Sexual Healing - flashback

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“Yeah, right,” Murphy said, unable to make his fingers uncurl; his nails dug into his palm. He cleared his throat and shrugged non-committedly. He’d bathed in front of people before, kind of, if dips in the lake counted. “Whatever you say, doc.”

By some small grace, Roman chose not to comment on Murphy’s scars. He was grateful for that; tension ebbed from his shoulders, and he held out his arm for Roman to inspect. The reprieve was short-lived: he soon spoke of the skaikru and mentioned Monroe, and suddenly Murphy’s heed was reeling. His suspicions were fucking right – Roman didn’t care. He didn’t care. A startled laugh fell from Murphy’s lips.

“Right, thanks,” he said, visibly bemused by Roman’s reaction. Oh thank fuck. “I know how your people treat mine.”

Roman’s hands suddenly found his neck and jaw, and Murphy tensed. The healer’s callouses felt like rope against his throat. He wanted to retaliate, to bite and scratch and claw. Instead, he blinked dumbly as Roman leaned in. They were so close – he could probably hear the way Murphy’s heart pounded against his ribcage, like a feral bird.

And then they were kissing. The healer actually kissed him. Murphy’s eyes widened, his hands fluttering wildly before settling awkwardly onto Roman’s shoulders. He intended to shove Roman away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it; he was too caught up in the brief, chaste sensation. Kissing Roman wasn’t like kissing Mbege back in the skybox, during a hurried moment of experimentation, something he’d rather forget. No, this was entirely different – and fuck, Roman’s lips were so soft. Soft and confusing. Murphy didn’t know how to react. Being slapped would’ve been easier; it felt more natural for people to hurt him.

When Roman drew back, Murphy was blinking at him in shock fast veering into panic. “The hell—” he started, after a moment in which a rapid series of emotions chased each other across his face, “what, is that a Grounder thing?”