A/N: So...I've kind of spent what tiny little bit of free time I've had over the past couple months reading M7 fics. This has always been (and always will be) my favorite show ever. Pity I have to get my fix with fanfics since it was canceled prematurely. *sigh* Anyway, I've read everything out there I could find, so decided it was time to write my own. I've come to the conclusion that this story has a difficulty level of +1,263. Why? Because after reading literally hundreds of fics, I was having a hard time coming up with something new! I hope this is original enough for you, my fellow M7 worshipers!
Disclaimer thingie, of course: I don't own The Magnificent Seven. The boys are not mine. Ezra should be mine, but I'd almost be too afraid to keep him (the hordes of ladies also laying claim to him would come after me...).
On another note, NotTasha is my favorite M7 fanfic author. Read all of her stories. Now. Wait, not right now because you have to read this story first; but right after you read this go read hers! You can find a few of them here on FF, but it's better to just go to her website and catch them all: (watch how I defeat the no-URL rule!) nottasha(dot)com. Also, read sablecain's stories here on FF. She does mostly ATF, which normally I don't care much for, but I like her stuff; and her OW fics are totally awesome!
Fair warning for those unfamiliar with my fics: I write scripts. Therefore, my fics tend to be written in a similar fashion. That means everything is in present tense and I tend not to write anything that a typical viewer wouldn't see on the screen (ie character's inner thoughts). So, just read it as if you were watching this play out on TV. Enjoy! (and cue M7 theme music...)
"Ezra, STOP!" Chris shouts, barely dodging in time to prevent himself from being skewered with a violently thrown pencil. Instead, the writing utensil lodges itself neatly into the wall behind his head.
Ezra freezes with his hand still out in front of him, his face a mixture of shock and apology.
"You done?" Larabee asks heatedly.
Nodding slowly, Ezra looks at the damage he has wrought to the saloon. Tables are flipped over, chairs broken, glass littered all about the floor, food and alcohol splashed on nearly every surface. Looking ashamed, the gambler brushes a hand through his hair, then silently begins to right the tables.
"Saw Maude leaving on the stage. This have anything to do with her?" Chris asks as he flips up a chair, noting the slight pause in the gambler's movements at the mention of his mother. "Figures she'd be the one to set you off," he continues. "Shoulda taken bets on it."
The Southerner's lips twitch ever so slightly into a smile, but it fades almost instantly as he steps towards the pencil sticking from the wall. Wrenching it out, he glides his finger gently over the ruined tip and sighs. Quick as lightening, he twirls it between his fingers and slips it into his jacket pocket, a motion that causes the watching gunslinger's eyes to gloss over in memory.
"Gentlemen, this is not just a cigar," Ezra announces, flashing the item in front of the faces of his fellow lawmen as they loiter casually outside the saloon. "It hails from the finest tobacco establishment in the world, secreted away on a tropical island. These are very hard to come by-" Buck snatches the cigar and smells it, chuckling as Ezra snatches it back. "-and very expensive, Mr. Wilmington. Please refrain from mishandling it."
"Hell, Ez, a smoke's a smoke," Buck continues to laugh.
The gambler scrunches up his face. "Hardly," he mutters. "An individual such as yourself simply lacks the expertise…and the taste…to differentiate between this refined product and common desert grass."
"What about the rest of us?" Nathan asks, reaching for the cigar. "I know a thing or two about tobacco."
Ezra pulls his arm away, grinning at the healer. "I don't doubt that you do, Mr. Jackson. However, I can't seem to recall ever seeing you partake in the habit of properly enjoying it…which I suppose I can hardly blame you for. I imagine your experience with the plant has been a bit…tainted."
"Can't argue with ya, there," Nathan agrees, sitting back.
Ezra glances at each of the faces of his companions, settling on JD's eager eyes. "Mr. Dunne, you can't possibly expect me to believe you would have any opinion of value on the matter, as you have yet to discover the difference between a glass of bourbon and a glass of milk," – JD's smile turns down into a scowl as Ezra meets Vin's thoughtful expression – "and I believe I may actually have witnessed you smoking desert grass." Vin snorts out a quick laugh while the gambler moves on to Josiah. He seems to ponder over the preacher for a second before his focus slightly shifts to something behind the man's back, his gold-toothed grin flashing as his gaze lands upon the leader of their peculiar group. Chris Larabee, leaning against a support post with his attention firmly glued to a letter in his hand, looks up to meet the gambler's smile.
"Not interested, Ezra," the man in black simply states.
Still smiling, Standish argues, anyway. "But certainly a man who indulges in such pleasantries as often as yourself must know a little about-"
"Got a job for you," Larabee interrupts, pushing himself away from the post and holding the letter out to the confidence man.
"What is it this time?" Standish sighs, taking the letter. He continues to openly complain as he scans the writing. "Taking inventory on some ill-gotten gains? Determining the legitimacy of some poor soul's will? Perhaps translating a document of rather boring-" He cuts himself off and looks up at the gunslinger, his eyes alight with surprise and a touch of excitement. "Mr. Larabee, am I to understand that I will be getting paid to-"
"To referee, not to play," Chris firmly points out.
Ezra's smile spreads easily across his face. "An invitation to merely attend as an observer is near impossible; to actually be requested as an active participant, in any fashion, is a great honor."
Unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, JD jumps up and tries to read the letter over Ezra's shoulder. "'Queen's Court'? What's that?" he asks as Ezra takes an annoyed step away from him.
"Isn't that a poker tournament?" Josiah asks.
"THE poker tournament," Ezra answers wistfully, "and every gambler's dream. Only the best player's in the nation are able to attend."
Vin cocks an eyebrow at the gambler. "So how come you were never invited before?"
Ezra tilts his head at the tracker. "Why thank you, Mr. Tanner, for your unerring confidence in my abilities. I also believe I would have made for a worthy opponent. Unfortunately, my…uh…other profession required me to make it virtually impossible to track down my whereabouts. Prior to now, there has been nowhere, and really no one, to send an invitation to…..Speaking of which," he looks to the man in black, "how is it, exactly, that the fastidious organizers of this grand event knew to seek me out?"
Chris shrugs. "Judge Travis mentioned they were looking for people. I may have mentioned your name."
"But…why?" Ezra stumbles out, looking stunned. "I don't recall doing anything recently that would garner such a reward…"
"Just thought you might be interested," the gunslinger answers, an almost invisible smile tugging at his lips.
Buck barks out a laugh, slapping his long-term friend on the shoulder. "I keep tryin' to tell people you're not as mean as you pretend to be. This here just proves it!"
"Buck," Chris warns, with no real malice in his voice.
Vin, who until now has been casually observing, quietly asks Ezra, "When do ya leave?"
Ezra looks back down at the letter. "Good lord," he murmurs "Today! If I am to arrive in Jefferson City in time for the first match, I must depart immediately!"
"I'll see to the horses," Chris states.
"'Horses,' as in multiple?" the Southerner asks.
"Yup, goin' with you. Promised the judge I'd keep you outta trouble."
Ezra ponders this for only a second before seeming to come to a decision. He merely nods before saying, "Then I shall gather the necessary provisions for two."
"Need a hand?" Josiah asks.
"That would be most appreciated. In fact, if we are to leave in a timely manner, might I ask the lot of you for your assistance?"
They each nod and without a word of explanation among them, Vin, Josiah, Nathan, Buck, and JD scatter in varying directions to obtain whatever traveling gear their friends might need. Chris turns to head to the livery when a subtle cough from Ezra stops him. He turns back to the gambler expectantly, watching him fidget uncharacteristically for a few brief seconds before he finds his voice.
"Mr. Larabee, I wish to offer my thanks to you for providing me with this golden opportunity. I swear on the grave of…no, rather I give you my personal word that I will not cause one ounce of trouble for you on this venture. That is the best promise I can offer."
"Your personal word?" The gunslinger watches as Ezra nods, his features expressing nothing but dead seriousness. "Then I see no reason to doubt it."
Ezra beams, ready to offer his token tip-of-the-hat when he sheepishly realizes he is still holding onto his forgotten cigar. With a grin, he twirls it effortlessly between his fingers, making it disappear into his jacket pocket faster than Chris's eyes can follow; then, with his now unhindered salute, he turns and walks away.