He's alarmed for about a minute. Just a minute, when he hears the thumping out in his living room. The heavy sound of someone falling to the floor jars him from his insomnia-inspired reading binge until he hears the feminine voice, the low swearing that would put the finest sailor to shame, the tell-tale thump of a leather jacket falling heavily to the floor. He sighs, shoving his bookmark into place and hiding away his reading glasses before he climbs out of bed and goes to inspect what his neighbor has gotten up to, this time.
Emma Swan is the hardest nut to crack that he's ever met, the woman as stubborn as they come, and all he's ever longed for is friendship, but she's refused even the smallest of friendly inquiries from him: a warm hello at the mailbox bank in the apartment entryway, an invitation to eat pizza and drink beer and watch the program or movie of her choice, a polite inquiry as to her favorite ice cream so he could potentially leave a pint of it outside her door after he's noticed the rough-day-door-slam. None have worked, ever.
So it's a little alarming/surprising that she's in his living room, her red leather jacket now thrown over the back of his couch, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of the room until he suddenly flicks on the overhead light.
"Swan, what a lovely surprise," he says, the even tone to his voice not belying the utter incredulity he's currently experiencing. "What brings you around at this fine witching hour, plus one?"
"You told me you'd buy me ice cream when I had a bad day," she says, a slight sway in her stance, and without having to go closer, he knows she's drunk. "I had a bad day. I need the ice cream."
"Who crawls through someone's window at four in the bloody morning for ice cream?" he asks, because it's all a little more than his mind can handle. Especially when he notices that she's in heels that could kill with the right puncture location, a tight dress that looks like it's had a fight with a pair of scissors, and she's more dolled up than he's ever seen her. He prefers her natural look, her hair falling in soft, fresh-washed waves instead of the thick curls that fall around her shoulders.
Her jaw drops, and she seems to realize she's just hanging out in the middle of his living room, because she starts backing up to leave – towards the window, of course. She might be too intoxicated to realize she could leave through the front door.
Killian stops her before she can get too far, a gentle hand guiding her by the elbow to head back towards the kitchen. "Please, Swan. Come join me for some late-night ice cream. I'd love to hear the story behind that get-up and your lack of sobriety before you take your leave for the evening."
She looks like she's about to bolt, but the fight drains from her limbs the moment he ushers her to sit at the table.
Over the next hour, he hears all about her job as a bail bondsperson, how her night went sour, how she would probably still be locked up in her own apartment if she weren't just a little too drunk and ice cream sounded a little too good, at least four apologies for how high her walls are, and for breaking into his apartment via the living room window.
When he tucks her in on the couch just as the sun is rising, he promises to forget it all if she bolts before he wakes up, but she shakes her head, a sleepy smile fighting through the total exhaustion. "Remind me that I owe you ice cream," she says, and she nods off shortly after.
He wakes up to a knock on his window, with a freshly-showered Emma on the other side, to-go cups of coffee in one hand and a bag with fresh pints of ice cream in the other.
