A/N: #StopJRoth2016
Warnings for: Murphy/Emori, discussions of canon sexual assault, mild (self) victim blaming, ambiguous setting (where are they? when is this? we just don't know), implied sexual content, standard hurt/comfort.
Title comes from "Ghost" by Halsey.
"Emori, wait."
Emori stills, then gradually settles her weight back down onto John's lean thighs. Impatience rears inside her, but stills at the look on John's face. She resists the sudden urge to curl her deformed hand into a fist, to make it smaller, less obvious. That's not why he stopped her. Surely not.
John stares up at her in the semi-darkness for another moment, then averts his gaze. Sets his jaw, like a petulant child. Emori recognizes this look. "Look, I don't know what kind of freaky diseases you guys might have down here," John says. "But I thought I'd – err on the side of caution, or whatever."
Emori cocks her head. "Calling a girl diseased – that's romantic."
"Not you, asshole," John says, giving her hips a gentle squeeze and meeting her eyes again. He then goes back to what he'd been doing before, which is rubbing nervous circles with his thumbs over her jutting hipbones. It's distracting in the best possible way, and Emori wishes he'd either knock it off or let her resume what she'd been doing. "Me."
"You," Emori clarifies.
"Yeah," John says. His gaze flicks away again – looking toward the fire, of all things. "There was – someone else."
As close as she is to him – literally straddling his bare legs – John has to feel it when she tenses up. It's out of surprise, mostly. From what John has told her about his time in Polis, his energy had mostly been spent trying not to die. He hasn't felt the need to share much else, and Emori hasn't pressed for more. Yet.
"Oh," Emori says finally. "I didn't realize you had the time, during all the torture."
"I was tortured," John says. Emori believes him; she's seen the fresh scars. Still, this just doesn't make sense. "I guess that was just – less painful torture."
Emori frowns. "What do you mean?" she asks. "Speak plainly, John, or we'll both die of old age first."
John clenches his jaw again, then unclenches it. "I didn't want to," he says. "But it was that or get my head chopped off. Or something equally shitty."
Emori abruptly wishes he hadn't decided to have this conversation while they were both undressed. It feels strange, not right, to be kneeling over him while he talks about – whatever this person had done to him, or had made him do to them. "Who was it?" Emori asks quietly. "Your captor?"
"Ontari," John says, pronouncing the word like he's eating a bitter fruit. "The new commander. Well. Not so new anymore, I guess."
Emori recognizes the name; John has spoken of her before, but he'd never let on that she – well. That he'd had much contact with her, outside of political games to keep himself alive. "She was going to kill you," Emori surmises, frowning.
"She sure made it sound that way," John says, his gaze still on the fire. In the orange light, his eyes look much darker than normal. His hands are still on her hips; Emori can't tell if it's his skin that's grown clammy, or her own. Perhaps both. "If I didn't give her what she wanted."
"John," Emori says, somewhat at a loss. She hadn't expected this. If she'd known, if she'd had any idea –
"I told her that I had someone," John says abruptly, looking at her now. His expression remains stony, but in his eyes, there's a flicker of an emotion that Emori recognizes. Panic. "She didn't give a shit, obviously. I mean, why would she? She killed kids. I didn't think she'd really give a fuck about killing me."
"John," Emori repeats, moving her hands to rest over his. Twining their fingers together, as best she can. "I'm not angry with you."
He stares at her, hard. Her John – and he is her John, no matter what some now dead commander had once dared to think – always wary, always searching for the first sign of betrayal. Emori empathizes. "You're not," he says, finally.
"Of course not," Emori says. "She forced you. Would you be angry with me, if someone else could stand to touch me? If they forced me?"
"Don't talk like that," he mutters, squeezing her bad hand. Clinging to it, really. Between their bodies, Emori notes, he's gone soft; she's not particularly offended, given the nature of this conversation.
"You did what you had to," she says, just loudly enough to be heard over the crackling of the fire. She leans down, presses a kiss to his sharp jaw, then his mouth. His lips part under hers, wanting, but Emori pulls back. She has a vow to make. "If I could, I'd kill her."
"She's already dead," John points out.
"I know," Emori says. "She deserved worse."
John says nothing, just squeezes her hand again – so lightly that he doesn't seem to be aware of doing it. "You know, I think the worst part was the collar," he says suddenly, looking to the flames again. He can't seem to look at her and talk about this at the same time, but Emori doesn't mind. The fact that he's trusting her with it at all is more than she could've hoped for, once. "And the chain. She kept it on me while I fucked her."
Hatred coils in Emori's chest. She'd meant it. She'd kill that girl, commander or not, if she hadn't already been slain. "She can't keep you chained anymore," Emori says fervently. "You'll never be chained again."
John smiles wryly. He relies on wit when he's uncomfortable. It's something Emori cherishes, in a strange way, even as it frustrates her. "So I take it you're not into rough stuff. I'm a bit surprised."
Despite herself, Emori smiles. "Shof op," she says fondly. "I can be rough, if you want me to. But only if you want me to."
"Yeah," John says. This time, when he squeezes her hand, it's intentional. A show of trust and something else, harder to name. "Okay."