Everything around them is eerily quiet, save for the crunching sound of their footsteps on the frosty grass. Not a single bird is singing and even the wind that had been howling not ten minutes ago has now died down. It's as if Storybrooke is holding its breath, waiting for the next cataclysm to happen. Not that Emma can blame the woodland animals for hiding – she would rather spend time away from the cold too, if she had the luxury.

The wind bites her skin ever through the multiply layers of clothes she wears, and she stopped feeling her nose a good half hour ago, red and hitching with the cold she'll catch before tomorrow. All she can think is going back to the apartment, press her back against the heater and burn her tongue on a hot chocolate. But that, along with everything else – a warm bath, hiding behind five blankets and a good night of sleep – will have to wait until further notice.

For now, they're busy man-hunting the Snow Queen, because that's what her life has become.

As with everything else in life, Killian takes their little adventure in stride, good hand hidden in the pocket of his coat and eyes on the ground, scanning for patches of ices under fallen leaves. Even if she hasn't talked him out of his pirate garb yet, he agreed to wear a scar and beanie on that one, and the look is completely ridiculous (read, endearing) on him, dark strands curling around the beanie's hem. When he turns to look at her, it's with a grin on his lips, nose and cheeks pink with cold and eyes sparkling – her heart does a weird little dance against her ribcage.

"Interesting, don't you think?" he asks, breaking the silence at last, white cloud dancing in front of his mouth. His voice is low and teasing, matching the mischievous glint in his big, blue eyes. "You, me, the woods…"

Emma can't help but laugh, which is a bad idea in itself as the cold air immediately attacks her lungs, leaving her breathless for a second or two. (Yeah, totally the cold.) Still she can't help but roll her eyes, even as a small smile curl up her lips in remembrance of all those times spent in the woods, saving the day – and they've had their share of those, haven't they? Why can't their fairytale problems happen on a sunny beach or something?

Because it would make her job as the Savior easier, that's why.

She walks past him, making sure to nudge his shoulder along the way. "It's a date, then," the words rolling on her tongue before she can swallow them back.

It scares her – how easy it is, the teasing and the flirting, how right and natural it feels with him. Just thinking about it leaves her restless, fingers and feet tickling with the need to leave, run, flee. She has to ground herself not to do that just now, to put one foot in front of the other in the search of Elsa – that alone is exhausting in ways she isn't used to, the maelstrom of strong emotions draining her of her energy.

Love is supposed to be easy (and it is, with him, even if the word seems too big, too much) but it is so complicated too. Freaking out over an improvised line is proof enough that, even if she's gone a long way, Emma still has work to do on that one.

And she wants this, whatever label they put on this, to actually work.

It takes him a few seconds before catching up with her, fingers finding the crook of her elbow all to easily. (He's tactile, she's learnt, always with a hand on her lower back or fingers in her hair or his leg pressed to her. She usually hates that but, as with everything else, he makes it work flawlessly.)

"A what?"

The chuckle escapes her in a white cloud, raising a challenging eyebrow at Killian – it's like Photoshop and phones and electricity all over again, but she remembers her first time in the Enchanted Forest, ogres and swords and Mary Margaret talking to birds. She knows better than to laugh at him. He's such a fast learner anyway, there is nothing to mock there.

"A date. You know, having a drink, going to the cinema or to the park, and basically spending time together. Outside. Alone."

She stumbles on the words, suddenly grateful the cold hides the blush high on her cheekbones, hearing how she makes a fool of herself. Henry is so much better than her at their little game of Technology for Pirates 101 – not that she'd let her eleven year-old kid teach her three-century something pirate about dating, mind you. Still, blushing and stuttering like a schoolgirl with a crush, that's new. And embarrassing.

But Killian, true to himself, only looks confused about the 'cinema' part, otherwise pondering on her words with the slightest pout and tilt of the head – the one that turns him into a confused puppy and turns her into a mess of feelings. It takes a few seconds, but he ultimately gives her a nod, satisfied with that new lesson in everything land-without-magical.

It leaves her curious, obviously.

"How did it work back there? Poem writing? Tea parties?"

Emma can't help but imagine something out of a Jane Austen book, with bonus pianoforte and walking around rooms. Which might not be so far from the truth, come to think about it – perhaps not for the piano, more like the lute or something.

"Aye, there was a bit of that," Killian replies with a laugh of his own, low and husky. "I attended many a ball during my years in the Navy. For a royal such as yourself, it would have been suitors and balls, and then the occasional walk in the gardens with a chaperon. I must say, the idea of an evening in a tavern is a much more thrilling prospect."

He bumps her shoulder just then, bottom lip stuck between his teeth – literally biting back the grin that threatens to appear – and she bumps it back playfully. The need to tease him about the only time they were in a tavern together is strong, but it brings back a whole different set of memories along with it, of dark cabins and heated kisses, and Emma knows better than to poke fun at this particular scene.

So instead she tries to imagine this life – the balls and the suitors and the courting – that could have been hers, had the situation been different. Would she have liked it? Loved it even? Would she have felt like the outcast, uncomfortable in her tight corset and pretty dresses? So many possibilities opening up to her imagination, and yet all she can think of is a red dress and you're a natural. She smiles.

"Anyway," she says, dragging on the last syllable. "Work to do."

She doesn't have time to make five steps forwards, looking around her for a flash of blue fabric – they're closer to the park and the lake by now, maybe water appealed to Elsa in some way – before he calls out her name.

She throws him a pointed look over her shoulder, to which Killian replies by a smug grin of his. "Fancy grabbing a drink tonight?"

Emma can't help it; she laughs, loud and clear, cheek hurting with her wide smile and chuckles warming her cold body. She shakes her head – he's an idiot, an adorable idiot pirate – before starting to walk towards the lake once more.

"Only if you're buying!" she replies, loud enough to be heard from where he stands.

He's quick on his feet, back at her side in an instant, hand finding her lower back all to easily and sending sparkles up her spine with a single brush of skin against jacket. (She's a goner.)

"Well, of course."

His voice is low, closer to her ear than expected, promising more than just a tankard of beer at the Rabbit Hole. And if she presses her lips into a thin line, if she quickens her pace, well, let's just say she's tired of the cold already.

(She's such a goner.)