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fandomweekly2019-12-02 09:59 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2019-12-02 09:59 pm
Entry tags:
[#033] Sinking Your Sorrows (TM7)
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven 2016
Rating/Warnings: Mentions of past canonical character death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: The anniversary of the Battle of Rose Creek was hard on Emma, so she had her own traditions to help her through it.
The chair at the head of the table was empty. Dust was deeply ingrained into the whorls of wood on the arms and back. There was nothing noteworthy about this chair. Most of the year in stood tucked away in the hollow beneath the stairs. At some point, a blanket had been tossed over it, out of sight and out of mind. And then in the natural progression of things, bags and boxes followed until only the slight curve of the back could be seen.
Red had been the first to arrive that year, bearing a bottle of wine and a beaded necklace in the same shades of blue as the sky. He passed the gifts to Emma and she showed him the chair. His face slipped into careful neutrality as he eyed up his task, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
“Open that,” he said finally, inclining his head towards the wine with a wry grin, “I’ll get started on getting his seat out.”
The kitchen was warm as the oven blazed despite the early hour. Emma sighed as she nudged the door closed behind her, shivering at the draft. She was already tired, a bone deep exhaustion that all the sleep in the world did not seem to shift, mood turning as grey as the sky overhead, rain threatening as it had for the past week.
A crash from the hallway, Red swearing, English slipping into his native Comanche, voice deeper and tight with pain. Emma grinned despite herself, shaking her head, as she moved to retrieve some mugs. It was going to be a long day. She could do this.
The doorbell surprised them both, despite knowing that more people would be arriving. Emma made to get up, wine sloshing in the mug clutched in her hands, but Red stopped her, a lifetime of being the youngest in his family rearing its head.
“Sit back down,” he said, the first words that had been spoken since the chair had been retrieved. A reverent hush had fallen over them, supplicants in a church long since forgotten by everyone else.
“Can you…” Emma began, before she trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip as the words escaped her.
“I know,” Red called, already in the hall, footsteps almost soundless despite the gentle clinking of the pins on his jacket knocking together, “Not my first family meal.”
She flipped him off, knowing he couldn’t see her, and hearing his laugh in response.
The door stuck, as it always did, one heavy boot coming up from the other side to help. Hushed voices echoed down the hall, and Emma couldn’t help but smile, the quiet house slowly becoming filled with life once more.
“Faraday said he’s running late,” Vasquez reported dutifully as he strode into the living room, pausing to hug Emma tightly. He still smelled like cumin and woodsmoke, leaning into her for a brief moment of rest after his long drive.
“Hola, chica. ¿Cómo estás?”
“Holding up,” Emma replied, and meant it.
Vasquez kissed the top of her head, and flipped off Red who had slunk into the room, collapsing back onto the seat. Vasquez moved into the kitchen, pots and pans clattering in his wake as he checked on the food Emma had started.
The radio crackled as he turned it on, hitting it once with his hand with a muffled curse, before music slowly filled the air, happy and joyful.
“It was Goodnight’s fault this time,” Billy told her, the second his foot breached the threshold, shaking his head as rain flew off his shoulders. Emma took the flowers carefully, a vibrant bloom of pot marigolds and trumpet shaped morning glory flowers.
“Did you get lost again?” Red called, halfway through the second bottle of wine, perched on the kitchen counter like a cat as Vasquez spun and swore his way through cooking.
“Goodnight got lost. I knew exactly where we were,” Billy replied, squeezing Emma’s hand tightly, another weight lifted from her shoulders.
“It was the scenic route,” Goodnight claimed, shaking his umbrella dry and propping it in the stand, “Why hello cher, you’re looking as radiant as ever.”
Emma laughed at Billy’s eye roll, Goodnight’s beard scratchy against her cheeks as he kissed her quickly.
“Scenic route. Police Sergeant and he still gets lost.”
Another pair of headlights cut through the gloom, signalling the arrival of the next guests.
“Evening Mrs Emma. You’re looking as lovely as ever,” Horne said as Emma raised up on her toes to hug him, carefully avoiding looking at his red rimmed eyes, as he avoided mentioning hers.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she replied into his whiskery beard, smelling the sweet scent of lilies on his clothes.
“Mind if I join?” Sam asked, jacket pulled over his head to shield him from the rain, wide grin on his face. Emma hugged him tighter than the others, hearing the bones crack in his back. His knees were damp with earth from the cemetery, dirt beneath his nails.
The stairs creaked as Teddy slowly made his way down them into the dining room, navigating mostly on touch and scent. The air was heavy with rich spices and muffled laughter as they talked. He waved at them, muffling a yawn behind his other hand as he slipped into his chair next to Emma, immediately sticking his feet onto Red’s lap. Faraday, still dripping water onto the floor from the rain storm, threw a napkin at Vasquez’s head, face a picture of innocence when the other man stared accusingly at him.
Emma looked around at her friends. There were smiles and laughter, a group brought together because of Matthew, a man none of them had met bar Teddy. And yet, they joined in this small tradition with her, every year as the nights grew longer. She smoothed her hand over the arm of Matthew’s chair, her hand travelling the same path his would, wood smooth beneath her fingers, and smiled.
Rating/Warnings: Mentions of past canonical character death
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: The anniversary of the Battle of Rose Creek was hard on Emma, so she had her own traditions to help her through it.
The chair at the head of the table was empty. Dust was deeply ingrained into the whorls of wood on the arms and back. There was nothing noteworthy about this chair. Most of the year in stood tucked away in the hollow beneath the stairs. At some point, a blanket had been tossed over it, out of sight and out of mind. And then in the natural progression of things, bags and boxes followed until only the slight curve of the back could be seen.
Red had been the first to arrive that year, bearing a bottle of wine and a beaded necklace in the same shades of blue as the sky. He passed the gifts to Emma and she showed him the chair. His face slipped into careful neutrality as he eyed up his task, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
“Open that,” he said finally, inclining his head towards the wine with a wry grin, “I’ll get started on getting his seat out.”
The kitchen was warm as the oven blazed despite the early hour. Emma sighed as she nudged the door closed behind her, shivering at the draft. She was already tired, a bone deep exhaustion that all the sleep in the world did not seem to shift, mood turning as grey as the sky overhead, rain threatening as it had for the past week.
A crash from the hallway, Red swearing, English slipping into his native Comanche, voice deeper and tight with pain. Emma grinned despite herself, shaking her head, as she moved to retrieve some mugs. It was going to be a long day. She could do this.
The doorbell surprised them both, despite knowing that more people would be arriving. Emma made to get up, wine sloshing in the mug clutched in her hands, but Red stopped her, a lifetime of being the youngest in his family rearing its head.
“Sit back down,” he said, the first words that had been spoken since the chair had been retrieved. A reverent hush had fallen over them, supplicants in a church long since forgotten by everyone else.
“Can you…” Emma began, before she trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip as the words escaped her.
“I know,” Red called, already in the hall, footsteps almost soundless despite the gentle clinking of the pins on his jacket knocking together, “Not my first family meal.”
She flipped him off, knowing he couldn’t see her, and hearing his laugh in response.
The door stuck, as it always did, one heavy boot coming up from the other side to help. Hushed voices echoed down the hall, and Emma couldn’t help but smile, the quiet house slowly becoming filled with life once more.
“Faraday said he’s running late,” Vasquez reported dutifully as he strode into the living room, pausing to hug Emma tightly. He still smelled like cumin and woodsmoke, leaning into her for a brief moment of rest after his long drive.
“Hola, chica. ¿Cómo estás?”
“Holding up,” Emma replied, and meant it.
Vasquez kissed the top of her head, and flipped off Red who had slunk into the room, collapsing back onto the seat. Vasquez moved into the kitchen, pots and pans clattering in his wake as he checked on the food Emma had started.
The radio crackled as he turned it on, hitting it once with his hand with a muffled curse, before music slowly filled the air, happy and joyful.
“It was Goodnight’s fault this time,” Billy told her, the second his foot breached the threshold, shaking his head as rain flew off his shoulders. Emma took the flowers carefully, a vibrant bloom of pot marigolds and trumpet shaped morning glory flowers.
“Did you get lost again?” Red called, halfway through the second bottle of wine, perched on the kitchen counter like a cat as Vasquez spun and swore his way through cooking.
“Goodnight got lost. I knew exactly where we were,” Billy replied, squeezing Emma’s hand tightly, another weight lifted from her shoulders.
“It was the scenic route,” Goodnight claimed, shaking his umbrella dry and propping it in the stand, “Why hello cher, you’re looking as radiant as ever.”
Emma laughed at Billy’s eye roll, Goodnight’s beard scratchy against her cheeks as he kissed her quickly.
“Scenic route. Police Sergeant and he still gets lost.”
Another pair of headlights cut through the gloom, signalling the arrival of the next guests.
“Evening Mrs Emma. You’re looking as lovely as ever,” Horne said as Emma raised up on her toes to hug him, carefully avoiding looking at his red rimmed eyes, as he avoided mentioning hers.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she replied into his whiskery beard, smelling the sweet scent of lilies on his clothes.
“Mind if I join?” Sam asked, jacket pulled over his head to shield him from the rain, wide grin on his face. Emma hugged him tighter than the others, hearing the bones crack in his back. His knees were damp with earth from the cemetery, dirt beneath his nails.
The stairs creaked as Teddy slowly made his way down them into the dining room, navigating mostly on touch and scent. The air was heavy with rich spices and muffled laughter as they talked. He waved at them, muffling a yawn behind his other hand as he slipped into his chair next to Emma, immediately sticking his feet onto Red’s lap. Faraday, still dripping water onto the floor from the rain storm, threw a napkin at Vasquez’s head, face a picture of innocence when the other man stared accusingly at him.
Emma looked around at her friends. There were smiles and laughter, a group brought together because of Matthew, a man none of them had met bar Teddy. And yet, they joined in this small tradition with her, every year as the nights grew longer. She smoothed her hand over the arm of Matthew’s chair, her hand travelling the same path his would, wood smooth beneath her fingers, and smiled.