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He was in denial.
Was it true? Was he really laying in a bunch of ferns with a spear in his hand? Was there a bloody wound just under the hole in his shirt?
Surely not.
He wanted to go in a cool way, not like this.
This is stupid.
Earth sucks.
“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.” Clarke practically demands, delicately uncurling his fingers, knuckles white, from the wood of the spear. "You're gonna be okay." She said again, panic showing through her wavering brave, "love-is-weakness" façade (not to say she loved him, she definitely did not). She swiped his dirty, matted hair out of his eyes after dragging him into a clear area.
“Whatever you say Princess.” He mutters, his voice cracking pathetically. She visibly shakes off her words and his choice of nickname, memories of the murdered boyfriend rushing in on a wave of dread and guilt.
He’s scared.
She twists around and Octavia takes out the last of the grounder warriors on the battlefield with her ever-loyal, blood-caked katana. The others, those not part of the original hundred remove themselves from the area, leaving the bodies strewn about the clearing unceremoniously as they return to the new camp hurriedly, all Sky People bodies in tow.
The Woods Clan weren’t much help with Luna, those traitors.
Man, he hates Grounders.
They’re about to have to add one to that pile on the stretcher, he thinks bitterly, as he can barely force his vision to focus enough to see Raven nearly sprint over, yanking her leg along with her precariously, as the others follow warily.
“Is he..”
Clarke nods her head side to side solemnly, forces an apologetic smile, and brushes his persistent hair away again as Bellamy frowns. “So we can’t get him-“
“We won’t make it there anyway, he’s losing too much blood.”
“Still here guys. For now, at least.” He croaks, and Bellamy’s newly placed grip on his ankle loosens.
He allows his eyes to close for a moment, his breathing shaky and labored. The thick warmth of his own blood is familiar now, travelling around the dips and hills of his torso, forcing its way through the fabric of his shirt.
When he opens them again, he sees something specifically unexpected, and somewhat absurd.
Around his weak body, which is shaking like a frightened animal, might he add, are Clarke, Octavia, Bellamy, Miller, Monroe, a very shaken up Jasper and- even Raven.
He’s wronged them all one way or another, but here they are, gathered around his dying body. Even Jasper is flat out crying. However, Murphy assumes that’s more out of fear left over from the battle than pre-mourning this quivering idiot’s death. Who brought that kid along, anyway?
“You shouldn’t have taken the spear out, Murphy.” Clarke smiles sadly once again, her thumb moving back and forth in a soothing motion over his shoulder.
“I’ll keep that in mind next time.” Murphy would like to pull one of his famous smirks right about now, but he can’t find it in him. Everything, contrast wise, is boosted one way or another in his vision. The shadows are darker, the highlights blindingly white. He’s having trouble focusing, forcing his tongue to make words. He’s struggling to feel, his nerves numb, but there’s something he can definitely feel.
Who knew, two years after these people allowed him to almost die the first time to the hands of those who shall not be named,- as Murphy would just hate to speak ill of the dead, honest- his flesh burning against the embrace of an angry noose, he’d be here, about to float, his bloodied hands clasped inside of seven delinquents’ that he’s most likely threatened to kill before.
Two whole years of not murdering any of ‘his people’. (Whatever.)
If no one else will pat him on the back, he’d do it himself.
He tastes copper in his mouth, and Clarke runs her fist along the corner of his lips to catch it. He's just a cold, white body with a barely beating heart at this point, so he wonders why she's so insistent on trying to keep him cleaned up.
He tries to make one last snarky comment, one thing that will ensure he can continue pissing everyone off from his grave, but whatever he planned on saying came out as a strangled gasp for air, ended off with the ultimate noise of dignity, a squeak.
Don’t die like a loser, John Murphy.
Someone shushes him, and continues the ‘hush’ noises for no apparent reason. It sounds like Bellamy.
“Pu-put me in the grave with both middle fingers uh-up.” He stuttered, proud to make a sentence.
Monroe nods firmly, false smile faltering. He's always liked and respected her. She's tough, and she's smart. She knows when to fight and when to flee.
He thought about what he felt for these people surrounding him. Why were they here?
Miller, he's cool. Murphy's always liked that hat of his. He's strong, quick and sharp. Loyal, but that's not much of trait Murphy has any desire to respect or disrespect.
Jasper, the kid's a waterpark. Murphy likes him, though. He could probably be a fun guy, with all the herbs and moonshine in him. He does feel some sympathy for him now, as a spear isn't his favorite thing to look at anymore either.
Octavia. Well, she's something else. His opinion of her always changes, but she's definitely something else either way. She's passionate, wild, adventurous. She's everything most of these people aren't, and it's refreshing. He'll never admit it, but he really wanted to go to that stupid butterfly field. Radioactive bioluminescent bugs? That's something he'd like to see.
He tries to ignore the sudden list of things he had wanted to do and see before he died appearing in his mind, pushing it away.
Clarke. She's something. He hated her for the accusation, oh he did. But they'd all made mistakes, they'd all wronged each other. She's a hell of a leader, and hell of a warrior. He had, believe it or not, a great amount of respect for Griffin. She's caring, gentle. Even when she hated him, her touch was gentle. That was something Murphy couldn't bare to admit to himself he appreciated. It was more of a challenge for her to forgive him for his wrong-doings than the others, but that made it feel all the more genuine. It wasn't easy, winning her over (for the most part). Once it appeared he was somewhat forgiven, he had no fear that she would betray him. And she never did. He was grateful for that. He was grateful for her tender touch that he didn't deserve. Grateful for her quiet whispers after a panic attack that one time. Grateful for her motherly instinct, something he had missed dearly since the Ark.
Oh, what a pansy.
Bellamy was important to Murphy. He's glad he didn't succeed in killing him, he is so glad. It was a rocky start indeed, and a rough road, definitely, but Murphy proved himself worthy quickly with the rescue stunt at the cliff. He gained respect by cutting the act he held in the beginning, by helping out but not following his heels like a golden retriever, bowing and rushing off to do his bidding. He and Bellamy made good hunting partners, a good team on the battlefield, they just worked together well. Bellamy was smart, Murphy was fast. Bellamy was precise, Murphy was daring. Back to back warriors, they got it done. The friendship, if existing, was wobbly and distant, but it was enough. The fights and disagreements constant, but they overcame. Murphy knew that Bellamy didn't see what they had as anything important, but it meant a great deal to Murphy. He didn't have friends, but he had something like one in Bellamy, perhaps. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
Now, Raven. That was a different story all its own. They were on a tightrope of mutual hatred, but deep down, he could've liked her. Loved her, maybe. She was the kind of person he could've been close to. She was angry, bold, feisty. She was beautiful and destroyed everything in her path with fire, explosions, and an unfiltered mouth. Her heart was cold metal for some, a warm organ full of metaphorical love for others. He admired her ability to do that. They hadn't gotten far since the second time she had the barrel of a gun pressing an indention into his tightening chest, tears spiking at their eyes both for different reasons. Neither would apologize, and never will, it seems, but that's because neither of them are truly sorry for what they said, and what they did. He almost wishes the circumstances had been different, maybe they'll meet again in another life, where things are in their favor. Where that idiotic distraction called love that he knows so little about could exist. And as she sits next to his legs, those eternally angry brown eyes since broken and shimmering, he struggles to lift his wrist and tap a knuckle on the metal of her brace. Something like a choked laugh escapes her throat, and she traps his hand between her own and her leg. She knew things about him that no one else knew, and that was the only existing reason their kindness towards each other at this moment was possible. This small action was a promise, she was promising that his secrets would stay with her even when he was gone. They spoke with no words, and for that, he could finally forgive her.
He blinks once, turning his head to look up at the blue sky, unusually bright and clear. That's one thing about Earth that doesn't suck.
He grunts, and accidentally moans. The pain is familiar, but still unbearable. He's trying. Trying to hang in there, soak up as much of this as he can before the clock strikes and his stained soul does all that magical emerging crap and goes wherever the hell it's supposed to, how would he know?
Suddenly, Clarke breathes in, as if to speak. He internally sighs. Here we go.
Looks like they’re giving him the gracious gift of taking their belated apologies to his immediate funeral, when all he really wants is some whiskey.
“I’m sorry.” Clarke says simply, and Bellamy nods, inserting himself into her apology. It’s like signing a birthday card, as everyone nods.
“Me too.” He breathes, not truthfully remorseful for half of things he’s done, but he supposes he can take that lie to his deathbed as well.
Suddenly, Raven bursts into tears, and he just barely feels the warm, salty droplets meet the skin above his brow as she scrambles to kneel beside his head. Everyone collectively clutches his hand again between their own sweaty, bloodied ones.
“You’re not gonna die alone.” She whispers almost angrily, squeezing his hand harder.
“Ow.”
“You have a hole in your stomach, shut up.” Miller comments quickly.
He barely smiles, and she hisses it again through clenched teeth. “You’re not gonna die alone.”
He wishes she would stop saying that.
He can obviously see that.
When did he tell her about that in the first place?
Oh right, the seventh time he almost died.
He guesses it’s true, an asshole does have only thirty-three lives.
Earth sucks.
He laughs bitterly to himself, in his mind, as his body isn’t physically able.
“P-parting. Such sweet-“ He gasps. “Sor-sorrow.”
Bellamy mutters, “Idiot.”
Things are looking grim. (But weren't they already?)
His eyes start to flutter open and shut, and he knows this is it, as lines of wetness that he has no control over stream out of the corners of his eyes.
He’s not gonna die alone.
It wasn't much, but it was enough. It was all he had ever wanted, really- to be surrounded by people, some of which who might even try to fight the grim reaper, for him. That was all he had ever wanted.
Except that whiskey.
“You gu-guys.. don’t ha-have too much fun.. without me.” He panted, breathing become a strenuous task indeed, and that's when he knew his scathed and sewn and split and sewn again heart had broken for the last time .
His eyesight doesn’t stay long enough for him to look at their faces, but he hears Raven cry out, feels her fingertips track across his face to try and lift his eyelid, as if that would help. Hears Octavia murmur “Yu gonplei ste odon.” , because she thinks she’s a freaking Grounder. Feels the slimy grips on his hand tighten, and hears Bellamy curse. Feels Clarke brush his hair away one last time, to clutch the end of one of his dreads and hack it off with a blade. He sees only white fire dancing behind his eyelids, and it's kind of beautiful.
That was wild.
Oh, hey Dad.