"Bullshit," the young man said, his eyes narrowed and his posture sinking slightly, defensively.

"Mr Myers," the older man sitting opposite of him said, lowly, "I'm going to ask that you choose a less . . .spoiled teenager tone when you actually address a white house official. This shit flies for Hellboy, nobody expects more of him, but it won't for you. You're a goddamn FBI agent, start acting like it."

Myers turned a little red at the insult his fists balling under the table, before relaxing, letting out a small sigh. Manning was right. One year, post-Moscow, and the young agent looked almost exactly the same, albeit a bit more weather-worn, given the scars that still resided from the events of his capture a year ago, though faded greatly now, barely visible. His face was still even and boyish, devoid of facial hair (a fact that more experienced agents, and Hellboy, never let him live down). His hair was combed downwards, parted, and gelled. Myers always had been a creature of habit. Now, though, given the situation, his normally calm and aw-shucks demeanor was shaken.

He was seated at a long table, in one of the three conference rooms that the BPRD rarely used, with the exception of a meeting with the top brass. This was one of those situations.

"S-sorry . . .but you know what's at stake. It's my job to protect him and . . ."

"Protect him from what, Myers? Dust bunnies? He hasn't left his damned lair-"

"Room. His room."

"Fine. His room for the past two weeks. And he hasn't left the damn premises in longer than that."

Manning too had remained much the same, still as pomp and business-like (and bald) as ever. Though, notably, his behavior had shifted greatly post-Moscow. Since the event with Kroenen, which Manning had not hesitated to relate in detail to anyone that would listen (and several newbie agents that had little choice), there seemed to be a new found respect, a new and more powerful connection between Manning and the Bureau. And between Manning and Hellboy.

"Show's what you know."

Manning raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what do I not know?"

John shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder where a camera was recording their conversation. He turned to Manning, mouthing the word "her." There was a nod, and an understanding.

"Regardless. It's becoming harder and harder to justify paying for his sorry red ass, Myers. You know it as well as I do."

"He's recovering! He still needs time!"

"You think I don't know that? Listen, we all loved Liz, but he needs to-"

"Stop. Now."

Manning did, seeing the way that John shifted, immediately slightly more aggressive in his posture at the young flame wielder's name. "You don't want to talk about that to me."

Manning nodded, again understanding. "Still. You know I'm right. What has he done in the past year that we can actually show the higher ups?

"There was Moscow . . ."

"Moscow was a year ago, Myers. And besides, what the hell did we get to show for it? All that was left was some monster guts, some scorch marks, and two dead Russians. If you want to find some way to explain to D.C. how that all equates to a plot to open the gates of hell, then be my guest. But keep in mind," Manning lowered his voice, leaning in, "that would also require explaining how our mutual friend is a walking, breathing hell-key, wouldn't it?"

Myers looked, for a moment, like he had a witty retort. Or anything, anything to respond with. He didn't, though, and instead sunk back into a surly pose. Hellboy had, consistently, provided less and less material over the past year for John to work with in his defense.

"So . . .what should I do?"

Manning sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't know. Hellboy . . .what's left of him, anyway, he just . . . his uptake just can't be justified, not with him like this. He doesn't talk. Barely moves unless it's nescasary. And more importantly, doesn't work. If D.C. can't find a reason to keep footing the bill for his care . . ."

"Just tell me what I have to do, Sir. Anything."

Again, Manning shook his head, reaching up to kneed at his forehead.

"The way I see it, there are two options. Either you get Hellboy up and running again, or . . .maybe, if you can convince them that certain . . .cuts," he gave Myers a hard look, "in payroll could compensate for the costs of keeping a 6'5" demon in check."

Myers flinched at the word. He knew that it was true enough, that Hellboy was a demon. But he didn't like the word. It was like calling Abe a merman, or Liz . . .well, it just wasn't right. They were people, and nothing on Earth could convince him otherwise.

"I understand. How long do I have?"

Manning sighed, standing up and moving to the door of the small conference room, his hand still resting on the back of his head and a tired expression on his face.

"I can get you twelve hours. Tops. After that, you're going to have to meet with him yourself. That's all I can give you."

Myers shook his head.

"You're not giving it to me. But thanks."

Manning nodded, and exited, presumably moving to go find the Washington official, to buy for time. Myers, on the other hand, set out in a different direction. To find Red. Halfway down the hall leading to Prof. Bruttenholm's lab he stopped, taking a moment to slam his fist into the wall. "Fuck Moscow," he thought to himself, "damn it all to hell . . ."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A shaking hand reached out, tentatively, to brush a stray lock of hair from her soft, still face. Even now, lifeless and silent, she was beautiful. No wonder he loved her.

Myers leaned against the stone wall of the foul place, the air putrid and sickly with the stench of death and decay. Hellboy was gone, off to fight the unstoppable evil that had been birthed in this place. And what was he supposed to do? 'Look after her?' He felt his throat tighten up, and he had to fight to suppress the tears. What was he supposed to do now? She was gone, gone and dead, and there was nothing he could do for her. Nothing he could do for Hellboy. He pulled her body, now lacking any body heat at all, feeling sickeningly cold compared to the quite literal fire that had once burned within, close to him. He felt a tear slip from his eyes, and several more followed after that. The salty liquid burned at the cuts and scrapes covering his face, still fresh from that Nazi bitch's assault. He wrapped his arms around Liz's form, trying hard to transfer some of his heat back into her.

Down the hall the sounds of battled echoed, grunting and screeching and smashing, the sound of demon vs. bigger demon threatening to tear the whole place down to it's foundation with the strength of their volume alone. Myers clenched his eyes shut, trying to stifle the flow of tears. He had to be strong. He had to look after Liz. Especially . . .if Hellboy . . .

More tears, as he pressed his face into the top of her head, whispering softly to her.

-SMASH-

Hellboy was losing.

"Please wake up, Liz . . ."

-SMASH-

John was useless. Weak.

"We need you."

-SMASH-

The entire building shook with it's force.

"He needs you . . ."

-SMASH-

A push of dust came from the ceiling from the force of the creature's assault.

"For him . . .please . . ."

And then, like an atom bomb, the sound of an explosion tearing through flesh, surely powerful enough to shake the surrounding countryside, erupted through the halls, breaking Myers of his stupor long enough to stare in wonder as the entire structure seemed to quake to one side, before slowly readjusting itself to normal as the ruins grew deathly silent.

For a moment, nothing moved. Myers, too terrified to even breath, maintaining the exact same position like a statue, Liz still brought up close to his breast, listening as hard as he could for anything, -anything-, to signal how the battle had ended. It lasted like this for a moment, Myers feeling himself begin to grow dizzy from the lack of oxygen, before the sound of familiar footfalls hit his ears, causing him to quite literally decompress where he sat, sinking into the wall and taking a deep, long breath. Hellboy had survived. He'd won. As much as was possible, anyway.

Without thinking on it, John quickly scrambled to his feet, adjusting Liz so that she was sitting straight up against the wall, making sure that her head was supported, before moving away from her quickly and moving his hand up to wipe his eyes. When Hellboy was finally visible, looking over the two of them, John appeared to be much the same as when he'd left, albeit a bit redder around the eyes. Feeling as though something needed to be done, John reached out to check the girl's pulse, though he knew from the moment his hand touched cold skin that it was pointless.

"She's. . .she's gone, Red . . ."

Hellboy stopped, a few feet away from his fallen lover, looking at her still frame in mute horror. It seemed that now, with all the demons and bad guys slain, the full reality of the situation hit him all at once. The Samaritan dropped to the ground, metal clanging on stone and echoing loudly down the hall, unheard by all but the two of them. The red giant stepped forward, slowly, giving John time to move respectfully out of the way. He turned away, not wanting to watch the man grieve.

Instead of grieving, though, something else happened. Taking both of the girl's hands in his, one clutched fiercly in his normal hand, the other held carefully in his stone, the large warrior leaned in, kissing the girl softly on the cheek before leaning back to whisper softly into her ear. For a moment, John felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe, just maybe, Hellboy knew something he didn't. Maybe a charm, or an incantation, or a ritual of something that would bring her back? If anyone had built up enough good karma for a miracle, it was Hellboy.

Hellboy leaned back from her, smiling softly, his message given. John's heart raced in his chest, just waiting for some of the color to start to return to Liz's face, for her to smile and for the two of them to hug and become one and be happy . . .but no happy ending came. No color. No movement. And to his horror, John saw Hellboy's eyes, the moisture streaming out of them as the hero smiled into the face of the one person, the one person that he could have ever seen himself with. The smile stayed, a grim mockery of a real smile, until the big man's strength broke, dropping to his hands and knees and letting out a roar of anguish. John continued to stare down the hallway, trying to think of anything, anything else. But everything he thought about always led him to the same word, each time. Fire.

The service had been a brief one. Liz had few friends, and even fewer family members. In fact, most of those in attendance were the various medical staff that had looked after her over the years, and those that had been in similar mental health programs as her. It was terribly sad, really, Myers thought to himself in retrospect. Hellboy wasn't even able to attend. Another funeral that he missed.

After that, everything went downhill. Red wouldn't come out of his room, wouldn't talk, still hadn't talked from over a year now, would barely eat or sleep. His validity as an operative was coming into question. Manning had done everything that he could, but it was Myers that it fell on to protect him. And it was Myers that had to answer to Washington D.C. With this in mind, he walked with a purpose towards Dr. Bruttenholm's study, the one place where he'd find Blue. And, if he found Blue, he could find Red. The two of them just worked that way, it seemed.

Abraham Sapien drifted lazily around his tank, occasionally gesturing for a page to be turned, or nodding his head sagely. It really was an amazing thing about him, this ability to multi-task. To listen to a full-blown conversation, whilst swimming, whilst reading two books at once, was beyond the measure of human ability by a long shot. Of course, Abe had little to worry about in terms of human ability. He, unlike much of the BPRD, had changed significantly in the past year. After his run-in with Sammael, an event that took him months to recover from, Abe had taken to an extreme course in physical therapy, and moved now with grace unlike anything he'd had before him. His hand-to-hand fighting skills had advanced exponentially, as well as his speed and dexterity. Still, though, he was Abe, and thus more than content to drift lazily around his tank whilst humoring the big red monkey with conversation. Even if only one of them was talking.

"No, I don't think John would do that."

Hellboy was silent, seemingly staring off into space.

"Well, that's true. But he never seemed to really care much about a normal life, now did he? He's family, Hellboy, their not that easy to shirk."

The amphibian man shrunk back slightly, wincing at an unheard comeback.

"That doesn't count. You know as well as I that neither Professor Bruttenholm nor Liz left of their own free will."

He looked indignant.

"Now your just being self-indulgent. I assure you that Agent Myers has no intention of leaving the Bureau, or giving up on you."

He sighed, softly.

"It's hard in these situations. I assure you, Professor Bruttenholm picked the cream of the crop. He knew what he was doing."

The amphibian man flinched again but, before he had a chance to reply, the door to the library opened and Myers stepped inside, looking agitated and, admittedly, a bit disheveled.

"What, on Earth, happened to you?"

"Guy from Washington here," Myers breathed out exhaustedly, "here to talk about him. Have to meet with him in a few hours."

At the 'him' he sent a pointed glance at Hellboy, which was returned with a glare. After Hellboy had stopped talking, John had taken up the habit of speaking of him as if he wasn't there, even if he was, a sort-of punishment for the red demon's stubbornness. Though he couldn't get him to admit it, John knew that it most likely drew the red beast up the wall with annoyance.

He stopped, for a moment, allowing himself to look over the once powerful looking male. Or, at least, once intimidating. It was very clear that the demon could still easily stride over and break his neck without trying but now . . .it looked as if it was all the demon could do to get out of bed in the morning. His eyes were sunken and tired, his facial stubble overgrown the point of parody, his horns, though still meticulously filed, seemed to be a bit less . . .polished, than they used to be. And the smell. Lord, the demon smelled terrible, apparently not taking personal hygiene into high account in the midst of his depression. He was a sorry sight, compared to the Hellboy John had met when he'd first joined the BPRD.

"Oh," said Abe, "and why have you come here then, rather than stay there and meet with him?"

John smiled slightly, appreciating the fact that Abe was actively trying not to read his mind, a strangely appreciated gesture. Still, the question made him sigh, and shrug apologetically.

"Actually . .. I need to talk to Hellboy. If you would."

Before he'd even finished his sentence, Abe had flipped over and swam back towards the latch that separated his sleeping areas, from the rest of the tank. Apparently the no-mind reading thing hadn't gone so well.

Realizing that he was alone in the room with his charge, John straightened slightly, doing his best to look official and authoritive, like he'd thought Professor Bruttenholm would have done.

"Hellboy . . .we need to talk. About your future at the Bureau."

Normally Myers would have held off the second bit, tried to approach the situation with more caution. But this was not the time for caution. He needed the male's attention. All he got instead, though, was a grunt, and a complete lack of eye contact. It made his pulse rise slightly.

"Hellboy . . .Red," he said softly, taking to calling him by his nickname, "I need you to listen. I'm about to meet with a very powerful man, who's going to have the ability to decide whether or not you get to stay with the Bureau of not. If he choose not . . .then you're either out on the street or . . .withheld, so as not to reveal government secrets."

He let the last bit soak in for a moment, hoping that the demon would absorb some of what he'd said, that it would garner his attention.

"Please, Red. You have to start working again. Start talking again. Listen, I know you miss Liz, we all do but-"

The red behemoth moved to his feet faster than John could track with his eyes, the demon's stance immediately aggressive and his yellow eyes drilling holes in the smaller agent's chest. He'd said one of the "no" words, and had just opened a whole can of unhappy on himself.

Deciding it was better to leave than to bash the man's brains onto the floor, Hellboy turned his back to the man quickly, storming towards the door leading to his chambers. For a moment, Myers considered trying to stop him. But he knew it was no use. It was over, at this point.

"Right . . .bye Red . . ."

He opened the door behind him and slipped out, quietly, resigned now to what he had to do. All was silent in the room, for a moment, before the door leading toward's Hellboy's chambers creaked open slowly, and the big man slipped back into the library, his face masked with mild concern.

"Bye?"

"That's what he said, Red."

Abe had since slipped back into the room as well, and was now torn between the pleasure of hearing Red's deep baratone again, and the disbelief of John's statement. Abe knew what it meant, John had practically been projecting it as loud as he could. But he couldn't tell Red. Not yet.

Standing there dumb founded for a moment, staring at the spot where Myer's had been standing, Hellboy let out a deep sigh and grunt, shrugging his shoulder. "Told ya, blue. He gave up."

He then slipped out the way he came, leaving Abe alone in the library, to ponder his thoughts in private.

Hellboy stalked into his room, his mind still racing. John was leaving? As in, "not coming back, getting transferred, no more pancakes" leaving? It was a surreal thought. John had become a fixture at the BPRD, someone what was simply, invariably there. Whether you wanted him to be or not.

"Of course," Hellboy thought bitterly, "I shouldn't be surprised. It was the same way with Liz. Except not. Not even close."

He took a seat at one of his oversized reclining chairs, rolling his tongue around his mouth pensively. It felt so strange, to talk again. Something he hadn't done in a year, now. And the one that coaxed him out of it, figures, was the brat. He took a deep breath, staring at the floor.

Liz. Would she want him to try and stop John from leaving? To try and keep the family together? Would she really want him sulking in his room, like a spoiled child, trying to piece back together the pieces of a life that he never really had in the first place?

"Fuck it," he thought, kicking an empty pizza box across the room, "it's not like she had much say now, anyway."

Immediately after he thought it, he regretted it, a wave of intense sadness washing over him, mixing with nausea at the implication of the sentence. He stood from the chair, shakingly, and walked to the "Hellboy: Wall of Fame" as Clay had once called it. It was covered in pictures of Liz; smiling, laughing, hugging various members of the Bureau, working with Father in his library . . .Father. That was another thing he'd lost, in less than a week. Far too tired of crying for himself, Hellboy instead slammed his normal fist into the wall, causing some of the pictures to flutter to the floor. He wheeled around and walked to the oversized punching bag that had been hung in his room, secured eight times over in order to insure the demon could get a propped workout without leveling the entire building.

Letting out a small growl of protest, the behemoth slammed his normal fist into the bag, holding no force back.

"Dammit."

Liz was gone. Father was gone. And now John. Abe was still here, but he didn't have any choice. It seemed like every individual that was ever, ever involved with Hellboy's sorry sack of shit that he called a life ended up leaving. The more that his mind ran over it, the faster his punchs got, soon descending into a flurry, a series of blows with more force and more energy behind them than anything that he'd done in months. It felt good, kicking ass again. Even if it was just a . . .punching bag's ass. He stepped off, his brow already soaked in sweat, the imprints of his blows still stuck firmly in the material of the bag. He moved to the wall to pick up one of the pictures that had fallen, settling back into his chair and looking over it with a tired expression on his face.

A picture of Liz, one of the few instances where he'd actually managed to get her to wear a dress. They where in the library, and she was leaning against one of the shelves, her hair falling naturally onto her face and a playful grin shot at the camera. She was so beautiful . . .he reached up to touch the picture with his stone hand, running a finger carefully down the outline of her face, resting on her cheek. She'd been so warm. . .

"What should I do Liz? What on earth am I supposed to do . . . ?"

He managed to nod off like this, clutching the girl's picture to his chest, almost as if for dear life.

John felt his chest tighten as he entered the conference room, once again. This time, though, it wasn't Manning that he had to be afraid of. It was the representative.

He was a small man, a fact especially accentuated by the fact that he was wheelchair bound, his legs seeming disproportionally small to his torso, which was not that large to begin with. His face was thin, vaguely rodent-Esq., and his eyes seemed to bug out a little behind his thick, horn-rim glasses. He was an older man, and thin, and more than a little frail looking. Still, there was no confusion about who held the power in the room.

John stood, having not yet been offered a seat. The smaller man looked him over, studying his features and his stance carefully, before nodding. "Yes, I believe it's Mr. Myers, correct?"

John nodded, his back arched perfectly and his feet spread at the exact angle he'd been taught. "Yes, Sir."

The man smiled. "No need to be so stiff, Myers. It's not you who's being called into question here. Please, sit."

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. Something about the man's voice, so cool and collected, made him feel extremely ill at ease. Not to mention that the man hadn't hesitated to assert his mission: to find a reason, one single reason, to dismiss Hellboy.

"Now, John," the cool man said, leaning back in his chair, "I've been made to understand that you are the . . .operative's caretaker, his liaison if you will. Now, I wonder Mr. Myers," John tensed, "why am I speaking to you, right now, and not him?"

John took a small breath, having watched carefully as the man spoke, trying to identify his motives, what to watch out for, what to avoid mentioning at all costs. The man, however, was very intent on giving him nothing at all to work with.

"I understand your question, Sir, and I apologize for any inconvenience this brings to you. I'm indeed Hellboy's," he carefully inspected the man's face, looking for signs of displeasure or disapproval, as he's neglected to say Red's name. There were none. "liason. He couldn't join us today, he had . . .other arrangements, to put it simply."

The smaller man raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure he did. More important than his future at the Bureau, hm?" Before John could answer, he moved on. "I'm not looking for answers, Mr. Myers, I'm beyond that. What I want to know is this: will the operative continue to be a drain on the United States taxpayers, or will someone," he gave a sharp look to John, "convince him that coverage provided to him is a privilege, not a right, and that he must uphold his end of the bargain, in order to continue to reap the rewards?"

John froze. The man had outlined the situation, and his options, ruthlessly.

"I . . .Sir, I don't . . .know . . ."

"What's the matter, Agent Myers? Cat got your tongue."

"I . . I . . " John stuttered, not taking a moment to appreciate the irony of the man's statement, "I have done my best, Sir. Hellboy continue to be stuck in a continual state of what appears to be clinical depression and I'm not trained enough to-"

"Enough," the man said, reaching towards the table and lifting up a bulging manila folder, "that's all I needed to know." The man began to turn, about to wheel out of the room when Myers sprung to his feet, positioning himself between the door and the man.

"Wait, Sir, please, hear me out."

The man stopped moving, his clear blue eyes drilling into the young agent.

"I'm listening."

"Sir, please, with all do respect, I can't let you do that. After all he's done, you can't just forsake him like this . . ."

"Do not tell me what I can or can not do, Agent Myers, I believe that is my job for you," the man said, completely evenly, not even breaking his composure.

"Right, sorry Sir, but . . ." he shifted his weight slightly, unsure of how to continue, "Sir, I will do anything necessary to keep Hellboy with the Bureau. All I need is more time, Sir."

"You have had plenty of time, Myers," the man said nonchalantly, inspecting his finger nails, "but I'm feeling generous. You have two weeks to break the operative of his funk. If you are incapable of doing so in that time, than the validity of both he," he gave Myers a sharp look, "and you, as his liaison, will be called into question. Do we understand each other, John?"

John felt a chill run up his spine as the man addressed him by his first name, the air chilling with the man's quiet ferocity, and only warming again once the man had left. John fell back against a chair, gripping it's arm tightly as his head swam. He couldn't remember being this scared since Moscow. There was something defiantly, undeniably wrong with that man. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

He stayed in the chair a long time, not daring to move for fear his legs would collapse out from under him.

Two weeks. Only two weeks to bring Hellboy out of a year-long slump. And if he didn't, they were both screwed. His mind swimming, he stood, trying hard to focus on a course of action, a plan, anything. One thing kept coming to mind: he needed a vacation. He needed to go home, for a bit.

END OF CHAPTER !