Writer's Apology: OMG Updates. Yeah, I know. I'm a total d-bag. I'm the worst person in the world, this sucks, I suck, and if there is anyone out there that is still going to read this, then I owe them a big, sloppy blowjob. (Not from me. See, I know this guy who . . .we'll talk about that later.

Anyway, yeah.

Chapter 5

Hellboy leapt through the door frame, rolling immediately to the left and propping himself back-to-wall, as a heavy thunk sounded behind him, the bolt from a crossbow flying through the air, impaling the spot where he had been just a second earlier and sticking in the opposite wall.

"Freakin' Russians," he muttered under his breath, before rolling away again as the sound of another thunk rang out, this arrow now sticking halfway out of the wall where he had been sitting. It wasn't so much that he was threatened by the bolts. More that it would probably hurt like hell, and he would much rather resolve the situation without human bloodshed. That, however, was proving to be easier said than done.

"Keep running, beast!", came a man's voice in thick Russian, deep and booming, "None can escape from the wrath of God for long! The unholy seed that spawned you will not shield you from divine fury!"

Hellboy couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. Truth, that. And the man just kept going, never once letting up his tyrade about God's divine wrath.

"I'm on your side! The Lycan is as much my enemy as yours!" he shouted over the man's ranting, his massive lungs lending him a bit more volume than that of a normal human. When his words were met with another load thunk, and a stinging pain in his arm, he gave up on the idea of talking sense into the man, instead opting to pick up a nearby wardrobe and place it in front of the doorway, blocking the man's pursuit.

"On my side!? You dare try such a pathetic trick on my, demon!? If you are on my side, where were you when the beast slew my little Nadia!? Or her mother!? Their blood is on your hands, whether it be on your lips or not, and I will repay this debt in full! A crack, like the sound of a foot connecting with wood, echoed throughout the house, as the man kicked the wardrobe, which threatened to splinter beneath his foot.

A pang of guilt rushed through Hellboy at the man's words. He knew he'd have to face this eventually. The consequences of his year-long 'vacation.' While he'd been sulking, this man's family had been devoured. And their blood was indeed on his hands. He shook his head, trying to push these thoughts from his mind, and focus on the present.

"I am sorry that I have not come sooner. That I could not save this village. Please, allow me to help you and begin to repay this debt. I want to kill your monster!"

Another loud crash, as the man again tried to break through, bellowing like an injured animal.

"You speak of slaying monsters! There is one monster here that must be slain! For two months we are plagued by an unseen beast, who defies our greatest efforts to track it. For two months I watch as everyone I know is taken silently in the night. And now, a demon shows himself to me, and tells me that he is here to help!? You will pay for mocking me, monster, and your blood will flow for every life you've taken!"

Another thunk, and the sound of splintering wood, and Hellboy felt a bolt slide deep into his shoulder. He grunted, reaching up to pull it out and toss it aside without flinching, the pain only marginal, really. What he was more concerned about was what the man had said.

Lycans were, by very nature, savage creatures. What modern culture called the "werewolf" where essentially Lycans, though they were not nearly as . . .dramatic. A Lycan would often never know what he was, and near-always returned to the spot where he'd fallen asleep. Most Lycans that where killed simply fell asleep one night, during the full moon, and never woke up. Never came back. But when they were active . . .they were loud. They were vicious. They would keep their victims alive for hours, raping and tearing them limb from limb, making as much savage and animalistic noise as possible. They were not creatures that came silently in the night.

And then it all came together.

Hellboy stood up straight, leaning his neck back to pop it loudly.

"You're a sad man," he shouted, making sure the man heard him, "chasin' after monsters in the dark, alone, monsters that you'll never catch."

Hellboy clenched his stone fist tightly, before effortlessly slamming it through the wall, showering the man on the other side with dust and debris, before stepping through it calmly.

The Russian was an older man, built from a lifetime of hard, rural labor. His hair was flecked with grey, and his facial hair abundant, and thick. He was bedecked in leather. Around his waist was a belt covered in various bolts and other implements of hunting. He recovered quickly from the shock of the demon bursting through the wall, and immediately had his crossbow pointed at Hellboy's chest.

"It seems I have caught this monster, creature. At last you cease your charade and fight me like a man, instead of slinking about in the shadows and trying to fill my head with lies." The man, who assumed such a masculine, powerful stance, was visibly shaking in the larger male's wake. "I-I will slay you face to face, man to beast."

Hellboy sighed.

"Actually, I think there's something you need to see." He reached down with his normal hand to retrieve a small, clear vial from his belt, his eyes narrowing slightly as he held it out in front of him, and shook it. "Do you have any idea where you were when the beast attacked?"

The Russian took a step back, leveling his crossbow directly at the vial. "No more tricks, monster! No more lies!"

Hellboy sighed again.

"Didn't think so," he said, popping the top from the vial, shaking it again. "Holy water."

Another loud thunk, and the sound of glass shattering in his hand. He looked down at the arrow jutting from his side, and at his hand, now soaked and dripping holy water and littered with tiny pieces of glass. He raises an eyebrow and grunted.

"Huh. Doesn't hurt me."

He lashed out suddenly, swinging the drenched arm at the air in front of him, sending flecks of the liquid flying off him and through the air towards the man. They hit, and he doubled over, screaming and cursing in Russian as his skin boiled and smoked where the holy water had hit him, his hands reaching up to claw at the burning sensation in his face.

"Sure hurts you."

Hellboy stepped forward calmly, wrenching the crossbow from the man's hand with little to no effort, before crushing it in his right hand and throwing the pieces aside. He looked the screaming man once over, before nodding, and delivering a punishing kick to the man's chest, sending him flying backwards into a wall, which splintered on impact. The man's body finally came to rest outside in the snow, a great hole in the wall where he flown through.

Hellboy grunted, reaching down to pull the arrow out of his side, and dust the shards of glass from his hand. He walked towards the hole in the wall slowly, peering through to stare at the writhing body in the snow.

"Getting up? Are we gonna do this?"

The body twitched for a moment longer, then went still.

"Guess not."

Pushing one of the boards aside and stepping out into the cold snow, Hellboy shivered slightly from the chill Russian air. The man was still breathing. Hellboy's hand drifted down to fiddle with the Samaritan's trigger absentmindedly. There was a long pause, as he stared down at the now almost completely still form of what had formerly been a normal farmer, minding his own business and living his life in peace. What was now a monster, a creature much fouler than the poor man could have imagined.

He shook his head, looking up at the gathering clouds. Fourteen days to the next full moon. By that time the man would be so far into BPRD holding that he'd never even touch anyone again, monster or no. His hand left the Samaritan, reaching to his belt to hit his communicator.

"This is Red, requesting pick-up. Subject has been incapacitated, not neutralized. Send me the paddy wagon, boys, let's get this guy home."

John grunted loudly, his face a mask of pain as he lifted himself up one final time, before collapsing on the ground in a heap, sweating and panting with exhaustion. He'd lost count of how many push-ups that was a long time ago, not that it really mattered anyway. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and enjoying the feeling of being stationary, for once.

It had only been two weeks since he'd gotten back to the Bureau, and since Hellboy had once again become an active operative, and already John had visited every continent, driven through at least twelve states, and been spewed with the entrails of at least three different kinds of demon, all in the interest of catching up with the near infinite number of reports that had been back-logged since Moscow, assignments that couldn't be taken on by ordinary agents, or even Abe alone. The near-constant barrage of it was taking it's toll on not only him, but Hellboy as well.

"134," Abe said, looking up briefly from his book. He was stretched lazily across one of the weight benches in the BPRD's gym, far enough away from John so as not to pick up any stray thoughts or emotions inadvertently. Given John's current state, this was probably a prudent decision.

"You serious?" John breathed, pulling himself painfully to his feet and taking a seat on one of the benches, careful to leave the distance between them.

"Not really. Thought you could use a confidence boost."

"Figures," John said, hissing softly from a particularly harsh throb in his left arm. It still hurt, sometimes, when he stressed it. Being side-swiped by a car on his first mission had been his first real experience with that kind of pain, one that he didn't hope to repeat. It hadn't done any real damage to his arm, that anyone could tell, just enough to make it hurt on occasion.

He looked worse for wear, his eyes sunken and exhausted, his frame slumped down ever so slightly in a perpetual slouch, his hair losing some of it's neatness to fall limp and disjointed over his forehead. He'd been pushing himself for the last two weeks, hard, and was nearing his breaking point.

And that wasn't even taking the dreams into account.

None of them were as extreme as the first, the one he'd had in Quantico. No, no outright nightmares since then. These were the normal, run-of-the-mill dreams. But something was off. Unplaceably. Something was watching him, waiting on the edge of his fringe vision, waiting to move closer when his back was turned. He thought he caught of a glimpse of it once, before it dissipated into thin air, and what he'd caught in that moment was enough to make him not want to try it again.

Trevor Bruttenholm.

"You're unwell, John."

He looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"You haven't been sleeping. Something is troubling you?"

John shook his head, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"It's nothing. Just a little insomnia."

"Would this 'insomnia' happen to stem from something large and red?"

John eyes narrowed, slightly.

"Abe, don't-"

"Don't get psychic with me, bub. Is that what you were going to say?"

John stopped, trailing off. Abe's voice had deepened in his impression, something that John had never heard before. He had never known Abe to really change his pitch, and had indeed assumed that it was outside of the man's ability. To hear him do so, and in a terrible impersonation of Hellboy no less, made him crack a smile. Abe, though it was hard to tell, was smiling to.

"Telepathy has nothing to do with it. You look tired. And with the recent trend in assignments, it's not suprising."

John's smiled faded slightly, but he nodded.

"Right. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. It's your mental turmoil, not mine."

John nodded, laying back across the bench lazily, closing his eyes and yawning loudly. True enough. Though he wasn't sure what he thought of the term "mental turmoil."

A siren blared over the BPRD loudspeaker, causing him to jump slightly. That particular noise meant that Hellboy was back from a mission. He was halfway through jumping to his feet when he caught a look from Abe, instantly slowing himself, trying to look a little less . . .eager.

"Red's back."

"I know."

John shifted slightly. Abe had a way of responding to him, of speaking so calmly and casually, that it still set him on edge sometimes. Like the man knew more than he was saying.

"Think . . I'll go greet him."

Abe shrugged, lifting his book back up to his face.

"Suit yourself . . ."

John gave Abe an uncertain look, wondering. Did Abe know more than he was telling? He shook the thoughts out of his head. For Abe to know something, it would imply that there was something to know. And that wasn't something that John was ready to think about. Especially not now.

Hellboy grumbled, shifting his smaller hand from his pocket, to his hair, and back to his pocket, trying specifically to be as loud with his footsteps as he could, and to avoid looking anywhere but directly in front of his feet. He never felt comfortable in the containment area. Not with all the monsters and demons mere feet away from him, banging against the walls of their prison, their anguished howls audible, even through the impenetrable steel. It wasn't so much that he was afraid. He was fairly certain that, if the steel suddenly became less-than-impenetrable, he could whip them all back down with next-to-no effort. No, what bothered him was the grim knowledge that, given even the most minuet change in fate, he could be one of them, a monster, caged like an animal to stop him from hurting anyone. That is, if the world was lucky. It could be much, much worse than that.

Behind him, two BPRD field agents were frog-marching the groggy, semi-conscious Russian between them, their free hands poised and ready to draw their firearms at the first sign of danger. He avoided looking at them too. Surely, somewhere, there were rules against this kind of thing. To be placed in BPRD containment was a fate befitting a monster, or a demon. This man would only be that for one night out of the month. And yet he'd live out the rest of his (rather assuredly short) like a beast. Hellboy tried to ignore another twang of guilt, deciding to redirect it into hatred for the disgusting little man swaggering ahead of him.

As long as he'd known him, he'd called him 'Warden.' Or, when the man was not nearby, 'the Bulldog.' The name was, at the very least, fitting. The man was short and squat, his face rounded and possessing multiple chins

that shook with each step he took, or word that he spoke. Unlike most of the BPRD, the Bulldog had pretty much dispensed with formality entirely, doing his job in little more than a coffee-stained t-shirt and jeans, black leather boots finishing off the "unbearable asshole' motif that the man had developed. When he walked, he walked like a king surveying his kingdom, a sneering, arrogant, pig of a man, delighting in cruelty and sadism. Hellboy had, unsurprisingly, never developed much affection for him. Even less so, now, as it was the Bulldog's decision what to do with the prisoner. And Hellboy had no doubt in his mind what that decision would be.

"So how long's it been since you were down here, Big Red? Two years? Three years?" the man said over his shoulder, a spitefully cheerful tone to his voice, his piggish eyes twinkling with maliciousness. He was fully aware what Hellboy thought of him, and he delighted in it. Perhaps because he thought no better of Hellboy.

"Sixteen months," Hellboy mumbled, idling contemplating shooting the man in the chest. He thought better of it.

"Tch, I'm hurt. Figured you'd want to inspect the new systems we've got set up down here."

Hellboy cocked a brow, though kept his voice even. He didn't want to man to know that he was intrigued.

"New systems?"

"Ah, hell ya," the bulldog said, his voice swelling with pride, "they've been giving us new shit like nobody's business. Guess after the professor kicked the bucket they decided it was time to start cracking down a little harder."

Hellboy, without realizing it, had tightening his hand around the Samaritan's grip, his mouth lifting into a snarl.

"Show me," he said, tersely, not trusting himself to say anything else, without physical assault becoming an issue.

"With pleasure," the filthy little man said, walking over to one of the steel doors and rapping on it loudly. From the other side, a hideous shrieking noise rang out, thankfully muffled by the thick door. "This is my favorite, see, when an inmate is making too much racket, or causing a commotion, we just do this . . ." he pressed a few buttons on the access panel beside the door. A loud buzzing echoed from the cell, and the shrieking seemed to double in intensity, before both sounds went silent.

Hellboy shifted, his snarl lessening slightly, as a sickening feeling crawled into his gut. "And that was?"

"Well, the floors have been electrolyzed, see? So all I have to do is press a few buttons, and the damn things gets the shock of it's life!"

The man was grinning in perverse glee and, again, Hellboy contemplated shooting him in the chest. Surely the consequences couldn't be so severe. It's not like anyone could possibly love this foul thing. No family or friends to worry about. The contents of his stomach shifted once again. The bastard was planning on putting the Russian that he'd captured in one of these cells. Never mind the fact that he was a normal man over 90 of the time. He shifted, puffing his chest out slightly and standing straight, to reach his full height.

"I hope you're not plannin' on telling me that you plan to put our new Russian friend in there." he said, coolly, trying to maintain composure whilst still appearing intimidating.

The man's grin grew. The demon had taken the bait. He puffed out his own chest, his lip curling into a strange cross between a snarl and a sneer. "Sure am thinkin' about it, actually."

Hellboy looked the man over, studying him. He'd seen plenty of guys like this in his full 60 years of life on earth. Angry, pitiful, disgusting little slimeballs, compensating for some camp counselor that couldn't keep his hands to himself, or the like. "You might want to start re-thinkin', pal."

The Warden turned, letting out a deep belly laugh, strolling down another three doors and leaving a steamy Hellboy in his wake. He stopped in front of an empty cell, leaning forward to tap a few numbers into the access panel, shaking his head.

"I think you got the order of things all backward, boy."

Hellboy wasted no time in closing the distance between them, making sure that he was positioned between the Warden and the two agents moving the Russian.

"How's that?" he growled.

The man stepped closer, until his face was mere inches from Hellboy's, looking up into those gold-colored eyes, now narrowed and piercing.

"See, you're not the one that gives orders down here. Or anywhere, for that matter. You wanna know why," he said, moving a little closer, the man's stench now burning Hellboy's nostrils, eliciting a growl from the depths of his throat. "Cause I may not have the same work experience. Hell, I might not even be as qualified. But me," his hand came up to grip Hellboy's chin, causing his entire body to stiffen in revulsion, "I'm human. And in the end," the hand came down in a soft, condescending slap, "you're just a big ugly monster."

Hellboy could feel the roar building in his chest, his hand reaching down to find the Samaritan's handle. He was going to kill the bastard, right here. There was no two shakes about it. He was going to make sure that that sneer was plastered over every inch of the cell block. And every goddamn monster would get a taste of him.

"What's going on here?"

Hellboy felt himself jump slightly, John's voice catching him off guard, enough to let the fire in his gut settle, and his hand to slip off of his weapon, falling down to rest at his side. He and the Warden turned in unison towards the direction of the voice, each raising a respective eyebrow, surprised at the interruption. John was approaching fast, his eyes narrowed and his muscles visibly tense with aggression.

'His muscles, damn.' Hellboy thought briefly. John was still in his work-out attire, or what Hellboy assumed to be his workout attire. He'd only seen the kid out of uniform once or twice in the months that he had known him. Boy Scout was usually a stickler for formality. Now, though, he must have been in a hurry. For what, he couldn't imagine. He noticed the Warden shift, re-directing his body weight to John, perhaps trying to counter the challenge to his authority.

"Can I help you with something, Boy Scout?"

John felt his stomach rise and his ears burn, slightly. For Hellboy to call him by that rather demeaning nickname was one thing. For this dirtbag to call him by it was another thing entirely. He reached up to adjust an invisible necktie, a nervous tic he'd picked up over the years when attempting to calm himself. Realizing that there we no tie there currently, he let his hands drop, steadying himself mentally.

"Agent Myers."

The man snorted, nodding.

"Whatever you say."

John straightened his back slightly, trying to look as professional as he could, despite the gym clothes.

"You could start by explaining why you intend to use level 5 security procedures in order to contain a level 2 threat. Or why you have neglected to perform full search and interrogation procedures on a subject of full human level sentience. Or, for that matter," John said tersely, giving the man a quick once over, "why you are not clothed in accordance to dress and grooming regulations?"

The man looked flabbergasted, unable to process all the questions at once. He did, however, pick up on the last one. "You're one to ta-"

"I, Sir, am not on duty. You, however are. Or at least, I have to assume you are, if you're going to be performing containment procedures on a-"

"Don't you tell me what to do!" the man shouted, a thin line of spittle dripping from his chin, his neck and face turning bright red. It was easy enough for him to get to Hellboy, but the kid had clearly got his goat. It made Hellboy nervous, as if the man might attack the kid at any moment, "I will not be ordered around by that thing's," he pointed at Hellboy, "bitch."

John stood still, smiling, almost pointedly at the man. Hellboy had shifted his weight to his toes, ready to spring in if it came to physical contact, but John seemed surprisingly composed. Scarily, even.

"Now, that is certainly in violation of proper conduct." The bulldog's face was pale, and his lip quivering. He knew he'd been caught. "I'll tell you what, though. You put him," gesturing to the Russian, "where he belongs, respectfully and considerately given his current human status, and I won't have to alert Director Manning to your breach of conduct. Sound fair?"

He extended in his hand in a mock gesture of good will, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. The warden, for what it was worth, managed to swallow down his fury and avoided punching him, though it clearly took some doing. Sending a sharp glance at the two men holding the Russian, both of which clearly confused and uncertain of their next action, he bellowed out a quick, "What're you, idiots? Get 'im in a normal cell," before stalking away, sending a quick glance over his shoulder. "Actions have consequences, you damn fool."

John, looking entirely proud of himself, began to head back to the main hall to return to his workout, leaving a flabbergasted Hellboy in his wake, still uncertain of who this new character was, and what he had done with the real John Myers.

"Drop it, Red."

"No, seriously, when did you grow a pair? I've never seen you act that way to anybody, much less a fellow agent."

John sighed softly, reaching up to adjust a stray lock of hair that had strayed from the perfectly put together rest of his hair and was now hanging across his forehead. As soon as he brushed it up and away, it fell back down again, deciding it was perfectly comfortable where it was. John decided to ignore it.

"He ticked me off, that's all. I mean, it's not like I was going to punch him or anything like some people I know would have."

He gave a playful grin at the red ape. They were walking side-by-side down the hallway back to the gym, Hellboy having caught up with John and berating him every second after, trying to ascertain the origins of his recently developed testicles. Now, though, he grinned back, grateful for the teasing. Since departing for Russia, he'd felt uneasy. He didn't like going on missions by himself anymore. Something about it felt awkward, and unsteady, like he was all out of balance with his work. Now, though, he felt better. He wasn't going to analyze the situation any further than that.

"I wasn't going to punch him."

"You were thinking about it."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't have actually done it."

He sounded almost defensive. John nodded, patting the giant on the arm.

"Yeah, I know you wouldn't have. Just joking."

Hellboy nodded softly, studying the other man with a far off expression for the faintest of moments, before turning his attention away, to nowhere in particular.

"Besides, if anyone was going to do the punching it would have been him. You're lucky that I was there, watching your back Scout."

John shrugged, flexing his exposed biceps slightly. A gesture he was only faintly aware of.

"I can take care of myself."

Hellboy chuckled, nodding.

"Sure you can, kid."

For whatever reason, the comment didn't sit well with John and, without really thinking through the consequences of it, he punched Hellboy in the arm. It was not a full-on punch, but it was enough to hurt. Or at least, it would have been, had he not been punching Hellboy. Within seconds, he found himself pinned against the wall, completely immobilized by the man's bulk. He was almost tempted to struggle, but he knew that it wouldn't do any good.

"You punched me." Hellboy said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Let me go, Red." John said, sounding almost exasperated at his own lack of foresight. Of course Red would take this as a challenge.

"Say you're sorry."

"No, Red, let me go."

"Say it, kid," he said again, tightening his grip a little bit, allowing more of his weight to press into John, increasing the pressure between him and the wall, "I'm not letting you up until your say it.

"Red, I'm not-"

John found himself cut off mid-sentence, as he turned his head slightly and found himself mere inches away from Hellboy's face, the larger male's hot breath flowing across his face and neck, his broad chest easily dwarfing the smaller agent's frame. For a moment, he felt his stomach rise up in his chest, and his head become muddled. For a moment, a strange, impossible thought crept its way into his mind. Something stupid. Something irresponsible, and unprofessional, and so, so wrong that his mind couldn't even wrap itself around it sufficiently. For a moment, he felt his face move a little closer, and lips purse ever so slightly.

And then an alarm sounded.

"Shit!" Hellboy shouted, breaking away from John wordlessly and darting down the hallway. The Bureau had set it up in such a way that, were an alarm to be sounded, a series of lights built into the wall would light up, creating a trail for security to follow in order to reach the source of the emergency.

John, for a second or two, did not move, the alarm barely even registering in his mind as something that related to him, personally. For those one or two seconds, he felt blank. Empty. Like some great part of his mind or soul had been torn away from him, taking with it his basic motor skills.

Then, it passed, and he was sprinting down the hallway as well, following the heavy thudding of Hellboy's boots, his hand wrapping around the handle to his pistol and his breath catching as he realized the direction that the lights were leading them. The Containment Area.

Everything that he'd ever read, or heard, or experienced involving werewolves told him that it was impossible. But, as he rounded the corner, past a small number of offices for the more bureaucratically oriented agents, he felt his gaze inexplicably drawn to one of the glass doors. And as time seemed to slow down, and his footfalls became more and more infrequent, he saw it through the glass, the sight of it sending powerful chills down his spine.

Professor Bruttenholm. Standing. Smiling.

And at that moment, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

"Shit," Hellboy muttered to himself, continuing to sprint down the hallway, not daring to look over his shoulder to check and see if John was keeping up.

"What the hell was that?"

It was like his mind had decided to take a brief vacation, and he was purely running on instinct. Strange, freaky, almost . . .no. He wasn't going to go that far. It wouldn't have ended in that. He had to be making more out of it than it was due. So, rather than pursue the subject, he ignored it. Instead, he focused on the matter at hand. It had to be the containment area. That was the only answer he could come up with. Not that that made any sense either. The full moon had long since passed, and the Russian couldn't be any less of a threat in his present condition. So it must have been some other beasty. Maybe the Warden's precious high-security cells had crapped out. That would be something. The thought of it brought a twisted smile to his lips.

The smile quickly dissipated, though, when he reached the doorway to the cell block. A barricade had been built up, composed mainly of agents, quaking in their shoes, their guns drawn and aimed inside the doorway. This was more serious than he had thought. He brushed aside them, wordlessly, and stepped into the hall. It was a nightmare, one of the worst messes that Hellboy had seen in a long time, perhaps the worst he'd ever seen whilst actually in Bureau headquarters. Fresh blood was smeared from one end of the hall to the other, that of both human and . . . other. Bones and organs spread periodically across the floor, and some of the bars of the lesser containment cells ripped clean out of the wall, their occupants devoured.

In the midst of it all, drenched in blood and other fluid that, perhaps for the better were unidentifiable, was a Lycan. Thick, corded muscle beneath a shag rug's worth of course, filthy fur, standing roughly four inches higher than Hellboy when erect, but stooped more often than not. In its hands (paws?) was the half-eaten body of an agent, butchered beyond what Hellboy could recognize. It had not been an easy death that much was certain. Hellboy felt a pang of nausea hit him as the creature took a bite of raw meat, but the feeling passed quickly. The creature was gruesome, but he'd seen worse. Much worse. He took a step closer, clearing his throat to catch the creature's attention.

"Hey, fuzzy."

The creature seemed to ignore him, being too intent on it's meal to pay much attention to this challenger. Indeed, it seemed thoroughly disinterested in the big, red giant.

"You're breaking the rules here, big boy. It aint your time of the month."

Still, the creature did not move. Hellboy was getting frustrated. Slowly, cautiously, he began to reach down for the Samaritan, hoping that he could finish this quickly.

"Alright, if you're gonna make this easy on me, I'm definitely not going to complain-"

The creature was fast. Impossibly fast. The moment that his hand had touched the handle to the gun, the creature had closed the distance, tossing aside its meal effortlessly and, before he had time to react, placing a firm punch straight into the demon's chest, sending him flying onto his back. It hurt. Hurt more than it had any business hurting, especially since it was Hellboy feeling the hurt. A critter had to be pretty damn tough to knock the breath out of him. This Lycan, this third rate Hollywood movie monster, had done it, stunning him long enough for the beast to close the distance once more. It hit him, open-handed and claws extended, across the face, tearing out a decent chunk of flesh and drawing out a roar of agony from the red behemoth.

Between the pain of the first hit, and the agony of the second, his hand had managed to find the handle to his weapon, and as the creature reared back to deliver a second blow, he raised it, prepared to fill the creature with every creature-repellant known to mankind. It was inexplicable how fast the creature's reaction time was. The moment that Hellboy's finger had wrapped around the trigger the creature was off of him, leaping backwards off of his chest and landing at his feet, ducking to avoid the bullet and wrapping it's claws around the demon's legs and turning, actually managing to lift and throw him against the opposite wall.

The various spots where the creature had sunk his claws into him ached fiercely, and there was a pounding ache in his skull where it had collided with the wall. Still, the creature had little clue who it was dealing with. It was fast, he'd give it that. He would just have to be faster.

He heard the creature running at him. Without bothering to raise himself off the floor he kicked off the wall, swinging his legs around to knock the creature off of it's. The creature's reaction time was off, and it worked. As the creature fell, Hellboy, gripping the Samaritan by it's barrel, swung the butt of the weapon out, catching the werewolf in the jaw with a punishing pistol-whip. For a moment, the creature seemed stunned by the force of the blow, and Hellboy wasted no time in exploiting that weakness, raising his booted foot up to catch the creature in it's groin, eliciting a howl of agony and causing the creature to stumble backwards. Seeing his opening, Hellboy flipped the gun in his hand, the barrel now aimed squarely at the creature's chest. One bullet would finish this.

His finger squeezed down around the trigger, millimeters away from sealing the were's fate. And it froze there. He wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted to, but somewhere in there was a man. Or, he thought there had been. With the man's transformation now, outside of the cycle, he wasn't sure anymore. But the thought was enough to give him pause.

Not so for John.

Three shots rang out, and the creature dropped, twitching for a moment before going still. Hellboy wondered, idly, if it had been him, if the Samaritan had gone off accidently or if he'd accidently pulled the trigger a little harder than he had intended. But he hadn't felt the gun kick. Hadn't heard the resounding 'boom' that the Samaritan gave off. For a moment, his stunned mind wondered if he had been the one to end the man . . .or beast's life. But then he glanced to his left, towards the door he'd entered from.

John had pushed past the agents and drawn his gun, sitting on the sidelines for as long as he could stand to. Clearly, moments ago, that line had been crossed. It was strange, Hellboy thought, how quickly the color could drain out of a normal human's face. He didn't have that luxury. He could see the man shaking, violently, his gun dropping to the ground with a clatter. Hellboy idly thought about moving to comfort him. And maybe he would have, had he not felt so firmly rooted to the spot where he sat. It was unclear what happened next, at least from Hellboy's perspective. A rush of agents, a flurry of noise, the sounds of pen on paper and nervous voices, raised in agitation and swiftly lowered in reverence to the grisly scene before them.

He could see John get swarmed by them, and for a moment was thankful that it wasn't him that was getting swarmed this time. This feeling faded as well, when Manning entered the hall.

"What the fuck happened in here!?" His voice sounded far off. Unimportant. He leaned down, pulling John up by his shoulders, "What the fuck is going on? Who's responsible for this?"

Hellboy didn't have to look twice. John had hung his head, "I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't . . ."

And that was all it took for Hellboy to get on his feet, closing the distance between himself and Manning in seconds, placing his great, stone hand on the man's back and pulling him, hard, off of John.

"Back off, asshole, before I-"

"Are you serious? The worst attack on Bureau premises in twelve years and you-"

"Cry me a goddamn river, Manning, I'm not gonna let you start flinging your bullshit at people just because-"

"You have no idea the kind of trouble this is, the way you're acting is completely inexcusable-"

So embroiled were the two in their bickering, they didn't even notice John's departure. The way his limbs hung heavy. Or the way he proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach onto the hallway floor, his legs shaking beneath him.

John had been still for a long, long time, not wanting to think about the events of only a few hours prior. The first thing he'd done was to take a shower, to clean himself as thoroughly as he could manage. But that hadn't helped. He'd crawled into bed, but that hadn't helped. The covers felt stifling. He'd tried listening to music, or watching television, but both had seemed too loud. Too disturbing.

It wasn't that he'd never killed something before. Nor was it, particularly, the gruesomeness of the whole ordeal. It was the simple, undeniable truth that if he hadn't interfered, if he'd just kept his mouth shut, then both the man/werewolf/whatever he was, and the people that had fallen victim to him, would still be alive. Their blood was on his hands. And judging by the scene in the detention block, it would take more washing than he could ever manage to clean them.

He lay now on his bed, in his room, in Bureau headquarters. He'd grown used to living there, strange as it was. With his duties as Hellboy's liaison, it wasn't feasible to live away from headquarters.

Hellboy . . .

He hugged his knees up to his chest, and stared at the opposite wall, trying his hardest to burn a hole through it. It was too much. Too, too much. That thing, whatever it was, in the hallway. He'd been so close, and . . .

The door opened behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. There was only one person at the Bureau that would enter without knocking.

"You alright?"

" . . .what do you think?"

He felt his bed shift, drastically, as something massive set it's weight upon it.

"Fuck no."

John felt the words catch in his throat, and when they came out they were throaty and slow.

"'Bout sums it up."

He could feel the large male shift, now facing the opposite direction, leaving them back to back, as it were.

"It wasn't your fault."

"But-"

"It was mine-"

"No, you-"

"If I hadn't-"

"No!"

Before he could finish the last sentence John was up, a hand resting on Hellboy's shoulder, though quickly sliding off when he realized what he'd done.

"It wasn't . . .your fault."

Hellboy simply shrugged it off, still staring at the opposite wall, unable to meet the agent's eyes. It wasn't just about the death and destruction that the day had brought.

"Boyscout . . . John. About earlier," he said, turning to face John, who backed up immediately, as their faces were inches from touching, for a moment.

"Earlier. . .?"

"Did you . . .?"

"What?"

"I don't . . ."

"Me neither."

And then he was kissing John. It was soft, and cautious, and exploratory. It lasted for a matter of seconds.

"I . . ."

And a response.

"I . . ."

And he was kissing John again. Deeply, passionately, possessively.

And he was whole. All the emptiness, the sorrow, the doubt and blame and hurt from the past year melted away. If only for a moment.

Writers Note: Stay tuned folks. In the works, there's Part 2 to this little diddy, HELLBOY: REGRET.

It'll be awesome. When it shows up.