Work Text:
Murphy is an A+ drinker. And by that, when he tells his friends each weekend, slurring over the pint glass in his hand, he means he can drink, and drink, and drink, and he will be 100% smashed by the end of the evening. Or half way through the evening. Or maybe when he walks through the door if he pre-gamed.
But he’s also one of those interesting drunks who lose the ability to care after he’s downed a couple of shots. He’s proclaimed himself to be the king of drinking more times than his friends can count, he has scary-good aim in darts after three whiskeys, and you haven’t lived until you’ve seen him dance with a pool cue – it really does make the evening more worthwhile.
It’s one of those nights, and he’s just finished destroying Raven at darts (much to her annoyance), when he wanders towards the bar. He’s not drunk enough to be stumbling, but just enough that everything is hazy and when he looks around, the world drags and shakes with his vision.
Murphy leans against the bar, rapping his knuckles on the wooden surface, and looking over to the bartender.
“Double vodka,” he decides after a beat, and the man nods.
“On the tab?”
“On the tab,” Murphy agrees. The tab is split evenly between all of his friends, and has been open since the Dropship did; two years before, right down the road from where they all live. They tend to pay it off every now and again, trying not to get it racking up over 500 at any one time, but – they’ve done worse.
He’s handed his shots, and Murphy downs the both, only pausing briefly to wince. Then, he looks back to his friends.
Bellamy and Clarke are making out in the booth – which, that’s what he used to do, too. With, Clarke, he means. Him and Clarke always had this weird pull to each other when their inhibitions were lowered and they became bearable to each other; drunken making out was just their thing until she finally admitted her feelings for Bellamy. Now it’s their thing, sober or not, and Murphy just resorts to the old thumb trick where he covers it and pretends it’s missing, in front of a drunken Jasper who screams every time.
This time, though, he doesn’t pull the thumb trick.
Because at the other end of the bar, a girl sits, all golden skin and braided hair. She has a few tattoos peeking out of her clothing, and Murphy stares for probably a little too long before shaking his head. She’s talking to two men – or, or arguing, with them, maybe. It doesn’t seem very friendly, even in his state.
They’re bigger than him, and could probably tear him apart without breaking a sweat, but he goes over anyway, the vodka kicking into his system. The woman slaps one of their hands away, with her own – Murphy’s not sure what he saw instead of her hand, but he doesn’t care, just keeps going – and now she’s fighting back more viscously.
There’s a punch to one of their faces, and he growls, grabbing at her. She ducks out of his grip, slipping away and trying to make it further back from the man. The bartender hasn’t even noticed. Before the second man can step forward – which, he was about to, Murphy could tell – Murphy slips in between the fight.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Murphy slurs, and the woman automatically shuffles behind him. “What’s going on here?”
“None of your business,” one man replies. He has a beard. Murphy calls him Bernard in his head.
“Well it’s totally my business,” Murphy reasons, gesturing wildly with his hands. “Because I want to fight you.” The other man – tattoos and shaved head, Jerimiah, Murphy decides – laughs.
“No you don’t, kid-“
“Kid?!” Murphy gasps incredulously, almost stumbling backwards and the sheer weight of the words. “Kid?! I’ll have you know I am twenty three years old I am no more a kid than an adult goat is!”
“You’re not good at this,” the woman whispers from behind him. Her voice sounds like honey and Murphy is almost drunk enough to turn around and forget he’s supposed to be fighting people. He isn’t that drunk though, and the men glance at each other before advancing.
“I didn’t think this through,” Murphy mutters as the first one winds up a punch. Murphy dodges – he’s small and skinny and basically was only good at rugby in school because he was the smallest kid on the team and could weasel through people’s legs with the ball. He was likely to get crushed in the scrum, but if he was nowhere near it, he was the one they passed the ball to so he could run it to the posts.
He dodges the next punch, too, ducking under their arm as the woman slips away. He’s not sobering up fast enough and trips on the leg of a chair, almost sprawling before he manages to right himself.
He doesn’t even know what the fight’s about.
“Murphy,” barks the bartender. “No fighting. Take it outside.” Murphy spins, momentarily distracted, and Jerimiah takes the opportunity and punches him in the face.
“I would if I could,” he grumbles, hand flying to where his face is thumping.
Luckily, his friends aren’t completely oblivious, and notice the fight going on – or, more importantly, the women punching Bernard in the face and then hissing at the pain in her hand.
“Shit, that looks like it hurts way less on TV,” she complains, shaking her hand to get rid of the pain.
“That’s because they don’t even hit each other,” Murphy replies, ducking under Jerimiah’s arm, and then slipping through his legs, kicking out his ankle as he goes. “It’s all fake.” As Jerimiah looks up, Murphy slams his foot into the guy’s face, knocking him back down with his boot.
“Well I know that,” the woman huffs, squeaking a little as Bernard winds up for a punch. Everyone in the bar has stopped to watch, and she looks around wildly, grasping a close-by glass bottle and smashing it over Bernard’s head.
He stumbles backwards, and Murphy sticks his foot out, tripping him up.
“They should be clearer about the pain,” the woman continues, “on TV. Make it more realistic – explain that it’s going to hurt like a bitch.” Murphy shrugs.
“For future reference,” he says. “Punching someone in the face is going to hurt like a bitch.” The woman outright beams at him, and it feels like a victory in his chest. His head is still spinning, but he can’t tell if that’s because of the alcohol, the punch, or her smile.
“Murphy!” the bartender barks. “Emori! Out. Now.” Murphy glances at the woman – Emori – before shrugging. She does the same, and they pick their way over the two men – Jerimiah groaning and trying to get up, and Bernard bleeding a little.
“Murphy?” Raven calls after him. “What the hell was that?” Murphy just looks back and shrugs, placing his hands in the air in the universal not a fucking clue gesture.
He and Emori head out into the dark, the cold air stinging on their bruised skin. He glances over to her, finding a smile already gracing her lips as she looks back.
“Emori Arrosa,” she says, a new greeting.
“John Murphy,” he replies.
“Well, John,” she says, reaching up her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for the help back there.”
“I’m sure you could have handled it by yourself,” he shrugs, staring at their feet as they walk.
“Maybe,” she responds. “But I’m glad I didn’t have to… Don’t you even want to know what the fight was about?” Murphy glances up, and then looks at the sky, distant stars glinting in the darkness.
“Turns out it really was none of my business,” he says. “But it was fun fighting with you.” He turns to look at her properly, and she winces.
“Your face,” she mutters.
“Gee, thanks,” Murphy deadpans in return. Emori giggles, shaking her head.
“No, I mean it’s bruising already.” He sighs, trying not to focus on the pain as she gently reaches out her hand, her fingers delicately brushing along the swollen skin.
“So are your knuckles,” he replies as she pulls her hand back.
“Shit,” she sighs. “I don’t even know how to stop that.”
“Come on,” he says, nodding them forward. “My house is just up here, I’ll get you an ice pack.” She raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. After a moment, she nods, quickening her pace to match his.
When they reach the house where he lives with some of his friends, he unlocks the door and gestures her inside, watching her carefully as she takes it all in. They flick on the lights and he catches sight of her other hand more clearly – he was right with what he thought he saw in the hand; her skin grafted and deformed.
She clears her throat, noticing his gaze, as she tugs her sleeve back down to cover it.
“You shouldn’t hide it,” he says, his voice coming out more casual than he expected. “It’s pretty badass.” She raises a single eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t say anymore, heading to the freezer and pulling out an ice pack.
“These are like, official first aid supplies,” she points out, holding one to her knuckles under her other wrist a moment later. He nods.
“One of my roommates is pre-med,” he shrugs, wincing as another ice pack is pressed to his face. “She’s too safety conscious for her own good.”
They’re quiet for a moment, looking around and taking in his home – tidy because of Bellamy, nicely decorated because of Clarke, sci-fi posters adorning the walls because of Raven. The only way Murphy leaves his mark on the house is through the mugs, each bought specially by him – Darth Vader for Raven’s morning coffee, a camera lens mug for Clarke’s middle-of-the-night caffeine boost during studying, a rubic cube mug for Bellamy’s copious amounts of tea, and a plan white mug with the term “Murphy’s Law” and definition, underneath, out of which he drinks his cereal, claiming it to be faster than using a bowl.
Eventually, though, Emori speaks, filling the silence.
“That was some first date,” she murmurs, looking at him carefully.
“First date?” he asks. “Which one of those jackasses even deserves you giving them the time of day?” Her smile grows and she lets out a laugh, shaking her head.
“The jackass who fought them with me,” she replies, and Murphy’s mind clicks into place.
“Oh.” Oh.
Emori watches as Murphy’s dumbfounded expression slowly morphs into a smile, and then she’s not watching anymore, but leaning forward and kissing and kissing and kissing. Murphy grins into her lips, not even caring about the suddenness, because it feels right – something just feels right.
He tugs her onto his lap, his hands on her waist and his tongue in her mouth. In return, her fingers card through his hair and she presses her body as close to his as she can manage.
It’s rough and fast but it’s perfect. It’s them and she laughs into his mouth, pulling away just slightly to search his face.
“Well, John,” she mumbles, nudging his nose with hers. “I don’t have a clue how we’re going to make the second date beat this one.” He chuckles in return, shaking his head.
“We’ll hit it over the head with a glass bottle.” Emori snorts and the world is so good.