Chapter 18: Homecomings and Deceptions

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters and Oreos do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the last chapter, and another big thank you to everyone who reviewed and gave me feedback! (As an aside, I thought it might interest everyone to know that Though Heaven Bar the Way has now surpassed the length of a Shadow to a Heart, which was 264 pages when I finished it). I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

I wish I had the time to respond to all the wonderful reviews everyone has written, but since I do not, this time around I'm only replying to those that had questions.

amyltrer: As for the werewolves and their trouble fighting Ilsa…one of them is rather pint-sized, since she's a 14 year-old girl, so some of the difficulty involved was because Luke was busy trying to keep Brittany safe. And with the love triangle, I can't answer that; it would give the story away!

icthyosapiengirl: I update about once every three months. I know that sounds like a long time, but college tends to interfere with the amount of time I can devote to writing.

Nabierre: I do not mind long reviews; I actually enjoy them, since they give me so much feedback on what specifically was good or could use improvement. Thank you so much for your comments!

Ariana Lussier: Sushi or beef jerky? What a way to put it! We shall see…the plot is ever developing and half the time even I'm not entirely sure where it's going.

Lady Ano: Animal Instinct by Psycho Llama is one of my personal favorites. Also, any of linaerys Kroenen fics are extremely well written, and if you're looking for what probably amounts to the only humorous Kroenen story, there's always Karl Kroenen's Bad Day by Blu Embyr. Hope that helps!

"Experience teaches us that silence terrifies people the most."—Bob Dylan

Abandoned Subway Area

Orphanage Basement

Ilsa was pressed against a wall, staring with terror at the encroaching flames.

She was trapped. The basement was an inferno.

A blast of hellish air hit her full in the face and she turned her head to the side; her skin felt like it was blistering. Thick black smoke hovered in a roiling cloud; tears streamed from her eyes and she coughed and choked as she breathed it in.

A tendril of flame licked out and blazed brightly as it hit a small puddle of water that had dripped from her clothes; despite the unbearable heat she was still far too wet to think she had any chance of running through the fire unscathed—she would be incinerated before she ever reached the exit.

CRASH!

Ilsa shielded her face with her arms as a section of burning beams fell from the ceiling and smashed into the floor, flinging embers and chunks of splintered wood in all directions.

The flames were closer now, lapping out at the last few feet of space that surrounded her boots—

A sort of pressure wave went through the room, rippling the air and bending the flames as if in a strong wind. The sound of the raging fire suddenly became muted. Instinctively, Ilsa turned.

Grigory Rasputin was standing a short distance away among the flames; the fire veered away from his body as though around an invisible barrier, creating a small clear circle around him and a pathway of safety through the blaze.

"Master!" she cried as she ran over to him and embraced him.

Grigory smiled down at her as he held her close; with his free hand he gently wiped her tears away with his thumb. Then he stood up straight, tilted his head back, closed his eyes—

And the basement was suddenly as empty of their presence as if they had never existed.

XXXXX

Abandoned Subway Area

Tick…tick…tick…

The quiet, hoarse sigh of a soul escaping whispered from between the man's parted lips as he slumped forward onto the assassin's shoulder. Kroenen smoothly pulled his blade free of the mess he had made of the man's guts and watched as the man slowly, so slowly, tilted backwards and then twisted as he fell, hitting the ground in a small splash of dirty water. The man's glazing eyes stared sightlessly ahead like twin marbles, his pale, still face like a mask of stone.

Tick…tick…tick…

Death was here; Kroenen stood over the felled BPRD agent, scarlet drops of hot blood leisurely winding their way along the cold steel of his baton sword. He knew the man would be dead soon.

The clockwork assassin paused, hearing the distant sound of boots hitting the ground heavily—someone was coming.

He had a scene to set; he must act quickly.

Kroenen placed his baton sword on the ground and then gracefully sat down beside the dying man and leaned back, his feet together, his arms at his sides, laying himself out on the black gravel and water as though lying down in a coffin.

Tick…tick…

But of course, he would never have a need for a coffin.

The running footsteps were closer, louder.

And now for 'Death' to come again: Kroenen grasped the winder for his mechanical heart—and with a precise twitch of his wrist, he stopped it.

Tic—THUD. Whirr!

There was convulsing, some jerking, some shuddering; the sound of cogs and gears grinding and gnashing in protest—

Then nothing.

Silence.

He wondered if Erica would mourn him.

XXXXX

Abandoned Subway Area

Furnace Room

Hellboy sloshed through the ankle-deep water and mud of the dingy tunnel leading to the clockwork assassin's makeshift "home"—the same furnace room where Hellboy had run into Sammael before crashing down a service shaft and into the subway system.

But this time he knew the assassin wasn't a threat to anyone. All the damage that pinhead will ever do is already done, he thought bitterly.

Which was why Hellboy was here: no one had heard from Erica since she had followed him and Clay into the tunnels, and before the BPRD medics had taken Abe away on a stretcher, the fish-man had deliriously muttered something about Erica and Kroenen. Now that a bunch of agents and medics from the BPRD were on the scene taking care of the others and cleaning up, Hellboy had a gut-feeling that the furnace room would be the first logical place to look for her.

He was right. From where he stood in the doorway he could see Erica's limp, black-clad form laid out among the blindly staring gasmasks on the desk. She wasn't moving. For a moment Hellboy felt a stab of panic, but then he noticed the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She was just unconscious.

He stomped over to her and nudged her gently. After a moment Erica stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. Her grey eyes flicked back and forth before settling on his face; she looked confused and disoriented.

"Hey," Hellboy said, his voice gentle. He half-smiled down at her, but Erica saw there was something sad and tired behind his expression.

"Hey," Erica murmured. Her brain felt fogged, and to add to that there was a sharp, pounding pain at the back of her skull. She slowly sat up; the action knocked several papers and a handful of screws to the floor. Erica winced at the sound of crashing metal and gingerly touched the hard bump on the back of her head. "Ow…my head…that doesn't feel good…"

"Trust me, you're one of the lucky ones."

That got her attention. "Abe! Is he okay? Did—?"

"He'll be okay. Our medical team is takin' him, Clay, Luke, and your sister—she's fine, just bruised up a little—back to the BPRD. After they showed up I started lookin' for you; you're the last one."

"Last one? But what about…?" Erica trailed off. Hellboy's slight smile had faded into an expression of gloom and misery.

Erica's face paled. "Mein Gott…Quarry and Moss? What happened?"

Hellboy shook his head sadly. "I'll tell you on the way back."

XXXXX

The BPRD Garbage Truck

It was very quiet in the back of the BPRD garbage truck. The silence was disturbed only by the creaking and swaying of the truck's contents reacting to the bumps and irregularities in the road surface and an occasional soft cluck from the chickens in their wire cages. Hellboy was sitting on top of a crate, a first aid kit open on his lap and a pile of bloody gauze littering the floor at his feet. His shoulders were slumped and his tail hung dejectedly limp, trailing over his discarded leather jacket; glass shards protruded from the jacket's back where they had become firmly embedded in the leather.

Hellboy hadn't said anything since they had gotten back to the truck. Actually, he hadn't said anything since he had finished telling her that Quarry and Moss had been eaten alive by the Sammaels.

Erica watched the silently brooding demon from where she sat on a stool between piles of crates and equipment. She knew Hellboy was blaming himself for the agents' deaths, and as much as her heart ached watching him, she also knew that any attempt to console him or tell him that it wasn't his fault would be rejected. And so she sat, staring at the floor and holding an icepack to the bump on her head while she listened to the road noise in the background.

At least Hellboy isn't asking me questions about what happened in the tunnels with Kroenen, she thought. Hellboy seemed to have assumed there had been another fight, that she had lost, and that was it.

She didn't know what she would do once they got back to the BPRD and people did start asking questions; she could lie, but Abe knew at least some of what had gone on—she had no idea how much—and she was certain he wouldn't stay silent.

After all, if Abe had been trying to reach her for as long as he said he had, then he had heard Kroenen say he loved her.

Erica felt heat rising in her cheeks at the memory of that moment and was surprised to realize she was blushing; she stole a glance at Hellboy to see if he had noticed. He hadn't, but she turned to face the wall just in case he happened to look up.

Kroenen loves me…

Abe would never believe it, she was sure. Out of concern for her safety, or perhaps his own stubbornness, he would never believe that the clockwork assassin loved her, no matter what she might say about their blood bond and that she would have known if Kroenen was lying.

He loved her. He loved her.

But did she love him? For that matter, did she love either of them? Love between friends—she knew what that felt like. Love on the so-called romantic side—she had little to no experience whatsoever.

This she did know: she respected Kroenen, even admired him in certain aspects. He was intelligent, tenacious, clever; there were few who could offer such conversation or challenge in a chess match. Beyond that she couldn't help but feel a certain amount of attachment to the clockwork assassin: he had played a major part in shaping her as she was now, had taught her the skills and knowledge that made her a force to be reckoned with. He had been there to protect her, to comfort her, to bluntly correct her when she was wrong. The six years they had spent together had passed far too quickly…

But could her attachment overcome the nightmares that plagued her of the times he had tried to kill her? How could she look at Kroenen and forget being crushed, immobile, between a wall and his body and watching helplessly as he stabbed her in the chest? How could she forget her terror as he tried to throttle her in the alleys? Could she relearn how to live with someone that murdered at the drop of a hat, whose thoughts bordered and often crossed the line into insanity, and who was prone to bouts of masochistic self-surgery that left his flesh crisscrossed with stitches for weeks?

Abe, on the other hand, was safe. He was the perfect gentleman. He would never frighten her; never give her reason to be disturbed. He was no less intelligent than Kroenen, though his mind was turned more towards the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake rather than to the darker, forbidden sides of science and the occult. And she could not say she was any less attached to him; they had spent decades together working and fighting and laughing and living side by side.

But could Abe tolerate her darker moods? Would he embrace them as she knew Kroenen would? Could she forgive herself for the harm she was likely to cause Abe just by being near him more often? Her memories, her dreams of her past—she could imagine the pain it would cause him to pick up on them as she slept— nightmarish events that she had witnessed and often participated in. She would never be able to live with the thought that when Abe embraced her he might hear men screaming in fear and pain, begging for mercy she had never granted.

Of course, beyond those worries there was also the concern that despite Kroenen's assertions that she didn't have to love him, the assassin might try to harm Abe if she chose to stay with him. Kroenen's past inability to restrain himself in similar circumstances had resulted in more than a few deaths, including that of Leonard Gilbert at the masquerade ball. But even in his jealousy, somewhere in the back of his head the assassin must realize that she would never forgive him if he ever tried to hurt Abe—

Everything in the truck lurched forward as the driver hit the brakes. Erica steadied herself by grabbing onto a shelf bolted to the wall. Glass bottles rattled and from Hellboy's end of the truck there was a small thud followed by muttered curses as the first aid kit slid off his lap and dumped its contents all over the floor.

The truck didn't sit still for long; a moment later it was slowly pulling away again. Erica guessed that they had stopped at the gates to the BPRD and were now driving around to the garages. She set the icepack aside and ran a nervous hand through her hair.

I won't say anything for a while, she decided. If anyone asks, I'll just say I was in a fight with Kroenen. I won't be lying, just omitting information. I'll go to my room for a while and think this through, and once I have my own thoughts straight I'll go and visit Brittany and Abe in the hospital. Particularly Abe— we'll have to talk about what happened underground…

She could hear men's voices now, accompanied by the sound of engines running idle in the garage. The others must have arrived only shortly before them; traffic in New York was always bad, no matter the time of day.

The truck stopped and the engine cut and Hellboy, with a frustrated grunt, gave up his pursuit of the first aid supplies and instead retrieved his battered leather coat from the floor.

"Just wait 'til Father sees all of us. He's gonna throw a fit," muttered Hellboy as he stomped towards the slowly opening ramp.

Erica followed him but didn't reply, which was probably just as well because her words were sure to have been drowned out by the ruckus in the garage. As she stepped out onto the ramp she was immediately surrounded by agents rushing back and forth; there was a dizzying amount of movement and noise. Nearby, one of the BPRD's cars was empty and all of its doors were hanging open. Another truck similar to the converted garbage truck had its ramp down and medics were milling around it. Erica's eyes caught on it and her heart beat faster.

Abe…? she wondered.

Agents were now coming up the ramp of the garbage truck to unload equipment; Erica caught the shoulder of one as he walked by.

"That truck…who…?"

The agent shrugged, but looked apologetic. "I'm not too sure; everything's gone to hell since Red called back here for help… Either Abe or Clay, I would think…"

She was gone before he had finished speaking, slipping between people as she headed for the truck. She spotted Hellboy standing like a big red mountain among the sea of agents, and caught up with him.

"Who's in that truck over there? Clay?" she asked.

Hellboy turned to face her. He looked absolutely demolished. Suddenly with a sinking feeling Erica wondered what had happened to Clay; Hellboy hadn't said a word—

"Nah, the medics changed their minds; they took Clay straight to the ER. It's closer than here. Goddamn Nazi," Hellboy cursed.

For a fraction of a second, as his golden eyes burned with anger, Erica took a step back, thinking his words were directed at her. Then she realized. "Clay ran into Kroenen?!"

"Yeah. Clay gave better than he got though; he'll make it, I know he will."

A leaden knot of sickening foreboding formed in Erica's stomach. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

"Then what…then what happened to Kroenen?" she asked as Hellboy turned and started to walk away.

"He's dead. Clay emptied an entire clip into him."

No.

It felt like she had been stabbed in the chest. The world halted around her, become nonsensical blurs and meaningless noise. All she could hear was the slow thud-thud, thud-thud of her heart in her ears.

Nein…

Thud-thud.

No, no, no, no, NO!

Someone was screaming in the back of her head, the sound echoing up from some dark bottomless place in her skull, and screaming and screaming…

"Erica?"

Hellboy's voice was muted, like he was talking to her through a pane of glass. He had turned back to her but she was barely aware of him, could barely see him even though she was staring straight ahead. She couldn't breathe. Her chest was too tight. Her heart was racing irregularly, dizzyingly—

"Did you hear me? He's dead. You don't have to worry about—"

She suddenly found herself shouting. "NO! HE CAN'T—HE CAN'T BE DEAD—YOU—YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND—!"

The agents in the garage were staring at her. Hellboy looked taken aback. "I checked to make sure," he said. "Dead as a doornail."

"HE'S FAKED IT BEFORE—HE ISN'T—HE CAN'T BE—!"

And before she knew what she was doing she was running, roughly shoving agents out of her way as she went.

There was a thud as the doors shut behind her.

An agent beside Hellboy broke the stunned silence. "Should we go check? I mean, she seems pretty sure about—"

The demon shook his head. "Clay filled him full of lead. That Nazi's not goin' anywhere but locked in a storage box after Father's finished with the autopsy." Hellboy glanced back at the doors Erica had disappeared through. "She's been afraid of him for so long…you can't blame her for wantin' to make sure he's dead."

Unfortunately he had forgotten that Kroenen hadn't exactly been alive to begin with.

XXXXX

The BPRD Medical Bay

Autopsy Room

Day

The room was cold. The bluish florescent lights in the ceiling glinted dully off the stainless steel walls and spiral staircase; the lights set into the floor gave an eerie glow to the plastic and metal partitions that had been hastily lined up, shielding the room's center from view of the doorway.

Professor Broom was alone; the room was silent except for the soft tap of his cane as he slowly made his way over the gray tile floor. He paused for a moment and unbuttoned the his suit jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and laying it on a metal cart with a soft rustle of cloth, before turning back to face the room's center.

Karl Ruprecht Kroenen was laid out on the stainless steel table, his corpse as cold and lifeless as the sterile room that surrounded it.

The black fabric covering the assassin's torso was pockmarked with bullet holes; a light dusting of sand clung to the rough edges of the torn fabric. With a practiced gesture Broom pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at Kroenen's metal chest-plate; it was intriguing, with its intricate designs and the gears in its glass panes still slowly revolving.

As he looked down at the dead clockwork assassin Professor Broom couldn't help but recall the circumstances of their last meeting. He vividly remembered the gut-wrenching stab of fear he had felt when he had looked over his shoulder and seen Kroenen stalking towards him through the chaos of battle, the glass eye pieces of his mask locked on him in a predatory, murderous stare as he raised his blades.

The mask didn't seem nearly as threatening now under the florescent lights and removed from the hurricane-swept battle of six decades before. But neither did it give the impression of harmlessness; the blank stare of the voids hiding Kroenen's dead eyes was more than a bit unsettling.

Broom rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and pulled on a pair of clear plastic gloves. As much as he wanted to hear firsthand what had gone wrong in the subway tunnels, he knew that it would be a while before everything settled down enough that they could all sit down and discuss it. In the interim he would start the autopsy of the clockwork assassin.

"Who knows what we could learn…" Broom murmured.

He slid a hand under Kroenen's head, leaning it forward and unbuckling the leather straps that held on his gasmask. He grasped the mask on either side and pulled it away—

The quiet and solitude was abruptly shattered as someone burst through the doors and ran straight into the partition in front of the doorway. Startled, Professor Broom turned just in time to see the metal and plastic contraption crash to the floor, taking the intruder with it. The black-clad figure didn't pause but instantly tried to get up, stumbling as it hastily untangled itself.

"Erica?" Broom said, recognizing the cut of her leather trench coat. Erica looked up as he spoke, revealing a face drained of color and grey eyes glinting with desperation or fear or madness, he wasn't certain. Her eyes flicked to the table behind him and widened.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM! HE'S NOT DEAD!" she shouted.

Broom dropped the mask to the floor and moved with a speed he didn't know he still possessed; he stepped backward and then whirled around, expecting to see the assassin sitting up, reaching for his blades—

Kroenen was still lying limply on the table. There was no sign that he had moved at all.

The Professor's eyebrows knit together and with a questioning expression on his face he turned back to Erica, who, having freed herself from the tangle of metal and plastic, was heading straight towards Kroenen.

"He CAN'T be dead—he can't—he's faked it before—" she said. To Broom it sounded as though she were talking more to herself than to him.

Her pace slowed as she neared the table. She stopped beside it, panting and out of breath.

Erica felt something inside her change as she gazed down at Kroenen. Her initial panic and rush was gone. Now that she saw the assassin laying there, his body in one piece, she felt more confident that he wasn't dead. Yes, she knew better; he was just playing with her head, playing his games with her, pretending to be dead just as he had in the past. That was all it was: a game, just a game, like when they played chess together.

"Faked it?" Broom asked, sounding concerned.

"Ja," she replied. With a hand on one of her baton sword's hilts she moved over to Kroenen's head and gazed down at his mutilated face, unflinchingly trailing her eyes over the network of scars and the raw, abused flesh around his lidless eyes and lipless mouth. His blue eyes were rolled back in his head, but they were still crystal clear and as beautiful as she remembered. She considered them for a moment and then leaned against the cold metal table so her face was directly over his—and then she blew a stream of air into his eyes with her lips.

His eyes didn't move. Not even a millimeter.

Erica frowned and her eyes flicked down to inspect Kroenen's torso. Bullet holes were clearly visible in his stomach, but his engraved chest-plate was still intact.

She hesitated for a moment, and then, praying that she wasn't making a terrible mistake that would end with Kroenen's hands around her throat, she laid her head on his chest, pressing her ear against the cold metal designs above his clockwork heart.

Silence.

Yes, there was the soft, nearly inaudible whirr of some mechanical thing inside him winding slowly down, but the loud steady tick that had heralded his approach and haunted her dreams was gone. Dead.

A stab of panic shot through her again and she wrestled to force it down. "Ja, of course he's pretending. How could Clay do something I could not? Guns are useless against him; I tried it myself—it's impossible—he's just acting, that's all—"

But it occurred to her that when Kroenen had feigned death in the past he had always revealed that it was a charade, nothing more, as soon as she had called him. He might have held out for a second just to tease her, but he had always sat up, spoken to her, embraced her…

Fear flooded through her. "It can't be true, it can't—you're not alive enough to die, right? Please stop it, please, please—you're scaring me—"

Even to herself it sounded like she was grasping at straws.

Behind her Broom shifted his weight to his good leg and leaned on his cane. So Erica still cares about him, he thought. Despite the many times they have tried to murder the other, when it comes down to it, at the bottom, at the heart of the matter…

"Karl?" Erica murmured. It sounded like a plea.

And then, to Broom's shock, she roughly grabbed the assassin by the shoulders and shook him.

"STOP IT! WAKE UP!" she demanded. "SAY SOMETHING!"

But no answer came. There was only the sound of Kroenen's grotesque head flopping back and forth on his neck as she shook him.

Erica released her grip and Kroenen fell back to the table as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.

She took a step back from the table and Broom moved forward to comfort her— Abruptly Erica pulled a knife from her belt, braced herself, and violently plunged it into Kroenen's stomach. The blade sank in to the hilt.

Panting, Erica leaned over the assassin, her hand still white knuckled around the blade. Her eyes searched his face, his body for any movement, any reaction, any sign of life, no matter how small.

Nothing.

Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled over, her lips trembled, and then she could hold it in no longer: a hoarse cry broke the silence as she released her grip on the blade and dropped to the floor, sobbing.

"No, no, no…"

God, it hurt. She wasn't sure she had ever felt such pain. She felt like some part of her had died, too, had been ripped out of her like the bullets had ripped through Kroenen's body. Oh God…please…no…

"Erica?" a soft voice said. Professor Broom was standing beside her, gazing down at her. His blue eyes were kind; there was a strange but comforting understanding in them, as though he somehow knew everything. "Why are you crying?"

Erica swallowed thickly and struggled to piece her thoughts together. She saw no point in lying now; not to him.

"Down in the tunnels—I thought he was trying to—but he wanted to talk—"

"And?" Broom prompted gently.

"He apologized—he didn't want to hurt me—he said—he said he—he loves me…"

She hugged her arms tighter around herself. There. It was out; she had said it.

"Ah." Professor Broom leaned back a little, looking contemplative instead of surprised, as she had expected. He glanced at her over the top of his glasses. "And you're sure he was telling the truth?"

She nodded silently, sniffling and wiping at her steady stream of tears with the back of her hand.

Broom sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm not surprised," he said. "You were his favorite. Feelings that strong never fade away entirely."

"It never changed," she said softly. "Never changed at all, and now he's—he's—" she stopped, choking back another sob and squeezing her eyes shut to hold back a new wave of hot tears. It didn't help; she felt them trickling from the corners of her eyes and leaving stinging trails on her cheeks and lips.

"Erica."

She opened her eyes; Broom's blue eyes smiled sadly back at her from behind his glasses. "That's not all there is to it, is there? You love him too, don't you?"

"I—n—" she hesitated, and then her eyes fell on the still form on the table. Her eyes hovered there for a moment. "Yes," she said, her voice hushed, nearly inaudible but sounding as loud as thunder to her own ears. "Yes, I do."

That was why that horrible ache in her chest was there; the gut-wrenching pain like someone had stabbed her and cruelly twisted the blade in the wound. Why that hollow aching emptiness was there inside her.

"I—I never told him—never admitted it—and now I can't tell him—and Abe—"

"Shhh. Don't feel guilty," Broom said. He leaned down and ran a frail but comforting hand over her hair. "Love is never as straightforward as fairytales would have us believe. It comes in forms and places and times unexpected; you have to learn to accept your feelings for what they are."

After a few moments he held out a hand to her. She took it and stood up shakily, trembling from head to toe. Broom pulled her into a hug and she returned it, squeezing him tightly, unaware of the dark spots her tears left on the shoulder of his waistcoat. After what felt like an eternity Erica pulled away and wiped at the tearstains drying on her face. She wasn't crying anymore but she felt completely exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She had reached a sort of strange, sad calm. She looked down at Kroenen again and felt Broom's hand on her shoulder.

"I think, for my part, that he already knew," Broom said. "Some things don't have to be said out loud; some things we just know."

Erica closed her eyes and bit her lip, forcing down the lump in her throat and the tears that threatened to well up again.

"Will you be alright?"

"Ja, ja. I'll—I'll be fine."

"I won't do the autopsy for a few hours… I'll give you some time alone, and then I want you to go to your room and get some rest."

She nodded and he patted her on the arm and smiled before turning and limping in the direction of the doors, his cane tapping and his rosary beads clacking softly.

Erica waited until the doors had closed behind him before she slowly approached the table again. She gently pulled the blade from Kroenen's stomach and then intertwined her fingers with his; she half hoped his cold hand would tighten around hers.

But she knew it would not.

She leaned over him, gazing down at his wreck of a face, blind to his nightmarish appearance.

"I love you," Erica whispered. And she leaned down and lightly pressed her lips to his forehead.

His scarred skin was taught and smooth, and when she pulled away her lips were cold. Erica shivered. She felt as though she had done something wrong, but also as though she had finally done something right…

She lingered a moment and then reluctantly, feeling like she was leaving something unbearably dear behind, slipped her hand out of his and turned and walked away.

XXXXX

The BPRD Medical Bay

Hospital Wing

The hospital section of the BPRD was in chaos.

None the least because Hellboy was pacing back and forth and getting in the way of the medics.

"What do you mean I can't see Blue?!" the demon demanded. His shirt was off and his red skin gleamed under the lights.

"He's in critical condition—" the doctor repeated for the tenth time.

Hellboy wasn't listening. Scowling, he flopped down on the nearest hospital bed. The metal frame squealed in protest but he ignored it. Giggling came from beside him and he glanced sideways at Erica's little sister. Brittany was sitting cross-legged on the bed next to his; the girl's arms and neck were covered with white bandages, but otherwise she was unharmed. Luke wasn't so lucky; he had been taken elsewhere to be treated for the stab wounds on his leg and side.

"What's so funny, half-pint?" Hellboy asked gruffly.

"Your tail; it twitches funny," she replied, giggling again. "Like a cat."

Hellboy's expression softened. He couldn't help but like the kid. Despite everything she had been through in the last few hours she was still smiling. Brittany was absolutely thrilled to be inside the BPRD; her eyes were darting everywhere taking in everything she could about the secret organization.

"Oh, one of the agents left these for us. He thought we might be hungry," she said. She gestured to a small cart that had two cafeteria trays on it piled with food.

Out of the corner of his eye Hellboy saw a doctor and his assistant heading towards him, armed with medical supplies. Oh, great, he thought. They're never as good as Abe.

Just as the doctor got within six feet of him Hellboy got off the bed—it sighed in relief behind him—and lunged for Brittany, ruffling her blond hair and knocking her over on the bed in the process.

"Hey!" she protested as he made a beeline for the food cart. "No fair!"

Hellboy chuckled as he scooped up one of the trays with his huge right hand. "You snooze you lose. Some of us haven't eaten since breakfast today."

"You had a candy bar while we were down there!"

Hellboy paused. She had a point. "Oh okay. Since I'm feeling generous…" He took a bowl off his tray and put it on hers.

"Steamed carrots? Hey!"

"What?" Hellboy asked, feigning innocence. She pouted. "Alright! Alright! You can have my brownie too! And geeze, kid, knock it off with the puppy-dog eyes! …Not that that's likely to happen, since you're a werewolf and all…"

Brittany grinned mischievously and dug in, starting with his brownie first. Hellboy glanced at the Oreos on his tray and instead picked up the remaining bowl. He started pacing again, absentmindedly shoveling food into his mouth with a spoon. Mmmm, the chili was good; he'd have to find out who had brought the food and make sure they got a promotion.

"Would you hold still for a minute?!" the doctor yelled, breaking in on Hellboy's train of chili related thought. The demon turned and coolly surveyed the much shorter man; the doctor's brow was furrowed where his eyebrows were drawn sharply together and down, clearly frustrated. And that tic in his forehead wasn't doing anything for his appearance.

"Ya know, I never thought anyone could sound just like Blue…"

Brittany laughed as she watched from her hospital bed, half of an Oreo in her hand. That made Hellboy smile. Just to make her laugh again he started to duck as the doctor's assistant moved in to clean his cuts. Then Hellboy stopped.

Oreos? He glanced at his tray. It was completely empty.

"Damn! She swiped my Oreos too!"

XXXXX

Outside the BPRD

Liz stepped out of the cab. The cold autumn wind tossed her long black hair and a few crunchy leaves skittered around her feet. It felt so good to be outside again. It had been so long…

Behind her she heard Agent Myers pay the cab driver and then a scuffle as he struggled with her suitcases. A brief smile crossed her lips and she rolled her eyes at his awkward courtesy and sheepish grin.

Even though she had told Myers she was only coming back for the weekend, she couldn't help but secretly hope that this time things really would be different, just like he had said.

She missed everyone. She missed being with people who just saw her as Liz, instead of seeing her as a woman with a dangerous disease that needed curing. She missed being somewhere where she was "normal" compared to everything else dealt with on a daily basis. She missed feeling useful, being needed. She missed being home and feeling loved.

The security guard held the door for her and greeted her politely. Liz stepped through the doorway; her shoes made the same noise they always did on the polished lobby floor.

Her heart beat faster, doing a little dance of joy at recognizing her surroundings.

Maybe, just maybe, this time things really had changed.

Maybe, this time, she would be home for good.

Author's Notes: So this is the last update before I go back to college; I'm moving in on Saturday, August 30th. Please be understanding that I have a lack of time, but I promise to update; the next chapter will probably be up sometime around Thanksgiving or winter break. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; please review!