telefilm: john murphy

Le nuove storie sono in alto.

Genere: Introspettivo, Romantico.
Pairing: Bellamy/Clarke.
Rating: PG-13.
AVVERTIMENTI: Het, Fluff, Missing Moment, What If?.
- "Murphy comes up with the sketchbook idea, which, considering he’s a psychopath, should probably be reason enough for Bellamy to smell danger and give up on the whole thing. But he’s at a loss, and Clarke’s birthday quickly approaches, what else is he supposed to do? (Set in some random imaginary timeframe set after Finn's death but before Bellamy got sent to Mount Weather. Bending canon to make room for my fluffy Bellarke needs like a boss.)
Note: Era una vita che volevo scrivere Bellarke, e naturalmente appena ci ho provato ho scritto 4k di Bellamy e Murphy che fanno gli idioti in mezzo alla foresta XD Non ho potuto impedirmelo, Murphy è il sovrano assoluto della mia persona. *lo abbraccia*
Comunque, questa cosa fluffosa e priva di senso è stata scritta per il quarto turno della Fandom League, i cui prompt erano, tipo, angolo, cravatta e taccuino. Ho barato così tanto che quasi mi sento sporca, ma non mi importa \o\
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. Original characters and plots are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
or how to tie a tie without a mirror (in the forest, with a psychopath)

Murphy comes up with the sketchbook idea, which, considering he’s a psychopath, should probably be reason enough for Bellamy to smell danger and give up on the whole thing. But he’s at a loss, and Clarke’s birthday quickly approaches, what else is he supposed to do?

“I don’t know, it seems problematic,” he sighs over his drink, while the closest thing to a bar they’ve got in Camp Jaha quickly empties out as everybody finally decides it’s late enough to stop drinking themselves stupid and retreat to their bunks, “Where would I find an entire sketchbook? Like, a few pieces of paper, maybe, but an entire sketchbook in mint condition? Paper decays.”

“Do I look like I care?” Murphy asks, swallowing his drink and filling his glass right back up, “You asked for a suggestion, and since the fact alone that you came to me to ask was enough to determine how desperate you are, I took pity on you and gave you one. I did it because I know our pretty princess loves to draw and hasn’t had many chances to follow her inclination as of lately. But I care exactly nothing about you, Clarke, her birthday and sketchbooks in general too, so,” he shrugs, “From now on, it’s your problem.”

“You’re not helping,” Bellamy frowns, disappointed.

“And you’re not paying me, maybe the two things are connected,” Murphy muses, playfully.

“What should I pay you with?” Bellamy asks, annoyed, “Dirt? More alcohol? Genetically modified flowers?”

“A weapon, perhaps?”

“You’re dreaming.”

“A boy can do that,” Murphy sighs dramatically, drinking some more. “You know how they used to make paper to write upon in the ancient times?” Bellamy shakes his head. “Sheep skin,” Murphy goes on, “They called it parchment. It was quite resilient, too.”

“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Bellamy snorts, “Where the hell would I find a sheep in here?”

“You could always skin a couple Grounders,” Murphy shrugs nonchalantly.

“Yeah, and get myself a one way ticket to the Land of Eternal Fuck You.”

“The fact that the only thing worrying you about this suggestion is that Clarke wouldn’t appreciate you using her new best friends for a present to give her says a lot about you, Bells.”

“Shut up,” Bellamy growls, “And don’t call me Bells. I need a solution.”

“Well, I need a proper bed, a shower, possibly an entire pig to feast upon, but do I have any of these things? Nope,” he shrugs again, “The moral of this story being, we all want things, no one can have them, life’s a bitch.”

“You are the single most useless human being that ever walked the Earth,” Bellamy comments, shocked at the realization.

“Now, that hurts me,” Murphy answers, pressing a hand over his own heart and putting up a mask of fake pain, “What can I ever do to make you change your mind about me?”

“You could start by stop being an idiot and help me!”

“Easy-peasy,” he says, swallowing what’s left of his drink and drumming on the surface of the table with his hands a couple of times before turning around just in fucking time to intercept Clarke as she passes by, headed to the Ark. Such precision to make Bellamy think he’s been playing the clown up to now just because he knew something like this would’ve happened right when he wanted. “Princess!” he says, catching her attention, “You and Bellamy are gonna meet in the clearing ten minutes North here, two days from now. He’s got something important to tell you.”

Clarke frowns deeply, her eyes moving from Murphy to Bellamy, who doesn’t move a muscle an doesn’t even speak a word.

Murphy snaps his fingers in mid-air. “Eyes on me, Princess,” he says.

Clarke turns back to him and her scowl deepens. “What does he have to tell me that’s important but can wait two days?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Murphy shrugs vaguely.

“Whatever,” Clarke cuts the argument short, turning away and resuming her march towards the Ark.

Murphy looks back at Bellamy. “Done,” he says, “Tomorrow, we’re out hunting for a sketchbook, wherever that might be.”

Bellamy casts him a suspicious look. He doesn’t trust him. “Why are you helping me, now?”

“I don’t know,” Murphy says, standing up, “I’m bored. Tomorrow at noon at the gates, don’t be late,” he says, turning away, “God, why am I doing it?” Bellamy hears him ask himself as he walks away.

He’s pretty sure this is going to end up in a complete disaster. But it’s not like he’s got many options, here.


He tries to sneak out hoping no one will notice him, but of course Clarke does it – she always does.

“Where are you going?” she asks, her arms tightly folded over her chest and on her rounded face the hardest expression Bellamy has seen in quite a while.

“On a walk?” he tries, hoping not to sound as uncertain as he feels.

“Was that a question?” Clarke asks, doubtfully raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he hastens to patch up, “No. I’m going on a walk. I’m sure of it.”

“With Murphy,” she goes on. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe him.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, “He’s not that bad, once you get to spend some time with him. He tends to grow on you.”

“Yeah,” she answers, clicking her tongue, “Like mold.”

“No, really,” Bellamy insists, “He’s nice. At times.”

“Sure,” she rolls her eyes, “Should I send out a search team if you’re not back in a couple hours?”

“No, it might take more than that.”

What might take more than that?”

“The walk.”

“Why, where are you walking to?”

“I don’t really know yet.”

Clarke stares at him silently for a few seconds. “Let me get this straight,” she says then, “You’re heading out. Without security. In the company of Murphy. For a walk that might take more than a couple hours.”

“Basically,” Bellamy nods, “Yeah.”

“And I’m supposed not to worry.”

“You’re worried for me?”

“Does this question even deserve an answer?”

Bellamy tries not to blush. Maybe he manages. “I’m gonna be fine, Clarke,” he says, offering her a little smile.

“Besides the fact that I’m not sure you will, and I don’t trust Murphy with you, or anyone else, for that matter, you’re asking me not to question you about you wanting to head out of camp with Murphy on an errand you don’t wanna tell me anything about. That’s ridiculous. I don’t get it. I can’t. Do what you want, but don’t expect me to understand.” She turns her back on him and walks away right after.

He keeps feeling her anger like a physical thing, as if she had slapped him, as he walks towards the gates, where Murphy’s already waiting for him.

“You’re five minutes late,” he says, “Do I look like I’ve got time to waste?”

“You don’t?” Bellamy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Murphy actually pauses, looking at him. “Well, yeah,” he says, shrugging, “Still. I had told you not to be late.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Bellamy frowns, as they walk out, “I was busy having Clarke lecturing me.”

“What about?”

“The fact that I’m crazy for wanting to go out with you with no security.”

“Well, she’s right,” he nods, knowingly, “I actually have no idea how you manage to stand her. She’s always right. All the time. It’s unbearable.”

“I’m wrong a lot,” Bellamy explains, looking down as they walk towards a path they’ve walked a billion times, headed to the deep of the forest, “She compensates.”

“Yeah, but that’s exactly my point,” Murphy insists, “I hate to be wrong. Maybe ‘cause I rarely am. I couldn’t stand being with somebody who’s right more often than I am, I’d have to smash their face in after three days.”

“I’m not with Clarke,” Bellamy sighs deeply.

“My point still stands,” Murphy gestures in mid-air.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s why you’re always alone, then,” Bellamy groans, annoyed. “Anyway. If you think she’s right for being worried, it means you’re taking me out just to kill me. Is that it?”

“No,” Murphy shakes his head, “I considered the option, but in the end I realized I had nothing to gain from your murder, so no, you’re safe. But she’s right not to trust me.”

“How so?”

Murphy grins, leading him off the path in a direction that feels familiar. “I wouldn’t trust me,” he says nonchalantly.

Bellamy sighs once again. Is this suicide? Has he taken an overly complex and quite unnecessary road to kill himself? Does he have a death wish or something? He must be going crazy. “Where are we going?” he asks. He doesn’t expect Murphy to answer honestly but, surprisingly enough, he does.

“To the refuge,” he says, “The underground one. I figured, we found all kind of shit in there. Maybe there’s paper too.”

“…that’s sort of smart,” Bellamy admits, following him.

“That’s basic logical thinking,” Murphy sighs, shaking his head, “But I guess in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

“Are you suggesting I’m stupid?” Bellamy frowns.

“Do you call that suggesting?”

“Do you want me to punch you?”

“I do not, really,” Murphy shakes his head, “But I can’t help teasing. What can I say, I’m special.”

“You’re an idiot,” Bellamy comments, annoyed.

“And we’re here,” Murphy smirks, bending over to pull the trap-door of the refuge open, “Ladies first.”

Bellamy glares at him, annoyed by his attitude, but ends up sighing and just jumping down the hole, landing on the floor as a thin layer of dust raises in a transparent cloud around him. The place is dark and empty, as always, and Bellamy waits for Murphy to come down too before he turns the flashlight on, casting a doubtful look around. They’ve been pillaging the place since they discovered it, and there’s not much left, now.

“Okay…” he says, “I’ll take the boxes, you take those cases over there, let’s get this going.”

“Yessir, right away, sir,” Murphy mockingly salutes him, before walking in the direction Bellamy pointed out for him and starting to search through the cases piled up on the desk and bookshelves. “By the way, how did this even start?”


“You and the Princess. How are you even a thing? Shouldn’t she be still mourning her lover?”

“Can you not talk like this about Finn?” Bellamy asks him, putting down an empty box to reach for the one hidden underneath.

Murphy instantly stops moving and turns to look at him. “Are you serious?” he asks, “He was your rival and you want me to be respectful? Are you so worried for her opinion about you, you won’t even let other people talk freely about her dead ex-lover, even if she’s not even here to listen?”

“He was a friend,” Bellamy answers, frowning.

“Not your friend, for sure,” Murphy insists, “I must’ve seen you talking, like, how many times? Three? Four? How’s that for friendship?”

“Murphy, would you stop being so fucking difficult?!” Bellamy growls, casting him a fiery glare as he discards yet another box and reaches out for a third, “I don’t want to make conversation. I don’t want to explain myself to you. Christ, I can’t even explain myself to myself half the time, and you want me to try doing that with the village psychopath? Be real for a moment.”

“I am being real,” Murphy shrugs, rummaging through a box until he finds an old photo album, “And also more committed to the cause than you, or so it seems, ‘cause while you complain about me, I deliver.” He puts the album down on the desk and Bellamy instantly comes closer to take a good look at it.

It’s dusty, and it looks old, but not in a bad way, all considered. He supposes he could call it vintage. He opens it. “It’s full of pictures of old people.”

“Well, I can’t do everything by myself, can I?” Murphy frowns, “You take these pictures out, I’ll search for some paper.”

“Mh…” Bellamy sits down behind the desk, starting to systematically pull every picture out of their thin plastic shell. At first he thought he could just tear the pages out of it, keep the cover alone, but if he does that every piece of paper they do manage to find will end up flying away the moment Clarke opens it. If they put them inside, though, the shells are gonna keep them in place. And Clarke’s drawings will always be protected. “Do you ever think about them?” he asks distractedly as his eyes linger on the happy faces of the two old women portrayed in the pictures. They look so similar to one another, with those soft, fluffy white hair and their ice-blue eyes. Perhaps they were sisters.

“Them who?” Murphy asks, crouching on the floor to start going through the desk drawers.

“The people,” Bellamy answers, piling up the pictures, “Those who were here before.”

Murphy clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Sure, you don’t wanna talk about this madness that came over you about Clarke, but you wanna talk about dead old corpses turned to dust by the H-bomb?”

“Bear with me,” Bellamy simply answers, his eyes fixed on another picture, in which the two women stand tall on a beach at sundown, their chubby, slightly curved figures looking like black shadows against the fiery red sky.

Murphy snorts, but in the end he decides to play along, as he closes a drawer and opens another. “No,” he answers, “I never do. I don’t care about them. About what they left behind. They destroyed the world.”

“Not all of them,” Bellamy answers, frowning. It’s hard to look upon the two wrinkly, smiling women on the photos, and blame them for the Apocalypse that pushed mankind away from planet Earth.

“What’s the difference?” Murphy retorts, “How can you tell? What do you know of them, of who’s guilty for the disaster and who’s not? All we have is traces. What they left behind. But are we supposed to romanticize every bit of paper, every object, every piece of clothing they left just because they’re dead? Just because some of them were innocent? We are innocent. No one ever romanticizes our shit.”

Bellamy listens to him, and in all fairness he can’t say he’s wrong. He doesn’t think he shares the point of view. But it isn’t wrong. “You’ve got a hard heart, Murphy.”

“So did you,” Murphy answers, “Before you turned into an idiot who wants to find a birthday present for a girl who’s leading a war.”

Bellamy’s lips curl into an unwilling smile, as he pulls the last picture out of the album. “It’s true,” he answers, “You wanted to know how this started? I think it started with that. With me realizing… I didn’t have to be so hard all the time, you know? That I could afford to be soft. Every now and then. Because there was someone, someone who was willing to be hard when I couldn’t. And she’s that someone. She’s the rock when I can’t be one. But she’s also capable of great kindness. And she’s soft when I need her to be.” He stops for a moment as he thinks about Clarke, her arms tightly wrapped around him when she saw him walk back to the camp when she believed him dead. “That’s what it is, I guess. You think it’s stupid?”

Murphy doesn’t answer right away. He even stopped rummaging through all the shit stored in those drawers, as he spoke. He shrugs, in the end, opening the third drawer to start going through that other shit. “Not any more than the things you usually say,” he answers vaguely. Bellamy laughs and doesn’t answer, and Murphy starts talking again after a few moments. “I never think about the people from before,” he says pensively, “But I think about us. Us, now. I don’t care about the trace those people left here when they died, but I think I kind of care for the trace we’re gonna leave after we’re gone. We’re trying to build something, here… whatever it is. At some point, it’s gonna be something. And people are going to build themselves a life. Have families. Kids. Two-faced deer as pets, I suppose,” he smirks, and Bellamy laughs again. “I think it’s important we start to act so that the trace we leave after we’re gone isn’t just a stupid photo album, or the empty relics of the dead and gone society who destroyed the world. I think all of us, as much as each of us can, should start acting like they want to leave some legacy behind.” He smiles as he emerges from the last drawer triumphantly carrying in his hands a few pieces of paper. “Maybe that’s why I’m helping you out, now. Here.”

Bellamy grabs the paper sheets Murphy’s handing out to him, and looks at them front and back. “So I’m your legacy?”

“No,” Murphy answers, moving away from the desk to go curiously rummage through the boxes Bellamy left alone a few minutes ago, “Helping out might be my legacy. Maybe I’ll redeem myself and people will stop calling me a psychopath!”

“Maybe,” Bellamy says in half a chuckle. “What are these?”

“They look like old invoices,” Murphy answers, “Phone bills and shit like that. Can you believe it? These people were going to die out in this hole, and they decided to take their fucking phone bills along for the ride. And you want me to think about them? Idiots.”

Bellamy laughs wholeheartedly, putting the pieces of paper into the album. “She can’t draw on the written side, but the backs are blank. It’s gonna have to be enough.”

“I don’t think she’s gonna complain,” Murphy smirks, “And look what I found.”

He pulls something out of one of the boxes, a long, colorful piece of cloth looking a bit worn out but all in all in good condition.

Bellamy frowns deeply, physically moving back with the whole chair. “I’m not gonna wear that,” he says sternly.

“Oh, come on,” Murphy insists, smirking widely, “She’s gonna be enthusiastic.”

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head stubbornly. “I said no,” he insists, “And this is final.”


“I’m not sure,” he says, biting at his lips as he tries to tie the tie without looking, “Don’t you think I’m gonna look ridiculous?”

“Nonsense,” Murphy answers, grinning with satisfaction as he holds the makeshift sketchbook in his hands while he waits for Bellamy to be done, “You’re dashing, a proper prince.”

“But there are flowers on this thing,” Bellamy complains, “I think I need a mirror.”

“In the forest?”

“Well, I can’t get this fucking knot straight.”

“Here,” Murphy sighs, handing him back the sketchbook, “Let me.”

Bellamy turns towards him and stands perfectly still, his eyes darting right and left to catch every suspect movement from the woods around them. Clarke’s gonna be there any minute now. He’s so stupidly nervous.

“Are you sure I look good?” he asks uncertainly once Murphy’s done, passing his index finger between the collar of the tie and his own neck to try and loosen its hold a bit before he chokes.

Murphy takes a couple steps back, studying him with his eyes and nodding slowly a few times, before he can’t hold his laughter back any more and he starts laughing so hard he’s got to bend over and press both his hands against his stomach. “Dude!” he yells, “You look so stupid. God. This is awesome. Best day ever. I wish I had another set of hands to clap myself with.”

“What?!” Bellamy growls, glaring at him, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He tries undoing the tie, but it’s tied too tight and it won’t come off, the damned thing.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help messing with you,” Murphy answers, laughing so hard he’s soon gonna start crying, “God, this is so amazing. Amazing.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Bellamy?” Clarke calls from behind the bushes, and in a matter of seconds Murphy disappears along the path, leaving Bellamy alone with that ridiculous tie around his neck and the sketchbook in his arms, frozen on the spot, unable to move a step. “Bellamy? Are you here?” She appears on the clearing right after that, and she stops by the bushes for a few seconds, frowning as she looks at him. “What are you even wearing?” she asks.

Bellamy instantly wants to die. He passes a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Murphy said I would look good,” he answers.

“And that’s supposed to explain it?”

“Please, ignore it,” Bellamy whines, trying to take the tie off once again (and failing once again), “I’m suffering enough.”

Clarke gives in to a little chuckle, all her features relaxing in an instant, her clear blue eyes glistening for a moment. Suddenly, Bellamy doesn’t quite want to die anymore.

“Fine,” she says, “What are we doing here?”

Bellamy looks down, clearing his throat as he tries not to blush, handing her the sketchbook. “Happy birthday,” he mutters. He feels ridiculous. This is ridiculous. He wants to die again.

She looks at the sketchbook in his hands for a few moments, and then looks up at him, staring in complete disbelief at the stupidity of his face. “Are you serious?” she asks.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Don’t tell me,” she says, holding the sketchbook in her hands and looking at its cover. Doesn’t look so vintage anymore, now, just old and ugly and stupid. “Is this why you were out with Murphy the other day? You went to search for this?”


“Was that a question?”

“…no,” he sighs, “Yes, this is why we went out.”

She looks up at him. “We’re in the middle of a war,” she says, “Our friends are trapped in Mount Weather, our allies want to slaughter us, my own mother can’t seem to have anything better to do than trying to hold me back because she thinks I’m gonna get myself and us all killed, and all you were thinking about was getting me a birthday present?”

If only he could die and then resurrect only to die again.

“Yeah,” he sighs, looking away, “More or less.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything for a few minutes as her fingers slide over the old leather cover, studying it. Bellamy’s already resigned to hear her tell him to fuck off and get out of her face, when suddenly, out of nowhere, she laughs. Bellamy looks back at her and finds her flipping through the pages. He arranged them so that only the blank sides are showing. Her eyes are glistening in that mysterious way again. She’s so beautiful Bellamy could throw himself off a cliff if she asked.

“I didn’t even remember it was my birthday,” she says sweetly. Her voice sounds rusty. She hasn’t had many chances to be soft recently either, Bellamy realizes, like she hasn’t had many chances to draw. They’re both things she’s gonna have to get used to again. “So thank you for thinking about it. And for the sketchbook, too. I love it.”

I love you, Bellamy thinks, biting his lips not to blurt it out too. It comes sudden and overwhelming, it’s the most honest thing he could tell her now, but he doesn’t, because maybe it was the right time to give her a present, but it’s not the right time to corner her in such a tight spot. There’s going to be another chance for that. But it’s going to be a nice spot, and not a tight one, by then, and cornering her will be much, much sweeter.

“You’re welcome,” he says with half a smile. “Be sure to thank Murphy, too. He contributed.”

“Like hell I will, as if I cared,” she answers curtly, “This is only sweet because you did it. So don’t spoil it, please.”

He has no intention to, and so he simply smiles, watching her walk away.

Once she disappeared, he turns around, following Murphy down the path he ran away through when he heard her approach. Maybe Clarke won’t thank him, but despite him being an idiot Bellamy thinks he needs to.