Work Text:
Murphy missed his parents. He missed his dad telling him he would be okay when he was sick, and he missed his mom sitting next to him and petting his hair away from his eyes when he was too tired to do it himself. He missed his house on the Ark, even though it was one of the smaller cubicles that never seemed to stay warm enough.
He missed not being covered in blood, metaphorically and literally. He had killed two innocent (as innocent as criminals can be) people...he was covered in the blood of both animals and grounders and his own people alike. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach. No one ever let him explain why he did...he wasn’t even sure it would matter if he did.
No one listened to him when he spoke, but everyone expected him to work twice as hard because of what he had done. He agreed with them, and resented them at the same time. He didn’t think he deserved any better anyway...after all, he was just a stupid kid with a lot of blood on his hands and a head filled with voices that wouldn’t shut up.
Because he didn’t think he was worth the grounder dirt he stood on he didn’t say anything when he was hurting or tired or dizzy or any of that. He thought that if he showed that he was weak, that he wasn’t an asset any more, they would throw him out again. He couldn’t do that...not again. He had never felt so alone, and over crowded at the same time. Just thinking about it left him shaking and wishing he was back on the Ark. Even floating would have been better. He sat heavily against a tree by the section of wall he was repairing as his head began to reel and his heart rate sped up to match his rapid breathing. Soon he was seeing spots, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks.
He was silent.
Murphy had taught himself to panic without alerting anyone of his needs or wants. He had learned to school his breathing back into it’s normal timing just by will power and waiting. He waited alone. He waited in silence. He tried to push the memories of pain out of his mind so that he would stop feeling it. He could still feel the infinite pain in his hands, across his back, on his face...he could feel the rolling and stinging in his stomach from when he had vomited blood for 24 hours straight. People hadn’t been eager to help him then, either.
By night fall he was back to normal, quickly finishing the wall and running back to the main camp after checking his face in a pool of water to make sure his earlier tears didn’t show. He had pinched himself so hard that there were bright purple and blue bruises up his arms...it didn’t matter, no one would care to ask how it happened.
He skipped dinner that night, going straight to bed.
----------------------
“Has anyone seen Murphy?” Bellamy asked the next morning. He hadn’t seen the little twat around the camp since last night before dinner...if he had run away this time no one would go looking for him. Let the grounders have him, he could go to hell.
Bellamy hated the fact that he hated Murphy as much as he did, but at the same time he felt sure that he deserved it. He didn’t deserve forgiveness or a second chance, and Clarke had already given him one of those things so the best Bellamy could do was hold the other away from him. He had killed a little girl who wasn’t more than 15. Not directly, but it was his fault. He had given away their location...brought plage in to the camp, and then killed two men who had been Bellamy’s friends. The bitch didn’t deserve a second chance, but he had got it. He wouldn’t get forgiveness.
“No, he’s probably still asleep,” Monroe said bitterly. She didn’t like Murphy either. She thought he was a slacker, and an annoying brat. A poor excuse for a man. What annoyed her most about him may or may not have been the fact that he was a better murderer than she was and then he had refused to sleep with her. He thought her was better than her. He knew he did. Why else would he show off by killing their own people right under their noses? Why else would he say no?
Bellamy swore under his breath, stomping off to Murphy’s tent, ripping the flap open and stepping in. Murphy was laying in his sleeping bag, the cloth pulled over his head. Bellamy swore again, pulling back the cloth and shaking Murphy roughly.
“Wake up!” he shouted, shaking Murphy harder when he didn’t respond. “Wake up, or you're out of camp, John Murphy. You gotta pull your weight!” Bellamy said as Murphy shot up, striking out and hitting Bellamy hard in the stomach. Bellamy was bent double for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut.
Murphy was panicked, shaking hard as he blinked further awake, noting with fear that he had hit Bellamy. He wouldn’t be happy about that...he had slept in, the sun was high. He would be in trouble...they wouldn’t want him any more. What if they sent him back out? What if he was captured again? He was feeling muggy, though he was freezing. He could feel his stomach turning in anticipation.
“Get up, follow me,” Bellamy said stiffly, getting to his feet and grabbing Murphy’s arm, hauling him to his feet as well. “We’ve got work to do. Next time you sleep in and skip work you’re out,” he said coldly, stepping out of the tent and starting to walk back to the drop ship where his work was; There were plans for winter to be made. Turning around one more time to check on Murphy and make sure the twit was getting to work. He turned just in time to see Murphy falling to the ground.
Bellamy ran towards him, picking him up. What was wrong with him? Why was he down? He picked Murphy up bridal style, looking down at him coldly. Much as he would like to banish him again and state his fall as the reason he needed Murphy in the camp, despite what he said. He was a good worker. He would take him to Clarke and then let him be for a while…
Bellamy needed to give himself an argument on why he hated Murphy. Sometimes he found himself wavering, and that’s what he was extra tough on him. He would yell at him, or push him around. He would remind himself of all the reasons he hated John Murphy; He was around 18...he knew the difference between right and wrong, but he had still done what he had done. He had run away from that fact. He was rude. He was an adult, and acted like a kid. He was weak. He gave away their location...under torture, Bellamy amended. He found himself wanting to forgive him almost daily, and the main thing that kept him steady in his will to keep him at a distance and treat him badly was the fact that he was an adult and had killed someone just because. A child’s temper...A child’s needs. He wished Murphy would just grow up.
============================
Walking towards the drop ship he was surprised when Clarke came running towards him, smiling. Her hair was pretty…
“I found a bunch of files on everyone here,” she explained, holding out a giant stack of paper. “It has medical records and stuff. It’ll help us take care of the camp,” she said excitedly, already flipping through the top file. She then looked up, doing a double take. “Murphy? What happened?” she asked, suddenly professional.
“He just collapsed,” Bellamy told her, nodding at the drop ship. “I’m going to bring him up stairs, bring those up?” he asked, nodding at the files then and waiting for her answering nod. When he had it he started inside, awkwardly maneuvering Murphy up the ladder and into the medical room. He put Murphy in the makeshift cot, thinking for a moment before covering him in a blanket and sitting down beside the bed to wait for Clarke, who popped her head above the trap door within seconds.
“Can I see those files?” He asked when Clarke had gotten fully into the room, toting the heavy files with her. He wondered where she had found them...probably in one of the compartments in the dropship that they were still finding and opening. She nodded, passing him the files and going to stand over Murphy and beginning her standard medical exam.
“Can you find Murphy’s file and read it outloud for me?” Clarke asked, checking the aforementioned man’s temp and finding it to be very high. He was pale, a thin sheen of sweat over his face. He was so tiny, she noticed, his bones easily visible through his shirt as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. Maybe there would be information on health issues in the past, or why he was here (no one knew yet...he wouldn’t talk about it). Clarke would admit it; She was nosey.
Bellamy readily agreed. He was curious enough himself, and he knew Octavia and a few other people were ready to torture him into answering their questions about his life. He was so secretive...so silent.
On the first page was his picture, he looked so young. So clean. So not covered in blood.
“Name: John Murphy
Birthdate: February 3, 2132
Current Age: 13”
Bellamy stopped reading, looking up at Clarke in utter shock. They didn’t say anything as they both looked at the body in the bed. He was shivering, his cheeks taking an unnatural flush to them. 13…
“Clarke, what’s the date?” he asked, frantic, though his voice was low and calm. He could feel a dam breaking inside him. He hoped that somehow this was all wrong. Some how this was a mistake. Murphy was an adult...he had killed someone. He wasn’t a kid. If he were a kid, they’d know. He would know!
“He’s 14 as of last week,” Clarke said blankly, looking down at Murphy in the bed, running her hand through his matted hair. Pieces of a puzzle were falling into place in her head; His childish behavior, his size (though, he was very tall), his temper, the way he dealt with injustice and hate. “Read the rest, Bellamy,” she instructed. There wasn’t much she could do for Murphy until he woke up and could tell her how he felt, she might as well not waste that time.
Bellamy did as she asked, looking down at the next paragraph of information. He read it aloud, his voice clear and strong.
“Family
Father: Alex Murphy-Dead-Cause of Death; Floating-Reason; Stealing regulated substance*
Mother: Jane Murphy-Dead-Cause of Death; Strangulation**
* Stealing rationed medicine for A (John Murphy) who, at this time, was dangerously ill. He had already been given the maximum rations for persons in his age group e.g 9-11
**Choking on vomit. Avid alcoholic. Found by Person A (John Murphy)”
Bellamy shivered. Murphy’s fucked up mind was almost coming into focus now. He could almost understand, and he already felt himself forgiving the kid lying in the bed beside him, his breathing soft and shallow. He only wished he would have known sooner. He could feel sorry for a child. It would have been easy to forgive a child, even for murder. Not forget, but forgive.
“Reason for arrest: Orphaned and refusing temporary custody*
*Foster family
Disobeying curfew/staying out past curfew
Stealing food, medicine, clothes, etc...
Resisting arrest.”
Bellamy stopped...that was crazy. That was the Arc. He was a criminal by virtue of being homeless. He was a criminal for being alone. The Arc was a cruel place. More Cruel than the ground, he saw. Here, at least, they were all equal, really. Swallowing hard he continued, not daring to look at Clarke. She would be feeling this. She would be blaming herself.
“Information: Person A (John Murphy) is sickly, hardly an asset to the Arc. He was clever, but refuses to use his brain. He acts older than his age. Person A (John Murphy) has had several major illnesses such as; Influenza-Swine Flu, Influenza-Stomach Flu, Bronchitis, Strep-Throat.”
That’s where Bellamy stopped as the file came to an abrupt end. The new information was messing with his head. The main reason he had been unable to forgive Murphy in particular for his past was because he was so secretive, and an adult who seemed to have no sense of right or wrong whatsoever. If he was a child...a confused child it was different. He could help a child. He could forgive a child. He could love and protect a child. He hoped he could undo some of the damage he must have caused to Murphy.
While a child who did the exact same horrible things as an adult had done was still doing wrong it would be easier to get passed. A child was still learning right and wrong. A child was still learning how to move forward, and how to disobey when they needed to. An adult should have learned all that already, even (especially) on the Ark.
Clarke was sitting next to Bellamy now, her arm wrapped around his shoulders. She had laid her head on his arm, not looking at the files. She had done as many bad things to Murphy as anyone, even if her biggest sin against him was ignoring him when he tried to talk to her. He had always asked her questions, asked her to talk to him, asked her the whys’ and wheres’ and she had always turned away. He was just a sad, sick, crazy kid with a natural curiosity.
“We did this to him, a little, didn’t we?” she asked, her eyes still cast down. She was tracing lines up and down Bellamy’s arm, sending shivers up his spine.
“Yeah, we did,” he admitted, feeling a coldness trickle into his voice. “We did this, and now we gotta make it right,” he said, his voice becoming the strong, cold, leader voice everyone knew so well. He was already taking charge of the situation that had left them both shell shocked. He would make it right, even if he couldn’t take all the pain away, he could at least take some of it upon himself.
Murphy was a brat, but now, he could almost understand it.
-----------------------------------
“He’s waking up!” Clarke said quickly, getting to her feet and stumbling over to beside the bed. She had left a cool cloth on his forehead and as he rolled over it fell sweetly to the ground. His eyes were wide open, and he looked like he expected to be reprimanded as Clarke reached forward and picked up the rag, resting it back on Murphy’s forehead. “How are you feeling?” she asked, crouching down so she could look him in the eye. She felt Bellamy’s presence behind her before she felt his hand rest firmly-encouragingly-on her back.
Murphy didn’t reply for a moment, looking between them carefully before sitting up and pushing the blankets off himself, swinging his legs off the bed.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, handing the rag back to Clarke and getting to his feet, shakily beginning to walk towards the trap door. “I’m fine,” he whispered, almost to himself. Bellamy moved to block his path before he could get halfway to the door, grabbing his hands when Murphy tried to push him out of the way.
“No, you aren’t,” Bellamy said, still holding both Murphy’s small wrists in one hand. He noted that he was still shaking, his whole body vibrating, his breath coming fast. He looked exhausted just from standing for so long, so Bellamy guided him back to the bed, sitting him down and dropping his wrists, crouching down to look him in the eye. “You’re not okay, and you know that, and I know that, and Clarke definitely knows that, so shut up or tell the truth,” Bellamy said steadily, careful to keep anger out of his voice.
“I gotta go,” Murphy said, trying to push himself up again only to be greeted by Bellamy’s hands against his chest, pushing him back down. He looked like he was about to cry, “I gotta go. I have work to do, you said you wouldn’t let me stay if I didn’t work. You don’t want me to stay, is that it?” he asked, his voice raising in pitch a little. He was shaking harder now, and Bellamy felt his skin crawl. He had said that...he had said that and enforced it so many times that even when he was too sick to walk Murphy was convinced he would be booted if he didn’t get up and start doing some heavy lifting.
“No, you’re going to stay here. You just need to tell Clarke how you’re feeling,” he said steadily, his hands still against Murphy’s chest. He could feel the shaky rise and fall caused by the other’s breaths, and he noted that it wasn’t as regular as it should be. He was no healer, but he knew that that wasn’t good.
“I feel fine,” Murphy persisted, relieved to hear he could stay, but not backing down. His argument didn’t last long though as he pushed off the bed and passed Bellamy towards the door, his hand held over his mouth. His face had gone very pale, Clarke noted, cataloging his symptoms. She held Bellamy back as he made to chase after the younger.
“let him go, we’ll follow,” she said, fairly sure of what would greet them once they got down to ground level. With that she led the way down, through the trap door and out to the front of the ship. She looked at Bellamy and nodded towards where Murphy was hunched over, his guts on the ground in front of him. “See, he’s fine,” she said sarcastically, a smile playing on her lips. He was silly if he thought he could pass as ‘fine’
When they got to him he was shaking badly, a small crowd gathered around him. He looked ready to collapse when Bellamy picked him easily up and held him tightly so he couldn’t squirm away. He didn’t stop fighting though, pushing hard against Bellamy and trying to find a way out of the older man’s death grip around his shoulders. His fight was weak though; He never even stood a chance.
“What are you looking at?” Bellamy shouted, looking around him at the gathered delinquents, all looking on in utter shock and confusion. He supposed they looked stupid, fighting like they were. It was out of character, for both of them. Also, the vomit...last time Murphy had vomited in front of a bunch of people the whole camp had started crying blood. “We’ve got the situation under control, get back to work, all of you!” he commanded, turning on his heel and following an amused Clarke back up to the second floor of the drop ship, where he unceremoniously dropped an exhausted and confused Murphy on the bed.
“Say ‘ah’,” Clarke said, into doctor mode immediately after having a laugh over the amusing circumstances. Murphy may, in fact, be a child, but he is still too big to be carried. When Murphy complied she grimaced, looking into his mouth. His breath was hot and sour smelling, his inner lip bleeding where it appeared he had bitten it clean through during his tussle with Bellamy.
Bellamy stood beside her, looking nervous. He could see some blood dripping from right under Murphy’s lip, and he noted that he was breathing hard. He probably shouldn’t have stood there and let him fight with him for so long before just ending it and bringing him up to the hospital.
Clarke stood back, tilting Murphy’s head back to look at the cut. It was actually pretty brutal considering it came from his own teeth and she made note to never get into a situation where he might end up biting her. Grabbing the rag that had been on his forehead she pressed it to his lip, telling him to hold it there when she went and grabbed one of the empty supply containers that littered the upstairs and set it beside him on the bed.
“Why are you doing this?” Murphy asked, looking at them with a mixture of fear and confusion in his big (child-like, Bellamy admitted) eyes. He was shivering, his jaw locked to keep it from chattering. He had a bloody rag pressed to his sweaty, bleeding face, and his eyes were glazed over with a fever light. “Why aren’t you angry?”
Bellamy snorted, looking Murphy directly in the eyes for the first time in a while.
“Oh, I am fucking pissed,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us you were a kid?!” he sounded exasperated, blowing air thickly through his nose and grabbing the towel from Murphy’s hands, forcefully tilting his head up and towards the light so he could exam the damage. His cut was dripping thick, red blood onto the younger boy’s pants, covering his chin in the red so that he eerily resembled a reaper.
Murphy coughed, pulling away slightly. He looked more than a little scared now, and Clarke quickly reached forward, resting her hand on his knee to tell him it was okay, that Bellamy wouldn’t take his anger out on him...not this time. It’s one thing to fight with an adult, and quite another to fight with a child.
“I...I didn’t mean to lie,” he mumbled, letting Bellamy dab at his wounds again. “I just didn’t tell anyone...and then people just assumed. No one ever asked how old I was,” he mumbled, more tears rising to his eyes. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain in his stomach, or the scabs that still stung, but he felt weak. He felt like crying...he felt like he needed to talk to someone, and he hoped that they would be able to think of him as mature after it. He knew they were just being nice to him because he was a kid to them now...because they felt bad. He couldn’t find the part of him that would have been happy with their discomfort.
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” Clarke asked softly, looking at his downcast gaze and seeing the tears welling up in his big, green eyes. In all his time with them...all the times they had hurt him, badly, she had never seen him cry. “Why are you crying? Did you not want us to know?” she asked, her voice a little louder now.
“I didn’t tell anyone ‘cause no one asked,” Murphy said shakily, pushing Bellamy’s hand away and trying to get up again, dripping blood onto the floor. “I want to go work, please, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding almost angry as he tried to push passed Clarke and Bellamy, though now they both stood steadily in front of him, blocking his way. “You’re only keeping me up here because you feel bad. You feel bad that you hung a kid, and that my parents are dead, and that you turned me out!” he shouted angry, trying to get passed them. “I don’t want any pity, not from you, not from anyone! I deserved it,” he said bitterly, collapsing to the ground, really crying now.
Clarke sat down next to him on one side while Bellamy sat crouched in front of him. Maybe he was right, but both of them knew that that’s not what they wanted now. They just wanted to make him feel better...to make him feel at home, feel safe. Yeah, maybe because he was a kid they felt bad, but that didn’t change that they wanted to help him.
“No, Murphy, you gotta calm down,” Clarke said quietly, wrapping her arm around his thin shoulders, surprised when he didn’t shrug her away. “You’re gonna be okay, we’re here for you,” she whispered, petting his hair, and letting him rest his head on her shoulder where he cried, and cried. His sobs wracked his whole body, his nails digging painfully into her skin as he clung to her. She wondered when the last time someone had been there for him was...looking over his head at Bellamy she knew he was wondering the same thing.
“Okay, we’re gonna get you to bed now, okay?” she said softly, nodding at Bellamy prompting him to pick Murphy’s lax, tired body up and place him carefully back on the hospital bed, covering him in all the blankets and then dragging the bucket close by. His face was covered in blood, as was Clarke’s clothes by this time. Murphy complied as Clarke mopped his face clean, running her hand down his cheek as he fell into sweet oblivion...an oblivion where everything was okay. Where things made sense, and people loved him.
“He’s going to be okay,” Clarke said to Bellamy as they sat down beside his bed to wait out the night with him. “I know he will. We can fix him,” she added, surely. She smiled as she saw Bellamy softly smile, his curls falling into his eyes. She knew what he was thinking, “It’s not your fault, Bell,” Clark said, kissing him gently on the cheek before leaning against him and swiftly falling asleep.
Bellamy wasn’t so sure. He should have known. He should have figured it out.
==========================
Bellamy woke to the sounds of vomiting. It wasn’t a sound anyone wants to wake up to, but to Bellamy it was almost a relief. It meant he had a reason not to try to go back to the fitful sleep that had been messing with his head ever since he had fallen into it. Getting to his feet and walking quickly to Murphy’s side he fumbled in the dark to find the matches to light a candle stolen from a bunker not so far away.
The flickering flame illuminated Murphy’s pale, sweaty face in stark contrast with the darkness around him. His hair was stuck to his face, and he was looking up at Bellamy in sad surprise. He hadn’t been left alone, as he had feared. He hated being alone, and he didn’t want to be alone now. This is what the grounder had made him do...they had left him alone to be sick in the warm darkness, soaked in his own blood and piss and vomit. He just hoped that wasn’t where he was again as the very thought left him quaking. Bellamy’s face was comforting, his presence reassuring.
“Get it all up,” Bellamy said conversationally, setting the candle down on the table beside the bed and sitting next to Murphy, making sure the bucket was close enough and running a cool hand through the younger’s hair. He could do this... he didn’t have to wake Clarke. Not now. He had done this with Octavia when she was a kid, since of course, she was never brought to a doctor. He was in charge of her well-being, just like he was Murphy’s.
As if in response Murphy ducked his head down, vomiting into the plastic tub, his shoulder shaking and his back arched. Bellamy stayed right next time him, keeping his hair out of his face, and putting his cool hands on the back of the younger’s neck or his forehead, always telling him he was doing a good job and that he was okay.
“I’m being tortured again,” Murphy said, his voice strangled. “They’re punishing me for surviving the last illness.” He sounded crazy, but to his fevered mind, it was the obvious explanation. Maybe he was really back at the grounder camp now...maybe he was imagining the kindness of invisible people. No one was really there...no one would take care of him. “You’re not real. I’m going to die...I’m going to die, alone,” he whispered, holding his head in his hands, his voice shaking nearly as much as his body was.
Bellamy shuddered. The kid sounded so sad, so desperate, so scared. He really thought he was back at the grounder camp, Bellamy thought, wrapping his strong arms around Murphy and tucking him onto his lap. He wouldn’t let him think he was dying, he wouldn’t let him think he was alone. Not this time.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, rocking gently back and forth on the bed, hoping the bucket didn’t spill and hoping that Clarke would remain asleep. She needed it. Murphy needed it too. “You aren’t alone, I promise. You’re at home now,” he continued, letting the younger cry into his chest, his words unintelligible as he screamed, voice muffled in fabric.
They stayed that way till morning, when Clarke found them.
“He’s okay now,” she said, smiling. “He pulled through, it’s just a matter of getting stronger.” Her voice was filled with relief as she pressed her hand to Murphy’s exposed chest, noting his drop in temperature; His fever was breaking. He was sweaty, and sleeping, but okay.
Bellamy smiled, looking down at the boy in his arms.
“He’s a fighter, Clarke. We always knew that, even if we didn’t know the full story. He’ll survive.” Bellamy pet the younger boy’s hair away from his closed eyes, noting all the little scars and nicks on his face, barely visible even in daylight.
“Based on what you said happened last night I’d say he has PTSD,” Clarke continued, sitting down next to Bellamy, by Murphy’s feet. She noticed he still had shoes on and she began to unlace them as she spoke. “We have to be more careful with him, make him trust us. He could be dangerous to himself,’ she explained. “He probably has all kinds of issues…”
“We all do,” Bellamy interrupted her, looking at her shaking hands on Murphy’s boots. “The Ark does that to people. The ground does that to people. None of us are pure, and he’s just another one of us.”
“I know.”