Chapter Text
He’s quiet. Keeps his opinions to himself. If anyone notices the sudden personality change since he and Clarke got back from polis, they haven’t mentioned it. Even the slightest scent or feel of blood makes him gag, the barest of physical contact giving him goose flesh for what feels like hours.
People avoid him. Or maybe he avoids people. He only shows up for meals once a day or so, just enough to stay alive. Food makes him nauseous, but the survivor's instinct he can’t seem to get rid of drives him to keep on going. Emori tried to get him to talk. Asked about the dark haired woman who’d been heda for the short duration after Lexa’s death.
All she’d gotten out of that was him having a panic attack, refusing to talk about it, and them breaking up. She spends most of her time with Raven now, who, while they aren’t friends, nods lightly at him whenever they cross paths. Raven Reyes might be the only person who doesn't hate him. What a fucking change of events. Mbege would be rolling in his grave laughing. Who knows, maybe he is.
Currently, he should be asleep, his tent on the other side of arkadia. Actually, he should be a lot of things. Dead. Actually doing his job,- he knows he was assigned one when he returned, bedraggled and semi-covered in blood, but he’d been sent to medical, and all time after that was spent avoiding anything even mildly human looking (or sounding), he he wasn’t even sure what his job is. No-one’s bothered him about it (yet), so he stays where he is, a shadow covered little ledge on the main building of akradia, legs dangling over the edge.
Backwards. Forwards. Backwards again.
Something ghosts over his shoulder, his head whipping around, fighters reaching for the knife hidden in his boot, panic muffling his ears. He flinches so hard he almost falls off, a steady hand wrapping around his middle the only thing keeping him in place.
‘Murphy?,- hey, hey, it’ just me, it’s Bellamy’
Yes, he knows those eyes. That voice. Steady. Maybe not safe, no, but steady. Some part of him is comforted, alway has found comfort in those eyes, memories from the early days on the ground washing over him like an ocean wave. An even bigger part of him hates himself for feeling that way.
‘Murphy?’ the annunciation at the end, probs him, a question gone over his head in his moment of panic.
‘I’m fine. Fuck off’ he manages to rasp out, voice rough and grating from days of disuse. Better make them leave him alone, before he accidentally lets something slip. Especially Bellamy Blake.
He loves Emori. Loved? Felt butterflies in his stomach. He liked kissing her. But after.. well after HER, he just, he can’t think about girls like that. Women. Emori’s soft hands became HERS, the soft cure of her waist suddenly didn’t belong to her. Bile rose to his throat just thinking about it.
Boys on the other hand. A certain brunette's sharp jaw. Musclar arms. Chest. Fingers threading into his hair. A single drunk kiss at the delinquents camp before everything went to shit. He’s honestly not even sure Bellamy remembers that. He’d had one hell of a hangover the next day, though he couldn’t for the life of him forget the feeling of Bellamy Blake's lips against his.
That same hand was currently lifting his chin to look into his eyes, Blake’s furrowed eyebrows coming into his line of sight. Right. Bellamy's here. Wonderful. Why can the guy never leave well enough alone? For fucks sake.
‘Murphy’ he starts slowly, concern dripping over the two syllables. Oh, come on. Really?
‘What?’ he grits out, crossing his arms, losing Bellamy’s arm from his shoulder, and immediately missing the warmth. Damn. He really is a goner, isn’t he? Well, he might as well banish the thought. Bellamy likes to, well, fuck, and thats not somthing he can offer. Not now. Maybe not ever. And anyway, that's assuming Bellamy actually wasn't anything to do with him, that whatever is going on now is solely based on pity and regret.
‘Are you doing okay? I never see you at meals anymore, and Abby says you never show up to work’
Huh. At least that explains his job. Something to do with Abby Griffin. Oh joy. He’s seen Jasper Jordan hanging around her, the circles under his eyes getting darker and darker. Apparently he had a girlfriend. Then Carke and Bellamy happened. Everyone keeps looking at Goggles like he has no right to blame them, but if Murphy had killed her, they’d probably string him right back up again. Hah.
Bellamy glanced worriedly at him at the exhale turned half-laugh. Fuck it, let him worry. If he wants to pretend Murphy matters to him, that it’s more than pity and his self appointed role as protector keeping him here, who’s Murphy to stop him?
However, he’s tired. Not tired enough to face the nightmares, the hanging, his father. His mother. HER. No, but tired enough to be well and done with Bellamy’s bullshit. He scoots over to the edge, much to Blake’s protest, and let's go. The fall isn't far, though his ankles smart like hell when he hits the ground. If he’s learned anything on the ground, it’s how to land on his feet.
He ignores Bellamy’s scolding and protests at him leaving, the sounds of the older boy scrambling down after him, and takes off deeper into the camp, looking for another of his shadow hidden holes in the wall. Watch from the shadows as Bellamy passes his hiding place, breath catching in his chest. It hurts. It hurts knowing he’s so close, and always so far out of reach. John Murphy knows he’s broken beyond repair, but a selfish, childish part of him still hopes for love. Craves it.
Once Bellamy’s well and gone, he’s just settling in his new spot, when he sees eyes looking back at him. Brown eyes, not Bellamy’s coffee brown though, no these are darker. Perpetually sad. Like somthings broken inside. Like him.
Jasper Jordan raises an eyebrow at him, taking a long drink from a flask clutched in his white knuckles grip. Figures.
‘The hell happened to you?’ he asks once he’s done, whipping his mouth on his sleeve. Oh, where to fucking start?