A/N: However young John Myers found himself transferred to an Antarctic post, he deserved grateful recognition from the BPRD of the New Jersey HQ.
Saying goodbye to John Myers wasn't an overly sentimental affair. He'd been a stateside BPRD member for such a short number of weeks, that his only local history, albeit very intense, had been made at the side of Hellboy and Liz Sherman.
The administration had planned a fitting send-off for him, and it was proving to be a well attended affair. There weren't very many happy occasions to be celebrated at the Bureau – and lately, the members had been hit hard. The murder of Hellboy's cherished father, Professor Bruttenholm, was still an open wound to many more than his half-demon son. Memorial ceremonies for Agents Lime and Quarry had been held soon after, both having met their deaths on the Moscow mission.
John, the center of attention in the large converted conference room, uncomfortably looked down into his liquor glass as small groups of regular agents approached to shake his hand and slap his back. He hardly knew any of them, most being much older than he, and he suffered their boisterous well-wishes with good grace. He noted that his most important acquaintances had slipped into the room and were exchanging greetings with their long-time colleagues. John did his best to peer through the jostling bodies to see that Liz – pretty Liz, was quite plastered to Hellboy's side. After a few minutes, she stretched up to speak to him, and Red leaned down to hear her. It was nearly time to face the director's head table for the inevitable speeches. Liz excused herself and walked up to John. Red threw him an unconcerned glance and continued a jocular exchange with the surrounding agents. There was no secret soft look for him as she stopped in front of John and crossed her arms.
"I'm hoping you'll find it in some part, agreeable," she told him.
"I'll make the best of it." Then with a small frown, John lowered his voice. "Does he know?"
"What possible reason would I have, to tell him?" she asked evenly.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
It had been so many days ago since Liz had met John for the talk he'd wanted. Astonishingly, John had made his last-ditch effort to ask her to accompany him to his transfer destination. She'd given him no hope that it could happen.
"Hellboy's lost so much." he had said, "I think you're just feeling sorry for him."
But her look, tinged with pity, was for John that day. "You couldn't be more wrong," she had answered, "and the more you say, the worse you sound. I'm going now. No hard feelings."
Even now, cool Liz maintained a proper distance. In front of all these people, her body language reflected interest in no one except Hellboy. Giving John a courteous little nod, she turned away.
.
And the filled room swung into a higher volume festive mood as the cocktail hour was extended. Tom Manning chose his time to step up behind the lectern, and tapped his ring against his raised beverage glass to call the chattering occupants to order. All eyes watched while he shuffled his notes of rehearsed remarks and jokes. He held forth on the guest of honour's high value and exemplary performance for the short time he'd been an agent, and how he'd be missed. He announced that he would now present John with the FBI's commendation for recognition of his bravery. The photo of himself shaking the Director's hand while he held up a handsome wooden plaque was to be John's keepsake. It certainly had nowhere to be published.
When Hellboy was called upon to speak, he stood up without moving from his place, and looked across at the man of the hour. From the floor and tables came predictable cheers and chuckles.
"We should all be envying Boy Scout," Red began. "He's gonna get rich on his isolation pay." Remarks of sarcastic agreement rumbled among the agents. "We're having an advance look at what he's taking with him," he continued, raising his stone hand. At the signal, a man from uniform stores approached the head table, showing off an enormous arctic-weight parka. He was followed by others, one by one, each bringing another article to the table. Soon, John was completely hidden behind the stacked-up issue of insulated coveralls, a rolled heavyweight sleeping bag, sets of thermal socks and underwear, thick sweaters, densely knit balaclavas and knee-length boots for frigid climates.
Appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd. Hellboy sauntered his way to the head table, and getting behind John, hauled him straight up out of his chair and stood him on it. John couldn't mistake the message of that gesture, and neither did anyone watching. He had been handled with the merest touch of Hellboy's strength, lifted like a puppy.
"Boy Scout," Red announced, "the stage is yours, kid."
Standing high up, John waited for his blush to cool. He placed his hands on the piled clothing.
"Uh, thanks for this," he started. From behind the stack, an invisible Manning handed up a microphone. "I wish I'd had the chance to know more of you better. There's no place like this in the world. It sure shows you what you're made of – and I think I'm more than when I started out, so green. I had a lot thrown at me from Day One." He looked at Hellboy. "And I'm glad the late Prof wouldn't let me give up. Then it became a whole lot more of events and creatures I never thought could be real, but I had the best to help me through it." The expression that Liz gave back, told him that he was doing well. "And I'm ready to be more than I am now."
He triggered the optimum moment for applause, hollers and whistles, and someone soon sent him a full tray of drinks. John got down from his chair as Hellboy came up. Indicating the tray, he invited, "Have one."
"No, thanks," Red smiled. "I'm not so much into that now. I'm more than I was, too."
"What are they trying to do to me, Red?" John snickered. "I wouldn't drink this much in a month."
"They like you, but hangover misery loves company."
"I think I'll just graze, watch and mingle." John scanned the eager guests, three deep at the free bar. "Manning approved this?"
"Yeah. I let him know that our guys deserved to blow off steam."
.
It was only right for Red and Liz to hang with John for the duration, since he scarcely knew anyone else. And though the limits had been made clear to him, John felt a comfort and protection in their company that banished his expected awkwardness at this occasion.
"This gal who's waiting for you," Hellboy asked casually, "what's her name?"
"Um – Sherry." His blush returned.
Liz lowered her lashes. John was certain he knew the thought behind her cryptic little smile. "Guys are all the same."
John had to grudgingly admire how smoothly Red had planted that telling nugget. He guessed he'd deserved that.
Now in his element of humour, Hellboy called the rest of the room to attention.
"Boy Scout's gonna model all his new gear!"
John froze at the roar of dozens of tipsy agents, pounding their tables in response, and loudly chanting his name. Red grabbed the coveralls and boots, dropping them into John's lap. John obligingly struggled to pull the cumbersome, high-bibbed garment over his business suit, and was barely able to bend to manage the tall, heavy boots. Finally arrayed in the face covering, extra dark eye protection and weighty parka with his head hidden deep in the extended hood, John became keenly aware that he couldn't prevent himself from toppling over like timber. Barely able to hear the snorting laughter from the tables, John swayed on his thick-booted feet and was snatched from disaster by Hellboy's supporting hand.
"New and stiff," he laughed, "takes some getting used to. Want your snowshoes and insulated mittens on?"
"Too hot, too hot," John pleaded from inside the hood, unable to bend his arms.
When Red freed his head and face, John laughed at himself heartily, realizing that his acceptance by the room was becoming assured. And all he'd had to do was to let himself be safely ridiculous.
.
At an appropriate late hour, the three said their good nights to the diehards and headed out.
"Come up for a nightcap," Hellboy invited.
John had to walk behind the couple, since Hellboy seemed to be set on taking up most of the corridor width, while holding hands with Liz. Once inside their quarters, John was shown a selection of liquor bottles and given all he needed to build his choice of drink.
"The night went well," he sighed, leaning back into an armchair. "I was worried."
"You're about the most serious young guy I ever met," Red told him.
Liz nodded and swirled the ice cubes in her glass. "So, how did it feel to let your hair down?"
"Strange, at first. Good, in the middle. But I couldn't have done it by myself."
"Keep it up," she suggested. "You'll have more fun. And so will Sherry."
John smiled. He'd been freed up from cringing about that, too, and was having an unexpected good time in their company. Red was naturally comical after all, with great stories from his deep history within this unique world of the Bureau. During the conversation, though, John kept his radar up for his hosts' signs – like when Liz turned on the couch to rest her legs across Hellboy's lap, and he absently began to caress her knees.
"Uh, I should go, folks," he said, standing. "Thanks, and I'll see you-"
"Wait!" Liz interrupted, hopping off the couch and going to a side table. She returned with two gift-wrapped boxes. "This one is for you," she specified, "and this one is to give to Sherry. I don't know her, but it's something most girls would really appreciate."
"Thanks!" he exclaimed, reaching out to shake Red's hand. "Thanks!" Liz didn't move in for a parting hug, so John raised her hand to kiss, with a sly, boyish smirk at Red's watchful eye.
Together, the couple fondly escorted their friend John to their door.
.
Happily enough, John Myers adjusted his hold on the gift boxes and strolled the corridor on the way to his own assigned courtesy room, half singing, "Sherry, Sherry, Sherry!"
.
First thing the next morning, Hellboy appeared at Tom Manning's office. Without giving the director a chance to speak, he laid it out. "Whoever's in line to replace Myers, I want final approval."
"Why is that so important?" Manning wanted to know.
"He'll be coming to our room six times a day."
"Yes, at least that often."
"Nothing's easier. And I'll be doing the guy a favour," reasoned Hellboy. "Job security."
"How's that?"
"I want somebody who's -" Hellboy realized that his straight stare was about to step on the boss's ego, but he rolled on, "short, bad hair, flabby gut. Maybe no teeth. No more pretty boys!"