reaching for Porter's wrist before he shakes his head again.

"Did at one point, on my calf, it's worn down now," he explains with a slight frown, "don't remember it unfortunately."

With a sigh, Electra takes his forearm into their hands anyway, placing a gentle, almost mournful kiss onto the inside of Porter's wrist, feeling the warm metal of his plating underneath his skin. They recall being told how mass produced wagons and carriages have batch numbers for when they're needed to be recalled or leased, with no formal name to rely on like engines do - Electra had personally scrubbed Wrench and Joule's when their conversions were completed, but Porter's had just worn down from age, from years and years of use.

No one to recall you when your company is defunct, they assume, it likely hasn't been a problem in a long while.

"Electra, I can hear you gettin' in your own head about it, it's okay," Porter assures warmly, and they can feel a hand hypnotically stroking up and down their back as Porter draws them close again, "it's not the end of the world, Rusty usually buys me a cool drink at New Years."

Electra frowns again, nose crinkling against Porter's shirt. "And you're fine with that?"

"Definitely, I'm more a giver than a taker anyway-" didn't Electra know that first hand- "I don't think I know what to do when someone gives me a gift."

An excellent point, Electra also knows first hand how awful Porter is accepting things given to him. Everything is tit for tat, paid back in turn weeks down the line like a debt owed rather than a treat - just getting him to accept the MP3 player was hard, despite how Electra had, at Porter's insistence, not got him anything fancy or branded which they very easily could have done. But Birthdays are meant to be about the focus, something Porter doesn't get enough of, in their opinion, and that sorely needed to be righted.

They sleep fitfully that night, bundled up in Porter's strong arms, planning.

The next morning, after Porter has left for work with a loving kiss to Electra's forehead, like some disgusting couple from a romance novel, Electra turns to Killerwatt.

They've got some time to kill before a VIP passenger trip they're shifted on this evening, plenty of time to set Killerwatt up at his security station to do some digging. Nothing had come up in the surface background checks he'd done originally when Porter began hanging around, no company name or model information; there had been a few previous jobs, placements at Cockenzie and Ratcliffe, but nothing of particular worth or concern. Last night, Porter couldn't even estimate how old he was accurately, and whilst Killerwatt's best guesses put him at around twenty-seven, almost concerningly young for a coal truck, the lack of concrete information was disturbing, itching under their matrix like a glitch in the system.

"Did you get a company name from him?" Killerwatt asks with annoyance, clicking through the remains of Cockenzie Power Station's grainy security footage; on the screen, a much younger, less rugged Porter unloads a hopper full of coal methodically, boyish grin on his face as he silently jokes with another, older hopper next to him, "Electra-? Master, pay attention."

"I did not," Electra snaps shortly, rolling their eyes against Killerwatt's chastisement, "he didn't seem to know a lot in the first place."

"And a batch number?"

"Worn down, and never memorised," Electra replies with a sigh, almost disappointed in Porter's sheer lack of foresight, "I do not believe this to be impossible, however, I have confidence in your skills."

There's a faint flush of pride on Killerwatt's cheeks, one that Electra loves drawing out of him, as he turns back to the computer. Killerwatt is stoic, unflappable, loyal to a fault, and incredibly easily flattered. "I'll ask Wrench to get a scan of his batch number, if it was indented into the metal she should be able to recreate it - didn't he say that the wood truck was made at the same place?"

Incredibly good point. He'd mentioned it during their conversation the night before, and if Electra's being truthful, though they'd hardly ever admit it, they're slightly embarrassed they didn't think to ask. This godforsaken truck is making them lazy, and far, far too trusting - Porter could be hiding anything, any background in crime or associations with corporate rivals. Worn down batch numbers are almost quintessentially criminal, and it was only last year that he was more than keen to help Slick knock Rusty down a peg-

And yet, for the first time, Electra puts their paranoias to one side.

Whilst the afternoon is lost to gala preparations, and the evening to work, on Monday Electra finds themselves in the freight yard whilst Porter's teaching. It's strange, to be here without him or looking for him, but there's an element of subtlety that this job requires; if Porter found out, he'd probably throw a fit, or tell them to stop worrying about it, like he does whenever he finds out Electra's planning something, and as out of place as they feel here, it's a necessary evil.

The cake, however, was unexpected. As was McCoy's insistence they sit down at the rickety dining table in her large shed, flanked almost imposingly by Rusty and the remaining fuel trucks. Never had they had the rusting, ancient steam engine down as a threat, but right now they are severely regretting not requesting Killerwatt accompany them.

"A little birdie tells me you're askin' a lot of questions about our boy," McCoy asks pointedly, sectioning out what looks like a lemon loaf into several door stopper sized slices - Volta must have been seeing Lumber again, that weasel, "and I've been meanin' to talk to you for a while, so how kind of you to pop by now."

The glares of the freight train are unblinking as Electra feels their lips purse and their shoulders square defensively. "It is far from my pleasure to grace you all with my presence, I would not be here if I had any other choice, trust me - as far as I am aware, you are not the coal truck's mother, so your aggression is unnecessary-"

"No, but I am his boss," McCoy replies with a quirked smile, pushing a plate of loaf in Electra's direction, "and therefore I'm responsible for his wellbein' - so you need to talk before we squawk, Electra, what are your intentions with my fuel truck?"

"If you say sex, I'm loosening your wheels for the rest of the season," Slick adds quickly, venom spat from her lips like a reptile, "I hope you like crossed wires, Sparky-"

"Slick, shut up," Lumber hisses through a mouth full of cake, never once turning his head away from Electra, "let them talk, I wanna' hear this."

Most unnerving of all though is Rusty. Never speaking, never glancing away, just a constant, distrustful, almost jealous glare; he had his chance, Electra can't help but think, and he fucked it up. Maybe he's keen to see if Electra is about to make the same mistakes, and they are determined to outdo him.

What are their intentions with Porter? It's not a question anyone has even thought to ask before - both them and Porter seem happy with whatever this unlabelled familiarity is that sits between them, and the components have never needed to ask, just accepting that Porter is a figure that will just be here sometimes, just like Lumber is whenever their freezer truck gets bored of his own reflection, or Pearl is when Joule wants company that will give her the attention and affection she truly wants. They like the sex, there's no denying that, and whilst the physical might be what this started as, there's more now, more companionship than simply keeping a bed warm. Starlight, some nights they simply can't sleep without Porter there, the embrace of a component no longer enough without the rough, gentle hands and furnace-like core that accompanies him, and they find themselves smiling sometimes along with his stupid jokes and stories of the ridiculous things the freights get up to.

They think about how much they want to dance with him on Friday, how disgustingly willing they are to take an analog truck into their arms and be twirled, dipped, and wooed, and how upset they are that he won't be in the fine suit Electra had picked out for him.

"As of yet, inconclusive," they settle on, and immediately Hydra is halfway across the table, finger poised as Rusty and Lumber immediately rush to hold them back.

"You're just using him, you slimy fuckin' git, I knew it-!"

"If you would allow me to finish," Electra snaps immediately as Hydra is wrestled back into their chair, Slick bristling angrily on the other end, "my intentions are inconclusive because I-"

Their mouth dries up uncomfortably, like there's a sandstorm blowing through. Maybe it's the acrid, vile scent of coke and diesel that smothers everything in this shed, maybe it's the knowing, almost encouraging smile growing on McCoy's face.

"I am unsure myself," Electra admits quietly, and their interrogators go silent and still, "I will not lie and say it did not begin as simply a physical interest, a strange attraction to ancient stock that I wished to explore for the fun of it, but evidently it has gone beyond that now. I am still undergoing assistance into what that entails, and once I am aware, I will inform you."

"Alright," McCoy answers with a nod, seemingly satisfied by their admission - or maybe their embarrassment, seeing as Electra wants nothing more than to leave these ridiculous people to their own ridiculous questions, "I'm not tryin' to humiliate you, Electra, I promise."

There's a genuineness in her voice that rings familiar, and they can see where Porter learned his tricks from. "I am grateful for your assurance on the matter."

"So, batch numbers, company information, old lease records, either you're doin' one hell of a background check, or you're planning somethin'," McCoy begins suddenly, leaning back in her chair as the freight train looks between themselves in confusion; they'd been prepared for more questions, evidently, but had not been prepared for McCoy to move on so quickly, and Electra can't help but settle back into their wobbly seat smugly, "what's goin' on? Because if you're after a conversion, it'll be my permission you'll both need to ask to surrender his lease."

"Oh please, nothing of the sort," Electra dismisses quickly with a roll of their eyes, "you know how attached he is to that training school, and as much as I would like him to be electric, it's not a requirement for the role - you and I both know he would rather be scrapped than get an upgrade, so that's not a battle I have any interest in losing."

Suddenly, visible relief sweeps across the table, Lumber collapsing slightly against Slick's shoulder. That was the fear, evidently, this would have been much easier if they had just asked outright.

"So what are you doing?" Rusty asks curiously, head cocked to one side, "I can't really think of anythin' other than a lease renegotiation that requires all that."

"That's because the truth is ridiculous," Electra snaps quickly, no longer able to fight the embarrassmed flush on their cheeks, "so please, allow me to ask my questions and return home-"

"Nuh uh, you're embarrassed about it, so it must be important." Surprisingly, that's McCoy, not Slick - they had expected the oil tanker to take the piss, not the steamer. "Go on, spill - and eat your cake whilst you're at it, I made it specifically."

Disgruntled, they take a bite of the cake - Killerwatt would have tested it first for poisons or foreign bodies, and they can almost hear his distress in the back of their mind. Thankfully, there's only the tart tang of citrus and the sweetness of vanilla, and all they can think about is how much Porter would like this.

"I- it distresses me that he does not have a birthday," they grumble, grateful for the cake to distract themselves with, "so I was attempting to estimate a date by which it could be celebrated."

Before them, five surprised looks, smug grins at Electra's discomfort melting away into disbelief.

"He does not know the date that his batch was signed off," Electra continues - it's obvious none of the idiots on the other side of the table are going to respond, "nor does he have a batch number visible to the naked eye - I have ways of working out his batch number from Wrench's instruments, and paper records can be sourced, but unless I know where I'm looking, I am, as you would say, looking for a needle in a metaphorical haystack."

"Can't you, I dunno', just ask him?" Hydra asks innocently, "I mean, he has to know who made him, he's always wittering on about his time at the factory."

Maybe one day, this hydrogen tanker will develop a brain cell. "I could, but then he would know I was planning something, and I wish for this to remain classified lest he try and convince me to call it off."

"Well, we're helpin', then," Lumber states, and they get the distinct feeling there is absolutely no room to argue this, "he's been fightin' against me assigning him a birthday for years, so whatever we can do, just say."

His words are accompanied by four equally emphatic nods, concerned grimaces spreading into grins; Rusty is still clearly unsure, but Electra is more worried about Lumber and Slick's reaction, so he can feel however he likes. The important thing is that they have somehow impressed this ramshackle family, and there's this awful, unfamiliar warmth in their chest as the trucks relax. Whilst fairly close to the feeling they have around Porter, it's not quite the same, doesn't have that charged air around it that makes them want to lock the doors and never let him go. Instead, it's almost akin to relief, but not embarrassed like they were expecting, more like a sense of camaraderie, much closer to how they felt when the components first began following them.

A feeling that had been quickly crushed down by expectation and company demands. Strange, how there's none of that with these trucks.

"For the record, we were made by this big haulage factory up in Durham somewhere - Butler, I think that must have been the owner back in the dark ages," Lumber offers hopefully, and Electra immediately begins transmitting the conversation back across to Killerwatt, "they went bust back in ninety-nine after most of the mines shut down, Porter was one of the last coal hoppers they made - they started makin' flat trucks like me but never really got into the market."

A name, a rough date of liquidation, a geographical location. A veritable gold mine, if they do say so themselves - foreclosure in ninety-nine would put them before the mass digitisation of public company records, which would explain the lack of data.

"Excellent, exactly what I was after," Electra says quickly, unable to help the satisfied smile on their face, "I have an event on Friday that requires my attention, so no major plans will be made before then, however should Killerwatt aquire any information I should also deem interesting to yourselves, I will let you know."

"Oh, your big ball, right?" Slick teases with a grin, "Port's so excited for that, you better let him Dirty Dancing lift you or I'm crashin' the whole thing-"

"I… don't know what that means," Electra interrupts, brow furrowing, and Slick shakes her head with a dramatic sigh.

"Ugh, don't worry," Slick grumbles, rolling her eyes dramatically, "he won't tell you this because he's a fuckin' idiot, but he really wants to dance with you, so if you don't at least save him one I'll kill you."

"He's been listening to Classical fuckin' FM for the last two days just so he can impress you by knowin' the songs," Hydra sings, almost like this was some great secret no one was meant to be privy to, "I don't think you understand just how shit like that doesn't happen to us-"

Two glares their way, and a suddenly very awkward looking Rusty.

"To him," Hydra corrects confidently, grin unfaltering, "stuff like that doesn't happen to him."

"Then I will be sure to quiz him on every piano quartet that plays," Electra retorts playfully - Stars above, when did they become this relaxed? Maybe there was something in the cake. "I should be taking my leave now, but I will consult with you all once we have made headway in the project."

"Only you could make a birthday party sound clinical," McCoy states with a jovial laugh, "off you pop, go get ready for your big party - we'll start gettin' some ideas together for you."

Hopefully, between them, they should make Porter's first birthday one to remember.

Butler Haulage Ltd is easily discovered. By the time Electra is back at the electric shed, Killerwatt and Wrench have put together a fairly extensive timeline of the company's production history, stock market output, liquidated assets, and any notes of worth about the company's management. Above it all lies the scan of Porter's batch number, a digital recreation of the hammered brass identification plate hanging over it all like a ghost.

Very little of this is useful - a newspaper article from a radio car discussing how many trucks come from them with little to no foundational skills, raising concerns about how they're treated before lease, stands out, Wrench having separated the article from the rest of their small pile of scraps. Every now and then she makes an angered comment under her breath about Porter's reading ability and how everything makes sense suddenly, and Electra's glad they're not the only one insenced by this.

Old workers are uncovered, former managers contacted, and Killerwatt ends up reaching out to one on social media to see if that gets anywhere. Until then, there's little they can do beyond guess work.

Friday arrives in a blur of emails, conference calls, and tailor visits, and by the time their eyes open on Friday morning, Electra hardly feels rested at all. They were up until late confirming protocol for the party, and there's a large note on their psyche for next year recommending that they hire someone in to help Volta with the heavy lifting for the event - this is meant to be Volta's area, event and image management, but they see every year that it takes more than one man to plan a charity ball, no matter how good of a job Volta can do on his own.

So they're tired, pissed off, and on top of all that, alone. What a horrible way to begin a birthday, as they roll over into the warmth left behind on the other side of the plush bed like a lingering ghost-

"Oh, shit, sorry doll, I wasn't expecting you to be awake just yet."

Groggily, Electra looks up, and in the doorway, like an angel from the heavens, is Porter, marked chest bare and hair still mussed from last night as he balances what looks like a large plastic tray on one hand to shut the bedroom door behind him. There's a smile on his face, almost puppy-like as he skates over, and the scent of sugar and fried batter hits Electra strongly as he approaches.

"Timed that badly, didn't I?" He chuckles as Electra sits up in bed, "I was gonna' wake you up when I got back, but you jumped the gun on me."

"I thought you'd left," Electra grumbles, rubbing their eyes blearily, "you should have waited for me to wake up."

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" Porter replies with a laugh, and the tray is set down in Electra's lap - on it, a large, steaming waffle, nearly the size of the plate, surrounded by glass dishes of what looks like various fruits, sprinkles, and sauces, "someone had to make you a birthday breakfast - I know you're still workin' out what foods you like, so you've got a plain waffle there, and then I put a bunch of toppin's in the little dishes there for you for you to try."

No one's ever bothered to cook for them before. Joule tried once, and said their tastes were too much work for her.

"Oh, and, happy birthday," he continues, as if this wasn't a gift enough, diving under the bed for a second to produce his latest knitting project. A large lizard plush, nearly size of Electra's torso, and blue and silver in the same places their armour is blue and silver with a felted mowhawk to match. "You said you were havin' trouble sleepin' without me, so he's got a wee pouch in his tummy for a microwave warmer."

Gods above, why does Electra want to melt?

"I- thank you," they say instead, voice as even and measured as possible as Porter sets the plush on the bed proudly between them. The longer they look, the more they notice that no two limbs are the same length, or how its eyes are sewn on at two different heights, but there's a charm in this gift's imperfections. Maybe it's the handmade nature of it all - usually their gifts from the components, whilst often hand crafted, are made by experts, masters of their trade, whilst this is definitely not that. Quaint though, in each rough stitch and loose thread there is a clearly displayed dedication of love in each knit and purl, strangely delightful in its imperfections.

Much like its creator, all scarred and charred from years of hard labour and furnaces, who's knees click painfully every time he sits down, and yet Electra seems to harbour these strange feelings for regardless.

"I know it's kinda' silly," Porter admits rather sheepishly as Electra begins to peruse the variety of toppings provided for their waffle, "it's just like, 'oh, what do you get for the guy that has everythin',' so I figured you probably don't have one of those."

"Quite correct, I don't," Electra muses, unable to help the smile that grows as they load up a section of waffle with some sweet smelling amber syrup and offer it to Porter, "I imagine it was custom made?"

"Oh yeah," Porter replies, as if this was some expensive item he'd commissioned rather than something Electra had been silently watching him work on for the last week, "and expensive too, a real one of a kind thing, you might be able to sell it for millions in a few months."

With a grin, he snaps up the offered bite of waffle; it's good, sweet and greasy from the butter on the iron, and Porter watches closely as they roulette through the various accouterments. Syrups are fine, the fruit is wonderful, but sprinkles have a strange crunch and marshmallows are downright revolting, and they can practically see the note being taken in Porter's mind.

A strangely normal morning, or about as normal as Electra can imagine. Maybe this was what Porter did for his colleagues, a standard routine in the freight shed, but they don't think they've ever seen something as complex as a waffle iron in that corner they call the kitchen. An adaption of a ritual then, since he'd mentioned cake the other day, but one doesn't seem to have appeared just yet; all statements taken for what to prepare for when they finally get a date.

Strange. This is maybe the first birthday they've ever had where they're not thinking about themselves. Maybe they've just had so many birthdays that they're starting to get tedious.

"So, what's the plan, maestro?" Porter asks playfully, leaning back onto the bed and folding his arms across his chest, "I got orders from the event company for later, so I'll be headin' off about two-ish, but that's five hours away."

"Plenty of time for you to take part in the yard-based celebrations then," Electra states - they'd forgotten that Porter being crew meant he'd have to leave before them, "I am having a meeting with Ms Whitehead at twelve, so before and after then, I can do as I please."

"Can you now?" Porter teases with a grin, like he's been waiting to hear those words all morning, and if Electra didn't still have this tray on their lap, they'd have done something about that smile. Annoying, how he gets under their skin all the time, knows exactly what words to say and in what tone to demand their attention, and it's impossible to ignore as his lips - rough lips, course from work no matter how much lip balm they buy him - gently press against their cheek.

They stumble out of Electra's room nearly an hour and a half later. If any of the components find this strange, none of them say anything.

The day, from there, rushes in a bit of a blur of gifts and praise, gentle kisses from Volta as he regales them with the outfits for this evening and tender touches from Wrench as she flits around making sure they're in good shape before a public event. Combined with Joule's gift, a gorgeous silver necklace that she informs is embedded with delicate hunks of Whitby jet, they have no doubt that, once again, they will be the most stunning image that this whole affair. Although they would prefer to celebrate without having to entertain conversation with some engines they would much prefer to keep far, far at bay, at least there will be no one in that room that can match their beauty and their speed.

However, it's Killerwatt's present that they like the most.

Officially, it's not his present - that came in the form of several crates of expensive red wine that he had shipped in from southern Italy for when they all inevitably stumble back home and want to debrief about the gossip they've all learned. But the manilla envelope that's pressed into their chest just before they're about to leave might as well be.

"Third page, forty-seventh line," Killerwatt instructs quietly, as if they were trading state secrets, "the former treasurer responded to my email - it may be hasty of me to say, but I believe we've found him."

Third page, forty-seventh line of blocky font - typed up then, they had an office computer, just never uploaded the files - there's the familiar string of numbers, all twelve digits of them lining up perfectly with that recreation they've committed to memory. Killerwatt's age estimate hadn't been far off, if Porter's batch was signed off in ninety-eight, that would put him at twenty-six, about to be twenty-seven, so he was one year away.

Twenty-seventh of September, nineteen ninety-eight. Just over a month to prepare.

The thought permeates their mind as they float through the gala like a whirlwind, components at their side as the hubbub of the annual Supercell Charity ball buzzes around them. Tonight, they're distracted, and as they wander from guest to guest, partaking in conversation about races many years past and strategies for the future, that forsaken coal truck never leaves the back of their mind, doubly so when they spot him deep in discussion with a prominent heritage steamer that they can't name for love nor money. Red eyes flit over as he presses a glass of champagne into her hand with a laugh and a promise that he'll be back over, before Porter's beelining over, glasses on the tray wobbling precariously as he weaves around guests and tables alike.

"Thought you weren't gonna' show up for a second then," he says breathlessly as Electra daintily collects a flute from his tray, "sorry, was chattin' - that there's- shit, what did she say her name was- Tornado, we- she wasn't made until after steam kind of kicked it too, so-"

"I'm glad you're making friends," Electra interrupts airily, and they're slightly aware of the stares they're receiving from the engines around them at Porter's enthusiasm, "an ounce of decorum, please?"

A cough, and Porter blushes spectacularly, that familiar blocky crimson illuminating his cheeks and ears wonderfully as he stands up straight and adjusts his tie absentmindedly. "Right, sorry- may I interest you and your entourage in a drink, madam?"

For that, as promised, Porter gets his dance later on, at the point in the evening where civilised conversation is starting to wane and the discussions of drunken antics are beginning to fill the event space around them. Although Electra wasn't exactly prepared for him to approach them, waistcoat neatly repaired from where they had seen it undone earlier in the flurry of work and orders.

Gently, they're taken in Porter's arms, the gentle warm from the champagne and the coal truck pressed to their chest enough to distract from the stares of the guests around them that the star of the show is dancing with a waiter. The components are close anyway, taking to the dance floor in turn, allowing Electra to focus on guiding Porter easily through steps and turns; the song he's chosen is almost an American Smooth, romantic and lilting, not complicated in any way, and a lovingly yearning violin melody leads them through this moment before melting into the rich orchestration of the recapitulation. Whilst it's obvious Porter is entirely following their lead, he picks it up quickly, only kicking their wheels once or twice as they're spun, and their dress flares behind them spectacularly just like Volta said it would. In the light reflecting off their jewellery and embroidery, Porter is painted in silver, illuminating his simple shirt and waistcoat into something royal, something fitting to be next to Electra.

As the orchestration hits its climax, they dare to look down at him, and see naught but adoration.

The song ends just as quickly as it began, and as they part politely, he bows deeply, kissing the back of their hand as they both step away. There's some titters around them of hushed conversation, but nothing to worry about, not when Electra's strangely struggling for air in their vents.

"Romance, Shostakovich, I think it's from a film," Porter whispers proudly as he leads them back towards the throng of half-aware onlookers, "heard it on the radio last week - the musical director owes me a favour, so I asked her to play this one for us."

A love song, typical. They feel like they've been dropped into a romance novel, Porter's affections at this point demonstrating how he's not done courting them yet. For some reason, they had been expecting crudeness from him, desperate and lacklustre, not handmade gifts, breakfast in bed, and a formal dance.

"A fine choice," Electra replies, almost distracted - admittedly, they didn't know the song, preferring the drama of the Romantic era, but Porter doesn't need to know that, "that was… enjoyable, thank you."

"Most welcome," Porter says with a wide grin, "boss lady told me earlier I can head off early since I helped set up, so let me know when you guys head off and I'll hitch a ride."

And to round it off, he'd come home with them too.

"Alright, so what're you thinkin'?"

The freight shed is positively cavernous around them, Lumber's voice echoing slightly as Volta and Joule surveil the space. In the centre, all Electra can do is review and try their hardest to make a picture in their head of what the scene might look like. So far, they're thinking simple, understated, maybe some rustic-style decorations, music that Porter likes playing through a speaker system that Volta can set up in a pinch; McCoy has already agreed to provide food, having a good overview of Porter's preferences and dislikes, and, through Slick and Dinah's pincer-style approach, Greaseball has agreed to corrale the engines into attending, which should bring numbers to everyone in the yard thanks to the coaches taking little convincing. Apparently she didn't need that much work, according to Slick, and neither did the diesels, who Porter is apparently on decent terms with.

"Simplicity is my main theme," Electra informs, running a hand along the slightly rusting metal of the freights' bunks, "I have my concerns that he'll be so thrown off by the existence of a party, so the last thing I want to do is overwhelm him with anything further."

As if in agreement, Lumber nods slowly. "Good plan - he's a fan of a disco, so as long as we can have somewhere with loud music and easily accessible alcohol, I'm sure he'll be happy."

Alcohol, of course, Electra had forgotten about that - Killerwatt has a talent for acquiring rare drinks, they'll have to enquire about some small batch whiskies-

"Don't worry about expensive shit," Slick quickly assures as if she could read their mind, "we're happy with whatever you can get in bulk."

"I'll buy what I like with my funds, thank you," Electra can't help but snap - expensive drinks, but only for the components and Porter then, everyone else can suffer with the poisons they'd apparently prefer, "will this be enough? Food, drink, and a small area designated for dancing?"

"That's pretty standard, Electra," Lumber informs with a smile, like he was talking to someone who's currently having their first day on Earth, and before long Volta skates over to pick a rogue piece of sawdust out of his hair, "most of us don't even get parties like this, he'll- well, I dunno' if he'll love it, you know what Porter's like with new things, but he'll appreciate it."

All Electra can do is sternly glare at the shed around them, lips set and gaze steely; if they'd had their way, they'd have rented out one of the large exhibition halls Supercell use every now and then, and hired caterers to handle all the refreshments, but apparently that was 'too much'.

"Good," they state shortly, "after all this, he better, I don't want to have to explain to him what ridiculous hoops I've jumped through for his sake."

From the other side of the shed, there's a snicker, Joule looking over her shoulder from where she's been sizing up one of the walls for a fresco. "Or you could just tell him that you love him, boss, it's getting a bit obvious at this point - who shares a bed with their friend with benefits and kiss each other goodbye before they go to work?"

As soon as they open their mouth to argue, they're met with three equal stares of agreement, and all they can do is grit their teeth and adamantly look away.

September comes and flies by about as quickly as a month could. Jobs and orders come in from up high, including a press tour in Kent to show off a new line of engines built from Electra's success, which hardly gives them time to rest. For the first time in a while, they're genuinely enjoying having a 'home base' at the Troubadour, a vestige of normality to return to inbetween business meetings with the SNCF and media trips, not just for Porter's warm arms that always welcome them back but for the burgeoning connections that are flourishing between the electric train as a whole and the rest of this working yard. There's something nice about Joule discussing with Wrench about gifts to bring home for the coaches, or Killerwatt moaning about how much easier it is to patrol at home now he can trust the other engines somewhat.

So inevitably, the twenty-seventh sneaks up on them.

"Lumber's told me Volta's been given the day off tomorrow," Porter comments on the evening on the twenty-sixth, his chest still heaving slightly as he stretches where he'd lain out on Electra's bed, "no school, 'cause it's a weekend, and I assume if Volta's off then you're off too, wanna' do somethin'?"

With a hum, Electra glances up from where they'd been absentmindedly tracing one of his larger graffiti with a manicured talon - that blue one on the left hand side of his stomach, a huge sycamore tree most likely done by Lumber. "Hmm? Well, I suppose we could. I have plans for the evening, though."

Play it cool, don't let anything out, they remember Slick instructing, and as Porter hums in thought, they don't seem to have let anything slip just yet.

"Dunno'," he eventually states with a shrug, "Hydra's got that huge projector they found in the scrap heap that one time, I'm sure them and Rusty wouldn't mind us nickin' it for a day - what're you doin' in the evening?"

Shit.

"I have a meeting with Evangeline," they lie quickly - not too far out of the realm of possibility, they've been speaking to Evangeline a lot recently following the press tour, "I'm sure you can entertain yourself for the time being."

They can't help but spot a slight look of disappointment on Porter's face at that, but at least he's accepted the lie.

"Sound, okay," he hums with a nod, "can I at least spend the mornin' here? I'll go pester Slick in the afternoon- or check in with Momma, haven't stopped for a cuppa' this week."

"Of course." To confirm this, they reach up, pressing a tender kiss to his slightly swollen lips. "Stay for as long as you like."

There's an admission there, laced in subtext and unspoken adoration, and as much as Electra wants to say it, to say the obvious, they can't. The words won't form on their tongue, no matter how much they try; they've been thinking about it ever since Joule brought it up in the freight shed, and there's been so many moments where it would have been appropriate to say. The dance, for one, the almost obsessive love written into every note that Porter let them lead him through, but also in every gift he randomly produced because some gift shop tat reminded him of them, and every breakfast he's brought to their bedside.

But each time, it's like there's a vice around their throat, words cutting themselves off before they can even reach their tongue; they're not words that Electra should ever be saying, not in their coding or their vocabulary. The great Electra is never at a loss for words, until now.

Despite that, there's a softness in Porter's gaze, something deep and longing in those dark crimson eyes that Electra could sink in, let it consume them whole like a wildfire that sears away what was them before, leaving behind only scraps and a twisted, lacking heart. It says that he understands perfectly.

Maybe tomorrow.

Electra's internal alarm, as expected, goes off about eight-thirty in the morning. Before Porter would wake up naturally - he's an awfully late sleeper on the rare mornings where he's not up for haulage shifts or to open up the school, would sleep until midday if given half an opportunity - so he's still blissfully unconscious next to them.

The first part of their plan goes as smooth as butter, as Wrench is waiting in their barely used kitchen with pancakes ready to go, practically steaming as Electra gratefully accepts the plate. When they'd asked a week ago, McCoy had said that Porter's favourite toppings were bacon and maple syrup, so that is what this particular stack is loaded with, greasy and tacky with the sweet concoction, and it's a treacherous walk back to their room to make sure none of the coffee in the cup next to them spills or slops.

With tired, half-dozing blinks, Porter's awake when they reenter, head cocked in confusion as Electra gently places the tray on their lap; it's a strange twist on their usual routine, since usually they're in Porter's position, but it's fun, satisfying almost to watch him look between them and the plate in confusion.

"What's this about, hen?" Porter questions, words slurring slightly as Electra perches on the bed by his feet, "it's only Saturday."

"And what a fine Saturday it is, too," Electra replies happily, and this sparking excitement that's been building all week nearly breaks like a burst dam, "I- I must admit, I may have been keeping something from you."

"I figured," Porter admits, brows furrowing in intrigue as he begins to cut into the pancakes before him, "since you randomly gave Volta the day off and all, and usually when you have a meeting with Evangeline you whine about it all week - go on, spill, I wanna' know what's so important I get woken up with pancakes and coffee."

Before Porter has even finished his sentence, Electra's dived to the bedside table, that familiar manilla envelope in their hands that they hand to Porter hastily. Unsure, he accepts, cutlery clattering to the plate as he tugs the papers out of the envelope.

"I- these are just numbers," he queries, and Electra has to fight the urge to snatch the papers away, "I'm sorry, pet, I don't think I understand-"

"Those are the batch numbers of a series of coal hoppers made by Butler haulage Limited, signed off on the twenty-seventh of September, nineteen ninety-eight," Electra informs confidently, watching the realisation of what that means dawn on Porter's face, "one of those is yours."

Porter's expression is strange, much stranger than Electra was expecting. There's no elation, no eager joy or immediate thanks, no surging delight that could fuel cities with its energy. Only this uneasy, almost mournful silence as he considers whatever this information might mean, as if this somehow changes the truck fundamentally in some way Electra cannot imagine.

"That means it's your birthday, mon coeur," Electra continues, but quieter, subdued.

Then, softly, so soft the dust in the air doesn't seem to be disturbed by the movement of his lips. "How old am I?"

"As of today, twenty seven," Electra informs, taking the papers out of Porter's loose grip, "are you alright?"

"Aye, love, fine," he mutters, a smile quirking his lips almost despite himself, "sorry, this- that really shouldn't be this groundbreakin'-"

"I… would like to listen if you would like to speak," Electra insists, mirroring something Porter had said to them many, many weeks ago, "I'm sure you have your reasons."

"It's just… shit, I dunno'," he tries to start, and Electra can see where his words are crumbling in his throat, "I just assumed that - Starlight, this sounds dismal - that no one cared enough to record it? We only know Lumber's birthday 'cause the local herald ran a story on the final batch bein' signed off, when I was made barely anyone needed coal trucks anymore, so why should they make a note?"

"But they did." Electra's words echo in their own ears, Porter finally, finally looking up at them - someone must have cared enough to make him so handsome, so thoughtful, so effortlessly resilient, so Porter. "And now we know."

With a choked laugh, Porter nods, finally letting himself smile wonderfully. "Aye, I guess they did - did you find all this out on your own?"

"I had the idea-" they can't take full credit, but they can take most of the credit- "but I had great assistance from the components and your colleagues - they would like to see you before the party, by the way, I had to drive a horrible bargain with the wood truck to allow you to spend the morning here-"

"The party?" Porter interrupts, almost incredulously, "I'm sorry, you threw a party?"

Smugly, they can't help but grin, shifting to move a rogue lock of hair that had fallen into their eyes. "Indeed, and all the yard has promised to be there - not until this evening, but there shall be food, and some rather nice whisky Killerwatt ordered from Edinburgh for you. The only thing I can't promise the quality of is the music, since I left responsibility of the playlist to that oil truck-"

They're interrupted by warm, rough lips on theirs, sudden and warm as calloused hands hold their head like a treasure; the kiss is hungry, desperate, like there's words that Porter is willing through the motion, and whilst there's no want here, there's need. Need for contact, need for assurance, need for feelings that words apparently can't convey, and as Electra allows themselves to reciprocate, they feel every intention. That familiar taste of ash and tobacco rings different this time, the same in every way except, for some reason, he's theirs this time, despite nothing having been said, and Electra wants this to destroy them, to rip each plate from their frame indiscriminately.

"This- this is- I think this is the most work anyone's ever done for me," Porter breathes against their lips as he pulls away for air, and despite every vent on Electra's body working overtime, they still feel like they're suffocating, "I love-"

"Don't say it," Electra cuts him off quickly, and before Porter can pull away, reaches over to kiss him again, "I have a plan that I do not want ruined."

All Porter can do is kiss them, again and again and again, and Electra is in no hurry for him to stop.

Chapter Text

"Trust me, Porter, you'll be fine."

In front of the mirror, Porter can't help but shift nervously, tugging at the clean uniform Lumber presented him with when Electra finally released him from their shed at about eleven this morning. In theory, there's nothing different about it other than the fact that the graffiti has been scrubbed out of his trousers and his fleecy undershirt is fuzzier than usual, but the whole thing just feels… it's hard to put a word on it. Loaded, maybe, like there's expectation on him; usually for these kinds of things he's not the main event, barely even a footnote on the guest list unless Slick's bribed someone. He'll rock up, drink whatever free alcohol he can get his hands on, whatever stolen alcohol Slick has half-inched from a store cupboard, maybe piss off a few guests just to make sure he's left his mark on whatever random victory celebration he's managed to worm his way into, never caring about who or what he was meant to be celebrating.

Instead, this party is for him. Porter. Part time hopper part time glorified PE teacher. A party for him that everyone in the yard, regardless of loyalties and rivalries and unspoken blood feuds, has happily decided to attend.

In all honesty, he feels a little sick.

"Port', did you hear me?" That's Lumber, somewhere behind him, perched on one of those bar stools he whittled for the kitchen that he swears are stable, and Porter glances at him through the mirror. "I said you looked fine."

"Right, sure," Porter replies absentmindedly, and there's not a single part of him that actually believes what Lumber's saying; he looks normal, smartened up a little but still normal, nothing like the get up that's usually required for anything put together by the electrics, "you're sure this is just a chill thing?"

Because nothing is chill when Electra's involved, nothing is ever small or understated or casual. There's always something else to every event or every instruction, some underlying second meaning to whatever they do that is always lost on Porter until the last minute, and if they're intent on using his birthday - as weird as it is to say that, after so long of thinking that just wasn't a thing that he had - starlight he is going to be so mad. Doubly so considering all the effort Electra apparently went through to get here in the first place, it can't have been easy digging through ancient company files and then putting this all together for him, but why Electra would do all of this is still kind of beyond him, which is why he can't help but think there's some great secondary purpose to all this-

With a nod, Lumber jumps off the stool, hair springing with him as he skates over. It's been a long time since he's seen Lumber this excited about something, servos all coiled with excited, anticipatory energy like they're waiting to snap. "You're thinkin' hard over an ironed jacket, what's happenin'?"

"I just-" The sentence crumbles in his mouth, ashy like porcelain dust - what is his problem? That he doesn't actually trust the engine that he's absolutely head over wheels in love with? "It's just all a bit sudden."

"I did try to tell them that you'd hate it," Lumber sings, a distinct 'I told you so' all but said in his tone, "but does Electra ever listen to anyone but themselves? Of course not."

"I don't hate it," Porter counters, rolling his eyes against Lumber's knowing smirk, 'cause he doesn't hate it, absolutely loves a party, "I just ain't used to it."

A phrase Momma always used to use with him when she was trying to ease him into new things, unknown things with strange routines and open endings, and it has stuck with him still after all these years. New things should be fun and exciting, not as frustratingly ambiguous as the vague idea of a party is, but since Electra downright refuses to tell him what's happening, the frustration is all he has left.

Truthfully he knows Electra means well, and is already privy to how proud they are of the whole affair, but Porter's annoyingly in two minds about it; one half, frustrated, pissed off where he knows that Electra knows how much he's not one for showing himself off or inserting himself into the public eye. Even before his couplers got fucked, he hated the desperate vying for the attention of the cameras that came with racing, back when he was Rusty's partner and all the steam engine could think of was how to appeal to the shiny coaches as if Porter was a burden rather than one half of the partnership; the last thing he wants is for Electra to have thrown some grand event for him only for it to end up as some ridiculous pageant. Not that he feels entitled, that's not fair to say, but maybe, just for once, he'd like Electra's full attention.

He got a taste of that this morning, between bacon pancakes and grease-stained manila envelopes, and it's downright embarrassing how addicted he is already. That's the other half, the half that quietly craves the attention he swears he hates, not just from Electra but from his friends too.

"It'll be great once you're there, promise," Lumber assures genuinely, supportive smile etched into his face as he halts next to Porter, "I know what they've got planned - and before you ask, I ain't tellin' you."

Porter can't help but roll his eyes. "Some help you are-"

"But, I like to think I know you well enough that I don't think you'll spend the whole evening miserable, me and Slick made sure of that," Lumber continues confidently, and just as Porter is about to turn away, he digs into his pocket, fumbling for a second before producing a small black velvet box, barely the size of his palm, "here - my birthday present, I wanted to wait until you were all glammed up to give it to ya'."

The box is light in Porter's hands as Lumber drops it into his grasp, grin cocky as Porter plasters on the faux annoyance that he knows sets Lumber off something chronic; he loves feeling like a thorn in Porter's side, which some of the time he genuinely is, especially right now where he didn't have to get Porter anything, let alone-

Jewellery. Four small rings of smooth, blackened wood fixed to shiny steel fastenings, two for his ears, one for his nose, and one for his eyebrow that he has to keep remembering is there. Each piece bares the hallmarks of Lumber's craft, from the delicate sanding of the rings to the slightly wonky glue where the fastenings are attached to the wood, and as he picks one up to roll between his fingertips, he can feel where they're perfectly oiled and glossy, what is most likely left over firewood primed to perfection; the black scorch marks highlight the otherwise barely visible rings of the wood neatly, as if carbonisation is just beginning, wood turning to coal under his touch.

"Didn't think you'd had some new jewellery in a while" Lumber explains, excited giddiness clinging to every syllable as he hunches over dramatically, as if he's about to jump high enough to take off, "and you need somethin' nice to replace those rustin' studs you've had in for years."

Immediately he takes the box back off of Porter, freeing up Porter's hands to fumble with the small studs that have been keeping the piercings open for Starlight knows how long. For a second, it's weird to have full size pieces in - he has to keep it discreet at the school, one of the upmarket diesels complained about it once - but it's nice, cool as he stuffs the small studs in his pocket to make room for the rings. A bit of gel in his hair might be needed, flatten the sides down and shift the top to make a bit of a mohawk, might be fun to do for the party, go back to his old look a bit-

"I- thanks, Lumber, these are sick," Porter settles on gratefully, the rings slipping in easily as he admires the look in the mirror; the charred black wood stands out in the evening sun streaming through the windows, and he wonders if he should slap some makeup on real quick, "you made 'em, right?"

"All but the backs," Lumber replies smugly as he rocks onto his toe stops, "as soon as Electra found the date, they let us know - thank the Stars, if they hadn't I think I would've killed 'em-"

With a frown, Porter halts for a second before sliding in the nose ring. That's an excellent point, how long had everyone known about this? How long had half the yard apparently been planning this? Lumber's gift alone must have taken hours, let alone the sourcing of materials and ordering in the backs, and Slick's was similar, a finely etched crystal tumbler detailing a steam train pulling a familiar set of trucks; thought and hours of work had gone into everything he'd received so far, and by the sounds of it there was more to come. Every person he's passed today has wished him a happy birthday, everyone close to him has pulled him into a hug or clapped him on the shoulder warmly, and it just makes his core feel so full, like it might burst into shrapnel any second.

"When was that?" he asks inquisitively as Lumber cocks his head, and there's a moment where it looks like he's almost struggling to remember.

"It was… Um, I think that day you went off to their party?" Lumber guesses, grimacing in uncertainty, "yeah, must've been - Volta was in his fancy get up when he found me, so that would have been like, a month? Ish?"

Stars, they all did a damn good job of keeping a secret too. In hindsight, all those questions about keeping his schedule clear made sense - it's Flash's birthday in a week and a half, he'd just assumed they were planning a piss up as usual.

"Nice," Porter mutters absentmindedly, slotting the final ring into his eyebrow as Lumber snaps the box shut, "you're for real that everyone's gonna be there?"

At that, Lumber grins again - he's obviously been waiting for the last month to tell Porter all this, as the enthusiasm coursing through him looks like it could burst out any second. "Oh, yeah, everyone-"

"Everyone?"

"Everyone," Lumber confirms, and the box of studs is disregarded in one of the lockers as Lumber skates over to throw his arm around Porter's shoulders, "the Electrics are runnin' the show, we would rather die than miss it, so all that was left was Dinah askin the coaches nicely and askin' Greaseball to talk to the engines, and by all accounts no one needed much convincin' - you sound like you weren't expectin' this, Port'."

"'Cause I wasn't," Porter grumbles, but he can't help the small smile that tugs at his lips, "didn't think this would be such a big deal."

"Pull the other one, are you for real?" Lumber asks incredulously, a loud guffaw escaping from his chest as Porter nods in confusion, "mate, first of all I don't think there's anyone in this yard that would miss a chance for a party-"

"Except maybe Tassita," Porter interjects; he's very surprised Tassita and Belle agreed to come between the loudness of a freight party and the guaranteed late night.

"Except maybe Tass," Lumber agrees with a slow nod, "but also second of all, name one person in this yard who doesn't like you."

Oh, that should be easy, he's pissed off plenty of people during his time here, and some of them even deserved it. Hydra, for one, immediately jumps out at him. Except they apologised to him ages ago for all the commotion they caused with the races and how much the freights thought they were rude; Porter had apologised too, he'd started the 'bye-bye-drogen' taunt after all, so they've been chill recently, earning a grin across the yard whenever Hydra spots him, fun nights out, and stupid jokes on shifts.

Maybe then, Golden Eagle, except he gave as good as he got with Eagle, and no matter how badly they argue, Eagle always buys him a pint at the mess shed whenever Slick and Flash drag them all out. After that he would have said the electrics, Joule and Volta especially, but even they've changed their tone recently. Ever since he'd started seeing Electra regularly, they don't look down their noses at him, don't scoff at his accent or his flirtations anymore, and don't seem to be anywhere near as disapproving; Volta even called him handsome at Electra's gala, and Joule had helped him fix his lipstick before the dance to make sure he was presentable. Killerwatt and Wrench he's always been okay with, Killerwatt in particular, who's been enjoying having Porter over as the nights begin to get cooler, curling into his side as he leans into Electra's embrace.

Greaseball, maybe, since he's really grasping at straws now, but then again she's dating his best friend. If Porter knows Dinah like he thinks he does - and he likes to think he knows her well - then she'll have batted her eyelashes and made sure Greaseball will be there regardless of her opinions on the freight. Plus it's an excuse for a piss up, and Greaseball loves a piss up.

So that leaves-

No one.

"You can't, right?" Lumber continues, as if he could read Porter's mind, and Porter can't help but scowl at how infuriatingly well Lumber knows him, "stop being emo and accept the fact that maybe everyone wants to celebrate your birthday with you - it's your first damn one, after all, so it's extra special."

"I'd have been happy with a pint, honestly," Porter admits with an awkward sigh, and he reaches up to play with his hair again as Lumber raises an eyebrow dryly - Stars, he hopes there's no one there with a camera, "but I'm sure this will be fun - it's just a party, right?"

"Damn right it will be, I helped plan it." Playfully, he punches Porter in the arm, rolling backwards and forwards on his wheels as Porter hisses dramatically like he'd just been stabbed in a pantomime or something; worth it to hear Lumber laugh as he staggers backwards from the hit. "Now c'mon, or Electra's gonna' think you've done a runner."

Of course, because Electra's waiting for him. Electra, who's been teasing him all day with how magnificent the party is going to be and how leagues ahead of everyone else's presents the gift from the electrics is going to be, and who's been talking of some grand plan they have besides everything else that has already happened today. Who's been smiling softer and prouder than he's ever seen before, and each time he catches that smile, he melts a little bit further into whatever unspoken arrangement they have between them.

"Right," Porter agrees, grin wide as he meanders back over to Lumber, "I- you're the best brother ever, do y'know that?"

"It has been said," Lumber replies dramatically, throwing an arm around Porter's shoulders as they head out of the shed, "always nice to hear it, though."

The party is, amongst other things, loud.

Porter's good at loud, loves loud, loves how loud reverb courses through his chassis as he flits between the throng of stock dancing by one of the many loudspeakers set up in the freight yard. As much as he's never going to admit it, Electra's done a stellar job with the party, from the hired-in speakers and constructed, lit up dance area to how they seem to have asked everyone in the yard to chip in in the best ways possible. From the familiar bowls of picky bits in Momma's chipped china to the sticky, sweet gingerbread cake that Dinah staggered in with about half an hour ago, everyone seems to have pulled out the stops, and he wants to sing from how he's hugged and patted and yelled at lovingly over the thump of the bassline of whatever shitty song Arrow has queued up.

It's been a while since he's felt this overwhelmingly happy as he skirts from group to group, probably since he got offered the job at the training school or when Electra let him stay over for the first time. Raw, rough, amplified by the rush of adrenaline and whatever alcohol Joule has been delivering to him subtly with a wide grin and a slightly tipsy kiss to the forehead that she makes him squat for, he feels fuzzy in a good way, distinctly warm as Slick and Flash tug him into a dance circle. Every party he's ever been to has coalesced here, from the music to the company to the just nicely ambient temperature of the autumn evening; maybe Electra is some kind of mind-reading mystic who's been keeping tabs on every event Porter's ever been to, although the more he thinks about it the more that seems like Killerwatt's bag, with his attentive stare and ever-constant typing away at that little tablet of his.

Come to think of it, he hasn't seen any of the electrics bar Joule with her intermittent drink deliveries. Strange of them to not show up for a party they planned; maybe it's too common for them, or too crowded, Electra never seems to fully relax at those big galas they get carted off too every now and then.

"Lumber, Lumber," he ends up dramatically whispering as he staggers over to where the Hydra and Pearl are laughing at some inevitably shit joke Rusty told, "have you seen Lumber-?"

"Hey, here he is!" Hydra interrupts loudly, pushing Rusty and Slick out of the way to tug Porter into a big hug, so big Porter's face gets squished against Hydra's shoulder tightly; Hydra's drunk, without a shadow of a doubt, the fuckin' lightweight, even Porter in all his haziness can hear the slur in their voice and see the way that Rusty and Pearl are hovering protectively behind them, "who'd'a thought it? Y'know, I was always tellin' ya' that you had a day, and you always told me to fuck off-"

"Aye, aye, alright," Porter responds with a laugh, pushing himself away from Hydra with a small stagger of his own - Stars, how many of those drinks has Joule already delivered to him? "Ain't never gonna' tell you that you were right though - fuck knows how your ego gets through the front door anyway."

Hydra's grin is wide, proud like the cheshire cat. "Slowly and very carefully - y'know this, mate, c'mon, you've lived with me for like- fuckin' hell, when did I get sent here?"

"Two years ago, love, you asked me this earlier," Pearl interrupts with a slightly apologetic grimace, reaching out to hold their hand tightly as Hydra nods and sways slightly on the spot, "happy birthday, Porter, love - did you get our gift? Sorry about the shift change."

Of course he did, it was impossible to miss the huge box that Slick had hauled in after Electra had finally released him to the freight shed - clothes, and a lot of them, all various smart looking uniforms for teaching or if the electrics ever felt like dragging him out to a gala again, with some soft pyjamas nestled in the bottom that he's looking forward to curling up in tonight once everyone's fucked off. For the first time in his life, he feels like he has a proper wardrobe now outside of the bulky uniforms that Electra is always complaining about, maybe he'll finally be able to dress up next to them, and if he could find any of the electrics he'd ask them if any of them had a spare wardrobe he could borrow.

"All good," Porter replies easily - the steam train and the passenger coaches had been dragged into a last minute shift over lunch time, so the three of them had missed the little gathering at the freight shed, "ain't nothin' to apologise for, weren't your fault."

"Annoyin' though, would've been nice to be there," Rusty adds with a grin, slinging his arms around Hydra's shoulders as he holds his bottle up for Porter to clink, "Happy Birthday, Porter! Hell of a party, this is."

Still weird to hear. Maybe it'll never not be weird to hear, after so many years of a quiet round bought for him at New years or the odd pointed question from Lumber; he probably won't get a party this grand next year, but still, it's an almost disjointed thought that on this day next year everyone will be saying the same thing to him.

"Weird though, I thought Electra would be hanging off you," Pearl mutters conspiratorially, barely loud enough for Porter to hear through the glorious thumping of music, "have you seen them this evening?"

"Nah," Porter shouts back - also weird, but he's not going to leave his own party to hunt for them, not yet, "too plebeian for them, maybe."

It's worth it to see Pearl's snorted laugh as she covers her mouth with her cup, whatever strong concoction inside sloshing over the sides as she leans into Hydra. "Aren't they literally your datemate or whatever? Joule says they never shut up about you."

Immediately Porter goes to answer, but the words dry up in his mouth - are they? Sure, they act like it, with how Electra seems to care about him, let him in on feelings he's not even sure the components are privy to, how they hold him tightly like he might crumble if they loosen their grip just an inch, but from memory, Porter doesn't actually think they've ever asked him out. Whilst their relationship may have slid down that slippery slope from repeated one night stand to what might just resemble a couple to the average fly in the wall, he's never been referred to as a boyfriend. At their grand gala last month, the head purser called him Electra's 'newest toy' like she'd seen many like him take this routine, grinning smugly like she was privy to some great secret of higher society that he couldn't even begin to comprehend, and he's been refusing to admit for a month now how it's been silently eating away at his newly-repaired servos.

Maybe there's others out there, like him, all being taken for a ride by elegance personified, lured in by sweet words sung through sparkling lips and kept in place by parties and fine drinks and the promise of better things to come. I have a plan I do not want ruined, they'd said; Porter had assumed it might have been some grand declaration of love, but maybe it was a network of hanger-ons, kept tantalisingly at the edge of the glory of a relationship with this borderline seraphic engine-

Or he's just being a paranoid bastard, and Electra is just handling something, like usual. He's seen first hand how it takes an army to run something like this, even with the smaller scale this party is - never once has the music dipped, or the food become lukewarm in the ambience, so someone must be keeping an eye on things.

"Dunno'," is what Porter eventually settles on, and Pearl's laughter twists into a grimace as Rusty and Hydra's heads cock in time with each other.

"What do you mean, 'dunno'?"

"Like, I dunno'," he repeats, as if that explains what's going on inside of his head any better, "they ain't never asked me out."

"But you act like a couple," Rusty argues, and Porter kind of wants to scream that he knows, "you stay over at their house and make each other breakfast-"

"You're literally always talking about them or the 'ponents," Hydra adds, Rusty nodding emphatically at the addition, "actually attached at the hip with the lot of them-"

"And when things go bad, you go to them, right?" Pearl questions hopefully, and she's right - when they had that big pile up at the school and a few kids got injured whilst learning how to break, it was Killerwatt who sat with him late at night to help him go through the paperwork, it was Wrench who brought him snacks and drinks and made sure he was taking breaks, it was Electra who urged him to come to bed at the early hours with open arms and soft words.

Maybe he doesn't fit with them perfectly, but they've fitted around him. A puzzle piece from a different set that somehow fits a gap, visibly different but clinging on tightly. Fuckin' hell, those drinks must've been strong.

"Aye, yeah," Porter muses, almost unable to hear the words coming out of his own mouth over the haze of atmosphere and adrenaline, and part of him is pissed these three want to have this conversation now - he wants to be dancing, drinking, laughing at Lumber falling over or heckling Slick, "it's just- they ain't never said it, don't wanna' assume."

"Have you asked?" Hydra counters, like it's the most simple thing in the world. Really, it is.

"Tried to." It's hard to think over the music, hard to focus over how he wants to move and spin and laugh with his mates, and just to emphasise it he knocks back the dregs of his drink - shit, this stuff is strong now he's thinking about it. "They said they had some plan so to shut up."

A curious glance is exchanged between the three of them, one that Porter cannot decipher for love nor money; it's almost knowing, like they're privy to some great secret that he's barred from ever finding out. He's not mad about that, Electra has their reasons for everything, he'd just like to be informed about what those plans are sometimes.

"Go and enjoy your party, Porter," Pearl insists, letting go of Hydra's arm to push Porter gently back towards the music, and immediately Hydra is at his side, arm looped around his, "we'll see you in a bit."

The ominous nature of her words are completely lost on him as Hydra tugs him back towards where the group of trains are dancing - Slick's taken over the music again, they've shifted back to rock, but the crowd doesn't seem to care too much. Neither does he, he loves this song, this band, even if he can't remember the words as the crowd shifts and sways around him, and it's only as Eagle and Arrow spot him with loud cheers that he notices that half the party now seems to be visitors, stock from other yards that must have heard about the party on the grapevine. Some he recognises from the school or from haulage shifts, locals to other yards in London, some that must have come from further afield, maybe staying in a guest shed somewhere and heard about a fun night out, but the crowd here for once makes the yard look small as he navigates through it to Arrow, Greaseball and Dinah.

A bottle is shoved into Porter's hands roughly as he's greeted, words inaudible under the thump of the music, but he doesn't need to hear them to get lost in the movement of the rhythm and the crowd around him. Stars he loves this, he doesn't even need to dance well to be having a great time, and it's not like anyone cares or anyone's watching him; as one song fades into the next, Arrow pulls him into a tight hug before he's pushed to Dinah to jump up onto his back, hollering loudly as a song begins to play that everyone seems to know the words to. The sensation of the music, the crowd, the singing at the top of his lungs for no one to hear, is all-consuming, everything else blocked out and forgotten as Dinah laughs and sings louder where she's looped her arms tight around his shoulders.

As that song fades into a slightly more upbeat one, he turns to speak to Greaseball, to try to ask if she's having a good time over the roar of the guitar, but over her shoulder he spots something. A flash of silver that wasn't there before, luminescent in the shifting lights and ambience as if liquid like mercury, and then a hint of red, big hair that stands out against the darkness; Joule, without a doubt, and as he watches, she curls one red-taloned finger, a beckon across the yard that he cannot refuse.

Joule is probably the most surprising of the set, the one that he wasn't ever expecting to get along with, but he likes how spontaneous she is, likes how good she is at making decisions when Killerwatt and Wrench have been stuck in decision paralysis for days. Every party they go to she's stuck by his side, helping with fashion and makeup and posture with only the slightest hint of condescension.

So he goes. Pops Dinah back on the ground with a warm hug and a promise that he'll be back in a bit, and she accepts that with that brilliant, happy smile that he loves to see on her.

"There's the birthday boy," Joule drawls with a grin once Porter's managed to push his way out of the crowd; she's leaning against the wall of the shed, admiring her nails in the light where she's crafted some beautiful design along the lacquer that shimmers with Wrench's colours, proof of her dedication to her fellow component that Porter had always admired in a way, "enjoying the party, hopper?"

"It's amazin'," he breathes - it's more than that, but he's not quite able to put that into words right now, "I- did you guys do all this?"

"We had some help from the trucks, but the actual work came from us," Joule confirms cockily, taking his hand in hers by slotting their fingers together to the point where he can feel those long fingers dragging along the skin of his knuckles, "got you a little something - keep still."

This time last year he wouldn't have trusted a word out of her mouth, and yet now, he's happily standing here, hand linked with hers as she shifts a bracelet from her wrist to his like a kandi trade, slotting it neatly up against his wrist guard as she pulls her hand away to adjust how the band fits against his wrist. In the dim light it's hard to make out, but he can spot a black and red leather band, strands woven in a plait and tied onto where a large black polished rock sits in a metal setting, voidlike where it's been polished to perfection.

"Jet," she informs, obviously spotting his intrigue as he holds his wrist up to the light, "coal that has been continually pressurised until it's a gemstone, not a fuel source - pretty, right?"

"Gorgeous," he agrees, and maybe there's something more to it than just being pretty. Over the past few months, he's spotted the others wearing similar items, from Volta's neat earrings to the grand neckpiece Electra was sporting at the gala; maybe an attempt to get him to match, to link him to them despite appearances and the fact that he doesn't know how to work a radio most days.

Plus, it's coal. Coal. What he was made for, what he runs on, dirty, grimy coal that Joule's always complaining keeps staining the sofa, somehow made beautiful.

"The others have stuff for you too, babe," she states with that same, knowing smile that he spotted on Pearl earlier, "Volta's next, he's down there - you know how impatient he gets."

With a squint, Porter can spot where Volta's waiting at the far corner of the freight shed, and Joule shoots him one final nod before he's off, meandering down the side of the shed to reach where Volta is leaning against the wall.

"Your music is way too loud," he grumbles as Porter approaches, almost bored as he pushes himself off the wall and greets Porter with chilled but gentle kiss on both cheeks, "but whatever, I guess, I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"I can tell Slick to turn it down if you want," Porter offers, but Volta shakes his head gently; even at Electra's galas, Volta is always off to one side, preferring to chat or people watch rather than get involved himself. Next time they go out, Porter should join him, learn whatever insights he has and laugh about the other party-goers in that brutally dry humour Volta has that never fails to make Porter's sides split.

"You're good, don't sweat it," Volta replies coolly, "now stand back, I have a gift for you."

Do they all have gifts for him? Really, he knows better than to argue with anyone in the electric train, but that doesn't stop him from thinking it's a bit unnecessary when the party was present enough-

Before he can finish his thought, he's immediately hit with a very strong smell - sandalwood, burnt and dry and crisp, along with what can only be tobacco, he'd recognise that smell anywhere. It's crisp, dark and smokey, and as Volta replaces the cap on a small glass spray bottle that he'd produced from somewhere, he releases this must be some kind of expensive perfume or something equally as decadent, something he definitely wouldn't be able to afford himself.

"Electra likes the scent of your little cigarettes, but if Wrench catches you smoking one more time, she's going to kill you," Volta explains, reaching out to take Porter's hand as he muses, "so I thought an eau de perfume would do for you - I'll keep hold of it for now, but it'll live on your shelf-"

"I have a shelf now?" Porter asks gently, squeezing Volta's hand as he does so - no one gets a shelf in the electrics' dressing room except for any of the components, so this is big, at least, he thinks it's big.

"Of course," Volta scoffs, like it should have been obvious, but there's a smile playing on his lips anyway, "Joule's been dying for a chance to have a go at your hair, so give it a few weeks and it'll be full of product - Wrench is next, so fuck off, truck."

His words are playful, said with a grin and a wink as Porter grins, giving his hand one last squeeze as he heads round the corner to where Wrench is inevitably waiting at the next point around the shed. Impeccably, they've set up this strange treasure hunt for him, obviously planned within an inch of it's life, just like the party, and he realises then why he hadn't seen any of them all evening.

All that jealously, all that distrust, was for nothing, thank the Starlight, and as he spots where Wrench is staring up at the starry night above, could not be more grateful for the group that has for some reason accepted him into their ranks.

"There you are," Wrench begins, jerking slightly at the strong scent of whatever Volta sprayed on him earlier, "I see you've already found Joule and Volta, enjoying everything so far?"

"It's brilliant." Not just the party anymore, the everything - breakfast this morning, the build up to the party, the fact that they managed to find the date in the first place, but without rambling he doesn't know if he'll be able to explain that to her. "Thank you for this."

"Don't thank me," Wrench replies modestly, quietly affectionate smile on her face as Porter stands next to her, mirroring where she's stargazing, "it was Electra's idea - Killerwatt and Joule did most of the party planning, and Volta's been making sure everything goes smoothly this evening, with a bit of help from the trucks, of course."

"You've finally had chance to relax, then?"

"Hah, you wish," Wrench laughs wryly, "I've been making sure none of you idiots hurt yourselves in that pile-up waiting to happen - thankfully I've only had to ask Slick to check on one of the diesels once so far, but I'm not exactly keen to have any more."

"You do deserve a break, though," Porter argues as she rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "let me know if you want me to grab you a drink or anythin'-"

"I'm quite alright, I assure you," Wrench interrupts, "I'm here mostly to tell you about your birthday present - I don't have it with me since it would be rather impractical to bring, but I commissioned us a cribbage table."

Shit, Porter likes that game, used to play it with Momma all the time when it was just him and her and Rusty. Apparently he's the only person in the yard that will play games with Wrench, no matter how she seems to beat him every time they play anything; he's just happy she takes the time to explain how to play to him, rather than the complex board games that Hydra likes with rule books as dense as novels.

"Exquisite cherry wood, I had it ordered in specially and then requested that Lumber make it for us," she continues, a slight sparkle in her eye as she describes it, "not that I think you'll ever beat me, of course, but it should be nicer to play with rather than that poxy little travel set you keep bringing over. You can marvel at it later, don't tell your brother this, but he did an awfully good job."

Of course he did a good job, he's Lumber, Porter thinks, Lumber who's been whittling perfect statuettes since before he knew how to break and carving them all beautiful mementos year after year.

"Then I look forward to you kickin' my ass tomorrow then," he states with a laugh - Wrench isn't as contact forwards as the others, at least not without exhaustion coursing through her circuits, so instead he leans his head against hers for a second, just the slightest bit of touch before he stands back up again and pushes himself off the wall, "I assume I'm on to Killerwatt next?"

"Pattern recognition as flawless as always," Wrench laughs dryly, "go on, you know where he'll be - two more of us and then you can go back to dancing."

The two that, as loathe as he is to admit it, he's the most excited for. And also the most nervous. Funny how he didn't think those two emotions could sit quite so comfortably next to each other until now.

Killerwatt is, as expected, waiting around the front of the shed, the opposite side to where Joule was at the start of all this, and unlike the others seems to have been expecting him, back straight where he's stood to attention and watching Porter approach. If he didn't know better, he'd say there was a hint of anxiety in Killerwatt's frame, but truly he's not sure if that's just Killerwatt's constantly on-edge nature obfuscating everything else.

"I see you have already visited the others," Killerwatt greets, and as Porter slows in front of him, he reaches out to take Porter's hand gently, bowing and elegantly kissing the back of his hand as he does so, "I- You look- Hmm, I apologise, I think the excitement of the evening is interfering with my thought process."

"Take your time," Porter assures as Killerwatt stands, flushed, "you alright?"

"I am," Killerwatt states, but the way that familiar icy silver blush settles on his cheeks says otherwise, "I was trying to articulate how I think you look… nice with your new jewellery, I think it suits you, you should wear items such as them more often."

Of course he was, Killerwatt's a piss poor liar at the best of times. "Cheers, Lumber made them for me."

"I assumed they were his handiwork," Killerwatt muses, and Porter can't help but notice how they're still clinging onto his hand, "speaking of gifts, mine is as follows - please, hold out your other hand."

As Porter complies, Killerwatt fishes in his belt pouch, and produces from it a flash of something small, metallic that glints in the light of the yard. A key, cold in Porter's palm as they press it into his grip.

"You have been deemed safe, so please see your own personal key to Electra's shed." It's never everyone's shed, with Killerwatt, everything is always Electra's to him. "I don't feel the need to let you in every time you wish to come over anymore - should anyone else get ahold of this key, however, your rights to free entry may be rescinded, so please keep it safe."

The trust, the love, the security in his tone is almost overwhelming, and combined with how Killerwatt nervously refuses to meet his eye, this is far more than just a key. Invitation, maybe, a request to stay, to hang around with them and belong with them, and whilst none of the components are exactly known for their ability to communicate, from this one gesture Porter understands everything he needs to know. Cluching his fist around the key tightly, he can feel the metal warming from his touch, heavy in his hand with the weight of what it represents rather than what is is.

"Thank you," Porter whispers, doesn't feel it's right to say it louder than that, and Killerwatt's eyes finally snap up to him, "I'll keep it safe, I promise - y'know I'll still knock half the time-"

A risk, a forked path, but one that he doesn't know what he's so anxious about; he knows Electra doesn't mind sharing, knows their possessiveness over him doesn't seem to extend to the components, and has said before that they think it's cute how Killerwatt is attached to him as much as they are. After the party, he makes a note that he needs to spend more time with this security truck, wants to get to him properly, not just as a component-

"I kinda' like it when you're there to welcome me in."

Killerwatt's brilliant flush is enough to let Porter know that his flirtations have landed, his gaze darting away as their lips purse. "I- I see."

For a moment they stand like that in the quiet, Porter's hand tight around Killerwatt's as he processes quite what Porter means, and it's cute, genuine in a way that Electra isn't. Where Electra is unflappable, Killerwatt is easily flustered, and where Killerwatt is endlessly at work, Electra is relaxed, easy and charming. Almost foils of each other, and Porter's core wants to thump out of his chest.

"We should go to Electra, they'll be expecting you shortly," Killerwatt eventually says - we, so he's coming too, and Porter could not thank whatever god is up there enough, "their gift is, in my opinion, the most important one, which is why we have been building up to them for you."

"And not just because they're Electra, right," Porter teases, worth it to see Killerwatt flush brightly again, "lead the way, Macduff, I assume they're inside?"

"Correct," Killerwatt answers, tugging Porter along slightly as they move, "follow me."

The party before them doesn't seem to notice that they slip away, no heads turning as Killerwatt quietly leads him in through the slightly ajar door of the freight shed. Inside is familiar, warm and cosy, but quiet as the door is shut behind them, the muffled noise of the party outside blocked by metal and haphazard furnishings. For a second, Porter's eyes have to adjust to the change in lighting, from the bright lights of the yard to the softer, gentler lighting that has been set up in here, and as much as he loves a party, for the first time since Lumber led him out, he feels like he can breathe.

In the middle of the room stands Electra, still tall and elegant, but less imposing with only half their armour on; gone are the large, glowing fins and the defensive spikes that run up their calves and thighs, with only the essential armour pieces protecting their core and neck donned. Like this, they almost look vulnerable, beautiful but out of place in such a relaxed outfit so far from the electric shed, and in the back of his mind Porter connects that Killerwatt was waiting so close to the door of the shed protectively, not just waiting for him.

As they turn at the movement, Porter's breath is taken again. He was expecting dramatic glam, something head-turning and front page worthy for such a party, but again he's wrong, instead left in awe at the simple, understated look they've gone with. Electra is beautiful regardless of makeup, gorgeous barefaced or fully dolled up, but there's almost a tired satisfaction in their eyes, like they didn't have time to get ready so have been forced to keep it minimal.

His engine, is all he can think, his beautiful, determined engine who dug through years of lost records for him. Who put on this grand event for him, pulling in favours from half the yard to put on the event of the year. The world would bend to their command if it could, tides come and go at their beck and call, and Porter would understand; maybe one day the sun will rise when they demand it, and set again when they wish for the moon, and Porter would do all he can to help.

"There you are," Electra hums, gentle smile stretching across their lips as Porter and Killerwatt skate over, "and here I was worrying that Killerwatt was going to keep you all to himself, have you been enjoying yourself thus far?"

"I- Yeah," Porter says slightly breathlessly, "'Lec, this is- this is nuts, I don't think I can ever thank you-"

"I don't want your gratitude," Electra interrupts, reaching out to snake one hand around the side of Porter's head - Killerwatt still hasn't let go of his hand, and all the contact is slightly overwhelming in the best way possible, "I want to know that you're enjoying it so that I know all my work hasn't been wasted, but I can see clearly that you are, so I am more than satisfied."

"When you said a party, I was expectin' like, a few drinks and a cake down at the mess shed," Porter admits sheepishly, "not a whole do-"

"Then you are a fool to underestimate Electra," Killerwatt adds with a slight smile, hand squeezing Porter's again as he moves to stand next to Electra, "you should know by now we don't do anything in halves."

"Quite right," Electra agrees, "it… upset me, that you did not have that knowledge about yourself, not when such events have been cornerstone celebrations for the rest of us."

"It's fine, 'Lec, honestly - y'can't miss what you never had, y'know?"

With a knowing smile and a head tilt, Electra's fingers curl in his hair slightly. "Can you excuse me for wanting an reason to actually give you things? You always refuse us buying you gifts, but I do not think you can refuse us today."

"Unfortunately for me, no," Porter replies with a grin, leaning into Electra's touch as the key weighs heavily in his hands, and he spots Killerwatt mirroring his smile, "so go on, Watts said you had the best of them all."

"Correct," Electra states, and as they pull their hand away, the void left by their touch is cavernous, wanting, "allow me."

Smoothly they turn away, collecting a small box from the table behind them. At first glance it looks like a jewellery box, flat and square as they effortlessly tug the lid off. There's no flare, no drama, only the quiet, understated presentation of what looks like a… well, he's not actually sure what it is.

At first, he assumes some kind of avant garde ear cuff, a thick black section curling down that looks like it should fix around his ear, but there's a section coming off one side of it that looks like the end of a stethoscope. Almost like an implant, except there's nothing going in his ear, and that only becomes more intriguing as Electra takes it delicately between long fingers. The box is discarded to one side, and gently Electra turns Porter's head to one side, facing an enthusiastic, supportively smiling Killerwatt.

"This may feel strange for a second," Electra begins ominously, but their tone is gentle, confident - anyone else and he'd be freaking, but he trusts Electra, trusts Killerwatt with his life, so he allows his head to be moved, "it will be over soon, however. I assure you this has been tested."

"All unpleasant sensations will be worth it," Killerwatt adds helpfully, and- okay, he's a bit anxious now, what the fuck are they doing?

As his core kicks up a bit, Electra gently shifts his ear, looping the cuff around the shell and attaching the flat pat to his temple where it locks into place with small, almost imperceptible magnets. For a second it feels heavy, before be gets used to the weight; it's no more heavy than the earpiece radios Slick used to make him use, and there's no bud in his actual ear that's itchy and doesn't fit right. Right now, there's no buzz of a speaker, no humming of electrics, just that slight ache on his ear as Electra and Killerwatt mutter between themselves about placement and attachment angle. It's nice to hear them speak, something he'd brought up early on this them that he wanted to hear them, that he was comfortable with most things as long as he knew what was happening.

"There, that's fit nicely," Electra states happily, hand smoothing through Porter's hair reassuringly, "I want this to be a surprise, so I would rather not tell you what this is until you can feel it - please may I turn it on, darling?"

Part of him says no, that he wants to know what's happening, and whilst he thinks he knows that Electra's not going to do him any harm, that primal part of him that knows each electric has been occasionally joking about conversion is anxious. Over his temple- that's as close to his processor as you can get without physically ripping his chassis apart, and the slightest tug of the magnets on the flat pad feels rough and tight where it's tugging on his skin slightly.

And then he looks at Killerwatt, Porter's hand still clasped reassuringly in theirs as he feels the current sparking and shiting under his skin, with no hint of a lie in genuine eyes. Then he looks at Electra's smile, that sweet, almost small smile, their real smile that they save for quiet moments behind closed doors when everything is still and soft and vulnerable, delicate like blossom that tugs and blooms on their lips.

"A'right," Porter eventually replies, quiet under the nervous ringing in his ears, "will it hurt?"

"Not in the slightest," Electra reassures, carding through Porter's hair one last time as their fingers find a small switch at the bottom of the cuff, "you may feel a bit disorientated for a moment as you acclimatise, but Killerwatt and I are here to support you."

On cue, Killerwatt's hand squeezes again, and a small nod is shared before Porter hears the most tiny click of a button, as-

Oh Starlight, Electra was not joking. Immediately after they switch whatever this is on, a wave of nausea shoots through him, like for a second the world melts into drips of colours in his vision like crayons under a hairdryer. He staggers, feeling himself swaying as Electra's hands fly to his sides, and through the hiss of static that roars in his ears, he thinks he can hear Killerwatt crying out for him. Somewhere on his body there's hands supporting him, touch muffled through numbness and the rippling of greyed, fraying static in his systems, and if he had warning lights, alarms and bells and whistles, they'd all be going.

For a second, he thinks he's going to die. That the static was going to consume him whole, rip his generator apart and tear each servos from it's chain, spill his fuel over the floor as he staggers and churns and stumbles. Once the melting has stopped, his vision is grey, monochrome and hazy as his gyroscopes swear up and down that he's spinning, faster, faster as the haze closes in suffocatingly; he tries to hold onto something, reach out to Killerwatt to steady himself, but his hands grasp into the air, heavy like lead as he tries to cry out, and then-

Nothing. Porter's upright, stable, hearing and vision fine, as they were before Electra switched the device on apart from a slight fuzziness in his ears. Not a bad fuzziness, almost a good one, like he can hear things he couldn't hear before like the current in the walls and the creaking of individual bolts in the shed fixings. Before him, Killerwatt and Electra both stand tense, coiled like they're both ready to jump with their steely gazes fixed on him as he blinks slowly.

"Porter." He blinks again. That's Electra's voice, but their mouth isn't moving, and there's this worry, thick and attentive, that he's aware of like it's outside him. Not in him, not like the worry that settles in his gut hollowly when Slick's late back after a job, instead something that he just knows is there. In the back of his mind, despite their expressionless, flat face, he knows someone, somewhere is worried, to the point of sickness. "Darling, can you hear me?"

"Clear as a whistle," Porter mutters groggily, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head as Killerwatt immediately begins fussing, fingers over his pulse points and worried glances at his pupils, "how are you doin' that? Am I like, losin' it?"

Almost immediately as the words leave his mouth, that worry he was aware of, swelling on the peripherals of his consciousness, ebbs like the tide, replaced in turn with almost rapturous joy. There's something else that he can pick up on, nervousness maybe, anxiety that seems to follow Killerwatt around like an aura, but as he tries to focus on Electra, there's nothing but divine happiness, bright and warm and searing.

"It worked, then," Electra… says? Thinks? Their mouth still isn't moving, but their expression softens as Killerwatt steps away, allowing them to take Porter's hands in their own. "Welcome to the datastream, mon coeur. The attachment around your ear is allowing you to access how we communicate - don't speak, just respond, how do you feel?"

Don't speak, just respond? What kind of stupid instruction is that?

With an almost sceptical grumble, Porter thinks, almost trying to visualise how he would sound saying the words, pushing the sentence as far to the 'front' of his mind as he can.

"I feel fine," he thinks he manages to say, and as Electra nods slowly, he can only assume they understand, "I can feel things. You lot, I think. Normal?"

"Very normal," Electra assures lovingly, thumbs brushing softly over Porter's work rough knuckles, "it may be overwhelming once the others also open up their links to you, so the device can be turned on and off - you'll learn how to control it in due time, of course, and we will teach you."

Right now, Porter will happily agree that it's overwhelming, but overwhelming in the best way as Killerwatt shuffles closer, and he can feel the affection rolling off them like rainwater, constant and calming as he allows every sense to bask in the love that these two are feeling.

He used to think the electrics were cold, emotionless, uncaring. Turns out he just couldn't hear them properly.

"Take your time." That's Killerwatt's voice, but softer than he's ever heard it, a gentleness in his tone that he didn't think Killerwatt was capable of. "There's no rush."

Thinking too hard hurts right now, from the slight ache of whatever static ran through him and the thrum of whatever alcohol was in him slowly beginning to wear off, so all he can bring himself to do is grimace apologetically. "Cheers, I- This is, fuck, I mean-"

"Breathe," Electra instructs, suddenly close, contact overwhelming as Porter wants to swim in the fondness that encompasses him, and he has no choice but to comply.

This is beyond anything he could have ever hoped for, a tool he thought only conversion could bring. Many, many nights he's been awake wondering what goes on between them, how Electra just knows so much about their components, and now he knows; nothing is secret here, there's no hiding anything as he feels the joy emanating from Electra like sunlight, he feels Killerwatt's hesitant concern as he retakes their position at Porter's side.

"Thank you," is all he can say, and he can't help the faint prickling of sheer exhausted happiness that makes his eyeballs itch, "I'm- I cannae' wait to learn."

"And I am eager to teach," Electra answers - their voice is smoother in his head, low and grumbling in a way that makes his skin tingle, "Porter, I love you, you know this?"

Those three words he was going to say at breakfast this morning, and suddenly he's no longer mad about being cut off.

"We love you," they continue, like Porter's world hasn't somehow expanded tenfold, "and we would like you here with us - to learn how we work so that we may learn about you. To help you fit."

"I would like that." His throat feels like it's closing up around him, but in a nice way, if that even exists. Joyously, like the words aren't coming because he can't think of the right ones, and with everything he has, he pushes this feeling out so that maybe, they can feel it. "I love you too - all of you, I- I dunno', it's complicated, ain't it, but I love you."

A knowing, almost smug quirk of their lips. "We know."

And as Killerwatt pushes closer protectively, Electra's lips find his, soft and intense as the kiss is projected through the connection as well as physically, and all Porter can think about is Electra, Electra, Electra-

Mind, for the first time, aligns with body, to the point where he can't tell what is his and what is Electra's as lips lock and his eyes flutter shut, all five senses and each thought in his mind occupied by his engine. Maybe he's not electric, and maybe he will never be electric, but with this he doesn't need to be.

Electra will help him fit. It's all he could ever have wanted.