CHAPTER ELEVEN: O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
(In which Hook's only useful appending is referenced in a brief interlude that somehow manages not to delve into necrophilia, you pervs!)
After wiping some sticky stuff off her hand from the tread of her wheelchair, a pain-medicated Emma sat in the hospital morgue looking at the body of her husband. She should have felt more grieved, she thought, seeing as she'd loved him, shared a life with him, was partially responsible for his death, even if she was temporarily insane at the time. Of course, she should have felt more grieved when Neal died, so maybe there was just something wrong with her even before the spirochetes started eating her brain.
Killian looked... like himself but paler, she supposed. Somehow it figured that even dying (and even with his skull sown back on), Killian would manage to have kept his smolder turned up to eleven, not so much as a smudge to his eyeliner. Of course, beneath the sheet, from the neck down... she'd been told he had massive crush injuries. His ribs had shattered, one shard right though the heart, killing him almost instantly. Even if that had managed to miss, his other internal organs were so badly damaged, Dr. Whale said, that they couldn't even have been donated if he'd signed one of those organ donation forms that he'd been given after his original pirate-versus-car accident instead of scoffing at it (and, you know, hadn't had contagious syphilis); she remembered that, after the Jell-O thing, some witty, egoist comment about his organs that had devolved into euphemisms about his penis.
It also figured that even in death, he had a boner.
He'd died how he lived, pretty-faced with a perpetual hard-on.
"I'm sorry," Emma sighed. "I mean... not sorry enough that I'm not still mad at you and would have demanded an annulment or something for all the lying and giving me the mother all STDs that fucked up my brain and, apparently, being a sociopath who only thought you were in love with me because of brain damage that you gave me that made me go temporarily psycho, but... it sucks that there's a sort of tragic irony to death in this town. I never meant for you to die. And we did have really great sex. I'll miss the sex. Although, I have to admit, it was a little weird calling your cock 'The Captain'. I mean, I don't call my vagina 'The Savior'. But, you know, it was... fun... I guess, even if we gave each other neurologically destructive STDs. You did always remember the onion rings even if you were kind of pathetically needy, but I guess that was the syphilis... and maybe the copious amounts of alcohol. It's kind of amazing your liver didn't burst into flames upon impact... Anyway... I hope there's calm seas wherever you're sailing, Killian Jones."
With a sniff, Emma wheeled her chair back to the door where Dr. Whale was waiting with that always-a-bit-creepy smile of his.
"Let's get you back to your room. Nurse?"
A dutiful nurse took over pushing Emma's wheelchair to the elevator. After the doors closed, Whale walked into the autopsy suit and pulled the sheet back, revealing the pirate's body in all of its wrecked glory.
"Pity about the hand, bro," he said, picking up the severed appendage. "But don't worry, I'll have you looking ship-shape for your wake. My father always said I missed my calling as a funeral director. Well, when he wasn't calling me a useless pervert. But we useless perverts have to stick together, am I right? High five!"
AN: Poor Killy Poo. He died with a boner... or maybe even in death he got turned on by Zelena and Whale doing the necromancer with two backs on the next table over. We will never know.
Next up: A funeral, breadsticks, more zingers from Cora, and Henry finally makes an appearance as the mouthy little teenage creep you know you secretly want him to be.