Inspiration for this came from a Tumblr comment about a pair of real-life teachers shooting quips at each other, and a wish to see that in CS form. And no, the title is not from the crappy Julia Roberts movie, it was taken from the far superior Shania Twain song.

In hindsight, she'd been no more mature than her high-schoolers in starting the whole rivalry. But from the first glimpse Emma Swan had got of Killian Jones, British transplant to Storybrooke High, during the informal meet-and-greet in the teacher's lounge, she knew—he was trouble with a capital T, and not just because of his unfairly good looks. He had that air about him that just gave off supreme self-assuredness, and when those blue eyes focused on her, she felt like a police spotlight had just frozen her in place.

Unfortunately, there was no way Emma could slink off unnoticed; Principal Mills was going down the line, introducing everyone.

"Emma Swan," he'd murmured in a downright lascivious tone, bringing the back of her hand to his mouth. Who still did that? "A pleasure."

Once she was sure she could form words again without sounding breathless, she tried to be blandly friendly. "So…I hear you're coming in to make sure the neighborhood dogs stop howling every fifth and sixth period."

He'd grinned. "I do seem to have a skill for drawing out peoples' innermost talents, music-wise. You know," he'd gone, stepping closer, voice dropping, "I wouldn't be opposed to you stopping by and banging on my drums sometime."

Oh, it's on.

Certainly, considering the types she'd faced before, Jones was harmless. But Emma considered it a public service of hers to put cocky, preening bastards in their place. She'd had enough of them to last a lifetime, and to have to work in close quarters with one five days a week? It was best to nip this kind of behavior in the bud. Or match it head-to-head.

The Friday of the first football game of the season, he'd led the band through the halls, for "school spirit." Emma stormed out of her classroom at the noise, just as they were passing. But instead of just demanding why he felt the need to parade the school mid-day, which wouldn't ruffle him a bit, she went with a different tactic.

"Blimey, guv'na," she called loudly. "You and your lot be makin' a right blooming racket 'round these parts."

She felt completely rewarded when he paused, lips parted in surprise. Though, of course, he didn't stumble for long.

"Why, Swan," he said, in a horrible imitation of a Southern twang, "I'd have thought such a red-blooded Amurrikan gal would champion the celebration of the national pastime. I even heard we'd be graced with the presence of your pet bald eagle. Don't all you Yanks have one?"

She bit the inside of her lip firmly; he would not be graced with a smile. "Baseball is the national pastime, you limey twit. Fluffy wouldn't deign to get off his perch for a mere football game."

He'd motioned for the band to carry on ahead, while he ducked his head down to her quickly, hot breath tickling her ear. "You're playing with fire, Ms. Swan."

And so it went, turning into a kind of routine not only for them, but the faculty and student body, too. Who would best the other today—Swan or Jones?

"Tally-ho, Mr. Jones! Fancy a crumpet and a spot of tea?"

"Only if you teach your students proper spelling, Swan! It's c-o-l-o-u-r, not c-o-l-o-r!" he called, back, hand over his heart as though he were about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

Killian looked thoroughly pleased no matter who got the most laughs, but the man himself was wearing Emma down. Not only did he have an answer for every damn comment, but…well, she wasn't positive about the men's dress code, but surely it was just plain…plain distracting, to have that much chest hair showing at all times. Or how he'd just beam at her after one of their exchanges before he went off in the other direction, or twirl a finger up through one of her curls, and laugh when she'd smack his hand away.

"He likes you, you know." Mary Margaret set her Tupperware down on the table with a distracting plunk. "Though the way you needle him, I have no clue why."

Emma raised her copy of The Iliad until it was level with her face. "I don't have any idea what you're yakking about."

The nose-buried-in-a-thick-book gag worked on most people to let Emma enjoy her breaks in peace, but after being friends for so long, Mary Margaret was wise to her tricks.

The other woman let out an exasperated huff, reached out and pulled the book down. "Don't play dumb, Emma—you don't have the poker face for it."

Emma sighed, fixing Mary Margaret with a defeated look. "Et tu, Brute? You can't possibly believe all the horseshit these other gullible trolls are spreading around. And, plus—"

"Furthermore," Mary Margaret interrupted. "I think you like him, too."

Emma's mouth hung open like a goldfish taking in oxygen. "I—what? You're a little young to be off your rocker already, Mary Margaret."

"Oh, please, Emma. You're the equivalent of that preschooler on the playground giving an Indian burn to their little crush, under the guise of hating their guts."

She slunk down in her chair. Now that was just wholly off-base—wet willies had always been more her style.

"Fine, deny away," Mary Margaret conceded when Emma stayed silent, taking out her fork and napkin. "I'll back off—for now. Going to Homecoming tomorrow?"

"Right. Just what I need—having to stare at Killian Jones leading the marching band to kick off the game, at halftime, and at the end. Not to mention all the stupid little gestures he'll throw my way. Just the thing to notget more fuel for the rumors."

Mary Margaret shrugged. "You can sit with me and David," she said, referring to her P.E. teacher husband.

"No thanks. I have absolutely no desire to be a part of yours and David's matchmaking schemes."

Mary Margaret gave her head a little toss, a flush creeping up her neck from being called out. "Well, for what it's worth, he agrees with me."

"Alright, guys," Emma clapped her hands loudly. "I'm sure everyone's mind is on the game and dance this weekend, so I'll try to make today as short and sweet as possible—as long as you cooperate."

A girl towards the front held up her hand. "Ms. Swan? Are you going tomorrow, too?"
She gave an amused snort. "Sorry, Grace. Sports aren't really my thing."

"But she definitely won't want to miss the band's numbers," another student said in a low voice, earning a few snickers from the other boys around him.

Emma stopped short in front of the offender, crossing her arms, fixing him with her most no-nonsense glare. "And just what do you mean by that, Martin?"

"I…uh…" the kid took a gulp, looked right, then left, searching for backup. Nobody would meet his gaze; everyone knew not to cross Ms. Swan. He was on his own. "I mean, like…aren't you and Mr. Jones, you know…a thing?"

Emma was sure she could physically feel the blood draining from her face. Why, that…that…. "That's complete fiction, buddy," she finally said gruffly, "And it's bad—"

"—Bad form to gossip, laddy," a familiar voice came from the doorway. Ugh, just who I don't need right now, Emma thought, turning around.

"Need help keeping order in the classroom, Miss?" Killian asked, leaning against the doorjamb, a half-smirk on his face and eyes twinkling.

Her eyes narrowed. "Doing just fine by my own devices."

"Well then." He gave a bow, straightening up with a ridiculous hand flourish. "As you were, Swan…pupils," he finished, giving her a blatant wink before he waltzed off down the hall.

"Ooooohhh…" came a low rumble behind her. Emma whirled back around, hoping her complexion hadn't gone from blanched parsnip to fiery tomato.

"Anyone who doesn't have Hamlet out in two seconds is getting a five-page critique assigned over the weekend!"

She'd never been obeyed so quickly.

The end of the day couldn't come soon enough; as soon as the last bell rang, Emma hovered impatiently by the door until the last student had shuffled out, locked it, then made posthaste for the band room. She was going to put all this nonsense to rest before it got even more out of hand.

Killian was on one of the ancient metal stools the tuba players had the misfortune of teetering on, looking through what looked like a box of sticks, not noticing her approach on the carpeted floor. Even when he thought he was alone, did he really have to look so damn tempting, with his plaid shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearm muscles flexing as he rifled through the box. And if he really insisted on wearing such tight jeans, did he have to sit with his legs splayed from here to there?

"Ahem!"

Killian glanced up, looking unsurprised. "Swan? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Emma rolled her eyes, stalking closer to him. "First things first, you can stop talking like that whenever you see me."

A furrow showed up between his thick brows, and he leaned back on his stool. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, love. Greeting you? Does everyone who shows the barest ounce of cordiality towards you get their head bitten off, as well?"

"You know damn well the way you speak to me makes us sound like…well, like we're closer than we are." She planted her hands on her hips. "Other teachers have been talking. Now my students are whispering!" She took another step, palms held up appeasingly. "Just…just knock it off, okay?" She jumped, startled, when Killian threw back his head and let out a loud guffaw. "What—what the hell is so goddamn funny?"

"Y—you, darling," Killian managed to gasp out. "Acting the like the sole injured party. If I may be so bold—" He stood up suddenly, started walking her backwards towards the instrument lockers. "May I remind you…you started this whole public spectacle almost from the minute I set foot on this campus, with your utterly feeble attempts at my slang, my accent." He folded his arms, cocked a brow at her. "Well, Swan? Do you deny it?"

She felt her back hit metal. "I—I don't—"

"Of course, I'm not one to let a good barb go unreturned. Rather been enjoying myself, and I think you have too, if you'd just put your bloody pride aside for a minute."

She finally looked up, into his open expression. There wasn't any teasing or smugness there for once. He was right; she was being a total tight-ass. "You're right," she gritted out. "I'm sorry, it really wasn't—"

Killian took ahold of her fingertips lightly. "There, did that kill you?"

"Apologizing? Honestly…yeah, a little bit," she grinned.

He let out a short laugh. "Don't be sorry…but do come to Homecoming tomorrow. You haven't seen my prowess at managing these hoodlums yet. I promise, it'll literally be music to your ears now, not the cacophony of yore."

"I accept, Jones. But if it's a disaster, I'm coming at you Monday with both guns blazing."

"Verbally, I hope?"

"What the hell else would I mean?"

"Doesn't everyone in this wild frontier own at least two firearms?" he asked, jumping out of the way before her slap landed on his shoulder.