A/N: So this is… well I'm not really sure what this is to be honest. It's been a very long time since I've had the inspiration to write creatively (college will do that to you), but this just kind of… nagged at me until I got it down on paper. I was late to the AoS party and ended up watching the entire season in just a couple of days (not something I recommend, sleep is good, as is having a real life). No beta or anything and this was written pretty quickly so there are bound to be mistakes and I apologize for them ahead of time. Hope you enjoy this microscopic fic.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the laptop I'm typing this on.
The water ran clear. No matter how much and how hard he scrubbed, the liquid swirling down the drain lacked any trace of red. He didn't understand, couldn't comprehend how it was even possible. He could feel their blood burning beneath his skin, mingling with and being contaminated by his own. He saw it on his knuckles every time he closed his eyes and felt it settle into the crescent grooves engraved on his palms, formed from his tortured thoughts and his guilt and his shame. But no amount of rubbing or generic soap that was supposed to imitate a spring meadow could seem to pull the red from his skin.
For a moment he thought that if he scrubbed hard enough he could tear the red from underneath his flesh, purge the foreign substance from his veins, but it would be of no use. He would only accomplish the further mixing of his blood with theirs as the combined shades of red made their way down the drain and after the sting of everything he had put them through, their life source demanded and deserved more dignity than that. His blood was tainted, the light red contained in his veins mixed with something much darker, much more sinister and no amount of good deeds or apologies would ever take that away.
Maybe someday he would be strong enough to face them, courageous enough to make up for his wrongdoings in a way that actually meant something. Though no deed or punishment could possibly erase what he'd done in HYDRA's name, in Garrett's name. He was a broken man, a fact he was quite aware of and he left behind a broken team, though he was the only one who deserved to be in pieces.
He had no recollection of how long he stood there, elbows digging into the edge of the porcelain sink, but as he turned off the knobs with his waterlogged fingers and walked to his cot he knew that he would be back. Knew that as soon as he closed his eyes he would see Simmons and Fitz begging him to let them go, would see the life drain out of Victoria Hand as he felt the recoil of a pistol. And he would see Skye, kissing him in the storage closest and looking at him with something akin to love in her eyes before she dies in his arms, killed in whatever gruesome way his damaged mind came up with that night. He knows he can never atone for what he did, can never wash the blood of his friends, his family off his hands, but every night he'll try, because Grant Ward is nothing if not a survivor.