Some Sort of Neighborly

Chapter 2

He's beginning to think the universe is much less generous than he'd thought.

It's now been two weeks since he's last seen Emma Swan. Not that he's keeping track or anything, but after two Saturdays in a row of running into her completely (mostly) by chance, each followed by a week (more) of being plagued by the memories of her in those skimpy pajama shorts and that show-stoppingly indecent red dress, he's lamenting the lack of routine, for the first part at least. More often than he's proud of, Robin's words about being kept up all night drift into his mind unwarranted, which brings an entirely new element to his already inappropriate daydreams about her wonderful choice of attire on both occasions, and he's even less proud of how many cold showers he'd had to take in the first few days alone.

He knows he has no business thinking this way, but he's just the tiniest bit glad she's not engaging in those kinds of noise-inducing extracurricular activities with someone else. When her friend – Ruby, he remembers – had mentioned something about a date, he'd felt a twinge of jealousy he knew he had no right to feel, then a small ripple of relief when she'd clarified that it was an act for her job. He later pretends neither of these sentiments even crossed his mind; he's all too aware that he doesn't have a stake in her life, since he barely knows anything about her – much to his disappointment, Ruby's interesting revelation that she hadn't mentioned him to her friends at all failed to yield fruitful, hear-through-the-wall kinds of results, so he has no idea if she even remembers his name – but that doesn't change the fact that he'd very much like to.

Robin is, as usual, of little to no help. Granted, Killian hadn't expected him to be a wealth of information, given that they are fairly new neighbors (seriously, though, not really – he doubts Robin's gone a month and a half without ever seeing the woman who lives next door to him, and Killian suspects he's withholding any new information because of his completely poorly-judged distrust), but he hasn't so much as breathed a word of Emma Swan since their awkward conversation the morning after he literally broke his way into her life.

Which brings Killian to his current predicament. The Wednesday after the two week mark, he "unintentionally" leaves his leather jacket in Robin's apartment, and at the time Robin had been too preoccupied with getting Roland to bed to notice that, for the back end of summer, a thin t-shirt wasn't going to cut the train ride home. The afternoon of the next day, he stands in front of the diner around the corner from the complex, turning the spare key over and over in his palm and wondering how on earth he'd managed to be nothing but brazen the morning they met. All he has to do is suck it up and pay Robin an off-schedule but completely excusable visit like he'd planned, right down to the tiny detail of Robin working until late tonight (leaving Killian to pick Roland up from preschool later) which means he won't even be home to witness this haphazard attempt at interacting with this woman anyway. He'd purposely made this opening for himself – after two weeks of the universe refusing to do it for him, that is – and now he's honestly considering turning tail, sitting down for a coffee, and trying his damnedest to forget how much he's worried he's being extremely obvious, which worries him even more because this is stupid, and wanting to see someone has never been a crime, has it?

Finally, he grits his teeth, ignores Granny's are you coming in or not? glare through the shop window, and firmly strides to the end of the block. He can't very well start feeling anxious every time he comes over to Robin's, especially when he's trying to convince himself it isn't for more reasons than one.

To his complete and utter bafflement, the first thing he sees when he turns the corner is Emma Swan sitting outside the door to the building, tapping away at her phone, long bare legs (jean shorts truly are a blessing with this woman) crossed on top of a huge cardboard box.

For a moment, his stomach feels like it's doing a violent somersault, because really, he'd expected to have at least a little time after knocking to steel himself (although, he realizes suddenly, he should have done a little more preparation about thirty seconds ago, since he wouldn't have had any reason to go paying her a house call otherwise). When he gets closer, he notices a minute furrow between her brows as if she's concentrating or annoyed – a familiar gesture, then – and that the light glints off of her hair and makes it look like sun-woven silk.

"Hello again, Swan," he says quietly, biting back a grin at how she jumps nevertheless. Her eyes lock on his almost right away, and he swears he sees her swallow thickly.

"Jesus Christ, Killian, I almost dropped my phone."

"That's quite the parcel you have there," he says with barely concealed delight that, yeah, he's somehow significant enough to warrant her remembering his name right away after two (three?) weeks. Or maybe she just has excellent memory, in which case he didn't just think that.

"Yeah, it's ridiculous," she agrees. "It's also not something I'm carrying up to my apartment by myself. The postman fucking called me down here because he was too lazy, the asshole."

She spouts off a few more choice insults that would have a sailor cringing at her colorful vocabulary, but it just makes him even more amused. "What is it?"

"Minifridge. My old one broke, and my normal fridge is tiny."

In a sudden surge of audacity, the words fly from his mouth before he even realizes it: "Need help?"

She looks startled. "What? From you?"

"Sure, why not? I'm heading in that direction anyway."

"Not taking the window this time?" There's the faintest hint of a smile on her face, and it makes the summer sun on his skin just a little warmer.

"Those were… extenuating circumstances."

"You were drunk."

"My point exactly." At this, it looks like she's trying to hide a real smile, which has his heart skipping a beat. "But I'm sober enough to take the stairs now, along with your package, if you'd like."

"It's heavy, though," she says, as if she hadn't just been irritated at the postman who had given her that excuse. "Besides, one of my friends said he'd swing by to help me."

"And where is said friend?" he asks, wondering with a vague sense of dread whether this is a friend or a friend.

"Stuck in traffic half an hour away, or so he says," she spits bitterly.

"I'd be happy to help, in that case," he offers her, although her answer doesn't really reassure him either way.

"No, honestly, it's fine –"

"Think of it as the thanks I owe you," he says quickly, "for that wonderful night in your apartment."

He'd almost forgotten how pretty the blush is on her cheeks – almost, but not quite – and he has to say while he likes both patient and forceful sides of Emma Swan, nothing beats her when she's flustered. "You have to stop saying that. People will get the wrong impression."

"Did your friend Ruby get the wrong impression?"

There's only a tiny bit of ulterior motive behind the question, which makes the way her pink lips curve into an ill-suppressed smirk all the more confusing, although the fact that she's probably about to turn the tables on him doesn't go over his head at all. "No, actually. Ruby knows you're single. She recognized you from her grandmother's diner down the street."

For a second, he's floored. "What?"

"Yeah, apparently there's a limit to the number of times you can eat dinner alone in one month before people start judging you." She rolls her eyes, and although he's still concerned that it's somehow that easy to tell how just single he is from his eating habits, something in him wonders if she's reacting like that because she can relate.

"Does she work at Granny's? I've never seen her there before," he admits, which is a little worrisome considering how often he makes the trek all the way to the neighborhood just for this one eatery.

"She… recently got a bit of a makeover, of sorts. Maybe you'd recognize her with dyed red hair, crazy makeup?" Now that she mentions it, the pieces are clicking together a little more gracefully, although it's still pretty hard to equate the two images of this Ruby person in his head. "In any case," she jumps off of the box, gesturing with a small smile, "I'm definitely not waiting around in the sun for another half-hour. If you're going to be a gentleman, it's all yours."

Feeling inexplicably as though he's just accomplished something significant, he makes all the way it up the front steps of the building before nearly dropping the package and crushing his foot. It's the first time he's heard anything resembling a laugh from her, and he resists the urge to test his luck one more time just to hear it again.

The chances of her running into him again were already slim to none.

She had already accepted that when she'd resolved herself to avoid him at all costs because, sure enough, she got hell from Ruby and Mary Margaret when she returned that Saturday night (mostly from Ruby; Mary Margaret had just watched with a knowing expression on her face that was somehow even more concerning). On top of how already muddled she felt whenever the memory of his stupid smartass grin chose to flash its way to the forefront of her mind, that only strengthened her conclusion that Killian Jones was Bad News wrapped up in an absurdly good-looking package (partially because he was wrapped up in such an absurdly good-looking package), and that she would do well to either move somewhere far away until the memory of his distracted gaze over her figure stops making her hot and bothered in the worst way, or keep to herself when it comes to this Robin person and hope to god she never has to see his smirking, eyebrow-quirking friend ever again.

Well, okay, in retrospect, given that Robin is her next-door neighbor, maybe it's not that big of a surprise after all. Still, though, of all the circumstances in which she'd expected to see Killian again, her sitting outside on top of a boxed minifridge definitely wasn't one of them.

He huffs his way up to her (their?) floor in an impressive show of bravado, but she can see the way he's sweating in the summer heat and the muscles in his arms are straining, both only a little distracting because thankfully he chose to wear a black long-sleeved t-shirt today, which is both concealing and opaque when wet. (But also, fuck, he chose to wear a black long-sleeved t-shirt today, with fitting dark jeans no less, and she's suddenly very glad she started up the stairs ahead of him because otherwise she'd definitely be staring at his ass.)

Finally, he deposits the box in front of her apartment door with a grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans, and turns his gaze towards her.

"Um, do you – it's still pretty heavy so I could –" He gestures awkwardly, a little out of breath in a way that she refuses to find sexy.

"You can help me bring it inside," she says against her better judgment as she turns to unlock the door, "and in return, I'll get you a drink."

"That defeats the purpose of me doing this to thank you," he protests, but she's already jamming the door open and heading into the kitchen to see if she has any leftover beers.

"The thank-you was bringing it all the way upstairs," she calls over her shoulder. "The drink is for you putting it by the breakfast bar bar, under the counter."

She hears a small scuffle, then the sounds of him lugging the package down the hallway and into the living room, bordered on one side by the kitchen. He sets it down again with a thud and a whoosh of breath, and when she turns around with a cold Blue Moon in her hand, he's stretching out his back, looking around at her apartment with interest, particularly at the couch he'd seemed so fond of nearly a month ago.

"You've been here before; nothing's changed since then," she says, handing him the open bottle in what briefly reminds her of the last time they'd proverbially shared a drink – or, rather, when she'd shoved a glass of water into his hands to help him with his morning hangover.

"I know, I'm just –" He cuts off abruptly as he turns to accept the bottle from her, and she suddenly regrets whatever the hell possessed her to let him into her apartment again, because there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and on the column of his tanned throat down to where she spies a hint of dark chest hair over the top of his v-neck, and the sight makes her feel breathless as if she was the one who'd just carried a hundred-pound refrigerator up two flights of stairs. He meets her gaze readily, holds it for a moment without speaking, which makes the silence about as thick as the humid air, but she suspects that has nothing to do with why he'd suddenly stopped talking. "Thank you, love," he says at last, raising the bottle to her and settling into one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He takes a long swig, during which she turns back to the kitchen to start rummaging around in her cabinets just to avoid looking at him, before he speaks again. "I'm more of a rum man, myself, but I appreciate the gesture."

"It's not a gesture if you've already taken it," she says, knowing without even looking away from where she's filling a mug with water that he's just teasing her again. "Besides, beggars can't be choosers."

"Well, seeing as I am neither, I'll just – are you making hot chocolate?" he asks suddenly as she puts the mug in the microwave, sets the timer, and faces him with a package of hot chocolate mix in her hand and a look daring him to challenge her on her face.

"Yes?"

"It's a bloody sauna in here, Swan. You're mad."

"To be fair, I didn't just go for a mini-workout up the stairs," she points out.

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue the issue further, and the fact that he seems relatively nonplussed about her hot chocolate drinking habit makes him rise just a tiny bit in her esteem. Instead, he brings up something she didn't think he'd still remember about her from the last time they met: "You know, I'm rather surprised you didn't just bully the postman into bringing this up for you. I'm sure you must be good at getting people to do what you want in your line of work."

"Okay, first of all, I don't bully people. Negotiation is not bullying," she insists to his smug face. "Secondly, I had no qualms about talking other people, if not the postman, into doing my dirty work for me."

"You didn't talk me into it," he tells her indignantly, shaking the bottle in her general direction. "I offered!"

"You offered to bring it upstairs, but I bribed you into bringing it inside with alcohol," she says, biting back a smile at how easily he is to rile up.

"I offered that time too! I offered both times."

"Is that what you were trying to say? You were so out of breath I couldn't understand you."

"It was a fair bit of manual labor, Swan," he says, narrowing his eyes, although his mouth is curved good-naturedly; he knocks the top of the minifridge box with his foot. "I put myself at great personal risk to get this bloody thing here." At this, she laughs, and she reaches up to grab her mug out of the beeping microwave, stirs in the mix with a dash of cinnamon before she takes a sip. He throws her an interested look, but she doesn't give him a chance to comment.

"Occupational hazard. It's not uncommon."

"As a bail bondsperson, maybe," he scoffs. "I don't deal with nearly as many on a daily basis."

"What do you do?" she asks, genuinely curious when he gives a sort of half noncommittal shrug.

"I… I'm a musician, I guess," and he has the nerve to sound embarrassed about it even though she's vaguely impressed.

"Really? You sing?"

"And guitar, yeah," he says, scratching behind his ear as he drops his gaze; he's definitely blushing, and it jumpstarts the butterflies in her stomach. This is literally the first time she's seen him anywhere near uncomfortable – even after he'd woken up on her couch that morning, he was more apologetic than awkward – and it makes her feel guilty for no good reason at all.

"No crazed fangirls posing as an occupational hazard though," she quips, and he throws her a grateful look for bringing the subject back home. "So you must not be that good."

"Better than you, probably," he replies, although he's clearly joking now that they're back on banter territory, so she's not that offended especially because she knows it's definitely true.

"I'm a secret shower singer, so I guess you'll never find out."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Not if you're planning to break into my apartment again," she laughs, then wishes she hadn't tested him when his grin turns devastatingly wicked.

"I'm sure I could find other ways that are much more fun," he assures her, his eyes sweeping down her form in a way that has every inch of her skin prickling. Ridiculously enough, even though she knows he's still joking, it feels like her tongue isn't working properly anymore, and she must have been silent for a little too long because after a moment, he continues: "Alternatively, the walls are deceptively thin."

"Yeah, well," she says, thankful for the lifeline, "you'd probably find that fun anyway, seeing as you've already got one tick in the stalker category for breaking and en—"

Her phone suddenly starts buzzing in her back pocket, filling the air with a ringing that forcefully brings her back to reality – or, at least the reality where she remembers he's not supposed to look as at home in her apartment as he does (a habit of his, she's sure) and she's not supposed to just be noticing that now. She puts her hot chocolate down, glances at the screen, then throws him an apologetic look that definitely should not be apologetic, because he shouldn't even be here anyway.

"Urgent text?"

"Yeah," she says, typing back a quick message. "My friend is coming up. He's confused because there isn't a package downstairs."

"Finally got through that traffic, huh?"

"To be honest, he was probably busy sucking face with his girlfriend." At his sudden shift in his seat, she looks up. "Ruby, from the other day, and from Granny's. That's Victor's girlfriend. They just started dating, and their honeymoon phase is driving me nuts."

He licks his lips, which, as brief as it is, is possibly the filthiest thing she's ever seen and makes the heat pool low in her belly, then chuckles lowly.

"Perhaps I'd better leave, then?" As momentarily amused as she is that he's turning it into a question, she's more concerned about how, in a flash of what must be idiocy, she actually considers telling him to go ahead and stay. In the end, though, that's exactly what has her nodding slowly, trying not to notice the way his face falls just a fraction when she does.

"Yeah, probably. You must have had something you came to Robin's for, yeah? Sorry for keeping you."

"Swan, please, it was my pleasure to come into your home and steal your liquor," he says, sliding off the stool, and she follows him to the door while trying to suppress a smile.

"As it was my pleasure to coerce you into carrying up my heavy packages."

She opens the door for him, and he just stands there, unsure, just as she is, of how exactly to end this conversation. It isn't until she hears heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell that she realizes she doesn't have very much time at all to come up with anything witty, because if Victor sees what's going on here, Ruby, Mary Margaret, and David will all know about it by sundown.

"Um. Later then. Thanks again."

"You're very wel—" She hadn't known he was planning to say something in response or she wouldn't have closed the door, and, mildly chagrined, she hears him chuckle faintly through the wood. At this point, she's not too sure if she can just brush this under the I'll never see this guy again, so it doesn't matter rug anymore, so instead she wonders if they're set on a trend to end every conversation of theirs with a slammed door in his face.