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The safehouse is quiet
Not only in the literal sense, so far away from the city the only background noise is that of the wind echoing through the fields, and the ring of the windchimes Daisy had apparently decided would be the perfect addition to her murder-shack- But also in that without any immediate threats, nothing on their heels to run from. No monsters hiding in the corner, and no apocalypses looming on the horizon, It feels like the emotional equivalent walking out of a party into a perfectly silent back alley.
It takes them some time to realize it. There’s a jittery sort of feeling in the air for the first few days as they wait for the other shoe to drop. But by the fourth day with no catastrophe, it begins to dawn on them where they are. Perhaps not safe per se- no. But closer to safe than they have been in many years.
It feels like it should be wonderful, they should be happy to finally have any moment of respite. But the peace carries something else, something they’ve both been dragging with them since Prentiss.
Grief.
It’s Jon who breaks first. It’s the fifth day in the safehouse he’s looking through the linen cupboard. They’d managed to get everything washed at the laundromat in town just two days earlier- It was an hours drive but better than hand-washing everything. But they hadn’t really taken stock of everything they had, simply thrown it in the back of Martins beat up old van and gone.
He finds himself holding a set of curtains, they probably hadn’t needed the wash. They were barely salvageable as it was. And after a run in a beat up old washer they’re practically scraps. But the sunny Daisy pattern is still visible running along the bottom of the fabric.
He doesn’t even register the tears at first, so crushed by the knowledge that she’s gone . Not dead of course, but everything that made her Daisy. The Daisy he knew, the Daisy he cared for and perhaps would even go so far as to call his friend. Was gone.
Martin hears the sob from the kitchen and is by his side in moments.
Jon can’t even muster the words to explain, it’s like he’s being crushed- a different sort of crushed from the buried. Like something has wrapped itself inside his chest and is squeezing out every drop of emotion he has. Crying Gone, Gone, Gone.
Martin holds him there on the hallway floor until he’s finally gathered himself enough to move somewhere easier on their knees.
They talk about it a bit, Martin listens, though Jon knows he doesn’t understand. He never knew Daisy after the buried, not really. But he listens, and he’s there. And when Jons done talking he joins in the silence for his lost friend.
The second time it’s Martin, they both decide a quick run to town for necessities couldn’t hurt. And to speed things up they go their separate ways for errands. So Jon isn’t there to see him stumbling out of the charity shop looking like he’d seen a ghost. Or to watch him retreat back to the van and curl up in the drivers seat like he’s trying to hide from the world. He doesn't even know he’d left the shop until he runs by the van to drop off some of their groceries.
Martin struggles so much to gather himself that they just start the drive back to the safehouse without finishing their errands. During the drive Martin manages to pull himself together enough to explain he found a mug that says ‘sexiest guy on the block’ and he’d thought ‘Tim would like that’ in the present tense. Like he wasn’t even gone. And it had all just sort-of, hit him
Jon pulls over, and they cry together this time. not just for the death of their friend, but for the parts of himself he’d lost before he was even really gone. And they both realize just how long they’ve gone without even a chance to grieve their friends- or their family.
After that they talk. About all of it. Sasha, Tim, Daisy, Martins mum. The wounds they never even noticed were there hanging over them, wounds that were being ripped open anew with each fresh loss.
It takes time. they can’t always muster the energy to talk about it. It’s hard, hard to listen and hard to talk. There are some trampled feet and tripped boundaries, and they have to learn to work around themselves. But they manage it.
And they’re together, is the first thing Martin always says when they’re done talking, and the tears have mostly dried. They’re together and for the moment they’re safe. And that’s enough, right? It has to be enough.
In the end, they decide to do a sort of impromptu farewell to all of them, all the friends that had or could have had. It’s not a funeral, not all of them are dead. And the rest are already buried, but it’s something. It doesn’t feel fair how many of their friends never got a real ending.
The box is Martins idea. A small cardboard box with an item to represent every person they’ve lost or missed. They take the curtains Jon found in the cupboard, and Martin buys the mug from the charity shop. Jon makes a small, clumsy drawing of a woman with curly hair. She doesn’t have a face, but Knowing she had curly hair alone left him with a migraine that lasted the rest of the day. And finally Martin writes a letter. Jon doesn’t ask what’s in it, and Martin doesn’t tell him,. But it’s addressed to his mum, just the same as the one Jon found all those years ago.
Jon writes some letters of his own, for Tim, and Sasha. He doesn’t write one for Daisy, she already knows- knew, what he would say. Or at least he hopes as much.
They don’t bury the box, or burn it. Both of them seemed far too close to the horrors that be for comfort. So instead they wait for a day where the weather's at its nicest and take a hike, a long one. Up the hills and into the forest. They take their time, enjoying the scenery. At one point they set up and make a small picnic. Martin pointing out the various wildlife, and listening to Jon rattle off things he knows or Knows about whatever critter he’s landed on- invariably drifting off to a new topic until Martin finds another interesting beetle or critter for Jon to latch onto.
There’s a peace to it, sitting there in the sun talking about nothing alongside their box of memories. It's nothing like spending time with the people it represents, but it feels closer to it than they'll likely ever get again.
They take the box far enough they’re positive they won’t find it again, accidentally or otherwise. And they place it under the nicest tree they can find.
It’s not buried, or burnt, or rotten or tossed or any of the things that might feed something unsavory. It’s simply there, unseen as they turn away but still basked in the sunlight. And perhaps it will fade off with time, the box and its contents will wilt in the rain and be steadily reclaimed by the earth. But it will be natural, quiet. moreso than the fates of the people it represents.
Leaving the box under the tree has something of a finality to it, Jon thinks, as they make their way back towards the safehouse. He’s not sure if it’s a good sort of finality. But then again he's never liked goodbyes, and that's what this feels like really. A goodbye.
But it’s closure, which is more than any of them have ever gotten.
It gets easier, after a week or two. That weight that had been hanging over them starts to lift, and they start to feel lighter than either of them have in a very long time. It’s not gone of course, not really. There’s still so much left unsaid, so much hurt to have experienced in so little time. And just leaving a box in the woods doesn’t end the grieving process.
But it’s a start, a step forward after years of walking in place. And they’ll take that step for now. And every step that comes after it.