"I don't like the snow," Emma complains.

"Why ever not, Love?" Killian asks. He is bundled up in a sweater and scarf and warm hat with his long pirate coat. The combination makes her want laugh every time she looks at him.

"You try almost dying of hypothermia," she grouses.

"I still quite enjoy swordplay," he points out with a quirk of his brow. She wants to object that it's too soon to joke about that, probably always will be, but he is holding a snowball and smirking at her.

"Are you trying to pick a snowball fight with me?" she asks, matching his light tone, forcing herself to push the past behind. Maybe he is doing the same.

"I've never had a snowball fight, Love," he says, almost pouting.

She sighs and throws a snowball at him. She thought she could win easily because she considered proper snowball construction a skill that would require two hands. Apparently it isn't. They are half frozen and covered head to toe with snow by the time they make it back to the house. But neither of the object too much because warming up is half the fun.

"You can hardly get warm in those snow soaked clothes, Swan," he teases.

They shake off their coats and hang them up to dry, leaving the rest of their soaked clothing in a trail on the way to the captain's cabin. He rests his hand on her waist as he backs her against the bed and she jumps in surprise. He has traded in the gaudy pirate rings for a slim silver band, a far better reminder of love overcoming past sins, but even without the excess metal his hands are still cold from the snow.

"Ack! Your hand is like ice!" Emma objects.

"It is no such thing," he says with mock offense. "I'll have you know it is positively room temperature."

"Which is like ice because we live on a wooden boat and can't use space heaters."

"First of all ship. We live on an enchanted wooden ship. And second, don't go anywhere."

He gets up from the bed, heading down the hall.

"Where are you going?" she calls after him. If he is warming his hand over the fire she might not mind waiting, as long as he doesn't take too long.

He comes back and kneels over her on the bed, trailing an actual ice cube down one of her bare breasts.

"What are you doing?" she asks, as though it weren't blatantly obvious.

"You appeared unable to tell the two apart before so I thought we should study the differences. For science. As I understand, that is quite important in this realm."

Between shrieks of laughter she is forced to concede that there is a significant difference between his hand and ice. And, as the laughter gives way to a gasp of pure pleasure, she has to concede that ice is certainly not the worst thing ever.

But that is no reason not to warm up very thoroughly after the ice has melted.