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He only does because it is Bellamy that asks. If it’d been anyone else, he would’ve said no, but after everything they’d gone through, he can’t refuse.
The winter is going to be harsh, and there are only so many of the cabins to go around. How he’s gotten one to himself – well, he knows why of course. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, somewhere deep inside. He’ll never let it show, because weakness isn’t something he can afford, not with everyone and their sidekick gunning for him. Besides, the rest of the 100 have enough ammunition to hate him for; he doesn’t need to give them any more.
She can’t stay with the others, it bothers her (them) too much but she can’t be alone either.
He laughs mirthlessly. Yeah, he knows all about that too.
So when Bellamy shows up a day or so later, a short blonde with haunted eyes in tow, he pulls open the door and steps aside to let them in. His cabin isn’t big, but Bell and Miller and a few of the others had helped him build it when they’d realized that they were going to have to stay put for a while. One small room and a tiny bathroom with a board covered hole for waste. It isn’t much, but it’s his.
“Harper, you remember John Murphy?” Bellamy asks as they step inside, his hand curled under her elbow to help her up the slight step. Her limp is pronounced, as is the missing part of her left arm, gone just above the elbow joint. He turns to shut the door to keep the warmth from the fire from leaking out and John sees her wince when it closes firmly, sealing them inside.
Her voice is soft, almost too soft to hear as she lifts her gaze to dart around the room once. “Yeah.”
Bellamy gives John a look over her head and shrugs. “Let’s get you over to the fire,” he says as they navigate the slightly bumpy floorboards to where the thick bench sits before the crackling fire. John had just finished it up last week, when the first of the flakes came down, turning the world into a blanket of white. It was plain but comfortable, the seat sanded meticulously to remove any splinters.
“She’ll be fine, Bellamy,” John says as the other man gets her situated on the bench, covering her legs with a blanket that he pulls out of the large pack he wears on his back.
Bellamy straightens and nods towards the empty corner. “Miller’s on his way with a bed for her.”
John nods and turns towards Harper who is staring into the fire, the fingers of her right hand curling into the edge of the ARK blanket that covers her. “We were in the same sector,” he says, moving into the small space that has been designated as a kitchen. “Lived right down the corridor from each other.” He reaches for a mug, one of the ones that he’d carved when he’d had too much time on his hands and nothing to do after the hellstorm to get the 47 back. “Want some tea, Harper?”
Bellamy lets himself out as John brings the tea over to Harper, setting the cup down next to her before moving over to sit on the other end of the bench. He doesn’t say anything, just sips his tea as they stare into the flames.
~*~
It’s been three months now and Harper has finally started to talk, the words slipping from her lips in tiny starts and fits, until one day she says a whole sentence. “The snow, it’s so beautiful.”
John turns his head away from the knobby piece of pine in his hands that he’s fashioning into a cane and glances out the window beyond her. He’d put it in last week, deciding to use his extra ration points on a piece of plasglass from one of the wrecked stations because he was tired of staring at four blank walls. “I read about it, but I never imagined it would be like this,” he said, going back to his carving, meticulously stripping away the heavy bark.
Her hand is curled around her ever present mug of tea, taking small sips as she stares out at the swirling white flakes, illuminated softly by the full moon overhead. The storms been blowing for almost a day now and they’ve been cooped up inside, Harper unable to walk in the drifting snow with her leg. Clarke and Bellamy had given him the quick and dirty on what was done to her by those sadists in Mount Weather, but he knows they don’t have the whole story. Whatever it was they did to her, it was viciously brutal and likely something she’ll never fully talk about. He hears her when the nightmares come, winces when her hoarse whimpers fill the cabin. He’s there for her each time, stroking her hands and forehead until she wakes and then holding her when she throws herself into his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. They don’t ever acknowledge it, but she’s taken to sleeping in his bed, sharing both warmth and companionship. His nightmares have eased since she’s come, he no longer sees the villagers that Finn killed, stalking through his dreams with accusing eyes and bloodstained hands reaching for him, begging him to stop the pain.
He smiles as he peels another long strip of bark away. Maybe they had to go through what they did to find this, a quiet peace that envelopes them, cushioned from the outside. Harper makes her way slowly across the space between them, sitting down next to him on the bench. Her head leans on his shoulder and he thinks maybe, just maybe some of it was worth it.