The One With The Stain
Title: The One With the Stain
Author: Mollie
Rating: T for implied bloody viloence
Disclaimer: I own nothing of the 100.
Characters: Raven, Murphy
Pairings: Raven/Murphy more implied than anything
For a challenge at gameofcards....had to use a Friends episode title to inspire a story.
The One With the Stain
Finn’s death had been hard enough. Having to pretend it was okay to make nice with the Grounders had been hard enough. Dealing with the fact that your friends, the people in charge, could do nothing to protect you was hard enough. Walking all the way home after being sliced open over and over again for a murder attempt you didn’t make was hard enough.
Having him stare while you were trying to separate the bloody, sweaty, stuck on shirt from your wounds was too much.
“Can I help you?” you ask him, your tone cold, harsh, letting him know he’s not invited.
He just stares at you, at our shirt soaked through with blood. He’s inflicted wounds just as bad, maybe even worse. He’s the reason you can’t walk anymore. The reason you can’t feel your left leg. He embedded a bullet in your spine. But this makes him outraged. “What the hell happened? I thought you were going to negotiate peace. If this is their version of peace…”
You guess you just carry around everyone’s version of peace. Your bum leg. The scars you’ll now have on your stomach and chest and arms. But you don’t contradict him. It does seem the opposite of what it should be. You should’ve come home happy. Or not happy, but not bloody at least.
“They thought I tried to kill her, their leader.” You don’t want to talk about feelings or thoughts or what it was like to be falsely accused. Or how you realized in that moment that you couldn’t still be mad at her for killing him. How you realized that what happened to you was what would have happened to him, how you realized she let him off easy, just one stab where he’d bleed a lot, die fast, and it was over. You don’t want to think that you owe her for killing him mercilessly.
He doesn’t think it’s an excuse. He’s protective of you in a way you can’t explain or define. And you can’t hate him because he’s you. Without someone to save him. No dad. Dead mom. In her own vomit. His life was maybe worse because he knew at some point what it was like to be loved by his parents. Not you. Yours always hated you. And you hated them.
“I’m gonna need some privacy,” you point out, since to clean the wounds you need to take your shirt off.
“To what, remove half your skin and leave behind half your shirt?” he demands. You just glare straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. You don’t need someone else trying to tell you what’s best for you, trying to tell you how to feel, how to handle your feelings.
“Yes,” you say simply. Because you intend to do this alone and you intend to at least like the next person who sees you half naked if you have any control over it. Though you’d prefer to love them. To not make anymore mistakes.
He glares back. “Stop being stubborn. Acting like you’re invincible. Like you don’t need help. That’s all I’m trying to do here. Help you.”
You say nothing, killing the conversation, killing the argument. He sits on the bed. You stare at him. He stares at you. It continues until he can’t stand to see you suffer longer and longer, waiting. He stands, looking at you. “If you change your mind you know where to find me.” And you do because he’s been your best friend lately. The one who helps you try and walk in secret. The one you cry to about his death. The only one who knows you sometimes hate the girl who killed him as much as you like her. But you say nothing because you don’t want him to see it as the excuse to stay that he seems to be looking for.
You look in his eyes one last time when he leaves and they echo back your own pain. He took your leg. And you take pieces of him every time you say you don’t need him. Every time you lie. Because life without him would be far too hard.
Author: Mollie
Rating: T for implied bloody viloence
Disclaimer: I own nothing of the 100.
Characters: Raven, Murphy
Pairings: Raven/Murphy more implied than anything
For a challenge at gameofcards....had to use a Friends episode title to inspire a story.
The One With the Stain
Finn’s death had been hard enough. Having to pretend it was okay to make nice with the Grounders had been hard enough. Dealing with the fact that your friends, the people in charge, could do nothing to protect you was hard enough. Walking all the way home after being sliced open over and over again for a murder attempt you didn’t make was hard enough.
Having him stare while you were trying to separate the bloody, sweaty, stuck on shirt from your wounds was too much.
“Can I help you?” you ask him, your tone cold, harsh, letting him know he’s not invited.
He just stares at you, at our shirt soaked through with blood. He’s inflicted wounds just as bad, maybe even worse. He’s the reason you can’t walk anymore. The reason you can’t feel your left leg. He embedded a bullet in your spine. But this makes him outraged. “What the hell happened? I thought you were going to negotiate peace. If this is their version of peace…”
You guess you just carry around everyone’s version of peace. Your bum leg. The scars you’ll now have on your stomach and chest and arms. But you don’t contradict him. It does seem the opposite of what it should be. You should’ve come home happy. Or not happy, but not bloody at least.
“They thought I tried to kill her, their leader.” You don’t want to talk about feelings or thoughts or what it was like to be falsely accused. Or how you realized in that moment that you couldn’t still be mad at her for killing him. How you realized that what happened to you was what would have happened to him, how you realized she let him off easy, just one stab where he’d bleed a lot, die fast, and it was over. You don’t want to think that you owe her for killing him mercilessly.
He doesn’t think it’s an excuse. He’s protective of you in a way you can’t explain or define. And you can’t hate him because he’s you. Without someone to save him. No dad. Dead mom. In her own vomit. His life was maybe worse because he knew at some point what it was like to be loved by his parents. Not you. Yours always hated you. And you hated them.
“I’m gonna need some privacy,” you point out, since to clean the wounds you need to take your shirt off.
“To what, remove half your skin and leave behind half your shirt?” he demands. You just glare straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. You don’t need someone else trying to tell you what’s best for you, trying to tell you how to feel, how to handle your feelings.
“Yes,” you say simply. Because you intend to do this alone and you intend to at least like the next person who sees you half naked if you have any control over it. Though you’d prefer to love them. To not make anymore mistakes.
He glares back. “Stop being stubborn. Acting like you’re invincible. Like you don’t need help. That’s all I’m trying to do here. Help you.”
You say nothing, killing the conversation, killing the argument. He sits on the bed. You stare at him. He stares at you. It continues until he can’t stand to see you suffer longer and longer, waiting. He stands, looking at you. “If you change your mind you know where to find me.” And you do because he’s been your best friend lately. The one who helps you try and walk in secret. The one you cry to about his death. The only one who knows you sometimes hate the girl who killed him as much as you like her. But you say nothing because you don’t want him to see it as the excuse to stay that he seems to be looking for.
You look in his eyes one last time when he leaves and they echo back your own pain. He took your leg. And you take pieces of him every time you say you don’t need him. Every time you lie. Because life without him would be far too hard.