Adele gave the young man a smile, no wonder the guy was so skinny. She failed to fully suppress her snorting laugh at Jason’s reaction to John. She probably shouldn’t have found it funny, but she did. She covered it with a cough and wandered back over to her work table. The woman busied herself with gathering up her materials and beginning to clean up the station, doing more busy work than anything else. She eyed the two men as she did so with a lingering smile.
Murphy was already half-asleep when Jason nudged his thigh,
interfering with his plans for a quick five-second nap. He huffed and dragged
himself to his feet, suppressing an eye roll. All things considered, dozing off
in a Grounder’s abode probably wasn’t a good idea in the first place. He took a few steps and bent down, opening his pack, and fetched his own blade. It had a satisfying heft to it: a weight in his
hand that was exactly right.
“Don’t worry,” said Murphy as crossing the threshold “I’ve done
this before.” The deer’s faces were oddly calm, its twin mouths soft and slack as its
dead eyes stared at the floor. It looked like it died with a sigh on its lips
instead of a scream. Jason had already cut
through the pelvis and up to the rib cage, and Murphy bent over and examined the exposed stomach cavity. It was a fat doe. It’d make for a good meal.
The delinquent’s hands were deceptively graceful as he cut
through the last binding strings of fat and sinew. He pulled the entrails out
in one swift movement, secretly enjoying the wet slide of blood against his
hands. Once the guts were put aside, he stood back and admired his handiwork. “You know…” he started slowly, following a moment of silence. “I’m surprised you nabbed a deer so close to Their territory.”
Adele couldn’t help but laugh at the young man’s awkwardness and terminology. ‘Pudding club.’ Definitely not something she’d heard before. She gave a nod as Jason answer, turning back to him when he moved closer. She smiled at his caressing, turning a little pink due to their audience. She glanced back at John when Jason pulled away, giving him a slightly sheepish smile before looking back at her houmon as he spoke. She softly smiled up at him as she spoke, his sentiments ringing true for them both. She reached forehead and tilted his head down, standing on the tip of her toes as she kissed his forehead. “I’m, uh, sure you didn’t come here to hear all of that though,” she laughed after she pulled away, turning back to their guest.
Murphy looked on with amusement as the couple raised their brows. He supposed the Grounders had their own slang and euphemisms, and that pudding club was clearly not one of them. “Right. Nice,” he responded, unsure of what else to say. Was there a set code of things you could say to a pregnant person? The Ark was incredibly strict in relation to pregnancy. There had been a degree of stigma tied to it, as if bringing new life into the station was a crime. In some cases it was. Murphy’s mind drifted to Octavia and her arrest. The first time he met her was on the ground, but he’d heard plenty of rumours about her time beneath the floor.
Just then, Jason unabashedly kissed his wife, drawing her close. Murphy looked upon the display of affection with thinly-veiled disgust. A hot rush of embarrassment had him in its grip as he fancied himself deficient for not being able to appreciate romance. It usually repulsed and sickened him, but in apropos to this, there were a few exceptions; he wasn’t entirely aromantic.
“Hey, I don’t mind,” he said with a slight laugh. “Sure, the timing sucks, but better now than never, right?” Way to sound like an idiot, man. Murphy exhaled in a way that wilted him, collapsed his shoulders, and he slowly eased himself down by the hearth. His leg stiffened beneath him; he rubbed absently at the bruise that tinted his shin. He was exhausted, and between the warmth of the hearth and the friendly company, he was capable of dozing off right then and there. However, his rumbling stomach had other plans.
“You know, I haven’t had meat in ages.” Murphy licked his lips and looked over at the gutted deer. He idly wondered if pregnant people actually ate more—he was incarcerated at age fifteen and never completed biology class, so he had no fucking clue. “My Dead Zone diet was crackers. Just crackers. ”
Adele eyed the young man shrewdly, but wore a sympathetic expression on her face. He seemed too young to seem so broken and seeing the scars on his body didn’t help. In fact, she felt like no one should have that look in their eyes. She gave a pleased nod when accepted the clothing, despite whatever he was about to say. “Uh, it’s still-” she giggled at the mess on his chin, it was worse now “Just hold still.” She used a hand to wipe away the dirt John had smeared before licking her thumb and rubbing away the remnants of blood. “There,” she smiled before going to clean her hands. She looked over at Jason as she did so, smiling widely at him. “Thank you,” she beamed as she dried her hands, pleased to have her work complimented even if it wasn’t anywhere near being finished.
Murphy raised a brow as Jason reached out and ruffled his
hair, fingers scraping his scalp. Murphy’s eyelids fluttered; he instinctively
melted and leaned into the touch, grateful for the tug of follicles and ensuing
goosebumps. He quickly snapped out of his stupor, and reeled back from the
touch, flushed and embarrassed. He wasn’t
a fucking kid.
Murphy was given no reprieve. Adele’s motherly hands sought
him out a moment later and wiped the gore from his chin. Murphy bristled on
impulse, still unaccustomed to the luxury of touch for the sake of touch. “Right,” he muttered. “Thanks.” All the while, his mind flashed back to simpler times. In his formative
youth, he’d spent many an afternoon exploring the Ark. He usually returned with
scuffed, knobbly knees and a runny nose. Space had been cruel on his sinuses. However,
his mother would fondly chastise him and clean his grubby face. “Just like your
father,” she’d add, her tone a reticent billet
doux; and his dad would laugh at that, radiant and proud. But then Murphy grew older, and his homecomings were met
with violence and the acrid smell of alcohol.
Murphy blinked out of his reverie and proceeded to cross the
threshold to examine Adele’s handiwork. “So you’re, uh,” he paused and pointed
to the unfinished crib. “In the pudding club?”
Adele nodded when the young man spoke, looking back with furrowed brows at his last words. She had protests on the tip of her tongue when Jason spoke first. She paused to watch him address John, a small tug pulling at the corner of her lips. She couldn’t have said it better herself, she hated hearing people sell themselves short. No matter how bad things were in the Dead Zone, he surely had a part and reason for being placed among his people.
She moved away from the fire once Jason finished, speaking up “I’ll get it, your hands are a mess.” She smiled before going to retrieve an extra shirt, holding it out for John. “You might wanna-” she mimed brushing a thumb over her own chin, indicating to the small blood smear on his.
Murphy folded into himself and flinched away from the
contact. The Grounder took Murphy’s chin between his messy fingers and spoke of his so-called inherentworth.
His sincerity was blinding. Murphy started, wide-eyed and bemused. Jason
had called him brother. His open-hearted acceptance made no sense; Murphy
fought the urge to retaliate. Jason was so, so wrong. Murphy was a
vagabond son-of-a-bitch; he didn't belong anywhere. As Jason
proceed to talk, Murphy’s eyes grew hot and blurry. He suddenly turned his
head, wiping his face with his arm. By the time he looked back, the tears were
gone.
Jason relinquished his hold on Murphy’s chin, and he was left
dazed and reeling. The couple’s generosity was so fucking unheard of in the delinquent’s experience. No one had showed him
any measure of unconditional kindness in the Sky Box, sans Mbege, and the
Ground was no different up until this point. Murphy honestly didn’t know who he
was without their labels – criminal, bastard,
brat, murderer, traitor – and he didn’t want to dwell on that. He snapped out of his reverie and looked down
at Adele, who smiled and offered him a spare shirt. What the hell.
“Right,” Murphy finally croaked. His head still spun,
awaiting disaster. He removed his shirt and exposed pale stretches of skin,
marred by the incongruence of ugly scars. He wiped his chin with the dirty
shirt. “Look, you know, I’m grateful, but…” He paused and reminded
himself to be mindful of his words. He could only be careful for so long – softness was not in his nature. “Doesn’t
matter. Thanks.”
“Nice to meet you, John,” she smiled before adding “I’m Adele.” The young man didn’t seem particularly happy or comfortable to be here, but she didn’t want to pry.
Adele nodded at Jason’s explanation “Sounds fair.” She smiled at his caress and let her arms rest around his neck. “That would be lovely,” she spoke softly before dropping her hands to let him move away. She gave another nod before going to the fire place “Sure thing. You know we have an extra cot, Jason. He could stay here.”
The woman glanced over at John before motioning to a wash basin “You can wash up there.” She turned back to the fire she had started, coaxing the flames into growing. She looked back up at the newcomer before asking “How long have you been in trikru territory?”
“Adele, right,” he echoed as a look of utter confusion twisted his features. The couple’s hospitality caught
him completely off guard. They trusted him
in their home. They offered him food and shelter for the night. His heart was
in my throat and he felt like he was choking; he wasn’t accustomed to blind
trust, let alone at the hands of Grounders. He fought back a wave of dreaded nausea; he
was neither liked nor trusted by anyone,
and he’d inevitably disappoint them too. He’d rather they hate him like everyone else did.
“Uh, thanks.” Murphy
peeled off his jacket and bundled it by his feet. A threadbare shirt stuck to
his skin, cemented with old blood and laden with holes; the lattice of scars
that marred his back were partly visible. “Trikru?
Nah, just passing through. I was on a pilgrimage that got cut short.”
He washed his dirty nails and hands in the basin, and took
the opportunity to clean his forearms. The water became muddy, and Murphy felt
cleaner than he had in ages. He finished
up and instinctively approached the hearth, jacket presently clutched to his
chest. Water evaporated, and the flames accentuated his awkward tan line.
“I was – my people are
having a bad time,” he said, a half-truth. “I’m more useful here, in the
woods. In this territory, I mean. Supplies and all.” He paused and fought back a bitter laugh; he was getting too honest with these people. “I’m expendable.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Right. John.” He glanced up at the sky and said, “Would you like to stay the night? That way you don’t have to wonder through the forest in the dark.” Although Jason had never met this John before, the kid was one his people, and therefore he was deemed trustworthy.
As the sunlight began to disappear behind the horizon, they reached Gona. The other members of the village greeted Jason as they passed, and John as well, even with the questioning looks they were giving him. “They’re curious as to why someone from the Dead Zone is here, but don’t worry about them. We’ll find a place for you to rest tonight, brother.”
Once they reached Jason’s home, Jason pushed his way passed the door and went inside. He dropped the deer suddenly, leaving all the weight for John. He walked swiftly across the floor to Adele and caught her in a kiss.
Adele hummed softly as she worked the tool over the wood she was carving. She was more than happy to be working on something that didn’t have to do with blood and bullets. The fact that she was making a cradle for her baby was just a bonus. She looked up from her work when the door opened, a wide smile coming across her face. She barely had time to put her tools down before Jason found her lips, leaning into him. She pulled back after a moment, aware there was someone else. She peered over her houmon’s shoulder, arching a brow at the young man now struggling with the weight of the deer. She bit back a laugh, lifting her brows to look back at Jason “What poor person have you forced into helping you?” She noted the other man didn’t particularly look happy, and there could be plenty reasons for that.
Murphy stood blinking in the atrium, occupied with the heavy
carcass of a felled beast. His arms strained with the weight of it, but the pressure
was a welcome distraction. He looked at the Grounders with poorly-masked unease.
Jason crossed the threshold and greeted the house’s sole occupant. She was
clearly his aforementioned houmon.
The affectionate display reminded Murphy of his parent’s formative years – back before he got them both killed. He
kept my mouth closed for fear of betraying the sudden ire inside of him.
The woman greeted him with soft amusement. The delinquent’s begrudging
expression softened at this, and his lips turned up into a slight smile: a
flicker of movement.
“I wouldn’t say I was forced,” he lied, because damn it if his heart wasn’t rabbit-fast
at that moment. “I’m John.” He paused and quickly, dryly, added. “You wouldn’t know me.”
With the kid’s help, Jason hoisted the deer up. He silently studied Murphy as they walked to the village. Jason recognized the Dead Zone clothing, but could see no signs of deformity, so he wasn’t going to make it into an issue. After several minutes, he broke the silence. “I haven’t seen you before, so I assume you’re not from Gona. Thanks helping me; you’ll get second pick of what part of meat you what.” He smiled at Murphy. “I would give you the first, but that’s going to my houmon. I’m Jason, by the way.”
Murphy’s face was the colour of a bad pearl. He walked
briskly through the woods, felled carcass in hand. The Grounder’s heavy gaze
kept him moving, and the building pressure between Murphy’s shoulder blades
kept him grounded. He was fucked. The
sun sunk low on the horizon: an iridescent warning sign. He should’ve never left camp. It was too late now – Mbege had
landed him in hot water. At least the Grounder seemed peaceful enough. For now.
“Yeah, never been there,” he said, licking his dry lips. The
promise of fresh meat piqued his interest. Maybe Bellamy and the princess would
be more likely to forgive his excursion if he returned with resources – if he
survived that long. “I’ve, uh, been in the desert enough to appreciate game…so
thanks.”
He paused and considered lying about his name. Instead, he
used his first name; no one on the ground used it, so it was as good as a lie. “I’m
John. Jonathan. Whatever.”
Jason gave Murphy a flat look. “I’ve been in the forests since before the sun was up; I gotta piss too, but I’m not complaining. You can piss once we move the deer.” He grabbed the deer’s front legs and nodded for Murphy to grab the back legs. “Now hurry it up. My houmon’s eating for two and gets mad when she’s hungry.”
Jason grabbed one half of the felled beast and gestured for
Murphy to do the same, but he did not make to move: he lingered by the foot of
the carcass, heart in his throat. He felt like he was choking. He should’ve
never left the camp. He idly wondered if he could outrun the older man. Probably
not; Jason was of strong build, whereas Murphy was still recovering from
malnutrition. Shit.
If he elected to follow Jason, well, walking into Grounder
territory would be suicide—surely someone
would remember Murphy. The scars from his torture still stained his torso fish-belly
white. He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing like a noose. He had no other choice.
“Fine, let’s just take this and go,” he conceded, blanching
behind his hood as he seized the deer’s legs. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”
Jason could feel the blood coating his hand already drying. He had gotten lucky on his hunt, finding a deer with its leg caught in a trap he had laid out. He was holding the deer over his shoulder, draping it down his back. Jason paused when he caught sight of the young man scratching a knife into a tree. He had never seen him before, but he could tell by his clothing that he was of their people. “Hey,” he called out, throwing the deer on the ground between them. “Make yourself useful and help me take this to the village. We’ve got mouths to feed.”
Jason spoke, and Murphy reeled about to face him – a jerky, abrupt movement. He widened his eyes and tightened his grip on his knife; the rock behind him was presently embellished with angry, crooked epitaphs, like broken fingers. An air-strike siren went off in his head. Murphy was silent for a moment – debating, perhaps, whether or not he should do something other than stare at the bloody mancake that stood before him.
Murphy cracked his knuckles like one cocks a loaded pistol — it was readily apparent that the Grounder mistook Murphy for an ally. And really, the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him; his rags from the Dead Zone completely cloaked his sky heritage. He tried to relax, to curb his panic; cleared his throat and pushed back his dirty braids.
“Right,” he croaked, and then his voice rose. “Uh, yeah. Back to the village, right—look, not that hauling deer isn’t my second favourite thing, but I gotta piss.”
