Work Text:
Murphy knows as soon as he sees Fox's face that something has gone wrong. She rushes towards him, pulling his shoulders down with her as she crouches in the dewy grass. She tilts her head to the tree behind them and Murphy can vaguely make out someone through the branches. A grounder. The worried expression on her face deepens as she looks farther ahead. Murphy already knows that there are more of them.
Murphy feels icy dread in the pit of his stomach and his heart twists as he sees Fox's brave façade crumble. Her eyes dart wildly around the branches, noticing more grounders by the second. Her voice is barely audible. "Murphy....we're sur-"
He grabs her shoulders firmly. "We’re not going to die here alright? That's for fucking sure." She gives him a weak smile. "I’ll distract them and you run to camp."
She tries to protest but Murphy shakes his head. "Go. Run fast and don't stop until you get to camp." He tugs his hood over his head and pushes her shoulder lightly in the direction of camp.
She runs and Murphy’s heart leaps into his throat as he watches her weave through the trees. He hopes she makes it to camp safely.
One, two, three, four, five-
That’s how long he waits. Not enough time to think a plan through. A stupid move.
He doesn’t even know what he’s doing but he has to do something. There is movement in the trees and he takes off running wildly, not caring if they see him or not. Nobody would mind if he didn’t come back.
He runs. He can see can see camp in the distance before he hears a shout in a language he can’t understand. There’s a sharp pain in his side and suddenly he’s tumbling through moss and bark. He scrambles to his feet before crumpling against the gates, fingers gripping the iron bars until his knuckles turn white. He hears himself shout; voice rough and strained. He doesn’t know what else to do. He shouts for Bellamy.
Fuck grounders.
***
They always end up here; in whatever dingy tent is free, Murphy trying to lie still and Bellamy calm and cross-legged with a small tin of medical supplies. Sometimes it was fine; a cut or some bruises, a twisted ankle or an arm that needed popped back into place. But sometimes, like tonight, it was bad. Murphy always managed to get hurt trying to make things better.
Murphy's arm lay limply in Bellamy's steady hands. He stared at the jagged cut that ripped through the younger man's pale skin, wincing at the sight of torn flesh; angry shades of salmon pink and dull magenta twisting together and falling apart in all the places they shouldn't. A bruise had blossomed around the deep wound, a mix of blue and red staining the skin like dark ink blotches. Murphy is fragile he thinks. Not weak- not by a far stretch, but he is vulnerable under the layer of cool bravado and inappropriate humour.
He rummages through the box, picking out a needle and thread. It was supposed to be Clarke and Abby doing this, all sharp commands and exceptional skills. But it’s just him. The one who cared a little bit too much about a boy that just might not be worth it.
He takes that back as Murphy stirs and looks over at him, eyes unfocused and a small smile playing on his lips. He mutters something that is maybe a thank you. Bellamy grins.
Monty green pops his head into the tent and offers Murphy some moonshine to help with the pain. His face is honest and innocent, and Murphy accepts the bottle begrudgingly, careful to hide how grateful he is. Monty shrugs and says something about coming to Jasper's tent if they need any "refreshments", hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets and a sheepish smile on his face. Murphy stifles a laugh and agrees wholeheartedly. Bellamy shrugs and Monty beams before leaving as quickly as he'd come.
"Sweet kid," Murphy muttered while gulping from the bottle. The brown haired boy winces as Bellamy sloshes alcohol on his wound, a stream of colourful curse words echoing around the tent as he glared as the ceiling. Bellamy places a hand gently on his shoulder, and this seems to soothe Murphy while he dabs around the wound.
Bellamy talks as he stitches Murphy up. He mumbles about everything and nothing as Murphy nods in agreement, drinking readily from the bottle Monty had given him. Bellamy tries to ignore the way Murphy writhes on the mattress when he pulls a little too tight, or the way he scrunches his face when the needle breaks through his bruised skin. Bellamy hates seeing him hurt. It’s a pity that he only knows him like this; the crease of his forehead when he's in pain, his jaw clenched tightly to stop angry words from spilling out, or his eyes focused on the stars so that he won’t break down. He wishes that he could see Murphy happy. He wishes that he could make Murphy happy.
Soon he's done; but his hand still rests on Murphy's shoulder, thumb absently tracing circles across Murphy's skin.
Murphy notices, but doesn't protest.
They always end up here; in whatever dingy tent is free, Murphy trying to lie still and Bellamy calm and cross-legged with a small tin of medical supplies. Murphy is happy to let the ache of pain be the reason he sees Bellamy; and Bellamy is happy to stitch him back up.