A/N: I don't own these lovely characters, but reviews inspire me to write moe about them! ;) Live long and prosper all! xx
John Murphy knew people. He understood who was good, who was bad, and who realised that the world was made up of only varying shades of grey. He picked up on people's habits, their nervous ticks. He recognised the look in somebody's eyes that meant they were longing for someone, or that their heart had broken, or that they were in love. (He knew hatred and envy and anger, too, and these he knew how to exploit.)
So John knew that Clarke cared for Bellamy. He knew Bellamy cared for Clarke. He knew that they both knew it too, but chose to ignore it an accept it as the norm. (They didn't know it was love.)
But Clarke, who was a grounder and not a grounder, Clarke whose hair he brushed back wearily and un-knotted as she spoke, Clarke who had hands stained with black blood and scarred beyond all repair, she made him doubt all his previous knowledge.
It wasn't so much as what she said, but rather how she said it; her voice shook and seaped with betrayal and hurt, her hands rubbed around her red wrists, her fingers twitched towards her elbow.
Clarke told him that Bellamy had changed. John believed it.
John didn't judge Clarke for what she'd done to the grounders or mountain men, and he wouldn't judge Bellamy either. Leaders always did what they thought was best. Bellamy and Clarke were leaders. He could forgive them for their crimes of war. (But not forget, not completely.)
He wouldn't so easily forgive the destruction of another person.
...Which was hypocritical, really. John knew he'd done bad things. He accepted them, as they were who he was. (He stole for a living. He chased a twelve-year-old off a cliff. His father's death was his fault.) But Clarke? She was different. She had done bad; awful things, and she was trying to make it better. John was not. She wanted to help, John did not. But she despised herself, as did he, and he couldn't hate her, not really. Not for what she'd done, nor for who she was.
The problem, John thought with a sigh, was simply that Clarke was expected to be good when she just wasn't. She knew it. (She was leading thousands of people. Nobody could be good and fill such a role.) Nobody ever expected anything good from John Murphy. He was happy not to disappoint. (He was leading himself. He decided for himself what was right and what was not; he made his own path from whatever he desired.)
In the past they had fought, they had hated, they had glared. John Murphy and Clarke Griffin were not friends. (Maybe it was because they were similar, now, that John had to re-evaluate his opinions.)
But listening as Clarke tried to explain what had happened- why the bald man, (Titus,) had tortured him for information on both herself and their people, John couldn't hate her.
She didn't bother brushing away the tears hanging on her lashes and dragging down her cheeks, and John found himself staring at a broken girl. (Clarke and broken were not two words usually associated with each other, but John found them sadly fitting.)
He let her be. John tore his back open, pounding on the door, and Clarke broke out of her stupor to yank him onto the furry (blood-stained) bed and her hands shook as she observed the damage. And to distract her, as she scrounged for something to stitch him up, John began to talk. About his father, first, and then Emori. (Clarke's eyes began to clear. John tried to stop feeling like it was a success- a relief.)
And then it was her turn, and she sat as John sassed and grouched and told her her hair was crap and no wonder things had gotten so bad, really. She didn't laugh, but she smiled a bit.
"I haven't had time," She said quietly, holding a ratty dreadlock between her fingertips, and John rolled his eyes. He chopped through her hair for what must have been hours, and Clarke talked. About her father, her mother and her control, her deceit, about Finn's death. About Lexa. And only for a moment about Bellamy. She told him the basic details, and John pieced together the rest. Bellamy Blake had taken the shattered pieces of Clarke's slowly healing heart and wrenched them apart before stomping on them violently. The one person Clarke was supposed to be able to trust had thrown her fears into her face and handcuffed her to a table. (And John's favourite part- he had then tried bringing her to his homicidal leader. A++, Bellamy!)
When Clarke was done talking, her hair was brushed and cleaned and John was kind of surprised at it's length. Maybe the ground made hair grow faster, because it was long, almost to her waist. He braided it back like Emori had taught him, and then they sat side by side and came up with a plan.
And John Murphy found out that he and Clarke Griffin made a good team.
(She'd forgiven him without words, he'd comforted her in his own way.)
Long after being locked in Polis, when the war was over and Emori was at John's side again, he saw Bellamy. Not to say that Bellamy hadn't done his part; which he had, it was simply that he and his former leader had yet to speak.
"Murphy," Said Bellamy, and John looked him over. He was haggard, with his curly hair falling into his eyes and a new scar curling on one cheekbone. There was a pause, and Bellamy shifted on his feet. Then John punched him.
Bellamy fell back, stumbling slightly, before easing up again slowly, massaging his jaw and eyeing John distrustfully. "Ah," he grumbled. "Good to see you too. That's for starting the war, I suppose?"
"No." John replied, looking Bellamy in the eyes, before marching off casually to find Clarke.
Bellamy watched him go.