Beauty and the Beast - John Murphy
From my Wattpad: inanonacrimnalwayy
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After Murphy is found, the sickness inflicted by the Grounders spreads like wildfire around camp, the thought of losing him is too much for you.
Published on: July 6, 2020
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Sleep became a rare occurrence for me.
When I did find the courage to shut off my mind, I was harassed with nightmares and plagued with horrific flashbacks that danced tirelessly behind my eyes.
I woke up every single time screaming for John to run.
It's no secret that the majority of camp hated John's guts.
But I was a different story.
Everyone in camp wanted to know me.
They wanted to know the kind girl who sang the younger fretful campers to sleep, and who always looked on the bright side no matter the circumstance.
They compared me and John to Beauty and the Beast.
"But the Beast is good inside. He just doesn't let anyone see that because when people see good, they expect good. And the Beast doesn't want to have to live up to anybody's expectations." I would always remind them.
One night, while we were in our tent, I overheard several older campers badmouthing John.
I stood, hands balled into fists, eager to let off some of my steam on someone.
"Easy, babe. Don't stoop to their level." John had repeated the words I so often had to say to him when anything bothered him.
And I had to say them a lot, because everything bothers John.
I took a breath, and sat back down allowing him to massage my neck and shoulders which were tight and taut from the stresses of the day.
"They make me so angry. No one down here is innocent. We all have something that we did wrong. Why are they so quick to judge?" I lazily traced meaningless patterns on his hand which was riddled in scars and calluses.
I felt John chuckle, and he rested his chin in the crook of my neck.
"Because they're not you. They're not selfless, and kind, and forgiving. Some of them are ruthless murders."
I allowed his words to simmer in the heat of the tent.
I didn't like being called selfless.
John's just says that's another reason to call me selfless.
"I still don't like it." I pouted.
"No one says you have to like it. Now shut up and cuddle with me." John attacked me with tickles, peppering my face with kisses.
This is the side of John Murphy that no one else sees.
And that was the last night I had with John Murphy.
The morning brought uncertainty.
I could feel it in the air.
I've always been an anxious person, but John does his best to keep it at bay.
"What else could go wrong? We're miles away from home which isn't even on the planet, surrounded by crazy tree people who are hell bent on killing us all, and we're probably all gonna die before the snow falls."
I know his words were meant for comfort, but they always freaked me out even more.
I woke up, sorry - I mean I was trampled awake by a group of two dozen people who thrust their hands into the opening of our pathetic excuse of a tent.
I screamed as people grabbed my hair and scratched my arms.
What the hell was going on?
Were we being ambushed by Grounders?
Now I knew these were our people.
Why would Grounders be specifically after the most hated boy in our camp?
How would they even know his name?
We didn't even know if they spoke English.
My chest grew tight, and my legs felt like jelly, which was something that always happened to me before a panic attack.
"Hey, keep your hands off of her!" I saw John's fist come into contact with a boys face.
He was then physically dragged out of of camp, with me hot on their trail, slightly disoriented from what had just happened.
I spun around, frantic for the sight of someone, anyone who wasn't engrossed by the mosh pit with John in the center of it all.
"Harper, what's going on?" I found my good friend Harper, and clutched her arm.
She shook me free, disgust prominent on her face.
"Why don't you ask your boyfriend the killer? Wells was found dead this morning, and Murphy's knife was next to him."
"Th-that's crazy! John did not kill Wells!"
I wasn't about to argue furthermore with Harper. I needed to see Bellamy.
I found him in the mob, and yanked him free.
"Bellamy, this is crazy! Murphy didn't kill Wells! He couldn't have! He was by my side the entire night!" My words came out fast and jumbled.
"(Y/N), I know it's hard to comprehend, but Murphy killed Wells." Bellamy spoke to me in a calm manner.
"Bullshit! Harper said the knife was found near Wells? That wasn't Murphy! Even if he DID ever kill someone, he wouldn't be that sloppy. Please, Bellamy! You have to believe me!" Angry tears rolled down my face and panic grew.
"Bellamy! What do you want us to do with him?" Finn called over, stepping back and revealing a severely beaten Murphy who was now bound by the wrists and ankles, and gagged.
Bellamy took a final look at me. Once final glance at the broken girl who was on the cusp of a breakdown.
"String him up." Bellamy boomed, nodding to a large oak tree which housed thick and sturdy branches, a noose already tied securely around it.
They say adrenaline makes everything move quicker.
You run faster, you think faster, you act faster...
There must be something wrong with me, because I move in slow motion.
It's like when you're dreaming.
When you're dreaming and you're running away from a monster and it feels like your legs have been submerged in molasses. You scream at your legs to move faster, but they don't.
Everything was in slow motion.
I could see a struggling John being stood by an overturned bucket, using all of his strength to break free.
Chants and screams of those around us beckoning on his death.
Twigs snapping and dirt flying from beneath my bare feet as I sprinted towards John.
The cries out of my mouth, and the final gasp of breath when the bucket was overturned.
"No! No! Please! It wasn't him!" I shoved away bystanders, just inches away from the boy who I loved.
The boy on the drop ship who squeezed my hand telling me it was going to be alright.
The boy in the forest who picked flowers for me and presented them with a dopey smile.
The boy in the tent who held me close our first nights on the ground after Jaspers attack.
The boy who was now dangling from a tree, his hands working relentlessly to loosen the pull of the rope.
Someone was holding me back, and I clawed at their hands. But that just added another person, and another...
I fought and screamed and cried against the arms that held me back.
Feet were stomped on, wrists bitten, fingers bent back...
His face was now purple, eyes bulging and red.
"It was me! It was me, okay!" A small voice screamed from the hill to my right.
There stood Charlotte, a twelve year old girl with blonde hair that was in two braids.
I heard she had been sent to the ground after attacking the guards that floated her parents.
"I killed Wells! Not Murphy!"
As her words were being registered, the arms and hands that were holding me hostage, loosened, and I lunged toward John, who was now limp.
"Cut him down! Somebody, please!" I begged as I jumped in the air in a pathetic attempt to reach him.
"Cut him down!" Bellamy ordered.
His body feel to the ground with a thud, and I shook his shoulders.
"John, please wake up!" I sobbed.
He gasped, sitting up and yanking the rope off of his neck.
"It's okay, you're okay. You're safe now." I engulfed him in a hug as he trembled beneath my touch.
All eyes were now on Charlotte, who had Bellamy next to her, crouched down so he could be at eye level with her.
She honestly couldn't have been bigger than a dog. A tiny thing, she was.
Did she really kill Wells? Or was that just a desperate ploy to save John's life?
"Charolette, what are you talking about?" Bellamy asked in disbelief.
Fear in her eyes made her seem even more vulnerable than she already was.
"You told me to slay my demons, Bellamy. Jaha killed my parents, and I can't get to Jaha, so I killed his son."
"Charlotte that's not what I meant. You KNOW that's not what I meant." Bellamy grabbed the young girl by her shoulders and shook her.
She nodded, tears falling to the ground.
"Well I say we kill the little bitch the same way you tried to kill me." John was now on his feet, angry marks on his neck bleeding and raised, crimson red and berry purple...
Agreement stirred amongst the crowd, and Bellamy stood in front of the girl.
"John, she's just a child." I reminded him softly, reaching out and touching is arm. Surely he had more sense than this.
"Pick, (Y/N). Me, or the kid?" He rasped.
I stuttered, words failing.
"Just as I suspected. Maybe they got that part wrong. Maybe you're the Beast," He shoved me away, the rope still in his hands.
"Who's with me?!" Several people raised their fists and shouted in agreement.
"She could have killed any one of us, and the blame could have been on you, or you!" He thrusted his index finger toward people at random in the crowd.
"Nobody is dying today!" Bellamy hollered, Charolette still cowering behind him.
John flung the rope to the ground.
"A little to late for that, Bellamy. Why not her, next? She killed one of our people!"
No one could argue against that.
John lunged forward, and Bellamy held his arms out protectively.
After that, it was a madhouse.
People rushing from our side to Bellamy's to protect the little girl, and people joining John.
I was shoved from behind, and everything went black.
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I'm in a small tent, yet I still throw the blankets about, searching for him.
The first few days after his banishment, I convinced myself it was all a bad dream.
Now over two weeks had passed and I still woke up screaming.
I made my bed, picking up John's sweatshirt as I did so, and inhaled his scent.
How long did I have until it faded?
There was a rap on the flimsy material of the tent, and Harper appeared, smiling.
I turned away, my arms crossed and bottom lip jutted out like I was a four year old losing an argument.
She sighed, leaving a small bowl of berries next to the entrance of the shelter, and left.
After Clarke and Bellamy were the only ones to return from the woods, I cut everyone else off.
I didn't talk to anyone, let alone acknowledge their existence.
I still helped around, but that was for my sake. They would banish me, too if I wasn't of any use.
I fell into a rut the day John left.
His final words to me played like a broken record.
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
"Maybe you're the beast."
Was I really as selfless as people made me out to be?
No, I was being smart. No one knows what happened to John, or if he was even still alive.
But what would John have done if the situation were reversed?
He would have gone after me, no questions asked.
I hated myself for the fact.
I had become the bitter girl.
I no longer sang the little ones to sleep.
I no longer offered hugs or advice.
I sat on a log, skinning squirrels and rabbits, staring blankly ahead as the day progressed.
Forgiveness had always been my thing.
Bellamy had tried on more than one occasion to apologize to me, as did Clarke, and everyone else who took part in the hanging of John Murphy.
And every time, I told them to stick it where the sun don't shine.
"You have to talk to us eventually." Octavia approached me, knife in hand.
"You can't keep ignoring us forever."
"What? If I don't speak, you gonna string me up too? Like you did to John?"
"We didn't know. We thought-."
"There's the thing, Octavia. You DID know. You knew John was innocent. You just wanted someone to pin it on." I interrupted her once more, tears breaking through the dam behind my eyelids.
The unmistakable bang of a gunshot made everyone jump. We all turned our heads to the source of the sound. Nate Miller was on guard, and he shot once more.
"Hold it!" Octavia yelled, running to Nate, me hot on her trail.
"Is it a Grounder?" Octavia asked Miller.
He blinked several times.
"I-I don't know. I just saw movement, and-."
"You could have just shot one of our people! I need a team with me. Let's move out."
Octavia grabbed a gun, and someone opened the gate.
I tagged along, not even caring if it was a Grounder.
We jogged through the forest, eyes wide and alert.
No sound or movement of any kind. Whatever animals that had been around here were probably chased away by Miller's shot.
"Octavia, up there." Someone pointed in the distance to someone laying on the ground, unmoving.
I lurched forward, ignoring the hisses and orders of Β "Get back here!"
Really, what did I have to lose?
I picked Charolette over him.
Maybe what I deserved was a Grounder killing me.
That would be less painful than what I dealt with each day.
But it wasn't a Grounder.
Through caked mud, dried blood, and cracked leaves and debris, I could still make out the broken boy who was indeed John Murphy.
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"Clarke! We need Clarke!" Octavia screamed as several boys hauled John back to camp.
Was this a nightmare, too?
"What's going on?" Clarke jogged to Octavia's side, and glanced at me.
Clarke frowned, and grabbed my face.
I felt like I couldn't breath.
"She's in shock. Octavia what-."
"It's Murphy. He's alive. We found him outside of camp." Octavia panted.
The blonde girls attention turned to Murphy, who was now half conscious and confused.
"Bring him into the drop ship." Clarke ordered.
I began to follow, but my knees gave out and I collapsed.
Bellamy barely caught me by my elbows, and lead me to a makeshift chair where he called over Monty and Jasper to keep an eye on me.
Part of me wanted so badly to be with John. To ask him where he had been, what had happened...
Finally, Clarke emerged from the drop ship, hands stained a blood red, brows furrowed.
I jumped up so fast I nearly fell down again.
"What's going on? Is he okay?" My throat was tight and it burned to speak.
Clarke bit her lip, silent.
"He's alive, but he's not in good shape." She answered, a hundred pound weight was lifted off my chest.
"What happened?" Jasper stood with me, unaware of the current situation.
Clarke hesitated, something she hardly ever did.
"A few days after we banished him, Murphy had been with the Grounders. He told them everything about our camp, and...they just let him go."
"Yeah, right. Murphy's always been a liar. He'll say anything to-."
"His fingernails have been ripped off, Monty. He was tortured. He's not lying."
Silence fell over us, and a wounded animal sound escaped my lips.
Clarke turned to me, harshly rubbing her hands on her pants in an attempt to scrub off the blood.
"He's asking for you, (Y/N). Don't be surprised when you go in there and see him chained up."
I had left before she had even finished her sentence.
John was alive... John was alive, and he wanted to see me.
I tripped over the threshold at the entrance, but that didn't slow me down.
His wrists were bound with shiny handcuffs to a thick pole.
I lunged towards him, dropping on my hands and knees, taking his filthy face in my hands.
"John, oh, John, you're alive!" I exclaimed, tears sprouting in my eyes.
He smirked the same smirk I had grown to love, and the chains rattled as he tried to move his hands to wipe away my tears.
"It's okay. Let's clean you up." I stood, Bellamy's eyes focused on the two of us.
Of course, there had to be an armed guard.
"You could at least lower the gun." I seethed.
I had retrieved a wet cloth, and a cup of water to bring back to John.
He drank thirstily as I held the cup to his lips.
He gasped, exasperated by the little movement he had made.
I took the cloth, and began dabbing away the dirt that was caked onto his forehead. Some of it mixed with blood, and it looked painful.
"Sorry. I'm trying to be as gentle as I can." I apologized, pressing softer on the spots that appeared to be more tender.
"Hush, now. It's okay. Save your breath. We can talk later."
He relaxed a bit as I cleaned his face, humming as I did so.
Although my touch was gentle, he reacted otherwise, flinching away every time the wet cloth was brought to his face.
Unbeknownst to me, my eyes wandered aimlessly to his hands which were cracked, bleeding, and caked with dried tree sap, and dirt. My stomach did a flip as I realized Clarke was telling the truth. His fingernails were gone.
My throat grew tight, and I struggled to swallow the lump that had formed.
"(Y/N)..." He spoke my name, his voice raspy, and his shackled hands reached up to my face once more, and I allowed him to wipe away the falling tears which had began to stream down my face again.
We didn't speak after that. Although I was positive that the salt was entering his wounds, hurting him furthermore, he wiped every single tear away as I dabbed at his face.
I took deep breaths, willing myself to calm down.
It's okay, (Y/N). Focus on one thing at a time.
Nearly all of the blood and grime had been washed away from his face, when John gasped and cupped his hand over his throat, sputtering and frantically flailing his arms about as if oxygen had suddenly refused to enter his lungs.
I don't even have time to turn my head before thick, hot blood was spewed into my face along with an array of the food that had been keeping John alive these past few weeks.
I heard Bellamy curse, and he dropped his loaded gun to the floor, sprinting out of the drop ship, screaming for Clarke as he did so.
John was on his side now, his face in a puddle of his own bloody vomit.
I struggled to keep down my meager breakfast.
Clarke rushed in, her cheeks alive with a red rouge.
She inched past me and kneeled down next to John, who was just beginning to catch his breath.
Clarke's hands were steady as she checked his pulse. She frowned, and then felt his forehead with the back of her hand.
She jerked away like his skin was as hot as a flame.
"What's happening to me?" John sniffed, blood now protruding from his terrified eyes.
The color in Clarke's cheeks was gone now, and she turned to both Bellamy and I.
"What is it? What's wrong with him?" Even Bellamy struggled to remain composed.
Clarke blinked a few times, debating if whether or not we should know.
"Clarke!" Bellamy's voice was full of worry.
The blonde girl shook her head, and gathered her senses.
"It's biological warfare. The Grounders infected him when they held him hostage. They knew he would come back, and they knew we would take him in. We don't have the genes to fight it off. They're trying to kill us."
β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’
Two different sections had been set up in the drop ship, now.
The lower level is where the sick and dying lay on stained blankets, and cold metal. The upper floor held both those who were showing symptoms, or those who had been around anyone who was already infected.
Clarke urged me to seek refuge in the upper level, where the coughs and groans and hacking of the lungs were suppressed by the thick metal trapdoor.
I bluntly refused, explaining that I was the first one to even touch John, and I was likely already infected. It wouldn't make sense to hole me up with people who possibly weren't even sick.
She halfheartedly agreed, only to the advantage that an extra pair of hands was helping. And God knows she needed them.
Whatever this was, it was spreading, and it was spreading fast.
Within the hour, twenty other cases were diagnosed by Clarke, and she, Bellamy, and I worked feverishly to get everything situated and keep everyone comfortable.
I had possibly seen more blood now than I had even seen back on The Ark when our class went on a field trip to Medbay, where we were given a tour of the blood bank, and explained to how transfusions worked.
At first, I attempted to tiptoe around the stringy vomit and clotted blood, but gave up when Clarke informed me that my shoes would protect my feet from contact.
Out of all of those who were afflicted, John was passed the most by the reluctant volunteers who wiped away blood and tears, and handed out cups of water.
My feet sloshed in stale vomit with a pungent smell as I witnessed John begin to convulse with shivers from fever.
The once wet compress that had been laid across his forehead, was now warm, and served no purpose. If anything, it was trapping the fever inside of him.
I removed the cloth, and dipped it in a nearby bucket of water that had been dispersed throughout the room for purposes such as this.
His teeth chattered violently.
"(Y-Y/N)." John's chest heaved with unfinished breaths, and I wiped the overgrown bangs away from his face.
"It's okay. Just rest." I hushed him.
If it were even possible, his skin blazed hotter than before, and his eyes grew dark.
"You haven't let me s-say a damn word every s-since I got h-here." His attempt to come across as angry and menacing was lost in a fit of dry coughs.
I helped him sit up, and rested his head so it was laying on my chest.
Once he had managed to catch his breath, I made him drink a few sips of water.
"You've spoken enough. You need to rest." I laid him back down, removing my sweatshirt and propping up his head with it so he could breath a bit easier.
He reached out for my hand, and I grabbed his fingertips, forgetting the absence of his nails.
He yelped, and pulled away instinctively.
I took his hand more gently this time, and traced meaningless patterns on the rough skin.
"They t-tortured m-me, y'know?" His eyes found mine.
Another flip in my stomach.
"I know." I whispered, my voice barley audible to myself.
John closed his eyes, his shoulders relaxing a little as he came to the realization that I wasn't going to hurt him.
"They beat me, and b-burned me, and tore off my nails, and cut me-."
"John, stop." I interrupted, feeling guilty the moment I did so.
If it helped him to talk about it, why stop him?
"But none of that compared to the torture it was of being w-without you," His eyes opened once more as he continued, and I saw something I thought I would never see again.
The John Murphy that I know and love.
"Th-they kept asking me for your name. I was so afraid they were going to h-hurt you, (Y/N). I told th-them they could know everything e-else, but not you."
His words were both comforting, and painful at the same time.
John cared about me this whole time? This entire time he was away?
And even though John cared for me, and I for him, how much time did he have left?
I suddenly wished he didn't confide in me. It would be easier to move on with his death thinking that he hated me.
And death was inevitable.
Two people had died already, after the fever basically melted them from the inside out.
Their deaths were bloody and violent, accompanied with choking and tears.
No one, not even Clarke had hope for them. The best we could do was hold their hand and whisper "May we meet again." as they took their final breath.
My fingers had ceased to move across his skin, and both my mind and my mouth struggled to find the right words.
"I thought you hated me." Was the best I was able to come up with in the heat of the moment.
John's sarcastic scoff was accompanied with saliva and blood which dribbled down his chin. He raised his hand weakly to wipe it away.
"Did the B-Beast ever stop loving the Beauty?" He asked me, voice low, and words slurred. Fatigue seemed overcome him, and he fought to remain conscious.
I blanked, my mind combing through the story I had grown up on. What had the Beauty done to the Beast? Sure, he was angry for whatever she had done, but did he ever really stop loving her?
"To put it simply, no. He was just... angry. He didn't mean anything he said." I whispered.
John yawned, and his lips curled up a bit into a half smile.
"And the Beauty forgave the Beast. No matter how much of a douchebag he was to her. Just proving how amazing she is." John smirked weakly.
"Rest, now." My hands became slick with perspiration as I pushed away the hair from his forehead which began to stick.
There was a song that went with the story, and I began to hum it as John's eyes closed, and sleep overcame his battered body.
Reality settled over me like a thick and heavy blanket, and I realized how awful the atmosphere was inside.
How long I had been tending to the sick, I don't know. But I did know that I needed to get some fresh air before I completely lost my mind. The enclosed space and the oder of the blood and vomit made me feel nauseated.
I tiptoed over bodies and cups of water to the opening of the drop ship, and stepped outside.
Twilight was fast approaching, and the few people who were experiencing no symptoms at all sat huddled together by the fire speaking in hushed voices.
"Hey, wanna hear a joke?"
Jasper Jordan stood a good ten feet away from me, his hand holding the leg of a rabbit which he ravenously consumed.
I weakly smiled, grateful for the shred of positivity the boy had the offer.
"Sure, why not?" I grinned.
Jasper smirked, and spoke through a mouthful of food.
"So a sick Grounder walks into a hospital and says-."
Jaspers eyes suddenly widened, and he stumbled back, tripping over a stick, dropping his food onto the soil as his hands instinctively brace himself.
I placed my hands on my hips, waiting for the punchline.
"Well?" I tapped my foot impatiently. A joke shouldn't take this long to tell, and I had to get back to the sick.
"Your-your eyes. They're bleeding." Jaspers voice was high pitched, and he continued to back away until his body hit the fence.
I scowled, not in the mood for a prank.
"Jasper, that's not funny. There are people in there who are-."
My voice came to a halt when I reached up to my eyes to prove there was no blood, but was met with it.
It coated my fingers and dripped onto a rock.
I screamed, backing away from Jasper, and my back hit the drop ship.
I sunk to the ground, my hands feverishly wiping the blood from my eyes which were now mixed with tears, creating the effect of more blood than there was.
Bellamy ran out of the drop ship, machine gun in hand, his eyes frantic for the sight of whatever he thought was in camp.
The last thing I remember is his brown eyes meeting mine, and his lips forming an incoherent sentence which I failed to hear as everything went black.
β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’
Something weighed heavy on my chest. I remember, once, when I was younger and recovering from pneumonia, a doctor had stacked a few books on my chest and made me breathe with them on me. He said the point was to strengthen my lungs and my breathing, but it only added anxiety and claustrophobia.
It was like I couldn't move, and I was grateful when someone turned my head to the side for me where I noisily began to vomit.
I could taste the blood, but there was no food to come up. Just acidic bile. It burned my throat and I cried out.
"It's okay. I'm right here." A familiar voice sounded far away, and everything moved in slow motion.
"John?" I think I spoke between the firs of coughing.
I was dizzy, but a hand made me sit up and drink some water which I immediately threw up.
My vision was blurry, but I could make out what was around me.
John looked so much better. It was like he was never even sick. His cheeks were still a bit pale, but he was sitting up, and sweat wasn't dumping from his pores anymore.
Less than a half dozen people lay around me on worn out seat cushions and soiled sheets of cloth. Bellamy Blake was to my right, and Octavia was helping him drink some water.
"Wh-." My questions were cut short as John shushed me and held me close to his chest.
Tears fell from his eyes and landed on the top of my head.
"Why are you crying?" It hurt to speak, and I wondered how long I had been unconscious.
He didn't speak right then, but held me tighter.
"I thought I lost you. I heard you scream and then I saw Bellamy carried you inside. I thought you were dead." His voice turned quiet as he spoke the last sentence, and it was my turn to comfort him.
"But I'm here. You're here. And we're okay." I rubbed his arm soothingly.
He helped me lay back down, the simple act of even being propped up exhausted me.
As he situated himself next to me, I noticed those who were sick not only five minutes ago up and about.
John noticed my frown, and he pushed a strand of loose hair behind my ear.
"What?" He questioned, mimicking my frown.
"How-how long was I asleep?" I asked.
"Almost a day. Clarke thinks this is just a 24 hour thing. Once you've had it, you can't get it anymore."
It made sense. Some of the sicknesses on The Ark were similar to the 24 hour period.
The wool blanket over me offered little warmth, and I shivered.
John held me closer, and made it to where my head was laying on his chest.
"You cold?" He asked me, already worming his way out of his jacket.
He laid it on top of me, and a fresh set of tears pooled in my eyes.
"What's the matter? Where do you hurt?" Murphy's eyes darted to Clarke for assistance, who also lay shivering on the floor of the drop ship.
"It smells like you." I whispered, my words weighing foolish and pathetic.
I could feel his head cock to the side on confusion.
"I used to sleep with your sweatshirt in the tent. I was worried that the scent of you would fade too soon, and I would have nothing left to hold on to."
It really did hurt to talk, and the fact that a lump was forming in my sandpaper dry throat didn't help matters.
John's strong hands took mine and forced me to look him in the eyes.
"But I'm here, now," He said firmly.
I nodded, crushing myself up against him, afraid that he would disappear into thin air.
He stroked my hair, and I listened to the comforting and familiar beat of his heart.
β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’β’
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