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blankspace-zer0 · 13 days ago

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Ok so I merged yesterday and today’s Murville propaganda posting into one because! I wrote a small fic!!! :D

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Difficult Questions and Peaceful Nights

A Murdoch x Neville TTTE fic - Written for 2025 TTTE Achillean Ships Tournament hosted by @togetherness23

Neville and Murdoch have a conversation at Brendam Docks after Murdoch catches Bill and Ben making fun of Neville while he refuses to stand up for himself. They resume this conversation once they are settling down in the sheds for the night.

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“Why do you just let them say that?”

Neville jolted in alarm at the sudden voice pulling up beside him. He hadn’t thought anyone else was still here in this part of the yard, let alone watching while the China Clay Twins were nagging on him. Bill and Ben found him to be all too easy of a target for their tricks and teasing.

Neville had simply been on his way to help with the workload at Brendam, he much preferred quarry work and taking long trains where he had plenty of time to himself, but he would happily take any work that was offered to him. It wouldn’t be his first time at Brendam, but it wasn’t any easier than before.

Neville knew he wasn’t the most sightly engine, and even that was putting it lightly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone a whole week without hearing nasty comments about his shape from others. But he knew it was just how things were. He was built to do his job and little care was put into his class after that, an engine meant to be put to work then put away. He’d never blame anyone for finding him uncomfortable to look at.

“I- well they don’t mean any harm by it,” he chuckled nervously, looking over to see a towering 9F locomotive carrying his train slowly to the dockside.

It was Murdoch, not an engine that Neville had seen all too often beforehand, but he did have a reputation for being a fusspot whenever any engines got too rambunctious in his vicinity. Personally, Neville could respect that. Some of the engines who got up to mischief perhaps needed a good talking-down to in his opinion. (Not that he would ever admit that aloud, certainly not.)

Murdoch had cast an unimpressed look at the direction of the retreating twins, then let out a world-weary wheesh as he settled into his springs and waited for his cargo to be unloaded.

“Does that matter?” It was a short, succinct, and ultimately cutting phrase. It seems that the big engine didn’t see the point in beating around the bush. He waited patiently for Neville to respond, his gaze unwavering from the other engine.

Neville coughed gently, spinning his wheels so to speak while he thought of what to say to such a thing. He hated confronting the hard truths like this, and for an engine he hardly knew to be asking such a personal thing- Neville felt rather exposed.

Still, Murdoch was waiting for an answer. And as much as Neville was tempted to let the silence stretch into the hours and ignore what was said, he knew that it would be rather rude and he hated being rude.

“It does, I think. People tend to say things without thinking. Just because they might put things a bit rudely doesn’t mean what they’re saying isn’t true. Or that they mean to put you down,” it was spoken in a firm voice, as if Neville were convincing himself of the words he was speaking.

Murdoch simply raised a questioning eyebrow in response. It was unnerving being under such intense scrutiny. Neville started to feel himself grow restless, desperately wanting to do something to stop the dreadful feeling inside him. He much preferred shoving thoughts like this to the back of his mind and leaving them there while he did his best to be useful. It was never any use dwelling on things he couldn’t change after all, this is what he told himself every time it felt like too much. And now, it was definitely beginning to feel like all too much.

“Ah- I have some wagons over there that need organizing. I really can’t talk much longer,” Neville sputtered out, spinning his wheels in reverse and dragging himself over to another part of the yard.

He didn’t dare look back to see if Murdoch was still staring him down with those piercing eyes of his. Nobody ever paid this much attention to him before and Neville had no idea how to feel, so he simply shunted wagons and trucks and tried not to think about it.

Push and pull. Shove and switch. Shunting was easy work and always made Neville feel better. There was no one there to judge your color or shape, no one to complain and whine and demand to be taken by a prettier engine, it was purely based on skill and performance. It was the one thing Neville felt proud of about himself.

By the end of the day, which was only a few hours passed, Neville had managed to successfully ignore the large orange engine and keep to himself while he worked. Now he was getting ready to settle down in the shed and attempt to sleep. Salty had been undergoing maintenance at the Dieselworks, so his side of the shed was clear for Neville to take. He let out a sigh of steam from his cylinders as his crew worked on shutting down his engine.

“You gonna be alright for the night here?” This voice came from Porter, who was just pulling into the shed himself, “We’re gonna have Murdoch joining us again too. He’s gotta train out of here in the morning so he usually stays the night. Poor guy.”

The last part was said with a chuckle. Neville, who had frozen up the moment he had even been addressed, realized what Porter had meant. The docks were rather noisy at night. He didn’t mind so much, it gave him something to listen to while his mind was plagued with restless thoughts, but he knew that Murdoch was rather temperamental about these things. He hoped the 9F would still be able to sleep, it would be a rather awkward night if the two of them were left alone in each other's company with no way out.

Neville realized that Porter had asked him a question, “I’ll be alright, don’t worry. There’s not much I do mind, and Murdoch seemed… nice enough.”

Porter made a noise of agreement and shut his eyes while his crew shut him down for the night. Neville was relieved that he wouldn’t need to worry about placating the other engine when he inevitably was unable to sleep.

Suddenly, a large shape chuffed towards the shed, moving slowly but surely. A tender back up onto the line beside Neville and the rest of the locomotive followed suit. He was an odd sight in the moonlight, the bright orange being washed out to look almost silver. The puffs of steam filling the air and being blacked out in shadow underneath.

Murdoch was rather menacing if you didn’t know anything about him, and Neville did suppose that what little knowledge he did have wasn’t painting the friendliest picture either. But there was something about the engine he couldn’t quite hook his coupling on. Something about the way he looked at him with such intensity, asking a question so simple yet so meaningful.

Did he truly care? Neville was used to teasing and mocking, it was just how things went when others didn’t know what to make of him. With the way things went though, he couldn’t help but wonder if Murdoch didn’t agree with that notion.

Neville did his best to look away once Murdoch had settled in, not wanting to be found staring at the other engine. To his relief, Murdoch wasn’t staring him down like before. Instead he had on a rather tired, almost bitter expression. Releasing one last puff of steam, Murdoch groaned as if every inch of his frames were being shaken to their core. His eyes screwed shut and he heaved a sigh, then sagged as if he were a puppet with its strings cut.

A single eye pried itself open and glanced towards Neville, taking in his presence for the first time since their dreadful conversation. It fluttered back shut, then he acknowledged the Q1, “You’re not a noisy sleeper are you?”

Once again a clipped and to-the-point question, Neville couldn’t help but wonder if that was just how Murdoch spoke. Maybe he wasn’t upset or analytical, perhaps Murdoch was just a blunt kind of engine. This gave him a bit of confidence and relief, maybe talking to the other engine wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

“No, no. I don’t actually sleep much at all. I can promise I’ll be quiet though,” he said gently, looking up at Murdoch with a hesitant smile. He got a grunt of acknowledgment in return, and then simply silence.

Neville waited a few minutes to see if Murdoch would say anything else, but it seemed he was content enough to sit in silence. It didn’t mean that he had been sleeping though. Every time a bird would call out, a distant ship sounded its horn, or a particularly powerful wave would splash across the dock he would see Murdoch give a slight flinch. His eyes remained screwed shut, as if he could drown out the world if he pressed them down hard enough.

It made a somber sort of feeling wash over Neville. He cast his gaze back out to the sea, watching the moonlight dance across the turbulent surface. The stars weren’t as bright as they were out in the countryside, but he could still see a few peeking out here and there between the lights on the buildings. He passed the time by watching them twinkle and shine, observing as the puddles of sea spray would reflect their light across the rippling surface.

Neville wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he did know that sleep was still fighting him. He would close his eyes and listen to the waves, only to be left feeling empty. Nothing but a sense of dread welling up in his boiler before his eyes flew open in a panic, desperate to keep any invading thoughts or memories away. Sleep would be more difficult than usual tonight, it seemed.

To keep his mind from wandering, or perhaps the result of the very thing, Neville began to think about the brief conversation he had earlier today. Murdoch seemed very persistent about what it meant to be treated a certain way, even if he had barely said a thing. The way those dark eyes locked with his unwaveringly, as if searching for something deep inside of Neville's mind- he shuddered at the memory. But it wasn’t a bad feeling.

Neville surprised himself with this thought, but he supposed it was true. It was unpleasant to be watched so intensely, but something inside of him felt that it was because he wasn’t used to such a thing, not because he didn’t like it. The Q1 looked back over to Murdoch absently while mulling over these thoughts. He felt his brakes grow weak with surprise and nearly slipped back an inch or two at the sight of Murdoch’s chilly eyes yet again! Breath punched out with a strangled squeak, Neville stared at him, stunned.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” a deep bass of a voice mumbled out from the 9F, “Why aren’t you asleep? It’ll be sunrise soon.”

Neville was still caught off guard by the other engine, but it was beginning to be easier to recover from the shock as more time went on. He cleared his throat lightly and looked down in shame.

“I told you I don’t sleep well. Tonight is just worse than usual, is all. Don’t worry about me, Murdoch,” he hoped this would be enough to keep him from prying. It was bad enough that he had to see Neville be teased so relentlessly earlier in the day, he didn’t want to put Murdoch through any more of his ridiculous problems.

“You say that a lot. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Is it because there’s actually nothing to worry about or are you just putting yourself down?”

Ouch.

Murdoch’s straightforward tone left no room for misinterpretation, and this was exactly what Neville was worried would happen. What does he even say to that?

“What? I’m not putting myself down- you just don’t need to be bothered by me. You should get some sleep,” Neville denied desperately. He couldn’t understand why Murdoch wouldn’t just let this go. They barely knew each other, and in Neville’s experience it took several days of getting used to his unsightly appearance before anyone ever took the time to get to know him.

“You’re doing it right now. I can see it on your face. You look all scared and mopey, like I’m going to hurt you somehow by asking something,” the other engine said, his unimpressed look making Neville’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“I- I… well why are you asking anyways? I’ve got nothing to do with you, it’s really none of your business,” he tried to say it with a rare moment of defiance, but it fizzled out into an unsure tone by the end. Neville looked away from Murdoch’s stubborn gaze, staring back out to the moonlight flickering on the puddles where the concrete dipped ever so slightly. Shockingly, Murdoch followed his gaze and gave the peaceful landscape a contemplating look of his own.

“Is there something wrong with wondering? I happen to be curious about one of the quietest engines I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ve met anyone as tolerable as you.”

Neville flushed. Was that a compliment? If it was, he didn’t fully understand it. Most of the time others found his quiet ways to be rather annoying, pestering him to speak up or get things over with. Did Murdoch really find him to be… tolerable?

Neville wondered if that meant much coming from the engine who was known to be constantly annoyed at anyone who didn’t respect his peace. He chose his next words carefully, speaking each one with hesitation.

“I don’t think… there’s anything wrong with it,” he paused for a moment to work up his courage before admitting a closely-kept truth to the larger locomotive, “I just have never caught anyone’s attention before. Positive attention, that is. I don’t like talking about myself when other people don’t want to listen.”

Another gull sounded from far out at sea, the waves gently splashed over the shore, and the wind hummed its soft tune while the two engines stood in silence. Murdoch closed his eyes, this time seeming much more at peace than before. Perhaps he was enjoying the sound now that he was no longer committed to attempting sleep. Neville hoped so, he didn’t like the way the other flinched as if he were in pain at all the sudden noises.

“I think that’s pretentious of you. To assume I don’t want to listen,” rather than startling him out of their peaceful moment, Murdoch’s smooth voice seemed to add to the bliss of the world around them. Neville found himself shutting his eyes as well, listening to it all with a content sigh. The 9F spoke again, this time in a softer way, more hesitant than he had ever been that day, “You have a rather lovely voice, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to talk more.”

“O-oh,” Neville started, his cheeks tinting pink and eyes flying open as he gaped at the engine beside him. Murdoch’s own face had a light dusting of pink along it, his eyes held a gentle sparkle to them as they locked with Neville’s own. Braver than he ever felt before, Neville shakily spoke, “I- I suppose you’re right… I shouldn’t assume. And, well, I think you have a rather lovely voice yourself. It’s nice to listen to.”

Murdoch hummed in appreciation, taking in the sight of Neville beside him. The world fell to a hush around them, the sounds of it all blending into a gentle lullaby. Neither engine dared to speak, not wanting to break the sudden connection they made. The two stayed like that, simply taking in one another’s presence as the night stretched on.

Eventually, Neville closed his eyes with a sigh and began to hum a simple tune to himself. Something about being around this strange engine, this powerful presence who refused to look away and refused to look in disgust, made him feel safe.

The world seemed to slip away as Neville found himself drifting to sleep at the sound of gentle snoring beside him.

#Writing #Thomas and Friends #Neville Ttte #Murdoch Ttte #Murville #Neville x Murdoch #Ttte fanfic #Art.2025

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blankspace-zer0 · 1 month ago

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I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

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