Little Beast - Chapter 8/9
WARNING This chapter contains mentions of drinking and suicidal ideation (it’s canon-compliant if you think about season 3). Please read with caution. If you need any info or clarification if that sort of thing may trigger you, please message me.
What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
Murphy thinks he could get used to waking up beside her.
On this particular morning, she’s curled under a mound of blankets despite the August heatwave simmering in the valley. Her body is turned to face him, her face half-buried in the pillows. She looks soft and peaceful like this: messy hair, soft lips, flushed cheeks.
He reaches out, touches a finger to her cheek. She sighs, nuzzles into his touch, her eyes slowly fluttering open.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says. Sappy? Yes. But it’s worth it to see her blush.
“Hi,” she sighs, scooting over so she can rest her head against his chest. He lets her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, the other one falling over her waist. He kisses her forehead and feels her wrinkle her nose against his shirt. [Read on Ao3]
She likes to be held, he’s noticed, but only like this, where she has a clear line of sight around the room and when she can easily wriggle free in a moment’s notice. Murphy wonders if it’s because she’s used to having to run, or if it’s because she, like him, has been pinned by the unwanted weight of someone else one too many times.
Sometimes, he wants to ask. But he never does, because it’s not worth the pain and anger the question would dredge up in her.
“Sleep well?” she asks, voice muffled.
He shrugs. He hadn’t, not really, but he never does. “Fine, I guess.”
“I felt you moving a lot,” she counters gently. He knows that’s her way of refuting his half-truth. “Nightmares?”
He shrugs again. “No more than usual.” Her bare feet brush against his leg, and he chuckles. “You’re really warm. You should get rid of some of these blankets.”
“I like it,” she mutters, pulling the blankets over her head so only her eyes peek out. She looks like a petulant kid. Murphy tries not to say ‘awww’ out loud.
They doze together for a while, rousing once every few minutes to cuddle closer or kiss the other on the cheek, forehead or lips. The obnoxious sound of his phone echoing from the kitchen is the only reason Murphy even thinks about moving, and that’s only because it keeps ringing, one phone call after another insistently coming in.
“I’d better get it,” he grumbles, kissing Emori on the nose as an apology and slipping out from under the blankets. Even though the temperature outside must be close to 90, the air feels cold.
He grabs his phone the third time it starts to ring. It’s Luna, so he tries to sound civil.
“Hello?”
“Murphy, it’s Luna.” She sounds ragged, not at all like her usual calm, impassive self. “I need you to come help me. Raven needs to get to the hospital.”
His stomach clenches. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
“We’re not sure. She can’t move without pain and there’s internal bleeding at her lower back.” Murphy knows now what’s in her voice. It’s fear. “I’m not strong enough to carry her to the car.”
Murphy nods. “I’ll be right there.”
He hangs up and all but sprints the ten steps into his bedroom. “I have to go,” he tells Emori, who’s sitting up in bed, both sleepy and confused. “It’s Raven - something happened.”
“I’ll come with you,” she decides, alert in mere seconds. She joins him at the dresser, rifling through the drawer of shirts they both share. She’s dressed before he is and has his keys and two granola bars she insisted on buying last week in her hand by the time he had his shoes on.
“Let’s go,” is all she says, tossing him the keys and pocketing what Murphy assumes is their breakfast. They’re at Raven’s trailer two blown-off stop signs, three potholes, and one bad turn down a one-way street later.
Murphy can sense Emori’s numerous questions as she regards the ugly tan trailer, full of crappy siding, mold and rot. Wisely, she doesn’t ask any questions, just stands aside and lets Murphy use his emergency key to get in.
“Raven?” he calls, not really caring if he wakes up her mother.
“In here,” Luna answers for her. Murphy leaves Emori in the living room and goes toward Raven’s bedroom.
“You called him?” Raven asks, voice tight with pain, eyes incredulous. “What the hell’s he going to do?”
“Carry you, genius,” Murphy responds, standing near the bed. Judging by Raven’s wincing, she can’t feel her legs, but can sure feel her hips. “You need to go to the hospital.” He swallows the lump of guilt and shame in his throat. “It’s probably the bullet fragment shifting again.”
“I don’t need to go anywhere,” Raven snaps without venom.
“Yes, Little Bird,” Luna interrupts. “You do.”
Murphy raises an eyebrow at them both, then scoops Raven carefully into his arms, letting her bury her head in his shoulder and let out a muffled shout of pain. She’s too light, especially without the brace.
He walks slowly and as smoothly as possible, careful not to jolt or jostle her. Emori, who had been perched uncomfortably on the couch, jumps to her feet when she sees them and runs to open the front door.
“Thanks,” he hears Luna murmur to Emori. “Do you have a key?”
“No. John?” Emori calls. Murphy stops, already halfway down the sidewalk, not wanting to climb the three front stairs again lest that cause Raven any more misery.
“Just leave the damn thing,” Raven yells. “There’s nothing in there worth stealing anyway.”
Murphy shrugs, then somehow, through finagling and swearing, gets Raven situated in the back of his car, laying with her head on Luna’s lap and her feet awkwardly hanging off the seat. Murphy speeds to get to the hospital, instructing Emori to call Abby Griffin and let her know what was coming.
“You have Abby on speed dial?” Raven asks, a pained laugh in her voice. “Why?”
Murphy taps his fingers nervously against the wheel, then grips it so tightly his knuckles pop. There’s more traffic than expected going into the hospital, and they haven’t moved in about ten minutes. Emori reaches over, pries one of his hands from the wheel, and laces his fingers through hers.
“In case you did any more dumb shit,” Murphy responds. To his relief, Raven laughs. In the rearview mirror, he catches Luna’s eyes. They’re dark, angry, burning a hole through him.
She knows , he thinks, and his blood runs cold. Luna is harmless enough until you hurt someone she loves. Murphy’s given Raven enough hurt to last a lifetime.
When they make it to the front doors, Jackson is waiting to carry Raven from the car and into the lobby, where a stretcher is waiting. Murphy has to smile at Raven’s loud and vehement protests that she doesn’t need to be babied.
“Why are you laughing?” Luna asks lowly, harshly, leaning forward to murmur in the ear farthest away from Emori. “You did this to her.”
“I wasn’t laughing,” is all he says. “You gonna get out and go with her, or what?”
Luna sits back, unbuckles her seatbelt, and leans forward again. “Don’t come in until I text you the room number. Understood?”
Murphy says nothing. She gets out, slams the door, and Murphy takes off toward the parking lot. It isn’t until he parks and turns the engine off that Emori starts asking questions.
“What was that about?” she gestures to the back seat while passing Murphy a granola bar. He holds it in his hand, but doesn’t eat it. It’s warm from her pocket.
“Nothing. Old wounds.” The faint scars on his neck itch.
Emori hums, unwrapping her bar. “Eat, John.”
He shakes his head. He can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, drumming out a steady rhythm: Your fault, your fault, your fault. “I’m not hungry.”
Emori sighs. “You need to get better at that.”
“At what? Eating.”
“Taking care of yourself,” she says around a mouthful.
She leans over and rests her head against his shoulder. He rests his cheek against her hair. “That’s why I have you,” he murmurs, suddenly intensely grateful for her presence, the only thing keeping his self-hatred and fear from spiraling out of control.
She laughs, more like a rush of air than actual sound, and turns to press a kiss to his clothed shoulder. He feels his pulse jump, and the beat of his heart changes: not worthy, not worthy, not worthy . What would she say if she knew what he had done?
There’s silence for a moment, then Emori asks, “Why does Raven live there?”
Murphy frowns. Emori sits up to look at him. He misses her warmth. “Her mom is a neglectful bitch,” he starts, righteous vehemence coloring his words. “Raven still feels loyal to her for whatever reason, so she stays.”
“Maybe she has nowhere else to go,” Emori says.
“Bullshit,” Murphy declares. “The Blakes, the Millers, Luna - any one of them would take her. Her boss, Sinclair, has been trying to get her to move in with his family for years.”
“There has to be a reason,” Emori counters. Murphy is about to argue when his phone rings. “Is it Luna?”
Murphy checks the text. “Yeah.” He unbuckles. “You can stay here, if you want.”
Emori’s lips twitch. “I guess she’s my friend too now, right? So I’ll go.”
They walk toward the hospital hand-in-hand. He looks over at her, at her resolute face and squared shoulders, and an overwhelming adoration sweeps over him, threatening to choke him. She’s willing to face anything that hurts him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love.
Abby is leaning against the front desk when they walk in, going over a chart and talking to the man at the desk. When she sees them, she gives Murphy a tight, knowing smile.
“Straight down the hall and all the way back,” she tells him. “But we’re operating soon, so you’ll have to make it quick.”
“Operating?” he asks, mouth dry, nausea rolling his stomach. Emori grips his hand a little tighter. “Was it the bullet?”
Abby nods tersely, eyes darting from him to Emori and back again. She’s gauging whether she should say more in front of an outsider. Murphy shakes his head imperceptibly. Thankfully, Abby gets the message.
They head back to Raven’s room. Bellamy, Miller, Octavia and Monty are already there, perched on her bed or folded up into chairs. It might be his imagination, but Murphy could swear he feels a change in the room when he walks in.
“You’re going under the knife again, huh?” he asks Raven, fighting to keep his voice casual. He takes her hand with his free one and squeezes it.
Raven nods. “Maybe this’ll be the time they get the hunk of metal out of my back,” she laughs. “Then I can go through metal detectors again.”
Monty laughs. “Sometimes she even sets off store monitors,” he tells the room. “It’s so funny to try to explain that to store personnel.”
“They should just demagnetize you,” Miller says, bouncing his leg, his heel tapping on the floor. “You know, like they do with library books?”
“That's not even what they do,” Bellamy grumbles.
“Bell,” Octavia leans forward, “you're literally the only person who knows that.”
Miller snorts, pushing himself up in the chair when Luna tells him to stop slouching. “Yo, Em,” he says. “You want to go get coffee?”
It takes Emori a moment to realize he’s talking to her. “Oh.” She looks surprised and a little pleased. “Sure. Monty, John, you want to come?”
“Murphy’s going to stay here,” Bellamy says in the tense tone that means he’s not to be argued with. Murphy feels his blood run cold.
Octavia rolls her eyes, hopping off Raven’s bed. “At least if you kill each other, you’re doing it in a hospital.” She grabs her purse. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”
Emori gives Murphy a wary look. “I’ll be okay,” he says, kissing the back of her hand and finally releasing it from his tight grip. “Go on.”
He watches her leave for as long as he can before Bellamy closes the door.
“Bellamy, don’t-” Raven starts before Bellamy holds up his hand, stepping forward so he’s practically in Murphy’s face.
“I’m not going to do this here,” he says in Murphy’s ear. “I don’t want to upset Raven.”
“Why are you doing it at all?” Murphy retorts. “I thought we were past this.”
“I thought so too.” Bellamy’s voice is biting. “But every time your screw-up causes my friend any more pain, we go right back to the start.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Murphy snarls, no longer caring if Raven hears. “She was my friend long before she was yours.”
“Murphy!” Raven barks. “Bellamy! Stop!”
Luna strides forward, grabs hold of both Bellamy and Murphy’s arms. Her grip is bruising. “Outside. Now,” she growls, marching them both toward the door.
Once they’re in the deserted hall, Bellamy turns on Murphy again. “Do you get it yet?” He shoves the younger man. “Are you sorry yet? She has to go into more surgery, more pain, more debt, and it’s all because of you .”
Murphy feels tears of frustration and hurt prick at his eyes. “I get it!” He explodes. “I’ve always gotten it! I didn’t even mean to shoot her - I was aiming for Octavia!”
Silence. Murphy realizes he has truly fucked up.
“You son of a bitch.” Bellamy lurches forward, planting his forearm against Murphy’s shoulder and driving him into the wall. His arm slides up, pressing against Murphy’s throat, and fear roars through him. “I ought to kill you.”
“That’s enough,” Luna’s calm voice breaks through the roaring in Murphy’s ears. Bellamy releases him and Murphy coughs once, then again, and rubs at the aching parts of his throat. “We agreed we’d talk to him about Raven, not anything else. You two can fight that out on your own time.”
Bellamy rakes a hand through his hair. “Are you even sorry?” he asks, voice trembling. “Look at what you did to your supposed best friend. It’s been a year, and she’s still suffering.”
“I am sorry!” Murphy all but screams. “I’m sorry every damn day, Bellamy. I can’t even look at her without being sorry! Don’t you think I hate myself for it? Because I do. So shut the fuck up, because you have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
He sucks in a deep breath. “If I could go back and undo it, I would. You have to believe me. I am sorry.”
Bellamy regards him. “Does she know all this?”
Murphy nods. “Yeah. I told her a while ago.”
Bellamy nods. Luna blows out a breath. “And when were you going to tell me that you planned on shooting my sister?” Bellamy’s dangerous voice is back. Luna rolls her eyes.
“You two can do this on your own time,” she mutters again, turning back to Raven’s room.
“Fuck off, Bellamy,” is all Murphy says, angry again. Bellamy draws his hand back and punches Murphy straight in the stomach. He doubles over, and Bellamy slams him into the wall, shoving him so hard his head cracks against the plaster. A searing pain rips through him, and he shouts, but doesn’t let go. He manages to get one punch in - a solid one against Bellamy’s cheek - but that’s all the leverage he can gain.
“Get the hell away from him!” Emori appears seemingly out of nowhere. She pries Bellamy away from Murphy, twisting his arm back and forcing him to his knees, standing over him like an avenging angel. Murphy fights to drag air back into his lungs, rubbing his head. Some blood comes away on his fingertips.
“If it wasn’t for the fact that Raven needs all of her friends and Octavia needs her brother, I would be beating your pretty little face into an unrecognizable pulp,” she hisses, her smaller hand wrapped loosely around Bellamy’s neck, her thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat. “Don’t test me. You don’t know what kind of damage I can do.”
She turns to Murphy, reaches for his hand, winces when she sees the blood on his nails. “And stay away from John,” she adds to Bellamy over her shoulder, guiding Murphy out of the hallway and out to the now-deserted waiting room.
Once he stumbles to a chair, he clutches at Emori’s larger hand while the world tilts on its axis. He can’t form a coherent thought, can only struggle to breathe and stay still while Emori’s gentle fingers probe the broken skin at the back of his head.
“I don’t think you have a concussion,” she murmurs. “But we should check with Abby just to be safe.”
Murphy snorts. The action makes his head hurt worse.
“Murphy?” Clarke’s surprised voice makes Murphy wince. “What happened?”
“Does he have a concussion?” Emori asks, voice hard, telling Clarke without saying anything that she’s not in the mood for small talk. “Your mother’s a doctor; wouldn’t you know these things?”
Clarke twists her lips in an amused smile for about half a second before bending to stare at Murphy’s face. He doesn’t want to, but he lets her, knowing Emori will riot if he doesn’t sit still. She grabs a small light from her pocket and shines it near his eyes. “No, no concussion. He’s going to be fine.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Was it Bellamy again?”
Emori nods. Murphy keeps his eyes on the floor. “I’m going to kill him,” Clarke mutters, stalking toward Raven’s room, a woman on a mission.
Emori smooths some hair back from his forehead. “Want to tell me what that was all about?
Murphy shakes his head. “You’ll hate me.”
Emori takes his hand, kisses the bruised knuckles. “Try me.”
“I shot her.” The confession is bitter. “It’s my fault Raven wears a brace.”
He lifts his eyes to meet Emori’s. She’s looking at him, brows raised as if to say go on .
So he does. “I didn’t mean to. It was- I was aiming for Octavia. To piss Bellamy off. I didn’t want to hit anyone.” He feels a tear run from the corner of his eye down toward his nose. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“John…” Emori sighs, wiping his tear away and curling her hand around the hair at the back of his neck. “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay. I don’t think less of you.”
“Like I keep telling you,” he laughs without humor, “I’m a shitty person.”
Emori smirks. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Murphy figures he might as well lay out all his sins now. “My dad died because of me. My mom drank herself to death because of me. Raven has to undergo a third fucking operation because of me.”
“Stop it.” Emori gives his hair a gentle tug. “Look at me.” She waits until he meets her eyes to continue. “You made some shitty choices, John. You’re an ugly, hateful boy sometimes. But,” she raises her malformed hand - which is unwrapped, Murphy notices in surprise - “you’re trying to be better. That’s all any of us can do, is try.”
“It’s not your fault that your father’s dead, and your mother’s drinking was her choice. Sure, Raven can’t use her leg, but you’ve made amends, or are trying to. And your friends still love you. I still love you.”
He smiles slightly, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs against her skin. “I am trying to be a good person. For you.”
She cups his cheek in her hand. “I know.”
He looks down, reaching for her left hand, turning it over. “It’s unwrapped.”
She looks down, blinking in surprise. Her body goes rigid, her eyes growing darker and darker. “I was in such a hurry, I forgot,” she mutters.
Murphy runs his fingers over the knobby bones and rough skin. “Badass,” he says, tapping on the scar around her wrist.
“Liar.” But she kisses him, so he figures she’s not too angry.
Raven isn’t going to get out of surgery for a few hours, so Murphy and Emori go back to town. He’s not happy to be there - he’s full of nervous energy and anxiety, imagining Raven under the knife - so Emori distracts him by taking him to the diner.
“John needs a distraction,” she tells Anya firmly. “Can he train me?”
“I don’t give a shit,” Anya says with a flip of her hair. “If this is your idea of date night, go nuts.”
“It’s not,” he grumbles, “but thanks.”
He starts off by showing her the menu. “We all have it memorized, but Lincoln put cheat sheets back here.” He shows her the laminated page, then elbows Monty gently in the side until he slides over so Emori can look into the fridge.
“It’s so organized,” she says with surprise.
Murphy shrugs. “We try.”
“No, we don’t,” Monty says without looking over. “I’m the only one that cleans that thing.”
“I cleaned it yesterday,” Harper says from over the counter, voice taking on a jokingly offended tone.
“My mistake.” Monty winks at her, then smiles. Murphy and Emori share a look.
“What’s with that?” she asks under her breath, gesturing to them.
Murphy shrugs. “Beats me.” He’ll never say it out loud, but he’s happy for them.
Next, he takes Emori into the office and shows her where Anya keeps the schedule, then points to the sheet of butcher paper pinned haphazardly to the wall.
“‘Catch of the Day’?” Emori reads aloud, looking at him questioningly. “What does that mean?”
“Whenever someone says something dumb, we write it up there,” Murphy explains. “It’s usually dumb shit Bellamy or Miller say when they’re tired or hungover, but it’s funny.”
Emori narrows her eyes at the paper, reading the quotes scrawled over the paper, occasionally smiling or laughing to herself. Murphy looks over her shoulder, stepping forward so her back brushes against his chest.
“Hey,” she murmurs after a moment, leaning back so her head rests against his shoulder. “You okay?”
He nods. Instinctively, his arms come up to wrap around her waist. He can’t resist touching her, he realizes. He has to make sure she won’t disappear.
The rush of fear and inadequacy he felt in the hospital comes back. He tightens his grip on her just a fraction. She lets out a hum of slight surprise, but doesn’t stop reading or turn to ask what’s wrong.
“Heard Raven’s in the hospital,” Anya says by way of greeting, barging into the office with a filing box in her hands. “She okay?”
Murphy feels his hand twitch. He knots one into the loose fabric of Emori’s shirt. “I hope so.” He tries to sound flippant, and fails. He sounds tense, anxious and afraid.
Anya frowns, an almost-imperceptible crease of her brow. Her sharp eyes travel over them both, their closeness, Emori’s pursed lips, her hand hidden in the folds of the massive shirt that used to be Murphy’s.
“What’s with that?” Anya asks, gesturing to the hidden appendage.
Emori grimaces, then reveals it slowly. Murphy feels his heart clench. “I usually cover it up,” she says, “but we had to get to Raven’s. It doesn’t keep me from working.”
Her jaw ticks. Murphy realizes she’s afraid that it will keep her from everything she’s trying to build for herself, and he guesses that fear is directly connected to her fear of inadequacy.
“I don’t care about that,” Anya waves dismissively. “Why do you hate it?”
Emori blinks, surprised. “Because it’s ugly,” she says, lifting her chin. “Because it’s the reason my mother didn’t love me.”
“If a mother doesn’t love her child because of how they were born, she’s not fit to be a mother. Mothers should always feel lucky to have a child.” Anya’s eyes are stone, her voice nearly wavering. Murphy thinks back to the small photo of a little girl he once saw in Anya’s wallet and wonders if Anya is speaking from experience.
Emori nods once, looks down, and lets her hand hang at her side. Murphy releases her waist and takes her left hand in his. The rough skin scrapes against his. When he runs his thumb over the back of it, he feels her wrist twitch. Pride swells in him. She is so brave in this moment, and he loves her for it.
“Your hand might be fucked up,” Anya says as an afterthought as she turns to leave, holding the office door open for Lincoln, who has the cash handling bag tucked under his arm. “But as long as you work hard and stay tough, I won’t have any complaints.”
Murphy sees Lincoln’s eyes go to Emori’s hand. Again, he tenses. He doesn’t know if Emori can sense it or not.
“You can’t control how you came into the world,” Lincoln says mildly, giving Emori a gentle smile. “Only what you do once you’re here.”
Emori swallows, nods sharply, and whispers something under her breath that Murphy doesn’t catch. She then tugs on his hand and pulls him from the office, leaning against the door once they’re back in the kitchen and looking up at him with shining eyes.
“I thought they’d care,” she whispers, holding up her hand in plain view. Murphy realizes those are tears in her eyes. “Why don’t they?”
His heart breaks when he realizes that she’s accustomed to hatred, disgust, disdain - all because of what she looks like and where she comes from. She can’t understand their acceptance or their love. It makes him want to protect her from the world and unleash holy hell on everyone who disrespects her for something she can’t help.
He then realizes, with a start, that this is something with which he is all too familiar.
“How you felt in there,” he starts, voice low, eyes not meeting hers, “is how I feel all the time. I don’t deserve these guys as friends, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you.”
“That’s not-”
“Mori, please.” He sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets. Emori reaches out without a word and wraps her smaller fingers around his wrist, tugging it back out so she can hold his hand. “I hurt her,” he whispers, voice breaking as he imagines Raven in the operating room, remembers Luna’s anger and Bellamy’s hatred. “I hurt all of them. And I don’t know if they’re truly my friends, or just pretending, but I don’t deserve any of it.”
Emori shrugs. “Maybe not.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “But you have it. It’s called grace, John. And it’s not something you can earn. It’s something you accept.”
Harper calls to Emori then, and she steps away, leaving Murphy staring at a closed wooden door, pondering the strange concept of unconditional love.
He really shouldn’t be drinking.
It’s quarter past midnight and he’s sitting on the couch in the dark, a half-empty bottle of vodka beside him and his revolver and cell phone on the table in front of him.
The operation had gone wrong. Raven wasn’t waking up, and when Bellamy called him, he let Murphy know in no uncertain terms what that meant for him.
“Luna doesn’t want you here,” he had said, voice exhausted and devoid of emotion. “I don’t think anyone else does either.”
Murphy had hung up after that, pretended to go to bed with Emori, then waited until she was asleep to drown his sorrows. He pulled out the alcohol, then the weapon that destroyed the only decent friendship he had, and punished himself with both.
Now, he stares at the gun, picks it up, tests the weight in his hands. It’s a bad idea, what he’s thinking of, but he can’t remember why. Everything is fuzzy, dreamlike, and he’s so tired of being wrong, so tired of the twisted thing inside of him ruining everything. What’s the harm? One squeeze of the trigger and it’s over. No one will be hurt by him anymore.
To test his resolve, he puts the gun to his chin and pulls back the hammer. His finger trembles on the trigger, resists, and then he drops it back to the table, letting out a choked sob.
“I can’t do it,” he mumbles to no one in particular. The night is too quiet and he’s alone and he just wants it to be over .
“Can’t do what?” Emori appears in the hallway, leaning against the wall near the couch. Murphy blinks, surprised. He forgot about her. Was she the reason he couldn’t pull the trigger? “Oh, John,” she sighs, taking in the bottle and the gun. She sits beside him and he, numbly, hands over the bottle at her insistence.
She looks at the gun, then at him. “Were you going to shoot yourself?”
He nods, hanging his head. He just wants to sleep. He just wants his heart to stop hurting.
She doesn’t say anything, just takes the bullets from the gun and puts the safety back on. “Come here,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her. He buries his head in her chest and cries.
“If I were you,” he hears her whisper, “I would have shot myself too.” He doesn’t know what she means, but it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s here, what he’s done doesn’t seem so bad.
“I’m sorry,” he says through his tears. Sorry for my weakness. Sorry for my selfishness. Sorry I’m not even a fraction of the man you deserve.
She kisses the top of his head. “Don’t be sorry, John. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t pull the trigger. You’re okay.”
He dimly remembers her convincing him to drink a glass of water and take painkillers, but he doesn’t remember how he got to their bed. When he wakes up the next morning - really, afternoon, according to Emori - his headache is manageable and his shame is palpable.
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says to Emori, who’s standing in their bedroom, the contents of her dwindling duffle bag of stolen tech spread out on the floor. She’s been pawning it off, he learned a few weeks ago, which explains how she got the money she left for him to use on groceries.
She climbs up on the bed, kisses his forehead, smooths his hair away from his face. “Don’t be. We’ve all had bad nights.” She fiddles with the wrap around her hand, unties it, shows Murphy the scar on her wrist. “I was drunk when I decided to take it off.”
“You could have bled out,” he murmurs, reaching for her wrist.
She shrugs. “At that point, I’m not sure I cared.”
Murphy presses a kiss to the scar. She lets out a soft noise and turns her head away, so he does it again and again until she looks at him, a single tear rolling over her cheeks. She looks the same as she did when he found her at the beach: vulnerable, small, desperate to be safe.
He hopes he’s giving that to her.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry for everything.”
She shakes her head, moves to sit cross-legged on the bed. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, John. I’ll love you no matter what.”
Unconditional. The concept makes Murphy’s heart beat faster. He looks at her and has one wild thought.
I’m going to marry her someday.
But, of course, he’s not going to tell her that. Not yet.
Raven comes home from the hospital two weeks later. She had a seizure during the operation, according to Abby, but she’s fine now, as long as she takes her medication. Rather than going back home to her mom, Bellamy convinces Raven to stay with him and Octavia and take the room that once belonged to their mother.
“It’s a battle getting her to take those damn pills,” Octavia grumbles to Murphy one morning when they’re opening the diner. “School starts in a week - thank God - so now it’s Bell’s responsibility.”
“How’s he going to manage that?” Murphy asks with a smirk.
“Hell if I know,” Octavia laughs.
“Watch your fucking language!” Anya shouts from the dining room. Murphy, Emori and Octavia exchange a look, then burst out laughing. In the dining room, Lexa, Clarke and Bellamy bury their heads in their hands and folded arms so Anya can’t see their reaction.
“When our shift’s up,” Emori murmurs in Murphy’s ear when she passes by him to do the dishes, “let’s go on a date.”
Murphy nods. “Okay. Where?”
Emori grins. “Anywhere you want.”
Murphy can’t help but lean over and kiss that mischievous smirk off her lips. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”
She smiles. “Yeah. Three times, in fact.”
“Make it four.” He kisses her cheek. “I love you.”
Amid choruses of mock-disgusted groans and wolf-whistles, Emori kisses him full on the mouth ( with tongue, Lexa points out). Their catcalls turn to cheers when Raven limps into the diner on Luna’s arm.
Murphy approaches the counter, meeting Luna’s stony stare, then looking warily to Raven.
She blinks at him for a second, then gives him her characteristic smirk. “What does a girl have to do to get some coffee around here?” she asks, smiling at him as if to say it’s okay .
“Ask nicely,” he retorts after a moment, reaching for her hand, giving it a squeeze.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “Please?”
Luna leans forward. “Give her decaf,” she whispers. Raven elbows her in the side. Octavia snorts, and Murphy can hear Emori laugh. The sound fills his heart with something not unlike joy.
“You okay?” Emori asks him as he fills Raven’s mug, compromising her desires and Luna’s request with half-caf.
Murphy feels himself smile. “Yeah. Perfect.”
Sappy? Yes. But it’s worth it to see her smile.
