"Could you, I don't know, not do that?" Clarke's tone was one Murphy was all too familiar with, and with next to no space and their legs and arms tangled in each other's, sitting still wasn't exactly easy.
"I'm trying to get comfortable." He made a point of dodging her, as he pushed himself up against the dirt wall that surrounded them.
Okay, so they weren't in the greatest of situations. They had somehow ended up together alone, trekking through the woods, having lost the group. One second they were bickering and the next, the ground gave out beneath them, and what wasn't an ideal twist of fate, became much more frustrating, when Clarke's shoes were in Murphy's face, and his hands were pushing against her cheek. After a couple minutes of sorting limbs and rearranging themselves, they came to an awkward crouching position, that started to get uncomfortable really fast.
But— if they were honest with themselves for once when it came to the other, it wasn't as bad as they were making it out to be.
Over the course of several months, an understanding had formed between the two, which eventually became friendship— and then perhaps something more, not that either one of them was in an hurry to admit it. They were more comfortable fighting— it was familiar territory for them, and when they started, it usually got pretty heated, and hell, it was even kind of fun.
"Yeah, well, you're taking up all the room."
Clarke's face and hands were covered in a thin layer of dirt, and Murphy could make out a brand new cut on her forehead, a tiny amount of blood dripping along her skin. Without thinking it through, he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes moving from the cut, to her own, which looked like they could see right through him.
He wiped the blood onto his pants, and tried to give her more room.
"Sorry." He mumbled, his mouth dry, and lips chapped. They had been stuck in this fucking hole, for over an hour at least, and he was starting to cramp, and being in such close proximity to Clarke was not helping, especially when she looked like she'd rather be stuck there with anyone but him.
Honestly, he was right— but not for the reasons he thought.
She hated how her throat had tightened the second he touched her, how when he looked at her she didn't remember exactly how to breathe, and every time he moved around, she could feel him against her, his heart a steady beat, while hers felt like it could explode at any moment.
She hated him, because she didn't hate him at all.
Not anymore.
And it was throwing her off.
"Look, we might as well talk. I don't think anyone is coming any time soon, and, personally, the silence isn't helping."
Clarke narrowed her eyes. She never liked to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him, but he had a point, and in this case, her pride wasn't really the top priority here.
"Fine." She leaned her head back. "What could possibly be on your mind, Murphy? I'd love to know."
That signature grin of his appeared out of nowhere, and she knew it was him initiating a game they often played.
"Really? I'm more interested in what the Princess thinks about before she goes to sleep at night."
Clarke smiled. It was, of all things, playful. Mischievous even.
"I'd tell you, but then i'd have to kill you."
"So you have nothing to lose."
Clarke's smile vanished, and her entire exterior softened.
"Is that what you think?" She looked at her hands. "That I want you dead?"
"Don't you?"
Before she could even answer, the sound of footsteps caused both of their heads to snap upward. They reached for each other, pretty absentmindedly, and when several faces covered in masks, with tattoos peaking out from underneath them, came into view, that's when the situation went from bad, to much worse.
It didn't take long for the grounders to get them out, and back to one of their villages where they were thrown into a room much nicer than the hole, yet it felt far more dangerous. They had space to move, to breathe, to think— but now the chance of them being found by their own people was a lot slimmer.
They were very much on their own for now.
The expression on Murphy's face was beginning to rub Clarke the wrong way, and leave a bad taste in her mouth. She had seen him afraid before. Several times. He didn't hide it very well— but he had grown so much even in the last few weeks, that it wasn't a state she saw him in often.
"We're going to figure this out." She hoped she sounded sincere. For once, she didn't believe in her own words— but she sure as hell wanted him to.
"You don't know what they're capable of, Clarke." He was whispering, a slight tremor in his voice. He slid against the nearest wall, until he was sitting on the ground across from her.
"You think you do. You've got this idea in your head, and it's pretty horrific, but it doesn't come close to surviving through some one on one time with them, when they're angry, and scared and desperate."
Clarke felt sick to her stomach. She remember what he looked like, beaten and bloody, his finger nails ripped away, his skin raw. The outcome of having banished him for his crimes.
He had deserved that punishment.
What he hadn't deserved what the grounders had done to him. No one did.
But she could understand them. (After all, hadn't they done the same to Lincoln?)
"First, they took a couple of nails. I thought that was bad. That it couldn't get much worse— but I was wrong. They chained me up, lashed me until my body didn't feel like it belonged to me anymore. They choked me, cut me, beat me— and then they got me so sick, I was coughing up blood for days before I showed up in camp."
Tears stung in Clarke's eyes, but she blinked them away as quickly as they had come, and Murphy never noticed.
"A lot has changed since then." She tried to keep her voice even. "We've made deals with them before, we can do it again."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then we do what we have to do, and run."
Murphy lifted his head. He knew what she meant. At this point, neither one of them was a stranger to killing, though they both knew it was easier for him then it was for her.
When the grounders came, Murphy stood and walked in front of Clarke. She reached for his hand and held onto it more tightly than she intended, but it sent a much needed warmth through his body. A reminder that he wasn't alone this time.
"What do you want with us?" Clarke asked. She had never been the type of person to stay quiet.
The older of the three men who stood in front of them raised his knife and pointed it toward her.
"You're the one, who gave Finn of the sky people a painless death, he did not deserve."
Clarke almost flinched at the memory of Finn, at the memory of what she did so he wouldn't suffer, so her people wouldn't die.
"That was months ago." Murphy practically hissed. Now the knife was in his face.
"You are correct. But apparently fate was on our side, when it landed you in one of our traps."
He nodded toward one of the men, who grabbed hold of Clarke's wrist, and held a blade to her throat, before leading her outside of the room. Her hand slipped through Murphy's fingers, and the more he fought to get to her, the angrier the other two men got, before one of them brought their fist to his face and he fell to the ground.
"Don't hurt him!" Clarke cried, before she disappeared behind a corner.
(Had he been conscious when she said it, he'd have had the answer to his earlier question.)