A Holiday Postcard (CS One-shot)
It was 10pm on New Year’s Eve and Emma Swan was checking the mail. If she bought into that crap about how your New Year’s decided the rest of the year she would be extremely depressed as she slipped her key into the tiny door. As it was she was only slightly depressed and more than slightly drunk. She was also very alone. But she wasn’t dwelling on that not the way she did on her birthday or on the birthday of the son she had never met. No, on New Year’s Eve Emma celebrated the end of the holiday season and the beginning of her busiest time of year. Lots of nice but naive people bailed out some truly horrible characters in the name of the Christmas spirit and Emma usually spent most of January tracking them down.
Some New Year’s she got dressed up, went to a bar, and found someone ready and willing for mindless, no questions asked, sex. But this year she had forgone that semi-tradition in favor of some romantic comedies that she would never admit to watching, let alone owning and being able to quote from memory. “Shop Around the Corner” (so much better than You’ve Got Mail) had reminded her of her full letter box down in the lobby and the dirty look the mail woman had given her that morning.
Emma didn’t get enough mail to check her box regularly but the former tenant in her apartment had forgotten to leave a forwarding address and she got plenty of mail for the both of them; lately most of it was Christmas cards. She tried not to hate Killian Jones and her seemingly limitless supply of friends with cute kids and even cuter Christmas cards (Emma wasn’t snooping lots of people sent postcards with no envelope). After all she quite enjoyed the subscriptions to National Geographic, Blue Water Sailing, and Martha Stewart Living that also arrived with K. Jones on them. But it did bother Emma that this person, who hadn’t lived in the apartment for almost a year, seemed to have an abundance of people who cared while Emma had none.
She pulled out the mail, it took a few good tugs, and clutched it to her chest before trudging back to her apartment and “Sleepless in Seattle”. When she dropped it on her coffee table her eye was caught by a non-Christmas postcard of a small oceanside village with the words “Visit Maine” over the top in a cheesy font. She wondered who Killian Jones knew in Maine as she flipped the card over (she had long since gotten over her scruples of looking at Killian’s mail).
I used to live in your apartment. I am drunk and alone and it’s the only address I know.