20 Nov 08, 1540 hours

"To see the world in a grain of sand," Nuala's sweet murmur wound its way into Abe's ears. "And all of Heaven in a wildflower..."

Her head was bent over a book of poetry by William Blake, and soft strands of white and gold veiled her face. He reached up to pull back her hair, earning a brief pause in the reading, as he stroked the silken hair back behind her ear. A sprig of nasturtium, the tiny blooms a deep shade of blue-violet, was tucked there as well.

She glanced up at him with a smile warming her amber eyes as he deliberately let his fingertips linger on the delicate point of her ear. He smiled in return, letting his hand fall away slowly, thankful that he'd only had to endure forty-seven practice sessions with her brother before Nuada had grudgingly accepting their budding relationship. Abe had to periodically submit to more sessions to keep that acceptance, though a part of him suspected that the Elven prince simply enjoyed running him cruelly around the gym.

Abe had once confided to Hellboy that he would gladly die and do the dishes for his true love, and Abe believed that somehow Nuada had managed to hear him and meant to see how serious he was about that vow. There were several faint scars crisscrossing Abe's blue-on-blue patterned skin, and the worst of the bruises from the last encounter were finally fading.

"A wildflower pales in comparison to Heaven," he said softly, his large eyes indicating the blossoms beside her face.

Her cheeks darkened with a dusting of gold as she blushed and looked back down to continue. "Hold infinity in the palm of your hand," she read, her lips forming each word with the utmost grace. "And eternity in an hour."

As she spoke, he took her hand, the one not holding the book, and raised it to his lips. "Love seeketh not itself to please," he murmured against her pearlescent skin. "Nor for itself hath any care... But for another gives it's ease, and builds a heaven in hell's despair."

She turned her hand in his so that his kiss fell upon her palm and cupped that hand around his cheek...

20 Nov 08, 1815 hours

Hellboy growled again and Liz giggled. A tortoiseshell kitten pounced the tip of his tail once more and the demon yanked it away. Perversely, this only made the cat more certain that it was a grand game, and she went after the tail again, this time sinking her claws in to make sure it didn't escape.

"Ow!" he yelped and Liz burst out laughing. The rest of their cats were forming furry puddles on and around the couple as they lounged on the oversized pickup truck bed. Every one of them was either asleep or drowsing, except for the tortoiseshell who had become Hellboy's Tail Enemy Number One. He wrapped that tail around the cat, gritting his teeth as the feline twisted and sank her teeth into it, and deposited her on the floor. She leaped right back up and pounced the tip again.

"Persistent, isn't she?" his lover murmured, laughter still bubbling her throat.

He grinned down at her, loving these moments when she was relaxed and happy. It made him feel like he was worthy of her. His brimstone eyes tracked down her face from the luscious mouth and small chin to the graceful curve of her throat where it met her collarbone. He ignored the cat's continued assault on his tail as he bent his head down to kiss that spot.

Hellboy casually flicked his tail, causing the cat to jump away in surprise. Liz laughed and he smiled as the sound vibrated over his lips. His left hand went from his hip to her stomach, his fingers teasing under the edge of her shirt to touch the skin there. She giggled again, "Feeling frisky?"

"Mhmm," he replied, sliding his hand up under her shirt to seek the soft rise of her breasts...

20 Nov 08, 1950 hours

The caressing sound of fine sandpaper whispered in the room. Gloved hands handled a tiny wardrobe with even more delicate carving with extraordinary care. The finest grade sandpaper available gently buffed away minute splinters left by a craftsman who was less than precise. The dim lighting gleamed off the rounded dome of Johann Kraus' helmet, containing the swirling mists of his "body."

As he smoothed away the last splinter and corrected an uneven edge, he set the wardrobe reverently in the upstairs bedroom of a massive Victorian dollhouse. He'd overheard many of the American agents whispering about his mental state and private preferences when word had got out of the Austrian agent's hobby. He did not care. His mental state was not questioned by his superiors, and his private preferences... well, that was laughable, all things considered. For him, the collection, inspection and improvement of the miniature furniture was a soothing rhythm that settled his mind whenever it became restless. It had nothing to do with wanting to play with dolls - in fact, not a single effigy inhabited the house. Only beautiful furnishings and decorations made up the small world of the house.

He looked at the furniture in the bedroom again, noting absently that rather than one bed, the Victorian-themed furnishings were two narrow beds set side by side. He cocked his helmet a little to one side, pondering that. Victorian homes, whether they be dollhouses or depicted in media, always had separate beds. It seemed incongruous, especially when it was perfectly obvious to him that due to the population growth of Victorian peoples, only one bed was ever really needed...

20 Nov 08, 2320 hours

The soft notes floated through the air, cavorting with his exhalations to drift throughout the gym. Nuada had given up on weapons practice hours earlier, finding naught but increasing agitation with the activity that normally gave him a mental and physical focus for his energy. Solitary practices were his preference, though he did rather enjoy thrashing the fishman on a regular basis. None of the other agents offered any real challenge and as for the one called Hellboy... the prince had swiftly deduced the demon's several weaknesses in barehanded and melee combat, but he had quickly wearied of Hellboy's habit of continually reminding him of that one... solitary... challenge... No matter how brutally he beat down the demon, there was always a smirk and a wink to herald the inevitable, "You're improving, toothpick. Much better than when I kicked your ass in Ireland."

If not for vows both direct and implied, Nuada would have carved the irreverent infernal into small pieces long ago. And there was also Elizabeth. Many powers were at Nuada's command, but being fireproof was not one of them. He wasn't certain his speed would save him from an explosive nova of flame from a vengeful harpy.

They deserve each other, he thought sourly. His greatest entertainment came from those nights when they argued. Elizabeth Sherman had quite the vocabulary, and the prince was never going to tire of watching the demon get tossed about like a doll when her temper was up.

The carved silver flute in his fingers glimmered in the harsh lights from above, sending white flickers to slither over his ivory skin. He'd persisted in his practice until exertion had compelled him to strip off his shirt - an action that had been accompanied by a strangely disembodied whistle, whose source in nearly two months with the human agency he had never been able to locate. He had finally resolved to simply ignore the whistle whenever it sounded, particularly when he was in the shower. Nuada was reclining back on one elbow on the blue vinyl practice mats, his fingertips caressing the holes of his flute as he bent his head down to touch his dark lips to it once more.

Music was settling his spirit better than exercise tonight. He had begun with a rousing troll battle-march, but it had felt too harsh and rough for his tastes. Eventually, as he played whatever melody emerged from his long memory, the music had given way to love songs - such ballads of beauty and pulse-quickening emotion as had not been heard in this world for centuries...