Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just hopelessly fascinated by Jefferson's character.
A/N: During a rewatch of 'Hat Trick,' I noticed there were a few instruments in his house and so that's what led to me writing this ficlet. Hope you enjoy :)
Emma finds it relaxing that she's having tea with Jefferson under less tense and unusual circumstances. While he paces the floor, eyes distant and lost in his thoughts—nearly tipping his cup and spilling the hot liquid on the carpet—Emma's gaze wanders all over the room. Last time she was here, she didn't have much time nor interest in taking everything in. She's surprised to find that the space is tidy and clean; neat lines and bold colors and unique pieces of furniture and knick-knacks fill the living room, masking the madness within the house's lone occupant.
From a glance, she sees that Jefferson is an intelligent individual, probably bordering on the line of artsy. There are books haphazardly stacked on the shelves and tables with worn spines and gold lettering probably older than she is. Emma lays eyes on a cello propped up by the windows behind her and tilts her head to the side. She doesn't expect this, even given the large, sleek black piano at the center of the room. It takes her awhile to recall it, but she can vaguely picture an electric guitar that had been perched in the corner of Jefferson's modernized hat shop on the second floor.
"So," she starts, for lack of a better way to break the silence, "Can you actually play that or is it a conversation piece?" She hates the phrase 'conversation piece' but it's what those interior decorators and realtors always said on the Home and Garden Network.
It takes Jefferson a moment to snap out of his trance. He gulps down the last of his tea and sets the cup onto the silver tray, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
He follows her line of vision to the cello and laughs, but only lightly. "I can play."
"And the piano?"
"That, too."
"How about the guitar upstairs?"
A semi-smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I have a lot of time on my hands, Emma."
"Well, yeah, of course," she replies. "I just—I didn't picture you as a music kind of guy. I assumed it was for show."
He leans against the piano and crosses his arms over his chest at the same time he crosses one ankle over the other. He looks amused, but his words tell a painful truth.
"Each one serves its purpose," Jefferson explains. "The guitar helps relieve the stress. Anger. It keeps me sane." She throws him a dubious glance that he ignores. "…On most days."
"The cello—that's…" He pauses, struggling with his words. He doesn't want to appear weak, especially in front of Emma. She watches the drop in his shoulders, face turned to the floor, jaw tightening. "It's for the moments when I can't stop remembering. Remembering how long I've been trapped, how—how the only family I have lives just within reach and all I want to do is take her home but I can't."
Pain, Emma supplies, filling in the blanks only in her thoughts, Sadness. Loneliness. Heartache. Despair.
"The piano?" she inquires.
The moment passes and Jefferson looks at her again, the first genuine smile that's she's ever seen from him breaking onto his face.
"Hope."
Emma places her tea cup onto the table and walks over to him, brushing her fingers across the glossy surface of the piano. Her bright blue eyes meet his with sincerity.
"Would you mind playing something?"
He nods. "For you, Emma Swan," he answers as he uncrosses his arms, "I will."
Jefferson pulls back the bench and slides onto it, leaving enough room for Emma to sit beside him. She does so hesitantly and studies him, lithe fingers ghosting over the keys but not quite touching them. He looks over at her.
"Any requests?"
She laughs. The question seems so out of character for him, so normal, so unexpected. Emma shrugs.
"I have no idea," she says. "Anything at all."
Jefferson's fingers land on the keys and he takes a pause, calculating, before joining them in a melody. Emma observes, fascinated, letting her ears become attuned to the waves of music filling the room. He sweeps across the keys as if he can play the song with his eyes closed, and for a moment, he is. He's completely lost in a world Emma can't even begin to understand. The notes are shockingly gentle and sweet, with a faint undertone of something else, something that sounds like chimes in a summer wind. A soaring tune that practically takes the breath from her lungs—this, Emma realizes, is his hope. But it's more than that, she can almost see it now, in the way his lips turn into a slight grin, pouring every last shred of his soul into the music dancing around them.
He's creating a fairytale with this melody. It's more than hope. It's magic.
And for a few moments, Emma nearly believes.