Summer Nights || Sonny & Emma
With a long, loud sigh, Sonny reclined in his father's favorite chair. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, his fingers locking behind his head as he stretched. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch.
2:08 am. Of course.
Since his father's heart attack, which had finally made Sonny underboss, he had been putting in more hours than he could count. He did the things that needed to be done and, most of all, worked to prove himself. He would be his father's successor. He was ready. He just, apparently, needed to prove himself to the rest of the family. Just that thought alone often made his eyes blaze. They didn't trust him. None of them. Why?
He pushed those thoughts away and threw the stack of papers he'd been nursing onto the couch. They landed with a thunk and scattered but Sonny was too exhausted to care. His hands moving to brace on the twin arms, he pushed out of the chair and strolled across the room.
Leaving his father's office, he walked down the long hall, rubbing his face as he went and trying to coax his eyes into focusing again. After reading for so long, they were starting to cross and although he could feel the exhaustion in his bones, he knew he could not sleep. Not for many hours. As long as the night stretched on, he would be left to face it.
This was the insomnia's curse.
Sonny's hand moved to his head and he scratched a place on the left side before running his hand through it, fluffing the loose strands. As he was doing this, he rounded the corner, walking straight into the kitchen and heading for refridgerator without a moment's hesitation.
But, then, he spotted the figure and stopped short.
This wasn't unusual. Not really. The house of the Don had always served as Grand Central Station for the family with people coming and going at all hours. Sonny just hadn't expected to find anyone in his kitchen in the middle of the night.
She had her back to him and, slowly, his hand dropped to his side. "Oh, sorry. I thought everyone had already gone to bed," he said as she turned. He had already begun, with his left arm, to gesture toward the office and, with his right, he tugged at his white tshirt which clung to his chest in the hot night.
But as she turned, both hands dropped and his brow knit in either confusion or concern. His brain wasn't working well enough to determine which.
"Emma. What are you doing up so late?"
