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“Murphy.”
Murphy keeps looking out the small window, a blanket wrapped around his cold body. The snow falling outside makes him even colder than he normally is. He tightens the blanket around himself and shivers slightly. He hears Warren’s footsteps approach, the loud clunky sound of her boots banging against the rickety wooden floor.
There’s another seat next to him and she takes it, not bothering to ask. He likes that about her. Warren’s always willing to do what she wants and needs without worrying. It reminds him of himself, but really they’re different. Murphy makes the choices for himself, while she makes them for herself and everyone else as well.
She puts down her machete, the silver glinting in the light coming from the window. It reminds him how truly powerful she is. He likes that about her too. Her ability to do what she wants, the ability to hurt those who could hurt her or any of them. She could kill him any second, in various ways.
Warren leans forward, her elbows on her knees, looking at him with curiosity. She does this a lot. She studies him, reading him like an open book, as if she’s always had the key to the padlock Murphy had expertly designed to protect all of his precious feelings.
“Out with it,” Warren says, her tone slightly stern and it takes all of Murphy’s willpower not to snap back. Warren wouldn’t be hurt if he did, that’s not why he doesn’t want to. Warren would honestly probably laugh. It’s their thing. They snap at eachother, they’re sarcastic with one another, so why does Murphy just want to hold her hands. Why does he just want to be soft with her and have her be soft with him.
“I’m just cold,” Murphy grumbles and Warren raises an eyebrow, not really believing him. It’s not really a lie, Warren knows this just as much as Murphy does, it’s cold out. It’s snowing, and Murphy’s already a cold guy as it is, Murphy tries not to equate it to the way someone must feel on the brink of death; as if all of their life is leaving them, so it’s entirely reasonable that he’d be cold.
But that’s not all.
“Liar,” Warren says, sitting back in the chair and crossing her arms. She’s still looking at him as if she’s reading a mystery novel. Murphy tries to ignore her from his spot but honestly that does the opposite of proving anything. It makes him look more suspicious. Murphy takes a breath and keeps looking out the window.
“I feel…” Murphy hesitates for a moment, “Dead.”
They sit there in silence for a moment, Warren looking at him and Murphy staring out the window, trying his best not to let himself show his true emotions even though he knows she can see them. She always can.
“You’re not dead, yet,” Warren says, putting emphasis on the word ‘yet’ with a small smirk on her face. Murphy scoffs and shifts in his seat, tightening the blanket around himself again.
“How do I know that?” Murphy asks. Warren looks at him confused for a moment, before noticing the way he shivers. She leans forward and grabs at the corner of the blanket, slightly pulling it out of the way. She grabs one of his blue, cold hands and holds it between both of her warm ones.
“You feel that?” She waits for him to nod, “That’s how you know. You can feel me, and that’s all that matters.”
Murphy looks down at her hands and smiles before closing his eyes, allowing himself to savor the feeling. Warren lets go of his hands a minute later and he opens his eyes, panicked, and notices her moving her chair closer. She rips away the blanket and wraps it around the both of them. It’s an uncomfortable position, Warren sitting in one chair with armrests and Murphy in another. Murphy leans his head against her shoulder and feels her warmth quickly filling his very soul.
Sometimes Murphy feels dead. When he’s sitting alone, the cold biting at his already old finger tips. When he’s able to walk through the crowds of dead ones without even the smallest scratch, or when he’s in danger. When he closes his eyes at night and sees nothingness…
But it’s moments like these that remind him that he’s alive. When Warren punches his shoulder. When Warren makes him roll his eyes. When he’s able to lay here and feel her warmth. When he’s able to feel safe, even with someone who could hurt him. She chooses not to.
That’s what matters.
He has picked a side.
He’s alive.