A/N: What might Hellboy have been doing during the days and nights after the murder of Professor Bruttenholm? Here's a one-shot of supposition to fill in that time up to the mission to Moscow.

On the 3rd of November morning of Professor Bruttenholm's funeral, Liz Sherman walked sorrowfully through driving cold rains among the collected mourners awaiting the emergence of pallbearers from the funerary parlour. A pillared roof extension briefly sheltered the men as they carried the coffin to its place in the rear of a hearse. The small field of individual black umbrellas, gleaming wet, virtually concealed the scene.

At Hellboy's request, his adoptive father's coffin had been brought the previous night to the headquarters' small all denominational chapel. Little did anyone know that the demon had spent those hours alone by him, praying, speaking softly to him, letting the tears flow.

Their earlier morning conversation reassured Liz that Red's general depression had lifted, but he'd been so vague otherwise. Separating herself from the crowd, she intuitively tipped back her umbrella and raised her eyes the roof above. There he stood, a lone silent statue in the drenching rain, staring down at the last he would ever see of his father's earthly remains. He acknowledged no one, not by word, look or gesture, but he'd taken this chance of being out in the open, halfway across the city. Liz regretted having to leave just then. The cars were loading for the drive to the burial and Hellboy would not be accompanying them – unless he had some other secret plan of his own.

First of November

Tom Manning had returned a second time to the library murder scene to deliver a specific message from Abe, to Hellboy. Already in a daze of disbelief, the demon accompanied his father's body to the medical wing at midnight, then hurried off on his own. He knew that Liz was following, calling after him, that he was making her run up to the point that he sealed himself inside his quarters without a look back. Though only he knew exactly what had driven him into seclusion on the night of the murder, most assumed he needed to wear through his anguish in solitude. Though it made all sense to those who knew him best that he should be huddled with the Bureau forensic team, he doubted that he could trust himself right now. Kroenen's undead corpse had disappeared from autopsy, from the entire complex. Investigators had begun to piece together a path to track the suspect murderer, and it was leading far away from here. Avoiding his closest friends, Hellboy was about to spend this time beating himself up behind closed doors.

"Not going anywhere – until I find out who to kill for this."

Once inside, he stood absently scanning the limits of his darkened room without focus, until something automatic led him to approach a pantry door. The shelves held a good supply of cat food and enough ambient temperature beer to send him into sweet oblivion. He allowed himself a clear moment to feel grateful for the presence of other beating hearts in the place, for his four-footed companions who would pose no questions into his miserable state of mind. At the opening of the cupboard door, the big posse of felines scampered up with expectant mewing and yowling, slithering close around his boots. Switching on a light above the counter, he yanked the pull tabs off four cans and chugged down a beer before turning to the task of serving out trays and dishes of canned meat for his animals.

Seeing every cat busily chowing down, Hellboy took his multiple beer cans to the coffee table and returned to the cupboard to bring out the rest. He already didn't like himself much for that, and with no forgiveness on the horizon, not a whole lot in his world seemed to matter at this point. He would be available for any investigation updates, but he didn't want to meet eyes with anyone, didn't want to hear the same old repetitive condolences that everyone who saw him would regurgitate. They couldn't know how responsible he was for not keeping Pop protected. Or maybe they did. He had to live with that alone somewhere, and he was starting now. How lost was he? As deep as his guilt, like a gut full of shattered glass. He banged back three more beers, but it wasn't near enough to begin taking the edge off his pain. Even with that, he was of no mind to hunt up anything stronger.

"I can't lie to myself, Pop. Can't make it go away. I should've been here with you. I'd give anything to take your place."

The hours went by without him keeping track, without his caring. The changing light of day never reached here, anyway. It was nothing now to stay awake long enough to get as drunk as he wanted to be. His woozy thoughts were interrupted by familiar scratching noises. And it occurred to him to remember - his current reason to be. The multiple boxes of kitty litter needed some attention. He stumbled to a drawer to search out a new big garbage bag, and as he bent over the first litter box, he had to steady himself from pitching flat on top of it. Having to finish the job on all fours capped his annoyance over his surrender of self control. Tying up the half filled bag with two knots, he then thought of his clothing. Worn way too long for his liking. He stripped down to bare skin, and wobbled his way to the laundry chute to shove his shirt and leathers through the flap; but then – too late.

"Aw, crap!" Hellboy made a grab into the chute to catch the garbage bag, but it was down and gone.

Second of November

This was no way for Pop to be proud of him, getting drunk enough to pull these dumbass stunts. It counted for something that he hadn't dropped last night's cigars onto anything flammable. Before he'd finished chewing himself out, he heard his intercom signal. Making his hungover way up to it, he keyed back to listen.

"Red, it's John Myers, with your breakfast."

Nobody could be less welcome to Hellboy at this instant.

"Errraagh!" He slammed his stone fist with aggravated intensity into his side of the door.

Poised just outside with the key, John took a startled hop back at the vibrating smash and slight temporary bowing of the foot thick metal barrier. Knowing well enough of the demon's irascibility and physical strength, John counted himself lucky that it wasn't even close to his hardest strike. However, point violently made that Red was bitterly suffering. The young agent thought it best to leave the food before he went off to report.

John showing up as usual after spending time with Liz, sounding like the death of Pop had never happened, pushed Hellboy right back under a dark cloud. He was really wanting his shower, now. The steaming stall was his equalizer for getting his head on straight. So what if he stayed for half an hour? It seemed easier in there to question and answer himself.

"I understand why you couldn't tell me about your terminal cancer, Pop. I know now how Abe found out by accident. But if I'd only known before, I would have stood guard by you, no matter what. I could have had you longer. That's me, just selfish. It was going to build up soon – all your pain."

A heaviness remained in his chest as the uncounted hours dragged out. He didn't bother with taking irrelevant phone calls or anyone coming to his door. Meals were outside if he wanted them. But no. He was finished with getting drunk anymore. He took a seat on his press bench with an eighty pound barbell in his stone hand and began curling reps. Coming to terms with Pop's death was tough, and he meant to be his toughest to get down to the business of revenge. Yeah, he called it that, but there had to be a lot more to handle, not long from now. Manning had given him solid information today.

"Are you ready to get right?" The director tried not to sound impatient over the phone.

"Right and ready," Red answered.

"The day after tomorrow, I'm taking a team to Moscow. I'm assuming you'll want to join us. As long as you understand that I'm in charge and do your job -"

"Whatever you say." Hellboy let Manning fall for a white lie now and then. "I'm in. Tell me everything you've got."

One other thing he couldn't let go too long was the shortening of his horns. Late afternoon, he took care of that. When he opened the bathroom door, his intercom was calling. He keyed to listen.

"Red, it's Liz." He let her wait, his heart beginning to pound. "I'm worried about you. Talk to me."

He had made her a part of this – no, none of it was her fault. He should give up and forget her completely, let her go bond some more with Myers. He didn't feel like getting into it with her, but didn't want to be rude, either. He stepped up, chest to the door, and rapped twice. Liz heard and understood. Twice for 'no'. One hard knock back answered him, then the intercom again.

"No? No?! I'm going to keep coming back! Today's food is piling up out here. Are you eating anything? Sleeping?" Two more distinct raps, but half hearted, to her ears. "I know you're hurting bad." Her softly intimate whisper, broken by a little catch in her throat, made his eyes brim. He imagined her lips close up against the cover, and he wanted her so much. But he had to keep everyone away – until... "The – his funeral is scheduled for tomorrow morning," she tried again. "When I come back, at least let me know you're still here. Please!"

He tapped once and heard her return hit, louder than his. Then she was gone.

Third of November

Getting right. He slept hard. Once Myers was far enough away, he went out to drag in his new breakfast cart. Fed the cats. Intercom.

"Red, stop being a jerk!" Liz barked. "I won't handle you with kid gloves anymore, so let me in!"

He pushed the door slowly outward until the way cleared. Liz looked properly annoyed.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" He surveyed her black outfit of a long skirt and cozy sweater. "Didn't think I'd see you this soon."

"And you're acting normal again," she retorted in the same tone. "I'm going to be late for my ride to the service. Gotta run. What will you do?"

"I'll be around."

. . .

Losing no time, Tom Manning had called a large agent conference into the upcoming Moscow mission within an hour of the attendees' return from the interment. Liz stayed long enough to establish that she could consider being included, but decided she'd find out on her own why Red wasn't at the table. Didn't Manning know how tiresome he was, every time he declared out loud that he'd 'close this freak show for good'?

She was drawn first to the library, needing to feel that the beautiful room wouldn't forever after become only the place where the professor had been killed. Approaching the fireplace, she looked twice to realize that it danced with cheerful wood flames, and – spread out on the stone flooring beside it, were Red's soaking wet coat and shirt. These were all part of home, like him.

He seemed so at peace when he looked up at her quiet greeting, as he straightened up from his reading to hear what she'd come to say.

"She'll come to Moscow on the condition that I'm there. She might never be my girl, but she's going to hear me out now. Sink or swim."

Liz had come for a simple answer, in no way prepared for the tranquil sincerity of Red then speaking his heart to her, more openly than he'd ever dared before. And when his fingers gently turned her shy smile upward, her gaze awakened to fully realize the deeply tender warmth in his eyes. Red had given her so much to hold close, leaving acceptance entirely in her hands.

"My friend loves me, no pressure. He'll never give up on me. And no man's eyes have ever looked at me that way. In our world of being, the truth of us could hit me all at once, and I'm beginning to think I'm ready."

A/N: I hope you've enjoyed, and your feedback is very appreciated!