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

[It's almost an immediate thing, to tell Bellamy he doesn't need the protective act. He doesn't, really, especially if it's going to get any worse than this. But he'd be flying in the face of their history to say he doesn't need Bellamy's protection. Solo wasn't how people survived, and they worked best together.]

( Yeah, yeah. )

[The muttered response, getting into line in front of Bellamy. Yan ends up somewhere behind them. He doesn't keep too close a check. It's unlikely, he thinks, that he'll try anything with this many guards around.

He's right. They're marched out of the cell and into the central area without incident, ready prepared trays of food dumped into their hands before they take seats at the rows of tables. Murphy doesn't waste time trying to figure out what it is; he starts eating immediately, doesn't slow down for appearance or to match Bellamy's reluctant pace.

It turns out meal time is for meals only, though, according to the guard who comes over to get him moving as soon as it looks like he might just sit there with an empty tray in front of him. He gets up with a very similar acknowledgement as he'd given Bellamy earlier, turns to head back to their cell, and walks straight into the hardened plastic of one of the food trays.

It's over before it's really started. The first blow stuns him for a second, but when Yan follows it by tackling him to the floor, he gets his knees up, drives the point of his elbow into the back of Yan's neck until he lets go. Another second, a few solid punches to both his face and Yan's, and then there's the painful full-body jolt of a taser shock, Yan's weight being dragged off him and arms hauling him roughly to his feet.

Murphy catches sight of Bellamy's face briefly as the guards cart him away from the cells, and he has to smile, sharp with the blood in his mouth.]

( So much for staying in front of you. )

[ The fight happens too fast. Bellamy's reaction time is slow to start, and before he can take more than two steps to intervene a guard has him by the arm. The staff is attentive. Bellamy notes that grimly even as they haul Murphy and Yan out of the room. The quick action by the guards won't bode well for any future attempts at escape, but right now, Bellamy's more concerned about where they're taking Murphy.

The answer comes in an aside from another prisoner filing past. Solitary, probably.

Without Murphy, Bellamy's alone on their bed. He doesn't want to sleep, so he sits up, back against the wall, and watches the room resentfully. He's tugging fretfully on the connection before he can really stop himself, relieved that at least Murphy's conscious. ]

( Are you hurt? )

[ Assuming that Murphy would volunteer information about where he was along with whatever answer he provided. ]

[There's some bitter irony in Bellamy being concerned he's hurt, and Murphy, somewhat pettily, doesn't curb that from bleeding through.]

( I've had worse. )

[There's the sting of split skin on his knuckles, cheekbone, lip; the ache of a still-swelling black eye and bruised ribs. All of it's so low on Murphy's pain scale as to be non-existent, but he knows his perception might be skewed. Really, he's counting himself lucky the guards hadn't done more before they'd left.]

( Looks like fighting gets you dropped in solitary. )

[Same old, same old, and way more reminiscent of the Skybox than the previous cell had been. There's no clear glass walls and doors here. Just a tiny dark space, a cot and a toilet.]

[ Murphy's injuries bounce back to him through the bond. This isn't new. Bellamy remembers trying to spar with Kylo Ren and with Bruce; each punch he'd landed had doubled back between them. He can't ease Murphy's pain, but at least he can hold on to some of it. It'll make for a nice change from the obvious thud of guilt in the back of Bellamy's head. ]

( They wouldn't tell me for how long. )

[ Just like how they'd likely not told Murphy how long Bellamy would be in solitary. It makes sense. There's no reason for them to tell anything to Bellamy. ]

( I didn't see them. )

[ Bellamy doesn't need to say I'm sorry. The apology is so strongly implied, even in the face of Murphy's irritation. ]

[In his tiny new cell, Murphy feels the pulse of apology and guilt in Bellamy's head and rolls his eyes heaven(ground)ward, then yanks his pain out of Bellamy's hold. He doesn't need any help with it, just like he doesn't need any apologies for Bellamy being over the other side of the room when Murphy was getting a surprise meal tray to the face.]

( A day, if this place is anything like the Skybox. )

[He drops onto the cot, tucking his hands behind his head, examining the smooth black surface of the ceiling.]

( Hey, at least they dragged Yan in here too. Now we can both get some sleep. )

[ The mental equivalent of a sigh vibrates down the bond before Bellamy can stop himself. He feels helpless. There's nothing he can do but wait out Murphy's punishment as best he can while offering what little support Murphy would tolerate. It doesn't seem like enough.

He shifts, shoulders against the wall, legs drawn up. ]

( Yan had friends. )

[ Not that any of them had tried anything, but that doesn't keep Bellamy from being wary of possibilities. Or reluctant to sleep with Murphy in solitary. ]

( I'm not tired. )

[ Aka he just wants to keep Murphy company. ]

( That guy isn't going to try anything without him around. )

[Murphy's confident of it. The fact they don't know Yan's friend's name is enough to indicate how he stayed in the man's shadow, and Yan's particular manner wasn't the type to appreciate a win he wasn't around to have a hand in. Murphy can make a guess the guy's just going to stay in his corner and sleep.

But if Bellamy wants to be over-cautious, that's his choice.]

( Whatever, man. Your loss. )

[He shifts, settling his head more comfortably on the pillow of his arm. He's going to take as much advantage of his safe privacy as he can.]

[ Bellamy, unknowingly, mirrors the action. He settles on the bed with a huff. The cot isn't soft, but Bellamy's exhausted enough that he barely notices. Murphy's assessment is most likely right, but there's no way Murphy would gracefully accept the idea that Bellamy was sitting up to be sure that Murphy was alright. Nothing about this jail or the guards telegraphs sinister intention, and there's little Bellamy could do in his position, but he didn't think he could stand to wake up and find Murphy gone with the rest of the Hive nearly out of reach. ]

( I'll be here when you wake up. )

[ The "here" being connected and alert in this instance. ]

( I want to keep trying to get in touch with the others anyway. )

[ So uselessly straining. That'll be fun. ]

( Just don't give me the headache you get from it. )

[But he doesn't tell him not to bother at all. It wasn't like it was a pointless thing to be attempting, and Bellamy would have more luck with it than him. That's a reminder, though, of how disconnected he is now. Head empty except for Bellamy. The plan to have the symbiote removed had failed, but here was a small glimpse at the privacy he would have regained from it. What was the likelihood he'd ever get this again?

He doesn't cut the connection. He just pulls back, slowly putting space and walls between him and Bellamy, spinning the hold between them out. By the time he's done, the broad red of the belt has thinned to a single thread, caught tight around one finger. It's enough for contact. Continued knowledge of existence. But the inside of his head is his, entirely, nothing but his own thoughts, feelings and memories.

Falling asleep is probably easier than it should be.

He wakes up alone. The grip of it cinched down on him some unknown time before, in dream or nightmare, and it doesn't relent. It gnaws in the pit of his belly, crushes silent and cold over his chest. He pulls himself up to sit, swings his legs over the side of the cot, but the act of movement doesn't shake it loose. Just reminds him how small the room is, how empty it is, only the sound of his own breathing echoing off the smooth walls.

There are people outside. Other prisoners. Guards. There's Bellamy, the connection still strung between them, thin but steady. But that knowledge doesn't stop the swell of memory, the fear rising black in his chest that he's stuck here, that the door won't open, that the days will tick by and tick by and nothing will change, no one will come for him, no one will even look, and--

He fights, desperately, the urge to reach for Bellamy. Chokes it down. He gets to his feet, starts pacing the room, fingers dragging along the walls. It doesn't make it better. It makes it smaller, and closer, and still just as empty, his mind shaking with the effort of trying to pull up, away from the pit of fear and memory widening under each step.]

[ The request for space doesn't need to be vocalized. Murphy pulls away and the connection between them spins out, winnowing down to just a single thread. It's difficult not to start pulling on that thread and tug until he provokes a reaction. The only deterrent is the obvious fact that Murphy's alone and he's safe. There's nothing lost if Bellamy lets him alone.

He can feel it when Murphy falls asleep. In the absence of his brood and the rest of the Hive, the bond between them is the beneficiary of Bellamy's focus. He hadn't realized how much of his awareness had been instinctively devoted to monitoring the low buzz of other minds connected to his own. Even if they'd managed to cut their symbiotes out, would they ever have been able to shake that habit? Bellamy feels incomplete. There's no way to deny that.

Murphy had been right: without Yan, the others left behind are quiet. Bellamy doesn't intend to sleep, but he's able to relax slightly as attention shifts fully away from him. Alone on his cot, Bellamy stretches to try to reach Bruce, or to reconnect with Shiro, to find Clint again now that he's felt Clint's mind stirring. He comes up frustratingly empty. He circles back, opens his eyes to the jail and then sighs before closing them again.

The tug on the thread between them is customary. Bellamy expects irritation in return, but when the response doesn't come, he tugs at it a second time, insistent. ]

( Murphy? )

[Cracked, sharp and splintering, he pushes back:]

( Don't. )

[It's the worst thing that could've happened, Bellamy pulling on the connection between them right now. Murphy fights to keep it distant, not to flood it wide, the thread shivering frantic in his hold. He should let go. Cut it completely, but he can't.

He can't.

The memories are there already, rising too easily to overlay the emptiness of three months of solitude over the cell around him. He drops onto the cot again, head dipping low, the smell of alcohol that had never really numbed the loneliness, the desperate gnaw of near starvation in his stomach, ALIE and Becca, Chris blowing his brains out, over and over, the gun in his hands. His grip on the thread between them could be tight enough for it to cut into his flesh, if it was real, and all the determination he has to keep it narrow means nothing as slivers of everything in his head start to bleed into it.]

[ Maybe he should have drawn back. Bellamy wasn't oblivious to the way Murphy was attempting to stymie the connection between them. He wanted to pull back. But Bellamy couldn't ignore the obvious pain and terror. It was slipping through the bond even as Murphy tried to force it closed. There's no other course of action for Bellamy but to reel him in, grasping hold of the connection between them firmly as he tries to ground Murphy in the moment. ]

( Talk to me. )

[ Bellamy reasoned that even if Murphy were telling him to go float himself, it was a better thing to focus on than the grotesque glimps of isolation and death Bellamy was picking up. Murphy's memories are a confused jumble. There's not very much, but Bellamy can piece together a vague understanding of what Murphy was remembering from the shattered fragments. ]

( You're not alone. )

[ The intent of solitary was to cut prisoners off. And in any other configuration, it would have been effective. But just like at the festival, Bellamy slips in through the cracks and fills Murphy's head. It's the same shock of intimacy. Alone on the cot, Bellamy takes a deep breath, focuses past the phantom itch in his fingers. ]

( Murphy. Focus on me. You're alright. We're going to get out of here. )

[There's no control in it. What might have been the aftermath of another bad dream on any other day is like torture right now, his memories being ripped open, flooded into his mind as if he was back there. The bunker. The room after they took his mother's body away. The clifftop where Charlotte had killed herself. Bellamy only has a place in the last, walking away with the others, and it echoes as he pushes into Murphy's head and puts himself in all of them. The bleed of leaving him still seeping even as he pulls Murphy in, fills the empty spaces.

The hopeless chill of isolation starts to recede, warmth of connection pushing it back. Murphy wants to clutch to it, and he hates that, hates the need and how close he is to giving in. When had he ever had that option before? When had it ever not been ripped away from him?]

( You don't know that. )

[Snapped, hard, and his mind twists sharply, pulls on the memories like blades. The first week, believing he'd find a way out, break the door down, pry it open. The hope Jaha would come to find him. But he never did. He left him there. Alone in the unrelenting press of day after day, grinding everything in him down to nothing, until the only way out was dying slow from starvation or dying fast from the gun in his hands. The trigger under his finger, the press of the barrel under his chin, despair an unbearable, black weight in his head.]

[ The urge to recoil presents itself, though Bellamy disregards it. Murphy's pain is a visceral scream cutting through Bellamy's consciousness, but recoiling isn't an option. He has to grit his teeth past the memory of Charlotte, past the crushing grip of isolation and the chill of gunmetal on his skin. He can't pull back. Recoiling would confirm Murphy's point, and Bellamy can't afford it.

Or more honestly, he can't bear it. He's let Murphy down in so many ways. He can't fail in this.

Murphy's memories cut, sharp as everything else about him. But the straps between them perseveres, phantom friction burning Bellamy's palms as he presses closer and closer, folding into Murphy's mind and disregarding any sense of separation. ]

( I promise. ) [ Bellamy's word use to mean something, before everything between them came apart. ] ( I'm here, and I promise I'm not going anywhere without you. )

[ More logically, he could have made the case that he was only here because he hadn't left Murphy behind. But it skewed too closely to blame, and arguing feels counterproductive. He tries to project sensation to blot out the gun and despair, radiate calm the way he had before when Murphy had been doubled over in an alley in the midst of a celebration. ]

[A part of Murphy still wants to fight it. The calm, the warmth, the close press of connection. He feels like he can practically hear it, the echo of breath not his own, the drum of another heartbeat. Bellamy bears against the thrashing of his mind, stubborn and stupid to the last, and slowly, steadily, the memories sweep away. Dissipate like smoke into clear sky.

It leaves Murphy quiet. Wrung out from it, but his mind settled, his own. The difference is enough that he's barely able to comprehend where the furore of only a few moments ago had even come from, except for the one answer: not him. Not all him, anyway. The symbiote.

Frustrated irritation prickles alongside weariness, but doesn't spike any sharper. What's larger is low, soft discomfort from Bellamy still being so close inside his head. From what he'd said, and how Murphy doesn't really know how to respond.]

( You still don't know that we're going to get out of here. )

[Is what he manages, finally. Once he would have thrown promises back in Bellamy's face, immediate and scornful. He'd had first hand experience of how much bullshit all of Bellamy's good intentions turned out to be. But it's different now, even if Murphy still can't allow the vulnerability of accepting it directly. Bellamy's too close not to pick it up from his mind, anyway.]

[ Murphy's exhaustion seeps into Bellamy's consciousness. It's almost as if they'd physically struggled through Murphy's panic. He breathes out, shoulders loosening as he closes his eyes. Blocking out the room in front of him brings his awareness of Murphy into sharper focus. ]

( They aren't going to leave us. )

[ As little as Bellamy knows of his brood, he puts a fair amount of faith in the compulsion of the bond between them and the Darkling's vicious possessiveness. Bellamy had felt the resolve in him, and he had felt the Darkling's influence in the aftermath of the explosion at the Bout it Out tournament. He would tear his way into the jail. Bellamy didn't doubt that, and he doesn't temper his certainty. ]

( And I won't let them leave you. )

[ He can't be sure if that's Murphy's concern. But attempts to counter it anyway by posing a singular promise, drawing the phantom straps between them taut. ]

[In his cell, Murphy has to laugh, soft and huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. He knows it isn't true, but sometimes it's like Bellamy is unbreakable, unstoppable resolve and determination to make whatever he believes be the truth. Back at the dropship, it's what had made all the kids follow him. Combined with Clarke, it's what had kept most of them alive. But in the moment, in the context of it being him - scepticism, evasion - that Bellamy's trying to bend to his certainty, Murphy can't help but wish he'd just let up for a moment.]

( Okay, you can stop. I get it already. )

[Tinged irreverent, the mental impression of holding his hands up, calling uncle. He tips back on the cot, eyes closed, an unknowing mirror.]

( I get it. )

[Softer. Truer. Somehow, even through all the crap they'd done to each other, there'd always been a measure of understanding, unspoken. It's not hard once he's doing it, surrendering the last pieces of distance he'd been keeping, letting that understanding chime through between them. The red belt, the rope they'd both almost died by, one way or the other. Bellamy isn't going to let go. Murphy isn't, either.]

[ Bellamy falls silent in the face of that surrender. It's something to feel more than it is something to verbally acknowledge. His fingers twitch where he's resting them on his chest, but Bellamy lets it all lie. The acceptance is enough.

And overselling it would do more harm than good. ]

( You can try to sleep again, if you want. )

[ And maybe Murphy should. It wasn't as if rest was an option when they were surrounded by unknown elements in the open cell. ]

( I can try to give you something better. )

[ The good memories were few and far between, but Bellamy had stories aplenty. Enough at least to give Murphy a little distance from the nightmares in his head. ]

( I don't need a bedtime story, Bellamy. )

[It comes with the mental impression of an eyeroll. There's some disdain for the idea of stories in themselves, but mostly it's the implication that Murphy would like it. Or that it would help.

He does sleep again, though. Without consciously trying, it sneaks up on him, pulls him into a rest that's far more comfortable than his previous attempt. He doesn't want to think about how it's probably because neither he nor Bellamy let go of the connection.

He doesn't get time to think about it, anyway. Waking up is the shock of the guards coming back into the room, barely waiting for him to get up before they're slapping restraints on his hands and hauling him out of the cell. The walk back is confused - not far, but solitary obviously tucked off from the rest of the jail - and then he's being thrown back into the shared cell, restraints roughly dragged off his hands, door sliding closed.]

That wasn't even a full day.

[He says, rubbing at his wrists idly as he walks over to Bellamy's cot. It isn't that he's complaining. Just another mark on how easy Concordians had it.]

[ Murphy drifts off to sleep. Bellamy lies awake and lets the ebb and flow of Murphy's mind wash over him. He doesn't quite manage sleep himself, but he dozes in and out a few times. Murphy's mind doesn't turn back to claustrophobia and isolation. Bellamy keeps close anyway, as if to block out any possibility of it entirely.

But the sudden invasion of the guards shocks Bellamy to full awareness. He feels almost as if he has to scramble to hold on tightly to the connection between them through the chaos of Murphy's transport. Right up until the door opened, Bellamy had worried that they were moving Murphy to another part of the prison. The idea of being further separated hadn't sat well.

He doesn't move. Bellamy stays seated on the cot, but he straights up as Murphy approaches. ]

You're bleeding.

[ Bellamy's not going to quibble about the stretch of time Murphy had been locked up. It had been enough to dredge up Murphy's nightmares. But there's blood on his hands, and Bellamy can question that. It's something he can deal with directly, at least. ]

[It's not the greeting Murphy had expected. It's not information he was aware of, either, and the surprise is evident as he follows Bellamy's gaze to his hands. His knuckles, split in the fight with Yan, had scabbed in the time in the cell, but clearly the guards yanking him around had reopened some. He hadn't noticed, but now he's aware, he recognises the sting of open skin. Minor, probably gone in an hour.]

It's nothing.

[He wipes the worst of the blood off on the front of his jumpsuit.]

Don't worry, I won't get it on your sheets. [As he moves to sit beside him on the cot.]

Let me see.

[ It's a superficial injury. Bellamy's seen worse, and been unable to treat worse. He's not Clarke; his medical capabilities are far more limited. But he can handle Murphy's hands.

And it's partly his fault that Murphy landed in that situation. Bellamy suspects Yan would have picked a fight with them inevitably, but Bellamy had carried himself the wrong way. That had been made immediately obvious by Murphy's reaction. But even that aside, it's a natural urge to want to help where he can. ]

[Murphy would be more confused about why, if he couldn't feel Bellamy's intentions. Instead it's more bemusement, obvious in his expression as he holds his hands out.]

What, bored enough to play nurse?

[Not that his hands need any treatment - he'd certainly never given split knuckles more than a wash before. He turns his hands one way, then the other, then starts to pull them back.]

I told you, it's nothing.

[ On the ground, they wouldn't have bothered. Maybe Clarke would have, if they had time and she had the supplies. But a minor injury like split knuckles wouldn't have merited a second glance. Bellamy had tried to walk off a stab wound; he'd barely have taken notice of split knuckles.

They have the time here. That's the difference. ]

They're bleeding, [ He repeats, tightening his grip until Murphy stops pulling. ] You got something else you want to do right now?

[ They've been laying on their cots for hours. Unless Murphy wants to instigate a fight, he can humor Bellamy with this for now. ]

[Bellamy doesn't let go, so Murphy finally relents, leaves his hands where they are. It's clear he's humouring Bellamy more than really agreeing to this. He doesn't even know what Bellamy thinks he's going to be able to do. It wasn't like they had any medical supplies.]

One of those milk drinks from that place across the street would be good.

[Deadpan. Bellamy had asked what he wanted.]

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

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cw: attempted suicide

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