Author's Notes: This is one of my all-time favorite shows, animated or otherwise. I love everything about it, from the dark, hard-hitting moments right down to the countless visual gags and animal puns. It's a shame there are only a handful of stories for it on this site. In any case, I hope you enjoy my first BoJack Horseman fic.

Disclaimer: BoJack Horseman © Raphael Bob-Waksberg

It's a beautiful day — as if something as arbitrary as the weather is even worth pointing out on such a solemn occasion — yet it's the first thing Diane notices when she steps out of the car that followed the hearse to the cemetery.

As she takes in the rows and rows of gray tombstones against lush green grass, she finds herself almost wanting to smile at the morbid irony of growing life surrounding the dead. Fleetingly she wonders if he, too, would've appreciated the irony, but the passing thought is squashed with the much more painful reminder that it doesn't matter either way. He's dead. He has no more thoughts. No more cares. No more burdens. Nothing.

There's a big turnout at the funeral, which surprises her, as it never seemed like he had many friends, or at least, not many who cared enough about him to visit him while he was alive. His former co-stars — the ones who are still around, anyway — sit next to one another with stoic looks on their faces. They appear more bored than melancholic, as if they're here only out of obligation rather than actually wanting to be here.

Although, to be fair, does anyone ever actually want to be at a funeral? Sure, they're meant to be a celebration of a person's life, a time for reflection and comfort and closure, but when it all comes down to it, funerals are really only about one thing: saying goodbye.

And Diane is the furthest from ready to say goodbye.

She spots Princess Carolyn, whose typically vibrant persona is reduced to nothing more than exchanging polite conversation with fellow mourners. He will be remembered as a beloved talent, she says. The most loyal client she ever had, she adds with a wistful grin.

She also spots Todd, though she doesn't recognize him at first, as he's without his hat and his usual cheerful smile. He may as well be a stranger.

More and more guests take their seats, awaiting the service to begin. Diane takes a seat as well, in the last row, away from everyone else. She knows she should sit in the front. She knows people are expecting her to sit in the front. In fact, she knows where she really should be is up at the podium, preparing to deliver the eulogy. It's what he would've wanted, they'd said. She knew him so well, they'd said.

But did she really know him so well? She thought she did. She wanted to believe she did. Still, there's a part of her that knows it wouldn't have been entirely honest, and she worries that if she would have agreed to write the eulogy, people would've caught on that the connection the two of them shared wasn't anywhere near as deep as everyone assumed it was. She can still barely wrap her head around the fact that he's gone, and to have to get up in front of everyone and talk about his life, to share intimate recollections detailing the kind of person he was, she just can't bring herself to do it. It would be too difficult, she'd said. He would understand, she'd said. She knows that last one is true, at least.

And so, one of his old childhood friends, whom she's personally never met before, agrees to do the eulogy in her place. He walks up to the podium now, staring out at the crowd, the flower-covered casket behind him. As he begins to speak, Diane tries to concentrate on what he's saying, she really does, but everything starts hitting her all at once. She's never going to hear his voice again. Never talk to him again. Never get to tell him how much he meant to her. How much he still means to her. She feels herself constricting, her breath shortening. People are looking at her in concern, but she ignores them. She can do this. She can do this. She can't do this. She can't do this.

Not even a minute into the eulogy, she stands, disregarding all the nervous looks being thrown her way, and before she can allow herself to stop and change her mind, she flees.

The hours that follow are a blur. She remembers getting back in the car and turning off her phone to avoid anyone who tries to call her and offer more condolences, or worse, attempts to get her to come back. She remembers going home and collapsing on the couch without even bothering to change out of her black dress. She remembers trying her absolute hardest not to think about him, but of course it's to no avail. She can't escape her thoughts of him whether she's awake or asleep. She can't fight the ache in her chest, the burning lump in her throat, the lifeless feeling in her limbs, the numbness surrounding her heart.

She lies there for a long time, staring at nothing, her head swimming in an abyss of memories she wishes she could forget, if only so the pain of losing him will subside, but the memories continue to pour in: Watching him on TV when she was a kid. The first time they met. Their many, many conversations.

She doesn't register the sound of the front door opening and closing. Doesn't pay attention to the approaching footsteps. Doesn't bother to acknowledge the person now standing in her doorway. Doesn't process that he stands there for half a minute, watching her lie there on the couch, until the sound of his gravelly voice pierces the silence.

"Hey."

A deep breath, a harsh exhale, then:

"What do you want, BoJack?"

Her tone is sharp with impatience. She doesn't move, but she does will herself to look at him. He, too, is still in his funeral attire, yet her attention is immediately drawn to the bags under his eyes. Is he as torn up about this as she is?

"You never came back," he says, and it occurs to her that she never actually did see him at the funeral, no doubt thanks to her impromptu exit. "People were worried." He pauses, only to add, "Including me."

"Well, here I am," she says, her tone as scathing as ever.

A strained silence takes over. He stands there, uncomfortably hesitant, like he doesn't know what to do or say next, afraid one wrong move will set her off.

"Do you want me to leave?"

The rational side of her wants to answer, wants desperately to speak her mind and tell him, "No, I don't. Please stay with me. Please help me get through this." And yet, she can't. She's too cowardly, too weak and scared and stubborn, so instead, she simply closes her eyes. And now, all she wants to do is disappear, to be swallowed up whole and be put out of her misery for good. Anything to make the heartache stop.

Perhaps, in that moment, he takes pity on her. Perhaps her silence is, in fact, the only response he needs. Perhaps he was never planning on leaving in the first place. Whatever the reason, despite being unable to find the courage to outright tell him to stay, he walks over and joins her on the couch.

She feels comfortable enough to bring herself to an upright position, though she finds that lifting her body takes energy out of her she barely possesses. It startles her to realize how lightheaded she feels. When's the last time she ate? She can't remember. She's so hollow. Her eyes drop to her hands, pale, though all she can focus on is her wedding ring, shiny and gold, a callous reminder. Her breath rises and falls in a long, gushing sigh.

"I was a really shitty wife."

BoJack looks at her, though he doesn't say anything. Not right away, at least.

"He loved me so much," she says. "And I guess, deep down, that's why I felt like I didn't need to make much of an effort in my marriage. Because I knew he'd always love me no matter what. So I took him for granted." She tears her gaze away, disgusted. "He deserved so much better than me. I'm… horrible."

"You're not horrible," BoJack says.

"Yes, I am," Diane says. "I am."

"No, you're not," BoJack says, spiking with exasperation, on the cusp of full-blown anger. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to you talk about how much of a shitty person you are when that's not even remotely true. You're intelligent and insightful and you actually care about things. Nobody cares about anything anymore. Except for themselves. But you're not like that. You're extraordinary. Don't ever forget that."

Diane's bottom lip trembles as she stares at him with glossy eyes and he stares back at her with tired ones. He's saying all the right things she needs to hear — he's always been good at that — and for a split-second, she forgets all about her overwhelming anguish. She needs this feeling to last a little longer, and the way he's looking at her now, with such genuine warmth, she needs it more than anything, so she kisses him.

He tastes like scotch and cigarettes, and while he doesn't reciprocate, he doesn't pull away, either. But she wants this, she needs this, and in her rising desperation, she wraps her arms around his neck. He moans, yet still, he remains rigid against her. It's like he's at war with himself, straddling the line between his own selfish desires and a rapidly waning conscience.

In the end, the latter wins. He breaks away, the sound amplified by the ruthless sting of rejection. She tries to pull him back towards her, but he resists.

"Diane, no," he says. "We can't—"

"We can't?" she says, ripe with newfound hurt and frustration. "What do you mean we can't? Are you saying you don't want this? You had feelings for me once before, didn't you?"

"Yes, but that's not—" He stops, takes a breath to collect himself. Gently, he grasps her hands and pries them off. "Look. We can't do this. You're emotional. You're not thinking clearly. You just lost your husband—"

"I didn't just lose my husband!" she says as she stands, flush with rage. "He died nearly a week ago. Okay? It's been almost an entire week. It doesn't matter what we do now. He's dead and he's never coming back, no matter how badly I miss him. Do you not get that?"

"Do you?"

The words hit her full-force. She breaks, covering her face with her hands because she just can't stand it. With nowhere to run away and hide, she drops back down on the couch in a boneless heap. Her breathing is ragged, and her entire body shakes as the grief pours out of her with the depth of a bottomless well. She can't bear this heartache. It's too heavy, dragging her down, and she has no idea how to come back up to the surface, if she even wants to come back up.

By the time she's all cried out, all she can do is slump against BoJack's shoulder. This time, he doesn't hesitate as he wraps an arm around her. They sit like that for a while, in a soothing silence.

"I miss him, too," BoJack says out of nowhere. He must instantly read her incredulous expression upon glancing down at her, because now he backtracks and says, "I mean… I did resent him in a lot of ways, but that was mostly because I hated that I'd never be as upbeat and carefree and good as he was, no matter what I did. And, now, I hate that I never got a chance to tell him how much I admired him, too."

In spite of everything, Diane manages a faint smile. "That's sweet. He would've loved to hear that." She takes a moment to draw in a leisurely breath, allowing the calmness to wash over her as she exhales. "You know, for the first time in my life, I actually wish I believed in an afterlife. It would make me feel better knowing he's up in heaven with big, open fields for him to roll around in all day."

"Yeah, I could see that," BoJack says. "Except, wouldn't heaven just consist of like, clouds and sunlight and stuff?"

"Maybe," Diane says. She feels lighter now, more relaxed, almost in a daze. "Hey, BoJack?" He says nothing, and she realizes he's waiting for her to finish her thought, so she lets the words fall easily from her lips, "Thank you."

She knows him well enough to know that she doesn't need to elaborate any further, knowing he'll be able to fill in the gaps himself of everything she doesn't say out loud: "Thank you for coming over to check on me. Thank you for being the level-headed one in the situation and not taking advantage of me in my fragile state of emotion. Thank you for being a good friend."

In her haze, she's only partially aware of BoJack helping her to her feet and leading her to her room, before he himself leaves on the promise that he'll call her tomorrow. She murmurs a goodbye, and at long last, her exhaustion gives way to sleep.

And when she wakes up in the morning, her sadness will undoubtedly return, but she'll be okay with it because, in time, the pain will lessen. Life will go on. She'll go back to building her career and finding new ways to live out her purpose. It'll still hurt, and she'll still miss him, but she'll always carry him in her heart. And that's one thing she'll never let herself forget.