I Need You

Blood, Anger, and Guilt

Disclaimer: There is some talk of blood and broken bones after paragraph 5, as well as brief mentions of abuse. If this will trigger or bother you, please don't read.

Murphy's POV:

The moment Bellamy called, Murphy knew it had to do with Clarke. That nagging, uneasy concern was back, but this time, he couldn't quite ignore it. It felt disgusting, and for something so unfamiliar, he already hated it. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but he had more pressing things to worry about. 'Beaten unconscious.... beaten unconscious... beaten unconscious...' the words rolled around in his head as he drove the familiar road to the Blake's house, using one hand to angrily push back the hair from his face, blowing out a long, suffering breath.

That was when it kicked in. Everything he had noticed all made sense now, and he couldn't believe, of all people, he didn't recognize it. But he did. And he didn't do anything. This was the second night in a row where he hadn't really slept, and he absolutely blamed it on Clarke. Though Clarke might be dead because of him. Because he didn't say anything, didn't confront the stubborn girl.

To add to the concern, there was guilt. It was filthy, horrible, burning; no matter how hard he tried to push it away, it only licked at his skin. Guilt, something he had felt briefly, but for not very long. Guilt. It was bitter, coating his mouth in what felt like ash. His chest ached and he began to pant, realizing with horror that he was about to have a panic attack. Clarke used to help him when that happened. Calm the fuck down, Murphy. Now wasn't the time to break.

Murphy let himself in the house, all but running to the living room. He fixed an annoyed, dull expression on his face, but he and Bellamy both knew that it wasn't convincing. For once, the other man didn't comment. Murphy bit back a remark, turning his gaze on the blonde. And nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the jarring sight. Fuck. Sure, she annoyed him to death, and their relationship was built off of rudeness and sarcastic remarks. But she was still his best friend. In a split second, he felt the guilt lift, being replaced by anger, familiar and soothing. "Get the fuck out of my way, Blake." Perhaps sensing the barely withheld anger, Bellamy silently stood up from the edge of the sofa, returning with a cool rag and a bowl of water, along with a roll of bandages and a pile of blankets.

Murphy was well known for his quick anger, though Bellamy was as well. But now was definitely not the time, as much as he would have liked to kill her abuser without a single damn regret. "What the actual fuck, Griffin? You just had to keep me from sleeping another night, and then expect me to show up here." He stated blandly, his usually bored, apathetic tone bitter. "I see how it is." She obviously couldn't hear him, but that was exactly how it would go if- when, she woke up. Like hell he would give up on her, Clarke was a fighter. She would fight until the end, and even then, would leave with fiery confidence.

Murphy worked quickly, throwing his jacket in a corner, rolling up his sleeves. There was so much blood, it was difficult to make out where it started. This was coming from someone who saw blood on a regular basis. But it was never this bad. Her nose, her ribs and sides of torso, the back of her head, and upper chest were the most damaged. Not to mention the mottled bruises that covered every inch of her skin like some sick camouflage. He tucked a few blankets over her lower torso, which seems to have sustained much less trauma, in hopes that it would stop the shivering. She was clearly in shock, but the loss of blood was something that he was more concerned about.

The way he worked was practiced and neat, like he had done it many times before. Which he had, and Clarke had as well. For him. And now, he knew, for herself as well. "Hold this tightly to her head," he ordered, the biting words clearly directed at Bellamy. With that done, he carefully tore open what remained of her shirt, averting his eyes before he put a blanket over what didn't need to be uncovered. Just because he was an asshole, it didn't mean he wouldn't be respectful. In fact, if Clarke was awake, she wouldn't be allowing anyone near her, much less helping her, spinning some elaborate lie about what happened. Murphy pressed cloth against her ribs, praying that she hadn't punctured a lung. At least four of her ribs on one side and two on the other were broken, and that wasn't even counting the numbers of the other fractures. Her nose, at least one of her fingers, and maybe her wrist, but who knows what else.

He rolled the blanket back up to cover the rest of her shoulders and ribs, getting up from his position by her side to walk to one of the Blake's wall. "Fuck you!" he screamed, voice breaking, slamming his fist into the wall. He distinctly felt the pain, but hammered it down again, reveling in the feeling of being in control. The feel of it breaking through the wall. And then the rest of it came crashing down. The guilt, the concern, the tiredness, his own issues, Clarke. His fist came down on the wall again, this time softer, and raised his other hand to the wall, leaning heavily on them. Murphy ducked his head, panting softly, his hair curtaining the moisture that seeped from his eyes.

"Murphy?"

"I'm going to fucking kill him."