She was covered in blood, and none of it was hers. John wasn't supposed to be home, but when she opened the door, he was sitting on the couch reading the paper. He immediately stood, going into doctor mode.
"Sebastia, are you okay? Where-"
She held up a hand to cut him off, letting out a sigh. "I didn't think you'd be home." He looked confused, but at the moment she didn't want to explain. She had kicked her boots off outside, so she padded to the tub, piling her clothes carefully in the sink and washing the dried blood out of her hair. Once she was clean, she washed her clothes, draping them over the tub to dry. She emerged in one of his plaid shirts, plopping down on the couch.
"My clothes should be dry soon."
John lowered his paper, glancing over at her. "Are you okay?'
She smiled half-heartedly and nodded. The smile faded into a frown as soon as he looked back down at the paper in his lap, and he caught it out of the corner of his eye.
"You're not okay." He stood and joined her on the couch, tilting her chin towards him. She frowned, avoiding his eyes.
"I didn't think you'd be home."
"Yeah, you said that. Why didn't you want me home?"
She was silent, still avoiding his gaze. He sighed. "Well, since you're not hurt, I'm guessing that wasn't your blood. I know you kill people, Sebastia, if that's what you're worried about. You've got to stop worrying about what I think about your jobs."
She looked up at him, worry in her eyes. He smiled softly, cupping her cheek and stroking it gently with her thumb. She smiled back, some of the fear melting away. John grinned and kissed her forehead, pulling her to his chest. She melted into him, mumbling apologies about getting his shirt all wet with her hair. He told her it was fine. It was all fine. He wasn't just a doctor. He was a soldier as well, and she was his killer. They were a mess, but he loved the disaster.
