💜multifandom trash💜

Someone fixed Godred, and they want to bring him here.

Such was the terrifying, tantalizing thought curling within the smokeboxes of the eldest five engines of the Culdee Fell Railway once the news had broken that morning. Their Controller, Mr. Alistair Richards, had delivered the announcement in a rather unsteady voice, as though even he couldn't quite believe the contents of the call he'd received, although his disbelief was quite understandable. His grandfather had been the Controller when the... initial decision had been made, and Godred's name had long been scrubbed from all official documentation and tourist pamphlets, leaving it only to linger as a lump in the back of his brothers' throats.

All of the engines had thought about and considered this particular situation for the rest of the day, each of them feeling some kind of way about this particular announcement. Now that night had fallen and they were all back in their sheds, finally alone, it was time to discuss.

As the other seven engines began to discuss, Culdee was silent. He in particular had always had the strongest feelings about Godred. He'd been the one to try and convince his brother of his foolishness. He'd been the one keeping the eldest's name alive though telling others of his demise, only for all the rest of the world to assume he was telling a ghost story or, even worse, making it up.

Now that had been an unpleasant conversation, the one he'd had to have with Skarloey and Rheneas of the Skarloey Railway. Once Duncan and Sir Handel had left, they'd so genuinely complimented him on his "made-up" story. It was the perfect thing to teach their younger engines a thing or two about safety, and no story of theirs could have been nearly as effective. Their faces so earnest, their laughter that of being in on some kind of joke. It had made Culdee want to vomit, should he have had the ability.

Instead, a long-dormant anguish, donning the guise of wrath, had erupted up from his boiler, filling his body from his tubes to his cylinders so quickly that for a moment, Culdee had forgotten how to breathe. The other two engines' good cheer had so quickly fallen away at the stony expression that stole away his smile, at the glint of steel in his once-affable gaze, leaving them both staring at him in wide-eyed confusion. "You think that I made that up?" he'd rumbled in disbelief, volcanic anger and chilly disappointment battling for dominance over each word. "You think that I would sully my brother's name and memories by lying about him? I had not realized that you both thought so little of me."

"No, it's not like that at all!" had come Skarloey's predictably panicked reply, and nearby, Rheneas had been struck silent, eyes overflowing with the clear desire to do damage control but not quite knowing where to start. "We didn't mean anything like that!" Skarloey had continued to plead, a note of desperation in his voice. "We'd heard about the accident, but all we'd heard was that Godred had been scrapped! Not anything about... his parts being... recycled..."

Culdee had taken a deep breath at Skarloey's clumsy attempt at delicacy, but decided to take the other engine at his word. "Very well. But please understand that I did not entrust you all with my brother's story just for it to be reduced to some tale. It is a tragedy, from beginning to his eventual end, and because nobody else will speak of it, I must. Otherwise... everything he died for will have been for naught."

Such a statement had struck the other two engines dumb, and thus, not another word on that particular topic had been shared for the rest of Culdee's visit.

"Culdee... y'alright?" came the quiet rumble of Shane Dooiney beside him, shaking him loose from the decades-old memory.

"Yes," Culdee muttered, willing himself to calm. In a louder voice, he started to address the rest of the shed, all of the other engines quieting themselves and listening closely as their de facto leader spoke. "Listen, everyone. Ernest confirmed that our Controller looked into the claims, and confirmed their authenticity himself. Godred is... in fact... alive."

A strong hush fell over the shed as the engines of the Culdee Fell Railway all shared glances, some of which were rather unsure, while others held deep dread. In the pit of a boiler, in the teeth of a wheel, in the base of a chimney, a certain tension had come to rest.

Culdee took a breath, and continued to speak. "Godred will be escorted here sometime next week. Patrick, Alaric, Eric, I know that you only know of Godred through our stories about him. However, I will ask that you reserve your judgement for when you actually meet him; we don't know what kind of... condition he will be in."

Nervous glances, followed by affirming sounds answered Culdee's instructions, and the No. 4 engine took one more breath before adjourning the meeting. As all of the engines settled into their berths, Culdee couldn't help but share glances with his two older brothers, as well as Shane Dooiney. All of them seemed as though they weren't quite inclined to sleep just yet, thoughts still stirring about the apparent revival of their eldest brother, long thought to have been scrapped.

Ernest had taken up the mantle of eldest ever since Godred's passing, and while Culdee had ended up becoming the leader of their little fleet, Ernest had taken it upon himself to be their representative to the management, not wanting to burden his little brother with more than he had to.

Wilfred's usual good-natured smile was nowhere to be seen; usually, he acted as the moodmaker of the group, and could reliably be counted on to bolster everyone's spirits during their worst days, but this time, he seemed remarkably somber, eyes staring off into years tinted in sepia.

Shane Dooiney, always one to make his thoughts plain, wore a deep scowl, clearly rattled by this turn of events. While he could be grouchy on the best of days, his candor and loyalty to his brothers had always been his best qualities, as well as his distaste for "nonsense and theatrics," and it was clear to see that he was less than thrilled about the return of one who'd caused them all so much grief.

As for Culdee himself... well. He still felt somewhat responsible for Godred's accident, and that feeling was likely to never go away. He also felt responsible for the rest of his brothers, both the older and the younger, given how he'd somehow ended up becoming their leader. However, as always, he would do the best he could do to get them all through the day, and that would simply have to be enough.

As each engine closed his eyes, one by one, all of the mountain engines fell into a fitful slumber. Certainly, Godred's return was something to be excited about, ecstatic even. It wasn't every day that a supposedly already-scrapped engine got a new least on life, much less one in Godred's condition. However, nobody quite wanted to admit that along with the joy they were supposed to feel, a looming trepidation skulked along in its shadow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As promised, the next week, Godred was delivered to the sheds at Kirk Machan for what his new owners had stated would hopefully be something of a warm reunion. All service had been cancelled for the day in order to allow the engines some "peace and privacy with their dear brother," meaning that there was nothing to do but wait. A team of representatives from the group that had rescued Godred, known as PeCos, had already come by to introduce themselves. This particular group was being led by a woman named Melinda and her assistant Toby ("Hi; my name's Toby and I'm the vice-leader of this excursion. No, I wasn't named for the NWR's No. 7."), who gave their greetings and introductions to the Controller and the assembled engines. The team then performed a quick survey of the area before giving the all clear, and now, there was nothing to do but see this through.

All seven engines internally steeled themselves as the flatbed pulled up, a tarp covering what was supposedly their brother. Ernest and Wilfred put on what they hoped were warm, welcoming smiles, as Culdee and Shane Dooiney looked on with carefully neutral facades, and the youngest three couldn't hide their curiosity, tinged with no small amount of nervousness. With them stood their Controller, an expression of grim dignity on his face. Who could know his thoughts, now that he would be coming face to face with what was perhaps one of the most infamous incidents in his family legacy?

All four of the original engines remembered how Godred had looked, from start to finish. How could they not, especially when he'd been dismantled, cannibalized, piece by piece in front of their eyes? When he'd waffled between angry and apologetic, blaming them all one moment and tearfully wailing the next, cursing God and all above before pleading and praying that his salvation might still come. Telling his brothers how much he loved them in one breath and cursing them to fates as horrific as his in the next. However, whether or not any of his wishes were answered was unknown to them as his cries became softer and softer with time—up until his tubes were removed to fix Ernest. With that, Godred, the CFR's No. 1 engine, was silenced forever, his husk unceremoniously dumped in the pile to be taken to the scrap yard the very next day.

The image of such a gruesome, mangled mockery of a steam engine, a fate that no engine deserved, really, had bubbled up to the forefront of the eldest four engines' minds. Thus, they could only brace themselves, hoping and praying that seeing Godred in a supposedly "fixed" form meant that the guilt they felt building up in their borrowed parts would soon alleviate.

With the help of a crane, Godred was placed onto the tracks before them, and the tarp lifted by members of PeCos. Before the engines' eyes, there he stood: it was certainly Godred, and much to his brothers' deep and overwhelming relief, he appeared to be whole, all of his parts intact, with not even a chip on his paint to indicate that he was anything but immaculate. The only slightly odd thing was that his eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but perhaps he'd had a long trip; it seemed that only the Controller actually knew where this organization was based.

In unison, four mountain engines took a deep breath, feeling the pressure they'd carried for many a day now disperse. Finally, it was Wilfred who finally worked up the courage to call out to their brother. "...Godred?"

At once, the eyelids fluttered open to reveal an achingly familiar gaze, which bored itself into each of the assembled engines in the shed, taking in the smiles, the steady gazes, and the looks of curiosity before his eyes began to take in the sheds themselves. Although he hadn't yet spoken, the other engines couldn't hold themselves back any longer.

"Godred! You're back! Thank god!"

"I can't believe it! It's been so long! I thought... well, it doesn't matter. You're alive!"

"Can't believe how lucky you are, getting saved from scrap like that!"

"So this is Godred? After Culdee's story, I thought..."

"Well, what else were you expecting? A zombie?"

"Oooh, that might have been cool..."

"Everyone, quiet." This command had come from none other than Culdee, who was staring at his eldest brother with appraising eyes. Immediately, the chatter around him ceased, all eyes quickly settling upon him before shifting toward Godred, who still had not yet spoken, but was shaking in his frames, looking around the sheds with wide eyes and naked panic on his face. "Ha... haah... haaaah..." His voice was barely intelligible, so quiet that his panting could have been passed off as the laughter of the wind, but this was no laughing matter; from every angle, it appeared as though Godred was having a panic attack.

"Godred..." one of the PeCos members began, and reached out to touch him, just as Culdee yelled "NO!"

Yet, despite his warning, it came a moment too late; the touch was enough to push Godred over the edge, and with wild, unfocused eyes that clearly weren't seeing the present, Godred forced himself backwards, away from all assembled.

Unfortunately, when he'd been unloaded, his brake had apparently not been applied, because the jerking motion that Godred made was more than enough to send him careening backwards, off the track, and sending him skittering back down the bend toward where their rails met the NWR's main line.

"GODRED!" the PeCos members shrieked, and they hurried over to the prone engine, with Toby shouting orders as the others scampered to comply. The other engines could only watch on dumbly, not entirely sure how to parse what had just happened; even the Controller appeared to be at a complete loss for words.

Suddenly, biting through the silence as surely as a pinion against a track, one solid, steady command rang out amongst the cacophonous quiet. "Sir. Please steam me up. We won't be going far."

Mr. Alistair Richards' eyes swung towards Culdee, who was staring back at him with steep determination, and amidst the rest of the confusion, it comforted the Controller somewhat to know that at least someone had a plan amidst this... this farce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After about an hour, it became abundantly clear that Godred was in no condition to be either moved or touched, given the way his crazed gaze landed on anybody who dared approach. Not a word had escaped his lips, but his discomfort was clear enough to be understood by all assembled. Toby, the vice-leader of the visiting PeCos team, was roundly scolding his subordinates, particularly the poor soul who'd made the mistake of touching Godred during his panic attack and another who hadn't secured the brake properly, and was clearly trying to get the situation under control while Melinda, who was supposedly leading this team, simply looked overwhelmed.

With such a mess on their doorstep, Culdee was steamed up by the Controller himself and driven down a short ways to the site of the wreckage. After taking in all there was to see, the No. 4 locked eyes with Melinda. "Excuse me, could you please tell me what's going on? You said that my brother was coming to visit for a warm reunion, but now he's in this poor state. Please explain."

Culdee's tone was polite, but his eyes were stone cold, and Melinda seemed to shudder as she looked up at the engine and his Controller. "Well, you see... ever since we finished his repairs, Godred has been... less than communicative. We've tried everything we could think of, but after nothing appeared to work, it was suggested that we organize a visit here, to his old railway, to help him open up more. However, it seems that—"

"It seems that you miscalculated," Mr. Richards cut in, his words pretending politeness although his tone was ice-cold. "I would think that for billing yourselves as an engine rescue organization, you would do your research before exposing an engine so clearly in need of help to a place that was a source of such great trauma to him."

Melinda had no ready retort, and so could only bite her lip and nod her head at the criticism. "I understand. We will take full responsibility—"

"Of course you will," the Controller once again interrupted. "What shall we do now, Culdee?"

"..."

After a moment, the No. 4 sighed. "Please bring me closer to him."

The Controller silently obliged, with Melinda and the other PeCos members getting out of the way as Culdee trundled steadily forward.

Once Culdee was about as close to Godred as he could get, the CFR's No. 4 licked his lips and began to speak.

"Godred, ghöred Sie mich?" [Godred, can you hear me?]

One moment passed, then another. Godred continued to pant on the ground, but his eyes seemed to slowly blink back into clarity at the words.

"Ich bin's. Din chliine Brüeder." [It's me. Your little brother.]

"...Culdee..."

The reply was scratchy, forced out through a voice raspy with almost a century of disuse, and the listeners were barely able to make out that he'd said a word at all. However, for the first time since his rescue and overhaul, Godred, the CFR's former No. 1 engine, had spoken.

Culdee's eyes widened with delight, and for the first time that day, a small smile found its way to his face.

"Ja, da bisch du. Ich han gwüsst das es schaffsch. Du hesch dini Stimm wieder." [Yes, there you are. I knew you could do it. You have your voice back.]

"...Ich scho?" [...I do?]

"Ja. Ändlich chani dini Stimm wieder ghöre. Es isch so lang här..." [Yes. I can finally hear your voice again. It's been so long...]

There was a long silence for a moment, Godred's eyes fixed solely on Culdee and his gentle, sweet voice, before, to the amazement and sorrow of the onlookers, tears slipped out, running freely down the downed engine's cheeks. Those eyes, once so full of ego, had been broken, mellowed out by time and circumstance, to be softer now. It was a look Culdee wasn't used to seeing on such a proud face.

"Äxgüsi. Es tuet mer so leid. Bitte verzeihed Sie mir. [I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.]

"Ich het sölle zuelose. Ich hetts müesse wüsse." [I should have listened. I should have known.]

Culdee's eyes fluttered closed at the admission, trying to stifle the tears welling up behind his own eyes. After all these years of wondering what he could have, should have, done differently, of blaming himself for pushing too hard, and for not pushing enough, the simple acknowledgement so neatly cut through the cluttered emotions entwined around his heart. All at once, he'd been freed, from just a few simple words.

"Ich bin nur froh, dass du no läbsch." [It's alright. I'm just happy that you're alive.] Culdee replied sincerely, his smile growing slightly wider than before. In front of him, Godred's sobs continued, although they seemed to be tapering off, his gaze never leaving Culdee's as the No. 4 stared at him with a gentle expression.

"Es tuet mer Leid, dass ich so hässig uf eu gsi bin. Es isch nie eui Schuld gsi." [I'm sorry that I was so angry at you all. It was never your fault.]

"Muesch so viel Schmerz gha ha. Mached Sie sich kei sorge." [You must have been in so much pain. Don't worry about it.]

"..."

There was another beat of silence as Godred seemed to process all that Culdee had said, no longer shaking as the worst of his panic attack finally seemed to pass. As Godred's breaths evened out, his voice, despite still being in such poor condition, seemed to be a little stronger as well.

"Segeds mer. Bin ich eu allne nützlich gsi?" [Tell me. Was I useful to you all?]

At such a question, Culdee couldn't help but regard his brother with eyes warm with appreciation, mixed with what could only be heartbreak.

"Meh, als du jemals wüsse chöntsch." [More than you could ever know.]

Godred must have seen the pain in Culdee's face, but he didn't ask for clarification. Instead, he just continued to stare before a tiny smile crossed his face.

"Dänn langets ja." [That's good, then.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After another hour of discussion between the two brothers, Culdee finally turned to Melinda and Toby, who'd finished cleaning up as best they could. "It seems that my brother is ready to go back now," Culdee announced to the two, and both of them nodded, grateful smiles on their faces as they directed the crane to lift Godred from his position. "But please... let there not be a repeat of this."

"We won't let this happen again," Toby nodded solemnly, shooting a pointed look at Melinda. It seemed that someone might not be staying at PeCos much longer. "We'll keep you updated on his progress, and thanks to you, we have a much better idea of treatment options moving forward."

"That's good to hear," Culdee smiled, watching on as Godred was carefully transferred to the flatbed once again. "This place is no longer his home. I sincerely hope that he can be happier with you all."

As the PeCos staff worked to get him settled, Godred's eyes didn't leave Culdee, and Culdee's eyes didn't leave Godred.

"Chönnte mir..." [Could we...] Godred croaked, his expression hesitant, but he left the thought unfinished. Culdee, however, already knew what he wanted to say.

"Mir chönd rede, wenn immer Sie wend. Ich bin da." [We can talk whenever you would like. I'll be here.]

Thus, Godred was safely transported back to his new home. As the weeks passed, several calls came in to the CFR from PeCos headquarters, all asking for Numbers 2 through 5. Ernest's calm, steady voice told their brother about all of the interesting passengers he'd met and fun gossip he'd heard along the line. Wilfred performed his most recent rendition of his catchiest mountain-climbing songs, which earned him a round of applause from his many listeners. Shane Dooiney grumped about the weather, the trucks, and ridiculous passenger demands. Even the newer engines got their turn, introducing themselves to Godred and telling him about their most famous exploits.

Rusty's phone went off with a buzz, causing him to blearily lift his head from the pillow, then groan when he saw what time it was. However, it wasn't the incessant whining of their alarm that had awoken them, as they dimly realized; instead, it had been their message tone, which revealed that he'd received a new text.

Rusty quirked an eyebrow, curiosity waking him up faster than caffeine might. Who in the world was sending texts this early? Not even Skarloey and Rheneas, the oldest people in his apartment building, sent texts before 9:00 AM.

As he opened the message and read it over, the last vestiges of sleep disappeared as if by magic, replaced by a growing excitement.

"Hello Rusty!" the message read. "I'm Gonna Be In Your Neck Of The Woods Next Weekend For Work, And Thought It'd Be Nice To Catch Up If You've Got Time! There's Supposed T' Be A Carnival Happening Too, So Lemme Know If You'd Be Up!! (Down?)"

":-)"

Rusty couldn't stop themself from grinning as they texted out their reply. "Hi Gramps! Yeah, I'll be free. We can meet up by the big fountain in the middle of Crovan's Gate around 10. It'll be great to see you! 😄"

With that, Rusty set about clearing their calendar, already buzzing with excitement at the thought of getting to see his Gramps again. His visits were few and far between, but when they did happen, they were always a treat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next weekend found Rusty in a comfortable black hoodie, well-loved jeans, and sneakers, waiting by the Crovan's Gate fountain and idly playing with their hijab. They were keeping an eye on the crowd, waiting for their Gramps, when suddenly, a familiar figure caught his attention.

Evidently, they'd caught his too, because Thomas, clad in a windbreaker and sweatpants, came barreling up to him with clear indignation written all over his face. "Rusty?! What the heck! You said that you wouldn't be online today, but you're just out here hanging out!"

Rusty shot Thomas a rather unimpressed look. "Hi, Thomas," they replied, the words almost viscous with sarcasm. "Nice to see you too."

Thomas deflated a bit at the pointed greeting, but then rallied, slightly shaking the grocery bag he was holding (he'd doubtless been sent to pick up some things for Edward, if Rusty had to guess). "Yeah, well, what's so important that you're skipping out on the weekly guild raid?"

This time, Rusty rolled their eyes; Thomas was a good friend, but he never did well when personal inconvenience was involved. "I'm meeting someone today. My Gramps is going to be in the area, and I always try to see him when I can."

Thomas quirked an eyebrow at that, clearly confused. "Your Gramps? I thought you didn't have any family around here."

Rusty shook his head, trying their hardest to push down their exasperation. "We're not blood-related or anything, but he's--"

"RUSTY! There y'are, lad!" A sunny greeting floated over to the two, and both Rusty and Thomas looked over to see an older gentleman in a bright yellow fedora with a green band, a long beige overcoat, and a white polo shirt and black slacks underneath. He also sported a thick, bushy mustache (with a small goatee) and aviator glasses, giving the pair a hearty wave.

"Gramps!" Rusty grinned, waving him over. "Gramps, this is my mate Thomas. Thomas, this is Stepney, but I call him Gramps."

"Dunstan Stepney, at yer service, lad!" the older man chortled, holding out a hand for Thomas to take. "But y'can call me Gramps too, if ya like."

"Um, thanks...?" Thomas questioned, adjusting his groceries so that he could give Stepney's hand a good shake. At Thomas's words, however, Stepney's eyes lit up.

"Ah, a fellow Brighton boy, eh? Never thought I'd see another so far from home!"

Rusty was a tad surprised by that; he'd never have guessed that Thomas was from that region, given how much his speech and mannerisms took after Edward's. That said, Rusty was even more surprised at the shadow that suddenly crossed his friend's face at Stepney's comment. "Yeah, well, y'have. But don't be blabbin' about it t' others, thanks."

Sensing that he might have caused offense somehow, Stepney held up his hands in mock surrender. "My lips are zipped, lad. All I meant was I can tell jus' by lookin' atcha that yer a hard worker who means well. Rusty's got a good friend indeed with you around."

"O-Oh," Thomas blinked, somewhat taken aback but appreciative of the compliment all the same. "Well, uh, thanks." A small, genuine smile crept across his face as he turned to look at Rusty. "You two have fun; we'll hang out later, I guess." With that, he made to leave, giving them both a wave.

"See ya 'round, lad!" Stepney called.

"Bye, Thomas!" Rusty waved back.

"He seems like a good sort. But now," the older man grinned, "shall we head for that carnival?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dang it!" Rusty groaned, giving a forlorn look at the array of still-stacked milk bottles. He'd had five tries to knock them all down, yet hadn't managed even one! "Guess I'm just not cut out for this game."

"Aw, don't beat yerself up, Rusty," Stepney chuckled. "Maybe the ring toss'll do ya better."

The two headed over to a setup of glass pop bottles, where a sign proudly proclaimed that for three pounds, players had five tries to get the rings on the bottles. One ring earned a small prize, two rings a medium prize, and three rings a large prize. As they approached, a mother and her daughter were just starting to walk away from the booth empty-handed, a clear expression of dejection on the girl's face. "Alright, lad!" Stepney instructed, handing the bored-looking attendant a five-pound banknote. "It's all in the wrists. Give it your best!"

As Stepney pocketed his change, Rusty took the proffered rings, and flicked one toward the bottles. It clanked off the side, falling to the floor, and Rusty bit at their lip in concentration, determined to get the next one.

Despite Rusty's best efforts, however, five tosses had not yielded them any meaningful results, and all he could do was sigh in frustration as they turned away from the booth. "Sorry, Gramps. Now I REALLY know I'm not cut out for carnival games. Let's get---"

"WAHHHHHHH!"

A sharp cry drew both Stepney and Rusty's attention, and they looked over to see that the girl from earlier and her mother were now sitting at a nearby bench, the poor thing now bawling her eyes out and pointing to the booth. "But I WANT the big bear!" she wept, and Rusty and Stepney looked up to see that one of the large prize options was a large brown teddy bear with a bright yellow bow, perhaps as large as the girl herself.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," her mother soothed, "but it just wasn't meant to be. How about we go get an ice cream instead, hm?"

"NO! I want the BEAR!" the girl moaned, her tears even more bitter than before.

Rusty shook their head and sighed; it really was too bad, but it seemed like that poor mother had an uphill battle ahead of her. Stepney, however, seemed to have other ideas. With a small sigh and a resigned smile, the yellow-clad gentleman turned back to the booth attendant and drew out another three pounds. "One more go fer me please."

The attendant shrugged and handed Stepney the rings. "Now, watch closely, Rusty," his Gramps grinned. "It really is all in the wrists." With a careful flick, Stepney let the first ring fly. To Rusty's disbelieving eyes, it landed with a perfect clatter atop one of the many bottles.

"How did you do that?!" they exclaimed, not at all sure just how Stepney's technique could have differed from his own.

"Jus' takes practice. Had a lot of time for it while I was in th' Army."

Four more rings shot from his hands, and four more clinks could be heard as all five of Stepney's rings stood proudly atop the bottles.

The attendant, mouth agape, finally managed to ask what he wanted, and Stepney pointed to the bear, as well as one of the medium prizes, which happened to be a much more reasonably sized teddy bear with yellow-ish fur and a blue bow. The smaller bear was handed to Rusty with a wink, and before Rusty could get a word in edgewise, Stepney was already walking over to the girl and her mother, handing them the giant bear.

Rusty couldn't help but laugh at the earsplitting screams of delight which followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once they had finished meandering around the carnival, Rusty and Stepney purchased some lunch and found a comfortable hillside to sit at while they ate. With hot sandwiches and warm tea, it was the perfect time to sit and relax. "Thank you for taking me out today, Gramps," Rusty smiled, polishing off the last of their meal and making sure that his bear was stain-free. "It was great fun."

"Hahaha, I'm glad you enjoyed, lad!" Stepney beamed. "It was just what I needed too." His good humor didn't last long, though, as a strange melancholy overtook him, one that Rusty wasn't particularly used to seeing from his Gramps. Dread suddenly pooled in his stomach, sensing that whatever Stepney had to say, it probably wouldn't be good. "I... I don't really know how to say it, but... this may be the last time I get t'see ya in a long while."

"What?" Rusty exclaimed, disbelief pouring out of that single word. "What do you mean, Gramps? What's going on?"

Stepney sighed, and somehow, the sound made him feel old, particularly given the way his body seemed to reflexively hunch in on itself. "I'm turning 65 this year, Rusty, and my body's not what it used to be. My joints are creaking, and my lungs aren't in good shape. The doctors say I may need to go in for surgery soon."

Stepney's eyes rose, staring up at the sunshine-lined clouds as they floated lazily by. His gaze, however, seemed to be looking at some point far away and long ago, beyond what Rusty could possibly see. "Before you rescued me from the streets in that bad part of Barrow, I was convinced there was nothin' left for me. I had no contact with my family, no home, and thugs lookin' to take what little I had. I was just a washed-up old man with nothin' left. Then you came along, helped get me some veterans' assistance, and now I have a job in Sheffield Park, promoting the Bluebell Railway.

"I'll forever be grateful to ya, lad, but... that doesn't change the fact that I'm old. My sister's close by, but she has her own life to live. I nev'r got married, I have no kids, and you're the closest thing I've got to a grankid. I jus'... I dunno. Dunno if goin' through surgery and all o' that's worth it. Maybe it's about time I just let things take their course."

"NO!" Rusty shouted, the volume uncharacteristic of him but with how emotional they were, it could only be considered understandable. "No! Please, Stepney! Don't give up! You love your job, and you're so much fun to be around. I love when you visit. I..."

There was a long pause as Rusty struggled to keep back tears, and a gentle hand came up to rub comforting circles into their shoulder, Stepney giving them a smile tinged with resignation. "Yer a good lad, Rusty. I'm so glad I metcha. But the occasional visits and texts aren't quite enough to keep th' loneliness away. I've led a good, long life, and I've done some bit of good in th'world. What's there to be upset about?"

Rusty sniffled, pulling some tissues out of their pocket and blowing their nose as Stepney pulled his hand away. "Well... what if I helped you find someone? Maybe you could give dating a try?"

"Hahahaha!" Stepney's course laughter was genuine, yet there was obvious disbelief lingering at the edges. "That's sweet o' ya, Rusty, but who'd be interested in an old man like me? I hate t' say it, but I'm not really interested in the company o' ladies, if ya catch my drift, and I doubt there's any gentleman out there who'd be interested either."

Rusty frowned, wanting to retort, but just then, a beep sounded from his phone. They pulled it out, shooting Stepney an apologetic glance, then looked it over and texted something back before putting it away. "Sorry about that. My neighbor asked where I was; he's just coming back from his job and wanted to drop something off."

"Oh, that's fine," Stepney reassured him, seemingly grateful for the change in subject. "You always have such nice things t'say 'bout the others in your building; it'll be nice to meet 'em."

Soon enough, a familiar face made his way up the hill, with Rusty giving him a wave of greeting. "Rheneas! Over here!"

Rheneas Fletcher, professor of physics at Furness College, was the quintessential definition of a silver fox. As he bounded up the hill in a button-up, vest, tweed pants, and dress shoes, clearly having attended some kind of lecturer's meeting, he waved back to Rusty, a calm smile on his face and a grocery bag gripped tightly in his hand. Between his short ponytail, streaked with streams of silver; horn rim glasses; and thin moustache, Rheneas was rumored to be an incredibly popular professor for a number of reasons.

Clearly, Stepney also thought so, given the way his eyes were transfixed upon the approaching gentleman.

"I brought back some cinnamon rolls from the meeting, enough for everyone in the building to have at least one," Rusty's neighbor explained, gesturing to the bag. "I can give you yours now, and one to this handsome stranger as well."

Rusty blinked, eyes suddenly jumping to Stepney, whose ears had gone slightly red at the compliment, and felt, deep in their bones, that the turning point had arrived.

"Rheneas," he interjected hastily, "this is Stepney, a friend of mine! He's amazing; he won me a prize at the carnival, he's been in the army, and he's got so many interesting stories! I bet you two would get on famously!"

Stepney paused, giving Rusty an unsure look, but clearly didn't want to leave Rheneas hanging. "Ah, well! Pleasure to meet you, Rheneas," he greeted, holding out a hand, and Rheneas took it, giving a firm handshake.

"A pleasure indeed. I would love to have dinner with you at some point, unless...?"

The words went unspoken, but even though Rusty lagged slightly on what he meant, Stepney understood immediately, and held up his left hand, showing that it was bare. "Ah, no conflicts of interest on my part. I would, ah, quite enjoy dinner with you some time."

"Excellent," Rheneas smiled warmly, and doled out some cinnamon rolls to Rusty and Stepney before checking his watch and taking his leave, but not before exchanging numbers with Stepney.

"Well, Gramps," Rusty grinned in between bites of cinnamon goodness, "now that you've got a date, wouldn't you say there's something worth living for?"