Some Sort of Neighborly

Chapter 7

There's a tupperware of cupcakes tucked into the back corner of Robin's kitchen counter – one Killian's sure as hell he didn't bake himself.

"What are these?"

Robin twists from the fridge to glance over his shoulder, his gaze following the path of Killian's soapy fingers. He's not a conspiracy theorist, but he is familiar enough with the Locksley household to know that most of the sweets are kept well out of sight of a certain three-and-a-half-foot-tall preschooler. He's also observant enough to know that Regina Mills deals solely in apple pastries, as, apparently, everything else she makes tastes like poison, and while he once wouldn't have put it past her for that to have been an intentional move, something tells him she's not quite as interested in murdering Robin today.

(That, he's decided, is the full extent to which he's interested in knowing about whatever the hell their relationship is now.)

"Cupcakes," Robin says simply, turning back to continue rearranging the remnants of their meal. Roland's voice carries with the sound from the television, an off-key nonsensical tune Killian swears he's memorized by this point. "I forgot: Emma dropped them off. Said they were for you."

"What?" He almost loses his grasp on the slippery plate in his hand, and he can tell without even seeing his face that Robin's hiding a smirk. "When?" he demands. "Like hell you forgot."

"Like hell you're staying away from my next-door neighbor," Robin shoots back. By the time he finally meets his gaze, Killian's pretty sure he's dripped soapy water all over the floor in front of the sink. "She said to tell you thanks," he continues, crossing his arms across his chest. "What in blazes did you do to that poor woman?"

The slick surface of his friend's dinnerware vanishes in favor of warm, soft fingers curled around his. That, however, is distinctly not the reason he feels his face prickle with heat.

"I'm sure you know as well as I do," he snorts, shaking his head, "I haven't got a chance of making Emma Swan say anything."

"So why am I suddenly playing deliveryman to your cupcakes?"

"When did she drop them off?" Killian asks instead. He splashes the plate under the faucet, then props it up next to the others in the drying rack. A quick glance back at the tupperware tells him that she'd stuffed far too many inside (five, he counts, and then stifles his internal grin – one for him, each of the Locksleys, and Regina probably, the full breadth of people in his life she knows, but that still leaves one extra), that the thick white frosting has also been squished and mangled by the lid. The cupcake on the end bears the colorful mark of rainbow sprinkles.

"She came by earlier today," Robin replies, and he hears the fridge door close behind him. "She also asked about the bar you play at."

This time, he can't help the laugh that bursts from his lips. "Did you tell her?"

"Why haven't you?" A pause. "You love playing for people." Killian has the feeling that observation was meant to be spoken in the past tense, with a name substituted instead of carefully generalized treading.

But he only continues rinsing the rest of the sink's contents, as quickly as he feasibly can. "So you did?"

"Bloody hell," Robin sighs. "I'm going to have to move when you properly muck this up, aren't I?"

It's an attempt at deflection – not from a proper answer, Killian knows, but from the weight of what had come close to mentioning. After all, the last time Milah had been discussed in this apartment, a generous supply of alcohol had been involved, along with a lot of cursing and mutual misery, courtesy of Regina Mills and her unfounded jealousy and horrible temperament. But something in his words has him irked for a different reason.

Dumping the sudsy contents of the last glass, Killian sets it carefully to dry, then turns around, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. "There's nothing to muck up," he says, with deliberate emphasis. "I'm not going anywhere."

A tiny rivet forms between Robin's dark brows. Roland's giggle bursts to life from somewhere behind the couch, and it seems to take a moment longer than usual for understanding to trickle through the space of the kitchen between them. "You really care for her, don't you?"

Killian snorts, pressing his lips together. If only to hide his expression (regardless of whether, according to David, the answer would be obvious either way), he swivels around to grab the tupperware in one smooth motion. "I'm going to go thank her for these," he says. The rich scent of chocolate wafts upward when he cracks the lid open and excavates two of the cupcakes from their prison (though he leaves the one with the sprinkles) – they certainly smell homemade.

He hears Robin's sigh, and then the call after him, heavy on the sarcasm: "Should I wait up for you?"

Killian doesn't even bother to look over his shoulder. "I'm leaving my jacket here, you wanker."

Admittedly, the hallway outside is draftier than he'd expected, so maybe he should have chosen a different kind of assurance: the chill cuts right through his thin t-shirt as he makes the short trek down to 3B. He tells himself that's the reason he's so thankful for how quickly she answers the door after he knocks.

But he learns even faster that he doesn't have grounds in the slightest to complain about his lack of proper clothing.

"Hey," Emma says, her mouth tilting in a surprised smile. His eyes flicker downward without his permission, caught by the movement of her rocking back on the heels of her bare feet – bare, bare, up to the tiniest pair of pajama shorts, nearly engulfed by the size of the red sweatshirt she's pulling down her arms.

"Hey." He has to swallow after that single choked word, but, luckily, she spares him the embarrassment, her gaze zeroing in on the cupcakes balanced in his hand with amused precision.

"I swear, if those taste weird, I didn't lace them with anything."

He bites back a grin and struggles to remember the reason he's here. The desire to make a fool of himself instead is astounding. "You didn't have to do this, love."

"You didn't have to do what you did, either," she replies with a shrug. "So I guess we're even."

Again, the heat of her hand in his flares a phantom of a tingle through the nerves of his fingers – a quiet murmur in the arch of this very doorway. Killian, thank you.

He should be so lucky to hear her speak his name like that again.

"Not every appreciable action needs to be tangibly repaid," he tells her at last. But her lovely green eyes only narrow.

"Were you late that day, by the way?"

It takes him a moment to realize her meaning. "To my performance?" he chuckles. "No, I wasn't late. Though, on a related note, I did hear you've been asking certain people some very interesting questions regarding my professional life.

The blush spreads like a stain across her pale skin. "Stupid rumors through the grapevine, huh?"

"Something like that." She only fixes him with a perfectly innocent look until he gives up and asks, "Well, did he tell you?"

"I don't know," she replies lightly. Her tight-lipped smile doesn't even try to hide its serene secrecy, which only confirms his suspicions. "Why don't you try asking Robin?"

"I can't believe my closest friend and his neighbor are conspiring against me," he mutters.

She laughs. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here, you know. But if you're going to keep stalling, you should just—" She takes a step back from the doorway, giving him room to step inside. "It's freezing."

"Poor choice of attire will do that to you," he says, though he doesn't mean that descriptor in the slightest.

The warmth of her apartment is a welcome reprieve, even if he only shuffles to the spot in her foyer he'd occupied last time, his back against the wall across from where she'd sat. He feels the hard press of the ring beneath his shirt, its smooth edges between his fingers – but also the curve of the duckling mug, the taste of whipped cream sweet on his tongue. He'd used tap water and the chalky packaged mix he's never really cared for, but he swears it was the best hot chocolate he's ever had.

"What are you watching?" he asks, peering at her television. Rather than DVRed children's cartoons, she seems to have some brightly-colored cooking show blaring quietly on the far screen.

"Uh. Food Network." After she shuts the door behind them, she stands at his side, her hands shifting to her hips as if in defiance. "How else was I supposed to have learned how to bake?"

Seventeen years. That's how long I was in the system. "Had I known you'd acquired your cooking skills from television, I'd never have allowed you to help with the cookies for Roland's bake sale."

"Liar." When he turns to her, though, there's a glimmer of humor in her eye. "We both know those cookies sold out. And besides, it doesn't even look like you've even tried those cupcakes."

"Not yet," he admits. He shifts one to his free hand and holds it out to her skeptical gaze.

"I already told you I didn't lace them."

"You made one extra."

"No, I didn't," she tells him, with a touch too much defense.

"Then I suppose Robin will have to miss out." He brandishes the cupcake more firmly in her direction, unable to contain his amusement at her stern expression, until she just rolls her eyes.

"Why," she begins, her fingertips brushing his as she finally takes it, "does it seems like I'm always dealing with baked goods when it comes to you?"

"Sweets for the sweet?" he suggests, and relishes the sound of fond exasperation that escapes her mouth – a half-chuckle, half-sigh. "If you'd like to move away from baked goods, though, I would not be unopposed to dinner instead."

Her lips press together in a thin pink line, twitching as though she's trying very hard not to laugh. Finally, she says, "Why don't we start with these cupcakes and take it from there?"


Emma leans back into the cushions behind her, narrowing her eyes. Her hair is a mess, she's not wearing actual pants (again), and her fingers are sticky with frosting, but, at the moment, the only thing she cares about is her admittedly impressed disbelief.

"No."

"You asked."

"You're lying," she insists, but he only shrugs and picks away at another chunk of his cupcake, amusement flitting through his gaze like the sun on water. "You do not know how to make fucking bombe Alaska."

"The only tricky part is setting it on fire," he hedges, as if that'd help.

"That's the only hard part about it."

"Then I suppose I'm just about as proficient at making bombe Alaska as you are, love."

She shakes her head. "What, did you learn how to make it in France, too?" It's a sarcastic jibe, but his silence in response, the way his lips twist into a crooked smile, is more than telling. "What the hell?" she demands. "Who are you?"

"I used to travel a lot," he admits, sheepishness tinging the tips of his ears in a way that doesn't need a critical eye to spot. This information she files away into the back of her mind, where she keeps everything else she knows about Killian Jones – and, it seems, that might not be very much at all. At the very least, she supposes, given that reaction, she can place it right beside his unwillingness to allow her to hear him perform.

(She doesn't want to use too much scrutiny at all right now, to be honest, because if she did, she knows that several things happening here would be highly suspect. The fact that she'd gone ahead and plopped herself down right beside him on the same couch, despite her lack of clothing and much-needed plans for a quiet night alone, doesn't even rank – and that's the worst part about it.)

He looks comfortable as ever in her living room, planted squarely where his ass had also been the night he'd spent, unaware, in her apartment. She tries to salvage the fraying ends of her concentration. "I guess it's easier when everything on that side of the pond is so close together," she says finally, deciding to throw him a bone.

"Er." Despite his cupcake-covered hands, he makes to reach behind his ear before he catches himself. "I actually didn't start until after I arrived here." And then, in response to her off-guard frown, in a voice that sounds just the slightest over-detached: "Milah loved to travel."

Milah. She thinks of the ring he'd held between his fingers like a prayer, the way his eyes had clouded over with the memory of his admissions as he sat across from her on the floor. Even now, the smile on his face dims, and while she wants to say that's the reason something in her chest twinges at the name she can finally put to his heart, assuming she's reading him properly – even she can't manage to make that lie sound real.

So, instead, she says, "Tell me about her."

His blue eyes capture hers in a slow blink. "About Milah?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"You must have loved her a lot." It's a stupid answer, an obvious one that doesn't really explain anything at all, but she locks her jaw and holds her ground, unwilling to acknowledge the word that should have come at the beginning: because.

He counters with a strange look, and he seems to bite his tongue as he considers her.

I want to know you.

Finally, when he speaks, his words are slow with deliberate attention, spoken after a silence that feels like one long, apprehensive sigh.

"Milah was a free spirit," he says. "She was bold. Adventurous. Like a gale that never stopped to take a breath." He pauses, watching her with a serious look, distant but careful. "I think you would have gotten along quite well with her."

She wants to ask. What happened?

"She sounds a lot like you."

He cocks his head, the corners of his mouth tilting, and she wishes it would brighten the rest of his expression, too. "You think so?"

"I don't know about that last part, about getting along," she says with her best attempt at a coy shrug, "but I can't think of many people who regularly go climbing up fire escapes and breaking into their friends' apartments."

"Those next-door to their friends," he corrects her.

"And what do you call getting me to pick Robin's lock for you?"

"A neighborly favor, of sorts."

She only rolls her eyes, taking another bite of her cupcake. Even without Mary Margaret's help, they'd turned out halfway decent, she'd been surprised to discover – just as she's surprised at the way the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away now, as he licks his lips around the smile he finally returns without, apparently, even realizing it. Her bare feet are freezing, but the sight of it alone affords her more than enough warmth.

That's why she probably shouldn't be surprised at all by the words he speaks when he continues.

"For everything that Milah was, however," he says, slowly, "there was something she was decidedly not."

It feels like a trap. She almost expects his eyes to twinkle, like he's ready to heft her an ambush of a smirk and turn it into some stupid flirty joke now that he's got her attention – and, maybe, something in her wants him to. But she still hesitates when she asks, "And what was that?"

The way he's looking at her – it's like she's something precious, not fragile but breakable all the same, which makes it all the more ridiculous that she feels her pulse skip in the way that she's known in getting ready for a fight. At last, he says, "She wasn't someone who made me want to be better."

She wants to drop her eyes to her lap again. She wants to deflect. She doesn't want to think about that hard drive and lock pick set in her closet, and how, for the first time since she'd buried them there, shaking with anger and something that had no place in her heart after she'd turned eighteen, she'd actually considered digging them out and throwing them into the trash where they belonged, after she'd finished washing both the duckling and pirate mugs from that afternoon.

Forward instead of backward. Neal never would have said something like that. He'd have clung to his demons until the day he died, and, being with him, she knows she'd have drowned in the commiseration, have continued doing the same – had he not tired of her and left before she could realize what had happened. Sentimentality might be an addiction, but she refuses to let it bind her in place.

She's better off for it, too.

"You have… uh." There's a wisp of frosting smudged at the corner of his mouth, one that she probably shouldn't be pointing out instead of mustering up a response, and yet – maybe there are some steps forward that feel more like strides, her chest wrung tight, her blood skittering thick with an understanding she's not in a state of mind to fully process.

She gestures, but his sticky fingers only make the smudge worse. His tongue darts out in the wrong place, and she spends longer than she probably should watching where it'd disappeared.

"Did you think I was going to say you?" She stares at him, at the way his lips curl with soft amusement even as he rubs the back of his hand against his lips. "When said there was something Milah wasn't. You suspected I'd have said you, didn't you?"

"Shut up," she says flatly, and she reaches forward to wipe the frosting off of his mouth with the pad of her thumb.

He tenses at her touch, smile freezing in place, but his lips are smooth, yielding. She can feel the breath he sucks in as she moves, and she wants to linger there, feel the warmth of it as it leaves him – but, before she can, she pulls back, and it's over. Stray frosting secured. Arrogant idiot successfully quieted.

She looks up to meet his gaze now, and she swears his eyes have flickered into a darker, burnished blue, like plunging headfirst into a fathomless pool without breathing.

He's still far too close.

Curling her fingers, tucking the ghost of his skin into her palm, she leans back into the couch again, and the air rushes back into her lungs the moment her shoulders hit cushion and he finally blinks with long, dark lashes. There's something dazed in his expression, as though he's having trouble looking at her directly.

She knows the feeling.

"Are you always this messy an eater?" she asks with a frown.

"Only when I can request assistance," he says cheekily, but she finds she can't blame him in the slightest.

Not one bit.