Author's Note: I'm so, so sorry for the delay with this chapter - I know it must have seemed to many of you like I had abandoned this fic, which definitely wasn't and isn't the case! The culprit is a combination of school/life, being generally disheartened with my writing, and realizing that writing relationships naturally growing is Really Freaking Hard (I think I'd started this last August/September, and I swear I've written and rewritten it at least ten times over since then). This is also my first ever multi-chapter fic, which means I'm not quite used to writing with the expectation of churning out new chapters frequently thanks to my horribly fickle muse.

Tl;dr - I basically have no good excuse for why this is so late, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, and I really, really hope the next chapter isn't too far away! Thank you so much for reading!


Some Sort of Neighborly

Chapter 3

It takes Killian until the third round of knocking to finally get a response.

"Hang on, hang on, Jesus," he hears through the door. "Do you know what fucking time it—"

Her voice falters when the door swings open, and it takes everything in him to put on a wide grin and pretend his heart isn't doing the same, because her hair's a mess and she's wearing sweatpants and he's beyond flabbergasted at how she can still look so good even when he thinks she's supposed to look bad.

"Morning, love," he says cheerfully as she fixes him with a resigned look.

"Why am I not surprised it's you?"

"I do have a penchant for giving you early morning surprises."

"For some reason I thought it'd be a one-time thing," she says, but she doesn't seem to be quite as annoyed as he'd have expected any other neighbor of Robin's to be at 9am on a Saturday. Granted, he's not too keen on the fact that she still looks mildly pissed, but if this actually works, he's not going to be one to complain. "To what do I owe the pleasure this time?"

"I… I need a place to hide," he admits with what he hopes is his most pathetically endearing smile. Curiously, her jaw remains set but her eyelashes flutter, and he has barely enough time to wonder if he's almost home free before she snorts.

"Hide? From what?" He gives her a few seconds of staring at her feet to figure it out, and sure enough, she catches on, for the most part at least. "From whom? What did you do to piss Robin off this time?"

"I didn't do anything – and what do you mean this time?"

"What happened?" she repeats, crossing her arms and refusing point-blank to elaborate. He rolls his eyes.

"It wasn't me. It was Roland. His preschool class is having a bake sale, and he wanted Robin's ex-girlfriend to come help them make cookies."

"What?" she asks, looking more confused than ever.

"Regina is the principal of Robin's school," he adds quickly. "Roland saw her and asked her to come today because he misses her, and she and Robin are… not exactly on good terms."

"And… you don't want to get in the middle of that," she finishes his unspoken implication, drawing the words out like she's trying to gauge his reaction. Knowing her, she's probably seeing right through him, and as he shrugs helplessly, he suddenly finds himself not wanting to hear her answer. She studies him for a long moment – her eyes are bright and green and narrowed with suspicion – before she speaks again.

"You're awful."

"What?"

"You're seriously telling me you're going to leave the poor kid alone in the middle of whatever feud his stepparents are in?"

"Technically they're not married—"

"You know what I mean," she says with a pointed look, but even without it, yeah, he knows. And he'd only had to take a quick glance around her apartment last week when he'd helped her with that package – neat, Spartan, and not a photograph in sight – to know just how much she'd understand, too. "Get out. I need to get changed."

"Wait, what?" He stumbles backwards through her door, her palm warm on his chest through the fabric of his flannel, without having even realized he'd been leaning against her doorframe.

"I'm getting changed, and then I'm coming with you."

"You're… going to come bake cookies with me, your neighbor, and his ex-girlfriend?"

"And Roland," she adds impatiently. "Since you're apparently too much of a child to do it by yourself."

It's barely an opening, but the giddiness pumping through his veins seems to have made him bolder than usual. "I assure you, love, I'm anything but a child."

"Could have fooled me."

"I can make it perfectly clear, if you'd like."

"You really don't know how to ask for help, do you?" she sighs. "I'm just about to change my mind." He laughs at the dark glower that wrinkles her pretty mouth, wondering just how much he can test his luck.

"In that case, there's no need to change, love – you look fantastic already. Unless you really do have a nurse's costume lying around?"

"Out," she says with finality, but he swears he catches a glimpse of the tiniest trace of a smile on her face before the door closes in his face.

He lets out a slow breath, counts the wood grains in her door until he's sure he's no longer grinning like an idiot. Realistically, that could have gone a lot better, but it also could have gone a lot worse, and as he lets himself into the apartment next door, he repeats that thought in his head to avoid processing the notion that Emma Swan is about to be rounding out what promises to be the most eclectic group of people with whom he's ever done anything in his entire life, much less bake cookies.

"And where the hell did you go?" Robin demands as soon as Killian passes the kitchen, where he seems to be in the middle of adjusting the countertop jars to a very specific angle. Killian freezes by the breakfast bar, halfway through the motion of swinging himself over and onto the couch.

"Bathroom," he says tentatively, although it sounds more like a question.

"I hope you remembered to put the toilet seat do—don't sit," Robin finishes with a hiss, swooping into the living room and swatting Killian away from the couch like an angry mother hen. "I just straightened everything, and I don't need you rumpling the slipcover."

"Bloody hell, calm down," Killian snorts. "It's not like Regina's never been here before."

"Actually, she hasn't," Robin replies stonily, which immediately has Killian wishing he was flexible enough to put his foot in his mouth. Obviously she hasn't been to Robin's new apartment before, because the reason it's new in the first place is because of her. Well, also partially because of Robin's ex-wife, who had decided to show up out of nowhere exactly two months before Robin suddenly happened to be in need of a new lease – but since there's no love lost between him and Regina, Killian's willing to ignore that part in favor of the sudden sense of dread that the two women of whom he's most terrified are very soon going to be in the same room at the same time.

"Well, if you're trying to match her impeccable tidiness, you're out of luck, mate. I think you've missed a few specks of dust on the counter," he tries, and thankfully, Robin sighs with a shake of his head. The last thing either of them needs right now is a repeat of six months ago, because he swears this time there isn't enough alcohol in the apartment for the both of them–

"—told you about me," a voice says from somewhere outside, sharp and curt and enough to tear him from that train of thought back to the reality where Robin is suddenly blanching, turning to Killian like a deer caught in headlights.

"Oh, well, I've actually only just met him myself," he hears Emma say, followed by the sound of the door closing. "Neither of us have exactly normal working hours." When Emma emerges from the front hallway, he sees that she's inexplicably taken his advice not to change out of her sweatpants – she catches his eye, bites her lip out of a grin like she's trying to kill him – and that she's accompanied by a dark-haired, red-lipped woman he's hasn't really been too eager to see again.

"Ah," Regina says upon spotting him. "You're here. Why am I not surprised?"

"It's nice to see you too, Regina," he replies with the least sincerity he can muster.

"I ran into Regina outside while I was getting my mail," Emma says quickly, and when her gaze lingers on him, he immediately feels the irritation diffuse in favor of another small problem that has his pulse fluttering – the fact that he is apparently now sharing secrets with Emma Swan. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion. She mentioned she was here to see you, Robin, and your door was open, so…"

"It was unlocked, not open." Robin's first words are, unsurprisingly, not the best ones he could have chosen, and he immediately looks like he wants nothing more than to fling himself off of the fire escape.

"It was open," Regina repeats in a cold voice that leaves little room for argument, and Killian realizes his mistake a minute too late. Stupidly enough, he doesn't seem to possess enough tact to stop himself from glancing at Emma, who returns his look with one that very clearly tells him how much of an idiot he is. Fortunately, Robin seems to be too preoccupied with the current situation to notice. "And hello to you too."

There's a beat of silence. "Regina…" he starts. A flare of panic ignites in Killian's chest at the thought of them hashing things out right now – the last thing he'd wanted to happen was for Emma to get caught in private conversation she'd neither understand nor care about. He's just about to step in, although he hasn't a clue what kind of distraction he'd be able to provide without putting himself right in the crosshairs, but as it turns out, he's unneeded in that particular category: Roland saves the day yet again, his delighted voice echoing down the bedroom hallway and reminding all of them of exactly why they're here. And just like that, the ice in the room seems to melt – Regina's face breaks out into a wide smile, Robin rubs the back of his neck ("Emma, feel free to stay if you'd like. We're baking cookies."), and Emma's eyes glint victoriously as she passes him into the kitchen.

He wants to hook her arm at the elbow and whirl her around, roll his eyes at her because this wasn't even your idea in the first place – but he supposes it's as much her plan as it was his, thanks to her superior improvisational skills despite his apparent insistence on flouncing the evidence of their collusion, and he still likes the thought that they can share at least this. Besides, he's immediately distracted by the fact that, when she shakes out her long golden hair to pull it up into a ponytail, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafts towards him, even without the dough Roland eventually manages to smear across her cheek because, completely unsurprisingly, the boy takes to her almost as quickly as he had.

What should surprise him is how Regina, who is usually as prickly as a cactus when it comes to meeting new people, seems to warm to Emma at least slightly more quickly than ice thawing in a freezer. He also seems to be late on the uptake that Robin and Emma seem to have already met sometime in the last two weeks. The only thing he seems capable of processing all morning is the sight of her crouched by the oven with the boy and how it makes his heart swell – and when she glances up at him with a small smile smudged with dough and laughter in her eyes, he forces himself to look away, because he thinks he might be in a whole lot of trouble.


"The Rabbit Hole."

"No."

"That new place, below Sleepy's Coffee – The Dwarf Tavern."

"Nope."

"Hmm." Emma purses her lips, narrowing her eyes across the room to where Killian's mouth is curved in the most infuriating smirk. "The Snuggly Duckling?"

At this, he lets out a rich laugh that should not make her stomach swoop like she's eaten a few spoonfuls too many of cookie dough. "You frequent bars with the most interesting names, Swan." She snorts indignantly in response, which only earns her a fussy snore from the child resting against her shoulder. With a hint of panic, she shifts Roland until he settles with his tiny arms around her neck, completely under again, just like his father and his father's ex-girlfriend sprawled out on the couch – leaning on different armrests, granted, but she thinks Killian still considers this a small victory – utterly worn down over the past few hours out by the five-year-old monster in her lap. She'd be passed out too, honestly, because 9am was way too early to be awake after a 3am stake-out, if it wasn't for the man sitting on the kitchen floor against the cabinets opposite, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Waiting for cookies is not a two-person job, she thinks sourly, but she knows she doesn't have anyone to blame but herself, because the only reason she's irritated is because she's losing and he knows it.

"Why won't you just tell me?" she hisses, careful not to jostle Roland again, and Killian just shrugs serenely.

"It's more fun to watch you guess."

"Making a list of bars I go to so it's easier to stalk me, is that it?"

He makes a small tutting sound with his tongue. "I thought we'd already established that I know where you live and how to break in, love, so I wouldn't need that information."

"Maybe you're just terrible and you just don't want me to hear you sing." She returns his look of mock outrage with a smirk of her own, and while everything about this situation is ridiculous – she's sitting on the floor of her neighbor's apartment with his kid sleeping on her lap and his best friend having an actual conversation with her like they're friends (except that's nothing new, not really, and maybe they are – friends, that is, in the loosest sense of the word) – she has to say she barely notices how her neck aches against the cabinet wood or how hard the tile is on her backside when it's 3pm on a warm autumn Saturday and the only sounds are the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and Roland's quiet breathing and everything smells like cinnamon and vanilla. And she supposes there are worse ways to spend her afternoon than with someone as unfortunately entertaining as Killian Jones.

"I have better reasons for not wanting you to hear me sing," he says, his mouth twisted in a scornful smile. "And I assure you, should you ever have the fortune of receiving a serenade from myself, you should count yourself lucky."

"What are those reasons, then?" She blatantly ignores the second half of his statement, because that would mean having to analyze how the thought of that particular scenario has her gut coiling in the most uncomfortable way.

"You, Swan," he enunciates each word with that horrible accent of his, "are distracting."

"What?"

"Do you think it normally takes us this long to make a couple dozen cookies?" he continues with a flash of white teeth, and if she wasn't being careful, she'd have grit her own into dust by now. Somehow it doesn't surprise her that he's just turned a comment that had her pulse jumping into an exasperating insinuation she knows he's just saying to get a rise out of her – although that doesn't mean she won't bite back.

"I take it you do this often, then? A single bachelor spending his free time baking with his friend, his preschooler, and his preschooler's principal?"

"I thought ladies fawned over gentlemen doing domestic things." He raises an eyebrow suggestively, but, somehow, it only makes her snort.

"If you want to be a real gentleman, why don't you take this kid off my hands?" She nudges Roland gently, careful not to shift him too much. "Women love seeing men with children."

"I don't want to wake him," Killian says too innocently. "Although if you're saying you'd be seduced by a babe in my arms, then by all means, love, hand him over." She rolls her eyes, but he's already on his feet, crossing the kitchen in two easy strides and reaching for Roland with flour-stained hands. "Really, Swan," he chuckles lowly when he meets her amused look, "if he's heavy, I'd be happy to take him."

"I was joking," she tries, but he's already sweeping the kid off of her lap without a hint of hesitation, nestling his head into the crook of his neck and straightening gracefully like he's done it a million times. She was kidding, she really was, but before she can voice her protest that seriously, she takes down guys five times Roland's weight for a living, the words stick in her throat when she catches sight of Killian's expression right before he turns away – tender and warm, his blue eyes sweeping the kid's face affectionately – and she has the sudden feeling that she's intruding on something very private. Hell, she realizes uneasily as her gaze flickers over to the living room, that's exactly what she's been doing this entire time, because she seems to be the only one here who isn't part of their little family – if it was just Robin and Roland and Regina, she might have politely excused herself right from the start, except now she's come to realize Killian falls into that particular category too – and yet he's inexplicably brought her right in the middle of it all, despite the fact that she barely knows any of them, despite the fact that the person with whom she's exchanged the most words is Killian, and even that's barely saying much –

The oven timer goes off, and three things happen simultaneously: Emma jerks violently, Roland starts crying, and Robin practically flies off the couch.

"What are you – ?" Robin grunts over the back of the sofa as Emma hurries to the switch off the timer. "Killian? What are you still doing here?"

"It's still Saturday," Killian replies dryly, bouncing Roland in his arms. When Emma pulls the oven door open, the smell of perfectly-baked snickerdoodles is just enough to make up for the loud commotion going on behind her. "Go back to sleep, mate."

"I fell asleep?" she hears Robin say.

"Don't worry, Killian and I salvaged your son's bake sale." She turns around with the tray of cookies in her mitted hands, returning Killian's grin with one of her own before meeting Robin's disgruntled frown.

"You're making her take the cookies out?" he says accusingly.

"I'm a little busy here." As if on cue, Roland's cries escalate in volume, and Robin rushes into the kitchen to take him into his arms, glancing over to the couch where Regina still seems to be out like a light. Killian hands the kid off, then joins her over by the counter where she starts to take the cookies off the tray to cool.

"They're hot," she warns him, trying to swat his hand away, but he manages to maneuver his way into swiping one anyway thanks to her one-arm handicap. With a maddening smirk, he takes a huge bite, and she raises an eyebrow as he swallows without batting an eye.

"What was that, Swan?"

She's just about to roll her eyes and get back to the cookie sheet – despite his impressive show of bravado, she knows he's bluffing – except while part of her doesn't even want to dignify that with a response, another part of her knows she's not going to turn down a challenge when he's practically handing her the perfect way to one-up him, literally. With her free hand, she grabs his wrist and takes a large bite of the same cookie for herself, making sure to maintain eye contact with him the entire time – that is, until her eyes start watering when it starts blistering the inside of her mouth. It isn't until the tears have cleared after she swallows that she notices that he's gone stiff, his muscles are tensed beneath her hand, and although the smirk has disappeared from his face, she's starting to fear it isn't for the reason she'd been hoping for. Carefully, she releases his wrist, belatedly wondering if she's crossed some kind of line, and that at least has his eyes jumping from her mouth back up to hers.

It feels like she didn't swallow well enough, because that has her swallowing again.

Now is a terrible time to be noticing how his scruff is a lighter color than his hair and that he has a small scar down one cheek, so she does what seems most logical: she blurts the first thing that comes to her mind.

"You tricked me."

He blinks twice and the spell breaks, and when she takes a deep breath, it feels like she's inhaling water. "What?"

"You…" she takes a step back while struggling to find the right words, because between this realization and the subsequent unwelcome distraction, she feels like her tongue is more than just burned. "You didn't have to hide in my apartment. Today. If you didn't want to be here, you could have just gone home."

He cocks his head, but the way the corners of his mouth curve is a dead giveaway. "What on earth are you talking about, Swan?"

"You never wanted me to let you in; you wanted to invite me here from the beginning." The words spill from her mouth as the pieces click in her head, and she suddenly thinks she needs to sit down. Instead, she braces herself against the counter for support because she pretty sure she's going to strangle him with her free hand otherwise. "You knew I'd offer to come help. That was why you mentioned Roland. You knew I wouldn't leave him alone."

He's biting his lip as he considers her, but it does absolutely nothing to conceal the delight spreading across his face. "And how," he draws out the word so infuriatingly, she wonders how she could have fallen for it in the first place, and even worse, he has the nerve to lean in so close her fingers nearly slip off the tray, "could I have known that?"

She has absolutely no idea, not even when she leaves with her own small tupperware of chocolate chip cookies at the end of the day, and she's later convinced they must have botched the recipe because it certainly can't be that unsettling thought that makes them taste the tiniest bit bittersweet.