meadowlarklogs | [closed] it's like a cold hand on my shoulder

Entry tags:

[closed] it's like a cold hand on my shoulder

WHO: The 100 cast (Clarke, Bellamy, Lexa, Murphy)
WHERE: Their trashed apartment.
WHEN: End of the event? Near the end? Whenever they all regrouped there. Regroupedish.
WHAT: Dealing with things.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Spoilers for The 100 up to 7x1.

[It's only once the monsters have stopped ravaging the city—the cities—that they can begin to consider life again. For Clarke's part, she doesn't return home right away. There are too many logistics in place when it comes to Red Wings, and she wants to make sure that PRESERVE will work with them in the future. The ones who were in the simulation, she hopes, know what she means by "them." It's hard to really tell.

But eventually, eventually, there is an after.

It's hard to say when they all end up back at the apartment, or if they end up there at the same time or on the same days. But there will be times for it.

After all, for better or worse, they live together, don't they?

For better or worse.

Clarke, for what it's worth, would think it a boon. Despite the hardships and secrets. She would. But no one should take Clarke's word for it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Unlike Bellamy, Clarke hadn't had the chance to spend six years in space with their family that they made up there. She hadn't seen what they experienced for six years, and could only grasp the choices they made for each other in superficial ways. That's because Clarke wouldn't have done well up there. It's like how six years hadn't done well for her on the ground, living a life for peace and channeling all of her problems into her urge to protect Madi. Her people had basically become one person: it was an unhealthy concentration of the worst of Clarke Griffin. The singles of Clarke Griffin that no one would ever want to hear again.

The point being: neither Clarke nor Murphy did well with sitting idly by, waiting for a shoe to drop. Their reactions to it were inherently and inevitably different. Whereas Murphy's self esteem told him he wouldn't be enough, Clarke's self esteem brought on the worst of her decisions and only led to the guilt and anguish after the fact. She could convince herself that something was necessary. Because of the fact that Clarke was loved growing up and looked to as a leader, because of the fact that she ended up in solitary confinement because of council secrets on the Ark, she would never be able to see the world the same way as Murphy.

She knows some quirks, though. Some things she's figured out along the way. It's why she can't put together the full puzzle regarding his Nightblood.

Too much is missing, and it's not like Josephine actually filled her in. She lied about that part. Clarke was bottled up and shoved away for good.

She doesn't want to corner him. To make him feel like someone backed into a corner. She just also thinks that may be inevitable here.]

I need to talk to you. [She falls into step with him as soon as she can, whenever she can. Her hand doesn't reach for his shoulder. She doesn't say "we" here, even if that's what she feels. No, that just feels like setup for him to brush her off and push her away. "There's no 'we' in this, Clarke," or however he'd go about it. So she insists on "I" for now.

There is, of course, the additional layer of complication to this. Clarke knows she became one of those creatures because of her own actions. Her own decision to save Rey no matter what it cost her, even knowing how it influenced her in the past. Its slow control over her body had only been because of that approach.

But it was her choice and her mistake. It nearly cost Murphy his life.]

[ Well, here it is. In spite of his determination to get the hell away from all of them, Murphy's somehow found himself back in their (ruined) home. Clarke can thank Bellamy for that, his tireless insistence that Murphy belongs with them, even if he has a chronic tendency to fuck everything up.

Murphy doesn't blame her for nearly killing him. It wasn't really her, and even if it had been, he had it coming. When he stops to look at her, his expression is more complicated than wariness or resentment. In fact, he looks like he's on the verge of apologizing first. But since he doesn't know how much Bellamy's already told her, he holds back on that for now. ]

Yeah.

[ He sounds exhausted, not angry. He's so far from angry. ]

[The fact that he doesn't look to her with resentment helps, but it does nothing to help with abating any of her confusion. What does he remember last if it's not sitting across from her in a room and antagonizing her? If it's not mere moments after he thought he had died? And did he hold all of those secrets over her head because he was doing the same?

She steps past him to open the door to what was once her room, even though he and Bellamy had had it for the past few weeks.

She waits for him to pass her before she closes the door.]

I'm trying to understand. [Trying to have put the pieces together already, before she had the chance to speak to him.] But I don't know the right questions to ask.

[ As soon as they're in the room, Murphy takes a seat on the edge of the bed. This is a sitting sort of conversation. It feels wrong to tower over her. ]

I think you can guess. Right?

[ If they're all honest with themselves, it was only a matter of time. Betrayal is in his nature, isn't it? He doesn't care about anyone but himself. ]

Josephine told me you were dead, at first. I wanna think I wouldn't have gone along with it if I thought there was something I could do, you know? But I'm probably kidding myself. She told me I could be immortal and that was all I cared about.

"Congrats on your murder," [she repeats. It was something that he said in their first conversation. Murphy had been lying to her from the start. Wanting to be immortal? It checks out. No matter how much she tries to work around it, she can see how the life of the Primes would appeal to him. She recalls how shaken he was following his near-death experience. No, his death experience. He had died there, hadn't he?

But the rest doesn't add up. Murphy would never want to be seen as a god.]

You knew who Josephine was, and you still said that. You knew what happened to me. [But Josephine had lied about what Clarke knew. That much is apparent.]

And you knew I knew who and what the Primes were. [The math, bit by bit, being worked out out loud.]

I can't guess, Murphy. [She's still missing the critical piece of information: why he kept it a secret. It can't all be wrapped up in Josephine. Clarke was killed by Russell and Simone, not by Murphy. If he got brought in, it was after that point.]

[ Murphy shrinks in on himself with every word, until his elbows are on his knees and he's scrubbing his hands down his face. Normally, he'd jump to his own defense. Normally, he'd try to make her understand why he really did what he did. But it ended the way it ended. He doesn't want to go anywhere near it. ]

I thought this could be my second chance. I wished none of it had happened and all of the sudden it was like it hadn't happened anymore. I wanted to keep it like that as long as I could. Alright? I liked it here.

[In her frustration, she had reached out to Bellamy about Murphy. The answer had been that he was afraid. The way Bellamy spoke said a lot. It wasn't just: Murphy is afraid. It was: "I know Murphy is afraid." It's a unique thing that can be taken at face value here.

Fear doesn't add up to what he's saying now.

Just having Nightblood, just being lured in by Josephine and the other Primes—it still doesn't add up. Neither does a second chance, not away from Emori.

She settles in next to him. Unlike with Bellamy, she doesn't offer her hand forward. The two of them have never had that kind of bond.]

I'm trying to understand, [she says. The words say enough: "I don't believe you."] What is it that you don't want me to know? [Clarke specifically. Did something happen while she was gone? Did something happen to her daughter? Did the Primes hurt Madi in some way?

Unfortunately, she's lacking a lot of answers. Clarke's trying not to let her imagination run wild.

But second chance? No, not with the way she had to pitch it to him. If he felt guilty about the Nightblood? Maybe. Maybe. But that in itself isn't enough, and up to this point, he had presented himself as not giving a damn what she thought. (And for her, it had made sense. Had checked out. Of course it had.)]

[ Clarke's going to drag it out of him. There's no way around it. She knows too much about all of it to drop the questioning as easily as Bellamy had. She knows what does and doesn't make sense.

Murphy glances at her as she takes a seat beside him. As brief as that look is, his face is pure undeniable misery. It's true that he's afraid, but he's more than afraid. The last time he regretted something so badly, it was his own father who'd died.

Once he tells her, he can't take it back. But he can see, with just a glimpse, that the wheels are already turning. If he drags this out any longer, all he'll be doing is torturing her with the question. ]

It's Abby.

[ That's as much as he manages to get out before the waver in his voice chokes him up. ]

[Somehow, it hadn't even occurred to Clarke to worry about her mother. Abby had made it through the bunker, through being used by both Diyoza and McCreary for their various medical needs. She had made it through seeing Kane nearly die, and had become obsessed with a way to bring him back. Their connection had always been more tenuous compared to the one Clarke had with her father—but then, that's because Clarke and Abby had always seen the ugliness in one another. They saw it reflected back at one another.

"Go save us all." That's what her mother said before she touched the ground on Sanctum, and Clarke knows she believed that was possible. Go save us all. Despite the reflected ugliness, she's her mother, the only one she had left, the person Clarke desperately tried to reach after the planet burned again—and the person that Clarke counted as her final loss that she could barely bear for a time.

Clarke's throat tightens, constricting bit by bit until she can barely gasp out a breath. Her reaction is instantaneous. It's not like she has a mission here or a purpose. She doesn't need to control herself, doesn't need to buckle down in the moment.

The weight of it all hits her. Perhaps even breaks her.

Her mother is dead.

This world may not be a solution for her people.

She healed someone, only for that to turn and lead her to hurting Murphy. Murphy, who was carrying this terrible secret, who didn't want her to know because he knew what it would do to her. He's lost his parents, after all.

No, not perhaps on the "breaking" part. Even though Clarke has a mission and a goal here, it stands on shaky ground enough that it doesn't inspire the same repression and control that she had back home. That's for the best in one way: the reaction here will be less violent, less overstated.

Instead, Clarke's left sitting there like the walls are closing in. She can't manage words. It's hard enough to keep breathing.]

[ There's nothing Murphy can say or do that will fix it now. Keeping her future secret had been his only hope. Ever since he showed up, the truth had been a bomb waiting to go off, and now it has. There goes the life Clarke had been building here, up in smoke with the rest of the city.

As the one at fault, it feels like he ought to go. She'd tolerated him back in Sanctum, when others had been far less forgiving, but obviously the rage had been eating away at her. Russell had taken the brunt of it, then. Here, there's only Murphy, and a pyre probably won't go over so well. Good for him. Bad for Clarke.

Is he really going to leave her alone with the news? An empty room seems worse. Maybe that's just because he hates facing anything by himself. Looking at her, though, it's impossible to just get up and walk away. He's anchored by her side, for better or worse, trying and failing to blink back tears he sure as hell doesn't deserve to shed.

Tentatively, he slips an arm behind her back. His is probably not the shoulder she'd rather cry on, but he's there to catch her if she's ready to collapse. She looks like she might be. ]

[No, Murphy isn't the person she'd expect to be there for her in a time of grief, but he's been there before. He's been there for her before. He's seen her try to inject focus and direction into her actions, if only because she doesn't know how to cope with the situation that's before her.

As for action? She hadn't had to do that with her father—all Clarke had was solitary confinement and later resentment against her best friend, resentment that showed how much Clarke's pain could boil over with time. She had to act on Finn's behalf, drowning out her feelings with Lexa's words of "comfort," even if they were anything but. And with Lexa, she had to move, to focus, to try to find a direction. She pounded on the door of where she and Murphy had been locked away to get out, rather than sitting and feeling the pain itself.

What action can she take here but to sit next to Murphy and cry, to let it break her.

When his hand touches her back, she all but melts into him immediately, face coming to press against his shoulder. Her other hand reaches out absently to reach for his, but she doesn't force him, merely splaying it open between them.

There is nothing here that shows resentment or hatred or pain. But then, Clarke doesn't know that he's looking for it. It doesn't even occur to her that he could be at fault for Abby's death. Maybe it never will.]

[ As soon as Clarke falls against him, Murphy draws her in. He doesn't think before taking her hand, interlocking their fingers and cradling close. In that touch, he exposes his own guilt. There's just so much to be sorry about: the betrayal, the secret, the necessary cruelty in maintaining it, the failure to keep it, the consequence of the truth. He really had wanted to spare her this pain. He can't see any good that comes with knowing.

But it's not about him, now. Clarke's grief floods his heart, overwhelms him, steals the breath from his lungs and drowns out all thought. His own tears spill over and soak into her hair as he rests his cheek against her crown. He knows this pain intimately. The years haven't dulled it. And Abby... Abby had hated him so much, at the end - he'd deserved it - but she was as close as anyone else ever came to being something like a mother to him. Orphaned all over again.

(Is that his feeling, or Clarke's?)

He's not going to let go of her. She's not going to be alone with the pain he caused her, not until she wants to be. ]

[In a way, it's almost a relief that Murphy is here instead of Bellamy. Clarke knows that Bellamy would get it—would understand the feelings of loss around a parent, would grasp what it was like to feel the last remaining family member pass away. While Bellamy still has Octavia in a sense, there was a short while where it seemed like she was gone. He had lost his mother, had nearly lost his sister, and had to hear about what Octavia became in his absence. He'd get it.

But there's something about knowing that he had a bond with her, had worked alongside her to keep Clarke alive—literally in keeping the blood pumping through her veins lest she get destroyed by the Flame in her head—that makes this all the more real.

She doesn't feel anger or resentment. There's no room for that here. Instead, Clarke's emotional state is one where she feels as if she's caught in the undertow of months of pent up emotion, geared toward a singular focus and future: one where she would free her mother from the burdens of guilt and feeling as if she lost her humanity, and where she would give her daughter a future. One half of that daydream, that ideal has been lost to her. Has died, and she hadn't been there. Could she have done something? Would it matter? It's a foregone conclusion, isn't it?

As much as people have shouted at Clarke that she's not allowed to give up, she's no more free from feelings of hopelessness and bottoming out. Josephine had latched on to that and nearly destroyed her with it. Mere days before, the voice in her head told her to give up and cut herself free. Too much of Clarke's self-importance and ability to lead and be there for others lies in what she can be for them and who she can be for them and whether those plans will work.

And right now, there is nothing there. No stores to draw on, nothing that can give her strength. Even if they may theoretically still remain—and they do, there's no doubt about it—she can't seem to find them. Instead, she drowns in grief and despondency. She knows, somewhere deep down, that Murphy has seen her like this—has seen what she can do to herself, and where her darker thoughts will bring her. It's not anywhere near the surface of her mind, but she takes comfort in it. Somewhere. Somewhere deep inside.

She has questions—things she'd even like to know—but she can't muster up the ability or emotion to care right now. She can't.]

Edited 2020-08-18 07:02 (UTC)

[ For a good long while, they exchange nothing but grief. Eventually Murphy's tears are drained dry and his chest burns and his back aches from the tension of maintaining the modicum of composure necessary to keep supporting Clarke. Because it can't be all up to her, being the strong one. That's how a person starts unraveling. He wishes he'd understood that back on Earth, that it hadn't taken Josephine to make him realize that he'd taken Clarke for granted.

Now that his fingers have gone practically numb from clinging to her, he gradually loosens his grip, though he doesn't let go altogether. He doesn't expect his emotional state is doing her any favors, but again, there's something about not going through it alone. And maybe she can feel the rest of it, that he's grateful for her, and he's worried about her, and he loves her. All the stuff that would feel profane to say out loud, considering what he did to her.

Instead, once they've both fallen mostly silent, he offers weakly: ]

Is there anything I can do?

[When the feedback changes, Murphy's met with a sense of surprise at first, but she takes it in. Clarke doesn't expect other people to care for her the same way she cares for all of them. It's a messed up notion of a person who truly believed people would be better off without her, but she's able to give her all and keep giving until there's nothing left. She might even find peace in that nothing, but it's hard to say.

The love, specifically the love, is reflected in turn. Clarke cared for Murphy even as she knew he made mistakes and was frustrated with him. But there's nothing like what she does to herself while making harmful, callous choices about the people around her. Half the time it's like she does it so she can have a reason to hate herself (or more than that: it's all about bearing the brunt so no one else can make those choices).

She takes a long time to breathe, to consider what she wants. The morbid part of her who watched her father be floated wants to know what happened to her mother, but ... the way she wants to know isn't fair to her, and isn't fair to him. (The way being memory transference.)]

How did she die? [A beat. And then, more strained:] Did she know I was alive still? [Did she even get to know that her daughter survived her after all?]

[ He swallows, taking a moment to gather himself so that his voice is steady when he answers: ]

She knew.

[ It was Murphy who'd been in the dark about it, he'd later come to learn. He's tortured himself with questions ever since, whether he might have been able to do more if he'd been someone they could have trusted with the secret of Clarke's survival. Futile speculation, now. ]

They... They used Madi's bone marrow. For me and Emori. Abby used the rest to make herself a Nightblood, so they'd stop harvesting from Madi, a-and I guess... Russell decided she'd be a perfect host for Simone.

[ Shit, he's choking up again. ]

I didn't know. I didn't know. I never would've let them...

[Knowing the how both does and doesn't help—because there's a new worry in there: Madi. Madi being saved by her mother, Madi being used and used and used so that people could become Nightbloods. And her mother stepping in and turning herself into a Nightblood so that Madi wouldn't be at risk. They know what happens if too much bone marrow is pulled from a subject. They've seen it first hand.

The spike of emotions varies: first relief that her mother knew, and then anger and feeling gutted, knowing that Madi could be in bad shape, knowing that her mother was killed for the same reason she nearly died.

But then there's how he feels, and the words. What is he saying? She focuses on them, blinking through renewed tears. (How does she have any left in her?)]

I know. [Firm, resolved. Even if she wasn't there, Murphy wouldn't feel this way if he wanted this. If he knew—if he had a choice—but people like the Primes, like Russell and the others—they all fooled themselves into believing that the way they lived was just fine. That they could be worshiped as gods, because that's what they deserved. They built an entire society on it.

Knowing that, she settles on simmering unhappiness that mingles in with rage.]

Is Madi—? [Because that's all she can muster up now. Worry about her daughter who was unsafe without her.]

Madi's fine.

[ Murphy's quick to reassure her, pulling himself together, putting aside that crippling regret to focus on something that might actually make Clarke feel better. ]

She recovered. You know, she's a strong kid. And she had all of us looking out for her. It's all taken care of, I promise.

[At least there's good news in all of this, even if it comes with a lot of bad. How much more will Madi have to experience in her life? She's seen all her people die, and barely survived an apocalypse on her own. She's been forced to lead a people with little experience of how to do it. And now ... this. This.

She breathes out unsteadily.]

Thank you. [For that. For looking out for her. It's something. Knowing that Madi might be okay, even if she's not okay along the way.

Clarke can't begin to guess what all this trauma means for her daughter, can't even begin to guess.

A part of her wants to conjure up the ability to put him first right now. To comfort and be there for him. But she doesn't have it. Not yet, anyway.]

[ It's a good thing she doesn't, because Murphy wouldn't know what to do with it. It already doesn't make sense that she's thanking him, that there's any affection left for him when none of it would have happened if he hadn't helped Josephine. If he hadn't been a coward. If he'd brought her straight to Abby instead of taking Josephine at her word.

Being here for Clarke is the only thing that can help him now. He can't fix what he broke, but he can damn well pick up the pieces. ]

Hey, don't thank me. It takes a village.

[ Which Clarke seems to forget, in general, especially at the worst of times. ]

Seriously, you don't have to worry about anyone else now. I really blew it with the timing, but I'm here. Anything you need, Clarke.

[The next hint of emotion is a current of bemusement. Clarke had told Murphy: he had been here twice before, and every single time he had pushed her away. She had played into it so easily because it seemed like a foregone conclusion. No matter the point in time, she had messed up in some way to make things bad. Knowing their friction right after his trip to "hell"—or whatever that was? It made sense.

It's not like she lived a whole lot of life after that point. And what she gathered inside of Josephine was limited up to a point. Josephine had made sure of it.]

Anything, [she repeats. It has to be said out loud.]

No more lies, Murphy. We can't keep doing this to each other. [She's insistent and pleading—and perhaps she's mostly driven by grief and pain here, but she's ... also tired of all this. Tired of what it all means when they end up like this. They're each other's people. It doesn't have to be like this.]

That's what I want.

[ Murphy dips his head in acknowledgement. That's fair. Hell, she could use him as a punching bag and it'd be completely fair. Hiding all of this from her, no matter the reason, was the wrong thing to do. He understands that now. And it was made even worse through the act he had to keep up, abusing her with a resentment he didn't even feel anymore. He hated that part as much as she did. ]

Pretty sure I'm all out of secrets.

[ At least, the ones he's intentionally been keeping. ]

No more lies. I swear. It's not gonna be like that anymore.

[It doesn't take much for Clarke to believe what he's saying. It's just that this creed will be difficult with everything that Bellamy still doesn't know: about how he had to give up and broker a deal with the Primes, or the rest of the context with saving her life. She had told him that happened, after all. And Lexa, for her part, doesn't know how things went wrong with Octavia—Clarke had concealed the bit about Blodreina, at least for a time.

Now that she's made this the law of the land, she's going to have to hold to it. For better or worse.

She nods. She believes that's it, at least until she sees the particulars for herself. But she also doubts he'd leave anything out on purpose.]

Come on. Let's go see if the others are here. [Though it's likely they are. Clarke will have to tell them of her grief, her pain. Of what she's going to have to accept for herself and for their people moving forward.

But they'll get there.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[closed] it's like a cold hand on my shoulder

so you don't explode (murphy)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject