John has blood on his hands, again. He'd rather not, but does he have a choice?

In a serie of short stories about characters in various fandoms who killed, but aren't monsters... or so they hope. Here on ff, it goes in theit respective collections of OSs, for this one, Books of Sacrifice

Blood on our hands - Man of Harms

John pushed past the door of his apartment with a long stride, heading for the bathroom to take care of the blood on his hands, to get it cleaned, erased, gone, to look innocent at least, if he couldn't actually be innocent.

It was only a few drops of blood, really, at the tip of his fingers. It had gotten there after he had checked whether or not his enemy had survived the shooting match the man had engaged him in. No one in the street had noticed, not that he had waved his bloodied hands in front of them, of course. It wasn't as if he was dripping blood everywhere on the floor, leaving a trail to follow. It was inconspicuous, really.

But it was still there, it was still blood, it was still on his hands.

Because of a life John had taken.

Again.

John wasn't stupid, or foolishly idealistic. He knew that the lives he had taken since he had entered the army, hadn't been taken in vain, or worse, for fun. He could understand, and he did comprehend, that sometimes, someone needed to die, especially when their own actions threatened other people.

It had been true in the army, against the enemy. It had been true in the CIA, against traitors. It was still true today, as he did his best to prevent people from dying here in New York, as he did what he could to prevent Samaritan from killing more and more people.

It wasn't that John didn't believe in the fights he had fought.

It was simply that he'd rather there was another way.

But the other people, the one he fought against daily, they seemed adamant to make it so that he wouldn't have a choice. If he didn't stop them, and sometimes such an act could happen only in death, they would hurt other people, they would kill other people.

Being non-violent was tempting, sometimes, but John wasn't a fool. Being non-violent only got more people killed when the others didn't want to cooperate.

He brought his hands in his sight. The blood had already dried on his skin. It wouldn't be hard to wash off, though he'd have to be carefull with his nails; dry blood tended to hide there successfully.

It wouldn't be hard to wash, but the fact that the blood was dry on his hands, it made him wonder.

John couldn't tell how many times he had had blood on his hands. He couldn't say for how long his hands had been covered in blood, that it had already dried.

How many years since he had first killed?

How much blood had touched his skin, but that wasn't his own?

And beyond that, how many deaths had he caused without getting a drop of blood on him?

John didn't like killing. He appreciated fighting, but as a competition, as a sport, not to kill. He'd have gladly turned his life around, not to see another drop of blood, another stiff body, if it hadn't meant the deaths of innocents.

If he hadn't had the deaths of all the people he had murdered on his mind.

John could only regret being able to accept that some things must be done, only to understand the value of the lives that should be taken. If he were a sociopath, or, better, a psychopath, at least he wouldn't feel sorry for the victims, even those who were killers of their own right. If he were an idealist, at least he would be able hide behind his principles not to make the necessary choices.

He wasn't either of these.

He did what had to be done, he understood it had to be done, and yet he mourned that it had to be done. It wasn't his fault, if the others had given him only an unacceptable choice, between the death of the innocents or the death of the criminals. He should not be blamed for chosing the necessary evil over the worst evil.

John still blamed himself.

Why was he only good at being a danger to others?

But from what he knew of life, it was either that or being a judgemental civilian who knew what was really going on, and yet wouldn't get his hands dirty, at the cost of innocent lives.

His hands already were full of blood, even if he washed them every time they got stained.

So John washed the blood off his hands, as always, to be able to do it again next time, when his intervention would inevitably be needed and more blood would go on his tab.