Chapter Text
If Murphy had had to explain it--which he wouldn't, ever--he would have said he was doing this for Clarke. She hadn't come out of her tent for two days. Which was reasonable, sure, what with how she'd been the one to off Finn, but it still didn't feel good. Murphy could sense it--the tension around, the lack of guidance even if Bellamy held the fort in Clarke's absence. Bellamy was a wonderful leader, but Clarke was perfect. A little mean, maybe, but Murphy would have trusted her with anything. Even if she had told him to stay away.
He couldn't. Everything felt wrong. Murphy couldn't feel positive about his position at camp after what Raven had said, and he needed Clarke around. Clarke might not like him but she'd protect him. She'd make sure nobody did anything morally unjustified, and Murphy had been very moral lately. Very fucking moral, thank you.
The pain felt good. Well not actually good--it hurt like hell, and he hissed as the blade made its cut down the inside of his forearm--but there was something satisfying about it. He did not deserve pain--he had enough fucking pain--but maybe he still felt in a subconscious way that he did deserve it.
Murphy made his way to where Abby Griffin had set up medical bay, hand over the bleeding cut, walking a little slower than he meant to. It was bleeding pretty bad, and it hurt worse than he'd planned it to. When Abby caught sight of him, her eyes widened, and she stopped whatever task she'd been in the middle of, coming forward to put her soft hands on him.
"Oh, honey."
"No." He shifted back and to the side a little, though he kept his grip on the wound. "I want Clarke."
"Clarke's not working right now," said Abby, and continued attempting to help him.
Murphy continued to evade. "I said no. Go get Clarke or I'll fucking bleed out."
Abby pursed her lips a little, but she nodded, gesturing to an empty cot. "Sit down."
So Murphy did. Eventually, Abby came back with Clarke. She looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy underneath, and dead just like Murphy's. She didn't say much as she approached Murphy, though she did look at him, gaze cooling a little when she did.
Abby handed her the supplies she needed, and Clarke's fingers were rough as she pulled Murphy's hand from the wound, gripping his forearm too hard when she inspected it.
"You did this to yourself, didn't you?" she said.
Murphy didn't say anything.
"Idiot," said Clarke. But she wet some gauze with some antiseptic and pressed it along the wound. It burned. Murphy groaned through clenched teeth, leaning toward her instinctively, but Clarke pushed him back with a harsh hand at his shoulder. Murphy wished she wouldn't. He wanted to be touched by her. He wanted her to tell him that it was okay, that they weren't going to banish him again, not ever, as long as he didn't kill anybody or attempt to kill anybody. Which he wouldn't do. He had learned that on the ground, no matter your age, that the punishment for death was death.
The burning devolved into a dull stinging and then disappeared under a slather of ointment, and Murphy felt an immense sort of pleasure from this. Even if Clarke was doing it begrudgingly, she was caring for him, just like she had when the Grounders had made him sick.
She taped a bandage over top the cut. "Come back tomorrow," she said. "My mom will redo the bandages then."
"Clarke." It was Abby's voice, and she came up close to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "He asked for you."
"Well I don't care." Clarke stepped back, her eyes glaring (as they so often did) as she looked at Murphy. "Murphy's a killer, always will be. And unlike some people, he's still alive."
Murphy swallowed hard. His stomach turned uncomfortably. But he didn't say anything, only looked at Clarke with slick eyes. He kept watching as she turned around and walked away, disappearing back to her tent, probably.
Murphy would do as she said and come back tomorrow. But he would ask for Clarke again.