Author's Note: Another 15minuteficlet challenge, where the word was 'complicated'. This one was actually quite difficult, because whenever I hear that word, I think of Dorian o.O Except Dorian wasn't giving me anything other than "I'm… complicated" -.-

Walking into the room with a grimace, he dropped his rather worn and somewhat ruined jacket onto one of the long benches at the side of the room, before giving a sigh, and unbuttoning his shirt. He awkwardly removed his holster-harness from his torso, and placed it down as carefully as he could manage, before dumping his waistcoat unceremoniously on the bench's end. It fell to the floor without his noticing or caring, and he sat down lightly, pulling off his boots and socks. With hesitation, he shrugged his tattered shirt off his shoulders, which were bruised and reddened with blood both his own and of his opponents. It dotted his frame from head to toe, whether or not it belonged to him. He just felt so filthy that as soon as they'd arrived back at the Nautilus after the fight, he'd had to come right here; dodging Jekyll for a check up of his injuries had been the hardest part, but he'd somehow managed… perhaps because the doctor had only just transformed back from Hyde, and was still somewhat dazed and confused, not to mention worn.

They were all battered from the large fight. Tom Sawyer's mind was one great clouded mess, and as he let the shirt fall to the floor next to the waistcoat, he groaned quietly. At that moment, he could remember very little other than constant combat, and the hits thrown, landed and sustained. His chest was somewhat worse for wear, and his back, and he'd gotten a nasty gash on one of his legs from a large knife.

Still, as he stood and managed to get into the shower 'cubicle', he knew he needed this; he needed to feel the hot, cleansing flow over his body before he could do anything else. Turning on the water, he shied away from it a little at first, for it was cold and while it didn't startle him, it was a bit offensive to the wounds, shallow or not.

Eyes falling to his chest, he saw the blood there, even as the water heated up enough for him to duck his head underneath. Instantly, small red rivers started tracing down his body from his hair alone, where the scarlet fluid had clumped the blonde locks together messily and somewhat disgustingly. He felt wretched and to some extent villainous, walking around caked in the blood of others. He had to get it off.

Submerging his head under the flow completely, he let it run over his face, where he'd been cut across the cheek and brow, and bruised on the jaw from a few blows. Tom knew he looked a mess, but this was more important; to get the blood off of him.

The others probably wouldn't understand, and thought tending the wounds was more important, no matter their severity, but… it was complicated. As a child, he had pulled pranks, yes, but he'd retained his innocence. Part of him – perhaps a naïve part – wanted to retain that adolescent and 'angelic' trait, with his fair hair and bright eyes, filled with mischief and intelligence becoming a man of years beyond his own. Reaching his mid-twenties, he knew that innocence was fading… and this blood was testament to that.

He was an agent… he couldn't be innocent. He had to be a fighter; for his country, and now that he was with the League, for the world…

Tom knew he shouldn't hold on to frail dreams like innocence and purity, but his Aunt Polly – God rest her soul – had always loved him for a reason. While he had been something of a terror in his younger years, he had never harmed a fly. That image was gone… but he could hold onto the illusion, couldn't he? He could try, at the very least.

Staring at the drainage plug in the corner of the cubicle, his green eyes watched that red spiral, and he gave a shudder. Whether it was with a blow to the nose with his fist, or a strike to the head with his rifle, he'd spilt blood tonight. He'd had his own spilt in return, yes, perhaps as payment… but he'd spilt blood. And who was he to judge those defined as enemies by the side of the line they stood upon? He couldn't play that game… he couldn't play God.

He was only Tom Sawyer. And while he was Special Agent Tom Sawyer… he was still a Missouri boy, who'd grown up an orphan with a cousin, a half-brother, an aunt, and scandalous rogues of friends; he'd gone to a run-of-the-mill school, and gone to church; he'd learned his prayers, and pulled his pranks.

Now he fought the fights, and battled evil; now he took the blows and the bullets and the blades, and tried to save lives… whether they were his own, or those of his friends… and beyond. He had a duty, and he had to stand firm by that; he had to keep fighting, and he had to keep struggling through the wars. He had to be persistent and strong.

But as he watched that blood swirl down that plug hauntingly, he knew he could never be the Tom Sawyer he had used to be… he could never be that innocent prankster again, who found treasure, solved murders, and played games.

He was Special Agent Tom Sawyer of the American Secret Service…

… And like it or not, he was a killer.