07/08/2020, 17:02
Fandom: The 100
Summary: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy-ish; Murphy has a bad dream. Set somewhere mid season 2; angsty and some (canon-typical) description of violence.
Words: 1103
Wide awake, bloodshot eyes – not that he really knows. He hadn’t seen a mirror since he landed on the ground. On the Ark, where metal and reflection reigned, he hadn’t been able to avoid looking into his father’s eyes each day, again and again until he wanted to tear them out, until he wanted to disappear and feeling nothing – nothing –
He screamed as they tore at him, as they ripped him to pieces and slashed him until there was nothing left.
He felt his face. Even before he had never been pretty. His face pale and his skin hollow like a snake’s, eyes too large for his skull and slick brown hair now unrecognisable as the single trait he had shared with his mother. They asked him questions he didn’t hardly knew the answer to. To some he had, and he had told them. He had told them everything, more than they asked, if only they would stop – if only –
– But the questions kept coming, and there was only so much Murphy could tell them. John Murphy, who had never been trusted by anyone. The poor little orphan. Stares and jabs. If he would ever truly wish for death, he knew this would be the moment. But relief never came.
Her eyes were smiling. It had been long. The black mod of mud and hair stuck to his forehead, plastered to his skin together with the sweat and the blood and the grime. Relief never came. His hands were shaking as they reached out for her, trying to ensure it wasn’t all another lie, a bitter illusion.
“You killed your father, John.” Eyes of ice, clawing into his bones and through the back of his skull. Not an illusion. Never an illusion.
Hands on him, grabbing him and stabbing at him. Screaming at him in English. That wasn’t. his name. Murphy. Not his mother.
Brightness. A flashlight, a torch. The grounders didn’t have such torches. Chocolate eyes boring into his. Was this what concern looks like?
“Murphy,” the voice said, uncertain and soft, wrapping around him, yet loud enough to crash him back on Earth once more. “You okay?”
He wanted to speak, to shove him away, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. He was just so tired. “Bellamy,” was all he could croak out.
The older boy sat down next to him, his hand still on his arm, but not unpleasantly so. He reminded himself that those hands didn’t mean to hurt him – not as far as he knew. He thought back to the rope around his neck, pushing the breath out of him. When did he know, really? His heart was pumping and for a moment he couldn’t find the air. Tears stung in his eyes, but find their way to his cheeks. He couldn’t be that weak in front of their Fierce Leader. His hands were shaking.
Fingers brushing clammy strings of hair away from his eyes. sweat, not blood – he had to remind himself, and keep reminding, remembering. [i]They won’t hurt you. Not if you stay in line. Not if you –[/i]
Words were coming out of Bellamy’s mouth, syllables slipping over his tongue, but Murphy couldn’t focus. Tears clouded his ears.
“It’s all right,” he caught, the brown close, almost too close. “We all have nightmares.”
Murphy swallowed. Bellamy didn’t understand. He would never understand. Slowly, he closed his eyelids. His tears escaped, but they were gone now. it was okay – no, it wasn’t, but it would be. if only the sun would come and Blake would leave him be, take his big puppy eyes and his pity with him.
“Murphy?” Another touch. A warm hand. Breath on his face. “I understand if you don’t want to talk, but sleeping outside isn’t really going to fix anything, it’s only going to get you a cold.”
“It does,” he said, his voice softer than he imagined it would be. “Fix things. There are no people.”
He imagined Bellamy smiling sadly.
“Usually, at least,” he scoffed.
“And that fixes it? Being alone?”
“When did Earth turn you into a people person, Blake? I never knew you to be such a talker.” Still blackness. He didn’t want to see those eyes anymore.
A laugh. He could see it before him, a freckled face. “Perhaps it did. I changed.”
“I didn’t.” A lie.
“Maybe you should.”
“I’m trying.” It came out as a whisper.
Bellamy sighed audibly.
“Not hard enough, I know,” Murphy sneered. “I never try hard enough, do I? I won’t ever be good enough, and it’ll only take a couple of days before someone finds a reason to kick me out of his stupid camp again. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I know I’m not.” His voice wasn’t supposed to be breaking. It shouldn’t be like this.
“Open your eyes, Murphy.”
“No.”
“Look at me,” Bellamy’s voice softly coaxed, and Murphy complied.
“I want you to look at me when I tell you that isn’t true. I don’t know what you dreamt about or who told you anything to make you think that, but that’s what it was – a dream, nothing more.”
Murphy shook his head, and looked the other straight in the eyes. “It wasn’t a dream,” he said, his voice clearer as his body began to calm down, the shaking subsided and his tears dried, leaving his cheeks unmoving like dried mud on stone.
“Then what was it?” Bellamy asked.
Murphy turned his back to the older boy, shivering while he got to his feet. Bellamy was right about one thing. Staying outside wasn’t going to do him any favours. It made the memories seem too fresh. He heard Bellamy call after him, but didn’t turn around. He didn’t need him. He didn’t need anyone. “It was a memory,” he whispered to the open air, to the stars in the sky and the poisoned night. But there was no one there to hear.
Summary: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy-ish; Murphy has a bad dream. Set somewhere mid season 2; angsty and some (canon-typical) description of violence.
Words: 1103
Oh Memory, You're So Unkind
Red on the wall. He blinked a couple of times, his eyes seemingly unable to focus on what was before him. His hands. His hands were in front of him, bound together by a piece of rope. This didn’t shake him – this was nothing more than the usual crap he got. He noticed some of his fingernails were gone. Just as well, right? what did he need them for anyway, what was the use? His hands were only used to hurt, his nails to scratch – marks on his own skin. He felt his face. That wasn’t right, he wasn’t supposed to feel anymore. Hitched breathing before the darkness took him.Wide awake, bloodshot eyes – not that he really knows. He hadn’t seen a mirror since he landed on the ground. On the Ark, where metal and reflection reigned, he hadn’t been able to avoid looking into his father’s eyes each day, again and again until he wanted to tear them out, until he wanted to disappear and feeling nothing – nothing –
He screamed as they tore at him, as they ripped him to pieces and slashed him until there was nothing left.
He felt his face. Even before he had never been pretty. His face pale and his skin hollow like a snake’s, eyes too large for his skull and slick brown hair now unrecognisable as the single trait he had shared with his mother. They asked him questions he didn’t hardly knew the answer to. To some he had, and he had told them. He had told them everything, more than they asked, if only they would stop – if only –
– But the questions kept coming, and there was only so much Murphy could tell them. John Murphy, who had never been trusted by anyone. The poor little orphan. Stares and jabs. If he would ever truly wish for death, he knew this would be the moment. But relief never came.
Her eyes were smiling. It had been long. The black mod of mud and hair stuck to his forehead, plastered to his skin together with the sweat and the blood and the grime. Relief never came. His hands were shaking as they reached out for her, trying to ensure it wasn’t all another lie, a bitter illusion.
“You killed your father, John.” Eyes of ice, clawing into his bones and through the back of his skull. Not an illusion. Never an illusion.
Hands on him, grabbing him and stabbing at him. Screaming at him in English. That wasn’t. his name. Murphy. Not his mother.
Brightness. A flashlight, a torch. The grounders didn’t have such torches. Chocolate eyes boring into his. Was this what concern looks like?
“Murphy,” the voice said, uncertain and soft, wrapping around him, yet loud enough to crash him back on Earth once more. “You okay?”
He wanted to speak, to shove him away, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. He was just so tired. “Bellamy,” was all he could croak out.
The older boy sat down next to him, his hand still on his arm, but not unpleasantly so. He reminded himself that those hands didn’t mean to hurt him – not as far as he knew. He thought back to the rope around his neck, pushing the breath out of him. When did he know, really? His heart was pumping and for a moment he couldn’t find the air. Tears stung in his eyes, but find their way to his cheeks. He couldn’t be that weak in front of their Fierce Leader. His hands were shaking.
Fingers brushing clammy strings of hair away from his eyes. sweat, not blood – he had to remind himself, and keep reminding, remembering. [i]They won’t hurt you. Not if you stay in line. Not if you –[/i]
Words were coming out of Bellamy’s mouth, syllables slipping over his tongue, but Murphy couldn’t focus. Tears clouded his ears.
“It’s all right,” he caught, the brown close, almost too close. “We all have nightmares.”
Murphy swallowed. Bellamy didn’t understand. He would never understand. Slowly, he closed his eyelids. His tears escaped, but they were gone now. it was okay – no, it wasn’t, but it would be. if only the sun would come and Blake would leave him be, take his big puppy eyes and his pity with him.
“Murphy?” Another touch. A warm hand. Breath on his face. “I understand if you don’t want to talk, but sleeping outside isn’t really going to fix anything, it’s only going to get you a cold.”
“It does,” he said, his voice softer than he imagined it would be. “Fix things. There are no people.”
He imagined Bellamy smiling sadly.
“Usually, at least,” he scoffed.
“And that fixes it? Being alone?”
“When did Earth turn you into a people person, Blake? I never knew you to be such a talker.” Still blackness. He didn’t want to see those eyes anymore.
A laugh. He could see it before him, a freckled face. “Perhaps it did. I changed.”
“I didn’t.” A lie.
“Maybe you should.”
“I’m trying.” It came out as a whisper.
Bellamy sighed audibly.
“Not hard enough, I know,” Murphy sneered. “I never try hard enough, do I? I won’t ever be good enough, and it’ll only take a couple of days before someone finds a reason to kick me out of his stupid camp again. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I know I’m not.” His voice wasn’t supposed to be breaking. It shouldn’t be like this.
“Open your eyes, Murphy.”
“No.”
“Look at me,” Bellamy’s voice softly coaxed, and Murphy complied.
“I want you to look at me when I tell you that isn’t true. I don’t know what you dreamt about or who told you anything to make you think that, but that’s what it was – a dream, nothing more.”
Murphy shook his head, and looked the other straight in the eyes. “It wasn’t a dream,” he said, his voice clearer as his body began to calm down, the shaking subsided and his tears dried, leaving his cheeks unmoving like dried mud on stone.
“Then what was it?” Bellamy asked.
Murphy turned his back to the older boy, shivering while he got to his feet. Bellamy was right about one thing. Staying outside wasn’t going to do him any favours. It made the memories seem too fresh. He heard Bellamy call after him, but didn’t turn around. He didn’t need him. He didn’t need anyone. “It was a memory,” he whispered to the open air, to the stars in the sky and the poisoned night. But there was no one there to hear.
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