[ The medical department of the jail isn't inherently awful, though Bellamy had taken his relocation to it extremely poorly. It'd been half about the way they'd pried him away from Murphy and half about the sickening familiarity of it. A cool voice stating Harvest had pinged through his mind, and he'd struggled but in the end it had been no use. He's too ill to be formidable. His skin is slick with fever-sweat, and he's vomited up everything in his body. The room spins if he tries to sit up.
Not that he can sit up. There are cuffs keeping him in place. Bellamy can't do anything but reach out mentally, grasping for any sense of familiarity. He finds Murphy, curling wordlessly into the contact between them. It's just pressure and worry; Bellamy's fear is smothered behind the urge to be sure Murphy's alright, wherever he is. ]
spitballin' this.
Not that he can sit up. There are cuffs keeping him in place. Bellamy can't do anything but reach out mentally, grasping for any sense of familiarity. He finds Murphy, curling wordlessly into the contact between them. It's just pressure and worry; Bellamy's fear is smothered behind the urge to be sure Murphy's alright, wherever he is. ]