A/N: The damp Killian scenes in Poor Unfortunate Souls did inspire some concern about Killian's health. And you just know he would be a high maintenance patient.

She knew there was going to be trouble when the sniffling started. His unplanned dip in the harbour and his subsequent adventures, hair and clothes still dripping, had come to their only logical conclusion.

Killian Jones had a cold.

(If she'd known, she wouldn't have been so quick to throw an admiring glance his way when he was wet - no doubt a good look for him - because he NEVER missed that stuff. The vain idiot probably resisted towelling off for hours, knowing he looked good damp.)

She had given him an aspirin and sent him home with Kleenex and orders to keep hydrated - water, not rum - and promised to check on him the next day.

Her message tone sounded before she had even got out of bed next morning.

KILLIAN: I am done for, Swan. This plague will best me.

So, a typically understated response then. She shook her head as she sent back her reply.

EMMA: You have a cold, Killian. It's not usually fatal.

KILLIAN: A common virus would be no match for me. I am gravely ill.

She sighed heavily and let him know she would be there as soon as she could.

She met Mr Smee on the docks. His face was clouded with concern and he carried a brown paper bag under his arm.

"Miss Swan, the Captain called me and said he needed me urgently. Is he all right? He implied he was gravely ill."

Emma had a flash of how these things may have worked in the Enchanted Forest, and just who may have done the hand patting and brow cooling when the fearsome Captain Hook was a little under the weather. Nothing like a nursemaid you could order about.

Well we are not in the Enchanted Forest any more, buddy, she thought. This was going to take a woman's touch.

"He is fine, Smee, he just has a cold. You go, I'll take care of him." Smee looked anxious, 300 years of following orders a hard thing to change. Emma put a hand on his arm and looked at him reassuringly.

"Seriously, it will be fine. I'll let you know if he needs you."

The first mate nodded and made to scurry away. Emma called him back.

"Hold on. What's in the bag?"

The man had the good grace to look a bit sheepish, but tried to pass off the bag as his own.

"Hand it over," she commanded, and pulled a bottle of rum out of the brown paper. She shook her head at the pirate, who shrugged his shoulders in defeat and took the opportunity to make his escape.

Typical, she thought to herself as she looked at the bottle. Although she suspected she might need a stiff drink before too long.

She heard a slightly strained voice call out as she made her way towards his cabin.

"About bloody time, Smee, Swan will..."

He stopped as he realised the legs descending the ladder were definitely NOT those of his first mate.

"Not Smee." She stated with a raised eyebrow. He fixed his face briefly into the expression she thought of as "sorry but look how dashing I am" - she was not going to let on that it was an effective choice - and then resettled himself under his blanket, face pale and eyes puffy.

She took pity on him and leaned down to give him a kiss on the forehead. He was slightly warm and clammy, nothing too serious.

"How are you feeling after some sleep?" she asked. Honestly, he took pitiful to a whole new level and she was hating herself for letting it work.

He smiled wanly. "Marginally improved, love. Though rum might speed the healing process?"

"Only for me," she quipped and waved the contraband alcohol at him. "Luckily I have a bottle! Don't tempt me to start at this time of the morning."

She sat on the edge of his bed, and took a deep breath.

"All right," she sighed. "I am giving you half a day to have man-flu. Then it's back to the land of the living."