#espresso sounds like a manic episode i love it

[valyrfia]

top 5 songs at the moment!

Good Luck, Babe! - Chappell Roan

Forever - Noah Kahan

Creatures in Heaven - Glass Animals

Espresso - Sabrina Carpenter

Davy Jones - Hans Zimmer

[welllpthisishappening]

But Consider This...Aliens

Killian Jones is going to lose his mind. He's never going to sleep again. Because there is an alien living in the apartment above his. And maybe he's ok with it. Yeah, definitely losing his mind.

Or: Trope-a-palooza for CS AU Week 2k17

AN: I have no explanation for this other than some kind of weird, self-competitive streak where I was like don’t write this and my brain was like haha, just kidding, write it. So, here we are, 8K later and, at last count, I think I’ve managed to shoehorn in five different tropes into those eight-thousand words. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s more your jam. 

He’s fairly certain he’ll never sleep again.

He’s going to murder whoever moved in above him – it’ll be awful and Killian will enjoy every second of it because if he murders whoever just moved into the apartment above his he might be able to actually get a few seconds of sleep.

Or maybe he’ll just go insane first.

At this point that seems more likely.

The stomping – literal, honest to God stomping – continues, like whoever moved into the apartment above his is trying to pace a hole into their floor and for half a moment Killian wonders what could possibly be so frustrating that whoever moved into the apartment above his has to pace around like that,  but the moment of generosity only lasts long enough for him to glance at the clock on his nightstand.

Four thirty in the fucking morning.

He growls, grabbing the pillow underneath his head and smashing it against his face and maybe he’ll just pass out from a lack of oxygen and maybe that’ll help him get some rest.

That doesn’t seem like a particularly healthy train of thought.

“God damn,” Killian mumbles against the pillow, kicking at the blankets tangled around his feet like he’s five years old and it’s just as absurd as trying to plan the murder of whoever moved into the apartment above his.

It’s been going on for a week now – a van pulling up at the end of the block and actual movers carting boxes and something that might have actually been an entire dolly of potted plants and, at least, eight-hundred pounds of paperwork and whoever moved into the apartment above his is, clearly, very important.

And has evolved on a completely different wavelength because he or she or whatever alien life form it was, didn’t need to actually sleep.

“I’m going to murder you,” Killian says, not even bothering to keep his voice low and he’ll take the addition of premeditated on his rap sheet if it means the pacing will stop.

God, why won’t the pacing stop?

The pacing slows down and Killian’s breath actually hitches, pulling the pillow away from his face far enough that he can peer at his ceiling. It’s not quite the stomping it was before, more like cautious steps as if the person – or, still possibly, alien life form – has realized the end is near.

And then it starts again – except it isn’t pacing or quiet steps, it’s an actual kick.  Killian snaps up, knocking the blanket off his bed entirely and he’s holding onto the pillow with white knuckles, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

The alien is kicking its floor.

His ceiling.

He’s under attack.

If he wasn’t so goddamn exhausted – and David hadn’t already commented on the apparently ever-growing bags under his eyes every morning for the last week – Killian probably would have been almost impressed by that particular brand of passive aggressive, but, as it is, he’s got to be at the precinct in less than four hours and every single inch of him is desperate for just a few moments of uninterrupted sleep.

Killian lets out a slightly manic laugh, tossing the pillow on the floor and actually jumping out of bed and all of his muscles object to that, jogging towards the almost kitchen in the corner of his apartment.

He grabs a broom he only dimly remembers buying out of the corner, sprinting back towards the bedroom like he’s running the 100-yard dash in the actual Olympics and he’s going to win gold and get the alien in the apartment above his to shut the hell up.  Or at least engage in a cease fire.

He’s climbing on top of the bed, broomstick brandished like his actual weapon and banging on the ceiling before he can even consider the absurdity of it all. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Killian shouts, but the broom is, well, a broom and it’s not really doing much and the alien might actually be jumping up and down now.

“You are the one yelling,” it calls back and the alien is a girl or a girl-type alien or probably a woman because an actual small-child girl probably can’t afford rent in Manhattan.

Killian groans, rolling his whole head back and the bags under his eyes are so heavy at this point, he’s almost surprised they’re not pulling him down into his mattress. “It’s four thirty in the goddamn morning, what could you possibly be doing up there?” “That is so not any of your business!” “It is when it keeps me up every night since you’ve taken over.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Taken over,” Killian repeats, turning the broom and nearly hitting himself in the face in the process and this wasn’t a very well thought out plan because the top of the thing isn’t making much noise against his ceiling either. This kind of thing always looks better in movies.

“I wasn’t aware we were staging some kind of siege.” There’s laughter just on the edge of her voice, but that might just be his sleepless mind or maybe he’s just trying to pretend like he’s winning this argument. Killian grins anyway. “Obviously, love,” he says, speaking at a normal level and maybe he should tell Leroy that the insulation or whatever between the walls of his apartment is absolute shit because they shouldn’t be able to just hear each other like this.

Or maybe it’s fate.

He’s clearly lost his mind.

The alien does laugh at that, loud and easy and pure or something ridiculous and Killian stops hitting his own ceiling with a broom. He should dust more – there’s...something falling in his eyes. “Can you dust a ceiling?” Killian asks suddenly and the alien laughs even louder, taking a few more steps until it sounds like they’ve just collapsed on the floor.

“Why would you need to dust your ceiling?”

“So that I don’t get hit in the face with whatever is currently falling on me. It’s got to be dust, right? Anything else just seems disgusting.” “I have no idea,” the alien admits and Killian drops back onto the mattress with a loud flop, knocking pillows onto the floor and he’s never going to fall asleep now. David will be insufferable. And the coffee in the precinct is shit.

Neither one of them says anything for a few moments and Killian’s eyelids flutter, the broom still, inexplicably, held loosely in his hand when the alien mumbles something from the ceiling. “Oh, God, why are you talking?” he groans and he swears he hears the alien gasp slightly. If he wasn’t going to die of sleep deprivation he would apologize.

“Sorry, sorry,” the alien says quickly and he imagines that she’s waving her hands in front of her. Giant, green, scaly hands. Do aliens have scales? Probably depends. Right?

He’s gone insane.

“That’s what I was saying,” she continues, the floor creaking when she moves again and she’s definitely laying down. “I was apologizing for driving you to want to murder me. Although, if we’re being honest, that’s a really shitty way to welcome me to a new city.”

“Welcome to New York, love,” he mumbles and hopes the alien smiles at that. “You have a name?”

“No.” “No you don’t have a name?” “No, well, yeah, I do, obviously, but I’m not going to tell you what it is.” “And you accused me of being rude.” “You yelled you were going to murder me not even half an hour ago,” the alien argues, kicking at the floor again, but her voice isn’t quite as indignant as it probably should be and maybe he’s still winning. “In the grand scheme of being rude. I could have you on, like, eight different counts.” Killian’s heart lurches or maybe stops entirely and he drops the broom long enough to grab one of the pillows of his floor, stuffing it under his head and hitching up one leg. He’s almost comfortable. And he, maybe, likes talking to the alien.

“You’re a cop?” he asks softly and it’s impossible for her to hear him but she does and he probably won’t think about that for the rest of the day.

She laughs again and maybe that’s as good as a shot of espresso or one of those disgusting energy drinks that David has been downing since he and Mary Margaret brought Leo back from the hospital a few weeks before.

“No,” she chuckles and something else lands on the floor that sounds heavy. He hopes it’s not a body. He doesn’t feel like trying to find his badge.

“What are you carting around up there?” “A blanket?” “Why was that a question?” “God,” she groans, moving again and it’s a miracle she hasn’t actually crashed through his ceiling at this point. “Are you a cop?”

“Yeah,” Killian answers easily. He thinks he can hear her quiet gasp, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking and that doesn’t make any sense either because he shouldn’t be thinking about the alien in the apartment above him – wishful or otherwise. “The Sixth. Precinct that is. They just call it The Six, which kind of rude to Toronto, don’t you think?” She makes some kind of noise – not quite a gasp, but more than a sigh and Killian’s eyebrows pull low as he tries to figure out what exactly it means. He can’t figure that out at almost five in the morning.

“Toronto?” she repeats, just a bit louder than she’d been in the last few minutes like she’s trying to redirect the conversation away from actual police talk. “Yeah, you know, like Drake and The Six and...Degrassi?” He’s never seen an episode of Degrassi in his life, but the alien is still laughing and Killian is a bit delirious and he’s absolutely thinking about her. And her laugh. “You know I think using both Drake and Degrassi in an attempt to explain Toronto is cheating,” she says. “How do you figure?” “Well, Drake was on Degrassi. That’s...c’mon everyone knows that. He got shot!” “I promise no one except you knows that.” “That is just basic pop culture knowledge. His name was Jimmy! His best friend was Spinner.” Killian scoffs, eyes closing again and maybe the alien is hypnotizing him now – through his ceiling – because he’s almost comfortable and he might be able to get a few hours of sleep. “Now I know you’re making this up,” he mumbles. “No one is actually named Spinner.” “That wasn’t actually his name. His real name was Gavin.” “Ah, of course.” She doesn’t say anything else before he falls asleep.

David absolutely makes fun of the bags under his eyes as soon as he walks into the precinct that morning, crowing with laughter and his own bags because he has an infant at home and Killian can’t even muster enough energy to point that out to him.

“Shut up,” he says instead, sinking into the chair behind his desk and stretching out his legs. “Where’s my coffee?” David stops laughing long enough to glare at him, nodding in the direction of the shitty coffee at the other side of the room. “Over there. Where it always is. You getting so little sleep that you can’t remember general layouts now? That doesn’t bode well for either one of us. You know Mary Margaret will actually kill you if you let anything happen to me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Killian promises, shoulders sagging just a bit when he tries to sit up like an actual functioning member of society. Or the New York Police Department. “That, however, would require me to not kill my brand-new neighbor. Or get killed by my brand-new neighbor.” David chuckles lightly at that, taking a sip of coffee. “You figure out who it is yet?” “Nah, not really,” Killian mumbles. “I’m not ruling out alien, yet, though.” “Alien?” “Yeah, well, she’s pacing around in the middle of the night all the time and I don’t think she actually needs to sleep. The only plausible conclusion is that she’s an alien.” “Wait, wait, wait, back track for a second. The alien is a girl?” Killian nods. “Adult female, doesn’t sound too old, but that’s more circumstantial than anything definitive and not a cop.” “And how exactly did you come to these conclusions?” “I asked her.” “So you’ve met her? When?” “No, no, no,” Killian shakes his head, pushing out of the chair and walking towards the coffee and he’s almost not entirely surprised when David follows him immediately. The coffee even looks horrible. Maybe he should buy a new coffee maker. As a sign of goodwill to...himself. When his alien neighbor keeps him up at night.

“Are you being difficult on purpose or because you realize I can’t actually function with the few hours of sleep I’m getting?” David asks, punching Killian’s shoulder lightly.

He nearly drops the coffee pot. “Ah, c’mon, be careful.” “Answer the question, Detective.” “I really haven’t been listening,” Killian admits, pouring the coffee high enough that it nearly overflows his mug and dumping half a pound of sugar into it. David quirks an eyebrow at him and Killian resists the urge to actually stick his tongue out. “I threatened to murder her last night,” he shrugs, pushing around his partner and back to his desk and the mountain of paperwork he can’t actually put off anymore. “I’m sorry, you did what?” David balks, jogging to keep up with Killian and staring at him like he’s just admitted to several homicides.

“I threatened to murder her,” Killian repeats easily and, at least, three different uniforms stop in their tracks. “Not seriously, obviously. She knew that.”

“So you….threatened to murder her and then what? Talked? Without looking at each other?” Killian nods. This coffee really is horrible. “Through the floor.” “Oh, well, yeah.” “It’s really not as weird as it sounds.” “It’s definitely as weird as it sounds,” David promises, wincing when he takes another sip of coffee. “Ah, shit, there’s just a ton of coffee grounds in here.” “You should buy us a new coffee maker. As a celebration of your new fatherhood.” “I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work.” “Worth a try,” Killian shrugs, standing up when Arthur calls for them from his office and he probably should have done that paperwork days ago because now they’re behind and they’ve got about a million metaphorical pieces to work out before they can get a warrant on Gold.

“Hey,” David says sharply, grabbing Killian’s arm and he nearly drops his coffee again. “You’re ok, though? Really? Not going to collapse on me in the middle of the street today? Because Mary Margaret’ll be pretty upset if you die too.”

Killian scoffs, shaking his head and blinking quickly like that will prove how awake he is. “Nah,” he mumbles, nodding in Arthur’s direction when he practically starts screaming for them. “I’ll be fine. Living with an alien’s almost a cool story.” “I have no idea what you’re saying.” “That’s probably for the best, honestly.” David smiles wryly at him, tugging his phone out of his back pocket – no doubt to show Killian something adorable Leo did in the last twenty-four hours – but now Arthur looks like the one who’s going to commit murder right there in the precinct.

“Jones! Nolan!” he snaps, standing in the doorway of his office like he’s posing there. Or trying to turn them to stone with his glare. “Ten-hut or whatever. Get your asses in here with that mountain of shit I have to sign.” “Eloquent as always, Captain,” Killian mutters and Arthur absolutely hears, gaze, somehow, sharpening even more as David rolls his eyes and sighs loudly.

“God, Mary Margaret’s going to be disappointed when you’re dead,” he mutters, pushing on Killian’s shoulder. “No free baby-sitting for Leo.”

He sleeps through the night for the next three nights – blissful, dreamless sleep like he’s found his way onto a cloud and he doesn’t think about Gold or Arthur’s expectations or how important this case is to the precinct and the city.

It’s the fourth morning, however, that everything changes.

“Hey, you’re going to be there tomorrow night, right?” David asks, like Killian has any memory of something happening on Friday night.

“What?” Killian mumbles. He doesn’t take his eyes off the papers in front of him or the map of lower Manhattan, a handful of tacks pressed into stores owned by Gold and stores that might be owned by Gold and he doesn’t have time for this.

He can feel his muscles starting to tense again.

“Tomorrow,” David repeats, tapping his fingers impatiently on the map, just in Killian’s eyeline. He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair, and staring at David with barely any patience. “At the bar?” “The bar? This is Manhattan, David. There is more than one bar.” “Don’t be an ass. We go to one bar. We’ve only ever gone to one bar. You need to be there tomorrow.” “Why?”

“You really don’t remember? I’m almost wounded by that.” Killian shoots David an unimpressed stare, lips pressed together and, he hopes, a complete look of indifference on his face. He knows he doesn’t work immediately. “Why do you I need to be at this bar that is, apparently, ours tomorrow night? And what time?” “Killian, we work the same shifts. We get off at, literally, the same time.” “Answer the question, Detective.” “My sister,” David says and Killian vaguely remembers something about that, a move to New York and how excited she was about being closer to Leo and maybe something about her job. He’d definitely been too tired to pay attention. “My sister,” David repeats, widening his eyes and punching Killian’s arm – hard. “Moved to New York. Celebratory drinks? Some human contact? Maybe talking to someone who isn’t your alien neighbor?” “Ok, I talk to plenty of humans,” Killian mutters, turning back towards the map. He can hear David roll his eyes behind him and he smiles slightly at that, another victory in an argument he might be having with himself. “And,” he adds, after a few moments, “I haven’t talked to the alien in a couple of days. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed my decidedly well-rested face.” “You have far too high an opinion of your face.” Killian grins over his shoulder, shrugging and appreciating the expression on David’s face. Frustration is a good look on Detective David Nolan.

And Killian has loved sleeping through the night.

Even if he’s wondered – more than once – about the alien and her laugh and questionable knowledge of Canadian television.

“Mary Margaret’s going to be mad if you aren’t there,” David points out, like that’s going to convince Killian to leave his apartment on a Friday night.

It will.

“What time?” Killian sighs.

And David practically cackles when he realizes he’s won.

The pacing starts at three in the morning that night – which doesn’t really make sense, but Killian isn’t going to worry about the particulars when he can hear the steps on his ceiling and the alien grumbling to herself.

He waits ten minutes before he grabs a sneaker and promptly throws it at his own ceiling. He’s fairly positive it’s dry wall that hits him in the face. “Ah, holy shit,” Killian hisses, waving a hand through the air and this was not a well thought out plan.

The pacing stops. And becomes knocking. She’s knocking on her own floor. His ceiling. Maybe it’s a message.

Or maybe she’s just trying to talk to him. “Cop?” she calls and Killian’s throat feels far too small, his pulse pounding in his own ears and this whole thing is nuts.

“Present,” he says, mostly out of habit and maybe to see if he can get her to laugh and he practically beams when it works.

“I wasn’t aware we were taking roll call.” “Yeah, well, I thought we were done with the whole pacing thing.” “Ah, yeah, sorry,” she says, the drywall, or whatever ceilings are made of, falling on the top of his hair again when it sounds like she drops back onto the floor. “It was...well, it was a pretty shitty day at work.” He’s suddenly very awake. “Oh, yeah? You, uh...you want to talk about it?” The alien doesn’t answer immediately and Killian wishes, not for the first time, that he’s actually seen her because his mind is far too creative in the middle of the night and he’s far too curious and he can’t decide if he’d rather she did have scales if only so he’ll stop coming up with scenarios to just run into her in the hallway and maybe ask her out...or something.

“Why are you asking me that?” she asks sharply, disbelief practically dripping through her floor and his ceiling until Killian is drowning in it.

“Friendly curiosity?” “You threatened to murder me a few nights ago!” “I’m pleading temporary insanity on that front. You were pacing all the time and I wasn’t thinking straight. I had to take extreme measures.” “That’s not how that works,” she counters. “And your temporary insanity defense isn’t going to stand up in a court. You’re clearly cognizant. You have all your facilities still.” “You sound like you know exactly what you’re talking about, love,” Killian points out, curiosity piqued again and maybe he should just get out of bed, walk up one flight of stairs and knock on her door. With a bottle of rum. And some kind of plan that doesn’t sound absurd.

She laughs again – a soft, kind of chuckle that he swears he can feel in every inch of him and maybe she does have scales, but he still kind of wants to kiss her. “Maybe I do,” she says. “Know exactly what I’m talking about.” “Ohhhh you’re a lawyer.” “And I think you’re not just a cop.” “Detective,” Killian corrects, smiling when he hears a low whistle from the direction of his ceiling. “Is that impressive?” “Eh, kind of. I’ve known my fair share of detectives and he’s a pretty good guy. So I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here.” “Generous of you.”

“I tend to think so.” She’s quiet for another moment and Killian takes a deep breath, pulling oxygen in through his nose and wondering what he’d actually say if he did bring the rum upstairs. He nearly falls off his own bed when she talks again.

“I got assigned a shitty case,” the alien mutters, kicking her foot impatiently on her floor and Killian smiles again because it’s almost endearing, even if he can hear just how pissed off she absolutely is. “And it’s totally because I’m new and bottom of the barrel or whatever, but it’s just…” “Shitty? Killian ventures and she laughs again. He hopes she’s smiling.

“Yeah, decidedly. It’s not like I’ve never done this before, you know. I’m almost experienced.” “Almost?” “Incredibly,” she amends and it sounds like she’s admitting to something. “I have a very impressive resume, Detective.” “I don’t doubt it. And this isn’t the end of it all, love. You’ve been here for what? Almost two weeks? You win this case and they won’t be able to ignore you or assign you shitty cases. And then it’s roses or something less lame.” “I’ll take roses,” she says, sounding like she’s twisting and, at least, sixteen different joints hit against the floor. “Were you a motivational speaker in another life, Detective?” Killian scoffs, pulling his hand behind his head until he’s almost comfortable and maybe he won’t tell Leroy about the shitty installation in his building. He might not mind it so much. “No,” he chuckles and the alien hums in agreement. “At least I don’t think so. I just have a lot of experience with shitty assignments and working my way up some sort of metaphorical ladder. That’s all.” “Still sounding a bit motivational down there.” “Just for you, love.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way her breath hitches at that or the way his eyes widen when he realizes what he’s just said. Shouted. He shouted the words at his ceiling.

“Thanks,” she says and she doesn’t shout the words. She whispers them and he can’t imagine how she hears it.

He doesn’t care.

“You should get some sleep, Detective,” she says, knocking on the ceiling like that will help lull him into unconsciousness. “Can’t have you out there protecting the city when you’re too exhausted to spot proper criminals.” “I’m not sure you know how law enforcement actually works, love.” “Eh, I’ve got a pretty solid idea.” He hums, twisting against the sheets and the suddenly painfully empty bed and that train of thought is absurd because less than a week ago he’d been fairly certain his new neighbor was actually an alien.

“Just uh...start kicking the floor again if you want to talk, ok?” Killian asks, grimacing as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

The alien, woman, love of his life,  laughs, the floor in the apartment above his creaking when she moves to sit back up and something drags behind her that he imagines is a particularly fluffy blanket. “Yeah, deal. Good night, Detective.” “Good night, love.”

He gets enough sleep that he not only remembers the bar event later that night, but he and David make some kind of break through on the case and bring in Jefferson Hatter and get some names out of him and things are going well.

So, naturally, they all need to explode in his face.

Mary Margaret and Ruby are already in the back corner of the bar, perched on stools with drinks in front of them and expectant looks on their faces. “You’re late,” Ruby announces and Mary Margaret shakes her head slowly, eyes flashing skyward like she’s trying to find the patience to deal with any of this.

“A pleasure as always, Lucas,” Killian drawls. David elbows him. Hard. “We are on time. You two are just painfully early. And…” Ruby gags when he doesn’t stop talking. “It appears we’re missing a guest of honor. Isn’t this whole thing to introduce your sister to city-living, David?” “Ok, well, first of all, don’t ever use that expression again,” David commands, nodding towards the barkeeper and pointing at Killian too. “And, second of all, Em is running late because she had some files to go through at work. She’ll be here in a couple of minutes.” “And what exactly does your sister do?” “She works in the DA’s office. Just got assigned her first case.” He should have realized.

If he was thinking clearer and had several nights of uninterrupted sleep, Killian knew he would have realized. But, as it was, he wasn’t and didn’t have either of those things and he was halfway through his first glass of rum when he heard her voice – the door of the bar slamming open and a flash of blonde hair and green eyes and that voice that he was fairly convinced he was half in love with already.

“Hook?” Mary Margaret asks cautiously, gaze just a bit to close to mother for comfort and Killian’s whole body has gone tense.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the voice, the alien,  chants, weaving her way through tables and chairs and the Friday night happy hour crowd downtown. “I just totally got caught up in paperwork and Regina is just...she’s crazy about details and systems and it’s, whatever, I’ll figure it out.” She smiles at the group, eyes falling on Killian quickly and he realizes he’s the only stranger among them. Even Ruby stands up to hug her. “We got you a drink,” David says and the alien clicks her tongue when he doesn’t immediately start introductions.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the glass and holding her free hand out towards Killian. “Emma Swan.”

He doesn’t take her hand.

Idiot.

He stares at her. Gapes at her,  more like, mouth hanging open and she’s everything his sleep addled mind had come up with and then some, just without the scales, which, honestly, he’s pretty pleased to see she’s lacking.

“No cooties,” Emma says and Killian blinks like he’s only just learned the English language.

“You’re her,” he announces loudly. Emma’s mouth falls open. “You’re the alien.” “What?” “The alien. David, what the hell is this?” Emma is still holding her hand out in front of her, but she downs her drink in three, quick gulps. Mary Margaret and Ruby look incredibly confused. “I’m sorry,” David starts, tugging the now empty glass out of his sister’s hand. “Do you two know each other?” “She’s the alien living above me,” Killian shouts. He’s losing his grip on any of this, well aware just how crazy he sounds and it feels like his eyes might actually fall out of his head.

“You’re the Detective threatening to kill me?” Emma asks, rapping her knuckles on the edge of the bar until she gets another glass of whatever it is she’s drinking. “David, seriously, what the hell?”

Ruby laughs – uproariously. Mary Margaret clicks her tongue, pulling David onto the stool she’s just vacated as she glances between Killian and Emma. He can hear the gears working in her head, trying to piece together whatever puzzle they’ve found themselves in and if Killian knows her like he thinks he knows her, she’s probably already picked out the save the dates and several different potential reception locations.

“We didn’t help her move in,” Mary Margaret explains. “There was you know…” “A painfully adorable baby,” Killian finishes and she shrugs like that’s an explanation. “Right, right, so that explains the very fancy movers.” Emma tilts her head, breathing heavily and Ruby is probably going to laugh for the rest of her life. If not longer. “You know about the movers?” “I have eyes, Swan.” “Stalker ones. Have you been referring to me as an alien to my brother?” “You were a bodiless voice that’s been keeping me up for the last two weeks!” She blushes slightly at that and it’s almost painfully adorable and Killian kind of hates himself for even thinking that. “David,” he calls, glancing back over his shoulder at his still shell-shocked partner and friend. “How come you didn’t even mention that your sister moved into my building? Even if you didn’t know exactly what apartment which, you know...that’s also weird.” David blinks a few times, staring at the full glass of beer in his hands like it will, somehow, answer the question for him. “Did I not mention that?” “No.” “Not once, really?”

“I would remember that.” Emma startles at that particular revelation and Killian downs the rest of his drink, alcohol burning his throat and his stomach and that’s probably not the right body part. He doesn’t care. And maybe he takes a step closer to Emma.

“Did he not mention me once, Swan?” he asks and Emma shakes her head.

“Not by name. They call you Hook?”

“It's an Academy nickname.”

“Obviously.”

“Whatever,” David grumbles. “I’m tired.”

Killian laughs softly, staring pointedly at Ruby when she just keeps cackling , mumbling something about how this’ll be a perfect story for the kids and he refuses to even entertain that idea. Not when he can practically feel Emma breathing next to him.

“C’mon, Detective, let me get you something just a bit stronger,” Ruby mutters, tugging him back off the stool and twisting him to the bar.

He doesn’t put up much of a fight and Mary Margaret is nothing short of obvious when she walks away, quirking her eyebrows and lifting the ends of her mouth and Killian isn’t sure who she’s trying to talk to.

He doesn’t care about that either.

“So,” he says after a few moments of almost deafening silence. “Still a shitty case?” Emma must have been holding her breath because the force of her exhale nearly knocks her off the edge of the stool and she nods slowly, lip pulled in between her teeth. “Yeah,” she says. “Definitely still shitty. You catch any criminals today?” “You’re a day late with that question, Swan. Ask me next week though and maybe we can celebrate again.” “That’s a shitty line.” “It absolutely is. I’m sleep deprived, you see.”

She definitely blushes at that and it’s definitely the most attractive thing he’s seen in, like, at least seven years and he takes a step forward until her knees bump against his. He can see the muscles in her throat move when she swallows – she doesn’t take a sip of her drink.

“I’m sorry about that,” she whispers. “I...sleeping’s not really my thing. When I’m stressed out, I mean. And, well, I’ve been kind of stressed out.” “Yeah, I put those clues together strangely enough.” “Impressive.”

He flashes her a grin or maybe a smirk and it doesn’t really work because she rolls her eyes and takes another drink.

It goes on from there.

They make headway on the case and Gold is just out of reach, close enough that Killian is that strange mix of determination and frustration that comes from almost solving a case and Emma paces as much as ever in the apartment above his until it becomes some kind of metronome that he finds he needs to fall asleep. He doesn’t tell her that.

He does, however, tell her other things.

It’s a Wednesday – nearly a month after the introduction and he’s far closer to anger than determination or frustration – and he mutters something about just wanting to make them proud and she asks who them is and he finds he can’t lie to her.

He doesn’t really want to.

Killian tells her about Liam and how much he wanted and how much he worked for and how it all got pulled away before he could get either and he only stumbles a little bit when he says Milah’s name and that’s better than it usually is and his voice barely even cracks when he talks about the accident and how close he was to walking away from the force when she died too.

He tells her and he...hopes.

And he nearly falls out of bed when he hears the first knock

Killian swings the door open to find Emma standing there with a nervous look on her face and that blanket he’d thought about a considerable amount wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair is tugged up, pieces of it falling across her forehead and her shoulders moving quickly like she ran down the stairs.

“Did you run down the stairs?” Killian asks before he can stop himself and her laugh is shaky with that same hope he can feel in his toes.

“I...well, yeah,” Emma mutters. “You shouldn’t have to shout that kind of stuff through your ceiling. And,” she adds, twisting until the blanket falls around her waist. “I brought whisky.” “Come on in, Swan,” he says, pushing the door open even wider and nodding towards the living room that’s covered in papers and another map of lower Manhattan and her eyes flit over everything as she takes a step past him.

She doesn’t ask about it.

She starts talking instead.

Emma drops into the corner of the couch, pulling her legs up underneath her and wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and she tosses the top of the whisky bottle on the table before she takes a particularly long swig.

She tells him she understands and that he’ll figure it out and she believes in him and that does something very particular to his whole entire body, but that might just be the alcohol too. And then she smiles softly and burrows even further into the couch and tells him about Neal.

They drink the entire bottle of whisky.

They fall asleep on his couch.

They go from there.

Killian doesn’t kiss her. He wants to. Desperately.  But he doesn’t. Because he’s got his case and she’s got her case and they spend most of their free nights on his couch with a bottle of whisky – which he might like even more than rum now and that absolutely doesn’t have anything to do with Emma or the way the green in her eyes seems to get even sharper two drinks in. They work their way through a stack of menus like they’re taste-testing the entire neighborhood and compare the stories they hear from David and Mary Margaret about Leo’s latest accomplishments.

It’s nice.

It’s comfortable and easy and he finds that Emma fits into every corner of his life as easily as if she’d moved into it with potted plants and a stack of paperwork that’s just taken up residence in the corner of his living room.

And it’s enough. He tells himself that. Constantly. Countless times. Every single day. Because it has to be. She’s David’s sister and, well, she’s David sister and Killian kind of enjoys being alive.

It absolutely isn’t enough.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?” Emma demands nearly three months after the initial alien attack, glaring at him over the top of another stack of paperwork. There’s a pen stuck in her hair and one gripped in between her teeth and a third clutched in between her fingers and Killian realizes, rather suddenly, that he’s absolutely in love with her.

Well, damn.

“Why do you know so much about Degrassi?” he asks.

Emma blinks – the same way David does when Killian asks something particularly stupid or complains about the shitty coffee in the precinct and his heart thuds in his chest, a painful reminder of who’s sitting on his couch. “That’s really what you’re thinking about?” “Sure?” “See, turning that into a question makes it seem like you’re not really thinking that.” “Why did you know about Spinner, Swan?” She puts down the paperwork, stuffing the pen that she’d been holding into her hair and he can’t believe he’s only justrealized he loves her. And that’s kind of a lie because he was mostly in love with her when he thought she was an alien.

“Because we lived in the middle of nowhere when we were growing up and we had a couple of channels and Maine inexplicably gets CTV and they ran Degrassi reruns in the afternoon,” Emma explains. “How long have you been wondering that?”

Killian shrugs, dropping onto the couch and grabbing a half-eaten egg roll off the coffee table. “Since you started talking about Drake.” “You started talking about Drake.” “I don’t know if that’s true, love.”

“I promise it was,” she says, tapping on his forearm with the end of another pen and he wants to ask her about that too, but he doesn’t get a chance.

She kisses him.

He nearly chokes on the egg roll. It is the single least coordinated, least attractive thing he’s ever done. He hopes it never ends.

It does, eventually, because neither one of them are actually alien life forms and do, in fact, require oxygen, but it ends with Emma’s legs perpendicular over his and his hand underneath the hem of her shirt and her fingers holding onto his hair like an anchor.

She presses another kiss against the edge of his lips and it takes every ounce of his not-quite-there restraint to keep himself from just pushing her back against the couch and kissing her until both of them aren’t worried about oxygen intake, but he’s only just realized he’s in love with her and he figures he should take these major life moments one at a time.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since you started talking about Drake,” Emma mutters and Killian’s breath catches again.

She smiles at him.

And they eat all the Chinese food they order. They don’t drink any of the whisky. They don’t really have to.

Emma never stays – not on purpose, at least. There are those few nights when they’re both far too exhausted to move off the couch and the prospect of trying to navigate the piles of paperwork in his living room is far too daunting and they fall asleep wrapped up in each other on the corner of his couch.

It usually ends with a sore neck and an arm that is full of pins and needles instead of blood the next morning, but Killian never complains and he brushes off David’s questions every single time he walks into the precinct with a smile that is just a bit too big to be normal.

They kiss...a lot. They don’t really go out. Because they can’t. And they don’t really define it. Because they can’t do that either.

There’s not really time.

Killian and David are closing in on Gold, a dozen steps forward only to be thrown a million steps back, but it’s a work in progress and he’s not quite as frustrated as he was before, particularly not when Emma’s shitty case goes to trial and he suddenly finds himself cheerleader as soon as closing arguments wrap on a Tuesday.

He’s only just walked into his apartment, barely toed out of his shoes or loosened his tie when the knock comes, Emma’s excited voice on the other side of the door.

“I won,” she screams as soon as he opens the door, launching herself at him and giving him half a second to brace himself. They start making out in his doorway, his hands moving quickly and her fingers tracing across the back of his neck and he knows she’s only got one foot on the ground because he’s still supporting most of her weight.

He doesn’t care.

He kisses her or she kisses him and one of them must have kicked the door because he can hear it slam close when they start walking further into the apartment. They’re a mess of limbs and clothing and Emma’s heel leaves a dent in his baseboard when she shakes it off her foot.

“You’re a menace,” Killian mutters, dragging his lips against her neck and grinning when he can hear her breath hitch, nails digging just a bit harder than usual against his skin.

“Whatever, you like it,” Emma argues. “You don’t even want to kill me anymore.” “It’d be decidedly weird if I wanted to kill you now, don’t you think, love?” Emma leans back far enough to roll her eyes and tug on his department-mandated tie. “You are talking way too much. Just like...way too much.” “Isn’t that your thing, Swan? Talking and arguing and all that lawyer-type stuff?” “Lawyer. Type. Stuff.” Killian grins, twisting his eyebrows suggestively and letting her pull the tie off, leaving it in a pile with what, at first glance, appears to be her jacket. And her bag. And her other heel. “That’s just a fact, love,” he mutters, tracing his thumb across her jaw and her eyelids flutter slightly. “What am I going to do without you pacing above me every night though?” She’s moving him towards his room, twisting and turning and he’s lost his belt at some point. He’s not paying attention to his clothes – although he does notice when one of his buttons actually pops off his shirt, eyes widening at that and Emma scowls slightly, mumbling something that sounds like sorry under her breath.  

“Still talking too much,” she grumbles, gasping softly when he turns them around and presses her back against his bedroom door. His hips cant up slightly and neither one of them talks much after that.

Emma stays that night.

It keeps going from there.

It’s weeks later and the bags under Killian’s eyes aren’t because of Emma’s pacing, but his own and he’s so close to cracking this case and getting charges to stick and this guy is evil,  should be off the street and behind bars and he just...wants.

A lot.

He wants, probably, more than he deserves, but Emma stays more often and he’s finding it harder and harder to sleep when she’s not curled up against him.

He thinks about that when they raid Gold’s store on West 8th.

Days and weeks and months later he’d probably blame his own inability to sleep on his own, but it’s really just being stupid and wanting to get Gold off the street and Killian moves before he should, before protocol dictates and he hears the clack of the gun before he feels the bullet in his shoulder.

It hurts like hell.

It’s somehow warm and cold and painful all at the same time, breathing suddenly more difficult than it’s ever been before and the gravel presses into his hands and his knees when he crashes to the ground. David tries to stop and make sure he’s ok, but Gold is getting away and the backup is screaming for Detective Nolan and Killian mumbles something that he hopes sounds like I’m fine,  but might just be a quiet groan because, honestly, getting shot hurts like hell.

He has no idea what happens next. He closes his eyes, trying to dull the pain and thinks about Emma and her smile and what an idiot he is because he hasn’t told her he loves her or wants her to just move into his goddamn apartment and leave her paperwork everywhere and her weird collection of pens and maybe he wants to marry her.

He definitely wants to marry her.

Killian blinks blearily at some indeterminate amount of time later and he can hear the pacing a few feet away from him and he tries not to actually groan. He dreamt the whole thing. He’s, finally, fallen asleep and he’s dreamt up Emma and the relationship that they’d never gotten around to defining and that’s incredibly disappointing.

And painful.

His shoulder is throbbing.

Oh.

He blinks again, wincing when he tries to move and something pulls where it’s connected to his arm and he hadn’t been able to hear all the machines over the pacing at the end of his bed. Emma is pacing at the end of his bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest and eyes on the wrong side of red and she looks exhausted.

“Swan?” he breaths and she freezes, neck snapping towards him and he sees all the muscles in her throat move when she swallows.

“Idiot,” Emma shouts. She stalks towards him like she’s going to pounce and Killian can’t go anywhere because he’s connected to an IV. Because he got shot. “You goddamn, stupid, absolute idiot, ” she seethes, but her shoulders are moving quickly and she’s out of breath and she’s definitely been crying.

“Did we get him?” Killian asks and her eyes get even wider.

“What? Yes! Of course you got him. God. I...I can’t believe that’s your first question.” “Why are you here, love?”

“That’s honestly your second question?” He wishes he could shrug – or focus on anything except how much his shoulder hurts. “Well, it’s not like, we’ve…” Emma’s jaw drops and she huffs, blinking quickly and shaking her head. “You’re an idiot,” she mumbles, but it doesn’t sound quite as angry and her hand finds his when she takes another step towards him. He tries to squeeze it. “I love you.” The machine does something – beeps or explodes or something it probably shouldn’t because his heart is beating so quickly he might actually be dying. He probably wouldn’t argue.

Emma ducks her eyes, trying to pull her hand away when he doesn’t respond quickly enough, but Killian manages to hold on even tighter. A nurse sticks her head into the open doorway, an anxious look in the pull of her eyebrows. “Everything ok in here?” she asks and Killian nods immediately.

“Perfect,” he promises. Emma looks up at him. And he waits until he can’t hear the nurse’s footsteps retreat before he opens his mouth again. “Hey,” Killian mutters, tapping his thumb on Emma’s palm. She bites her lip. “I love you, too. Even when I wanted to kill you for keeping me awake.” “I refuse to take the blame for waking you up just now. That’s just...science or something.” “Or something,” Killian grins, pulling her hand up and kissing along her knuckles.

They tell David when he comes to the hospital later that night and he pretends like he hasn’t known the whole time, but Mary Margaret mentions something about how he’s totally fine and even good before flashing a conspiratorial grin in Emma’s direction and walking out of the hospital room.

Emma stays.

And it just kind of...makes sense after that. David claims it’s part of his recovery,  but Killian is fairly certain that’s just a coping mechanism and he’s not going to argue it so long as Emma stays indefinitely.

David and Mary Margaret help them move boxes from one floor to the other a few months later, Leo sitting in a pop-up playpen in the corner of Killian’s living room and Ruby nearly trips over a pile of Emma’s pens that have, somehow, found a spot in the kitchen.

“I love you,” Emma mutters, tucked up against his side with half-eaten containers of food laid out across the coffee table and the top of unopened boxes and they’re alone and in an apartment that’s theirs now. “And I’m glad you didn’t kill me.”

“I’m glad you’re not actually an alien,” Killian counters. “And I love you too.” She opens her mouth to respond with something, he’s sure, is equally sarcastic, but he doesn’t give her a chance, just ducks his head and kisses her and they spend the next fifteen minutes making out on his couch.

Their couch.

It makes his pulse pick up and his heart pick up and he’ll probably never stop smiling.

They don’t get that much sleep that night, but neither one of them complains.