a/n: this is a chronological sequel to unbeing dead, but can be read as a standalone work. for those wondering, the wine is a late 19th century brand of bandol rouge.

"Again with the mummies?"

"I told you I couldn't promise anything."

"You shouldn't have needed to promise anything," says Charming, as he mops up the last of the dust from the counter. "Friends don't leave dead people in other friends' kitchens."

"Well—"

"It's unsanitary is what I'm saying, Grimm. I still don't understand why you can't just take all your cursed artefacts off on-site."

Charming tugs open the fridge to rifle through one of the crisper drawers and pulls out in one armful what a weaker man would consider an offensive number of vegetables. He has to roll up his sleeves to rinse them, and his arms remain bared as he moves on to the chopping board; Jake appraises the view with no small satisfaction. He glances away when Charming's gaze falls on him. "Well," he repeats quickly, "Here's the thing. Puck and I are usually running for our lives by the time we dig up a grave. It's not like there's time to examine the jewelry or disable the booby traps or even make sure we've got the right body—do you know how restrictive exhumation laws have become in South America? It's like you need a license or something."

"How unreasonable of them," says Charming. He is halfway through with the zucchini, and Jake is not nearly halfway through admiring him, when he withdraws a second chopping board and slides it across the counter. Accompanying it are the tomatoes, onions, and another knife. "It's time you pulled your weight around this house. Wash your hands first."

"I don't even live here," says Jake, but he steals around to the sink and back and then sets to slicing anyway.

The next few minutes pass them in amiable silence. Charming is in his sautéing apron by the time he asks, "Why don't you?"

Jake finishes up the last of the onions and pushes the chopping board back to him. "Why don't I what?"

"Live here," says Charming. "When you're in town. I mean," he adds hurriedly, as if to justify the proposition to himself, "you're here all the damn time anyway."

"I am here all the damn time anyway," Jake muses. A brief moment of consideration ensues, and anyone more observant would notice he blushes, but Charming, being in full chef mode, isn't in a position to notice anything. Jake finally laughs, shaking his head. "Mom and the girls would have a fit. I'm not in Ferryport Landing enough for them as it is. Not to mention you and Snow need your privacy."

He winks. Charming, who when he first befriended Jake would have reddened in response, raises one critical eyebrow as he sets the tomatoes and onions to simmer. "I've cooked more meals for you in the past five months than I've cooked for that woman in five centuries. If Snow were staying over anytime soon, you would not be here about to drink my good wine."

"Oof. Someone's bitter."

Charming glares down at his pan. "And someone's been stealing my tomatoes."

"Not me," says Jake between bites.

"You're insufferable."

"You're stuck up." Jake pulls the uneaten half of the tomato from beneath the counter and tosses it straight toward the pan from where he sits, flicking out a wand from his sleeve and dicing the fruit before it lands with a satisfying hiss.

Charming steps back from the resulting splash, annoyed. "Grimm. Kitchen rule number one. If I see that wand again I'm going to break it."

"No corpses, no magic... might as well ban me," Jake sulks. He tucks the wand back into his sleeve. "That mummy's gonna stink up my car."

"And it wasn't going to do the same to my house?" Charming says. He reaches down to the cabinet for a casserole dish.

"No," Jake reasons. "You've got all your, like, vanilla-mango-coconut-tropical-paradise-whatever-scented air fresheners all over the place. You know she's just waiting for you to pull your act together, right?"

Charming looks up from layering his vegetables. "Snow?"

"No, I'm talking about your other ex," says Jake tartly. "One of your married ones. Yes, Snow."

Stung, Charming returns to the food. He sets down in order the squash, zucchini, pepper, eggplant; squash, zucchini, pepper, eggplant, and he doesn't make eye contact as he forces out his next question. "What, exactly, is there left for me to pull together?"

When Jake doesn't answer, he presses on. "I have a job," Charming reminds him. Squash. "I have a house." Zucchini, pepper. "Considering she stole both of those from me less than two years ago, I'd say that's pretty pulled together." Eggplant. "I run my own business." Squash. "I'm one of the richest men in this town." Zucchini. "So don't tell me," Charming says, only now realising that his voice has risen and finding it too late to compose himself, "that it's my problem she's lost interest."

He lays down his last slice of pepper and looks up. Jake's response, it seems, is going to be nothing but rare silence and a scrutinizing stare, so he spices the sauce and douses the dish, and slides it cleanly into the oven.

Then he unties his apron and places it by the sink, and watches Jake watch him until Jake says,

"I like you."

"I know you do," says Charming, because he is angry and it is easier to say at this moment than I like you too.

"I like you even though you're a sorry son of a bitch."

Silence. Heavy and incensed.

"I like you but I can't live here," Jake goes on, pressing his chin into his palm as he leans forward on the counter, "because you're keeping me around so you don't have to think about how fucked up your life is."

"I told you," says Charming, his tone feeble even as he aims for adamant. His hands were at his hips a moment earlier but now they drop to his sides: he suddenly feels all his five hundred years. "I'm fine. I—I'm better than fine. I'm better off than I was before."

"As a man who spent all his years running," Jake says gently, "Let me tell you you're better off not wasting your time."

"I'm not—"

"Will."

It is a plea more than it is his name. Charming closes his mouth.

"Your entire life story," says Jake, slowly, painstakingly, aware he treads upon thin ice, "is a means of resurrection for a woman who left you at the altar. A woman who died. A woman you watched die."

Resentment rises in Charming's throat like bile. "Yes, Jake, thanks for the reminder that my life has up until a very recent point been nothing but literal predestined bullshit."

"That's not what I mean and you know it," says Jake, his voice hardening. "I'm just saying—what happened was unconscionably wrong, Will, you can't pretend it wasn't. It's not something you can just—let go."

Charming scowls. "Except I did let it go."

"Did you?"

"Look around you," says Charming, motioning around the room, toward the ceiling. "I have rebuilt my sorry life from the ground up. I've made my peace, I've given Snow her distance—"

Jake tilts his head. "But you haven't forgiven her."

Charming bristles. "I told you, I have—"

"Then why haven't you talked to her since the election?" asks Jake, soft again, his voice rising and falling like waves. "Why are you living alone in the woods avoiding everyone except the one person who didn't know you before your whole façade was shot to hell?"

Charming's jaw clenches.

"Will—be sad, be pissed, kick, scream, punch me, whatever, but don't pretend like this isn't part of you."

"You want it to be part of me?"

"No," says Jake, "I want you to be okay. But it happened. And to be okay you're going to have to forgive Bunny and forgive Snow and forgive yourself."

"She did what she needed to," says Charming coldly, "—I did what I needed to."

Jake says, "You have nightmares."

"No I—"

Again now, softer, like a chiding parent: "Yes, you do."

Jake's gaze sees straight through him and the lie dies in Charming's throat. He blinks rapidly, resolutely ignoring the painful fullness of his throat.

"Living in denial isn't living, Will, and Snow knows that. She hasn't reconciled herself to the situation but at least she's trying. And you can't even accept the fact that it happened."

The words sting more than they should. Charming's hands ball into white-knuckled fists by his sides.

Jake is wrong. He accepts the past. Accepts it and hates it; yes, it happened, but it's all behind him—he's better now—Snow doesn't even matter; he doesn't need her; he never did. Anger manifests in the prince's chest, suddenly, a burning kind of headiness that displaces his heartache, and the taste of it is acrid on his tongue. "Since when are you the expert on not living in denial?" he laughs, too loudly. The sound rings abrasively throughout the high-ceilinged kitchen. "You're still going on suicide missions!"

Jake stiffens. "They are not—"

"If it weren't for Puck, you would have been dead two months ago. Forget that, you would have been dead two years ago!"

Jake gapes at him, open-mouthed. "As if I'm—do I look dead to you? Right now?" He stands up, taller than Charming at his full height, and there is a cold fury in his eyes that makes the older man take a step back. His voice is hard, faraway and brittle like it might break the wrong way. "Still alive, Charming, however you might wish it were different."

Charming gives him a scathing glare. "I don't—"

"It's not suicidal, it's my job."

"It doesn't have to be," Charming snaps, pushing forcibly back into Jake's personal space. "Nobody put you in charge of this world's magic. Just because you're a Grimm—ha—you Grimms are all the same; you think you own our world just because you're the only humans who still have a clue we exist—"

"Are you serious?" says Jake, bending forward so that they are dangerously close, until Charming can feel warm, furious breath against his lips, "It's us versus you now? Did you forget we just fought a war over this?"

"I led that war," Charming snaps.

"Oh yeah?" Jake taunts, "And who won it?"

"We did!"

Jake practically scoffs as he pulls away. "As I recall, Sabrina's the one who killed the Hand. And Daphne—and Puck—three preteens won that war! And you have the gall to tell me that the Grimms don't get a say—"

"Like we weren't on the same side—"

"Have you ever been on my side?"

"I have always been on your side!" Charming shouts, like this fight means something, like Jake—means anything—

The prince pulls back, one shaking hand pressed to his mouth, his rage dissipating as quickly as it had taken hold. The suddenness of it leaves him dizzy.

Jake still stands with his legs spread shoulder-width apart, shoulders tense, fists clenched, his expression dark and his blue eyes burning. The entire sight manifests in Charming as one great and unbearable sadness.

When he finally speaks again, hand curling to his chest, his voice is trembling.

"Everyone's convinced you're all right. You say you've let it go. But you think I don't notice you're still living like you deserve to die?"

"Maybe I do," says Jake bitterly, hoarsely, like the words hurt his throat coming up. He moves away with heavy, faltering steps, swiping harshly at his eyes as if Charming cannot already see the tears that pool there.

Charming reaches one hand out to him, pleading. "Basil's death—Briar's death—none of it was your fault."

"You don't know that," Jake whispers. His tears begin to spill over. Thoughtlessly, desperately, Charming leans forward to wipe them away.

Jake recoils from his touch and Charming does not even have time to curse to himself before he sees it in slow motion: the rotation of his heel, the way his body angles sideways.

Reality stutters.

The young woman.

Panic unfurls in Charming's chest like a wicked flower in full bloom.

The young woman with the dark hair runs without looking back.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears and the panic rises, swelling his lungs, his throat, the last thing he sees is the white of her wedding dress caught in one paper-pale hand, the last thing he sees of Jake cannot be the edge of his coat as he storms down the hall… somewhere, cruelly, church bells ring and somewhere, soon, the last thing he hears will be distant footsteps and the slam of the door and—no. Not this time. This time, there cannot be a last time; this time, there will not be a last time—

"Don't go," Charming gasps.

Five centuries too late, he thinks.

Five centuries. If he'd said those words five centuries ago then maybe they wouldn't be here, tearing open careful stitches, screaming about scars that should have long since healed. Maybe his knees would not be about to give in, and his mind would not still be playing tricks on him, and maybe neither of them would be broken, ruined men.

Jake stops, his back still turned.

"I—" Charming squeezes his eyes shut. "I need you."

The words feel like a betrayal, for he once stood at an altar and swore he would never let another person be his weakness. But he was never strong, or good at keeping promises, and oh—if Jake isn't his weakness.

There is a long, terrible stretch of silence. A familiar, bitter sense of regret begins to well up in Charming's throat.

And then suddenly the regret seems pointless. Every regret since Snow—including Snow—seems pointless. Because if he'd said those words five centuries ago then they wouldn't be here, Jake's arms tight around his waist and his blonde head tucked in the crook of his elbow; the weight in his arms would not be a comfort, and he would not be shaking as he thanks his luck, the Fates the stars.

"I'm sorry," says Charming breathlessly, through blurry eyes, a breaking voice, as he runs his hand through tangled hair. "I'm sorry your story had to happen like this."

Jake tries to laugh but it comes out more like a sob. "You're sorry for me? After the shit you put up with?"

Charming pulls Jake closer and tilts his head to press his cheek into his hair, unable, for once, to prevent himself from crying. "So I got my heart broken," he says. "Every eighteen-year-old alive has had their heart broken."

"You're almost five hundred," says Jake, "You've dealt with more than a broken heart."

Charming cannot speak. His eyes are hot with tears but steady at the window, where on the other side of the glass the trees are shivering. The sky is dim. It looks like rain. Jake is still in his arms, like this is commonplace. Charming can feel his panicked heartbeat slowing to the better tempo of a waltz in three-fourths time.

His own heart aches. "I—" How had he forgotten what it was like to weep? He buries his face in Jake's hair and breathes, inhales, exhales, inhales, willing his own heartbeat to slow, waiting for his tears not to hurt so much.

(One two three, one two three.)

"I have," he whispers. Something twists at the center of his being at the admission.

And Jake just mutters, "Yeah. Me too."

Was it always so simple?

Now, it is bold for a man of thirty-four to claim that he has known as much pain as a man who was alive to see his country rise and fall, but Charming knows there is no lie in it. Human experience does not play by rules of seniority. They have both been equally broken down by love, by heartbreak, by magic, by war; they have taken lives and have seen the lives of loved ones taken. And—

"It sucks," Jake declares.

Charming almost smiles. "It's the worst."

"You're not fine," Jake adds, and Charming wants to say, Neither are you.

"I'm getting there."

"You haven't moved on—"

"Jake," says Charming.

"Yes?"

Charming's lips meet the crown of Jake's head. "Did it never occur to you that you're part of my moving on?"

Jake lets go, fingers scraping against fabric as he pulls back. His hands stop, gentle, firm, at Charming's waist.

His eyes are still wet, his face tearstained. "I'm temporary."

"You're immortal," says Charming.

His gaze falls to the floor. "That's not what I meant."

"Then you're cruel," the prince says quietly. "If you think you're just a distraction—if you think I'm using you—if that's all you expect from me by now, you're wrong, and you're cruel."

Jake looks up. There is shame in his expression, and fondness, and uncertainty. The Grimms, thinks Charming, have riotous hearts.

Now he hesitates, searching Charming's face intently. For what, Charming doesn't know.

"I like you," says Jake at last. A second confession.

Charming takes Jake's hand. Their fingers entwine softly, like rain upon flowers.

"I like you too," he says. A promise.

"I'm sorry if it seemed like…" Jake smiles weakly. "It's just—I'm still afraid."

Charming did not know it was possible to feel love and heartbreak at the same time. The emotion digs into his chest like an unwieldy, unforgiving knife, and with a deep breath he leans back against the wall, tilts his head to the ceiling.

"Yeah," he says, "Me too."

He exhales, and it feels, at least a little bit, like letting go.

"We deserve better, don't we?" says Charming.

Jake grips his hand tighter.

The oven dings.

The February rain looks cold from where they sit, but the ratatouille is warm and the company warmer. They eat in comfortable silence on the couch, their knees just barely touching.

"Do you like it?" asks Charming after a while.

After a moment's consideration, Jake says, "I think I should piss you off more often."

"What? Why?"

Jake winks. "You cook better when you're angry."

Charming rolls his eyes. Jake chuckles around his next bite. "Hey," he says, "Were you serious?"

Charming is distracted by how scruffy Jake's hair is in the places where he ran his fingers through it, hands twitching with the need to smooth it down. (Or rough it up. Currently, it is in an insulting state of transition.) "Hm?"

"About me moving in."

"What?" Charming blinks. He feels a blush creep up his neck as the meaning of Jake's words settles. "Oh. Yeah. Yes. Very."

Please, he almost adds, but he's swallowed enough pride for today.

Jake studies his vegetables. "I still don't think it's such a good idea."

Charming almost laughs. "Since when has that stopped you?"

"Ha!" cries Jake, as he spears a forkful of squash with a sudden ferocity. "You're right."

But then he is quiet, still staring at the food in his lap. Charming tenses. "Listen, if you don't want to—"

"No," says Jake, looking up. His face splits into a wide, white grin, gorgeous and beaming. "You're right."

Charming's muscles suddenly feel weak. He sets his plate down on the table and runs his hands across his face, wondering at why he insists on torturing his own pounding, flustered heart.

He feels a weight against his shoulder and looks down. Jake has finished his food and is leaning against him, one arm snaking underneath his to entangle their fingers again.

He does not speak, for once. Charming slowly relaxes into the pressure, the warmth, and follows his gaze to the window.

It is still raining, but the sky is bright. Jake lifts Charming's hand to his lips. Breath soft against skin, he murmurs, "Why is it you know me better than I know myself?"

Charming is at a loss. "I could ask you the same thing."

Silence befalls them again, curious and new.

"You know," says Jake finally, "I used to believe in fairytales."

"I think that runs in the family."

"No, I mean—I used to think they meant something. Like, that they were important, for some reason. We all do at first, don't we? That's why the Grimms got tangled up in this mess."

"...and then?"

"And then I got to know them," says Jake, "I studied them, breathed them, and I realised that they were just the stories of stupid, crappy people like me."

The hastening patter against the roof suddenly feels painfully melancholy.

Quietly, Jake says, "I didn't know that that's what they were supposed to be. That my stupid, crappy life could mean something too."

Charming looks down at their interlocked hands and decides that Jake is wrong. There is so much about this man that he has yet to understand. "Is that all this is?" he asks uncertainly. "Another fairytale?"

Jake turns toward him questioningly. Charming's brow furrows.

"It's just…" Charming hesitates. "I think I've lived enough of those."

He begins to loosen his grip, but Jake holds fast.

"Hey," he says.

Charming looks at him.

"I know your life seems... scary, and unfair, and your past is..."

"Confusing," Charming supplies, when Jake can't find the word.

"Outrageous," Jake amends. "And I… I can't understand completely, you know I can't. But the guilt—I know guilt."

Charming knows. Basil Grimm and Briar Rose are buried in the same graveyard.

"And I know what it's like to feel betrayed."

"Jacob Grimm? There hasn't been a Jacob Grimm in Ferryport Landing for two hundred years."

"But—you've got an entire life ahead of you, you know? You've got lifetimes ahead of you. And I don't know how, or when, and maybe you're going to think I'm jumping the gun, but I think... I really think it's going to be okay."

Charming watches him a moment: the curl of his hand, the flicker of his eyes, the give of his lip as he sinks his teeth nervously into the skin.

"Why do you believe in me?" Charming asks.

"The same reason I believe in fairytales."

"I'm stupid and crappy?"

"No," says Jake, "You mean something."

Charming looks away.

"Hey. You do."

And Charming does not want to doubt him, for the sentiment is sweet. But the path of his life is still crooked and uncertain, muddied behind him and shrouded in darkness ahead—and yes, the warmth of Jake's hand and the stars in his eyes make the present seem brighter, if briefly, if in a way he can't quite capture yet, like candlelight. But fear is a cancer. It has seeped into his veins, his marrow, his aching heart, and it will take more than a boy's starry gaze to dispel it.

Charming's cheeks suddenly feel warm. He is crying again. He pulls away with a breathy laugh and this time, Jake lets him go.

"Sorry," says Charming, reaching for the wine on the table, "I'm sorry, I don't—" He takes too large a sip and tries in vain to wipe his tears away. "I'm really—is it bad? Is it bad I don't believe you? I know you do and I want to believe you—"

"It's okay," says Jake, so gently, too gently; he is so young, thinks Charming, and still so forgiving.

Charming forces himself to meet Jake's eyes. There is no loathing there, no disappointment, just something bright that Charming does not want to name.

He tears his eyes away again. The rain is turning slowly but surely to snow.

He looks down at his wine. "It's not," he says, "It isn't—that I don't trust you, it's just—"

"I told you," says Jake, "It's okay. I get it."

"You mean—" He grips the stem of his glass tighter and blinks away tears. "—a lot, you mean a lot to me, it's just—it's going to take… time…"

"I know."

"It might take—a long time, Jake—"

"I'll wait."

Like I waited?

Jake's thumb brushes his cheek, picking up his tears. "You're not her," he says softly, as if reading his mind. Calloused fingers trail his jawline, and then Jake is cradling his head, and Charming leans into the touch, hiding the rest of his tears in Jake's palm. "This—us—hasn't happened before, remember?"

"I know," whispers Charming. "I know, and that's—I'm glad."

Terrified, he thinks, but glad.

"Will," says Jake.

Charming lifts his head. Jake offers up his wine glass, smiling almost apologetically, like he knows it isn't enough.

"Here's to us?" he says. "To something new?"

There are stars in his eyes. It's enough, thinks Charming, as he lifts his own glass. It's more than enough. "To something new," he agrees.

As their glasses clink together, Jake adds, "And to your good wine."

In spite of himself, Charming stifles a laugh. Jake grins and reaches for his hand.

The wine tastes like promises made to be kept.

Outside, it is snowing.