A/N: I wanted to write something, some sort of fallout from Neal being in Storybrooke, and this is what happened. It's not meant to be OMFG SERIOUS, it's short and sweet, but still true to our pirate and our Swan. This is not related to Second Star to the Right, it's a complete stand-alone one-shot, and I hope you enjoy it!

I recommend listening to "Pirates of the Heart" by Ethan Lipton and His Orchestra, because that song sort of inspired this little ficlet. ;)

Of Drunkenness, Jealousy, and Treasure

"Your lover is a wanker."

Emma looked up from her paperwork, a frown on her face at the slightly slurred voice coming from the doorway of the sheriff's office. Her eyes met his impossibly blue ones, and she sighed. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" he said, indignant (and absolutely drunk), and Emma cocked her head slightly, giving him that look she gave him when she knew he was lying to her. "I may have had a little bit … but I am most emphatically not drunk." He jutted his chin a little, and Emma tried not to laugh.

"Okay, then. What brings you to the sheriff's office at," she glanced at the clock, "twelve-forty-eight this evening? You know I could have you arrested for public intoxication."

"Would the handcuffs be involved, my darling Emma?" he asked with a wink, and she shook her head, trying not to let her amusement show. It was getting harder and harder to do these days, around him, though. Just as it was getting harder and harder to deny that she maybe sorta kinda liked him.

A little.

He took a step into the room, stumbling a bit over nothing — those cracks in the floor, they were tricky, Emma thought, biting back another grin as she watched him.

"To tell you," he said, as seriously as his current state would allow, "that your lover boy is a wanker. And a bastard. And … " he paused for dramatic effect, "a bloody terrible dresser. There, I've said it, now it's out in the open."

Emma rolled her eyes. "So much for being a gentleman," she said to him dryly. "Alcohol makes you a bit crass, huh?" He just gave her a "what of it?" look. "Is this about Neal?" she asked him then.

"You mean the wanker," Killian said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"So you're … not drunk," Emma said pointedly, "because of Neal?"

Killian didn't say anything, focusing instead on trying to perch on the corner of her desk. She assumed he was trying to be sexy or distracting, but he kept losing his balance and nearly toppling off the side. Sorta ruined the effect.

It was pretty cute though, she had to admit begrudgingly.

"Will you please just sit in a chair?" she asked him after the third time he'd nearly fallen over.

"I'm fine," he insisted and she could hear the edge in his voice.

Emma blinked as the realization hit her. "You're jealous," she said, eyes widening.

"Oi, you take that back!" he snapped, his expression angry.

"Why would I do that?" she said with a teasing grin, leaning back in her chair and stretching her arms over her head to release some of the tension in her back. It was a move she noted with some satisfaction, that had his full attention. "It's true."

"Oh, well aren't you just precious?" Killian sneered, giving her a look that she couldn't quite read, but she knew it went straight to places that it had no business going. "Sitting there thinking you're so sodding special … like we're all just supposed to make bloody fools of ourselves over you, now that your bastard lover has returned to … "

Emma held up a hand. "Stop it," she said, shaking her head at him. "First of all, I don't have a lover … "

"And whose fault is that? You know I'm more than happy to help you with any of your … needs," Killian said, giving her a heated look.

Well, look at that. That piercing gaze of his was just as effective even when he was a little inebriated.

"That's not the point," Emma said, wondering when the room had gotten so warm.

"No, the point is that bloody wanker just waltzes into town and expects everything to be like it was before, like he can just have whatever he wants, even though it's … " He trailed off, shaking his head and heaving a disgusted sigh. "Forget it."

"No, finish," Emma pressed. "Say what it is that's so damn important that you're drunk and in the sheriff's office well after midnight."

"You're here well after midnight too, lass," he told her.

She shifted a little in her seat, but didn't answer. "Finish your sentence," she told him, her face expressionless. "He thinks he can have whatever he wants even though it's … what?"

"Mine," Killian said, his voice almost feral, his eyes like blazing blue flames.

Emma looked at him, her breath hitching for just a second at the intensity of his voice, his gaze. Then she rolled her eyes and made a noise of derision. "I'm not actually property, you know. And in what world am I even close to being anything that resembles yours?"

"Oh, bloody hell, Emma, you think I don't know that?" he snapped, on his feet once again, and a lot steadier than he had been. "Are we really going to sit here and play the semantics game? I know you're not something I could ever possess … and I wouldn't want you to be. But you are as much mine as I am yours, and all your arguments to the contrary don't change that!"

He was pulling her to her feet then, and she knew she should be protesting, but she just couldn't. What were the odds he would even remember any of this tomorrow, anyway? And she'd waited a long time … too long, in truth … for someone to actually want her, just because she was Emma.

And the fact that it was him …

"You know you feel it, too," he said, his voice low.

"Killian," she said, finding herself in his arms, and not really sure what to do about it. Leaning in seemed like a bad idea, though he smelled of leather and rum and the sea and she ached to be closer. Stepping away from him seemed like an even worse idea.

"He didn't fight for you, Emma. He doesn't deserve you."

She gave him a look. "And you think you do?"

"Oh, I know I don't," he said seriously. "But I'd never hurt you like that. I'd never not fight for you." His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer.

"Killian … you're drunk," Emma said, looking down then. The look in his eyes was too much for her right now.

"Then what are you so afraid of?" he whispered in her ear. "I won't remember it anyway, will I? Is it him? Do you still love him, Emma?"

"What?" she asked, looking at him, shaking her head. "No. I don't … I'm not still in love with Neal. But he's Henry's father. And he's not going anywhere."

"Are you?" he asked her, his expression serious.

"Am I what?" She was confused. "Going anywhere?"

"Aye," he said lowly, leaning in a bit, his face very close to hers now.

"Not at the moment," she said, her voice coming out in a soft sigh. "You won't remember any of this tomorrow anyway."

"I wouldn't bet on that, lass. I'm not as drunk as you think I am. Not so drunk as to forget this." And then he was kissing her, and she had no inclination to stop him.

So she didn't.