Archive of Our Own

Earth Skills was dumb.  Clarke was pretty sure there was no actual reason she should be taking the class, because she was never going to Earth so she’d never need to use her skills.

She muttered under her breath, glaring down at her worksheet and trying to look like she was actually writing something down.  She just had to last a few more minutes before her mom left for work, and then her study group would come over and she could just copy Wells’s. 

It was a very symbiotic study group.  They copied her biology work, Miller’s chemistry, Monroe’s history, and Glass’s physics, too.  They’d have to figure out the English on their own this week, though, with Murphy being in the hospital and all.  Maybe they’d go visit him later.  She should ask her mom if he was out of quarantine yet, if he’d moved past the contagious part of his flu.

She looked back at the kitchen, where her parents had been packing dinner for themselves just minutes before, only to find it empty.

She pushed back from the table, happy for any excuse to stop pretending she was doing her homework, and went in search of them.

They were in their room, and she paused at the open door, listening to their hushed voices.

“He’s been getting worse, Jake.”  That was her mom, her voice the clinically detached one she used when talking about patients but somehow also tinged with concern.  “He hasn’t woken up since early yesterday, and his allotted medicine will run out in the next few days.”

“And there’s nothing more you can do?”  Her dad now, his voice only filled with concern.  “Do his parents know yet?  Are you going to tell Clarke?”

Tell Clarke what?  Who were they talking about?

“I’ll be telling Mr. and Mrs. Murphy tonight,” Abby said, and Clarke’s stomach dropped.  “I think we should wait to tell Clarke until we have more concrete information to tell her.  I have to get to work.”

Clarke could hear her parents moving closer to the door, so she turned and ran back towards the table and her homework, running into the wall hard enough for it to hurt on her way.

“See you in the morning,” her mom said a few moments later, pressing a kiss against her forehead before rushing out the door.

She expected her dad to leave right after, to say goodbye and then message her friends that they could come over and tell them what she’d overheard so that she wouldn’t be overthinking and freaking out on her own.

But her dad instead sunk down into the chair next to her, watching her long enough that it was hard to pretend to be concentrating on the homework she was pretending to do.

“Clarke,” he said after a few minutes, and she hummed in response, still not looking up from her worksheet.  “I know you were listening.”  She sucked in a breath at that, her hand tightening on her tablet pen.  Jake reached out, laying his overtop.  “I know it sounds bad, but John’s a strong kid.  I’m sure he’ll pull through.”

Clarke didn’t point out that he didn’t know what he was talking about.  She didn’t point out that out of her parents, it was her mom’s opinion on the matter that was probably closer to the truth.  Her throat closed up, tears welling in her eyes at the thought of possibly losing one of her friends, at the thought of a death so unfair, but she just nodded, like she believed her dad.

And maybe he was right.  Murphy was strong.  Maybe he would kick this flu in the butt and get better.  That was still possible, right?  Even if he hadn’t woken up in a bit and he was almost out of medicine?  It wasn’t completely out of the question, was it?

Her dad squeezed her hand and kissed her on the head.

“I need to get to work,” he said, standing up.  “You gonna be okay?”

Clarke nodded again, but didn’t look up until he’d disappeared, and only then to drop her pen.  She switched from homework to her messaging app, sent a quick message to the group chat about coming over, and then leaned back in her chair.

What if Murphy didn’t make it?  She’d never known anyone who’d died.  Her grandparents had all passed away before she’d been born, and she didn’t know too many people who’d been arrested.  Those that she did know were still under eighteen, still alive but just somewhere else.

She didn’t know what you did when someone died.  She didn’t know what you were supposed to do when your friend just stopped being alive.

“Fuck.”

Clarke jerked back over the table, desperate to look like she was doing something productive.  Why hadn’t she heard the door open?  Why was one of her parents back?

“Fuck, this isn’t going to work,” the voice behind her mumbled, and Clarke fixed her attention on her homework.  “Fuck.  Clarke?”

She still couldn’t figure out who the voice was, besides the fact that it definitely wasn’t one of her parents, but she couldn’t help but turn towards it at the desperate way he said her name.

She dropped her pen and her jaw at who it was, at the too-pale boy standing in pyjamas near the door.

“Murphy?” she whispered as soon as she could, jumping up from the table and rushing over.  “You’re better?  But Mom said—”

She broke off as she hugged him because she couldn’t hug him, because she instead just fell straight through him, her blood freezing as she passed through him and making her shiver.

“What?” she asked, moving back until she wasn’t standing in him anymore, until the unnatural coldness disappeared.

He was staring at her, his expression as shocked as she was sure hers looked.

“You can see me?”

It was a whisper, barely loud enough for her to hear, but the stark contrast between the hope in his words now and the desperate way he’d called her name struck at something inside her, and she reached out to touch his shoulder.

Only for her hand to go right through, the coldness soaking into her again.

“Of course I can see you,” she said, pulling her hand back quickly, tucking it against herself in hopes of warming it back up.  “Why can’t I touch you?  Why are you here?  How are you better?  Are you better?”

“I don’t know,” Murphy said, cutting off her rambling questions, still staring at her with wide eyes.  “I can’t—you can actually see me?”

Clarke paused, taking him in a moment longer, taking a moment to think.

This didn’t make any sense.  Murphy had the flu.  He was in quarantine, last she’d heard, and wasn’t doing well.

And now he was in her apartment?

But he couldn’t be, could he?  Why was he shocked she could see him?  Why couldn’t she touch him?

“I can see you,” she assured him, and he let out a breath.  “Why wouldn’t I be able to see you?”

Murphy shrugged, masking the relief and fear in his eyes with forced nonchalance.

“I don’t know,” he said, crossing the room and sitting on her couch.  “My parents couldn’t see me.  No one in the halls could see me.  I stopped at Miller’s before I came here and he couldn’t see me.  Why can you see me?”

Clarke shook her head, taking a seat near him on the couch.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she told him, and he nodded.  “That’s not possible.  When did you get out of the hospital?”

Murphy frowned at her, cocking his head.  “Why would I be in the hospital?”

Clarke stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find the words.

“You have the flu,” she told him, and his frown deepened.  “You’ve been in quarantine for a few days, and my mom says you hadn’t woken up since yesterday.”

Murphy was shaking his head, standing up.  “No,” he said, his leg brushing through his and making her shudder from the cold as he passed.  “No, that doesn’t make sense.  I’d remember if I had the flu.  I’d remember that.”

Clarke watched him pace the room, muttering under his breath.  Breathing got harder as she thought of the only possibility that made sense, as impossible as it was.

“Murphy,” she whispered, and he stopped pacing, turned to look at her.  “Murphy, we have to go to the hospital.”

“What?”

“We have to go to the hospital,” she repeated, pushing to her feet and heading to the door.

He followed behind her, still demanding answers, but she couldn’t give them to him.  She couldn’t voice her fears, what she was pretty sure Murphy being in her house and no one else being able to see him meant.

She threw open the door and almost ran straight into Wells.

“Hey, Clarke,” he said, and she glanced at him and then behind her at Murphy, at the way Wells didn’t seem at all shocked to see him in her living room instead of the hospital and the way Murphy looked all too unsurprised that Wells couldn’t see him.

She pushed past him into the hallway.

“I have to do something,” she said, not waiting around to hear his response.  “I’ll be back.”

She raced towards the hospital as fast as she could without seeming crazed, Murphy by her side, his questions gaining urgency the further they went.

She pushed open the doors, scanning the room.

“Mom!” she yelled, rushing from bed to bed, pulling back the curtains and hoping beyond anything to see Murphy lying in one of the beds.  As for the Murphy that was following her, his questions had stopped and he was following her in an eerie silence that she would’ve been more concerned about if she wasn’t pouring all of her concern into proving her thoughts wrong.

Someone grabbed her arm, spinning her around, and she fought them until her mom snapped her name.

“What are you doing?” she asked, after apologizing to the lady Clarke had disturbed and steering her away from the line of beds.

“Where’s Murphy?” she asked, her eyes darting to the invisible Murphy hovering nearby.  “I need to see him.  Where is he?”

Abby stared at her for a moment, concern marring her features, and then sighed and took Clarke’s hand.  Clarke trailed behind her down the hallway, Murphy sticking close enough to her side that she could feel his iciness seeping into her.

Abby stopped in the wing where the worst off patients stayed, and gestured at a window.  “He’s in there.”

Clarke turned to look through the window, into the patient’s room.  She recognized Murphy’s parents, sitting in chairs next to the bed, but if she didn’t know that the boy in the bed was supposed to be Murphy, she wouldn’t have recognized him.

He was pale and too thin, the white sheets covering him almost had more colour than he did, and there were tubes and wires attached to his body.

“Is he alive?” she whispered, pressing her fingers against the glass.  The Murphy beside her, the one that only she could see, walked through the wall and over to the bed, waving his hands in front of his parents’ faces.  She could hear him yelling at them, even through the glass, but neither of them so much as flinched.

“Yes,” Abby sighed, leaning back against the wall, and Clarke let out a sigh of relief.  “He’s alive.  You overheard me talking with your dad earlier, didn’t you?”

Clarke shrugged, her eyes still trained on Murphy—not the lifeless Murphy in the bed but the one that was still screaming, begging his parents to look at him.

“John’s in a coma,” her mom said, and Clarke forced her attention back to her.  She had to remember everything she told her so she could tell Murphy later.  Maybe they could figure out how to get him back into his body, how to make him wake up.  “He hasn’t woken up since early yesterday.  We’re hoping he’ll wake up soon.”

Abby didn’t continue, but Clarke could hear how the rest of her sentence would go.

But it’s not looking good.

She glanced back at Murphy, who was now sitting on the floor, staring at his parents, and then back at her mom.

“How many more days?” she asked.  “How many more days until he’s out of medicine?”

Abby looked like she didn’t want to answer, but she sighed.

“Two days.”

Clarke swallowed heavily.  “How long does he have after that?”

Abby didn’t answer that, but the pitying look on her face was answer enough.  Not long.

“Are you okay?” her mom asked, after Clarke had gone back to staring through the window again.  “I can find someone to cover my shift if you—”

“No!” Clarke interrupted, shaking her head.  “No, I’ll be okay.”

Her mom couldn’t come home.  Not right now.  Not when her study group was waiting for her, where they’d do less studying and more copying.  Not when she had Murphy’s—what?  His ghost?  Was this his ghost?  Didn’t you have to be dead to have a ghost?—hanging around, needing as many answers as they could come up with.

Her mom watched her for a few more moments, before squeezing her shoulder.

“Okay,” she said.  “Message me if you need something, and don’t stay here too much longer.”

Clarke was planning to stay until Murphy re-emerged from the room, but that didn’t take as long as she thought it would.  They were out of the hospital and back in the hallway before she spoke to him, careful to make sure no one else was around.

“You’re in a coma,” she told him, voice low.  “From the flu, I guess.  Mom hopes you’ll wake up soon.”

Murphy was quiet beside her.

“And if I don’t?” he finally asked.

Clarke shrugged, playing with a loose string at the hem of her sweater.  “You run out of medicine in two days,” she told in him lieu of an answer, and he was quiet again until they reached her apartment.

The others were already gathered around her table when they stepped inside.

“You’re late,” Miller called, beanie pulled down almost over his eyes.  If Clarke didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was asleep.

“Where’d you go?” Wells asked as she crossed the room slowly.  “You just ran out on me.”

She glanced at Murphy, their friend still far quieter than usual.  “You really don’t see him?”

Monroe glanced up from the flashcards she was organizing.  “See who?”

“Murphy.”

The others looked up then, Miller pushing his hat back, and they glanced around the room, staring right through Murphy again and again.

“Murphy’s not here,” Glass pointed out, her words slow.  “He’s in the hospital.”

Clarke shook her head.  “He’s here, too,” she said, tugging over the stool Murphy usually sat on before sinking into her seat.  Murphy slowly sat down, still too quiet.  She gestured at him.  “He’s right here.”

They were all staring at her now, confusion and pity filling their gazes.

Clarke huffed.  “He’s in a coma now,” she said, and Wells’s mouth dropped open.  “As of yesterday.  That’s where I went, to the hospital.  I had to make sure he wasn’t dead after…”

“After what?” Monroe asked after her silence had gone on too long.

“After he showed up in my living room and I couldn’t touch him and no one else could see him.”

They were staring at her again, like she was crazy, and she had to admit she sounded the part.  Seeing ghosts wasn’t possible.  She shouldn’t be seeing Murphy right now.  She shouldn’t be able to feel his eyes on the side of her face.  She shouldn’t have seen two of him back at his hospital room.

But she could see him.  He was here.  It didn’t make sense, but it was what was happening.

“We can prove it,” Murphy said, pushing to his feet.  Clarke glanced at him, and he offered her a smirk, one that was a little too forced to be real.

“We can prove it,” she echoed, and the others sighed.

“How many fingers am I holding up behind my back?” Miller asked, and Murphy moved around the table.

“Six,” he said, and Clarke repeated it.  “Four.  Three.  Nine.  Now he’s just flipping you off.”

“What the fuck?” Miller breathed, leaning forward onto his elbows, staring at her.  “How’d you know that?”

“I told you,” Clarke said, sighing.  “Murphy’s here.  Or his…ghost is?  Are you a ghost?”  Murphy shrugged.  “His ghost, I guess.”

“That’s the code to Miller’s apartment,” Glass pointed out.  “You could’ve just guessed it.  That doesn’t prove anything.”

Clarke sighed, meeting Murphy’s eyes.  “What else do you want us to do?”

It took a good hour to prove to everyone that Murphy’s ghost was really there, and then they were all sinking back into their seats, staring at her.

“What else do you know?” Monroe asked, and Clarke glanced at Murphy, who shrugged.

“Not much,” she admitted.  “He runs out of medicine in two days.  Which means we have a little longer than that to figure out how to wake him up.”

Wells nodded.  “Of course we’re going to wake him up,” he agreed.  “But we do have homework that’s due tomorrow.  I don’t think any of our teachers are going to take that as an excuse for not having it done.”

They all groaned, but decided to start on their Wake Murphy Up From His Coma mission after they’d finished.

If any good thing came out of doing homework, it was that Clarke’s parroted explanations of the metaphors and symbolism in Hamlet that really cemented the fact that she could actually see Murphy’s ghost.

The others left late into the night, after the snacks were eaten and Monroe’s mom had called for the sixth time, threatening to come over and take her home herself, and Clarke and Murphy were finally alone.  They’d decided to start their quest to wake him up the next afternoon, after the school day was done and they had the whole weekend ahead of them and they’d had a chance to do some research on how best to go about it.

For now, Murphy lingered by the door while Clarke tidied up her school supplies.

“Are you going home?” she asked, and he shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I could,” he said.  “But—”

He broke off, and Clarke moved closer, perching on the edge of the couch.

“But?” she prompted, and he shrugged again.

“It’s weird,” he said, sighing.  “You went to the bathroom earlier, and it was like I suddenly didn’t exist anymore.  If I’m not with you, no one can see me or hear me.  It’s like…I don’t know.  It’s like I’m already dead.”

Clarke shook her head, standing up.  “You’re not dead,” she told him, stepping closer.  “You’re not dead and you’re not going to be.  Okay?  We’re gonna figure this out, and you’re gonna wake up again.”

Murphy shook his head.  “You can’t promise that.”

“Well, I just did.”  Clarke reached out to touch his arm, her hand going through instead, the iciness of him sending a shiver running through her.  She pulled her hand back.  “You can stay here.  Do you want the couch?  No, of course you don’t.  You can sleep in my room.”

She turned around, started for her room before she could second guess herself.  She hadn’t had a boy sleep in her room since she was ten and her parents had decided they were to old.  Now, sleepovers always had to happen in the living room.

But she didn’t think about that as she lead Murphy into her bedroom, turning off lights on the way, and instructed him to turn around while she changed into her pyjamas.

“Okay,” she said, nodding at his back.  “You’re already in pyjamas.  That’s good.  You were ready for this.”

Murphy snorted at that, and Clarke ducked back into the hall for an extra pillow and some blankets, spreading them out on the ground before realizing what she was doing.

“Thanks,” Murphy said softly as she stared at them.  “I don’t think I can feel them, but thanks.”

She nodded without saying anything, turned off the light and climbed into bed.

“What’s it like?” she asked, after they’d been laying in the dark for a while.

Murphy was quiet, and Clarke resisted the urge to check that he was still there.

“Cold,” he finally said.  “I’m so fucking cold, Clarke.  I can’t feel anything else.  Nothing except—”

He broke off, and she waited for him to continue until it was clear that he wasn’t going to.

“Except what?” she asked, and he sighed loudly.

“You,” he whispered, voice quiet.  “I mean, everyone, I guess.  When people move through me, I feel warm for as long as their touching me.  But, I mean, I’ve been trying to avoid people and you’re the only one who’s tried to touch me, so…”

He trailed off again, and Clarke swallowed.  She made a quick decision, one that would backfire heavily if Murphy suddenly became visible during the night, but she swung out of bed before she could overthink it, resisting the shiver as she reached through Murphy for the extra blankets.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting up.  “That was weird.  I know it was.  I—”

“Shut up,” she told him, and he surprised her by actually listening.  He was quiet as she spread the extra blankets over her bed, tucked the pillow up near hers.  “Come on.”

Murphy hovered near her as she climbed back in bed, pulling the blankets over top of herself.  She sent him a look, patting the space between her and the edge of the bed.

“I don’t get it,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.

“Come lay down,” she told him, and he stared at her for a moment before complying, laying himself out on her bed and keeping careful to not put any of his limbs through hers.

He jerked his hand away when she lay her hand over—inside?—it.

“What are you doing?”

Clarke sighed, rolling over to face him.  “You’re cold,” she pointed out, and he nodded.  “If touching me helps, you can hold my hand.”

Murphy shook his head.  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you shiver when I go through you,” he said, and, honestly, she’d kind of hoped he hadn’t.  “I’ll be fine, Clarke.  Go to sleep.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Clarke told him, and he looked offended.  “I can handle a little cold if it makes you feel better.  That’s what the extra blankets are for.”

Murphy stared at her a while longer, before slowly moving his hand back to hers.  She shivered, violently, but didn’t move it, and they were stuck in a staring contest for the next few minutes, each waiting for the other to move.

The coldness softened from a sharp, icy pain to a dull general cold over the next few minutes, though maybe her hand was just going numb.

But she didn’t move her hand and neither did Murphy, and eventually she drifted off.

Murphy was already awake when her dad stuck his head in to wake her up for school, sitting at the end of her bed and brushing his fingers through the wall.

“How’d you sleep?” Clarke asked, swinging out of bed and motioning for him to turn while she changed.

He shrugged.  “I didn’t,” he said.  “I tried to, but I couldn’t.  I don’t know if it’s even possible for me to sleep.”

“Oh,” was all she could say, and then her dad was calling her again and Murphy was following her out into the kitchen.

“How’s Murphy doing?” she asked her mom, dropping into her seat at the table and starting on her breakfast.

“Nothing’s really changed,” she said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  “I’ll let you know if anything does.”

Clarke nodded and Abby left for her room, to sleep away the nightshift, and Murphy jumped out of the chair he was in before Jake could sit on top of him.  Or in him.

“How’re you doing?” he asked while Clarke’s eyes tracked Murphy’s movements to a different chair.

“I’m fine,” she said, because, really, she was.  It was probably the fact that Murphy was seated across the table from her that kept any of this from seeming real.  She quickly scarfed down the rest of her breakfast, suddenly in a hurry to not talk about this.

Murphy followed her to the bathroom, sat on the toilet and watched her as she brushed her teeth, and then they were leaving for school.

“What?” she asked, voice quiet.  There were too many people around, too many people who could hear her talking to what seemed like nothing and report it back to her parents.

“This is just so fucking weird,” he said, laughing like it didn’t really matter.  “You get that all of this is really weird, right?”

She did get that this was really weird, and hoped the look she shot him portrayed her feelings on the matter.  She was talking to the ghost of her friend who was in a coma, for crying out loud.  Of course this was weird.

She couldn’t tell him, though, because they’d reached their classroom and she was sliding into her desk, Murphy slipping into his own out of habit.

Monroe turned around, leaning on her elbows on Clarke’s desk.

“So,” she said.  “I read that talking to people in comas is supposed to help, so I think we should start by heading to Murphy’s room and then plan there where he can hear it.”

Clarke looked over at Murphy to see if he had any objections, but he was just shaking is head.

“So fucking weird,” he repeated, then leaned back and put his feet up on his desk, in the exact way that Mr. Pike hated.

Clarke turned back to Monroe and grinned at her.  “Sounds like a great plan.”

Clarke was shocked at how easy it was to get into Murphy’s hospital room, but maybe she shouldn’t have been.  Jackson was on shift, and had just waved them through, saying that Murphy’s parents had just left, that he’d probably appreciate having his friends there.

It was weird.

They’d pulled in chairs from the hallway, perched around the room, and were staring at the bed.  Murphy was in the bed, pale and thin and silent and hooked up to machines, but he was also hovering near the door, glancing out to the hallway every few moments like he wanted to run, like he wanted to be as far from his body as possible.

It was weird.

“Is he still here?” Miller asked, looking up from Murphy’s face.  He’d been poking at it, like maybe if he annoyed Murphy enough, he might wake up.  Clarke looked back at the other Murphy and nodded.

They hadn’t found much in ways to wake someone up from a coma.  Most of the information they could find was in terms of medicine and medical procedures that none of them could even attempt to do.  All they could really find was what Monroe had brought, about how talking to coma patients was good for them.

“What if Murphy the ghost, like, went into his body?” Wells suggested, tapping his feet against the ground.  “Like maybe he just needs to reconnect or something?”

“That is a stupid fucking idea,” Murphy muttered from his spot near the door.  “I am not touching that.”

Clarke sighed, leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees.  “He says that that’s stupid and he’s not touching his body,” she relayed.  “Which is actually what’s stupid.  It’s just your body.”

It took a bit more pressure, all of them pointing out that there was really no harm in at least trying, before Murphy sighed loudly.

“Fine,” he said, scowling as he slowly crossed the room, and Clarke shushed the others, telling them that he was trying.

He hesitated next to the bed, then slowly reached out and touched his shoulder, his hand passing right through.

“So fucking weird,” he muttered, and then climbed up on the bed.

Clarke watched him lie down, watched him drop lower and lower over his body until the two Murphys merged into one.

“Did he do it?” Miller asked, leaning over the bed.  “Is anything happening?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke whispered, turning to scan the machines.  Nothing seemed to be changing.

Murphy sat back up a few minutes later, a second torso rising from the one still lying down, and then jumped off the table.

“Don’t ask me to do that again,” he said, the iciness of his touch brushing her arm as he stalked back to his post near the door.

“It didn’t work,” she told the others, staring after him.  “We need to try something else.”

Clarke was exhausted when she fell into bed that night.  It wasn’t like she’d really even done much, but being in that room with Murphy’s body, somehow both alive and not, was really taking a toll.

She patted the bed beside her until he flopped down.

“We’ll figure out something tomorrow,” she told him, eyes already closed and sleep threatening to overtake her.  “We’re gonna wake you up.”

Murphy was quiet a few moments.  “Okay,” he finally agreed, voice small and quiet.

Her hand grew cold then, the iciness spreading up to her elbow, and she resisted the urge to pull it away.

“Night, Murphy,” she whispered, wishing there was something else she could do for him than just letting his hand seep the warmth from hers.

“Goodnight.”

Saturday was much of the same.  They spent the day in Murphy’s room, talking to his body and trying increasingly ridiculous ideas to get him to wake up.  His parents were also in and out throughout the day, making pleasantries but mostly just sitting in silence, holding their son’s hand.

Murphy was the quietest during these times, his eyes trained on the faces of his parents, a raw hope painted across his own face, a hope that maybe this time they’d look up and see him.

They never did.

Saturday night came and went.  Murphy was officially out of medicine, and they were still no closer to waking him up.

They got the news Sunday morning, when she woke with a violent shiver through her entire body, and Murphy faceplanted on her chest.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, and he shook his head, leaving through her door.

She frowned, followed him out to where her parents and Thelonious were sitting in the living room.

They went silent when they saw her, and Clarke felt her stomach drop, Murphy’s weird behaviour and this secretive meeting putting together pieces she didn’t want to fit.

“Is it Murphy?” she asked, voice quiet, her eyes flicking between the adults and her friend, somehow even paler than he already was.

“No, honey,” her mom said, standing up and crossing the room to wrap her arms around him.  “John’s okay.  He’s still alive.”

Clarke felt the tension drain out of her, and she pulled back enough to see Murphy’s face.  Something was still wrong.

“Then what is it?” she asked, and her mom sunk back down.

“You’ll hear about it soon anyway,” Thelonious said, sighing.  “Alex Murphy has been arrested for stealing medicine.  Shumway caught him.  He’ll be floated tonight.”

“It wasn’t even flu meds,” Abby muttered, like that would somehow make it better.  And maybe it would’ve.  Maybe then Murphy’s dad would’ve been arrested for saving him, not for failing to do so.

Clarke tuned out the adults, watching as Murphy sunk into himself, staring at nothing.  She wanted to hold him, to tell him it would be okay, but she couldn’t.  She physically couldn’t, not when he was like this, and she couldn’t even do the next best thing without having to explain to her parents and Thelonious why she was talking to nothing.

“Murphy,” she said, still watching him, hoping she got everything she was trying to say out in the syllables of his name.

He jerked his head up, stared at her for a moment, and then took off through the wall into the hallway.

Wells came over later, after his dad had left.  The others were in the hospital, with Murphy’s body, but Clarke wanted to wait until he was back from wherever he’d gone, to make sure he didn’t think she’d abandoned him and left him alone.

They were doing some research of their own, each link in the Ark’s database turning up another result that wouldn’t work or one they’d already tried.

Clarke didn’t want to lose hope, but they were running out of options.  And each day that passed that Murphy wasn’t being treated for his flu, the closer they got to the point of no return.

“Is he back?” Wells asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

Clarke sighed.  “You’ll know when he’s back,” she told him.

Wells left before dinner, and Clarke joined her parents at the table, picking through her food and giving half-hearted answers to their questions.  She retreated to her room before they left for their nightshifts, wondering whether Murphy was coming back at all, if maybe he’d just disappeared.

It was late when he did come back, the air in her room turning icy.  She flicked on the light, sitting up in bed.  He was standing just inside the door, looking like a wreck and staring at the floor.

“Murphy,” she started, and then he was crossing the room, sinking down next to her.

He didn’t look at her, and Clarke wished she could give him a hug, that there was any way she could actually comfort him.

She settled for sliding her hand through his, shivering as she gave him a little warmth, and watched him crumble.

“Hey,” she whispered, reaching up and running her fingers through his head in what she hoped was a comforting way.  “You’re okay.  I’m here.”

She kept whispering to him as he sobbed, his whole body quivering with his tears.  She convinced him to lay down next to her, brushed her fingers through his face as he shook, as his mouth moved but no words came out.

“I—I was—” he tried.  “I saw—”

He broke off again and Clarke shushed him, running a hand through his shoulder and down his arm.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.  “You don’t have to say anything.”

It was a while later when he finally quietened, when his tears had dried.

“I was at his floating,” he whispered, voice broken, and Clarke squeezed the air where his hand should’ve been, not knowing what else to say.

Murphy seemed relatively okay.  Clarke had kept glancing at him all day, as she tried not to fall asleep in class, until he’d snapped at her to pay attention and rattled off the symbolism of the graveyard for her to repeat when their English teacher thought she wasn’t paying close enough attention.

“I’m fine,” he told her, leaning over from his desk.  “Stop staring at me like I’m gonna break.”

She was pretty sure he wasn’t fine, pretty sure you weren’t just fine after watching your parent be shot out an airlock, but she tried to stop staring at him so much.  And he was making jokes, jumping up on Mr. Pike’s desk during Earth Skills and putting his hand through Wells’s face for long enough that he asked whether anyone else thought something was wrong with the temperature regulator.  Maybe he was fine.

Or maybe he was just a good liar.

Either way, it wasn’t like there was anything she could do, so she let herself believe that maybe he was fine.

“I’m done,” Monroe declared dropping her tablet onto the table.  “I am never doing homework again.”

Clarke laughed, pushed her own tablet away.  “I think you’ll prove yourself wrong tomorrow.”

“Let me have my moment.”

Miller leaned back in his chair.  “So are we onto Operation Murphy now?”

Murphy made a face, and Clarke turned to look at him.

“What?”

“There’s no point,” he said, sighing.  “I don’t know what else we can try.  There’s nothing we can do to wake me up, so we might as well give up and accept that I’m going to die any day now.”

“No.”  Clarke stood up, so quickly she knocked her chair to the ground, and felt the eyes of her friends on her.  “No, Murphy.  You’re not going to die.”

He laughed, more of a scoff, really, and shook his head.  “It’s going to happen.”

“No,” she repeated, moving closer to him, close enough that her toes passed through his, and ignored the shiver that ran through her.  “You’re not allowed to die.”

“No one’s dying,” Glass said, raising her hands and staring just slightly to the left of where Murphy’s face was.  “You’re going to better.”

The others chimed in with more assurances that Murphy was going to be, and he shook his head.

“Fine,” he said, speaking over them.  “Fine, I’ll drop it.  But we’re not going to figure out anything else to try, so we should do something else.”

Clarke passed on his message, sending him a look that she hoped he knew meant that this wasn’t going to be the last of it.

“Oh, I know,” Monroe said, grinning at them.  “Let’s play truth or dare.”

It didn’t take long before they were seated on the floor in Monroe’s living room, an open space between Clarke and Miller for Murphy.  Glass had admitted that she maybe didn’t want to run for council like her dad.  Miller had taken off his shirt for the rest of the game.  Murphy had left for a half hour before returning with the gossip that Mr. Pike was having an affair with Major Byrne.  Wells had finally admitted to copying Glass’s answers on the last physics test.  Monroe had stolen a sip of the wine her parents had for special occasions.

And then it was Clarke’s turn.

“Truth or dare?” Monroe asked, grinning widely at her.

Clarke thought for a minute.  “Dare,” she finally decided.

“Great.”  Monroe’s grin was looking a little evil, and Clarke was already starting to regret her decision.  “I dare you to kiss Murphy.”

“What?” Clarke glanced quickly over at Murphy and then back at Monroe.  “It doesn’t work like that.  You know that.  I can’t touch him.”

Monroe rolled her eyes.  “All I’m hearing are excuses.”

“Have you actually tried kissing him?” Miller asked, and Clarke spluttered for a moment before he leaned back against the couch, smirking at her and crossing his arms.  “Then you can’t say it doesn’t work.”

That was difficult logic to argue with, so she turned to look at Murphy again.  He was already looking at her, a smirk stretching across his face, and he shrugged.

“I’d never say no to someone kissing me,” he said, which was probably true.  Unless things had changed in the few months since the last game of truth or dare, Murphy hadn’t actually had his first kiss yet.  “What’re you waiting for?”

Clarke sighed.  “Fine,” she said, turning back to Monroe.  “It’s not going to work, though.”

When she looked back at Murphy, he winked at her before closing his eyes, puckering his lips in an exaggerated pout.  Clarke didn’t bother to close her own eyes, just leaned in and waited for the arrival of the cold that meant her face had passed into his.

But it never came.

Instead, her lips met the cool, soft surface of another pair of lips.

Murphy gasped, his eyes flying open and meeting hers, and she used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, to move it past the chaste peck it was into something more.  He whimpered, his eyes slamming shut again, and pressed closer, and then she could feel the icy grip of his hand on her waist.

Her own eyes closed as she melted into the kiss, her hand rising to cup his cheek, cold but solid under her fingers.  The happiness and excitement that was bubbling within her was almost overwhelming.

She could touch him.  She could feel him.

She had no idea what it meant, but it didn’t matter because he felt real.

Someone cleared their throat loudly, and Clarke pulled back, just enough to stare into Murphy’s eyes.  She was breathing heavily, and she was pretty sure the fact that he didn’t seem to need to breathe at all was the only reason he wasn’t.  She could still feel his hand on her waist, his cheek under hers.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, and she laughed, breathy and light.

“Holy shit,” she agreed.

She didn’t know whether the feelings still jumbled up inside her from kissing Murphy were because she was into him or because, for the first time in days, he actually felt real, but it didn’t really matter.

She could touch him.

That was more important than dealing with possible feelings.

“Holy shit is right,” Miller laughed, and Clarke had to move her head a bit to see him past Murphy.  “You just full on made out with nothing, and I was definitely way too close to the action.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” she said, her attention back on Murphy.  She raised her free hand, held her breath as he raised his and let it out in a laugh as their palms pressed together.  “I can feel him.”

“Let me try.”  Wells leaned across the circle, holding out his hand, and Murphy moved his away from Clarke’s.  It passed right through.

He tried again with the others, still holding Clarke by the waist, like if he let go, this might go away, and none of them worked.

“How do we know you’re not making this up?” Monroe asked, raising an eyebrow.  “Maybe you just made out with the air to mess with us.”

“I got this,” Murphy said, grinning at her, and then his hand was sliding up her back from her waist, the icy trail leaving goosebumps in its wake.  It reached the bottom of her braid, and he grabbed the hair, lifting it up over her head and waving it around while their friends’ mouths dropped open.

“Oh my god,” Glass whispered.  “Murphy’s actually here?”

Clarke didn’t bother to question her apparently disbelief up until this point.  She didn’t blame her, or any of the others.  If she hadn’t been the one to be able to see Murphy, she probably wouldn’t have believed them either.

“So,” she said, after Murphy had dropped her braid, his hand resting on the back of her neck instead.  “Wells.  Truth or dare?”

They spent the rest of the game tucked into each other.  Murphy had an arm wrapped around her shoulders and she had one wrapped around his waist.  Her head was resting on his shoulder, his chin on top of her hair.

It was cold.  She couldn’t stop shivering.  But every time Murphy tried to pull away, she refused, tugging him back and closer.  She needed to be touching him.  She needed to be able to prove to herself that this was real, that he was real, that he was still there.

Monroe’s mom had gotten home from work, given them a half hour warning before they had to leave, when Murphy shifted.

“Something feels weird,” he muttered, and Clarke turned to look at him.

She opened her mouth to ask what it was when she felt it, the iciness of his touch disappearing, warming quickly to the point that she could almost feel her skin boiling where he was wrapped around her.

“Murphy?” she said, the concern in her voice distracting everyone from Glass and Monroe’s arm wrestling match.  “Murphy, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered, eyes wide as he stared at her.  She flinched and he pulled away, and she grabbed onto his burning hand before he could move some more.  “Clarke, what’s going on?  Am I dying?  Is this what dying feels like?”

“No,” she told him, her voice more confident than she felt.  “No, you’re not dying.  You’re okay.  You’re gonna be okay.”

“What is it?” Wells asked, moving closer, but Clarke couldn’t pay him or any of the others any mind.

“Murphy, you’re gonna be okay,” she said again, and he offered her a pained smile.

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand back.  “If I don’t die, any chance you want to repeat that kiss?  I’ll take you out on a real date, too.”

“You’re not dying,” she told him, shaking her head, willing the tears she could feel to not fall.  She could feel his hand growing less solid in hers, the burning getting more and more intense to the point that she could barely hold on.  “But sure.  You wake up, and I’ll go out on all the dates you want.”

“Good.”  He grinned at her, then glanced away, looking at their friends.  “Hey.  Tell Miller his fly’s down.”

And then he was gone.

Like he’d never been there at all.

Clarke stared at her hands, at the redness of her palms that his burning touch had left behind.

“Clarke?” Monroe said softly, moving closer, and Clarke jumped back when her hand touched her arm.  “What’s going on?”

“He’s gone,” she whispered, still staring at the spot where Murphy had been.  “He just…disappeared.”

She’d barely finished her sentence before she was on her feet, sprinting for the door.  The others were following, and she vaguely registered Monroe yelling to her mom that she’d be back soon.

She didn’t stop running until she reached the hospital, slamming the doors wide.

“Clarke,” Jackson started, looking up from the patient he was examining.  “You mom is—”

She rushed past him, her friends on her heels, and hurried through the hospital towards the room Murphy had been in.

She skidded to a stop outside the window, staring into the room, at the bed where his unconscious body should’ve been.

The empty bed.

“No,” she whispered, pressing her hand against the glass, tears starting to leak down her cheeks.  “No.”

“This was his room?” Wells asked, voice low, and she nodded.

They were quiet except for the occasional sniffle, grouped around the window and staring into the room that was no longer Murphy’s, and that was where Abby found them who knew how long later.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Clarke turned away from the empty bed to look at her.

“Is he…?” she started, unable to finish her question.

Understanding dawned on Abby’s face, and she smiled.  “John’s been taken for some tests,” she said.  “He woke up, about fifteen minutes ago.”

Clarke let out a relieved sob, and Wells’s arms wrapped around her.  Abby ushered them away from the window, down a hall to where Murphy’s new room would apparently be when he got back from his tests, and left them there while she went to deal with a patient.

There were only two chairs in the room, and everyone insisted Clarke take one with how jittery she was, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t sit down.  Not until she saw him again.

“You kissed him awake,” Glass said, leaning back against a wall and grinning at her.  “That’s basically a fairy tale right there.”

“That’s not what happened,” Clarke pointed out, and her friend just shrugged.

It was a while still before Murphy was wheeled into the room on a gurney, groggy looking but awake.  Clarke couldn’t stop herself from lunging as soon as the nurses had moved him into the bed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his chest.

“Why’re you so happy to see me?” he asked, voice slurring the words together.  “I mean, I’m great and all, but you’re not who I’d expect to be the most excited.”

She pulled back to smile at him.  He smiled back, but there was something off in his eyes, something that was missing from the way he’d looked at her over the past few days.

“You don’t remember,” she said, eyes roving over his face.  “Do you?”

His smile dropped, his face scrunching in confusion.  “Remember what?”

“You were a ghost,” Miller supplied.  “You’ve been haunting Clarke since you went into a coma.”

“And you just made out with her,” Glass added.  “Like an hour ago.”

Murphy glanced between them all for a few more moments and then laughed.

“That’s ridiculous,” he slurred, eyes starting to droop shut.  “Ghosts aren’t real.”

He was asleep within seconds, snoring loudly, and they stood there and stared at him.

“He doesn’t remember,” Clarke whispered, something dropping in her gut.  “Why doesn’t he remember?”

Murphy collapsed into his seat just as Mr. Pike finished attendance, sinking further down like maybe he’d just turn invisible.  He was tired, so tired, had barely slept since he’d woken up from his coma.

Clarke turned around from her seat a row over, and he ducked his head before she could catch his eye.  She was staring at him, hadn’t stopped watching him, her eyes searching for a flicker of memory, since he’d awoken.

The memories had come back after a few days, jolting him awake in the middle of the night, and now he remembered everything.  Everything they’d talked about.  The vague warmth of her body lying next to his…non-body when he couldn’t feel anything else but the cold.  The confusion and pity of their friends’ gazes that turned into reluctant acceptance and then finally belief.  The wrongness of standing next to himself in the hospital bed, the horrible way it felt when everyone looked right through him.  The softness of her lips against his, the taste of their kiss.

She’d saved him.  He didn’t know how any of it was possible, but he was pretty confident that it’d been her who’d saved him, who brought him back from the edge of death.

He’d been planning to tell her, to find her at school the next day and tell her he remembered.

He’d had it all planned out.  He was going to be cool, maybe lean against her desk.  He’d remind her of her promise, ask her if she wanted to make good on it and watch the moonrise with him tonight.

He was going to tell her he remembered.

But then the next morning, he’d found his mom lying in a puddle of moonshine and vomit, cold and dead, and suddenly he’d lost both his parents.

He’d lost everyone.

That’d been three days ago, three days he’d spent as an orphan, avoiding Clarke as much as he could and snapping at everyone else.

It would be easier for her if she could just move on, if she forgot everything that’d happened during his coma.

He wanted to tell her.  He wanted her to comfort him like she had after his dad’s floating, wanted her to tell him that everything would be okay, that none of this was his fault.

He wanted to tell her.

But he was angry and sad and mourning his parents and the life he’d had before he’d gotten sick.  He had a half-baked plan and a lighter in his pocket, one he’d traded half his belongings for on the black market, one he couldn’t stop touching, couldn’t stop turning around and around in his fingers, and he was going to do something so fucking stupid even he could hardly believe it.

He remembered.

But there was no way she was ever going to find out.

By the time he saw her again, on the ground of all places, it felt like a dream.  No one had brought it up in years, and there was a large part of him that was pretty sure he’d imagined it, that it was all just something his brain had concocted while he was in a coma.

She was with Wells, who he decided deserved some of the blame for his parents’ deaths, because it was easier than taking his mother’s words to heart and blaming himself and there was no one else here even remotely involved, so he brushed off every doubt he had about it being fake and shifted some of that blame onto her, too.

It was impossible.  Obviously it hadn’t actually happened.

He was on Earth now.  He had a second chance to live.

He wasn’t about to waste it chasing after a dream.