Chapter Text
Jon isn't even sure why he brings it. He doesn't bring Jane's ashes, despite the fact that he finds this bone in the same drawer. Perhaps he just isn't as attached to the pieces of her body. Perhaps he's just beyond the need for reassurance of her death.
Perhaps he's just possessive. This rib is his.
Whatever the reason, Jon finds himself grabbing the rib with the rest of his stuff when he flees the Institute. It ends up buried at the bottom of his duffel bag, all but forgotten until he sees it while unpacking at Daisy's safehouse. He laughs, quietly, at the sight of it.
He considers leaving it there, maybe hiding it away in another drawer but—well. This entire place is somewhere to hide. He doesn't need to hide this further.
Besides, isn't he due a little fun?
He waits until night to move it. Martin's using the bathroom and Jon takes that window of opportunity to wander into the den and place the rib, almost reverently, on the mantelpiece. There's a small collection of other things there already: a bronze analogue clock a few milliseconds slow, a rather dangerous looking knife—a dagger, really—in a serviceable leather sheath, a trio of small frames, all laying face down. He doesn't touch those, but Knows what they are before he can stop himself. Sceneries, all of them, but each is a place special to Daisy. Childhood memories, a date with Basira. She likes to keep something like that in every safehouse, something to make these places feel real rather than purely practical.
Jon knows that if he wanted to Look he could see dozens of other small touches, blending in with everything else in the cabin. All with that same indulgence, turning these houses into homes.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He doesn't need to know. He isn't going to.
He slips into bed moments before Martin leaves the bathroom. They settle into the same positions they took that first night out of the Lonely, back in Martin's flat: Jon's chest against Martin's back, one arm wrapped around him. One tight squeeze before they both relax. It's easy, just as it was then. Something natural, organic. Martin threads their fingers together and presses a feather-light kiss against Jon's knuckles.[1]
It doesn't take long after that for sleep to claim them.
They spend the next day cleaning the house properly—opening windows and airing out the linens, shaking out the dust. Inventorying the pantry and planning a trip to the town they passed through on the way here, because while Daisy might be able to get by on energy bars and protein powder, they sure as hell can't.
Mind so focused on all these tasks, Jon almost forgets about his rib, hidden in plain view. He spots it occasionally and it always brings a weird smile to his face, one he's been able to hide from Martin so far. It's just. It's silly and weird and a little morbid, but there's humour in that too. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to explain the joke, but maybe that's part of why it's so funny to him. It's inexplicable.
Martin doesn't notice the rib that day. He doesn't notice it the next morning, either, even after he makes tea and collapses on the couch with a sigh, almost directly across from the bone. His eyes are closed, to be fair, but it's still hours before he sees it.
They're reading that afternoon; Martin one of the poetry collections he brought with him, Jon a novel he'd found at the thrift store in town. It's not terrible, but he's read similar and there are enough grammar mistakes to leave a faint furrow in his brow. Still, he's four chapters in and he can't not finish it.
The point is, he's so engrossed in the text that the outside world fades from his focus enough that he doesn't think he'd really notice if a cow walked through the room. He isn't, however, so engrossed that he can't hear his partner's voice when he speaks up.
"Jon," Martin says, voice level and emotionless. Jon looks over, focus shifting with no conscious thought. All his senses are trained on the other man, checking, making sure that tone is nothing more than mundane. Martin stands near the archway to the kitchen, two steaming cups in his hands. Jon doesn't remember hearing him get up. He looks pointedly unimpressed at Jon's scrutiny and moves his gaze from Jon to the fireplace. "What is this?"
What is what, Jon doesn't ask. It's instinctive deflection and a blatant lie, because he knows what. He'd forgotten again, but there's really only one thing that could garner this reaction. He turns back to his book. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he says airily.
The subtle sound of teeth grinding together. "Jon."
Jon sighs and closes his book. He looks up at the ceiling, carefully not catching Martin's eye. It was a fun idea when he originally set it up, just something to lighten any mood they might have brought with them, but now, faced with explaining it… He feels inordinately embarrassed. "It's… my rib," he confesses reluctantly.
"And why is it on the mantelpiece?"
"Where else would I put it?"
"Literally anywhere else."
Jon glances down and Martin looks so exasperated that he has to smile. Martin narrows his eyes. The smile widens.
The next day, the rib is gone. Jon finds it pushed to the back of the desk drawer, buried under paper scraps and other debris. Martin's out of the house at that point, one of his daily walks along the trails. Jon takes the bone out of its prison and returns it to the shelf, making sure to position it so it's clearly visible from the front door.
Martin makes a disgusted noise the moment he turns from closing the door. Jon ducks his head to hide his grin and dutifully pretends to focus on the needlework spread out before him.
The next day, Jon wakes to find it missing again. This time, hidden behind a set of true crime novels that were in the safehouse when they got here. Martin watches from the armchair as Jon searches for, and inevitably finds, the bone. His lips twitch between a frown and a smile as Jon grins, holding it aloft with a quiet "aha!"
After it's returned to the mantel, Jon presses a rare kiss against his cheek and the smile wins out.
(Maybe it's not so bad, Martin thinks, if it puts Jon in such a good mood.)
The game continues. Every day for the next two weeks, Jon wakes up to see his rib missing from the mantel and goes searching for it before continuing with his day. So far, Martin has hidden it in drawers and behind books on the shelf and once in the linen cupboard, wrapped up in a washcloth. Sometimes Jon can find it in under five minutes, and sometimes it takes him an hour. On longer searches, Martin grins at him every time Jon passes by, not even trying to suppress it, humour dancing in his eyes.
It's the liveliest he's seen his partner since they escaped from the Lonely and Jon can't help but smile back, entirely besotted, every time it happens. He'll put up with any amount of pointless searching if that's what it takes to keep Martin present and happy.
(He tries not to Know where it is immediately, but sometimes it slips through before he can stop it. This time, for instance, he already Knows it's tucked behind the canned peas. He still spends ten minutes searching through the kitchen before he "stumbles" upon it.)
Unfortunately, there's only so many places in the tiny house to hide something, and soon enough, spots repeat. Jon still makes a show of searching, but when he has an Eldritch sixth sense of Knowledge, pretending gets boring quickly. One day, about a month after this game starts, he walks into the living room to find Martin already there, not even pretending to read the book in his hands. He watches, carefully trying not to smile, as Jon looks first to the mantel (empty, as usual for the mornings) then makes a cursory sweep of the den.
Jon pauses then, a frown gracing his features for a moment before he massages his temple with a sigh. Martin rolls his eyes preemptively. He knows what that looks means by now: annoyance at an unwanted info-dump.
He's not surprised in the least when Jon looks apologetic and says, "You hid it under the sink last week. Do you want to re-hide it or should I just go get it?"
Martin sighs deeply and slumps in the armchair. "Just go get it," he groans, comically exaggerated, as if he's too aggrieved by the slight against his hiding skills to move. Jon chuckles.
The rib is returned to its pride of place on the mantelpiece, ready for the next round.
They talk about it, properly, exactly once.
"Is it okay?" Jon mumbles, face pressed against his pillow. He should be sleeping. Martin might well still be, but Jon keeps worrying about it, can't stop thinking long enough to drift off, and speaks before he can help himself. It's been two weeks. The push and pull of joy and worry has finally managed to reach his lungs and it hurts to breathe.
Martin sighs through his nose, rolling over to face Jon. He opens his eyes halfway, pale lashes over paler irises. He's always had blue eyes, but the Lonely washed them out even further. It's one of the few effects that never reversed itself, even after his hair regained its colour. Jon doesn't mind it, and tells him so whenever Martin spends too long staring in the mirror. Or just whenever he feels like it.
Martin blinks at him sleepily, like a cat. "Is what okay?" he asks.
"This—game, we have. With my rib," Jon whispers. He twists a section of the blanket between his fingers. "It doesn't… bother you?"
Martin hums. "It kind of did? When I first saw it sitting there. I just… remembered the Coffin and those days you were gone, again, and not being sure if you would come back." Jon winces. He… hasn't forgotten that, but it isn't an association he made with the bone, not since he first removed it. Not after it failed to be as good of an anchor as he thought it would be. Martin smiles, tucking a lock of hair behind Jon's ear, smoothing away his frown in the same motion. "But you looked so proud when I saw it on the mantel again, and it stopped being about that. It was suddenly nothing more than the centrepiece of a weird little game. It's really fucking morbid, don't get me wrong, but it's… fun."
Jon shifts closer, pressing his forehead against Martin's sternum. "I'm glad," he says, smile hidden by layers of fabric but audible in his voice. Martin chuckles, pressing a kiss to his hair. He wraps his arms around him and holds him close.
"Great. Do you think you can sleep now?"
"I'll give it a go," Jon mumbles, already halfway there.
There are no true rules to this strange variant of hide the thimble. They've certainly never talked about any rules. But there's an understanding that Martin will hide it the first chance he has to be sneaky in the morning. This is either as soon as he wakes up, if he's the first one to do so, or the first time he's alone in the room, if he's not. Jon will try to find it once he sees it's gone, and Martin will give him exactly zero clues, smiling as Jon roots through the cabin. When it's inevitably returned to its home above the fireplace, it will stay there for the rest of the day. Ad nauseam, for however long they care to play.
There have been days where the bone stays put, poor days when neither of them have the energy to do more than exist. Rarely, Martin will start a round and Jon will ignore it, Knowing where the rib is but unwilling to retrieve it.
Once, a hectic day means they both forget it's hidden until Martin opens the cupboard looking for something quick for supper and it tumbles out onto him, bouncing off his chest and onto the counter. His yell brings Jon running into the kitchen, where his face goes entirely blank at the sight of Martin sat on the floor, rib in hand and laughing somewhat hysterically.
The bone stays on the mantel for a good five days, this time. They're due a break.
The game resumes on a Saturday, when Jon wakes to see it set up as part of a bizarre flower arrangement on the coffee table. It's nestled in alongside various wildflowers, likely picked during Martin's morning walk. The pale yellows and oranges do nothing to hide the paleness of bone, likely the intention since the flowers are arranged such that the bone is the focal point. Jon stands frozen in the entryway, staring.
Martin sits on the couch, scribbling intermittently in a notebook, almost directly in front of the vase. He must know it's there. He must have been the one to make it.
Jon can't figure out why.
"What—?" he starts, and doesn't know how to finish the question.
Martin looks up, beaming. "Oh, you're awake. Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
Jon wanders further into the room, heading for the couch. His eyes stay fixed on the flowers-and-bone. "I did, yes," he says absently. "Good morning. What is this?"
"Hm?" Martin closes his book, trapping the pencil between its pages, and sets it on the end table. When Jon sits beside him, he puts his arm around his shoulders and draws him in to settle against his side. He looks at the arrangement like it's his first time seeing it, and Jon takes a moment to appreciate just how good of a liar his partner is. "Oh, this.
"I just thought it looked a bit sad, you know, sat up there all alone. Thought it could do with some company. And I wasn't about to collect random bones from who knows where, so, flowers." He gives it an appraising look and nods. "I think it looks nice."
Jon stares at him. "Martin. I love you. But what the hell?"
"I love you too," Martin repeats, leaning in to kiss his forehead. When he pulls back he's frowning contemplatively. "Too much?"
"Too much," Jon concurs. He shuffles to the other corner of the couch so Martin can stand. He plucks the rib out of the vase and puts it back on the mantelpiece, front and centre.
"The flowers are nice though, aren't they?" he says when he sits back down. Jon leans against him again with a sigh. "They're bright."
"They're very nice," Jon agrees, and they are. Even more so now that it's a normal looking array of flowers.
The flowers become a new norm, Martin trading out the wilting blooms with new ones every few days. The day Martin comes back with a “care package” from Basira, he fills the vase with fresh thrift, bright purple above white ceramic. Jon smiles at it, brushing gentle fingertips over the petals, before he picks a statement to read.