IMPORTANT: These are a series of unrelated drabbles, ficlets, and one shots that all feature the pairing of Emma Swan and Killian Jones.

Summary: Emma has come down with something unthinkable: a cold.
Rating: PG/K
Genre: Fluff, Canon Compliant (early season 4A)

A/N: Written for winterbaby89 who requested: "Since I'm sick, my prompt is not so much a specific prompt, but a feeling... I would love to see you do a feel good warm and fuzzy cs fic/ficlet. Please and thank you."

the savior takes a sick day (and a pirate plays nurse)

Shouldn't there be some law that states if you're saddled with the job of being the Savior then you get a kick-ass immune system to go with all the ass kicking you're forced to do on a regular basis? As Emma crawls out of bed feeling fuzzy and stuffy and achy, she decides to add this to the list of complaints she plans to air before whoever is in charge of these things.

She can't be sick today. There's a new baddie in town. She needs to get out there and investigate. To serve and protect. To—

Die. Can she just die right here on the staircase? Sprawl across the risers, forehead on the the cool wood? Yes. Yes, that feels better—if she ignores the corners jabbing into her hip and ribs.

"Emma!"

She knows that voice, doesn't she? Raspy and masculine and British. Except he's not, though she can't remember what Enchanted Forest kingdom he's from. She pulls herself up, or tries to. Her legs are too wobbly. Another attempt and she's upright, leaning on the railing. Hook bounds up the stairs, catching her when she sways forward.

"I'm fine," she croaks in protest. Oh, man. Talking hurts . Not just her throat, but her head, her entire body.

"Aye, love," he says in a damned patronizing tone. "Perfectly fine for one teetering on the cusp of death."

"I'm still breathing, aren't I?" She'd congratulate herself on a snappy comeback, considering the cotton stuffing that has replaced her brain, but her words came out stilted and breathless.

She hears other voices, David and Mary Margaret, though she can't quite make out what they're saying; her ears are filled with fluff, too. Then it hits her: what is Hook doing here? Has something happened in town? Is someone injured or—

"Calm down, lass," Hook murmurs. "Nothing's happened. And if it does, the prince can handle it."

Oh, was she talking aloud? He's ushering her up the stairs, and she obeys because she doesn't have the energy to fight him. They reach the landing after what feels like twenty agonizing years, and she's pretty sure she murmurs something about needed a rest. Just a short little one, right here on the floor. Hook rudely won't let her, though. Instead he lifts her into his arms with a grunt. Okay, that's not so bad. Her head fits nicely in the crook of his neck. She can drift off right here.

She wakes again, cocooned in blankets, glass of water on her night stand. There's a hushed conversation happening at the foot of her bed. She only catches a few snippets.

"—my daughter. I should be the one—"

"Don't you have that meeting at the mayor's office with—"

"I'll cancel it."

"Do you think it's wise, considering—"

"I suppose you think you're the best one to take care of her?"

"Aye, mate. We can't have the mayor and both sheriffs out of commission, can we?"

"Fine, but if anything happens—"

Emma slips into unconsciousness again.

Something cool presses against her forehead and it's bliss. She's so cold. No, hot. No, cold again. She cracks one bleary eye open with a groan and finds Hook sitting beside her on the bed, smoothing the damp cloth on her head.

"Can you sit up?" He laughs when she growls in reply. "Your mother said you needed to drink this tonic for your illness."

She tries to roll over, but he won't let her.

"Come one, love." He encourages her to lift her head, brushes the rim of the medicine cup against her lips. "A little nip and you can sleep your cares away."

"Fat chance of that happening," she mutters, but she drinks.

She loses time again, drifting between sweet oblivion and barely lucid misery. He's at her side every time she stirs, tucking the blankets back around her, changing the cloth on her forehead, dabbing her nose with a tissue, asking her to drink something—water, broth. She comes to once with shivers that rattle her bones, and the mattress dips as an arm pulls her against something warm and solid. She hums in relief and falls back into darkness.

She's in New York, making breakfast while Henry waters the plants. He catches her gaze, flashes a smile and her heart swells. Sometimes it surprises her, how her life has turned out. To go from unwanted child to pregnant juvenile delinquent to this. Even when her job tests her faith in humanity, she still has the bright spots of her son and… She frowns. And?

A slice of cooked bacon is pilfered from the plate next to the stove, and she spins, spatula in hand, ready to playfully chastise her son. Her breath catches in her throat when her eyes fall on a bare chest dusted with dark hair. She glances down at the flannel pajama bottoms and then up at the face that isn't supposed to be here.

"Hook?"

He raises a brow with a hint of a smirk, leaning against the counter. "Careful, love. Wouldn't want the lad to overhear things better left in the bedroom." Before she can utter a syllable in confusion, he plants a kiss on her cheek with comfortable familiarity, then takes the plate to the table.

Him being here—that's...wrong. At least, she's pretty sure it is. Right?

"Mom?"

Both Henry and Hook—Killian—are staring at her. What was she doing? Oh, right. Breakfast. She shakes her head, smiles, and brings over the pan of scrambled eggs.

Emma's quiet during the meal, listening to Henry explain the project he's got coming up for school. One of his classmates is an artist, and they're going to create a comic about Norse mythology. Killian—it is Killian; why had she thought of him as Hook?—regales them with hilarious story about the last family that he took out on one of his "High Seas" tours. He spins a dramatic tale about the young kid who climbed the rigging to the crow's nest, nearly startling Killian's first mate right out of it. He winks at Emma as they laugh.

No, this is right. This is her life. They're the Three Musketeers, and she's happier than she ever remembers being.

But the picture starts bleeding at the edges, fading into nothing, and her chest lurches as she desperately tries to hang onto this, to them . No, no. Not yet.

Her eyes open to the tawny light of early morning filtering through a nearby window. It's a heartbeat then another before she can make sense of her surroundings. This isn't New York; it's Storybrooke. This is home. She doesn't know why she feels a little disappointed. It must be the cold, still lingering in her stuffy nose and raw throat. Her gaze lands on the figure slumbering awkwardly in a chair next to her bed. Relief and the tiniest spark of something else blossoms in the general area of her sternum at the sight of her pirate. No, not hers, she reminds herself.

He's not wearing his long coat, gone too is the hook. With his hair sticking out at odd angles, he looks incredibly human. There's always been something about him that's more, though she can't put a name to it. He's a legend come to life, centuries old, and sometimes it's too much for her. In this moment, though, he's just Killian Jones.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he stirs, pale eyes blinking open to meet hers. He leans forward to press the back of his hand against her forehead. "The fever's broken," he says in a voice still graveled by sleep, and she doesn't want to find it as endearing as she does. "Feeling better now?"

She nods. "You didn't have to stay." She almost admits that she's glad he did, but the confession doesn't quite make it past her tongue.

"I did." He gives her that look. The one that would have the power to stop the world if she let him say the words written in his eyes.

She shies away from brink yet again, glad to have a sneeze and a particularly wet sniffle to cover her retreat. "I'm sure I'm looking real kissable right now," she says with a light tone, silently begging him to play along.

He drops his chin briefly, and then he looks at her again with his usual sass and swagger. "Why would you say that, Swan? You're always kissable." He stands, stretching his neck. "Your nursemaid is off to procure you some food. Now, be a good lass and stay in bed."

She's not sure why she grabs his arm before he can walk away, and when he looks back at her, brows furrowed, she fumbles for something to say. "Thank you, Killian."

He holds her gaze for a breath as if he understands that she's not just thanking him for yesterday, for last night, but for his patience. "I'm always at your service, Emma." He bends over and places a soft kiss on her forehead.

She waits until he leaves the room before letting out a sigh. Maybe...maybe she can make a little more space in her world for him.

~FIN~

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you have a minute, tell me what you thought!