Author's Note: TWO FUCKING YEARS LATER: hello! I could spout off a million reasons/excuses this story has been so slow on the update (basically a huge hiatus, oop), but instead, I'll just say that this fic has always (guiltily) been at the back of my mind, and I'm very close to finishing the writing process, so new chapters will be posted weekly from today if it kills me :')
Hope you enjoy this one and what'll be very soon to come!
Some Sort of Neighborly
Chapter 4
He doesn't expect her to be home at two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, so, of course, she is.
He's making his way up the fire escape ladder when he happens a glance through her window and notices that the television on the far wall seems to be on. It's also a rare coincidence that he catches a glimpse of the suspicious bundle of blankets peeking over the back of her couch – or, at least, that's what he tells himself. Before he can think better of it, he shifts the box in his hands to his knees, ignores the unpleasant fact that crouching outside someone's window is hardly the most flattering entrance, and raps his knuckles gently against the glass.
To his delight, the blankets stir to reveal a golden tangle of curls, and when she turns and spots him, he's pleased to see her return his grin, if seemingly reluctantly. It takes her a moment to press a button on the remote in her hand, then pad over to the window, the blankets slipping down her shoulders – she's in those damned pajamas again, the ones that only consist of a large t-shirt and bare collarbones and lean thighs, but she doesn't seem to care – and pull it open with a grunt that sends his mind straight to the gutter.
"This seems familiar," she says, leaning on the windowsill. The way she's propped herself up with her elbows, looking up at him with that ridiculously disheveled smile, makes him think of sleepy mornings after a night of those gutter-housed fantasies, and he nearly has to shake his head to rid himself of the thought. "What are you, some kind of stalker?"
"I was going for more vigilante," he replies cheekily. "Patrolling the streets and all of that."
"Vigilante? Are you sure you're not some kind of villain on the prowl?"
"Would a villain bring you," he takes a moment to whip the cover off the box in his lap with an overly dramatic flourish, "doughnuts?"
She fixes him with a hard stare, but her mouth is still curved at the corners like she's trying too hard not to laugh. "It's a shame I prefer bad boys, but I'll take it since you brought bear claws," she says finally, taking the sweet in question out of his hands. Normally, he'd go for the bone she very obviously threw him, but in the split second that she leans in he notices it – the hint of darkness that tints the pale skin under her eyes, the way her smile seems just a tad hollow, as if someone's dimmed the lights behind her eyes.
"You all right, Swan?" he asks her when she leans back to settle her elbows back on the windowsill. He should have known better than to ask, he realizes in an instant, because her expression closes off like he does with the box in his lap.
"Of course I am. Why?" He tries shrugging nonchalantly, as if he doesn't care as much as he does.
"Didn't expect to see you home."
"I called in sick," she says, although she certainly doesn't sound it, and his suspicions are nearly confirmed when she speaks again, a far cry from what he's almost tempted to call her earlier flirting: "Did you need something?"
"Just wanted to say hello on the way to Robin's." He's disappointed she's trying to get rid of him so quickly, but he's more concerned than regretful that he'd brought up her well-being in the first place. Still, he'd be amiss if he didn't at least try to keep the conversation afloat. "You know, this isn't quite how I imagined the nurse's costume scenario to play out, but I'm more than happy to compromise."
Somehow, it works – her pink lips curve in a wry smile, and his insides turn to gelatin. "Ah, so you're offering to play the nurse?"
"At your service, love."
"I'd much rather see you in a nurse's dress than clean up your hangover vomit, I'll admit," she says, taking a huge bite of the pastry in her hand with relish and a smirk.
"Oh, I assure you, darling, my nurse's costume is much more scandalous than a provocative dress."
"I'll have to take your word for it." He swears the way she licks her lips is a little excessive for how much of the crumbs ended up on her mouth, but that would involve staring at her mouth, which he also swears he hasn't been doing. "In the meantime, say hi to Robin for me."
It's an obvious dismissal, but Killian's determined to take advantage of every second he's got. "He's not home. I'd just wanted to retrieve some of my belongings and drop off some sweets for Roland since I was passing by, but I seem to have misplaced my key."
"So you're breaking and entering again," she snorts, but it's less accusatory and more amused than he'd expected.
"Not to worry, love, Robin always keeps his window unlocked," he assures her.
"That doesn't seem very safe."
"What can I say? The idiot likes to live on the edge."
"A dangerous lifestyle, huh? I guess he's more of a bad boy than you are." The glint in her eye tells him everything he needs to know about how much he's playing right into her hands, but the thought of Emma and Robin together, of all people, has his stomach in more knots than a playful jab should warrant.
"You forget, Swan, I'm still the lawbreaker," he says with a wink, and he's satisfied to see that when she laughs, the tension in her shoulders seems to melt away. "Feel better, love."
He means it in all the ways she probably suspects he does. "Thanks." The smile is still on her face after she closes the window and turns away, and Killian is suddenly very glad Robin isn't home to see how he can't seem to stop grinning as well.
Unfortunately, the giddiness at having, for once, ended a conversation with Emma Swan in her good graces is quashed about a minute later, when she approaches the window with a confused frown on her face, her eyebrows raised as she hauls it open again in response to his knocking. He tries his most charming smile.
"It's locked."
The small black pouch is buried in a box at the bottom of her closet, and Emma's fairly certain her hair is covered in a fine layer of dust by the time she emerges from her apartment, feeling gross and irritated. Killian's already waiting by Robin's door, leaning against the jamb like the cocky asshole he is, except she knows he's not actually as much of a cocky asshole as her attitude at this entire situation would have her believe at this moment.
True to that, his first words send a flash of guilt through her, then another wave of annoyance that he should even be making her feel that way. "Are you sure about this?"
"I'm not murdering anyone," she says, rummaging through the bag as she tries not to notice how cold the hallway linoleum is on her bare feet. Of course, he's impeccably dressed to the letter, leather jacket right down to ripped jeans that make him look like some kind of distracting rock star, so she has a little trouble finding what she needs at first. "It's not a capital offense, at least. And it's not like I'm going to get caught as long as you do your job and keep watch."
"Aye aye, captain," he replies dryly with a mock salute before turning to lean on the banister, the doughnut box forgotten at his feet. This, of course, gives her a fantastic view of his ass in those horribly fitted jeans, so it's with an even more frustrated huff that she yanks the lock pick out of the bag and crouches next to apartment 3A.
It's been a while since she's done anything like this – she'd firmly left that life behind after meeting Mary Margaret and David, after all – but she hardly feels guilty about it. In fact, she hardly feels anything at all. Her mind feels numb to the knowledge of exactly from whom she'd gotten this lock pit set and exactly who'd taught her how to use it, and it's especially not in the least because she's had to go around literally digging in the past barely a day after that same exact person had apparently found his way back within dangerous wandering distance of a sure-to-be disastrous chance encounter.
She was never supposed to see him again. He was supposed to have been gone from her life, just like he'd wanted.
She's not upset, not really, but she's inclined to think years of radio silence should have yielded something more akin to detachment, rather than a bout of nausea in the pit of her stomach and a mostly sleepless night. And yet, after hanging up from an hour-long conversation with Ruby that probably skyrocketed her phone bill and yet did absolutely nothing to her nerves (to be fair, Ruby had done most of the talking, but since she was the messenger, Emma had let her have her fun), she'd found herself delving into Mary Margaret's old video collection – which is where the other source of male annoyance in her life found her before barging his way back through her open window.
(She's very thankful she paused the television when she did, because she really doesn't want to deal with Neal and Killian in the same context. In fact, she doesn't want to think about Neal at all. Or Killian, for that matter.)
"Fascinating." The voice comes from right beside her, and she jumps, nearly breaking the pick comb inside the lock in the process. She notices he's bent down beside her a second too late to get out of the way, because he's inspecting her progress in a way that brings his face far too close for comfort. "So the idea is to mutilate the lock, is that it?"
She should be annoyed by the jibe, but he says it in such a completely innocent way that she's afraid he might be serious. "What? No," she grits out, twisting the pick in an unnecessarily complicated maneuver that forces him to duck out of the way of her elbow. "I'm just out of practice."
"I imagine the opportunities are few and far between," he agrees. He watches her silently for a long moment, during which she regrets her oversight to have hurried from her window straight to her closet and then right out her door without changing out of her pajamas – he might be too much of a gentleman to point out her lack of pants, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel the stupid goosebumps crawling up her thighs – before he speaks again. "Where did you acquire such an unusual skill, if you don't mind my asking?"
She does mind. She's definitely not telling him the truth, but she can't bring herself to outright lie to him. "I picked up a lot of tricks as a kid," she says, which is a much easier, if completely misleading, truth.
He hums, a noise low in his throat that sounds equal parts thoughtful and cautious. "Orphanage or foster care?"
"Excuse me?" She rounds on him, her heart plummeting.
"Did you spend a long time in the system?" he asks simply.
"That's an awfully tactless assumption to make," she snaps, mostly because he's hit the nail on the head without even trying.
"I apologize, love," he says, and he has the nerve to actually look sorry. "You're something of an open book."
"Is that right?"
"You have that look in your eye – the one you get when you've been left alone."
"How would you know anything about that?" she asks, but she immediately wishes she hadn't, because she suddenly finds herself dreading his answer. True to that, he considers her quietly, eyes darting between hers, guarded and careful and blue, and she swears he's so close she can taste his slow exhale on her tongue.
"I wouldn't," he says at last, and she nearly breathes a sigh of relief before he continues, "but maybe it's better not having anyone to care too much about."
She swallows hard, watching as he averts his gaze. She knows better than anyone about keeping her heart behind locked doors, but something on his face makes her think he might be able to give her a run for her money. "Look, Killian—" she starts.
"I didn't mean to bring up such a sensitive topic," he says quickly, before she can continue, although she's not quite sure what she's going to say. "Let's just drop it."
"Seventeen years," she says, and he meets her gaze with confusion. The words taste like bile in her mouth, but she spits them with less venom and more weariness than they should warrant. "On and off, for seventeen years. That's how long I was in the system."
He's silent, regarding her with an unreadable expression. She wants to walk away, wants nothing more than to turn her back and barricade herself in her apartment until the thought of having just admitted that doesn't make her chest hurt like it's ten years ago and she's realizing all over again that she isn't, and won't ever be, wanted – but she forces herself to stay, just because she knows she'll have the chance to take it out on him when he inevitably responds with pity.
Unfortunately, he never does.
"My father was an alcoholic." He has this small, bitter smile on his face, although his gaze never leaves hers. "I was almost placed in foster care myself. I know the feeling, love."
It's not the most startling revelation – at least not more so than the fact that he's telling her this at all. "What happened?"
"My brother turned eighteen," he says, and leaves it at that. It isn't a plea for her to keep prodding, she knows – it's an understanding that she can fill in the blanks, that she knows how; and, against her will, she finds herself wanting to.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Robin's voice startles her into awareness, and she feels rather than sees Killian jump away, tearing his eyes from hers with alarm. Still, the solid heat of his knee rests against hers when she turns to see her neighbor, who could not have had worse timing, taking the last step up the stairwell, Regina Mills, to her surprise, not very far behind him.
"Shit, Robin—" she starts, scrambling to her feet, her face feeling like an open flame. The door against her back is cold on her skin, and in realizing how bare her legs are, she also realizes that the scene they've set is incriminating in more ways than one.
"You locked your bloody window, you prick," Killian says as if by way of explanation, which elicits a snort from Robin and a cough disguising a laugh from her. He shouldn't be the one sounding indignant, but she supposes she should be thankful this all seems to be standard for their relationship.
"Looks like some things never change," Regina mutters, quirking a perfect eyebrow, to which Robin shakes his head.
"What the hell happened to your key?"
"Is that any way to talk to someone who just wanted to bring your son doughnuts?"
Robin scoffs, scooping up the indicated box with one hand as he brandishes his keys with the other. "I'm sure that's what you were doing."
Emma watches as they exchange glances before interjecting: "Uh, Robin, listen—"
"Don't even apologize, Emma," he interrupts her. "I can't imagine this was your idea." It was, actually – an unfortunate product of good intentions and a preference for direct problem-solving – but Robin doesn't need to know that. She moves out of the way for him to unlock his door, Killian at her side shifting on the balls of his feet with his hands tucked behind his back, the perfect picture of innocence. Meanwhile, she realizes she's still holding the lock pick, and she can't seem to cram it back into its bag quickly enough for Regina not to glance at it disapprovingly.
"Still, I'm really sorry. I swear you don't have to move away to avoid a break-in from your next door neighbor."
"I believe you," Robin laughs. "Now," he pushes the door open for Regina, who spares neither of them a glance as she walks through, then follows her before turning in the doorway, "if you don't need anything else, you'll have to excuse me."
"Well, actually—"
"Nope," Emma says quickly. There's nothing she wants less than to barge in on whatever Robin and Regina have planned for their afternoon, especially right after nearly committing a felony against one of them. "Nothing else. Sorry again."
"Really, Emma, it's fine," Robin says, his kind smile turning into a meaningful we'll talk later look towards Killian, complete with raised eyebrows, although it doesn't make her particularly worried considering they seem to have a track record for this kind of thing. What does worry her is how quiet the hallway suddenly becomes after he shuts the door behind him, leaving her alone and in her pajamas with someone who makes her really wish she was wearing pants.
"Bloody hell," Killian sighs. "He took all the doughnuts."
"What?" When she turns to him, he's running a hand through his dark hair, looking deeply distressed. "I thought you bought them for Roland."
He shrugs, meets her gaze with bright blue eyes. "They weren't only for him."
"Is this the part where I realize this entire thing has been some scheme again?" she asks, suddenly on edge.
"While I am extraordinarily impressed by how many doughnuts you think we can consume between the two of us in one afternoon, Swan," he grins, "I really did leave my guitar at Robin's, and I need it for a performance tonight."
"A performance," she repeats bluntly. "Where?"
"At an undisclosed location closer to Robin's apartment than to mine." Damn. She can't help but shake her head at his victorious smirk. "Hence the convenience of an available storage site."
"You really don't want me to hear you sing, do you?"
"Since you brought it up, I suppose I could be persuaded," he says slowly. The way his eyes drag down her body sends a shiver up her spine, even though she knows he's joking, and she forces herself to take a steadying breath.
"Right, well. I'm going to go put some clothes on."
"Excellent idea, love." She doesn't miss how he lingers on her mouth before meeting her gaze again, but he seems amicable as ever. "In the meantime, I'll be needing a drink to remove the mental image of my dear friend canoodling with his ex just behind that there door, so I'll be in search of an establishment that will supply me with Captain Morgan at this time of day."
"A drink sounds really good right now," she sighs, even if her reasoning leans a little more towards mortification than disgust. "I think I might have some rum left over from Mary Margaret's baby shower."
As counterintuitive as that statement is, she's not surprised he latches onto the one part she didn't say aloud. "Is that an invitation, Swan?"
"Just so I don't owe you for the bear claw." She tries to make it sound as begrudging as possible, but something in his expression makes her think she's failing. Something in the way her gut clenches when he meets her gaze and grins on his way through her door makes her think she doesn't care.
That is, until she closes the bedroom door behind her – and, perhaps more importantly, between them – and catches sight of herself in the mirror on the nearby wall.
She doesn't know when she'd started smiling, but the thought that she's been unconsciously beaming this entire time has her wiping it off her face in a flash. She's also vaguely embarrassed for the state of her hair, especially in pleasant company. But the distinct mark of adrenaline tinting her cheeks is what finally does it, because she hasn't looked like that in years, and she can remember exactly how many off the top of her head.
This is stupid. She shouldn't be willingly spending time with Killian Jones, especially now that it's become impossible to ignore the fact that she wants to. There is literally video evidence still sitting in her television of why she doesn't do this anymore, why she can't, why men with understanding eyes and charming smiles are nothing but trouble. It doesn't matter that this time those eyes are blue and the charm is dirty in a way that catches her between a laugh and a sigh – she knows she's going soft when she has to tell herself this at all, and it's with that thought that she wrenches on a pair of yoga pants, firmly resists the temptation to fix her hair in the mirror, and storms back out of the room with renewed purpose.
"You can stay until the coast is clear from Regina," she announces, but the foyer is empty and he's nowhere to be seen. Instead, the distinct sound of Mary Margaret's voice echoes through her apartment, and the pieces click together in her head just as she reaches the end of the hallway, freezing into place.
"Is this Granny's?" He's leaning on the back of the couch, elbows crossed on the upholstery in an unmistakable image of bored curiosity, remote in his hand and the television very clearly displaying Granny's forest wallpaper in the background, courtesy of her friend's shaky handheld camerawork.
And in the foreground is the very last person she'd want Killian to know about.
"Seriously, this is amazing, Mary Margaret," Neal is saying, his voice barely audible over the din of music and voices from the crowd around him. "We couldn't have done all of this without you."
"Don't even start. Just make sure I get an honorable mention in your speech." Neal chuckles, and the image shakes with the vibrations of Mary Margaret's laugh.
"Speaking of which, it's almost time, isn't it? Have you seen Emma?"
"No, I think she was talking t— oh wait, here she is! Come on, let's get a shot of that rock."
And she watches in horror as the Emma on the screen slides into view, fitting herself into the curve of Neal's arm with a wide smile at the camera, and holds up her left hand, where an unmistakable diamond ring sparkles on her finger.
