It is still new to them both, this thing they have, even though it has been years. She isn't sure it will ever be something she is used to. The kisses stolen in the alleyways between buildings, filled with more passion than Emma has ever known. The subtle knowing smiles shared across first the diner and then a table, keeping them in on their own private joke. The hesitant way he takes her hand in his the first time and every time after, weaving his fingers delicately between hers and holding tight as they walk together down the street, warmth burning straight through her winter gloves. And she likes it. She likes how he looks at her as if she hangs the stars, even if it is far from the truth. She likes how he touches her, always gently at first, as if he is frightened that she might evaporate beneath his fingers. She likes the way he flirts, innuendo after innuendo and she likes knowing that he is hers. She likes him. And after all this time, longer now than she has ever been with anyone (three years, and Emma Swan is not one to count anniversaries) he still so clearly loves her.

"Granny still bloody watches us like she's waiting for you to come to your senses at any moment," Killian is telling her with his usual touch of careful amusement.

They are making their morning rounds (Emma's morning rounds, if she is being technical, but she does not know how to shake the pirate, and if she is being honest with herself, does not want to). It has become a bit of a pattern, really. Breakfast with Henry and Killian before breaking off separately (or sometimes together), to meet at the station and have another coffee and start Emma's daily route. She likes it usually, but since the cold has set in (winter, this time and not Elsa—she'd made quite certain) it has been especially nice having Killian tag along, having another warm body. He does not say it aloud but she knows it is because he is always left feeling concern for her, which of course annoys her immensely—but the many happenings keep her nervous for him as well, so having him with her serves the dual purpose of keeping an eye out for him and having company that she is learning, however slowly, not to mind.

And you never knew what could appear in Storybrooke.

"I guess she'll be watching us for a long time, then," she responds with the slightest of shrugs, and an even smaller smirk in his direction. At one point it would have bothered her a good deal, the town nosing in her personal affairs. But somewhere along the line, she thinks (and certainly doesn't glance at the pirate bobbing along beside her), things had changed. Her words earn a sideways smile, and his fingers find hers with ease and give a comforting squeeze.

And no, she certainly has not become tired of it yet.

They turn a corner and she is so distracted, glancing out sideway across the beach that she does not notice his stop until his hand suddenly clenches in hers, pulling her to a halt. She immediately whirls to face him.

"Killian, what—"

His expression quiets her. His eyes are wide and churning somewhere between rage and fear and clouded confusion, mouth frozen with parted lips, brow tightly knit. She takes a sharp inhale.

"Killian?" The voice is sudden and in front of him and Emma quickly turns to follow it.

Her eyes fall upon a woman, a tall brunette with wide grey eyes that make her think of watches and Tallahassee and buttercup tattoos and a million broken promises and the realization nearly empties her lungs and sets an ache into her gut that feels like the aftertaste of a good punch. She forces her attention back to Killian, back to his expression calculating and adding and his eyes are moist now and she wonders how fiercely the storms are raging within him when even she feels as if she'll be sick.

And finally, finally he speaks, his hopeful voice cracking meekly and grasping angrily at her heart.

"Milah?"

She isn't sure what to do as he steps hesitantly closer to her, and her to him. He is still clutching her hand, but the woman is reaching to his face with long fingers and when they brush his cheek he shudders visibly and Emma wants to disappear because it feels so intimate and she feels like an outsider.

"Oh God, Killian, it's really you!" The other woman (she can't think her name yet, can't allow that realness) is visibly shaking, and it's only then that Emma realizes her clothing is soaked through and dripping. She takes the few steps separating them and very nearly throws herself into Killian's tense form, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Emma's heart patters dangerously against her chest and she grips at the fabric of her jacket above her stomach until the woman steps back from the unreciprocated hug and looks at Killian with a furrowed brow laced with confusion.

"You cannot be here," he says, with the slightest shake of his head, as if trying to shake free of some form of curse. "You're dead. Milah, you're dead."

She can tell he is only trying to convince himself and she thinks it could certainly, certainly be jealousy speaking… but she does not like this at all. His hand is shaking within hers and it makes her stomach ache.

"Well I certainly feel quite alive, dearest," the woman answers with a breathy, frightened laugh. But all Emma hears is 'dearest' and she absolutely hates herself for seeing red. The woman is fearful, small and shaking beneath her clothes. Her eyes and focus are trained entirely on Killian—Emma is quite certain she has yet to see her and it doesn't help her opinion of the woman.

She imagines those eyes and a voice feeding her dressed up lies and all she knows is that if this woman hadn't abandoned him…

She probably would've ended up dead, or good as. Emma pounds the reminder into her brain. She was married to Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, one of the most frightening men Emma knows—and she knew well he'd been worse. The woman… Milah, she forces herself to accept, was only a victim of circumstance.

So was her son.

So was she.

His eyes have not lifted from her and her insides are screaming.

"So… you're the infamous Milah?" Emma asks stiffly, and her voice shakes far worse than she anticipates. The woman finally sees her with a start, eyes taking her in head to toe to where she still clasps Killian's hand.

"I am," she answers and her shaking is getting near impossible to avoid.

She is the sheriff and this is her responsibility and she needs to get herself the hell together.

"Maybe we should get you inside," she has to force the words past her lips, "And try to work out where the hell you came from."

xxxxxxxxxx

When they arrive back at their apartment (the first, best place Emma can think of, just enough out of the way, just enough seclusion, because God forbid Rumple learn of this new apparition), it is a race to get the woman dry. Killian is still in a haze of sorts—he hadn't said two words the whole walk back—but he mutters something to one of them about a hot bath and disappears into the bathroom. Emma guides her in a few moments later to find a bath already drawn, and leaves her with a towel and some of her clothes.

Emma seeks him out, weaving through the kitchen and peering into the bedroom before she finds him. He is slumped on the couch, utterly still, staring at his hands as if they are the only thing steady in a spinning room.

"Killian," she touches his shoulder, fingertips dancing cautiously up his neck, across his cheek, through his softly mussed hair, dark as midnight. When he finally looks at her, his eyes are hooded and dark and Emma nearly breaks because they are strong, the both of them, made so by the ghosts that are meant to stay as such and it isn't fair.

"How?" the word comes out a bark, an accusation almost, and Emma halts her gentle caress of his hair, her heart giving the slightest start.

"Are you blaming me?" she asks as cautiously as she can, trying to press back her automatic defensive edge. She tunes into every line of his face and twitch of his eye, waiting for him to lie to her, to even try—she can tell by the attention in his own eyes he is doing the same.

After a tense moment of silence, so heavy it nearly makes the air hard to breathe, his eyes pool deeper. Before she can see anything else he drops his head into his hands and heaves a heavy shaking sigh that seems to fill the room and make the air even thicker.

"No. I… I apologize, Emma. It's only… It must've been magic. Correct?"

She waits for him to finish, although it takes him a good stuttering moment, and she can see the effort it takes him to re-meet her gaze in the tense form of his broad shoulders. She takes a soft breath, running her fingers back down to rub gently at the tension.

"I think so," she answers, still careful, still watching his expression. When he is silent again, the same pained and heavy silence from before, that is when she decides to take the chance. "She's Rumplestiltskin's wife? Neal… Neal's mother?"

He knows the connotation and his breath catches ever so slightly—she can practically see the memories playing through his head in his eyes.

"Aye," he tells her. Then, "Rumplestiltskin… he was her murderer as well as her husband."

This Emma knows. It is why the apartment seems the safest place to harbor the woman. She cannot imagine what might happen should the imp learn of the woman's presence.

"I'm sorry, Killian," she tells him, still rubbing careful circles into his shoulders. "I'm sorry you have to… relive this."

It's an awful choice of words but no others come to mind and she kicks herself as soon as it leaves her tongue for the way the lines in his face seem to deepen and his eyes dull.

"I used to be able to manage not getting attached," he tells her plainly, "Made quite a pattern of it. Till you bloody came along and wrecked it all."

She smiles softly, relieved at the gentle twitch of his lips and lowers herself to the couch, hip to his. She turns her head into his firm shoulder and feels a shiver course through her when he presses his nose into her hair and breathes her in. They sit that way a moment, taking strength and giving it (as they so well do). And then he speaks.

"She was with child."

His voice is barely above a whisper, as if he can barely get it passed his tongue and she is sure that if his lips weren't brushing her ear she would not have heard him. An icy chill starts through Emma because this was a whole new level of horrible, desperate pain and it makes her ache for him entirely.

"Killian…" is all she says, because nothing else, no words, can possibly articulate what she wants (what she needs) to say to him. She turns her head off of his shoulder so they are forehead to forehead. His eyes are closed but the pain is so clearly etched into the lines of his face.

Instead of stuttering through meaningless words, she untangles her arms from between them and laces them tightly around him, pulling him close. It takes a moment but he reciprocates, dragging her into him and holding her tight.

"I love you," she tells him carefully into his shirt. They are not a couple who uses those three words carelessly, both painstakingly aware of the power they hold. So when they slip from her tongue she knows that it means everything to him, and his hold around her tightens till she can barely breathe and she loves every moment of it, seeping into her and telling her wordlessly that he is alright and that he can get through this with her.

It is her turn to be his strength.

They are still in each other's arms when the bathroom door clicks and Milah steps uncomfortably forth, looking around the room in a slightly confused awe that she tries very clearly to mask as disinterest. Emma's clothes hang limp on her, and although she knows it is absolutely ridiculous it makes her feel strangely bulky.

Emma touches her lips to his shoulder before disentangling herself from him and dragging herself to her feet, feeling him follow behind her.

There is certainly a good deal of work to be done.

Killian moves tentatively forward, around her, scratching behind his ear with his wooden hand. (He'd taken to wearing it since they'd moved in together, and she teased that she'd domesticated the great Captain Hook. The shy smile that played at his lips every time she said the words was everything). Emma knows that he lost the hand when he lost his love and she partially expects her to say something about it but once her eyes lock in on his face they no longer stray.

"Killian, what's happened?" she asks, and the slightest crack finally appears in her shell of confidence as her voice quivers slightly on his name.

He is silent, and Emma forces herself forward, gently presses her hand to the small of his back. Assures him she is there. His muscles are tense all over again and she runs her thumb in loose, gentle circles. He lets out a heavy breath and Milah's eyes flicker suspiciously between her and her arm and she drops it back to her side immediately.

"You… died," he forces the hoarse words past his lips and the woman's brow furrows, eyes widen, full attention back on him. "You died 200 years ago."

Another pause.

"If I am dead," she says cautiously, eyes again flickering about the room, "Then how is it that I am here now?"

"We were rather hoping you could tell us that."

His voice is tight and clipped and where Emma expects his regular flirting innuendos to slip forth—teasing 'darlings' and playful 'loves'… his voice falls silent.

And then her phone rings.

She considers ignoring it a moment but she is on the clock and this is Storybrooke and she lets out a tense breath, reaching into her pocket and hitting accept before holding it to her ear. (Ignoring the look of confusion on Milah's face as she follows her movements because her patience is beginning to wear thin).

"Yeah?"

"Emma?" It's Belle, and her voice is uncertain. "You, er, probably should come to the library. There's a man here. Looking for you. He says…" she pauses, and Emma realizes she is holding her breath, "He says he is the sheriff."