Work Text:
THUD.
Martin jumped, startled from his reading. Jon had dropped a massive black backpack onto the coffee table.
“What in the world is that?” asked Martin, dog-earing his book and setting it aside.
Jon folded his arms, looking down at his discovery. His jumper was powdered with dust. “It’s Daisy’s bug-out bag. I found it in the bedroom while I was cleaning.”
Frowning, Martin reached over to tug the bag closer. It was loaded with pockets all down its sides and front, and whatever brand label it bore had been torn off. The evidence of its existence at all was minimal – some holes and a few stray threads. “What, like, a survival kit?”
“Right. Emergency supplies.” Jon carded his good hand through his hair. “Just in case.”
Martin unzipped one of the backpack's side pockets, peering inside at its contents: a flashlight, a multitool, and a hand-crank radio. “Just in case what? The world ended?”
His tone was joking, but his words were serious. Jon fell silent, almost remorseful.
“Daisy was worried about a lot of things,” he said finally, quietly. Then, shaking himself: “Anyway. I was wondering if you wanted to keep it? Some of the food’s expired, but we can replace it.”
Nodding, Martin moved on to another pocket. This one was bigger, holding a small hatchet, some knives, and a compass – though it looked like there was more further down. “I wouldn’t know how to use half of this stuff, but having it around would be nice.” He stuck his hand inside, rummaging around. There was a flashlight, a tinderbox, and a first aid kit.
Something scuttered across his fingers. He lept back like he’d been burned.
“Martin?” Jon asked, alarmed. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m- fine. I’m fine, it’s just…” Martin stared down at his hand. Jon followed his gaze, then paled.
“Cobwebs.”
The word hung in the air between them, thick and heavy. Like a fat, fuzzy spider dangling from a single thread.
“...Yeah.” Martin wiped his hand on the side of the couch. “No surprises there, honestly.”
“I’ll… put this back,” Jon said softly. “Somewhere. Away.”
“Maybe in the hall closet?” Martin stood, popping his back. “We don’t have anything else to put in there.”
“Right. Hall closet.”
Martin frowned. Jon was shaken – he’d curled into himself, gnawing idly at the skin framing his thumb.
“...Tell you what. I’ll put it back, you go on and get cleaned up.” He reached out and brushed some of the dust from Jon’s sweater, trying to lighten the mood. “Then we can start on dinner. You’ve done enough housework today.”
Jon eased, smiling faintly. “Sounds like a plan.”
Martin leaned in and kissed his cheek – just because he could – and slung the backpack onto one shoulder, padding into the hall. It was heavy and bulbous, its contents clinking together faintly with each step he took.
The hall closet was a suitable home for it. Dark and secluded, separate from the fresh start that the rest of the safehouse promised. Martin tucked it in the far corner, behind a stack of unlabeled plastic bins.
He hoped there would never be cause to use it.