A/N: So I was looking at this AU masterpost, and then I saw Tried breaking into my flat when they were drunk bc they thought it was theirs au. And then this happened. To say it got away with me would be a pretty big understatement. 3100 ~ words of I don't even know.

...

She shouldn't have forgotten her key.

(She probably shouldn't of drank this much either, or gone out at all for that matter, but she can blame Ruby for both of those in the morning.)

(Right now, she just really needs her fucking key.)

She groans as she helplessly palms the wood of her door. She lives alone so there's no hope of knocking, and in a flash of sudden, drunken wisdom and courage (done this loads of times, she thinks) she fumbles in her hair for two bobby pins. She kicks of her heeled boots and kneels down, bending the pins and pushing them blindly into the lock.

She tries to remember anything she's ever known about lock picking, ignores the fact that all her successes have been sober ones and continues. If she can just get in she can curl up in her bed, sleep off all those shots and then take double doses of painkillers for her hangover.

"Come on." She punctuates the word by ramming the pin sharply into the lock. Her sense of concentration isheightened as she feels something from within, and with as much care as she can offer in this state she pushes and twists with the other pin, until…

Click.

She grins, yanking both pins from the door and flinging it open. Stumbling into the threshold of her apartment, she lets the door shut loudly behind her and doesn't even bother retrieving her shoes, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack by the door.

(God, she must be really drunk to forget she doesn't even have a coat rack, as well as to not hear the sound of shuffling coming from the other room.)

She's padding through the darkness and into the kitchen when suddenly, via external and unknown forces, the lights come blaring on. She winces, raising a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sudden exposure and –

"What the hell?"

The astounded voice comes from behind her – angry and confused and what on earth is someone doing in her place –

Panic courses through her (this apartment building was supposed to be safe from intruders, dammit) and she twists round, launching her fist in the direction of the voice. Her knuckles sting as they connect with the intruder's jaw.

"Bloody hell…" the stranger mutters, hunched over as his hand flies to where her fist had made contact. He looks up at her with angry blue eyes and growls in a low voice "What are you doing in my apartment?"

Emma gapes. "Your apartment? This is – " she takes a look around the now well-lit apartment, and when her eyes don't find the plain décor and simple layout of her own place, and instead guitars and music sheets and empty coffee mugs, a cringed fuck falls from her lips. "This is your apartment," she whispers, and then glances back to him.

"No shit, Sherlock," he seethes, straightening up, hand still rubbing at his jaw. He looks pissed – very pissed, probably was asleep judging by the t-shirt and sweats and the mussed dark hair. "What gave it away, the door number? Or the fact that I'm here?"

She winces, quickly gathering herself. "Uh – yeah, very sorry, then…I'll just go…" She doesn't stop to hear apparent neighbour's incredulous reply, just spins on her heel, crossing his apartment in as little steps as she can and preying to some deity out there that she never, never has to see that man again.

(However attractive he'd been when angry.)

….

Killian studies his bruise in the mirror. Painful and purple, it marks the curve of his jaw. That blonde had known how to punch. She'd also known how to pick a lock, and Killian wonders how many other dangerous, syco people his new building has. He wonders if waking up to find drunken women in his apartment (however gorgeously rumpled and however long-legged) is normal in Manhattan.

There's a knock on the door and he frowns, leaving the bathroom. If last night was anything to go by, he wouldn't be that surprised to find a serial killer waiting with a chainsaw. When he swings open the door, however, he doesn't find an axe murderer there. Not even a person at all. Instead, there's a wide white box with a note taped to the top.

He picks it up, tugging the note from the top and reading it.

To the guy who lives here,

Sorry I broke into your apartment last night. And sorry for punching you in the face.

Please don't sue me,

That girl who now has a bitch of a hangover.

He folds the letter and puts it into his back pocket, and then bends to pick up the box. He wants to stay mad, he does (he'll have that bruise for days, after all) but when he opens the box and sees her peace offering – twenty four glazed, strawberry jam doughnuts – he gives way to the smirk that tugs his lips.

….

With aching feet, a sore back and a cut on her forehead from uneven pavements and a silly, silly job, Emma is in a very bad mood by the time she gets back to her apartment. She's fishing the key out of her pocket (a new key, given she needed the locks changing) when she sees a note taped to her door. She frowns, and pulls it off.

To Emma Swan it reads.

I hope that you are, in fact, Emma Swan, and that our other neighbours were correct in directing me here. Thank you for the doughnuts, and whilst they probably shouldn't be a sufficient peace offering – given that what you did is technically breaking and entering (and I could so sue you) – I really like jam doughnuts. As do all my friends. So I might just forgive you for the remarkable bruise you left on my face (where did you learn to punch like that?) if you tell me where you got them.

The man you punched in the face (Killian Jones)

P.S. I trust your hangover has improved by now (although you were pretty fucked).

Emma does not smile, she does not. (Not when it's just a note from a random guy who she had a drunken run in with. Not when she should be humiliated at the reminder of that night.)Or maybe she smiles just a little bit, the rather pompous tone and weirdly elegant handwriting being strangely amusing, and glancing round her apartment for a pen, she finds herself in a much better mood.

….

There's another note by his door when Killian comes back from the grocery shop, and he drops the numeral plastic bags to read it.

To Killian Jones,

I got them from the doughnut place near here. Leave the building, turn left and then left again, follow down that road and proceed eat doughnuts and put on weight. In answer to your question, my job taught me to punch like that. Frozen peas might help. And yes, my hangover is gone now. And yes, I was very drunk. Thanks for the reminder. Not that I need it – your existence is doing that nicely.

Emma

P.S. Thank you for not suing. I really can't afford a lawyer right now.

Killian chuckles, folding up the note and slipping it into his back pocket. He picks up his grocery bags, dropping them onto the floor of his apartment before proceeding to search his coffee table for a pen and piece of paper.

….

She's heading out to the gym when she sees his next note, folded and taped to her door again, beneath the brassy 22. She pulls it away, glancing between her gym bag and the note. She makes her mind up quickly, discarding her bag, shutting the door, and collapsing down onto the couch. She unfolds his letter and reads it.

To Emma,

Thank you for the directions to the doughnut place, I can now blame you for my forthcoming cholesterol sky-rocket and heart attack. And the fact my friends are visiting a lot more often. And I was very interested to hear it's your job that taught you your punching skills – are you a boxer? Wrestler? Mugger? I'm curious.

Killian

Emma bites her lip and re-reads his question. She wants to answer. Secretly, and with an element of denial, she wants to answer and further this strange conversation with this strange man. Maybe she should. (But then maybe she shouldn't, another voice inside her head whispers).

"Fuck it," she mutters, and grabs her notebook from where it sits on the arm of the sofa.

….

A strange sense of relief washes over Killian at the sight of a ripped out notebook page folded and stuffed behind the brass 24 nailed to his door. He'd been doubtful of her reply, he'll admit, given the fact he hardly knows Emma Swan (although feels increasingly like he'd want to) and that exchanging notes with someone who lives two doors down isn't very normal, especially someone who's punched you within the week.

And yet, she replied anyway, a notion that succeeds in making him smile. He doesn't bother letting himself into this place before unfolding the note.

To Killian,

I'm a bail bonds person actually. You'd be surprised how much punching that involves. And I'm glad to here you have more friends now. Doughnuts are always the answer. By the way, did I leave my leather jacket at your apartment on the night we shall not dare speak of? And did I leave my boots outside your door?

Emma

She did do both those things, Killian having woken up the next morning only to find an unfamiliar red jacket on his coat rack and two heeled black boots strewn outside his door. Must belong to the crazy blonde girl from last night, he'd concluded.

Of course, he'd been annoyed then. Thought that she could've at least remembered her things as she'd stumbled out of his apartment. But that's changed. Now he's biting on his lip to stop himself grinning at the fact that if Emma Swan wants her things back, she's going to have to come and get them.

….

She reads his next note at the kitchen table, holding it before her as she shovels cereal into her mouth, the post she'd gone to collect of no real importance anymore.

To Emma,

Bail bonds person, that's cool. Is that how you were able to break into my apartment even in such a state? And yes, I have both your jacket and your boots. Although I'm reluctant to give them up, I think they suit me. My increasing number of friends think so too.

From Killian

Emma nearly chokes on her Lucky Charms, laughter very ungraceful as she to remove the mental image of the guy from the other night wearing her red jacket and heeled boots.

And if she knows that this means she's going to have to see him again, and if she knows she likes that thought more than she should, she doesn't let the notion bother her.

….

"Killian, what's this?" Graham asks, letting himself into the apartment door with a folded noted in hand. Emma's folded note, he presumes, and his heart does a little jump.

"Give it here, Humburt," he says, snatching the note from the hand of his friend, turning so he can't see before unfolding and reading it.

To Killian,

No, actually. I learnt how to pick locks when I was fourteen. I couldn't afford a bike and decided that thievery was the answer. And that's my favourite leather jacket, you can't keep it!

Emma

He ignores his friend's pointed stare as he finishes reading it, folding it and putting into his back pocket before taking an innocent sip of his beer, resuming his place on the couch.

"Killian?"

"Hm?"

Graham rolls his eyes. "Don't play coy, what was that?"

"A note from my neighbour," he says, passing Graham a beer as he takes a seat beside him. His eyebrows shoot up as he unscrews the cap.

"A note from your – Killian, you moved in three weeks ago."

Killian nods, smiling, bringing his bottle to his lips. "I'm quick at making friends."

Graham narrows his eyes, holding him under his scrutinizing stare…before he huffs, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink. "Fine…if you don't tell me that's fine…" And then quickly, albeit predictably, he snatches the letter from Killian's back pocket, leaping up from the sofa and running across the room to read it.

"Fucking hell, give it back, Humburt," Killian says. He knows it's a lost cause.

"…my favourite leather jacket…you can't keep it…Killian, are you sleeping with one of your neighbours?"

"What?" Killian splutters. "No, I'm not sleeping with Emma."

"Then why do you have her leather jacket?" Graham asks with an incredulity that is understandable.

Killian sighs, and then launches into an explanation. "She got very drunk, forgot her key, thought this apartment was her apartment, picked the lock, punched me in the face and forgot to take her leather jacket on the way out."

Graham takes a second to process the information, frowning slightly, before his eyes widen and he looks accusingly to Killian. "You said you got that bruise in bar fight!"

"I lied," he confesses, and Graham scowls. They both say nothing for a second, Killian slipping his hands awkwardly into his pockets, and then…

"…is she hot?"

"Yes…" he says, although it comes out more of a groan. Even having had her stumble into his apartment in the middle of the night, Killian can't quite get her blonde curls, green eyes off his bloody mind, let alone the tightness of her jeans and the dip in her button down. "…gorgeous…blonde…"

Graham grins. "You like this girl."

"Shut up," he says, snatching the note back. If either of them notices how he never actually denies it, then neither of them says anything. Some things are better left un-said – like how after just one drunken encounter and a handful of notes, he really does like this girl.

….

Emma's sat on her couch surrounded by her laptop, maps, markers and various pages of notes for her current case when there's a knock on the door. She groans. Having been only just starting to get somewhere with this job, she'd rather not have visitors.

If she changes her mind when the door swings open and Killian Jones is standing there in jeans and flannel and black leather, she firmly denies it.

"Hello," she says slowly, "What are you doing here?"

He smiles, holding up her red leather jacket and black ankle boots. "I came to return these to you, love." Her stomach clenches. She forgot about the accent.

"Thanks," she says. When she reaches out to take them, however, he pulls his hand away, dangling them out of her reach.

"If…you agree to my terms."

Emma narrows her eyes. "And what are your terms, Killian?"

He grins, folding his arms and leaning against her doorframe (as if he owns the place, the idiot). "Go out with me."

She sighs, folding her arms across her chest. "Seriously?"

"Mm-hm," he smiles. "It's funny, ever since you broke into my place and punched me I've been unable to stop thinking about you."

She ingornes the easy, smooth-as-honey charm that she only just picked up on through his notes and narrows her eyes. "And if I say no?"

"Hm…big mistake," he says, gravely. "Not only would you be starved of my wonderful company, I'd be unable to return your things…and I may even have to go back on my word and press charges after all."

She scoffs. "Is this how you usually get girls to date you? By blackmailing them with lawsuits?" She wants to roll her eyes when his grin doesn't falter.

"No, it's weird; I've never had a lawsuit to blackmail with before. You're the first, darling."

She purses her lips and holds his gaze, trying to come with another reason why she shouldn't go out with him. But when she comes up empty-handed, she thinks that maybe it's because she should go. That maybe, in some strange, drunken twist of fate, she actually likes this guy.

"Fine," she sighs, reaching forward and tugging her things from his hand. He raises an eyebrow when she slips on her jacket and tugs on her boots, taking her keys from the hook by the door.

"Now?"

"That a problem?" she challenges.

"Not at all," he replies, and offers her his hand.

She rolls her eyes, but takes it anyway.

….

Emma Swan looks beautiful in red.

He'd thought she would. Back when he'd first found her jacket – he'd been bitter, yes, but he'd thought it nevertheless. He'd thought about how the colour would highlight the blonde of her hair and the green of her eyes and the pink of her lips.

And it does just that.

Perhaps that's why he can't seem to keep his eyes off her.

Or maybe it's this lovely autumn that they're having. Maybe it's the way the light breeze sifts through her hair, or the way the late evening sun shines through the changing leaves, painting their evening in reds and browns or the way a fallen leaf ends up in her hair and she lets him pull it out.

Either way, when she jabs him in the ribs as they walk through Central Park, and she reprimands him on staring, he doesn't deny it. He smiles instead, reaching up and wiping away the small bit of jam she has by her mouth (of course they ended up going to the doughnut place for their date), licking it off his thumb.

They end up sitting on a bench and she tells him exactly how she managed to end up that drunk the other night. Something about some chick named Ruby and a dare she was too stubborn to back down from (he doesn't doubt that).

When it starts to get dark and then darker they decide to head back. Her hand slips into his again, all smooth skin and soft fingertips against his hard lines and guitar-born callouses and neither of them let go until they're outside her apartment, when both of hers slip into the back pocket of her jeans.

"You gonna kiss me goodnight, then?" she says.

He raises an eyebrow, biting down on his smile as his thumb comes up to slide over her cheek, a finger hooking her belt loop, tugging her towards him. He kisses her softly, slowly, hand sliding back to tangle in her curls.

His "goodnight, Emma," comes after he pulls away, the feel of her lips lingering on his as she slips into her apartment.

….

Emma falls asleep with a smile on her face, and when she wakes up the next morning there's another note taped to her door.

Emma,

We're going out again. Pick you up at seven.

Killian

In hindsight, forgetting her keys isn't the worst thing to have happened to her.

...

A/N: Reviewww pleeeaasssee.