Clarke had sent Raven out to collect some scraps for her next big mechanical game-changer. Of course, the blonde leader knew of the risks, and after a deep breath, looked pointedly over at Murphy who stood by the gate on watch. Clarke continued to stare at him, and he stared back, his gaze only trailing after Raven when she trotted past him, a gun slung over her shoulder. When he met Clarke's eyes again, her eyebrows were raised. The cogs in his head rotated stiffly. Oh. He gave an melodramatic sigh and hoisted his gun a little higher, and then he followed after the spitfire.
Clarke watched them until they were out of sight, lost among the green foliage. Her forehead creased as they disappeared. She didn't trust Murphy, not entirely, not yet. But, begrudgingly, she knew that he was at least somewhat protective of Raven, and she would willingly take that if it kept her friend safe.
Raven plodded along the overgrown path, a rucksack now filled with metal scrap. She hummed to herself, trying to tune out Murphy's babbling; she'd humoured him for half the walk already.
Then, he collided into her, and her name peeled off his lips in a gruff hurry. She knew that voice, so like Bellamy's: it only meant trouble. She ducked and crawled through the nearest bush, heaving the bag after her. No way was she leaving it behind. Clambering back into a battle-ready position, Raven aimed her gun, although as she was doing so Murphy was already lowering his.
"All good?" she called. A few shots had ricocheted through the leafage, accompanied by a final yell from further away. Ground underfoot crunched as Murphy pushed through the branches, not even flinching when they scraped against his cheeks. His gun fell first, then he collapsed after it.
"Better than ever," he answered in a chipped tone. He flopped onto his back, the arrow burrowed in his chest a blazing heat.
Raven could see his lips moving, mumbling something under his breath. She leaned forward to catch the last string of the soliloquy.
"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
She wanted to slap him upside the head for reciting something so grim in a time like this, but this was John Murphy, true to his nature, even till the bitter end. "You're a dork, Murphy."
"Yeah, well, you're a tech geek, Reyes." There was a grin; his mouth spread wide across his face, lips bloody. Then it dissolved, just as his body had begun to convulse in a fit of coughing. Raven knew he didn't have much longer. She also knew she should hate him. (She can't.)
Murphy's eyes were on her again. "I'd choose you first."
All too familiar words.
(Of course you would. I'm awesome)—
"I'd choose you too."
The words were out of her mouth before she could even process them, but she didn't mind knowing it would be the last thing John Murphy heard. And, she thought, if life on the ground wasn't so hectic, (and he smiled like he was right now a little more often), she might just let herself love him.
(It's another sin to add to his long list if he denies he does.)