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

[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.]

Be realistic.

[ But jokes aren't the worst response Murphy could have. Bellamy's fine with Murphy humoring him too. It's for the best. The outcome will still be the same. Once he's satisfied that Murphy's not going to take his hands back, Bellamy reaches over to drag up his rumpled sheet and start tearing it into strips. ]

I don't think you're going to have a chance at those any time soon.

[ Even if they got out, they'll likely have to lie low. Or sprint directly to the station if what he'd caught from the Darkling and Shiro held true. ]

Seriously?

[But Bellamy doesn't even pause in tearing up the sheet, so: yes, seriously. Murphy looks around the rest of the cell, the attention they're getting for Bellamy's actions, but without Yan he can't see any of them being problems. He's glad, really. He's tired of projecting the attitude needed to keep them away, even if he'd know not to entertain that tiredness under nastier circumstances.]

Hey, maybe the next place they send us will have them. [There's something a little wistful in it. Then the corner of his mouth tugs, tone turning dry.] Maybe they'll all be like this, and it'll turn out we're the only planet that blew itself up.

[ Maybe they were the only planet that had been consumed by fire and bombs. It wasn't a very pleasant thought. Bellamy, taking advantage of Murphy's unexpected acquiescence, starts carefully winding the ragged strip of sheet around his knuckles. ]

I don't know if they'll all be like this.

[ Bellamy hadn't spent a lot of time considering the wide world beyond earth. There'd been enough to worry about without thinking about the universe. Even now, in a cell, Bellamy has a hard time formulating the possibilities. ]

We'll see after we get out of here. And after the others finish the mission.

[For all that it's been obvious where Bellamy was going with this, the moment he takes Murphy's hand and starts wrapping the torn fabric around his knuckles draws Murphy up short. Almost like he hadn't expected it to get this far, to fall away or be given up on before it got there.

His experiences of this kind of care have been scarce in the past few months, despite how many times he's been injured. Clarke, checking over his wrecked hands in the drop ship. Abby making sure the wound in his leg wasn't going to kill him before passing him back to the guards in Camp Jaha. Thoughts of milk drinks or future missions dry up as he watches Bellamy's fingers gently wind the makeshift bandage around his hand, looks at his face and the quiet concentration there.

The memories of Clarke and Abby both have Bellamy as a shadow, unforgiving and angry. Despite how far they've come since then, Murphy still would have never expected Bellamy to have turned this much care to him.]

Do you ever miss the Ark?

[It's an abrupt question, but his tone's softer, muted in the space between them. He doesn't mean the camp, whatever's been built out of the wreckage. He means before they'd been dropped, before any of them had ever seen the ground.]

[ The memories between them are like silt, rising in wisps when disturbed. Bellamy's face is always clouded with anger in Murphy's mind. He doesn't like that part of himself. He wants to be better than the man Murphy remembers him as, but it will take more to erode those images than carefully wrapped makeshift bandages. ]

Yes.

[ Because it was difficult not to miss a place that had once been a home. But when Bellamy says yes, he's thinking of all the parts of the Ark that had died with his mother. His mother and Octavia tucked safely in their quarters, cocooned together as his mother read to them. It felt idyllic; Bellamy should have known then that it would never have been possible for it to last. ]

And no.

[ No sparks a shift in his thoughts: the suffocating oppression of the class system, his mother dead, his sister locked away, a position on the guard wrenched from his grasp. His entire future had been swallowed up by the rules the Ark lived by. It's difficult to truly miss it now that he understood all the moving parts. ]

Do you?

[ His fingers smooth the material carefully, wrapping Murphy's hand as if they were going to box. It's the most secure way Bellamy knows, even if the fabric is uneven and he doesn't have quite enough. He'll get creative with it. ]

[One hand wrapped, Murphy draws it back, clenches his fist and releases again, testing. It's comfortable; not too tight, not too loose. He doesn't know what good it's actually going to do for his knuckles, but in the moment that doesn't seem to matter so much.]

Yeah. Sometimes.

[After a moment, after Bellamy's memories have started to fade in his mind. His own are coloured differently, happiness destroyed much sooner. His father floated and the misery of his mother's death drawn out long, soaked in alcohol and Murphy's complete inability to do anything to help her. Except stay and take every vicious word she sent his way. He looks back up at Bellamy, mouth tugging flat.]

I miss knowing what was going to happen. It sucked. It all sucked. But at least you knew how much it was going to suck.

[There was a safety in that. The process. The rules. They were bullshit, but somehow he thinks they were less terrifying than the desperate, scrabbling unknown they'd fallen into when they'd landed on the ground.]

But now I'd probably die of boredom before they even got around to floating me. [Tone drier again, mouth twisting in the corner.] Just can't win.

The Ark wasn't made to let people like us win.

[ Clarke had accused Bellamy of taking that stance to garner support among the hundred, and that hadn't been entirely wrong. But Bellamy had believed everything he'd said. The Ark wasn't made to allow anyone to flourish who wasn't as privileged as Clarke had been. Murphy's memories swim through his mind, mingle with Bellamy's as he smooths the fabric into place over Murphy's hands. ]

At least here we have a fighting chance.

[ Which is different from everything else that had happened and likely was still happening on the ground in their absence. ]

It's better than being a janitor.

[ It's said a joke, but it masks the bigger, more terrifying prospect that Bellamy had lived day in and day out with: Octavia's trial, and the possibility that they'd float her. Being slowly crushed to death under the weight of the Ark's hierarchy paled beside the idea of watching his sister be sucked out of the airlock the way his mother had been. ]

[There's a lot of things he could say to that. That Bellamy's idea of a fighting chance was seriously skewed. That being a janitor was probably better than having an alien bug in your head. That it wasn't the Ark which wasn't made for letting them win, but the whole damn multiverse.

But he looks at Bellamy's expression and swallows those words down. Cynicism was practical, had kept Murphy alive further than maybe he should have managed, but he knows it all and so does Bellamy. Neither of them need him to say it in this moment. His mouth tugs, instead.]

Yeah, somehow I doubt you were any good at that. Janitoring.

[He thinks of Bellamy with a mop in hand and can only imagine it shortly being used as a weapon. But he's done alright on this weird attempt at bandaging, as much as Murphy's sure he doesn't need it. The second wrap's as comfortable as the first as he stretches his hand, tests it.]

Thanks.

You're welcome.

[ Clarke would have done better with the bandages, but they look like they'll hold. His own hands fall to his lap as he watches Murphy inspect his handiwork. The Ark feels worlds away, but he still thinks about how he'd never have crossed paths with Murphy if they'd stayed on it. There would have been so much that never would have happened to him. Bellamy isn't sure whether that's a good or bad thing anymore.

But still, the idea of the Ark is still too stifling to feel preferable even in the face of so much suffering. Bellamy's trying to come up with a flippant way to voice that, or deflect the accusation about his janitorial duties when he feels a tug in the back of his head. ]

Murphy.

[ Bellamy's voice drops, quiet. He can feel the Darkling. It's not the same dampened contact from the hospital. He's close by. That changes everything. ]

( Our way out is here. )

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

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cw: attempted suicide

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