a/n: a little fic that was supposed to be a birthday gift for the lovely Casey (thejollypirate on tumblr) but ended up being three months late and three chapters longer than expected.
(this fic is just about complete since I'm just editing and adding to the last chapter, so updates will be regular.)

Emma Swan doesn't do romance. She doesn't do second dates or candlelit dinners or hand-in-hand strolls through the park. And she definitely doesn't do handwritten letters to a man halfway across the world in pure 18th century fashion.

But this, this is different. This isn't romance, it's a project. It's a hobby, it's something she started because it seemed like a good idea at the time; signing up to an online pen pal registry and being matched up with another user. It's...it's only been a few weeks but, well, now it's familiar.

And Killian Jones isn't a lover waiting for her across the Atlantic Ocean, he's her friend. He's someone she can easily and unflinchingly share every moment of her life with without a second thought. It should scare her but maybe it's easier to divulge trivial - and not so trivial - details to a stranger.

Ruby, of course, begs to differ, calls him Mr. Darcy purely because he lives in London and he's hot.

(Ruby's words, not hers.)

(Not that she's contradicting them. She's seen that photo on his online registry profile.)

Her friend-slash-neighbour has taken to quoting the Jane Austen novel on every odd occasion, as if to serve as her own internal monologue. And every time she gets a letter and Ruby squeals, Emma thinks maybe it was a bad idea to binge watch Pride and Prejudice with her.

It isn't exactly her fault she's come to trust a man she's never met over, well, any other man she's actually met. It's what makes all of it safer, easier even, knowing that there's no way she can actually fuck it all up by running away when she's already away to begin with. Not that she'd have a reason to run away, she reminds herself constantly, because they aren't Elizabeth and Darcy, they're friends. She believes that - no matter how hard Ruby rolls her eyes whenever she says it.

-/-

And she's gotten used to Ruby's excitement over a piece of paper. That's what she tells herself anyway until an occasion such as this one where Ruby, Southern belle accent and all, bursts in through her front door, yelling.

"Emma! Your gentleman caller sent you a letter!" Emma almost chokes on the mug of scalding hot coffee she's gulping down and fuck, she's already fifteen minutes late, she doesn't need Ruby goading her about Killian Jones right now.

Emma shoots her a look, swallows down the bitter liquid, ignores the little flip her stomach does at the thought of reading his letter, "You need to stop going through my mail."

"Our mailboxes are right next to each other," she shrugs as if she didn't just pick a lock to get through to Emma's letter. That's something Emma thinks she shouldn't have taught her. She only plucks the letter out of Ruby's hands and refuses to react to the shit-eating grin her friend is sporting. "Aren't you going to read it?"

"I will," she slips her leather jacket on, "but not when we're late and not when you're staring at me like that."

"But his letters are always so romantic," Ruby whines, slumps a little where she's standing.

"You are reading way too much into them."

"And you're not reading into them enough." Her expression is halfway between a pout and a smirk and it stays that way up until Emma drops her off at her diner where she throws Emma a wink and promises to get information out of her during lunch.

She glances at the letter on the passenger seat five times in the few minutes it takes her to get to the station. It's a miracle she doesn't hit a signpost.

She doesn't read it right away like she'd like, what with Graham bugging her about how he ate all the bear claws because she was fifteen minutes late and David refusing to agree that he assisted in the crime. They're toddlers, the both of them.

It's only when they trail out of the station to go on patrol - Graham throwing her a wink and a snide comment over giving her some space to read her letter (because Ruby is a town gossip and she just had to mention it to Graham, who's actually an ass) while David groans (because he's too much of an older brother to her to want to know about the men in her life) (not that she's dating Killian Jones or anything) - that she rips the envelope open with a renewed sense of excitement.

Dear Swan,

The more you divulge about your little town, the more intrigued I become. What exactly, pray tell, is Miners' Day? What is Granny's first name? Why isn't your town on any of the maps I own? (Just to be clear, I did not venture out and purchase sixteen different maps just to check. I simply happen to own a lot of maps. It's somewhat of a hobby. And now I sound old, and definitely a right bit nerdy.) (I will blame my map hoarding on my lineage, for the sake of sounding a little more intriguing.)

As for your question, the answer is yes; I did, in fact, name my dog Davy (and thus, Davy Jones). It was my brother's idea, to be fair. He's always had a penchant for being rather lame. And then the git up and left me to move in with his girlfriend (and soon-to-be-fiance) and now it's just Davy and I. Not that I'm complaining, the mutt has a way of brightening up my days. Though, he's a pale comparison to one of your letters, love.

I watched The Princess Bride on your insistence and I can say, without a doubt, that I loved it. Davy has mixed feelings about Dread Pirate Roberts, but I simply think he's jealous. I can't blame him - him being a pirate without any pirating adventures, after all. It would surely take a toll on a man (or dog), don't you think?

(Speaking of, I fancy myself a rather close thing to Westley, wouldn't you think? We're both charming and alluring.)

My best mate Robin wishes you a good evening. (I tried to explain time differences to him and how my letters more often than not reach you in the daytime, but he's a stubborn arse.) And I, Swan, wish you a delightful week ahead. I know Monday's can be a sour spot so I can only hope some part of this letter made you smile. For my sake, don't forget to eat lunch today - and none of that terrible greasy nonsense you're so fond of. You need your health to keep fighting the good fight.

Your friend,

Killian

She reads it over twice, as she usually does with his letters, smiling and rolling her eyes at just the right moments. And then once more, for good measure before she's reaching over for her legal pad and shuffling through her drawer for a working pen.

It's bad work ethic, she thinks, to do personal work during her office hours, but those file cabinets have been a mess for two months, they can stand being a mess for fifteen more minutes.

She's never been good with words, and compared to him, she's like a toddler trying to tell a story, but he doesn't mind, doesn't call her out on the fact that she can't do flowery language and avoids using the word ironically because she's afraid she's going to use it wrong.

She's never been good with words, but for him, she tries.

-/-

Killian -

Miners' Day is for the miners (obviously), I don't think anyone knows Granny's name for sure because they're too scared to ask (she's got a crossbow in the broom closet, and I might have a badge but I still wouldn't go up against her on a good day), and maybe you should try Googling the town instead (I want to call you out on your old-timey methods but, then again, I'm sitting at my desk hand-writing you a letter so who am I to judge?). I've lived in Storybrooke since I was 17, and even I haven't uncovered all its secrets.

I think you're unfairly depriving Davy of pirate adventures. You're his sole guardian after all, if he can't count on you to take him out onto the open seas, who can he count on? But, you'd need a ship for that wouldn't you? And I doubt you have a ship - you're no Westley after all.

Let Robin know I'll take his greeting anyway even though it's way too early in the morning here. Maybe if I pretend it's evening, the start-of-the-week-blues will kick itself to the curb. Doesn't help that I'm on filing duty for the next few days. A little nugget of wisdom: never take up sheriffing a small town unless the only crimes you want to solve are 'who stole Billy's monkey wrench?'

(Spoiler alert: he flung it in his trash accidentally. Solve of the century.)

I'm betting a lawyer has a much more interesting regular week than I do. Don't you have that gig lined up for this weekend at Robin's bar? Make sure you practice otherwise you'll forget your lines mid-performance and the crowd will throw beer bottles at you.

A little less pissed about Monday morning,

Emma

-/-

She teeters away from her strictly onion ring diet to opt for a grilled chicken salad for lunch from the diner. Ruby shoots her a skeptical look over her french fries but Emma just shrugs like it's a common thing for her, doesn't explain any of it to her friend.

There's nothing to explain, after all.

(She hates the salad, and makes sure to add that opinion in the postscript of the letter before mailing it.)

-/-

When she had first started writing to Killian, her letters had been short, abrupt, and usually divulging nothing of her life. How or when he started to pry her so open that her letters grew to double-sided messes, full of bits about her week and about her life in general, is beyond her. His letters are always longer than hers, like he can't wait to tell her everything he's thought of since she's last sent hers. She sees it in his cursive, the haste to get everything down, the way the words are usually connected together with a line, no spaces in between.

She tells him about the flock of ducklings that Graham rescued from under an abandoned truck on the way out of town and how much Davy might love to play with them, she talks about Ingrid's redecorations of the ice cream shop, the way her boots are getting too worn out just before the cold kicks in, how she wishes some days that she didn't live in a small town because her rough nights mean every single person in her 5-mile radius learns of her dreadful hangover the next day.

He's right there with her in his replies, in the way he lets conversations flow from nothing to everything all in the same paragraph. It's a skill of his, this letter writing. Maybe Ruby isn't too far off with the whole Darcy thing, after all. He tells her of how he managed to tear a hole in his favourite navy blue sweater, how he looks forward to Friday evenings because that's when he gets to see his brother and eat a home cooked meal, how much Davy would actually adore the ducks considering he runs around in circles every time he sees them while they're out on the boat. (Because, yeah, turns out he does own a boat after all, the smug bastard.) He tells her about Robin, about Robin's bar, about his favourite spot in all of London, the one right outside The National Gallery.

That last bit ends up with him telling her that he dropped out of art school, which starts a new discussion, their replies scrawled right at the end of their letters in some kind of agreed form of conversation.

You went to art school? But you're a lawyer.

Very perceptive, Swan, he adds in in his next letter, but I did say I dropped out of art school. I went into law instead, it was a more viable career option especially considering I did not want my brother to fend for me for all his life. The poor sod would end up buying all my paintings just to keep me afloat, I'm sure.

(Because of course he's an artist, on top of being a musician and a lawyer and a dog-dad and owning a boat. She should just expect him to win a Nobel peace prize and cure cancer at this point.)

She likes how close he is to his brother, likes that, even though he was an orphan, he still had someone. She has Ingrid who took her in a few months shy of her 18th birthday and decided to keep her afterwards anyway. And he has Liam, who's fought tooth and nail to keep Killian by his side.

And she tries not to dwell on the fact that even though it's a letter, and she shouldn't be able to, she picks out every small piece of gratitude and every insecurity.

Maybe that's why she asks.

Would you paint me something?

He doesn't reply in the next letter, choosing instead to talk about Davy's excitement over cream cheese bagels. But the second letter after that comes with a larger envelope, holding a serenely realistic painting of an ocean landscape, filled with blues and greens and a silhouette of a ship. He doesn't mention anything about it in the letter except a little Hope it reached in one piece, you never can trust postal services to pay mind to those 'fragile' stickers.

It's good. It's really fucking good. And she stares at it for a good half hour, as if committing it to memory, before very carefully standing it up to lean against the mirror of her dresser, and adding in photo frame on her grocery list.

-/-

Saturdays are reserved for breakfast at Ingrid's, and even though her mother only lives on the edge of Storybrooke - not too far from her own place -, it always feels like a getaway to her. Even if it is for just a few hours.

Mostly, it's a relief to not have brunch with Mary Margaret or drinks with Ruby because both of them always end up gravitating towards the subject of a certain Englishman.

But it's also because the minute she steps into Ingrid's house, she's tackled by a myriad of memories from her teenage years. Every time she stands at the kitchen island as her mom makes scrambled eggs and bacon, she can't help but revel in the waves of nostalgia. She should be over it by now, really, but she likes that she has a home, and she's damn well going to hold on to that for as long as she can.

(She's stubborn that way.)

"How's work going, dear?"

Emma shrugs like Ingrid's back isn't to her. "Same old," she mumbles over the rim of her coffee mug. "Nothing more exciting than finally switching to a computer based system," she deadpans. The computers at the station are about 50 years old, give or take, so even though it's a good thing, it's also going to take them a little while to implement.

Ingrid smiles, unperturbed by Emma's sarcasm, placing the staple breakfast of eggs, bacon, and sausages on the table. They sit and dig in, silence surrounding them until Ingrid quips up in what Emma assumes is supposed to be a subtle fashion, "A young man came into the shop the other day. He's new in town and -"

"Mom." This is exactly why, in the few months months since her correspondence began, Emma hasn't mention her pen pal to her mother.

"- rode into the place on his motorbike, no less. He seemed charming, said he was a writer, and -"

"Mom."

"What? I'm just telling you about something that may interest you."

"More like someone that you'd like for me to be interested in," she raises an unamused eyebrow. "I told you to stop trying to set me up with random men."

"Emma, dear," her mother's eyes soften and she releases the hard grip she has on her cutlery, "you know I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy," she mutters, shuffles a little bit under Ingrid's pitying gaze. "I'm fine being alone," she adds more confidently, diverting her attention back to her eggs.

"That doesn't mean you need to stay that way. There's better states than fine, Emma."

Emma sighs and her mother mirrors the action, but she must get it because she drops the topic. She talks about the ice cream parlour instead and asks Emma about her friends. It's only when they're clearing the table, resuming their usual wash-and-dry routine that her mom speaks up with the same tone again, "So, when exactly are you going to tell me about that British boy you write to?"

And Emma's glad she's already handed her mom the mug to dry because she would have dropped it all over the linoleum. "I - what-," she cuts herself off and takes to glaring at the plate in the sink instead. Goddamn Ruby.

"I've known for a while, dear," her mother playfully nudges her shoulder trying to lighten the mood, "why didn't you ever mention it?"

"Because you'd make a big deal out of it like Ruby and Mary Margaret and Graham do," she grumbles.

"Is there any reason for them to be making a big deal out if it?"

"No," Emma says a bit too fast. She breathes in, out, picks up the plate and starts scrubbing, "No, there isn't. He's just a friend, who happens to be a man, who lives over a thousand miles away."

Ingrid hums contemplatively and Emma kind of wants to break the plate in her hands because she knows she's just sounded way too defensive. She just might snap it in two, she thinks, with how hard she's sponging it.

"You were never one for writing as far as I can remember."

"I'm still not," she exhales, not wanting to argue with Ingrid so early in the morning, "it's just different. He gets a lot of things that people don't."

With her stunted answers, you'd think she was never one for talking, either.

Ingrid hums again, plucking the plate, that's been scrubbed over a dozen times, out of her hands. She's left with wrinkled fingers that she doesn't know what to do with, so she just wrings them together, not knowing why she gets so defensive whenever she talks about Killian.

(More like, not wanting to think about why, at all.)

"I'm glad you're opening up to more people, you always were a hard nut to crack," Ingrid half laughs, bumping her shoulder again. That's the last thing she says about the whole situation, and Emma's thoughts reel once again as she sits in her Bug to drive to the supermarket as per her routine.

She'd rather not think about how everyone seems to be pushing her towards a man that she's never even met. One that lives across the ocean. One that actually could just be lying to her about everything, to boot.

(She knows he isn't - somehow she just knows.)

(She doesn't want to think about that, either.)

But her mind jumps to the fact that she'll most likely get a letter tomorrow morning. And she's glad she's in her car and not in front of a mirror because she really does not want to analyse the smile that she feels immediately crawl onto her face.

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