Miss Me Princess?
Chapter Eight
Stacking the final slab of wood (crafted by some of the younger 100 to function as plates and trays) onto the top of her pile of dishes, Clarke dried her hands and bid the others good night. She tried not to, but she was smiling as she made her way to her tent. She really shouldn't be smiling: the grounders were sure to attack any day now. But today had been a small personal victory for Clarke and she had learned not to ignore the joy of those small victories, because sometimes the small things (a thank you from a patient, a dry and sunny day, fresh meat for dinner) were her only source of happiness in a life full of dangers and problems. Today she and Murphy had agreed to a fresh start between them. They were friends. When she thought about her interactions with Murphy since his return, she never thought in terms of what he needed from her, or what he expected from her, or what he wanted from her. She didn't have to think about healing him, or giving him answers, or telling him what to do. This was what she had come to expect from every other person she encountered and every other interaction she had. Not since her friendship with Wells, before her dad was floated, had she felt able to just be, and for that to be enough. Clarke had found a kindred spirit in Murphy, she realised, because he was just as alone as she was. Octavia was wrong: yes she had an interest in Murphy, but she wasn't interested in him, not like that. She had felt a connection to him that had now resulted in the beginnings of a friendship. That was what she wanted. That was all.
With a lightness in her step Clarke crossed the camp to her tent and slipped inside. With the flap firmly secured shut, she let out a contented sigh and gave into the happiness, letting it pull her lips up into a bright smile as she flopped down onto her bed. The guilt and shame over all that had happened to Murphy had sat as a heavy burden on her shoulders for weeks, so now that they had agreed a truce, now that she had a second chance to treat him properly – fairly and with respect – Clarke felt as light as a feather. Regret and responsibility no longer weighed her down. The excitement of a second chance blossomed hope in her heart – they would be a good community, the 100. Better than the ark had ever been. She would make sure of it. She would be a better leader.
Clarke was drifting off into the foggy reaches of sleep when a noise startled her into alertness. Her eyes popped open and she sat up to listen. Low and urgent whispers were exchanged just outside her tent. Clarke held perfectly still. The fires were all out by now, there wasn't a hint of light, no shadowy outlines, just thick darkness and muffled sound. Footsteps. The rustling of a tent. More footsteps. Clarke's fingers inched their way under her pillow seeking her knife. "Nothing. Let's leave it tonight." A low and angry voice murmured, sending a chill up her spine. She recognised that voice, and that anger: it was Justin. Murphy.
Gingerly touching his fingers to his lip Murphy grimaced and spat the blood out of his mouth, cursing that it was already swollen. He sat down heavily onto a cot in the shadowy corner of the dark and silent dropship and reached for a box of medical supplies, ignoring the throbbing in his knuckles as he stretched out his hand. A low simmering anger still pulsed through his veins at the cowardly ambush he had walked into. Murphy hadn't expected any less. He had been waiting for it for days in fact, although he hadn't been sure what 'it' would be. But when Clarke had interfered that morning he knew he was living on borrowed time until someone tried something else, something less public.
A life lived in the skybox was all about dominance. There was a hierarchy. There were ring leaders and there were followers. Murphy learned from a young age that if he didn't want to be pushed around he had to become the one who pushed people around. People respected strength so you had to act tough to survive. Coming to earth had shaken up the dynamic most of them had lived by in the skybox. It had made the 100 volatile and unpredictable for the first several weeks before a hierarchy was established. It wasn't openly decided upon, just a natural process of social balancing. With a reputation from the skybox as a menace and a trouble maker, Murphy had substantial weight in the 100 camp. This reputation was solidified when he aligned himself with Bellamy and Miller and the others. But then the Princess had upset the balance by constantly challenging Bellamy. But it wasn't just that, Murphy was sure a lot of the skybox kids would have backed someone like Clarke with her ideas and her bossiness and her can-do attitude. She was an obvious leader. But it wasn't her ideas that were the problem it was where she came from: the daughter of a council member who had served her time in solitary was never going to be supported by a bunch of lower class delinquents from skybox. They had hated her in principal. Thankfully life on earth didn't have the same oppressive restrictions as the ark had. All of a sudden kids, who had lived their lives and made their decisions based on their place in the hierarchy of power, were realising that life wasn't so strict for them anymore. Resources were no longer limited in the same way as they had been on the ark, so they were no longer traded out or extorted. Food and water and the heat of the campfires were all plentiful. Clarke and Bellamy had everyone working hard, but unlike the ark it felt like a community working together and supporting each other. People pulled their weight, not because a guard made sure there was no slacking but because they wanted to: they wanted a bigger fire so they cut more wood, they wanted more tea so they collected more water, they wanted a dry bed so they patched up the tents.
Back with them again, the 100 seemed even more unified than ever to Murphy. But he no longer had a place. And it seemed that some of the males felt threatened by his return, no doubt worried that he would either: go back to his old ways of bullying and intimidating; or fall back in with Bellamy, and that thy would be pushed back down a place in the pecking order. But Murphy knew that wasn't the case: he was no longer in with Miller and the others. Actually it was more than obvious that Bellamy didn't like him, and didn't want him around. And people respected Bellamy Blake. So Murphy was an outsider; he would have to work to earn his way back into the 100, and he wasn't sure how to do that - how to gain respect, without intimidating it out of people. He might have made it back to their camp but he was no longer part of the 100; he was very much alone. But that was ok, he could handle assholes like Justin. He would take that over the cruelty of captivity with the grounders, or the fear and loneliness of banishment any day. And as he riffled through the box of medical supplies, looking for some of Clarke's seaweed water or Monty's moonshine - something to wash out his burst lip with - his thoughts turned to the 100s healer and her offer of friendship. Maybe now he wouldn't be just quite as alone as he had expected to be.
A sound startled him out of his brooding, making him instantly alert and tense. The sound was followed by a shimmer of movement: someone entered the dropship. Murphy stood and faced the entrance, angling his body towards where his pursuers would emerge from the darkness. He would be cornered and trapped he realised as he peered nervously through the black shadows, widening his stance and clenching his muscles, ready to move as soon as they struck. Footsteps padded softly closer and the white arcing sweep of a torch's beam cut across the room, making him cringe and recoil from its fiercely bright light until another sound reached him that was pure music.
"Murphy?" she called out in a whisper and hurried towards him. "Oh my God. What happened?" she asked, shutting off the torch once she was stood in front of him. Murphy exhaled and blinked away the spots in his vision, his tense posture instantly relaxing.
"It's like you said Princess: people don't like me very much. What are you doing here?" He kept his head dipped letting his hair flop forward, hoping it would help conceal his burst lip and not sure what other evidence of the ambush might show on his face. He fixed his gaze on the box of supplies at his feet so she couldn't see his fresh injuries or how happy he was to see her. But Clarke wasn't having it, she scrutinized him closely, dipping and bending and angling around in front of him while he stubbornly kept his head bent.
"People don't like me very much either but no one punches me." She said as she reached out, grasped him firmly by the shoulders and forcefully guided him back a step. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the cot, making him drop back down to sit on it again. Clarke crouched in front of him and grabbed him by the chin forcing him to face her. Murphy tensed and averted his gaze.
"I bet people have thought about it though." he said, "You're just too important for them to actually do it." He couldn't help but sound a little bit bitter about that – the Princess had probably never had to fight for her place. "Besides if you piss off the doctor who's going to heal you the next time you get injured." He joked, but there was a sharpness to his words from an undercurrent of anger. Murphy hated being injured, but even more than that he hated people seeing him injured, hated people seeing him weak.
"You've never let that stop you." She retorted. He looked at her for a moment: unsure how serious she was being. It was true: he had regularly pissed her off, often deliberately. But her features were relaxed, her expression open and her eyes had a teasing glint. He scoffed.
"I don't need a doctor Princess, I don't get hurt. I'm practically invincible." He replied.
"Your lip doesn't agree with you." She said.
"What this? This is nothing." She frowned at him then, her features hardening with disapproval but he was relieved when she didn't ask what he had done. Not that he had done anything, it was that jackass Justin, he had just defended himself. But that was the question he was waiting for her to ask, except she didn't ask anything, didn't reprimand him for fighting or ask who he had been fighting with or what for. Was this a part of friendship, Murphy wondered: a 'no questions asked' acceptance? Not acceptance, no, the concern in her eyes and the creases of her frown weren't accepting, but she was tolerating it. And he knew that wasn't who she was which meant she was making an exception and that had the ghost of a smile threatening to curve his lips for the third time that day. He struggled to supress it and failed so he moulded it into a smirk instead.
"Murphy I saw you barely an hour ago," Clarke said, her frown deepening slightly as she swept his hair back from his face searching for any marks other than the cut on his lip. He tried not to jump at the unexpected touch. He tried not to squirm at the intimacy of feeling her fingers run through his hair.
"Missing me already Princess?" his smirk grew wider as he teased her, because it was easier and safer to avoid and deflect than to tell her the truth, that he had been jumped by Justin and his pals.
"And you were fine," she continued, her eyes shifting back and forth from his eyes to his lip.
"I'm fine now." He countered.
"Murphy-" her tone was exasperated. But just under that there was the barest trace of fear shining in her eyes. Murphy's teasing smirk evaporated as the smile that had lingered beneath it fell away.
"Just leave it Clarke. Ok?" His tone was surprisingly soft as he urged her to let it go. Her deep blue eyes delved into his own steely grey eyes, questioning. He met her stare and held it. This wasn't about dishonesty, just importance. The petty challenges of the 'Justin's' of the camp weren't important to him. Murphy wasn't interested in power, not anymore. She sighed and broke the stare with a resigned expression as she turned to the supplies.
"At least let me clean you up." She said.
"Now try to stay out of trouble long enough to get some sleep." She scolded, packing away the supplies again and heading towards the exit.
"Yes Princess." Murphy drawled from behind her. But she stopped and turned when he didn't follow her and was surprised to see him lying back on the cot and tugging up the blanket.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Going to sleep."
"Here?"
"Yeah. Uh…my tent arrangements didn't work out." He answered awkwardly. He watched her purse her lips in frustration, muffling the questions she was desperate to ask but knew he wouldn't answer.
"So you're sleeping here?" she asked incredulously. He shrugged. "You can't sleep here."
"Why not. I did it for a week when I first got back." He said.
"Yeah but you were injured. And then sick. Only sick or injured people sleep in the dropship. You can't sleep here." She said
"That's a bit discriminatory don't you think." He grouched at her, growing impatient with her relentless persistence.
"Come on you can share my tent." Clarke sighed exasperated.
"What?" Murphy squawked, "I'm not sharing your tent."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because…" he said indignantly.
"Because…?" she repeated.
"Because I'm not!" he said forcefully. Clarke's eyes narrowed to slits and she planted her hands on her hips.
"Are we friends Murphy?" she asked.
"Yes?" he answered a bit uncomfortably, still adjusting to their new status. Part of him was still expecting her to rescind her offer of friendship when she remembered who he was and why she didn't like him.
"Do friends share tents?" she asked.
"Yes but-" He ground out grumpily before Clarke cut him off.
"Then come on. Let's go. It's cold and I'm tired."
"Fine" he huffed and reluctantly climbed up off of the cot and followed her out into the cool night.
Clarke could feel his eyes on her, watching her as they swiftly and silently hurried through the camp to her tent. He walked a pace behind her, his hands jammed into his pockets. She couldn't decide if it was because of the cold sting in the night air or a sign of nervousness. A crunching sound drew her attention and she faltered, her steps coming to a halt as her eyes jumped nervously over their surroundings and her hand closed around the handle of her knife. Murphy stopped a step behind then stepped closer when he saw her grasp the knife.
"What is it?" he muttered close to her ear, freeing his hands from his pockets and eyeing their surroundings carefully.
"A noise… I heard them before, looking for you." His eyes snapped to hers and a hard edge of anger glinted in them "Do you think they're still there?". Clarke watched him, waiting for him to answer as he scanned the dark and quiet camp. Tension had stiffened his back and shoulders and a fierceness tightened his face, thinning his lips and darkening his eyes. But he didn't look scared Clarke noted. He looked like the Murphy from before: fierce, angry and vibrating with a dangerous energy, on the verge of lashing out.
"No." he told her. "I didn't hide where I was going when I headed to the dropship and I was in there long enough that if they had really been looking they would have found me by now. They're gone."
It was just before dawn the next morning, when they were both startled awake by a sudden commotion. Shouts went up followed by a rush of bodies, which caused them both to bolt upright almost simultaneously. They reacted on instinct, brains still lagging behind languishing in sleep. They could sense the buzz of anticipation in the air, which was enough to trigger some deep seated animal instinct and have them both springing up in a matter of seconds from the cosy nest of blankets and furs they were burrowed into, alert and yet unsure what had roused them. Then they registered the unmistakable sound of the camp gate opening, followed by more shouts and dozens of pairs of feet stomping and shuffling in. With a sudden spike of adrenaline Clarke and Murphy leapt to their feet and burst out of the tent; wide awake, breathing hard, and hearts pounding.
It was the hunting party – returning home with two large animal carcases, hoisted up on bearers, carried by a weary and filthy group of hunters. Clarke loosed a sigh of relief while Murphy groaned and cursed their timing.
Clarke watched the tired and bedraggled group as they carried their kills to the main camp fire. They were waved at and called out to by a few of the early risers. There were only a handful of people awake this early to greet them: those who were just finishing the night watch shift, and those up early to relieve them. Then there were a few people, like her and Murphy, who had been wakened by their arrival and were poking their heads out of their tents to see what was going on. Clarke smiled: it was a part of camp life she had always cherished, hunting for their own food. And it was a successful hunt – so another small victory to smile over. Lifting her arms over her head Clarke stretched the tiredness out of her muscles in a long and languid arch of her back. She looked over her shoulder at Murphy and almost laughed. He was sat on the ground in front of her tent, slumped forward and rubbing sleepily at his eyes with tightly clenched fists like a toddler, his knife still clutched in one hand. Lowering his hands, he saw her smiling at him and scowled sullenly up at her before turning his glare on the hunting party, clearly furious at being woken up.
"Not a morning person are you?" she grinned at him cheekily. As she watched him with amusement Clarke realised this was a perfect start to their day. While it might have made Murphy grumpy, they had both woken up and gone out so quickly that there was no time for any morning-after awkwardness. No uncomfortable exchange of 'good mornings', or sneaking out, or worrying who would see them and what rumours they might start. Like ripping off a band-aid – it was done. Reaching past him for her boots, which lay abandoned on the floor of her tent, Clarke plopped herself down on the ground side by side with Murphy, to tug them on and lace them up. He held an arm above his face to block out the sun, then seeming to give up entirely, he flopped down onto his back with a groan, so his head and shoulders fell back into the tent while his legs remained sprawled outside next to Clarke. She laughed at him merrily which seemed to only darken his mood. "I need to go help Bellamy deal with this." She told him, waving a hand towards the hunters. "You coming with or are you going to get breakfast? Or going back to sleep?" she asked brightly.
"Neither. Got guard duty." He groused.
"Ok well be careful." Clarke said. He looked up at her then startled, his bad tempered frown switching to one of confusion. He scrubbed a hand over his cheek self-consciously and looked away from her.
"Uh…yeah. I will be." He replied falteringly. Clarke's smile softened as she wondered when was the last time that someone had shown him that they cared about what happened to him? As she walked off towards the gathered crowd, her smile still in place, she vowed she would do it more often.
Thanks for reading. I welcome any feedback...
