#(yes I am aware the title is the most basic-b*tch-esque thing possible

[martianbugsbunny]

Is This Love Persevering? (It Feels More Like The End of the World)—A CaptainCroc Fic

So this is a fic in which Rumple actually gets to attend Bae’s funeral (bc Zelena can just get fricking lost for making it so Rumple didn’t get to do that) (actually she killed Bae, too, so….) (she can just get lost either way). Also it’s CaptainCroc; like most of my fics for this pairing, I’m operating on the base assumption that they were together for some length of time before the curse, and for either heart-sharey reasons or bc Killian still ended up in Neverland or some other ✨magical BS✨ like that, Killian has the canon-typical extended lifespan. (Not quite sure why I explained that part, it seems pretty obvious, but whatever.)

I felt sentimental and I had a couple of sads lying around, so...this is the result. Enjoy seems a bit odd of a word to use, considering the plot? but read on!

There weren’t many people at the gravesite. Emma and Henry were there; Henry at least had as much right to be there as Rumple did, given that Bae was his father, and Emma…Rumple had considered her an irritating obstacle from time to time, but she had loved his son, and for that he liked her. Her parents stood beside her, David’s arm around her shoulders, and Mary Margaret holding one of Emma’s hands and one of Henry’s.

Only one person stood by Rumple. He felt alone, if he was being honest, and despite the warmth of Killian’s hand in his, there was a chill that cut through his bones.

They might all say they were there for Bae, but it was only partially true. The Charmings were there for their daughter and grandson; Emma was there for Henry and he was there for her…Killian was there for Rumple. It hurt that, even after he had tried to die for them (although that in itself was also mostly for Bae), and although it was his child whose body was being lowered into the ground, the Charming clan didn’t seem to consider Rumple in need or deserving of their comfort.

Rumple felt the weariness of his accumulated centuries in every fiber of his body as the coffin finally reached the bottom of the grave. His son was in that damn box, but at the same time he wasn’t, and it was simply too much.

He felt some small twinge of comfort in the fact that Mayor Mills, a queen in their home realm and one of the most important people in Storybrooke, was the one to speak the funeral rites. Bae deserved at least that much.

“Neal Cassidy—Baelfire—regardless of which name we knew him by, he was a good man,” Regina said. Her voice had a note of genuine sorrow in it. “He was the father of my son, for which I will always be grateful to him.” She glanced over at Henry, and Rumple could see the pain that came from imagining that it was her child to be buried. “He died a hero, like his father.”

She paused for a moment of silence. Henry’s sniffles and the rustling of the leaves of a nearby tree were the only sounds in the air.

Regina spoke again before anyone else. “The family is invited to throw in a handful of dirt before the coffin is fully interred.”

Rumple approached the grave first. The coffin had been decorated with flowers; roses from Emma, something small and white from the Charmings, and a single yellow lily from Rumple. (Bae had always loved yellow.) Now, Rumple poured a handful of dark, stony dirt onto the coffin, trickling over the bright petals.

Most of the people in the cemetery weren’t actually Bae’s relatives, but Henry, Killian, and Emma also took their turns at the grave.

Then, just like that, it was over. Mayor Mills left the cemetery first, followed closely by Mary Margaret and David. Emma and Henry stayed until the last of the dirt was heaped into the grave by city workers, and then they were gone too.

Rumple allowed himself to lean against Killian more heavily. He didn’t bother to hold back the tears that had been accumulating throughout the whole ghastly afternoon. “He didn’t deserve that, Killian. He still could’ve had a good life,” Rumple sobbed.

“I believe in an afterlife, love,” Killian said softly. “And I know Bae is having a good one of those.”

“How can he? He died for me. Dying for an evil man isn’t how you get into heaven.”

“His death was a supreme act of love and forgiveness, Rumple. I know he shouldn’t have died so young. I know it’s killing you because it’s killing me and whatever I feel, you’re feeling it times fifty. But I also know that you raised him right, when you had him, and he didn’t step off the good path even though he had a lot of anger. There’s no way our son is going to hell.”

Rumple stared at the patch of fresh earth in front of him, so newly-filled there was no grass. He should plant lilies there, when things warmed up, so Bae would never be without something beautiful. He had earned at least that.

“We should go home now, Rumple. We can come back tomorrow, and every day after that if you like, but you need to rest.”

He didn’t feel tired, just worn, but for once Rumple didn’t argue. He couldn’t bear to leave Bae’s grave, to leave Bae alone, but he also couldn’t stand to be there for another second.

They had only been home for five minutes when someone knocked on the front door. Killian went to answer it, while Rumple poured hot water into two mugs.

Killian re-entered the kitchen with Mary Margaret in tow. “Rumple, Mrs. Charming wanted to talk to you,” Killian said. His attempt at humor, light as it was, didn’t mean a thing to either him or Rumple. It was automatic, but it would be a while before he could really joke or laugh again.

“Some of our friends left food outside our apartment,” Mary Margaret said. “And we were about to start our dinner, when we realized…we had everyone gathered except the person who cared about Neal the most. And we also realized that you could probably use a few friends in your corner right now. Would you like to have dinner with us?”

Part of Rumple wanted to say no, to isolate himself in his bedroom and live alone with his grief. They hadn’t cared before, but Killian had, so he should stay at home with Killian and ignore the Charmings’ collective existence.

That wasn’t what Bae would want. He would want Rumple to be open, because openness was a step away from the dark. How much better would both of their lives have been if Rumple had been the man his son wanted—needed—him to be?

“We have time,” Rumple said, glancing at Killian. There was pride in his eyes, shining out past the heavy surface sorrow. “We’ll come.”

Not too long later, Rumple was seated, only semi-comfortably, on the Charmings’ couch with a mug of chicken soup in his hands. It felt strange to be seated among the heroes, and it felt stranger to know they were sharing a common emotional state.

Henry was upstairs in his room; Mary Margaret mentioned that he had been asleep for a while. Emma sat on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, her head leaned on her hand as she ate her way steadily through a dish of lasagna. Killian and Mary Margaret were at the table, both eating from a dish of ice cream that sat between them.

Which left Rumple sitting next to David.

They weren’t exactly enemies, but David always viewed Rumple as a threat to his family and as a result their interactions were generally tense. Rumple respected that, even if he actually found Mary Margaret to be the more intimidating of them.

Most of the evening passed in silence. Rumple preferred that; he knew what each person would have to say, and it wouldn’t help. Emma, something about how Bae was Henry’s father, and she wasn’t sure what to do for Henry. (After all, that, rather than the way she had loved him, was what would be on her mind.) Mary Margaret would try to say something comforting, but of course it wouldn’t work and then everyone would be *more* down. Killian would tell some story about meeting Bae in Neverland when he was younger that would be funny, or sentimental (maybe both, knowing him) and everyone except Killian and Rumple would feel better. David would probably try to distract them from the subject of Bae entirely, and that would fail, too.

The silence was much better.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was morning. Rumple found himself curled up against Killian’s side, Killian resting his head on the arm of the couch. And David was on the other end of the couch, Rumple’s feet crossed over his lap and resting on the other arm. Mary Margaret was slumped over the table, a pillow under her face—Rumple suspected Killian had put it there—and Emma was sprawled out across her parents’ bed.

It was far from the perfect life, especially for Rumple. In the perfect life, his son would still be alive.

But having a family, even a makeshift, undefinable family to help get him through his grief…he supposed that might be considered a good life. And maybe in a month or two, he might be well enough to enjoy it.

Knowing he was safe for the time being, he curled closer to Killian and began to sob.