Miss Me Princess?

Chapter One

[1x10 – 'I Am Become Death']

Murphy P.O.V.

He was lying down. He must have lost consciousness. He didn't have enough energy to open his eyes but his other senses were starting to awaken now too, so he lay still and waited. The ground he was lying on was cold and hard but the air around him was still: there was no wind, chilling the air and blowing the heat out of his skin. His first thought was one of relief; to finally have some kind of shelter from the harsh and unforgiving outdoors. But his relief was quickly overtaken by dread, with the thought that shelter might mean being back in captivity; back with the grounders. Fear began to coil tightly in his chest. But with each passing second the tightness loosened, with the growing realisation that his fear appeared to be unfounded: he could no longer smell the stench of the damp concrete that had been stained with dried blood and urine; he could no longer hear the grating sound of the whetstone the guard had continually dragged across the edge of her blades; he could no longer feel the jagged rope that had been tied too tightly around his wrists and ankles. He wasn't there prisoner anymore. That thought was enough to make his heart sore and his body feel light as a feather. If he hadn't been so bone tired he would have smiled, maybe even laughed out his delight.

Murphy mentally took stock of his body, concentrating on each limb in turn and trying to remember each injury he had acquired. His body was limp with exhaustion. He could feel his aching muscles seizing and cramping and his joints felt stiff and swollen. Numerous gashes stung and burned leaving his skin feeling raw. His head was pounding and his throat was dry. Murphy was sure that any inch of his skin which wasn't either burnt or bleeding, was bruised. But he had become an expert in pain these last few days. He had learned the difference between the slow and steady burning aches of an existing wound and the lancing fire of agony that erupted with each fresh injury; each new strike, or slash. Murphy felt no raging fire of fresh torture now, only the relentless pain of a beaten and broken body. He sighed in relief, and realising he was in no position to do much else, he succumbed to his exhaustion and let his mind slip into sleep without even opening his eyes.

What could have been minutes or days passed by with Murphy dazedly slipping in and out of awareness; he never fully wakened, never opened his eyes or shifted his aching muscles, but he knew he was surfacing to consciousness whenever he felt the needles of pain starting to poke through his hazy mind and stab at his senses. But then something else pulled at his mind and triggered a spark of alertness that insistently tugged him out of refuge of his subconscious. Through the murky exhaustion, his attention was caught by the sound of a wet sniff at his side. There was a quivering exhale and then another shaky sniff. Some of the fog started to clear from his mind as he listened and realised he wasn't alone. Then there was a light splash and a sloshing sound as something soft was dropped into a container of water. Murphy sensed movement at his side. He was fully conscious now and realised amidst the returning pain and mounting fear that he now lay on something soft and something cool was draped wetly across his forehead.

Just as he was deciding he should risk opening his eyes to see where he was and who was with him the sound of approaching footsteps made him pause. There were three, maybe four sets of boots heading towards him. Murphy concentrated on keeping his posture relaxed and strained his ears desperate for any information, whilst hoping that these new arrivals couldn't somehow see his racing heart and tell that he was awake.

"Get away from him Clarke." Said a harassed sounding Bellamy Blake.

"No." Came the instant reply. Murphy's breathing froze. The Princess's voice was stuffy and quiet, and only inches away from his side.

"We need to question him." Bellamy said sounding irritated.

"And you can. Once he's conscious and I've cleaned and dressed all of his wounds."

"Clarke," started Finn, sounding the most calm and patient, "You need-"

"I need another pot of water boiled." Clarke cut him off, her tone sharper now. Murphy heard someone sigh and feet shuffling.

"Conor and Derek stay with Clarke. I want to know the minute he's conscious." Bellamy instructed.

"I'm not having two guards stand over me while I treat a patient Bellamy." Clarke snapped.

"Clarke think about-" Finn tried again.

"Boiled water. And more alcohol. Then you can all get out. I'm trying to work here."

There was an angry hiss and some low muttering then several sets of footsteps retreated, but Murphy had no way of knowing how many had left and who was still there. Stillness and silence stretched on for several long moments before it was finally broken by the sloshing and dripping of water. Cool fingers touched his hand, gently lifting it. The next thing he felt was warm denim under his palm as a wet cloth began brushing over his hand, sliding over his burst knuckles and along his fingers down to his bloody nail beds.

So he was back with the 100. Murphy let this thought sink in while he waited for his heartbeat to slow down. Somewhere underneath his pain and exhaustion and the lingering threads of fear, he noted how strange that exchange had just been. Bellamy's brash hostility was the kind of reception he had imagined getting, for the brief moment that he had thought about what his return to the camp would be like, as he was fleeing from the grounders' settlement. The last thing he could remember now was frantically running through the dense foliage of the forest in what he hoped was the general direction of the 100's camp. He never imagined he would wake up in the relative safety and comfort of the dropship with none other than the Princess tenderly treating his wounds, and refusing - she had point blank refused - to leave his side. A sudden and cold hatred began seeping through his insides like a poison at the thought of the privileged Princess; so high and mighty in the way she had always acted towards him, like he was less than the dirt on her boots. Safety, comfort, tenderness; these things were of no use to someone like John Murphy. He had never needed them before and he didn't need them now, especially not from Clarke Griffin. The sharp sound of a sniff and a shuddering breath once again pulled Murphy back out of the depths of his mind and into his straining senses. He could feel trembling but couldn't tell if it was coming from his own hand or from Clarkes as one still held the other. There was another sniff. Then a croaky whisper broke the silence.

"I'm so sorry." She was so close that her breath blew across his lacerated cheek, briefly soothing the stinging cuts there. Clarke's voice cracked over the apology even although she whispered it no louder than a sigh. Her words sounded thick and wet, and full of a pain that he didn't understand. Murphy held perfectly still, thinking that that couldn't possibly have been the overbearing Princess.

"I'm so sorry." She repeated.

She whispered the same three words over and over while she worked, making her way slowly across his damaged skin, from wound to wound with her gentle fingers and her cool, wet cloth. Somehow Murphy started to feel less cold and alone as he lost himself in the soothing caress of the cool water and soft cotton on his dirty and damaged skin, and the hypnotic repetition of her hushed words, and her reassuring presence at his side. For the first time in a long time he felt a calm settle over him. A single set of footsteps approached and the whispers and sniffs stopped, but the gentle cleansing strokes continued. Murphy heard two containers being set down then the footsteps left again without anything being said.

Murphy wasn't aware of making the decision to finally open his eyes; one minute they were closed and the next thing he realised he was watching a trail of tears as they slid silently down Clarke's cheeks. She didn't seem to notice them, and she didn't notice he was awake and watching her until he eventually spoke.

"Miss me Princess?" he croaked out. He couldn't remember ever seeing her so flustered before. She gasped and her eyes widened as she quickly dashed at her wet cheeks with her sleeve, clumsily bumping the bowl of blood stained water in the process, splashing them both and simultaneously toppling the flask of alcohol at her side, as she scrambled to get him a cup of water to drink.

"Murphy. Here, drink this. Slowly." She urged as he choked on his first gulp and coughed. They watched each other in silence. Murphy's eyes showed his wariness and distrust but as he watched Clarke none of what he remembered about her, none of what he hated about her was present. Instead he could see pain, and guilt, and defeat shinning in the wetness in her eyes as she looked at him. He always thought that sight would please him. Perhaps he was just too tired and sore to enjoy it. Approaching footsteps broke the moment. Neither looked away but the scrutiny and intensity of the stare from seconds ago was gone now. Clarke didn't move from where she sat facing Murphy but before his eyes she seemed to transform as the newcomer neared them. Her face closed over and the emotion in her eyes drained away leaving a cold and detached expression which he recognised as the Princess he hated so much.

Clarke P.O.V.

Clarke tensed at the sound of footsteps on the dropships ramp, but stayed where she was, rinsing the blood soaked cloth in a bowl of pink stained water.

"Get away from him Clarke." Barked a pissed off Bellamy. She wasn't sure if his anger was because of the sudden reappearance of Murphy or because she had ignored everything he said and was now tending to the unconscious Murphy. She didn't much care either way. The sight of a beaten Murphy being half carried, half dragged through the gate had almost made her sick. She didn't quite understand all the emotions churning in her stomach but what she did know was that he needed help and she needed to help him.

"No." Was her curt response.

"We need to question him." Said Bellamy. She could hear his impatience and knew he didn't understand her actions. Neither did she.

"And you can. Once he's conscious and I've cleaned and dressed all of his wounds." Clarke told him.

"Clarke. You need-" Finn was trying to appease her but all he was managing was to patronise her. He had spoken out against Bellamy's instant reaction of suspicion and hostility, but he also seemed uneasy about Clarke's compassion. She wanted them both to leave her alone. Clarke cut him off before he could try to play the role of the negotiator.

"I need another pot of water boiled." She snapped knowing he wouldn't argue. Finn sighed, shuffling uneasily behind her.

"Conor and Derek stay with Clarke. I want to know the minute he's conscious." Bellamy instructed to the two boys with guns who had followed him into the dropship.

"I'm not having two guards stand over me while I treat a patient Bellamy." Clarke snapped, turning to glare at them.

"Clarke think about-" Finn tried again.

"Boiled water." She repeated, "And more alcohol. Then you can all get out. I'm trying to work here."

Bellamy let out an angry hiss but before his argument left his lips Finn muttered something beside him. Clarke caught the words 'can't' and 'unconscious'. The pair muttered back and forth until Bellamy nodded grudgingly and motioned for Conor and Derek to follow him before storming out of the dropship. Finn cast her a look before silently following them out.

Satisfied that they were gone for now Clarke turned her attention back to Murphy. The knot that had been forming in her stomach was pulled a little tighter as her eyes slid over him. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, willing the building moisture to stop clouding her vision and clogging her nose. Tears were a luxury she didn't have time for and didn't deserve. By the time she had counted to ten the rising sob had stopped burning the back of her throat. With trembling fingers she reached again for the pink cloth in the pink water. Clarke lifted Murphy's hand onto her lap and continued the slow process of washing his stained and abused skin. It wasn't long before tears began to gather again as she cleared the blood from the swollen and weeping skin of his fingers where the nails had been violently ripped out. Emotions pressed insistently against the dam she had built up inside of herself.

"I'm so sorry." she whispered with a sniff.

Clarke wasn't sure what she was sorry for specifically. For the pain he would surely be feeling just now if he were awake while she cleaned and treated his wounds? For the torture he had evidently endured? For the part she had played in him being banished, which had led to him being captured and tortured? For wrongly accusing him of killing Wells which got him almost hanged, then banished, then tortured?

"I'm so sorry." She moaned against the suffocating press of emotions and the knot in her stomach.

She whispered it each time she felt guilt squirming in her stomach threatening to make her throw up. She whispered it when the rising pressure became too much to bear and the tears broke through the dam, leaking steadily as she thought about what kind of person it would take to do this kind of damage to another human being. She whispered it each time she had to wash the blood out of the rag. A fresh pot of boiled water and another flask of alcohol were brought to her but Clarke kept her chin tipped down to her chest, curving herself over Murphy's torso and kept working, hiding her tears from whoever had brought her the supplies. She couldn't let anyone see how much this was hurting her. She had no right to feel pain when compared to the man lying in front of her, it was self-centred. She would manage her guilt. She would look after Murphy and make amends for what she had done. Murphy wasn't innocent; far from it. And Clarke knew that. But she also knew how consuming regret, and doubt, and failure were. Murphy's offences didn't excuse her own. So as far as she was concerned she was wiping the slate clean between the two of them. Anyone who had suffered like Murphy evidently had, deserved to be cared for and treated well. And that was exactly what Clarke was going to do. Maybe then he would eventually be able to forgive her, and if she had his forgiveness maybe she would someday be able to forgive herself.

"Miss me Princess?" Clarke was startled out of her thoughts by the rough croak of his voice. Her eyes snapped up to meet the guarded gaze of John Murphy.

"Murphy." For several seconds she could only stare, trapped in his gaze. But then she remembered herself and hastily scrambled to offer him the cup of water she had set aside for him to drink. "Here, drink this. Slowly." She added as he choked and coughed in his eagerness.

It was with a sharp pang of panic that Clarke realised she hadn't once considered how Murphy would react to being back here. How he would react to her - the person responsible for most of his misfortunes - being the one taking care of him. Nervous and unsure, Clarke watched him intently and waited for a reaction. Cagey, guarded and distrustful all adequately described him in that moment. Of course he was apprehensive, he had been a grounder prisoner, he had been tortured, and now he was back in a camp whose people had tried to hanghim. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. A heavy, guilty, sorrow churned inside her and Clarke hoped he could see the sincere regret in her eyes, because she couldn't possible begin to put it into words. Words weren't adequate and for that reason she wouldn't bother offering him an apology now that he was awake to hear her. But she could show him with her actions, she could try to make it up to him by the way she treated him from now on. She thought that the John Murphy she knew wouldn't want an apology anyway. Like so many of those who had spent a large part of their life in the skybox, Murphy had a hard and abrasive exterior. With that in mind she sat in front of him, quiet and patient as she waited for him to lash out like she had seen him do before; by defensively arming himself with snide insults, sharp threats and biting accusations. Seconds ticked by as they watched each other, appraising one another. For the briefest of moments Clarke felt a strange connection to Murphy; a moment where he was just a boy, and she was just a girl, and they were both just scared and alone. But then boots thumped up the ramp of the dropship and life came rushing back, blowing away the moment and bringing back all the little details that clogged and complicated their lives. Their stare hadn't wavered yet but with the end of their solitude came the end of the sense of solidarity. Clarke wasn't just a girl she was 'the Princess', the woman Murphy had hated more than any other member of the camp. Murphy wasn't just a boy he was at best a troubled delinquent and at worst a dangerous criminal, but either way he was one of Clarke's biggest regrets. Clarke forced everything from the last several hours back behind the dam inside her. Locking away her own personal feelings and bracing herself to step back into the role of efficient and reliable leader.

All feedback welcomed.