Dogfish
AO3
Words: 1368 Characters: Mike Crew, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, assorted s4 characters Relationships: Jon/Mike/Martin Warnings: Jon has a brief meltdown, Mike was buried alive but it’s not described in detail Other Tags: Getting together, Canon divergence, Autistic & ADHD Jon, Autistic Michael Crew, I dont actually plan to finish this so uhhh be warned for that i suppose, This is just a self-indulgent sandbox i wanted to play in Summary: “Why do you need a shovel?” Jon stares at his hands and giggles quietly, if a bit hysterically. “I’m going to dig up a grave.” Martin’s surprised he doesn’t crash the car. “Jon—” “Please don’t,” Jon interrupts. “Just… please.”
When Jon shows up at his flat at three in the morning, crying and hyperventilating, it’s all Martin can do not to bundle him into a hug and hold him until he calms down. As it is, he has to settle for toning down the disdain he’s pretended to hold towards other people since he made up his mind to trick Peter.
“Jon? What are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.”
“Yes, I—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t want to bo-bother you, but I ca-an’t—” His quick, shallow breaths cut him off and what comes after is unintelligible.
“No, stop, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Martin opens his door wider and gestures for Jon to come in. Jon obeys, barely looking shocked at all. Martin steers him towards the couch and tells him to stay there.
Martin finds a bottled water in the fridge and returns to the living room. Jon’s elbows are on his knees and his hands are clenched tightly in his hair, and he is rocking back and forth. He doesn’t look up when Martin stands in front of him.
“Jon? I got you some water.”
Jon releases his hands from his hair and holds them out. Martin hands him the water bottle. It’s a good thing he decided to go for the bottle instead of a glass; Jon’s hands are shaking so badly he probably would have just spilled the glass. He still dribbles some down his chin, but he wipes it away with his shirt sleeve.
Martin waits for him to finish the bottle to say, “Better?”
His breathing has evened out, but he exhales deeply before he nods. His tears are beginning to dry on his face, and he wipes those away with his shirt sleeve, to.
Martin wants nothing more than to gently clean his face with a warm washcloth, but he can’t. “Alright. Tell me what you’re doing here.”
When he speaks, his voice is rough. “I… I need a ride.”
“I can’t. Ask someone else.”
Jon flinches. “I can’t. I—they won’t.”
“Who did you ask?”
“Um. Georgie. Basira.”
“That’s it?”
“M-Melanie would sooner kill me. Elias is in jail. Daisy is—Daisy is dead. I d-don’t know anyone else.”
Jon’s lower lip trembles and he bites it like that will make it stop.
Martin sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling. That reaction, at least, is not faked. Doing this could very easily tip Peter off that he’s not as committed to the Lonely as he “should” be, but if this drove Jon to his flat, and in such a state, it’s obviously important.
“You can’t take the tube?”
Jon shakes his head.
Martin sighs again. “Alright.”
Jon stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Al-alright?”
Martin gestures for him to stand. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Oh!” Jon stands quickly as Martin grabs his keys and wallet, then silently follows Martin out to his car.
“So? Where are we going?” Martin asks, his fingers poised to type an address into Google Maps.
“Ah… I don’t think a GPS will be able to find it. I can give you directions.”
Martin raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.
A few minutes into the drive, Jon lets out a soft, “Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just… I forgot to bring a shovel.”
Martin actually turns his head to look at him before quickly looking back at the road. “Why do you need a shovel?”
Jon stares at his hands and giggles quietly, if a bit hysterically. “I’m going to dig up a grave.”
Martin’s surprised he doesn’t crash the car. “Jon—”
“Please don’t,” Jon interrupts. “Just… please.”
Martin grips the steering wheel tightly and doesn’t say a word.
“Turn left here,” Jon says after a few minutes. “No—Martin, I said left.”
“I know.”
“Then what—”
Martin pulls into the parking lot of a supercentre and parks the car. “Wait here.”
“But—”
Martin leaves the key in the ignition and gets out of the car. When he returns a few minutes later, he has two shovels that he puts in the back seat.
Jon stares at him.
“You’re not going to dig up a grave with your bare hands.”
“Right,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
The rest of the drive is long. Jon says, “We have to walk from here,” so they park the car, grab the shovels, and walk into the woods.
Jon stops and Martin almost walks into him.
“We’re here,” he says, staring at the ground under his feet. There’s nothing there to indicate it’s a grave—no headstone, no freshly turned earth—but there’s no mistaking the certainty in Jon’s voice.
They start digging. Neither Jon nor Martin are fit for this kind of work, and by the time the sky begins to lighten, their palms are raw and red.
“Jon,” Martin says, “I don’t think there’s anything here.”
Jon stops digging, but he doesn’t look up. “I…”
“We’ve been digging for hours.”
“Martin, I know he’s here. He’s in agony, I can’t just—it’s my fault he’s here in the first place. I have to find him and get him out.”
“Him? Who are you talki—”
The ground shudders ever so slightly, and Martin’s mouth snaps shut.
“Oh my g-d,” Jon says, and he drops to his knees and scrabbles at the dirt with his fingers.
Martin is suddenly very apprehensive that something is about to go wrong.
“Jon—”
A few fingers break through the surface of the dirt.
“Holy shit,” says Martin.
“Martin, help me,” Jon orders.
Martin gets down on his knees and starts digging again.
The arm attached to the hand thrusts out of the dirt, quickly followed by a second arm, and soon enough Jon’s wiping dirt off of a gasping face.
“Mike! Mike, it’s—it’s Jon, it’s Jonathan Sims. Hold on, I have to—” Jon drags a gasping, spluttering Michael Crew out of the ground, dirt cascading from his skin and hair.
Martin drags himself out of the grave—it’s a bit crowded for three people.
Mike makes weak flapping motions with his hands. He leans forward, still making those awful sputtering noises, and dirt falls from his mouth. Jon pounds his back as gently as he can, and even more clumps of dirt fall to the bottom of the grave.
Once it seems Mike's expelled all the dirt he can, Jon says, “Martin, help me get him out.” Jon gently moves one of Mike’s arms over his shoulder to support him. “Mike, I’m going to help you stand, and Martin’s going to pull you out.”
Jon helps Mike upright. Martin kneels at the edge of the grave, loops his arms under Mike’s armpits and heaves up and back. He drags Mike out more than lifts him, but what matters is that he’s out.
He drags Jon out next, stubbornly ignoring the fact that this is the closest they’ve been physically since they hugged before the Unknowing.
Mike is on his hands and knees, head hanging down, looking like he’s trying not to collapse.
“Okay, let’s get him in the car,” Martin says.
Jon helps Mike into the backseat of the car and climbs in after him, leaving Martin to get in the front by himself. Probably better like that, anyway.
Mike stubbornly refuses to put on his seatbelt, though he doesn’t say a word or—as far as Martin knows, at least—use his powers.
“Your flat is too far out of the way,” Martin tells Jon, even though it really isn’t. “I can either drop you off at the Institute or at my flat, but you can’t stay at mine.”
There’s a whirring sound and the sudden rush of wind from the backseat. Martin peaks in the rearview mirror to see Mike has rolled down the window. He’s looking up at the sky, but the angle is such that he can’t see Mike’s face.
“The Institute is fine,” Jon says. He goes silent, then says, more quietly, “Thank you, Martin.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not going to help you with something like this again, Jon. Don’t expect me to.”
Martin refuses to watch the mirror and see the way Jon shrinks back when he mumbles, “Of—of course. Sorry.”