Miss Me Princess?

Chapter Five

[1x10 – 'I Am Become Death']

Murphy lumbered slowly past Octavia and into the dropship, paying careful attention to the heavy load he carried, even as his arms started to tremble under her weight and too many days of being weakened by fever and healing injuries. He moved carefully, mindful of his depleted strength and conscious of the fact that Clarke's head had dropped like a heavy weight onto his shoulder some minutes ago - her forehead tucked into his neck, her arms dangling over his shoulders and her legs sagging over his arm - she was limp and unmoving, and therefore probably unconscious. He worried that if he jostled her too much the precarious hold he had on her - with her weight carefully balanced against him - would falter and he would drop her. Octavia let the curtain fall closed behind Murphy then turned to survey the dropship interior.

"Shit." She swore softly. They were faced with an uncomfortably overcrowded dropship: sick bodies and makeshift beds strewn across the floor. Slumped sleeping bodies were propped up against the walls or one another, while others lay collapsed and prone on the floor. The room was littered with an array of water flasks and food bowls and a patchwork of blankets were spread out before them, filling every available surface and cluttering the cramped space. "Where are we going to put her?" Octavia asked, her eyes scanning over all of the sick with a sad frown. With a grunt Murphy jerked his head towards a still vacant rumpled cot in the back corner.

"That one's mine." He said then started edging around sleeping bodies towards it. Again Octavia leapt forward to help, darting in front of Murphy and working as best she could to carve out a path for him, clearing a passable trail around the dozens of shivering patients and their bundles of blankets, bloody cloths and flasks of lukewarm seaweed tea, as they weaved their way to Murphy's cot on the far side of the room.


Octavia was placing a freshly soaked cloth on her forehead when Clarke stirred. Groaning and blinking repeatedly, she squinted up at the figure beside her in confusion.

" 'Tavia?" her dry mouth and swollen throat made her voice thick and croaky " 'm sorry I sent you to see Lincoln." Clarke mumbled sleepily.

"That's ok I'm back now." Octavia assured her gently. "Now we know when the grounders are coming and we can be ready." The younger girl was doing her best to be reassuring and positive, trying to channel the way she had witnessed Clarke and Bellamy speak when they were acting as leaders to the camp. But it didn't seem to matter, Murphy was sure that Clarke was too out of it to fully understand what either she or the brunette were talking about.

"Bellamy was really mad," was Clarke's response. "Hope he's not angry with you."

"He'll get over it." Octavia dismissed with a shrug, failing to hide her smile at the dreamy demeanour of their normally serious and overbearing leader.

"So I'm not going to die from the grounders' sickness?" Clarke asked, which quickly wiped away all traces of Octavia's amusement.

"Lincoln says they don't use it to kill." Octavia repeated "He said he knew I wouldn't get sick so I guess some people don't even get infected by it," she explained thoughtfully. "You're strong so you'll be fine. We'll have you better in no time." Octavia told her as she fussed with Clarke's blanket, unable to look the sick girl in the eye and promise her it would be ok. Clarke just nodded her head, like a naive child easily consoled – so unlike the Clarke they were used to.

"An' Murphy's not going to die either, right?" Her eyes had been drifting shut but sprang back open and bounced between Octavia and Murphy looking for an answer.

"You're better." She said to Murphy. Telling him rather than asking him.

"Yeah I'm better." He agreed. Realising for the first time in hours how long it had been since he last vomited or had a nose bleed. He really was better.

"And I'm better." She said.

"No not yet," he frowned and told her softly. "You've got a fever. But you'll be fine." But she didn't seem to hear him.

"It's all better." She continued. "You're better, I'm better, we're all going to be better this time. We won't make the same mistakes." At the mention of mistakes a chill ran through Murphy's blood as he realised she wasn't talking about their health when she spoke about being 'better'. His heart squeezed in understanding of that guilt and regret. "I'm so glad you came back Murphy." Her eyelids started to droop again as sleep forced them closed, "You're better. And I'm better. It'll be better this time." She repeated in a whisper. With that she was asleep and Murphy could only stare down at her pale clammy face in shock, wishing that the younger Blake hadn't been there to witness that strange exchange.


Murphy's fingers dug deeper into the flesh of Clarke's biceps as she trembled and hung over the edge of the cot, leaning further out as another wretch ripped at her insides and tore up her throat. Murphy cringed at the sound. Her body shuddered in his hold and the heat of the fever burned through her sweat dampened clothes. When he was sure she was finished Murphy helped her pull herself back onto the cot, her limbs flopping like jelly from the exertion of throwing up yet again. Tears coated her cheeks, salt water tears not the blood tears of the grounder sickness. The air was pulled sharply out of his lungs as he noticed them, his guilt crushing his chest. This was his fault. He had made her sick. She had looked after him and been kind to him since he had come back to the camp and this was what she got for it. He gently adjusted her position on the cot, making sure the thin blanket covered her properly, anxious that she got what little protection and comfort it could offer.

Clarke swiped the back of her hand across her mouth with a grimace and watched him.

"You're helping me." Her voice was scratchy and hoarse.

"Yeah." He answered tightly, not meeting her eyes as he turned to grab a cloth and some water. "You helped me." He said a bit defensively. She nodded and sighed as he mopped her sweaty brow, her eyes fluttering shut. Murphy thought she had fallen back to sleep when she spoke again.

"You said you don't hate me. Is that really true? You should. Why don't you hate me John?" Murphy tensed. The words came out in one long stream of consciousness like they were thoughts rather than actual questions for him to answer. So he didn't answer and he told himself that it was because of the airy tone of voice and glassy glaze over her eyes which assured him she wouldn't remember this anyway once the fever lifted. But there was a faint whisper in his ear telling him that he didn't answer because he didn't know the answer. He didn't hate her – that was true. He should hate her – that was also true. So why didn't he…?

"People don't like you very much." Her words pulled him out of his thought and he turned to find her watching him, looking far less sleepy and delirious than he had thought.

"No." he confirmed looking away from her face.

"You're mean and kind of a bully." Her tone was neutral but her words jabbed at Murphy painfully. His jaw flexed. "But I don't care about that." She continued. He frowned, eyes snapping to her in confusion.

"You don't?" he asked sceptically.

"Nope." A smile spread across her face then. It was loose and laced with the drugging inhibitions of fevered delirium. " 'Cause people don't like me either. But I'm going to like you." She reached out with a finger and stroked a feather light touch along the line of one of the healing gashes across his cheek. It took a concerted evert not to flinch away from such a tender touch.

"You are?" there was the slightest tremble in his voice, panic at the show of… What was it? Compassion? Kindness? Friendship? Murphy didn't have the word to describe the way Clarke had acted towards him since his return. He didn't understand it, it was unfamiliar to him.

"Uh huh." She nodded. Murphy wanted to believe that the sparks dancing in her smiling eyes were from genuine emotion rather than fever. "I'm going to be your friend. Even if you don't want me to. I'll be nice, and helpful, and I won't get annoyed or angry even if you're mean to me. I won't be mean to you again. And I won't let Bellamy banish you."


Sluggishly Clarke pulled herself forcefully out of a deep black abyss. It was a slow and meticulous climb that she felt she had been trying to summit many times before she finally succeeding in hauling herself up over the ledge of sleep and into consciousness. Eventually Clarke was awake. She knew she was awake. But her brain was still lethargically rebooting which left her foggy and disoriented. Things gradually began to surface in her mind. Awareness. Memories. Understanding. All steadily solidifying from wispy vapours, to blurs and flashes, to a jumble of disorganised thoughts.

The dropship! That's where she was - in the dropship - she was sure. The coppery smell of blood itched at her nose. The sour stench of sweat, unwashed bodies and vomit mingled in the heavy air of the enclosed space. The blanket she was cocooned in carried another scent on it, masked slightly by the more persistent odours of sweat and blood and seaweed, it was softer and nicer to breathe in. She burrowed her nose into the scratchy fabric and inhaled. Murphy. She was on Murphy's cot.

It felt like she had been sleeping for days. Maybe she had, hadn't Murphy done just that when they brought him to her after the grounders tortured him. Clarke didn't like the unsettling thought of losing time: losing days from her life - snatched away from her while she slept. It felt strangely vulnerable. To be helpless and exposed for so long, and completely unaware at the same time. The feel of sweat and grime and grit coating her skin and her straggly matted hair were all indications of the passing of time. Also the fact that - despite how dirty and weak she felt - she actual felt better. Thirsty, hungry and weak, but well. Because before the blackness swallowed her she had been ill. Everyone had been getting sick, she remembered.

A sudden remembrance of the dozens of patients she had had before she succumbed to the illness herself made her tense, her heart starting to race. The responsibility of caring for all the others; she had let them down. Were they suffering? With a great deal of effort Clarke pushed up, levering up on her forearms and wedging her elbows under her, her eyes scanned the dropship, raking over each body critically. Some were still visibly sick and suffering…but others were there helping them. Others looked like her and Murphy – better, recovering. Clarke spotted one or two figures, frighteningly still and covered head to toe by blankets. She looked quickly away, not yet strong or focused enough to deal with what she knew that meant.

Her eyes wandered to a hunched figure she recognised as Bellamy. He looked sick, his nose bleeding. Murphy was trying to hand him a rag and water. She couldn't hear them but could see the tension in both of their postures and the sneer on Bellamy's face as he stubbornly shoved Murphy's hands away. Murphy's eyes narrowed into a dark scowl and Clarke saw rather than heard him spit out heated words which had Bellamy barring his teeth in anger. But before he could reply Octavia was upon them and Clarke watched in astonishment as both men froze and Octavia began to sternly scold the pair. Clarke watched on wide-eyed and stunned at the strange spectacle: two of the group's oldest and most imposing males being rebuked by a little brunette who barely reached their shoulders. Even more astonishing was the matching sheepish expressions on Murphy and Bellamy's faces. Murphy was starring resolutely at Octavia's boots, scuffing the toe of his own into the ground while Bellamy sat with his head ducked and shoulders hunched. An unexpected warmth expanded throughout Clarke's chest and a bubble of laughter swelled up, squeezed between her lungs and out in a light sound that floated over the top of a shuddering breath.

Octavia stood with one hand on her hip the other pointing an angry and accusing finger back and forth between the men in a way that threatened violence beyond what her size would suggest her capable of. There was a pause then a fierce stomp of Octavia's foot had Bellamy cringing and Murphy jerking his head up to reluctantly look at the Blake siblings. Clarke watched with a smile as Murphy's face contorted into a sour look, he moodily turned to Bellamy and grudgingly muttered something through barely moving lips. Bellamy now looked queasy and even paler as, with a tired sigh, he mumbled something back. They both glanced reproachfully at Octavia who gave a sharp nod. Bellamy snatched up the dropped cloth and Murphy quickly scampered off. Octavia had made them apologise to each other. A louder laugh frothed in her throat at the realisation and her cheeks stretched with the smile that was pulling at her lips. Go Octavia!

Octavia….

She was connected to the sickness…

Because she went to see Lincoln about a cure.

It was a grounder sickness.

Biological warfare.

They were going to attack!

The sudden rush of blood in her head left her feeling lightheaded. It pounded noisily through her ears as panic sailed through her veins. Everything came flooding back in an overwhelming wave of feelings and a flash of images. But before she could work herself up into a frenzy that would have her falling back into the black abyss of unconsciousness in a faint, someone was beside her and she irrationally felt less afraid simply because she was no longer alone.

"Clarke? Hey, you're ok. Breathe Princess!" A familiar voice spoke as a body sat down next to her.

"Murphy! The grounders. The sickness. They're attacking. When-? Have they-? I thought-? Wh-wh-what's-?" violent pants pumped at her lungs and diaphragm as she pulled in air too rapidly. Her chest ached. Her mouth went dry and the muscles in her throat convulsed.

"Jesus Clarke stop!" Murphy shouted as he reached out and gripped her firmly. "It's ok. Take a deep breath." He demanded, a hand moving to her back and rubbing with soothing pressure. She sucked in a breath, then another, gasping for more.

"Octavia came back from seeing Lincoln. She said they were attacking at first light?" Clarke continued frantically.

"That was yesterday. I'll tell you what you've missed but you need to not freak out ok? Just stay calm." Murphy urged. She nodded. Forcing her breaths to slow down and lengthen.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"I remembered some things, from when I was captured by the grounders: there's this bridge… Anyway we blew it up. Raven made a bomb with rocket fuel from the exodus crash site. The bridge is destroyed, they can't come that way now." He explained.

"When?" the question was as flimsy as the exhale it floated out on, but she was no longer hyperventilating at least.

"You got sick early yesterday. Raven blew the bridge last night after dark. It's now the day after, only a couple hours until dark." Murphy said.

"I was out for over 24hours?" she asked stunned.

"Yeah." He nodded with a grim expression.

"So we're…ok?" she hesitated, not really sure how to properly put into words what she wanted to know.

"We've delayed them. We bought ourselves time to prepare…but they're still going to come." Now that her panic had subsided Clarke recognised the subtle lines of fear in his grave face.

"But we'll be ready for them. We'll have recovered from the sickness. That's good news. Is Raven ok after the bomb? She's not hurt?" Clarke's thoughts ricocheted from one thought to the next, still trying to get a grip on everything. Murphy quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Think we would have let you sleep in all day if Raven needed a doctor?" He teased and she finally relaxed, slumping back onto the bundle of covers with a smile and huffed a laugh as the tension poured out of her.


Dark had fallen several hours ago. The camp was still a hive of activity despite the late hour. Even more scouts than usual were patrolling the perimeter with guns and watchful eyes. Clarke watched the tree line, her eyes desperately seeking to penetrate the dark as her ears strained to pick up any approaching sound. Still no grounder attack; they had delayed them by a full day, but for how much longer?

It was strange Clarke thought, how much quieter it was out here, when there was only a crudely assembled wall separating her from the 100 and their camp. Except there weren't 100 anymore. Her lungs constricted with a painful jolt as she looked over their graveyard. It had grown far quicker than she would have imagined. Once it was obvious that there was no radiation to kill them, Clarke had been naively optimistic about the 100's chances for survival, even after their first encounter with the grounders. Maybe that naivety was part of the reason there were so many freshly dug graves before her now.

"You're outside the wall without a gun." Bellamy's voice was low and accusation lined his words but there was no force behind the reprimand so she ignored it. She knew her reason wasn't good enough - that she just couldn't bear the thought of caring something with her that was meant for killing someone when she would never have the heart to use it, not so soon after seeing so much death from the sickness.

"Fourteen graves." Clarke said as he came to stand beside her.

"We need to talk about Murphy." It seemed that they were each just going to ignore the things they didn't want to talk about.

"He was right about the bridge." Clarke told him, not feeling any need to ignore this topic.

"We'll see." Bellamy sounded uncertain. Clarke wasn't sure if he was still unconvinced by Murphy or if his concern was about their effectiveness in halting the grounder attack by bombing the bridge.

"We need as many soldiers as we can get." Clarke urged. He frowned at her.

"So what, we have pardon power now?" there was uncertainty again but this tone she recognised as a reflection of her own insecurity in their ability to run things. Bellamy doubted and second guessed decisions just as often as she did, Clarke had come to learn. While she suspected that most of the 100 would have been disheartened by the hesitance of each of their leaders, especially from a man who had campaigned for his power and influence under the slogan 'whatever the hell we want', it had comforted Clarke to realise Bellamy struggled just as much as she did with their roles of being in charge.

"It's hard running things." Clarke smiled wryly up at him. He scowled at her. She knew that if he had any real objections to Murphy he would have made them by now. Clarke turned her attention back to the graves at her feet, eyes sweeping over them each in turn one last time as she pictured each of the patients she hadn't been able to save.

"Fourteen." She said sadly, turning and walking away, back towards the gates.

"Clarke." Bellamy called, turning to face her. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "I'll see about getting Murphy a tent first thing tomorrow." She smiled back at him then headed back into the camp, with at least some of the pressure lifted off her shoulders.


Thank you to everyone who has read, and reviewed, and followed, and favorited. I wasn't sure this story would be very well received but it seems I'm not the only one with a fancy for Clarke/Murphy. I'm so glad people are liking it.

Any feedback is always welcomed...so review and tell me what y'all think!