Work Text:
I know it’s hard and you feel lonely
And honestly, I feel it too
Baby, we both know, sometimes I have to go
I always miss you so
Wish I could take you in my suitcase
To every city, every knew place
It doesn’t really matter where I travel to
My journey starts and ends with you.
Emma Swan had rules about men. Killian Jones made her break every single one of them.
Her number one rule, and the one she broke first, was one Killian liked to tease her about. She said it after their first kiss, after their “kind of a first date,” and after they fell into bed together the first time. “This was a one-time thing,” she had told him as she shimmied back into her jeans.
He had laughed, still lying there in her bed like he planned on staying all night (but that was rule number two), and quoted the Princess Bride to her.
“You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
She had rolled her eyes as he tugged her back into bed, convincing her to break rule number two because the next morning, he was still there next to her.
Emma’s broken so many rules by now, she’s lost count, and they’ve all brought her here to the sidewalk in front of the airport, his shirt fisted in her hands as she loses control of her tears. They slip down her cheeks as she slides her arms up to his chest, across his shoulder blades, and up to his scruffy jaw.
“I’m not a tearful goodbye person,” she chokes out (rule number five), “but maybe just this once.”
She kisses him with more passion than she probably should since the rest of his band his waiting for him near the airport doors, pretending not to watch them. (And that was rule number three that she broke – never date a musician.)
She wraps her arms tightly around his neck as he trails kisses along her jaw and into the crook of her neck. “I’ll text you so much you’ll get sick of me,” he whispers in her ear.
“You better,” she laughs, making no move to let him go.
“And we’ll have long talks on the phone every night.”
“And Skype so I can show you my honeytrap dresses?” She nibbles at his ear surreptitiously.
“Don’t tease me,” he growls, his lips ghosting across her cheeks.
“I kind of like teasing you,” she says, pulling back a little, but still fiddling with his hair.
“And I’ll write you,” he promises solemnly, thumbing her chin.
She gives her head a small shake. “People don’t write letters any more, Killian.”
“I will,” he states, still completely serious, “for you.”
He holds her close one last time, burying his face in her hair. “Just three months,” she says bravely, but as soon as the words are out, she realizes it might as well be forever.
He brushes one last kiss to her forehead before releasing her. Then he picks up his guitar and duffel bag, and with a sad smile and a wave, he’s gone.
Emma wants to hate herself for how she feels right now, standing forlornly on the sidewalk like a love-sick teenager, but she knows it’s pointless. She’s way too far gone now. She presses a fist to her mouth as old fears and insecurities rise to the surface. Will he really text? Will he really call? Will he forget her?
She doesn’t even consider the writing he mentioned. I mean, who does that anymore?
*************************************************
To her surprise Emma’s breaking rules right and left even more now that Killian’s gone. Constantly checking her phone (rule number four), buying an outfit just because Killian will like it when they Skype (rule number eight), and re-arranging her schedule at times so she’ll be available when his show ends (rule number six). But there’s almost always a text message waiting, he eyes her new outfit with clear appreciation, and he never once leaves her waiting after a show. Their texts sometimes go back and forth on and off all day long and their phone calls and Skype sessions often go into the early morning hours. He hasn’t forgotten her; far from it. But the biggest shock for Emma comes only a week after he’s left when she gets the mail.
There’s a postcard with the New York City skyline on the front and scrawled across the back are the words:
“We only said goodbye this morning, and already I miss you. You are the light in New York City Nobody shines as bright as you. Love, Killian.”
Two weeks after that, she gets a letter with a Montana postmark. An actual, honest-to-God letter written on wide-rule notebook paper. He tells her about the tour, including some pretty hilarious antics that Jefferson and Will have gotten into, and complains a bit about the run-down hotels and the less than stellar venues. But it’s the last paragraph that really gets to her.
“My love, you are the sky over Montana. It’s so clear here, not like Boston. You just get lost in the expanse of it. That’s just the way I feel when I look at you, Emma. You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you? I don’t just mean your body, though that does take my breath away every damn time, I mean just you. Your eyes, your smile, the way your nose crinkles when you laugh. Wherever you are, I want to stare and take in the view.”
She swallows the lump in her throat as she presses the letter to her chest. She never thought to make rules about letters. Maybe back in middle school she had been foolish to keep that stupid note Matt Jenkins passed her in social studies class, but that has to be the last time anyone of the male species has written down his feelings for her. And this is far better than, “Hey, I think you’re hot. Wanna go out?”
That night when he calls, she tells him he’s far more eloquent than Matt Jenkins in the seventh grade.
*****************************************************
Emma never set rules for a man sending her mail, so can’t really be breaking any by rushing to her mail box half a dozen times a day. And finding a cute box to put his letters in, that’s not breaking any rules either. I mean, it’s just a box that held a clutch she’d bought for Mary Margaret on Etsy. It’s not like she’s taken a craft gun and lace to the thing like Laura Jean Covey for heaven’s sake. Still, she shoves it under her bed when Mary Margaret shows up unannounced one afternoon.
So maybe she was re-reading them. He took the time to write them, didn’t he?
The latest one she added to the box included a Polaroid of Killian on a pair of snow skis with white peaks in the background. He’d told her about playing for some snobby private school’s senior ski trip. He wasn’t a fan of the uppity, spoiled teenagers, but he is excited that the kids knew their band, screamed with excitement, and then sang along to every song. Emma’s chest swells with pride, even as it aches in knowing that this modest tour is only a prelude to greater things to come for his band.
Then she reaches the end of the letter: “You are the snow in Colorado, Emma. When I gaze at it, so pure, so bright as it reflects the sun, it reminds me of what a light you are to my life. And though the temperatures here are below freezing, thoughts of you keep me warm.”
She kisses the words as a tear slips down her cheek. This man has her breaking rules she never even knew to make.
*****************************************************
Emma wishes she could write him back, but he’s never in any one place long enough for her to do so. She tells him every time they call or Skype that she feels spoiled and a little guilty every time she opens the mail, but he just smiles and tells her that it’s all for her, that she deserves it. Without telling him, she starts answering them anyway, adding them to the box. So maybe she’s turned into the heroine from a rom-com. The thing is, she doesn’t care.
The last stop on the tour is in Santa Barbara, California. From there, they’ll take a flight straight back to Boston. Emma’s counting the days. But they’ve got a few other gigs up and down the coast, and at the very first one, Killian sends her another postcard. It’s a picturesque photo of a rocky, secluded beach.
“You are the breeze in California,” Killian writes, “across the sea, over the shore, your heart calls me home. I’d go to the end of the world, the end of time, to be in your arms again.”
As soon as she reads it, she grabs her phone and texts him: Got your postcard. You’ve ruined me. You know that, right?
She gets one word back: Good.
*************************************************
When she sees him crossing the baggage claim, she breaks another rule (number nine? Number ten? Hell, at this point, who cares?) by running full tilt into his arms. He scoops her up as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he puts her down, he drops to one knee, breaking that unspoken rule she always had about proposals in public places. Then she’s breaking rule maybe twelve or fifty or something when her hand flies to her mouth like a damn teary-eyed beauty queen before choking out the word “yes.”
Don’t they say rules are made to be broken anyway?