station72 | [closed] should've heard them knocked-out jailbirds sing

[ Bellamy doesn't know cells. His thoughts skid sideways to cages. He shifts fretfully on the bed, as if to try sitting up again, but relaxes at the sudden sense of warmth. His fingers twitch, grasping, and it jars him away from that train of thought and pulls him back to the moment, to Murphy pressing for an answer. ]

( I make people sick. When I touch them. ) [ This is a haphazard explanation, but it's the best Bellamy can do. He doesn't quite understand it himself. ] ( Then I get sick too. )

[ It hadn't been intentional. He'd lost control, and it had triggered something in him. He'd seen the burns spreading from beneath where his fingers gripped, the same as it had been in the Ven Diagram building. It hadn't been this time, and Bellamy isn't sure he won't regret that somewhere down the line, even after the sickness passes. ]

Edited (whoops x 2) 2016-12-08 23:53 (UTC)

[It isn't the word "what" that rises in Murphy's mind so much as the general sense of it. None of what Bellamy's thinking makes sense - cages instead of cells, the idea of anyone being able to make people sick by touching them, let alone the fact Murphy could think of multiple instances of Bellamy touching others without this happening. But maybe it was Murphy's mistake, asking questions while Bellamy was this sick.]

( You should sleep. ) [And get better, even though suspicion and distrust towards the Concordians and how they might be treating Bellamy still gnaws at his stomach.] ( You won't be missing anything, trust me. )

[The most that had happened since he'd arrived had been one of his cellmates trying the old posture and intimidate dance. He hadn't backed down from it, and since then they'd all left him alone.]

[ Maybe he should sleep. The Darkling had talked him to sleep before, and Bellamy had been the better for it. But there's still a flash of irritation at Murphy's direction as Bellamy clings on stubbornly, winding closer.

He doesn't offer an answer. He just trades a memory of the first time he'd used his powers. It's a better explanation, as Bellamy displays the way the skin of the guard's throat had gone black and burned under his hands before he'd collapsed. It was the same then as it had been this time. The same burns, the same effects, and the same feverish illness that had risen up to knock Bellamy off his feet. He displays it with a sense of impatience; he's demanding Murphy believe him.

Or just dragging out the contact. Focusing on anything other than the memories this place provokes is for the best. ]

[Irritation is met with some mild exasperation, but it wasn't like Murphy could make him sleep, and he could understand the desire not to. He still doesn't think it's a good idea to keep talking to Bellamy while he's like this, enough that he's emanating scepticism even for him offering a memory.

It doesn't last long. Gives way swiftly to alarm, revulsion at the guard's blackened skin, the wave of sickness that doubled back. And then, probably quicker than most might expect, grim acceptance.]

( It's the bug, isn't it. )

[Bellamy hadn't been able to do that on the ground. Murphy would've known, because everyone else would've known, too. Which meant it was one more facet of this screwed up alien shit they were knee-deep in now. There's a burst of bitter frustration and regret that it hadn't worked, getting the symbiotes cut out.]

( Can we all do that, or did you just get lucky? )

( We can all do something. It's not always like this. )

[ He unwillingly remembers Shiro losing control, blacking out rage, and Petre's casual admission that he can control minds. Bellamy doesn't know whether that kind of power would be any easier to deal with.

The bright bursts of emotion from Murphy are good for Bellamy. He focuses on them, lets them hook and drag at his own. His thoughts snag on the bare, vulnerable nape of Murphy's neck; he's not as sorry as he should be that Kulap didn't get a chance to cut into him. Maybe he's already too acclimated to the link. Maybe for all his and Lexa's desperate hopes to remain otherwise, he's assimilating slowly. Thinking about it makes him feel sicker than he already is. ]

( It'll pass. )

[ Reassuring, right? ]

[There's a prickle of cold fear that crawls over the surface of Murphy's mind. They can all do something, which means there's something lurking in him, something like Bellamy's sickness, or uncontrollable rage, or--

Knowing something, when he had no way to know it.

He lifts a hand to his neck, palm pressing over the back, like some guard against the vulnerability Bellamy saw there. Wanting the thing rooting into his brain gone hadn't just been about the link, the Nest. It had been a first step. And now he's lost that chance, and this, what Bellamy's showing him, it's taking him further away.]

( How long? )

[He focusses on that. The here and now, Bellamy getting better. Not the past, and not home. Not Emori.]

( Ten, twelve hours. I don't know. )

[ But it passes. Bellamy knows that beyond doubt, even if he can't give Murphy anything exact. He tries to project that certainty in the wake of the statement. His hands curl and uncurl on the bed restlessly as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in through his nose.

He should ask something else. Ask how Murphy was, even if that would just agitate him. But instead he just settles into the contact, clinging on tightly enough that he ends up shuddering through the sense of phantom fingers on his neck. ]

[It's too close, suddenly. Bellamy feels like an echo through him, heartbeat, breath, the thick fog of sickness in his head. Murphy flinches back, hand dropping, the connection between him and Bellamy spinning loose like a thread unspooling. It sends Murphy reeling in cold distance and disorientation, and for a second he's back on the cliff. The blistering sound of arrows cutting the air, hitting the dirt around him, Finn and Monroe's shouts, the rope sliding in his grip, slipping.

He catches it. Grabs it back abruptly, tension juddering through the line. His hands feel raw and burning, and he takes a long, slow breath, bracing. Reaching through again.]

[ The connection slips abruptly, thrusting Bellamy back to the smooth face of the cliff and the sensation of dropping with nothing to catch hold of. It turns his stomach, exacerbating the nausea that Bellamy hasn't been able to shake. He heaves, but there's nothing left to vomit up, just his body rebelling. He sits halfway up, unable to manage anything more as he coughs, gasping past the dizziness. The nurse across the room taps his clipboard, eyes sharp.

Harvest pricks at the edges of his mind again, punctuated by the phantom grip of harsh hands at his arms. Bellamy coughs again, teeth gritted. It takes a long moment to become aware of Murphy's renewed presence. Bellamy doesn't project any verbal acknowledgement, but the request takes shape in the wordless grasp, spooling red between them. Don't go.

It's hard to lay back down slowly. He's only half aware of his body. Too much of his mind has scattered, and composure is difficult to muster right now. ]

[If Murphy had felt spun loose for a moment, Bellamy had taken it much worse. Murphy doesn't apologise, but it's there in his mind as he pulls the line in again, steadies it closer, keeps a little distance measured out for breathing room. Every time he thinks he's got a basic hold on how these connections work, something like this happens, changes his understanding of what they can do, what they can share. How they can impact each other. He wonders if anyone had ever gone mad, mind bouncing off the rest of the Nest like a ricocheting bullet. Maybe Cathaway was a preferable state.]

( You should sleep. )

[He repeats, both for something to say and because he believes it. Twelve hours of this wasn't going to be pleasant to stay awake through, and maybe Bellamy would recover faster if he rested. Murphy hesitates for a moment, then adds:]

( I'm not going anywhere. )

[It's not an assurance he'd ordinarily think to make to Bellamy. That he'd think Bellamy would accept from him. But he remembers Bellamy holding him steady as he'd panicked in the festival, remembers Bellamy clutching onto Lexa with the arm that wasn't fractured. And further back than that, he remembers Octavia holding Bellamy's hand in the dropship quarantine, remembers his parents taking turns at his bedside when he had the flu, one of them always there when he woke up. He can't be beside Bellamy right now, but he can do this: hold on and keep holding on.]

[ It's bad when he's sick. It's all the remembered sensations exacerbated by the nausea and his inability to stall against them. Murphy's steadiness is appreciated, the same way Sam Wilson's hand on his back had been, or Octavia's fingers lacing through his. Murphy links them together, keeps Bellamy from slipping the same way he'd done once before, and Bellamy's grateful for it.

There's a surge of reluctance at Murphy's suggestion. Bellamy doesn't have any interest in sleep, even if he suspects he'd maybe be fortunate enough to miss out on the worst of these symptoms. He doesn't want to leave Murphy alone. He doesn't want to be asleep if the Darkling reaches out to him again. But he can't do much of anything if he's this week. He turns the connection over if winding a rope through his fingers, securing himself. ]

( Okay. )

[ Even with Bellamy digging his heels in, he drops off. His body wants sleep, even if Bellamy doesn't. Murphy's a presence in his head, up until the moment Bellamy tips into unconsciousness and things blur. Once, just once, Bellamy wants an uninterrupted sleep.

But that's not in the cards. He dreams of Mount Weather, because that place has been swimming in his mind since the guards hauled him out of the transport. He dreams of intake and grounders screaming around him as water scalds their skin. He dreams of the shackles on his wrists and feet, and the heavy weight of the metal collar around his neck and the pole they'd yanked him into place with. It would have woken him screaming one way or another, but it's the slam of the infirmary door that does it, digging up the memory of the cage door sealing him in that has Bellamy jolting back to consciousness. His mind skids desperately and involuntarily outward even as he leans half out of bed to hack up spit with the cuffs on his wrist cutting painfully into his wrists. ]

[There's a difference in how it feels, someone being asleep to being knocked out, drugged or in one of the strange comas people kept falling into. Bellamy doesn't disappear out of reach; he just goes quiet, easing into a low, steady hum at the back of Murphy's mind. It's almost comforting, enough to lull Murphy into something close to a doze, still propped up with his back to the wall, aware enough of the cell around him should any of his new neighbours decide to try anything.

He doesn't know how long they're like that for, Bellamy sleeping, Murphy staying with him. Hours, he thinks. More than long enough for the cold needles of fear that start leaking in to be a shock, Murphy's half awareness of the jail cell suddenly overwhelmed by fractured memories of somewhere else. Somewhere far worse. He jerks up and off the cot unthinkingly, suddenly enough to startle two of his cellmates out of the card game they were playing on the cot next to his. He stares at them in confusion. He'd been expecting the cold metal of a cage around him, and instead--]

( Bellamy. Hey. )

[It's not his fear. It's not his memory. He reaches through to Bellamy insistently, demanding attention as if he were there, in the medical department or in the mountain. Hands on his shoulders, voice steady, eyes level.]

( Bellamy, listen. You're not there. It's okay, you're not there. )

[It's okay feels like a lie, considering where they both are. But they aren't there, whatever the fucked up hell was happening there. That nightmare wasn't happening.]

[ It's not enough. Groggy with sleep, nausea and vertigo clouding his head, Bellamy's awareness is split. Murphy's tug on his attention doesn't manage to compete with the cold shock of cuffs on his wrists and the cold sting of antiseptic. They're tangible reminders. He swallows against the memory of wet steel around his neck and the way the faceless medic had used the pole to swing him around, wrenching him into position to have his mouth opened and a tube inserted. Bellamy gags again, coughing hard enough to garner attention if he keeps it up. His curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, but he's a whole lifetime away from the dropship and Octavia's cool hand sweeping his hair back tenderly.

The impression of no swims up, the protest Bellamy hadn't been able to get out in Mount Weather. He's pulling back, crowding to the back of the cage as the medic approaches his bedside. No, no underscoring Echo's wide eyes and the jab of a shock baton immobilizing him.

He shudders, grasping, tendrils of thought catching at Murphy with the same weariness from the elevator, when Bellamy had leaned bodily on Murphy. He's clutching now, trying to drag himself up out of the cage, out of the scalding crash of the showers or the disorienting, padded cuffs dangling him immobile as his blood drained out of him. Murphy's present, pushing into Bellamy's head as if to crowd out everything else. If Bellamy had more awareness of the situation, he'd grab onto him the way a drowning man catches a lifeline. ]

[There's no response. Bellamy doesn't hear him, or feel him. The memories don't even pause. He's too caught in them, and Murphy has to grit his teeth against the cold shards of that fear slicing into him, turn to get back on his cot before someone in the cell takes too much notice of his odd behaviour.]

( Stop. Listen to me. )

[Again, coloured dark and ragged with a frustration born from helplessness. He can't do anything. He can reach, try to grasp and pull Bellamy out, but if that was ever something that could be done through these connections then he clearly didn't know how. Pain lances across his forehead. He should stop, pull back and cut Bellamy off, but he'd said he wasn't going anywhere. He'd said he'd stay.]

( Bellamy. )

[There's the cold weight of a collar, the cutting bite of metal around wrists, and Murphy's pouring too much into trying to reach Bellamy to turn it, to try and hold anything back. The muted candlelight of Polis jars with the dim blue lights in Bellamy's memories, the tug of a chain instead of a pole, every line of Ontari's face, the knowledge of the black blood that had covered her, the pile of slaughtered nightbloods at her feet. It scatters, breaks into the bind at his wrists, when they kicked him to the ground and beat him before looping the rope around his neck; where the grounders let it rip into his skin as they set a blade to his fingernails, prying; where Titus leant back to deal another blow; Bellamy standing over him with boltcutters, hauling him to his feet, hand firm at his shoulder.

Murphy holds onto the last. Holds onto it and shoves it forward. There's no kindness in the memory, Murphy flinching back from the anger in Bellamy's face, but there's connection. Contact.]

( Bellamy. )

[ Murphy's memories run searing hot where Bellamy's carry a clinical chill. They make a muddle of his thoughts, starting from the familiar pull of a collar and ending with his own face mirrored back at him in Arkadia, a lifetime ago, before he'd done everything wrong. And in between then and now there was just different types of pain. Bellamy's fingers curl into fists against the memory of a blade at his fingertips, shuddering hard as the attendant touches his shoulder. It's difficult to relax enough to ease back against the pillows, even with the cautionary tale of the cages beneath Mount Weather and the heavy drag of a sedative to remind him why it's best to heed this instruction. This isn't Mount Weather, but it's hard to get enough distance for that understanding to take effect.

For a split second, Murphy's voice blurs with Maya's, faces overlapping as his name echoes. For a moment, Bellamy retreats and the point of contact between them narrows as he grasps for composure. He can feel Murphy, driving a wrench into the flow of remembered trauma with something shared, with a familiar, safer sensation. It distracts. Bellamy takes a breath, eyes focusing on the attendant trying to get him to take a sip of water.

He reaches back to Murphy as if winding his fingers back through a rope, tugging gently. He's embarrassed, ashamed at what's been revealed. He'd never been the only one in Arkadia with nightmares, but they had always been his own. They'd never been shared until he came here, and he was aware his brood, if not the nest, was close enough to feel them unless they turned their minds away.

Murphy hadn't. Bellamy can't drum up the strength to be angry, or he can't just yet. Murphy had held on and dragged Bellamy out of his head. Bellamy's thoughts skip briefly to the ledge, feet bracing against smooth stone with only a single length of rope keeping him and his charge from falling. This feels similar. ]

( I'm here. )

[ And sorry, though that's hardly worth anything to note. The regret is palpable, even if Bellamy doesn't manage to form the word. ]

Edited (whoops) 2016-12-14 15:43 (UTC)

[The fractured fear and shards of dark memory slow, dip off. Murphy doesn't feel relieved for it until Bellamy comes back, conscious contact, aware. It eases like a tightness releasing, and he draws back from how closely he'd pushed through the connection. His head hurts; twin, pulsing knots of pain at his temples, a woozy feeling at the back of his skull that sends out curls of nausea when he moves. He can ignore it. He's had worse.

Bellamy's all waves of regret and embarrassment, and Murphy exhales, heavy, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. None of them could really help what leaked out of their heads, let alone if they were sick and asleep. He steadies the line between them like wrapping cord around his fist, twice over, anchored.]

( So, Mount Weather seriously sucked, huh? Makes me feel pretty glad I didn't stick around. )

[Dry, irreverent, and despite the question itself, not really an invitation to talk about the memories or what had just happened. More of an invitation to wave it off, instead. Move on.]

[ Bellamy hesitates for a long moment. He understands the out he's being given. But he still feels the urge to say something. They'd returned from the disastrous peace summit and Jaha, Murphy and a handful of others had been gone. There's a pulse of regret over that absence, too complicated for Bellamy to express.

He exhales a harsh laugh, most likely lost on Murphy. Exhaustion is creeping back in the wake of that mental struggle, though Bellamy's loathe to give in to it a second time. The connection strung between them settles him, and Bellamy focuses on that. ]

( Yeah, ) [ He manages finally, slouching as much as his restraints allow. ] ( I think my fever broke. )

[ That's progress. And it's easier to report than it would be to dwell on nightmares, or to ask what Murphy had experienced in Polis. Maybe Bellamy should have asked before. Finding Murphy with Pike and Indra had been a shock; realizing that Murphy might have been there for ages without them knowing is a worse one. ]

[There's more rolling off of Bellamy, but he doesn't say anything for any of it, and Murphy isn't going to break the unspoken pact he'd started. He focusses on what Bellamy does say.]

( Great. ) [It's not sarcastic. It's good news, that Bellamy is recovering.] ( Maybe they'll finally let you out of there. )

[That's how it had worked in the Skybox, if one of the kids got hurt or sick. Enough time in medical to recover, then back in with the rest of them. But Murphy realises that's an assumption. He doesn't know how things work here, and he takes a real look around at his cellmates, thinks maybe it's time to start talking to them. Maybe he should've been sooner, but Bellamy had taken up his attention.]

( Maybe, ) [ Bellamy agrees, because what more reason would they have to keep him if he wasn't burning up or vomiting. He can only hope that they put him in wherever Murphy is, but they can cross that road when the come to it.

The connection between them stays steady, as Bellamy dozes and Murphy talks. Fragments of conversation slip through the bond, but Bellamy isn't paying close attention. Murphy's not in trouble. The conversations are quiet and unremarkable. Bellamy's content to just stay at arm's length, suspended between the ghostly awareness of his brood and Murphy's magnetic draw on his attention.

But Murphy's right: it works like Skybox. Temperature back to normal, nausea abated, the nurse marks it all down and summons a guard to deposit Bellamy into his cell. He spends a long, wary moment just inside the gate, eyeing up the place, before a tug on the connection draws him in, and he crosses the room to Murphy without any further delay. ]

Alright?

[They're lucky Bellamy's put in the same cell. Murphy's starting to put a better picture of the jail together, various pieces put together from talking with his cellmates - those that are interested in talking. There's a couple of frequent visitors, another who's on their first time but knows enough people who've been through, had almost inevitably been waiting their turn. Murphy doesn't share much in return. A few cuts of the truth, embellished and stretched. They don't push for more.

His lack of apparent discomfort in the setting probably helps. It's not something Bellamy can boast, and Murphy sees it as soon as he enters. If he didn't know him, he'd be mentally marking it, the wariness in how Bellamy stops, looks the cell over, the stiffness in his shoulders as he walks. It was impossible not to see how physically capable he was, tall and well-built, but that didn't necessarily mean much if you didn't have the right attitude.

Murphy isn't the only one that notices it. He pulls on the connection between them before Bellamy can make it worse.]

Yeah, you wouldn't believe how much fun I've been having. [He says, dry, sitting up and forward on his cot.] You're just in time. Apparently we're due a meal soon.

[Murphy is hungry enough to be glad about it, though he wonders if Bellamy's stomach is settled enough. But that isn't what he reaches out to ask.]

( Can you reach anyone? )

[ Talking aloud and silently between minds still felt unnatural. Bellamy hadn't made up his mind whether or not that was a good thing. In this particular moment, it was inconvenient. He's under enough scrutiny that a slip up would be noticed. And he's still tired on top of all that, though he knows he can't indulge his exhaustion at the moment. ]

Lucky me, [ Bellamy responds without enthusiasm.] Maybe I'll even find my appetite by the time it gets here.

[ The nausea has passed, but Bellamy wants to lay down with his back against the wall and doze more than he wants food. But he tacks on a silent answer, reveling in the proximity as he latches on to Murphy. ]

( I talked with the Darkling. I can just make out Shiro, and Clint. But no one else. )

[ Bellamy doesn't describe it, but the impression of his attempt to catch Shiro and Clint's minds lurks behind his words. For the first time, the connection between them had felt insubstantial. It had been like trying to speak with his mouth gagged. The words hadn't quite been distinguishable. ]

[It's more than what Murphy can reach. His brood is silence, some dim impressions like lights, far off in the distance. The Darkling wouldn't be his first choice - hadn't been his first choice - but it was what they had.]

( This place is like a halfway point. We're still in the city, but we're only here until they move us to prison. )

[There was some stuff in between, things about charges and court dates, but Murphy didn't see the point in including that. They were guilty of what they'd been put in here for. Prison was where the guilty ended up, so that's where they were going.]

Take a seat. [There's an empty cot across the cell from Murphy's, but he doesn't point it out, just tips his head towards the space next to him. Then, voice dropping somewhat lower,] You still look like hell.

[Better than he had done, when they'd taken him away, but still not one-hundred-percent. He probably needed more sleep, but Murphy wasn't going to encourage that yet. After they'd eaten, maybe, when the novelty of Bellamy as a newly introduced addition had worn off.]

[ Bellamy had thought as much. There's no defense they can use to slip the charges, and Bellamy's wary of drawing too much attention to the pair of them with a trail. He sits down next to Murphy, slowly, in concession to the bone deep ache that lingers after illness. His thoughts skip to the dropship briefly, vomiting blood, Octavia's face tight with worry as she leaned over him. But Bellamy's revealed more than enough, and he wrenches his focus back to the moment, meeting Murphy's gaze. ]

I slept for a long time after it first happened, [ though admittedly, Bellamy's definition of a long time is skewed; comparing to how little he'd been sleeping regularly, anything approaching a normal amount of time is luxurious. ] That's not really an option right now.

[ Partly because he doesn't trust his own dreams not to drag them both distractingly sideways, and partly because he's just too wary of where they are. He looks away from Murphy, taking in their cellmates. Or sizing them up. Bit of both, really. ]

( The Darkling is coming to get us. )

[ Even Bellamy isn't sure whether or not this is a good thing, or what the odds of success could possibly be. ]

( Tell him to speed it up. )

[It comes across as the usual irritated complaint, but there's a genuine thread of fear coiling behind it. What happens if the Nest moves on, leaves them here? They're in a system now, no place to hide, and sooner or later someone's going to realise they aren't who they say they are. They aren't from here. And that the things in their heads aren't either.

Thankfully, or not, he's interrupted from those considerations by movement from the corner of the cell he'd been specifically hoping there wouldn't be any. But Bellamy's glance around had been the last straw on holding the tenuous space they'd had. Internally, Murphy groans.]

( In the meantime you're going to need to remember that asshole I met when we first hit the ground. )

[There's a flash of memory, Bellamy back at the dropship camp before everything had truly started going to hell. Confident, arrogant, violent, all the other negative personality traits necessary to bring 100 criminal kids into line. But Bellamy didn't need to lead this cell. He just needed to survive it, and Murphy pulls himself to his feet just in time to nearly collide with their incoming company, forcing the man to stop and take a step back, away from him and Bellamy.]

Sorry, Yan. [There's nothing apologetic in his tone, drawling, cruel amusement curling at the edges. He looks the man up and down, making special emphasis for how he can see over his head.] Guess I didn't see you there.

[ The fear's not misplaced. Bellamy recognizes it, because he's harboring the same worry. What happens if they're left behind? What happens if the Nest goes and the last frail threads of connection snap? They'll be alone. Trapped. And remembering Nirad's fear at being captured, Bellamy suspects that will come to nothing good.

Though there's not time to dwell on that possible outcome, because a more pressing trouble makes itself known. The man he'd been when the dropship had fallen had been ground to practically nothing, but Bellamy immediately recognizes the necessity of Murphy's advice. ]

( Murphy. )

[ It spins out unbidden, cautionary, as Bellamy rises to his feet. ]

You need something? [ Bellamy asks, derisive. They're in a difficult position; this can't escalate into an altercation, but they can't afford to back down. ]

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