Basket Weaving for Beginners.
It wasn't exactly Emma Swan's idea of a wild Thursday night. Spending an evening cooped up in an elementary school classroom, taking instruction from an aging hippie about how to craft ugly home furnishings from twigs. But it was on the list. And this year, Emma was sticking to her list.
New Year's Resolution #3: Take up a new hobby.
Okay, so maybe it hadn't exactly specified that she take up basket weaving, but it had to be something. It wasn't Emma's fault that by the time she'd fished the Adult Education brochure out from the random assortment of junk mail she had piling up, it was the only class left in the course catalog that still had available spaces.
Not unless she felt like taking up Fly Fishing for Beginners, and frankly, she didn't.
New Year's Resolution #9: Stop leaving junk mail piled up on the hall table.
So. Basket Weaving. For Beginners. How bad could it be?
Her first impressions weren't bad. It was just it had been years since she'd been in a proper classroom, and she'd forgotten how colorful they could be. Laminated charts and drawings covering every wall, each eye-wateringly brighter than the next. The papier-mâché solar system strung from the ceiling. Even the list of kids who made detention this week was scrawled in a vivid purple.
She tried to conjure up the memories from her own elementary school days, but they were flat, muted. She couldn't dredge up anything with half of this… effervescence. Maybe it was just the 90s. Maybe it was just her, and her crappy childhood.
She was relieved to find that rather than the Woodstock Wannabe she'd imagined, the instructor was actually young, perhaps even younger than her. A pretty, dark haired woman in a fitted tweed jacket, and heels so high Emma winced reflexively just at the sight of them.
"You must be Emma," the woman said warmly, reaching across the table to shake her hand. She was Australian, maybe. Or possibly South African. Emma never really had an ear for accents. "I'm Belle. I'll be leading the class. Glad you found your way. We're just about to start, so if you could find somewhere to sit…"
A quick scan revealed that every table was already occupied, everyone paired up like it was Noah's Ark or something. All except the table at the back, its sole occupant leaning back on his comically small chair, a sardonic smile curling his lips as Emma turned his way.
New Year's Resolution #1: STAY AWAY FROM KILLIAN JONES!
Fuck.
Her first instinct was to flee. The natural response, when confronted with a predator. And mark her words, everything about Killian Jones in that instant was entirely predatory. The leather jacket. The devil-may-care slouch. And above all, the familiarity sparking in those dangerous blue eyes, that threatened to swallow her whole.
She did turn to go, but by then Belle already had her by the elbow, and was practically manhandling her down the aisle of desks. "Oh, look," she said, her blithe tone a contrast to her iron grip. "It seems like Mr Jones is in need of a partner."
Everyone was looking at her now. The retirees in their matching jogging suits. The moms chugging down their mineral waters. The new age waifs in their tie-dyed T-shirts. Every beady eye, turned in her direction.
"Great," she said, rescuing her arm from Belle's vice-like grasp. And took a seat.
He didn't speak immediately, just watched as Belle trailed back down to the front of the room, taking the attention of the class with her. But she could tell he already had an opening volley prepared. Could practically feel it vibrating inside him, as his elbow oh-so-accidentally brushed her own.
"So who was it?" Emma asked, keeping her voice low and emotionless. "Ruby? Mary Margaret? I bet it was Mary Margaret, wasn't it?"
She chanced a sideways glance at his expression, trying to catch him out, but his face was inscrutable, if kind of smug.
"I have no idea what you mean, Swan. I'm just as surprised as you. I'm just a simple man, going about his day, eager to learn the ancient and noble art of basket weaving."
"You have one hand!" Her voice rose a little higher than she intended, drawing a few odd looks their way.
"Well," he shrugged, turning her way properly at last. "You know that's never really been an obstacle when it counts."
The look he shot her was knowing. The same look he'd worn the morning after, before she'd thrown his jeans at his chest, and told him to lose her number.
God, her list was going straight to hell.
It wasn't even February yet.
It hadn't mattered. The one-handed thing. He wore a prosthetic, usually. And when it was cold like this, he wore gloves so you could barely even tell that much. Not unless he wanted you to. He hadn't worn the prosthetic with her. Hadn't bothered to hide what he was. Who he was.
He was struggling now though, tool poised to create a split in the willow reeds, per Belle's instructions, but slipping every time without the proper leverage.
"Hey," she said, her touch on his shoulder enough to still him. "Hand me the screwdriver."
"It's a bodkin, Swan," he corrected, but gauging Emma's unimpressed face, handed it over anyway.
Emma had never tried to split a willow reed before, but a quick glance at the neighboring tables showed that no one else seemed to be finding it all that difficult. How hard could it be?
"Now remember what Belle said. You've got t- Careful!" he warned, but it was already too late, Emma's first attempt had already snapped the reed clean in half.
"Shit."
"And that's why there are spares," Killian sighed, dropping another near identical reed onto the tabletop.
"Maybe I should be the one holding it?" Emma offered.
But Killian shook his head, his weight already braced at either end, waiting. "You can do it, Swan. Just remember not to push it through right away."
A beat. The flicker of a smile. The innuendo shimmering silently between them, before he coughed, and nudged her hand. "Again."
This cut was more centered, and as she lifted the reed, the bodkin, or whatever it was, poked through the other side. A perfect split, to feed the other reed through.
Killian leaned close, inspecting her handiwork. "Not bad, love. And only two more to go."
He shouldn't be smiling at her like that. Encouraging her. Sneaking in his accidental terms of endearment.
She set down the tool.
"Why are you here?" It caught him by surprise, a little, the shift in her tone. "And don't give me any bullshit about the ancient and noble art of basket weaving. We both know you set this up… somehow."
He didn't speak right away, as if weighing his words carefully. "I set it up a little," he admitted. "Though there was a certain amount of providence involved."
He paused again, considered something, eyes shining with some unnamed emotion. "You were so quick to reject me, I thought I would give you an opportunity to reconsider."
Hurt. That was the emotion.
She'd hurt him. The knowledge of it was a cool knife inside her chest, quelling her indignation. Not just because she'd rejected him, but because she hadn't even given it a second thought before doing so.
Not because she didn't like him. Not because he wasn't a good man. Not because he wasn't pretty damn spectacular in bed.
But because it was safe.
New Year's Resolution #2: Go see a therapist for your stupid abandonment issues.
She felt the tear fall, but was powerless to stop it. A single escapee trailing down her cheek before she could get herself completely under control.
The sight of it unnerved Killian, and so well it might. Emma was not a crier.
"Christ, Swan," he said, his good hand coming up to wipe her chin. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just-"
"No," she said, a hand closing over his wrist, plastering on a watery smile. "I'm fine. You're right. I was… callous. And that wasn't fair to you."
Releasing his wrist, and at a loss for what to do with her hands, she picked up the bodkin again, and lined up the next reed.
"I don't mean to trap you, love," Killian said softly, leaning across to hold the reed steady. "Or force you into saying something you don't mean. I just wanted you to know you have a choice. And that I'm prepared to be patient…" Their eyes met briefly. "…if you need time to make that choice."
It was all she could do to nod, when she had more tears threatening to spill over.
Steadying her hand, Emma punctured the reed, a perfect perforation. She held it up for Killian to inspect.
"Not bad, that," he whistled.
"Only one more to go."
The third reed snapped. The fourth was a success. She let Killian thread the others through, until they formed a perfect cross slath.
"Great!" Belle clapped from nearby, making a close circuit to assess their progress. "Now grab your two longest rods. They are going to be your weavers. Today we are going to be doing a pairing weave…"
She was barely out of earshot before Emma dissolved into sniggers.
"Longest… rod…" Emma spluttered, her emotions already all over the place. "Sorry. I just- I'm fine now. I'm mature. I can hear the word rod without dissolving into teenage giggling."
"You sure about that, Swan?" Killian asked with an amused look, before one of the crowd turned around to shush them.
Chastened, he passed her the rods in question, and let her take care of the more finicky task of securing the slath.
It wasn't long before they had a rhythm going. Her weaving clockwise. Him holding the spokes apart as he slowly rotated the disk anti-clockwise. It wasn't really a two person job, but it worked as one.
And it did kind of look like a basket. Or the base of one. A bit like a laundry hamper Emma used to have. The beginnings of something not too bad.
"Great work, guys!" Belle said admiringly, as she passed by their table. "Now that's about all we have time for this week, but next week we'll move onto the sides, where we'll use a randing weave…"
Killian rose a suggestive brow.
"I swear she's doing it on purpose…" Emma grumbled, packing away their tools and brushing away the debris. After a while, it became clear she was stalling more than anything.
"It was Graham," Killian said, smiling at her confused frown. "Who ratted you out. In case you were wondering."
Graham. That traitor. She should've known.
"Same time next week?" he asked, rising to his feet. The tone was light, but the question was not.
A choice.
"Yeah," she said, rapping her knuckles against the table, trying to play it cool, even as she saw the grin spread wide across his face. "Sure. Next week."