I wanted to participate in each day of CS AU week, however the muses have been on holidays lately, so I've got a little something for beloved tropes because I LOVE tropes ;)
Thank you so much to Sarah for being an incredible beta and reading this at each step of the way. Absolute legend, I'm telling you!
Without further ado, here is a story about stories, with a touch of neighbours AU.
…
For the Story
…
Ugh.
She is neverdrinking again.
Her eyes open slowly, her mind catching up to the night before. There's an arm across her waist and she can definitely feel skin to skin contact, so she's topless. A slight shift of her legs reveals that she's still got her jeans on though, which fits in with her foggy memories of the night. And, while there's definitely still the familiar ache of arousal between her legs, she can't help but find herself glad that she didn't get the chance to go through with whatever wild and kinky night she'd have surely had with the Christian Grey lookalike in the bed next to her.
Moving as carefully as she can, she slides one leg out from under the covers and onto the floor, leaning back into the body behind her at the same time to lift the arm from around her waist. She's almost pulled herself completely from his grasp when he starts mumbling about not leaving yet.
She almost smiles. He was sweet last night, the flashes of memory that she's managed to put together reminding her that they'd actually had a decent conversation before he had offered to take her back to his place. And she had been out looking for exactly that, so it really couldn't have been a better proposition, except for the fact that somewhere between leaving the bar and getting back to his place, they'd encountered fresh air and the alcohol in their systems had gone straight to their heads.
By the time he'd finally gotten the keys in the door, it was all they could do to drunkenly make out in the hallway for a bit, round second base and fall into bed.
But even the promise of that gorgeous man behind her could not draw her back, not when she feels like the world is still spinning and like her stomach might betray her at any moment. So, instead of succumbing to the sleep-husky voice behind her, she leans forward to pick up her bra from the carpet.
"Maybe another time, Greg," she says, finally gathering the strength to twist around and notfall back into bed.
She sees him crack a smile, a slight chuckle escaping his lips as he shakes his head, "Graham."
And she has to smile at that because it gives her the final boost she needs to just get the hell out of there. Get away from the tempting man who is surely just going to destroy her.
"Right, well, have a good day, Graham."
He reaches out to run a hand up her waist, pulling her in for one last kiss. And really, he looks like some kind of god and sounds like sex so she indulges in that kiss until the breathlessness starts to mix with the hungover-ness and she needs to get out of there before she throws up. Because she cannot throw up in this handsome stranger's bed. She would never ever live it down. Especially if he ever does cash in on that, 'another time' offer.
Pulling away, she gathers the rest of her things from where they've spilled out of her purse and all over the floor. She also picks up her shirt from outside his room, waving a last time as she pulls the black fabric over her head. He grins in response, already burrowing his head into his pillows in an attempt of more sleep.
She rolls her eyes and then turns to retrace her steps back out of this apartment. Shame, she thinks, taking an actual look around at his tasteful décor, might have been nice to spend a night christening a few of these surfaces.
She can't remember if he said he lives alone or not, but in order to avoid any awkward interactions with potential housemates, she tiptoes her way to the door, only sliding her shoes back on as she opens it to step outside and…
Right. Fuck.
Whereis she?
Pulling her phone out of her purse, she squints at the screen, realising that she's also lost her contacts somewhere back in handsome's bed. It's a tough go, but she manages to conjure up a map and sees that she's only a half hour walk from her place. Which really isn't so bad. There's a place that sells great bear claws and coffee about ten minutes up the road and she's convinced that if she can just make it that far, the second part of her walk home might be convincing enough to pass as something other than what it is. Because, right now, "Walk of Shame" feels distinctly apt, especially when a car gives way to her at the road when the driver really doesn't have to. She probably should have checked herself out in a mirror before leaving the house.
She wipes under her eyes, checking to see how much mascara comes away and is surprised by how little there actually is. After a quick wipe of her hands on her jeans, she runs them through her hair, trying to straighten out some of the tangles and, by the time she reaches the little bakery up the road, she feels like she can pass as semi-respectable.
Except that as soon as she walks in the door she is confronted with the cocky face of one Killian Jones.
…
"You, uh, you don't have to make me breakfast love," he calls out into the apartment, already halfway out the door.
A blonde head pokes around the edge of the kitchen doorway, embarrassment still plastered all over her face, "Oh, so you're just gonna…"
He nods, "Go, yeah." His hand has a mind of its own, wandering up to scratch at that awkward space behind his ear.
Her face falls slightly, "This isn't… I'm not… You know I'm into John from payroll, right?"
He chuckles, his hand coming back down to his side, glad that she's going to bring it up, "Yeah Tink, I figured that one out a long time ago."
She blinks a few times, pressing her lips together, "So, still friends, right?"
He sighs, closing the door and making his way over to her, because she deserves better than him just taking off without at least acknowledging the intense make-out session they'd embarked on the night before. "We were friends long before we were co-workers and we'll be friends long after. I'm just really hungover and I need food that isn't going to poison me." He rests his hands on her shoulders, fixing her with an honest stare, "And we both know that you will poison me."
She smiles up at him, her pretty eyes uncertain in the morning light. "I'm glad we didn't, um…" she sort of nods towards her bedroom, the implication obvious.
"Yeah," he agrees, nodding and instantly regretting the movement with the spinning dizziness hits him again, "me too." He leans forward to brush a kiss across her forehead, "I'll see you Monday."
"I'll be there," she says and he can tell that she's trying to sound stronger than she feels.
Squeezing her shoulders once more, he adds, "John's a bloody wanker if he doesn't see what he could have with you."
This time there's a little spark in her gaze when she meets his, a little of the Tink he got through college with and has seen grow into the woman she is now, "Thanks Killian."
He nods a final time and then, avoiding any further emotionally challenging topics this early on a Saturday morning, he says, "Now, I must really take my leave before whatever you're burning in there makes my stomach turn any further."
Her eyes widen and she swings around to the stove where a steady cloud of smoke is billowing up from the pan on one of the burners, "Shit!"
He laughs at the comical nature of it all, waving as he leaves his friend to dump whatever she had been attempting to cook for them in the bin. About 20 seconds into his walk to his favourite bakery that serves food fit for actual human consumption, he receives a text from the woman in question.
Tink: You're a jerk
And he feels safe in the knowledge that things will be okay between them.
He also makes a mental note to never kiss his friend again. That was a fine line that he definitely could have done without teetering on the edge of. It'd been one of those weeks, the shipping company that he and Tink work for having…misplaced several high profile deliveries. After and interesting day out of the office and down on the docks actually helping to try and locate the missing stock – which, by the way, is neither of their jobs. But that's a whole other thing – to no avail, they had ended up at the bar across the road from their office, getting drunk in the most convincing manner just to protest the day.
But when John from payroll had decided that the bartender had been more interesting than Tink, she had grabbed Killian, looked him square in the eyes and silently begged for his help. And he had acquiesced because Jaeger bombs, that's why. And when John from payroll had left with the pretty girl with the long wavy hair, Tink had practically dragged Killian along out of the bar too. He'd put a stop to it when she'd tried to straddle him on the couch, pulling away and evaluating the amount of alcohol they'd had – 'too much' was his drunken conclusion. After that, they'd sort of just plodded their way towards whichever flat surface they could in order to get some sleep.
As he rounds the corner and enters the little bakery on the corner, Killian has never been so glad for his drunk self's sense. Because sure, Tink is a gorgeous person and she's kind and funny and it would have been a fun night, but Tink is also not Emma Swan and, really, that's the problem at the centre of most everything in his non-existent love life.
…
She side steps him and his stupid grin, ignoring the way they have somehow, yet again, found themselves in similar situations, coming home from God knows where, the morning after God knows what.
He, however, does not ignore her, sidling up beside her at the counter with a ready to go coffee and bear claw.
Her shoulders sag at that and she softens her gaze as she accepts the gift. "Oh come on," she whines, "How do you do that? How is it even possible that you knew I'd be here?"
He chuckles lightly, tapping his own coffee against hers in a 'cheers' motion, before taking a sip and annoyingly not answering her question.
She just shakes her head and adds, "And how do you look so much more put together than I do right now?"
He holds the door for her and they exit the bakery with a wave to the owner, stepping into the fresh air, her hangover already feeling a hundred times less intense – the miracles of caffeine and sugar soaked pastry.
"Maybe I didn't spend the night out drinking and not quite make it home…" he answers with heavy implication in his tone.
She rolls her eyes, "Please. I am not the only one doing the walk of shame here."
When he questions her with his eyes, she just shrugs, "Detective, remember. And I may have misplaced my contacts, but nothing is hiding that delightful hickey from view."
His eyes widen comically, hand automatically going to his neck where she watches him discover the definite bruising going on just above his shirt line. Emma just smirks into her coffee, inhaling deeply and sighing in content at the ease at which she's been able to throw Killian Jones off his game.
Of course, she immediately feels guilty because he has definitely helped her out with her weird and wonderful sleeping patterns on more than one occasion. It's a friendship of sorts, born out of their uncanny ability to be arriving back to their apartment building at the same time, both with some kind of weird and wonderful story up their sleeve.
He's still poking at the hickey and wincing, trying to find its boundaries and she rolls her eyes at his preoccupation. He seems to notice her clear disdain and offers, "Suppose I can't get away with telling you it was an adventure through a blackberry bush again, could I?"
She laughs, recalling the time her had jumped in the elevator with her at 3am – she had been on a stakeout and had only just gotten in herself – covered from head to toe in purple splotches. They hadn't been able to tell the bruising from the berry stains, but what had really sold it to her as one of the better stories she'd heard in her life was the fact that the reason he'd tripped his way through all these blackberries was that apparent 'killer' rabbits were after him and his mate, Will.
"I don't think the rabid bunnies could have targeted your neck with such precision, actually," she mutters through her smile. This is just way too fun for her.
He smiles along good naturedly, "So we agree. It was a lucky night for both of us then?"
She hums, contemplating lying, but he's Killian and he'd just know anyway. Besides, she can tell he's hiding something too, "Maybe not so lucky for one of us." She crinkles her nose, recalling how she had felt not 15 minutes ago, "I may have passed out."
He coughs, choking a little on the sip of coffee he'd just taken, "Oh Swan. Good form."
"Whatever," she dismisses, "What's your story?"
He looks kind of sheepish at the question, "You know my friend, Tink?"
Emma narrows her eyes, memories of a petite blonde woman from New Zealand popping up, "Yeah, did you bring her to the building Christmas party…? She was talking about some guy that she works with that hadn't been able to go out with her that night. Someone from payroll."
He nods, "John from payroll. He's a wanker, we don't like him."
"Wait…you didn't…" She can hardly keep the grin off her face because Killian Jones might have just done something extremely dumb. She's just about to declare this even more stupid than when he had stumbled home from a concert with his, now, ex-boss's wife, when he shakes his head.
"No, no. Just enough to apparently discover that she likes to mark people," he gestures at his hickey again, "and then we went our separate ways." Scrubbing a hand over his face, he adds, "Still, it was not my finest hour."
She laughs, "No shit. You've gotta stop looking for your hook ups in your friend pile."
He groans, "Milah was not a friend."
She just raises her eyebrows because he was the one to bring up Milah. It doesn't matter if she was thinking it, "Still…"
They've had this argument a thousand times, riding up the elevator to their floor, shooting knowing looks at one another. "Still what, Swan?" he challenges, pulling the swipe card from his back pocket to let them into their building.
She allows him to hold the door open for her again, mentality berating herself for letting him constantly do something for her that is quite easy to do on her own. She turns back to look at him over her shoulder, "I mean, this is up there in terms of stupidity."
He only smiles, "You know, I know all your dirty little secrets too."
She holds up her hands in defence, after pressing the call button for the elevator, "I'm not claiming I don't have any. I'm just saying that you could maybe benefit from hooking up with someone you can walk away from the next morning. I'm looking out for you here."
The elevator dings and the doors open. In an act of synchrony, they both throw their empty coffee cups in the bin by the entrance as they step in. He presses the number on the side panel and the doors close, the two of them leaning up against the wall at the back of the elevator. "So what you're saying is that I should be more like you?"
She shrugs, "I think everyone can afford to be more like me. But in all honesty, I passed out on top of the hottest man alive last night. This morning I woke up, gathered my things and got the hell outta there. And I never have to think about him or that whole…incident again. Unlike you with the giant hickey who has to endure a second walk of shame and face your workmate on Monday."
Shooting him a self-satisfied smirk, she exits the elevator just as the doors open, secretly impressed at the timing of her quip. He follows her down the hall, even though his apartment is in the opposite direction, "For your information, we already did the awkward thing this morning, got it all out of the way. We're good."
She huffs out a breath, turning around to face him and finding him standing a whole lot closer than she is prepared for. She had been planning on telling him just how many other ways it could be awkward, but they have all flown from her mind because he is right there and he doesn't even seem to have noticed how far into her personal space he is, still rattling off how good a friend Tink is and how it could never be awkward between them…
God his eyes are blue.
She shakes her head at her own thought, saying his name to get his attention. He pauses, eyes flicking down to hers and she can see the exact moment when he realises how close he's standing. There's something fiery there, something heated and lusty and she wonders if he can see it reflected in her eyes as well. He stops talking completely, eyes dancing across her face, trying to read her. She wishes she knew what she looked like right now, wishes she could school her features to try and express what she wants him to know.
She wishes she knew what that was as well…
"Right," he starts.
"Well," she says at the same time.
They both kind of chuckle and he takes a step back, "Seems I'm the king of awkward moments then."
She smiles genuinely up at him. "Told you so," she sing songs, pushing down on the handle of her apartment and backing through the doorway.
He returns the smile, scratching behind his ear in that nervous way he sometimes does, "So you did."
She raises her eyebrows as she closes the door on him, waiting until she hears his heavy exhale of breath and then his footsteps down the hall before she deflates against her door. What the hell had that been? All she wants is a shower, but she just needs to compose herself for a second because what the hell?
Killian has always been an attractive neighbour to have. She's always thought he was nice, a gentleman of sorts, if not a little mischievous and dangerous. But, god, the burn of arousal between her thighs is not something that is going away right now and she knows it's in direct correlation to the man who lives down the hall.
Pushing herself off the door, she starts walking to the bathroom. It's only a few seconds but, by the time she turns on the shower, she's admitted to herself that she might, accidentally, be very into Killian Jones. Maybe.
…
He's generally a fairly easy going guy, just goes with the flow, patient and calm. Sure, he can hold a grudge if the motivation is right – he is not bringing up Milah again – but mostly he's pretty chilled. However if there's one thing he's ruthlessly stubborn on, it's not letting Emma Swan know how many coffee/hot chocolate/bear claw combinations he's had to gift on to unsuspecting strangers when she doesn't show up at the little bakery near their apartment building.
He'll never admit it, but he has bought countless beverages and pastries only to have her not round that corner. But he's also bought plenty that have met their intended target. And he likes to count those as his own personal victories.
There's something insanely sweet about the way her green eyes light up in curiosity every time he hands her just what she needs after a long day, or long night for that matter. He doesn't get the opportunity to keep Emma Swan on her toes all too often – she's too quick for him and she has that damn inbuilt lie detector that can usually pick up on his shenanigans a mile away – so he likes to keep his silence and let her believe that he has some mystical power when it comes to knowing when she is going to step into his vicinity.
In truth, he just hopes for it.
He can't pinpoint a moment when it became more for him; he'd like to just think that he's always sort of had a thing for her. They'd met in an unconventional way and it had immediately become their tradition of sorts, riding the elevator to their floor after random adventures at all hours of the day and night.
He remembers that first night well, holding the door for her as he'd stepped into the building. She'd eyed him curiously and he'd never felt more stupid for wearing so much leather. He'd just come from a costume party, surely she'd see that and know that he doesn't dress like a pirate normally. He still doesn't exactly know what it was about him that made her speak to him, but the next thing he knew, he was standing outside of the elevator on their floor, trying to think of ways to keep the conversation going forever. Because that's the kind of effect she has on him; she makes him want to be in her life forever.
"So are you just going to make me stand here and come up with reasons as to why you're covered head to toe in…" he'd leaned in to take a proper whiff, wrinkling his nose at the affronting scent, "bin juice?"
She'd folded her arms at that point and he'd thought her to be closing off, but still, she'd shrugged and told him, "Perks of the job."
And that had been it. A friendship forged in random occurrences during the night. He'd helped her carry in the 42 inch TV she'd found on the side of the road, she'd poked at his bruises when he'd come back from midnight paintball. He'd held the door for her when she'd run inside, escaping a small mob of Italians all trying to thank her with lasagnes for catching the man who had broken into their family business. She'd let him into her place while he waited for the landlord to come let him in on a Sunday night because he'd forgotten his keys.
They'd really never had much of a conversation by that point that had started conventionally with, "Hello, how are you?". It was mostly just guessing what situation the other had gotten themselves into.
So, to combat this pattern, he'd tried to ask her out. But, somehow, she'd beaten him at his own game, carefully guiding the conversation into safer territory at every turn, keeping their banter light and flirty, while also maintaining a certain innocent and platonic nature to it. When all was said and done, they'd somehow found themselves in a fond friendship. The little snippets she gives away have allowed him to understand that her strengthened façade is a result of a combination of people letting her down in her life and he's kind of made a vow to himself that he won't be another one. So he's been patient, he's been understanding and he's spent entirely too much money on caffeine and pastry for her.
He sighs as he closes the door to his apartment. It's getting harder to deny that there's something between them, that he wants more. He throws his keys on the kitchen bench as he walks past it, before hooking his phone up to the charger he keeps there and opening the fridge to ponder the food he's seemingly collecting and never cooking. There looks to be enough to make a couple of exceptional omelettes and he immediately wonders if Emma would like to join him for a breakfast that doesn't consist of sugar soaked pastry.
Yes it's an excuse to see her again, but what kind of opportunity would he be letting slip through his fingers if he didn't take it?
He takes his time pulling out the ingredients and chopping them up, setting everything up to the side of his stove so that he can just pour the mixture in and cook. Looking up at the clock, he sees that just over half an hour has passed since saying goodbye to Emma at her door; just long enough that he won't seem over eager. She seemed like she just wanted to crawl into a shower, so that should have given her enough time for that too.
He washes his hands, patting them dry on the jeans that he is still wearing from last night, and makes his way back out into the corridor. He's contemplating just how casually he should try to bring up this whole breakfast idea – whether he should pass it off as a friends thing or if he should see if he can try his luck at date territory again – when Emma comes barrelling out of her apartment just as he goes to knock.
She pauses briefly, her eyes giving her away in that she's not quite sure how to take him being there. He immediately retreats back to the known, back to safety, nodding stiffly at her. She must sense his unease because she graciously smiles at him and that serves to simultaneously settle his heartbeat and also set it off at a wild pace.
Either way, it gives him enough time to compose himself. He takes in her attire – the dark jeans, the sensible boots, the leather jacket – and deduces that she's probably gotten herself a case. "There's probably a certain circle of hell for those people who make you work on a Saturday morning with a hangover," he says, leaning casually against the wall. At least, he hopes it looks casual.
She finishes shrugging the jacket onto her shoulders, straightening up with a sigh, "Tell me about it. But I can't let this guy go or he may never surface again."
He nods understandingly, "Well, I look forward to hearing the outcome." He can tell that she's about to say something like, "I'll probably just want to go to bed when I get in," or "Yeah, I'll let you know tomorrow," so he doesn't even give her the chance, continuing with, "I was going to ask you around for breakfast, but perhaps dinner?"
She contemplates him for a moment and there's a sort of cautious apprehension in her eyes, but still, she nods carefully and meets his gaze when she says, "Sure. I'll come by yours when I get in."
He's grateful that she has to rush off after that, because he feels an immediate compulsion to fist pump the air. Resigned to the fact that he's going to be eating breakfast alone, he goes to walk back into his apartment, touching a hand against his pocket to feel for his keys. It's at that moment that he remembers leaving them sitting on the kitchen bench. Right next to his phone. His heart sinks because, although this has happened before and he has prepared himself for if it ever happened again, he's left his spare key in Emma's apartment. And he knows for a fact that Emma is not in her apartment.
Shit.
Chasing the elevator, he knows it's no use. Emma can move fast on a regular day; on a day when she's chasing a lead, there's no catching her. Still, he tries, riding down to the lobby and peeking out the door in the hopes that maybe she's forgotten her phone or something and needs to come back. But she hasn't and he doesn't want to venture any further out in case he can't get back in the building at all.
Accepting that he's going to be sitting outside his apartment door for a while, he heads back upstairs and rests his head back against the dark painted wood and lets out a chuckle because it wouldn't be them if there wasn't a story to tell.
…
If she's being honest, apart from catching her perp, today has been a complete write off. She's spent the day analysing her situation with Killian way too hard. Because on one hand, he's the perfect friend; he's someone that she can count on for a laugh, someone who she feels comfortable around with little to no effort, someone she can see herself still being friends with years after they lived on the same floor.
But, on the other hand, she wants to tear his clothes off, find the nearest flat surface and have her way with him. And she wants to keep doing that long after they lived on the same floor as well.
The thing with Killian is that he's somehow won her over by leaving her alone. There had been a time when she could say, without a shadow of a doubt, that he'd wanted to date her as well, but the further she's pushed him away, the more attractive he's become to her. But has she pushed too hard and too far? Could he even still be interested?
Her stomach is grumbling by the time she rounds the corner from the bus stop back to her building. The smell wafting up from the takeaway boxes in the bag dangling from her arm is making her mouth water. She stops at the liquor store next door and picks up a six pack of beer as well. Just because. With her arms now full, she's grateful for the woman ahead of her who holds the door for her to run in, smiling in thanks at the petite brunette who she's pretty sure is her downstairs neighbour. They ride the elevator in silence, the other woman hopping off on the fifth floor and leaving Emma to her thoughts for the last little ride to the sixth floor.
Would he even still remember that he'd asked her to have dinner? Would he be there? It's Saturday night, is it terrible to assume that he doesn't have plans?
But, as the doors ding and open, and her eyes meet blue across the hallway, all worries vanish. He looks so grateful, so beautifully into her that she almost blushes. But she keeps it together – he could be waiting for anyone.
Except, "Swan," he breathes, smiling and stepping towards the elevator to meet her as she steps off, "You would not believe it…"
She laughs then, because it's so them to have a story halfway out before even greeting each other.
Taking in his clothes – the same clothes from this morning – and the dishevelled state of his hair, she quickly makes a logical leap, "You left your keys in your apartment again?"
He nods, sighing heavily, "And phone and wallet."
"You're hopeless," she mutters, nodding her head towards her door, "Come on, let's get your spare key. You can have a shower while I dish up dinner."
He looks so damn happy that she has to turn away to hide the blush that is now definitely making an appearance on her cheeks. It's got to be a combination of sleepiness and the lingering effects of being hungover that have got her all worked up. But as soon as she reaches her door, her concern for the red tint of her skin disappears as she turns back to Killian with her bottom lip between her teeth.
He takes one look at her and rolls his eyes, "Not you too?"
She just nods, "Yeah. I must have been in more of a state this morning than I thought."
He loses it at that, his teeth flashing as a grin crosses his face, quickly dissolving into a full belly laugh as the corners of his eyes crinkle in glee. She just shakes her head, dropping the bag of food to the floor and admitting defeat, throwing her hands up and laughing along with Killian. "I swear you've only ever seen me at my worst," she says, sliding down the wall and sitting right by the food, reaching in to grab one of the boxes of noodles and a plastic fork.
His laughter calms a little after a while and he joins her on the floor, digging around in the bag for the dumplings he knows she would have gotten, pulling the container out with a triumphant, "Aha!" Once he has the container opened, he leans over the small amount of distance between them to bump her shoulder with his. When she looks up in question, he responds with, "Your worst is still bloody fantastic, lass."
She blinks a couple of times, swallowing the pad Thai in her mouth and watching as he continues to simply pick at his food like he hadn't just said something entirely charming.
Setting down her box, she makes a decision and, perhaps a little impulsively, leans in to knock the next dumpling from his hand. His eyes flash up to meet hers, the question of what the hell she's doing already on his tongue, but she doesn't give him the chance to ask it, instead answering him with a resolute kiss.
He breaks away almost immediately, his lips parting from hers with an overly loud smacking sound. Her eyes fly open, apologies already halfway out of her mouth, when he silences her with a finger over her lips.
She wants to speak, wants to explain herself and that it was just a moment of weakness and that she never meant to throw off their balance but it's been a long day and maybe she can blame the hangover on this too. Except that she knows she can't. She knows that he'll see right through her lie. So she keeps her mouth shut, her lips still pressed against his finger.
He's still watching her intensely, his blue eyes searching hers for something. The suspense is potentially actually going to kill her though, so she does the only thing she can think of and crosses her eyes right in front of his.
The silly face has the desired effect, breaking through the tension and allowing him to let out a clear chuckle at her childishness. He drops his hand from her face and she joins him with a laugh. As they calm down, Killian holds up a hand as though he is a child in class and Emma is his teacher. Playing along, she points at him, "Mr Jones?"
He smiles warmly at her, "I only have one question."
She narrows her eyes; she has rules for this type of thing, rules that keep men at bay usually, that keep people at bay really, if she's being honest. But she wants this with Killian, whatever it is. So she nods, giving him permission to go ahead.
In a surprise move, he reaches out to comb his fingers through her hair, leaning in so that his breath warms and dampens the side of her neck. She thinks he might kiss her then and her breath hitches in anticipation, but he doesn't, instead leaning back and pulling his hand from her hair, complete with two bobby pins that she had put in there to try and tame the wild beast this morning.
"What the hell?" she asks, wonder in her voice at his softness.
He smiles, "Could you, or could you not, pick the lock to either one of our apartments with these?"
She shrugs, squaring her shoulders because she can see very fast where this could go and she's not sure she's ready for her reaction. But, at the same time, he's here, and he's present, and he's look at her like he's desperate for her answer.
In the end, she's desperate for her answer too.
She nods, keeping her eyes on him.
His voice is soft as he lowers his hand with the bobby pins to the ground, a certain level of calm coming over him, "Well, why didn't you do that?"
She smiles, sure, "Because what good would our first date be if it didn't have a story."
And that is what he'd been looking for it seems. His answering smile is nothing short of dazzling, a flash of teeth and a gleam in his blue eyes, before he presses his lips back against hers. And, this time, there's no panicked movements, there's no doubt, there's just him in front of her and her back pressed up against the wall.
He leans in closer, arm wrapping around her waist as she shifts to accommodate his body. She wants him all over her; that much she knows, but also, more than that, she wants him all over her in the long run too. And that is a foreign, but not unwelcome, feeling.
She worries for a moment, as her hand is sliding up under his shirt to rest against the bare skin of his back, that she's being too bold, too forward, too into this. Because it is only very new. Like, minutes old. But then he moans and practically crawls over her and she realises that maybe he's just as into it as she is.
Then her damn clumsiness comes out to play and she knocks the little container of vinegar that had come with the dumplings over and the mood is kind of dampened along with the knee of her jeans. He chuckles into her neck, nipping the skin just below her ear and reigniting that mood all at once. But she knows they need to move inside. She knows they need to talk about this.
He seemingly reads her mind, sighing and resting his weight on his hands as he pushes himself up and off her, offering a hand that she refuses to take as they both stand up.
"Emma," he starts as she wipes her hands on her jeans and bends to pick up the bobby pins from the ground.
She just needs a moment to breathe, to assess, to not panic.
Because that had to have been one of the best damn kisses she's ever received in her life and the fact that he's still standing there makes her a little jittery. But jittery in a good way. In a way that makes her toes curl into the soles of her boots in order to maintain some kind of balance on the world right now.
So she takes a deep breath, she assesses the lock for a moment before inserting the two pins and, by the time she hears the tumblers click over and the door swings open, she's managed to keep the panic at bay. Turning back around to Killian, she nods her head over her shoulder and then walks right in, knowing that he'll be right behind her.
…
Waking up on Sunday is slightly different to how he woke up on Saturday and he's almost completely okay with the fact that it's a work call that's done it.
After he'd followed Emma inside the night before, he'd retrieved his key and gone back to his apartment to have a shower and grab his phone and keys before making his way back to Emma's. She'd insisted that clothing was going to be entirely optional, so he didn't really need to change, but he could feel the stale beer smell clinging to his crinkled blue button-down and really just wanted to freshen up.
In keeping with the clothing optional theme, he'd come back topless though. Much to Emma's happiness.
That happiness had continued for a good few hours after that. On both sides. Multiple times. Thank you very much.
By the time the Pirates of the Caribbean theme music ringtone rouses them from sleep, he honestly can't find it within himself to be mad at the fact that it's a work number lighting up his screen. Lifting his head to pick up the call, he catches a glimpse of Emma looking sleepily up at him and his heart nearly beats right out of his chest. She licks her lips, blinks her eyes a few times, presses a kiss into his chest and then curls up against him while he tries his best to answer his phone.
Her hands wander while he nods and grunts in agreement, fingernails trailing over the sensitive skin of his ribs and thighs. He bends a knee, just nipping against the apex of her thighs as she rotates her hips in a downwards motion, having to bite her lip to keep back the moan he knows she wants to let out. It almost breaks his heart to know that he's about to disappoint her so completely.
He hangs up and then leans down to capture her lips in a kiss that is doing nothing to help their current situation. Her hands press into his skin and he has to find it within himself to say, "Stop, darling." The whine that escapes her borders on a growl and he chuckles as he kisses her cheek gently, "I have to go into work."
"But it's Sunday," she protests.
He's finding it difficult to stop touching her, nuzzling into her neck as he says, "I know, but they found the shipment they thought we'd misplaced and it's imperative that we be there to hand it over or we may 'lose our client forever.'"
Emma's latched onto the idea of nuzzling and is getting some fine work in herself, noticeably avoiding the still bruised skin of his neck, as she says, "Fuck the client."
He grins evilly, leaning in to whisper in her ear, "I'd rather fuck you," before torturing her completely and rolling out of bed, turning around to face her so she can see that she's not the only one wanting more right now. "Later," he promises, bending down for one last kiss before he starts to gather his clothes from around the room.
She purses her lips, but nods as well, "Bring home a story."
It won't hit him until he's halfway to work that bringing anything home to her is going to make his life a whole lot more interesting.
…