A/N: In the next couple of chapters there will be both Captain Swan and Snowing, so if you came here because of either of those ships, they will show up. However, the bulk of this is really the brotp of Captain Charming. Hope you enjoy this!

His eyes barely open after yet another abbreviated night's sleep, Killian Jones followed the delicious scent that wafted up to his room, drawing him out and down the stairs into the kitchen as if guided by Hestia herself. There, he found his house mate, David Nolan, flipping crepes gently into the air and back into the skillet like he was catching clouds, then letting them cook to a golden hue, the warm, buttery smell making his stomach growl. Scratching his chest and giving a deep yawn, Killian plopped down on one of the stools at the kitchen island, opposite from where David—deep in thought—was cooking.

"Well, this is unexpected," Killian said around another yawn waving his hand at David. "You, cooking breakfast. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion, just felt like crepes," David said with a shrug and a nonchalance he normally reserved for those who didn't know him as well as Killian did, while he poured batter into the skillet and, with a flick of his wrist, swirled the sunny yellow mixture around until it covered the bottom of the pan evenly.

Killian pressed his lips together in a brief frown as David continued concentrating on the pan and the crepe setting inside it.

"How can I help?" Killian asked, moving off the stool and around the island to the coffee maker on the counter that ran along the wall to the right of the sink behind where David stood. David always made the coffee (he claimed there wasn't enough cream in the universe to lighten the black hole that was Killian's brew), but breakfast was usually limited to either nothing solid or the occasional pop tart or bowl of Cap'n Crunch depending on who had time to do the food shopping. This was…unusual to say the least. The last time David made crepes for breakfast was probably the morning before he opened his restaurant a few years ago.

"You can help by putting a shirt on. You're a walking health code violation," David said wryly.

Killian scoffed, "You're lucky I'm wearing shorts, mate." He filled his mug and inhaled, feeling his brain firing up properly with his first somewhat scalding sip.

"Well, I wasn't planning on sausage links with this, but…" David replied trying to hold back a laugh, the lines around his eyes deepening and the morning sun catching in the scattered blond scruff along his jaw.

"Sausage links, eh? Someone's all caught up on their caffeine intake this morning I see. Just for that dig, I'm not going to accommodate your request. Besides, the health inspector is a friend of mine and last time I checked they didn't make the rounds to personal residences," he reminded David.

"Yeah, well, if I get one of your fuckin' chest hairs in my food, I'm going to punch you in the face," David threatened half-heartedly.

"No need to be hostile, mate. Besides, I've eaten your food. My chest hair could only be an improvement," Killian said proudly, his hands smoothing over the dark fur.

David shook his head, pursing his lips together. "Whatever. I think there are some fresh strawberries in the fridge. Why don't you cut some up. Oh, and grab the powdered sugar, too," David requested.

"Aye."

As Killian gathered up the berries, some chocolate sauce, powdered sugar, and the balsamic vinegar as an afterthought, David finished making the crepes and put them on a plate waiting on the bar and covered it with a warm, damp towel. Killian pushed the the toppings down the bar toward their plates.

Gesturing toward their entire inventory of knives and other sharp objects—whetstone still nearby—laid out neatly atop some towels on the counter near the coffee pot, David asked, "So, planning a murder or considering becoming a surgeon?" He looked at Killian closely waiting for his answer.

Avoiding his scrutiny, Killian shook his head. "Neither. They were just looking a touch dull. Thought I would sharpen them up," Killian said as he picked a couple paring knives up and handed one to David, placing the carton of ripe strawberries between them at the empty counter space on the other side of the stove.

"Oh good. Now when the knife slips, it will cut my finger clean off instead of just ricochet off my scaly, dishpan hands."

"You really should hire a busboy," Killian suggested.

"I was talking about around here, wiseass. Wouldn't kill you to wash a dish."

"Perhaps. And perhaps you can push a damn vacuum around now and again. It's your bloody cat that does all the shedding."

"Says the guy who leaves a wake of black hair wherever he goes because he refuses to put on a shirt. Bandit might be mine, but she seems to be in your bed most of the time. Probably thinks you're another cat."

Both men shook their heads in unison, lips pressed together, and continued slicing up the strawberries in companionable silence. When the carton of strawberries was almost empty and the bowl they were depositing the slices in almost full, Killian laughed softly to himself.

"This remind you of the old days at cooking school? All that time prepping, slicing, dicing, and arranging?" Killian asked.

"Only with less clothing," David retorted. "The 'Dragon Lady' sure was fond of you, though. She barely passed me, which was not surprising given the way she scowled at me constantly," he continued.

"Aye, well, she did require some finessing," Killian admitted.

David rolled his eyes. "That what you call it? Half the class thought you were…stuffing her turkey."

"I wasn't, ah, to her taste, which was a good thing because she would've eaten me alive, of that I've no doubt," Killian said as he took the bowl of sliced strawberries and placed it next to the plate of crepes.

David laughed in agreement. They met in culinary school when they were both out of the military—David the Army, and Killian the Navy. The hadn't gotten along well at first due to David's bravado, and Killian's insolence, and, in fact, they were thrown out of more than one class after punches were thrown over trivial differences in cooking style and their combined short tempers. The final time they were tossed out of a class (Traditional European Cuisine over which meat made a better stew), the dean of the school told them to go out for a drink and settle their differences or don't return. A bottle of rum later, and the two men realized they had more in common than they thought (deceased brothers, a rebellious streak in the face of unjust authority, and a penchant for women who took no shit), and, from then on, were practically inseparable.

They'd become roommates before their second year, and after graduation, had gone in different directions geographically, but when Killian settled and opened The Ship's Galley, he saw a need for a steakhouse in the seaside town and convinced his best mate to come out and open one up. David had been working under a famous, yet repellant, chef in New York City and was eager to leave and start his own restaurant away from the madness of the city and his boss, so when Killian called, it didn't take much convincing to get him to move to the coast. They'd bought a neglected duplex for practically nothing right on the beach and converted it into two homes sharing one kitchen and a view of the ocean.

They sat down at the counter and began assembling their crepes; David with strawberries and a healthy layer of powdered sugar, Killian with strawberries, a drizzle of chocolate sauce and just a light dusting of the sugar. He rolled up the breakfast confection and took a bite, the crepe itself almost melting in his mouth. The light creaminess of it complimented the tangy wedges of strawberry and balanced out the bitter sweetness of the dark chocolate sauce.

"Mmmmm….mmm," Killian hummed, savoring every flavor as they melded together in his mouth. "You've outdone yourself, mate. I think you've missed your calling," Killian said, licking his fingers of the sugar and chocolate.

David smiled around his own mouthful of crepe and strawberries.

"Seriously, David. You could open up a place called 'Crepe, Crepe, Crepe'…or 'Oh Crepe!'… Maybe 'Holy Crepe!'—that would certainly draw the Sunday, after church crowd," Killian suggested.

David practically choked on his next bite, the powdered sugar billowing out of his mouth like a storm cloud as he coughed. Killian thumped him on the back a couple of times and reached over the counter to grab David's coffee he'd left behind when he was cooking and handed it to him. Raising it in salute before taking a sizable gulp from it, David shook his head and put the cup back down.

"Nah, I'm good with the steakhouse, thanks," he said, his voice a little rough from choking.

David and Killian continued to plow through the pile of crepes trying different variations and making small, content noises with almost every bite. Finally David wiped the corners of his mouth with his hand.

"So, did you hear the latest rumors?" he asked, giving Killian a sidelong glance.

Killian raised an eyebrow and asked, "You mean the one about the Michelin Guide inspector coming to town?" David nodded. "Aye. Have you forgotten who my assistant chef is? I think Smee knew before the inspector. The man has an uncanny knack for procuring all manner of things in any number of dodgy ways. But yes, I found out about it yesterday."

"Leroy told me yesterday as well…although he damn near told everyone else in the restaurant too. The man does not understand the word 'discretion.'"

Killian chuckled in sympathy. "A three star review would be quite the honor," he said. Practically every chef and restaurateur dreamed of the prestige a high rating in a respected guide could give them. For some, a rating like that was the difference between a successful restaurant or no restaurant at all.

"Mmm. Certainly guarantees a boom in business," David noted. Seaside vacation towns like this were already magnets for business, but that kind of recognition could mean even more business off-season as well.

"If things took off, perhaps it would be the beginning of a chain," Killian added.

David nodded. "Or a reality show. I've always wanted to be on Iron Chef…"

"Is that so? I thought you were gunning for Dancing with the Stars. Color me surprised," Killian teased with feigned shock.

"Asshole," David said trying not to laugh, but his lopsided grin removed the bite from the insult. He looked Killian in the eyes and said, "We'd be crazy not to take advantage of this information though. Not often you get to prepare for an inspector."

"True. Opportunities like this don't come along every day," he agreed. No one was supposed to know the identity of the inspector or when they would be there. Smee's information was valuable and Killian just had to figure out how best to use it. David was obviously thinking the same thing.

Killian stood up and collected his and David's plates then slotted them in the dishwasher while David gathered up the crepe toppings to put them away. They were both lost in thought about this new prospect as they moved about the kitchen. David stopped at one point and looked as if he were going to say something then shook his head and kept cleaning up instead.

"I've got to get ready for the lunch rush," Killian informed David, the kitchen now cleared of their sweet feast. "Thanks for breakfast. It was grand. At least we know you have a fallback option if you don't earn those three stars for your meats."

"Yeah? And what are you going to do if you come up short? Knife thrower at a carnival? Fishmonger?"

Killian gave David half a grin and raised his eyebrow in challenge. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we? Good luck, mate. You're gonna need it."

David gave Killian a sly smile and crossed his arms over his chest. "Same to you, mate. May the best restaurant win."