Closed John Murphy from The 100
ofmonstersandmenrp's Murphy
Multiverse | OC friendly | Mun is 18+
Bellamy’s fingers wrapped around the bottle as soon as it was handed back, he huffed at Murphy’s words and only glared at him. He just wanted to think something else and Murphy surely helped him with that, first starting with Connor, which was much more pleasing to listen than he would’ve guessed. He couldn’t help a smal smirk finding its way in corner of his mouth as he passed the whiskey back to him. For a little moment he just laid back, staring up as he listened, at times taking another moutful of the whiskey that slowly started to taste more bearable. For once, Murphy was actually honest with him and he had to appreciate that, after all he had needed this, a small moment to forget everything else. Even in sleep he couldn’t escape his thoughts, his fears, nightmares that would become true soon, but Murphy’s stories actually brought him far away from those thoughts.
Thanks to Murphy he found that small piece of peace that he had lost a long time ago. He listened to him, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, but he was quiet. He was almost close to even fall asleep, but as Murphy stopped, he turned to glance up at him. He wasn’t sure what to answer, so he settled down with a sharp huff and a grunt, ”shut up.” But it was true, he hadn’t ever listened to him like that before. And he never would do it again since… since everything would be too late in just a few nights. He sighed, not even bothering to sit up.
What an earth was he even supposed to say now? Thank you sounded stupid but also being quiet was stupid, he had been quiet for too long. ”You were right,” Bellamy finally admitted, pouring the last mouthful of the whiskey into his throat. It didn’t even burn anymore, he was getting too numb to even notice that anymore. Last days he had been becoming numb to feel anything at all. ”I guess I really needed this. Preparing for your death isn’t actually that peaceful that some people want to say.” He let out a dark chuckle, smirking a little at the ceiling of the tent.
Bellamy’s ensuing chuckle sent ripples down Murphy’s spine. Bellamy’s voice had dropped several octaves, roughened by Whiskey and fatigue, and shit, that should’ve been illegal. Murphy felt colour in his cheeks; he scoffed, both at the deadpanned shut up and at Bellamy’s appreciative expression.
“It’s easier when you don’t except it,” Murphy told him, mouth curving into a vicious smile of self-deprecation. He was pleasantly tipsy and in remarkably good humour; such good humour, in fact, that he did not think twice before laying back on Bellamy’s mattress. They had finished the whiskey together, and the bottle sat solemnly on the floor, all too bright and sparkly to fit in with the ramshackle tent. Murphy kicked it over, just ‘cause.
He knew that he should’ve left Bellamy to his own devices. After all, he recognized some social cues, thank you very much – he’d overstayed his welcome. A sardonic farewell rested on the tip of his tongue, but he did not speak. No. Because he didn’t want to leave, not really. Bellamy had been left alone with his thoughts for much too long, and what good had that done for him? It had fucked him up, and he deserved better than that. Things fall apart, and it takes more than one set of trebling hands to pick up the pieces.
“Whatever. It’s late, man. Can I stay here?” The request spilled from his lips like blood from a wound; he could no more stop it than he could have stopped his half-hopeful expression. “I’ll be good, promise.”
He didn’t really know what he intended. Part of him wanted to just lay there with Bellamy: to soak in his transient scent and presence. Other parts of him wanted to continue talking, to help him to sleep. And hell, part of Murphy was on the cusp of trying to kiss him. He’d hoped his feelings for Bellamy would recede after their reunion. But they were still there, perpetual and hot and plastered to his body like a second skin. Sometimes, he stewed in his want until it took all he had not to claw at his skin, to tear up his flesh. It’d be easier if it was just lust. It’d be easier if he didn’t want to do all the things that had once repulsed him. But it didn’t fucking matter. They’d both be dead soon anyway.
Bellamy couldn’t help a deep sigh at Murphy’s words, he hadn’t exactly planned to enjoy his last days. There was no damn point anyway. Not when everything awful was still going around. “Enjoying things doesn’t exactly fit into my schedule right now, thank you very much,” he huffed. He knew Murphy was only teasing but fuck, how could he even take this so lightly?
He glared down to Murphy, he didn’t like that how he became a bit softer, it was… wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be like that, grinning at him, trying to get him drink like they were damn pals or something. Bellamy wasn’t sure what he was even supposed to think about that. But the offer was still tempting, he just wanted to damn think something else, and he wouldn’t die because of a few sips. That would surely be disappointing, for the Grounders at least. Bellamy shook his head and stood up, grabbing the bottle underneath everything else.
“Fine,” Bellamy sighed and sat back down. He didn’t even grin, he just needed at least something to do and if Murphy was going to behave… well, he would give him a chance. He popped the bottle open before poured some liquid into his mouth, grimaced as it was just so awful he had expected. “Fine. You better start to sing,” he said and handed the whiskey for the other.
Bellamy’s expression sharpened and steeled itself, but Murphy did not break under its pressure. Instead, he watched his dying leader take a deep sip of hundred-year-old whiskey. Bellamy made a face and passed it over. Murphy smirked; he was well acquainted with the acidic taste, and didn’t so much as flinch as he gulped some down. His lower lip lingered on the mouth of the bottle, still warm from Bellamy’s touch. Soon he’d be gone, and the camp would cool in his absence. Fucking great.
Murphy shook that thought from his head and passed the bottle back, before stretching out with all the arrogant, lazy danger of a cat. “Then I’ll sing, your highness,” he deadpanned, before prodding Bellamy’s boot with his foot. He then told a story about Connor, and sniggered at the memory of his abject horror. Sure, Murphy had been even more of a dick back then, but there was no harm in telling the truth. Maybe then, Bellamy would see him as less of a nuisance and more of a human. Not that it should matter – they’d both be soon anyway.
He changed the subject to Mbege. Their foray into causing havoc on the Ground had lasted precisely as long as it took for Charlotte to kill Wells. And still, they’d left their mark on the surface, carving their shared initials into trees, making ugly weapons out of scrap metal, and slipping radioactive frogs into unsuspecting tents. Murphy then talked about how he’d met Mbege in the skybox. The latter was arrested during Murphy’s second year of incarceration, and they became fast friends, armed with the same sardonic sense of humour. Hell, they’d single-handedly made a guard retire. Murphy was partially proud of that feat, and it showed through his embellished recount. He did not, however, mention his crime. He knew that Bellamy used to be a guard, after all.
Some of the topics made him smile, and others made him desperately sad, but still he talked, because he owed Bellamy that. Kind of. Murphy figured that Bellamy probably needed this—needed someone else to take charge for once. And so Murphy talked and talked, and for now, that was enough to protect them from tomorrow. Finally, when the back-and-forth of booze made his cheeks ruddy and his voice dry, he stopped.
“Hey, I think that’s the longest you’ve gone without telling me to shut up.”
Bellamy huffed at Murphy’s words, he was too tired for this. He was tired of this all, he was tired of being scared, thinking what would happen if he just fucking ran away. But he knew what happened, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want that mess when the Grounders would come after him and most likely make his people pay too. He didn’t want them to hurt his people, not anymore. They had killed enough people, both the Grounders and Sky People had. It was time to stop it all.
More importantly, he was already tired of this conversation, glaring… whatever this even was. He couldn’t take these kind of situations anymore, he couldn’t keep telling them that they needed to save themselves, that he was giving them an opportunity and don’t you fucking dare to throw it away. Even Murhpy was going to stay. Bellamy stiffened at that idea, the boy in front of him would be dead as soon as he was gone. Was he really that stupid? Bellamy sighed, he wanted to shake him, tell him he had to at least try, but it wasn’t his choice, it was Murphy’s. He couldn’t tell him what to do and he was tired of trying.
He couldn’t help a small, dry chuckle at Murphy’s question. He hadn’t even touched that, left it underneath all his other things, forgotten it after that. Bellamy sighed and dropped onto the mattress again. “I think I’ve needed it for a long while,” he admitted but didn’t even reach for the pile where his things were, only glared at it with dark eyes. “But it changes nothing anyway so why to bother? Just take it back if you want.”
Despite a dozen death scares, there had always been a sense of intransience to the King, and now the Grounders were going to take that away. Typical. Murphy felt sick to the core. “You’re really shit at this whole enjoying your last days thing, you know?”
Much to Murphy’s surprise, Bellamy didn’t rise for the bait. In fact, there was something unsettling and melancholy about his face; exhaustion bled from his skin, and Murphy could see an ounce of fear within his eyes. The soldier was tired of fighting. Part of Murphy wanted to take advantage of this; longed to hit that vulnerable place inside Bellamy’s head, the place Murphy had been clawing at since he was strung up for nothing. But now, everything was fucked up, and guilt weighed him down: must he insist on making the poor bastard’s short life even more miserable?
In lieu of further bickering, Murphy’s sharp features softened, and he sighed, unmoved by Bellamy’s manifold glare. “I don’t want to take it back.” There was something soft and teasing just below the surface of his words. “Your decision’s ridiculous, but it’s your decision. Let’s drink to it.” He paused and offered a half-hopeful grin, because yeah, maybe he genuinely wanted Bellamy to say yes. “I’ll even tell you all about the time I pissed on Connor.”
“Do you think I want this?” Bellamy growled. He couldn’t believe Murphy had bothered to come just to damn whine about this, about how he was going to leave them when all he was trying to do was to save these innocent ones Kane couldn’t care any less! He owed them all this, he had got them this far, this damn far, and he wasn’t going to back down just because… just because this would be his end. These people would get another chance as the Stageda, they would be accepted by other clans and that was all he could offer to them.
He frowned at Murphy’s mention that the boy might stay at the camp. He needed to admit he wasn’t exactly surprised but he had still hoped for something more. Murphy had gone through so many things, so many bad things he could hardly even imagine, and now he was going to stay and get killed? Why? Because he was damn stubborn.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? Should I be touched?” Bellamy huffed and turned away. He didn’t like this, this all “please Bell I can’t lose you” crap. That was bullshit. They would get over it, every each one of them would get over it and survive if they just fucking wanted to do that. “You of all people should already know this world doesn’t care about what you want. And it’s not like I’m fucking irreplaceable! I’ve got us all this far but it’s my time to finally do something to stop Kane fucking everything up. If they want my head, they’re going to get it without having to cut others’ first.”
“Yeah, you should be touched. That means no mercy kill,” Murphy smirked, gaze hopeless as he looked toward the ground. He couldn’t remember what he’d wanted out of this talk, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. He cut his eyes back up, and stared into Bellamy’s for a second. Eye contact, a dangerous thing. His eyes were dark and heavy-rimmed, and there was a dazed quality beneath his immediate agitation; he probably hadn’t slept for days. “Me of all people…” he echoed, acidly, actively trying to distract himself from his budding concern. But Bellamy had a point – as per fucking always. He was doomed either way. There was no point.
“That’s your ego talking, Blake—I never said you were irreplaceable,” Murphy deflected, a little too quickly; it was a blatant lie. Bellamy was a total dick, and a slave to mob mentality, but he was also a martyr with constellations for freckles and a voice like dark matter. Even Murphy could see how irreplaceable, how rare and matchless Bellamy was, and it filled him with inexplicable dread.
Murphy didn’t know what he felt for Bellamy. He had no point of reference. It was solid and dull and constant, like a fungus, festering and refusing to leave. It throbbed in his chest like a living thing, and it usually hurt but sometimes it didn’t. He thought it had receded, had faded since he’d busied himself with medial chores. But it was always fucking there, perpetual and hot and plastered to his body like a second skin.
Murphy calmed down a bit. His concern returned, and he softened his scowl into a well-meaning sigh. “It doesn’t matter. You still have that whiskey I gave you?” he asked, unabashed about changing the topic. He took a step back from Bellamy and sat on his mattress; he’d been on shift all day, “You look like you need it.”
Bellamy let out a tired huff at Murphy’s words. He wished he would have a good answer to that, he wanted to somehow justify this situation but it was impossible. This was unfair but this was all he could do after everything that had happened. The Grounders wouldn’t let him go, not anymore, and he wasn’t going to run like a scared rabbit. “That Grounder bitch is their queen, they want justice to her. It’s just matter of time if they get me now or later. The little queen wants my blood, she shall get it.”
He tried to keep his voice still, heartless. He wanted to talk about his future like it wouldn’t matter to him, like none of this would matter. Because if he… if he admitted how fucking scared he was, how the nightmares were always reaching for him, he wouldn’t handle it. And Murphy wasn’t doing anything to help him. Bellamy knew damn well what they had done to Murphy, what they were going to do for him. That would be just much, much worse. Murphy had got out of there alive… he wouldn’t.
“It doesn’t matter!” Bellamy exclaimed, stepped closer to the younger boy. “None of that matters anymore. I’ve sealed my deal, it’s the only way to save even some of us. If I didn’t agree to this, they would’ve killed everyone. Do you want that?” He glared down to him, he didn’t need this. God, he seriously didn’t need this now, not from Murphy. “I do what I have to do. A leader protects his people. I don’t have any other choice.”
Bellamy encroached on Murphy’s space, glaring down with tired eyes, and it felt natural and easy. The animosity was familiar; soon Bellamy would be gone, and there would be no one left to make Murphy feel this alive. He tried to picture Bellamy going off to be tortured by the Grounders. Every time he tried, though, he could only see the man who’d led them through hell; everything he was and everything he could be; every reckless choice and broken promise; every hard-won survival.
“So that it, huh? You go off, and what, we get rounded up? Hope for the best?” asked Murphy, voice breaking patchily. No, there was nothing left for him with the Stageda. He’d stay at Camp Jaha—not despite everything, but because of it. “Fine. Fine. Some of them are going to stay, you know. And I guess I will too. I have nothing better to do.”
Murphy smirked at that, but none of the mirth touched his eyes. He thought back to Bellamy, strung up and hanging from a noose of red seat-belts – and how Murphy had later hauled Bellamy’s useless ass up the side of a cliff with those same belts. Most things happened so damn fast, and yet there was never enough time left. Time destroyed everything its path, and soon it would erase any remnants of Bellamy’s existence.
“This is fucking ridiculous.” Murphy blurted out without any warning or comprehension at all. “This would be so much easier if I actually wanted you to die. I used to, you know? And now I — I don’t, and — shit, you’re an asshole, Blake, but I can’t lose you too. ”
These night Bellamy hadn’t slept even a second, he couldn’t close his eyes when he pondered all the questions, whether this was a right decision or not, whether this was going to save his people… how painful his death was going to be… But what did it matter anyway? He would be dead soon enough, he didn’t need sleep, not anymore.
Once the camp started to become more silent, people heading to their beds, Bellamy slipped into his tent as well. He mostly just sat there, staring at nowhere, listening to an owl hooting somewhere in the woods. He would land his feet into the woods for one last time after a few days. People who were going to settle down in the dropship, were almost done with packing. Soon it was time for him to say his final goodbye.
He glanced up to the boy who ducked into the tent without a permission. Not that Murphy had ever asked before. Bellamy let out a deep sigh, the last thing he needed was to have this conversation with Murphy. He should’ve known this was coming, sooner or later. But still he clenched his hands into fists after Murphy’s words.
“We don’t have a choice,” Bellamy replied in bored tone. “This is our best chance. If you came here to change my mind, you can fuck off right away. That’s not gonna happen.”
“Yeah, why don’t I fuck off, just like you’re fucking off to the Grounders?” Murphy snapped, with a slightly hysterical laugh. He resented how quickly the group had agreed to let Bellamy go – so eager to save their own pathetic hides. But Murphy didn’t—couldn’t. He wouldn’t succumb to that mob mentality. “Bullshit—this bullshit. So it’s alright when they torture me twice, but when you do it to that stupid Grounder bitch, you’re the criminal?”
He stopped abruptly, silent for a moment. Bellamy had a point; there was no changing his mind, no forfeiting the inevitable. Murphy exhaled hard in a way that left him dizzy, exhaustion carved into the hollows of his face. Most nights he woke up sweat-slick and nauseous, haunted by images of his imprisonment. And now ‘his people’ were to be herded up like cattle, their dignity expunged, and for what? For a phony truce – peace that the Grounders would ultimately terminate at their own leisure.
And worse still, Bellamy would be given to the Grounders like a slab of fresh meat, ready to whittle away to bones. He’d be vulnerable. Bellamy. Bellamy, his leader. Bellamy, his judge, his jury, his revenge, would be subjected to the same knives that carved hollowed out Murphy’s skin that felt him bruised and contorted. Months ago, he might’ve been pleased, but now Murphy was sickened by the mere notion of it. He felt weak, useless to stop this tired fate; emotion clotted in his stomach, a parasite bent on devouring its host.
“This is ridiculous. You saw my scars – you know what they did to me. We can’t lose you. Not like this.”
Murphy felt sick to the stomach as Clarke gathered the citizens of Camp Jaha and informed them of the proposed truce. Stageda, it was called, and took the form of a traitorous ultimatum. Most of the crowd were quiet and entranced, though careful not to say anything. Some clapped or cheered on the leaders who stood at the head of the sombre procession, and still others looked upon them with utter disgust. A nearby Arker spat upon the ground and muttered something cynical.
Murphy, on the other hand, was furious. It was so fucking unfair. Murphy had tried so hard to be good. Immediately after being permitted back into camp – following an invaluable lesson – Murphy had signed up for the job roster, and climbed his way through shitty tasks like a drowning man, gulping for air and recognition. And now – well, here he was, surrounded by cowards. He wanted to pull a Finn and shoot everything in sight.
Oh, but that wasn’t the end of it – of course not. Worse still was the news of Bellamy’s proposed trial – at Grounder hands. Murphy held his tongue for two whole days, until finally the burden of it was too much to bare. He pushed his way into Bellamy’s tent just as the sun had begun its slow descent behind the Ark’s skeleton: it would be dark soon, and no one would disturb them.
“This is bullshit,” Murphy spat in lieu of a greeting. The ire that now gripped him made coherent thought impossible. “You can’t seriously agree with this.”
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