The 100 fic: Friends in Low Places
Murphy and Clarke are locked in her room in Polis, but they need to escape before the next Heda is crowned and the kill order goes into affect. Or worse. Tag for s3e07.
WARNING: spoilers for season 3
836 words | rated R for mild language
Murphy slams his fists into the door. Then kicks it a few times for good measure. He hates being locked up. He’s spent his entire life locked up—in that tin can of a space station. In a cell in the Skybox. In lighthouse bunkers. In Grounder prison camps. And dungeons. And now here. At least Clarke’s bedroom has better accommodations than any of the other places.
He runs his hands through his greasy hair then clasps them behind his neck. Clarke sits on a chair, staring into space, tears still dripping from her chin onto the pillow she grips tightly in her lap. Murphy rolls his eyes. She’s supposed to be our leader? Pathetic.
“Clarke.” He snaps his fingers in front of her. “Hey, Clarke, wake up. We have to get out of here.” She continues to stare blankly. He considers slapping her silly, but he hates to admit he’s kind of afraid of Clarke. He’s seen her kill in cold blood. And she’s quick with a knife. She’s not the “princess” everyone thinks she is. Maybe the Grounders have it right—she is the Commander of Death.
Instead he squats in front of her. “Clarke,” he says a little more softly, brushing his fingers across her blood-stained hand. She blinks. Her eyes have this dead, haunted look about them that scares him more than he wants to admit. “Come on, Clarke,” he pleads, getting a little desperate. “We don’t have time for you to fall apart now. Save that shit for when our deaths aren’t eminent. Snap out of it already so we can go home.”
He thinks about leaving her. Thinks hard about it. What does he care anyway? But he does care. Dammit. He hates them all for making him care. He remembers the concern in Clarke’s voice when she recognized his bloodied body tied up in her room. Her immediate response was to help him. To save him. She always has to save everyone. Be the fucking hero. The only person she can’t save is herself.
He rubs a hand along his face, wincing at the burn of each cut and throb of each bruise. Then he smacks her. Not as hard as he could, but enough to snap her head back. She jerks away, eyes finally focusing on him. There’s a bit of fire in them again.
“Good,” Murphy says with a smirk, “you’re back. Now we can get the hell out-”
She punches him right in the mouth before he can finish. He tumbles back, cracking his head on the floor. “What the fuck, Clarke?” he mumbles through his hands. The room spins as little blobs of color pop up in front of his eyes.
“You hit me.”
“Yeah, to wake you up. You went all comatose.” He spits blood onto the floor. “Look, I’m sorry Lexa’s dead. No, actually, I’m not because she was a bitch, but we can’t stay here. Lexa was the only thing keeping them from stringing us up by our intestines. And even if they stick with her plan, the kill order goes into affect at dawn. We have to leave now or we won’t make it back in time.”
She starts pacing in front of the bed, fingers tangled in her hair. He approaches her cautiously, like an injured animal. When he touches her shoulder she crumbles. He barely has time to catch her. She clutches his shirt, bawling into his shoulder. He grimaces as her fingers dig into the still-fresh welts across his back. How can Bellamy stand her?
“Clarke, get a grip.” He lets her cry for what feels like an hour, but is only a sixty-count in his head then he firmly pushes her away by the shoulders. “Don’t make me smack you again.”
Amazingly, this gets a small, tired smile. She licks her lips then wipes the tears with the backs of her hands. Her lip’s quivering, but she doesn’t look like she might implode anymore. The smile only stays a few seconds, but it gives Murphy hope that the old Clarke is still in there somewhere.
“We’re locked in here. Any idea how we can get out?”
He can see the wheels turning in her head. She’s calculating all strategies and risks, discarding bad ideas, reconsidering them a moment later. It’s the Clarke he knows and trusts. He finally lets out a sigh of relief. As much as he hates Camp Jaha or whatever they’re calling it these days, he sure as hell doesn’t want to stay in this crappy Grounder hotel of pain.
It’s kind of funny that even with all the space on the ground, he still feels trapped. Would there ever be a place that felt like home? For a second, he thinks that if he hadn’t been such a dick to everyone, he might feel more welcomed. But he is who he is, and there’s no helping that now.
Clarke looks up. “I have an idea.”
Murphy claps his hands. “About fucking time, princess.”