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Heartstone ch1 [Jan. 18th, 2012|10:47 pm]
Hellboy Fans


[Current Location |Ipswich]
[mood |awake]
[music |Jet Black Stare "Ready to Roll" ]

Er, this is my first Hellboy fic ever >_< Hopefully it won't be awfulXD

Author: jeza_red
Warnings: slash, swearing, death and ressurection, AU.
Pairing:Nuada/John Myers, mentioned Nuada/Nuala.
Fandom: Hellboy movieverse.
Rating: Pg-13
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and these settings. All the OC's are mine, but that's it pretty much.
Summary: John is back from Antarctica, the gang is away, Nuada's body is kept in the basement. The usual an B.P.R.D. And then comes the unicorn and complications arise. 
Author's Note: First three parts of this fic are translated from Polish, so they may read somewhat strange but I'm working on it.^^ 

John isn’t completely sure he likes this situation. Hell, he’s not even sure he understands it completely. However, he can’t say it aloud – it may be as well, because Olga looks at him sternly and he knows  she’s not one to trifle with. She’s old and smart, and the look in her green eyes says she knows what he’s thinking about, anyway.

I am not sure I agreed to this – he wants to say, but then she just looks harder and he knows it’s a lost case.

“I don’t like it,” he says instead and it’s very true and very useless in this situation.

“You were chosen, Johnny,” Olga repeats and her shushing Slavic accent turns these words into some kind of a song.

Or a curse.

“You are a good boy.”

He wants to cry and laugh at the same time. Look where being a ‘good boy’ has got him! First, a secret government agency full of freaks, Russian catacombs full of monsters, an Arctic base full of resentment and smell of unwashed furs, a half-baked mission to Great Falls, Washington, where he met this woman made of water and wet grass. 

“I still don’t like it. Couldn’t he... why couldn’t it be one of his kind?! I am human, I should not... It shouldn’t happen!” he rasped.

“It shouldn’t,” rusalka agreed, reaching to touch his face. “But pure hearts are so very rare and Mother wanted it to be you.”

Water dripped down his chin, but he didn’t care about it. He let his cheek rest in the cool palm of Olga’s hand. She was the first Other he met after coming back from Antarctica – stranded from the group, lost in the park growing on the bank of Potomac. It was a cold, rainy night and – in retrospect – it’s no wonder John has slipped on the stones and fell into the canal. He just started seeing his life appearing before his eyes when he felt gentle hands grip his shoulders and push him up, towards the water’s surface. 

When he saw her face for the first time – small, sharp, beautiful face and her big green eyes – he was scared. But she didn’t drown him, didn’t tickle him to death. She helped him out with a vague “you are something else, boy” explanation when he asked “why”. Since then John was visiting Great Falls when he needed to talk to someone and make himself remember that not all of the Other Kind are bad, hateful creatures. Sure, there were still a lot of them out there, but there were also those like Olga, who just wanted to live in peace.

And then one day he was taken to the lowest of levels of the base that he wasn’t even aware of existing and shown that... Sidhe. 

And everything came to a halt.


The body on the catafalque was cold. Not the usual coldness of the dead things (and isn’t it scary when a man knows exactly how cold is a real dead boy supposed to be?). It was cold like the stone it was laying at and just as hard.

John never imagined Sidhe this way. When he was hearing word “elf”, his mind jumped to the image of a slender, bright creature with long, silky hair and kind face. They were like that in the Lord of the Rings. From the childhood stories, John also remembered that elves were supposed to have wings; tiny, glittering wings.

Well, maybe Andersen and Tolkien were writing about different elves – ones that didn’t plan to wipe out humanity as a whole and return to Old Ways.

In this particular instance, only things that were correct were silky hair and brightness. Or maybe paleness? Or chalkiness?

John didn’t know how this body came into possession of the Agency. He didn’t want to know, to tell the truth, especially asked not to be told. Facts were facts – they’ve had it and they had no clue what to do with it. New administration of BPRD had more sense that Manning has ever had and knew how unwise it  was to ignore any signs of danger. They knew not to poke at something that could snap their fingers off. Since they lost their three best... agents, much has changed in the Agency.

John could see it on his own example. Who would have thought that after coming back from the Antarctic he ‘d be promoted to Senior Agent? True, he’s came back in a better shape that he ever was in, but it was not his doing, but the... circumstances, rather. No one told him that on that icy rathole lives about a hundred things that would gladly have his dinner. And no one told him about those two hundreds that wanted to havehim for dinner. Over all, there was a lot of running, climbing and surviving by the skin of his teeth. Antarctic base consisted of a dozen of termic tents and a few dozens of agents who has their hands full almost non-stop. Either you got used to it all or you ended up dead.

Hellboy wanted to give him a baptism of fire and he did. If only the red monkey was present, so John could yell at him in person.  

Unfortunately, red giant and his family were AWOL and off radars. Rumour had it that they were currently in co-operation with British government, but nothing was affirmed yet. They went out of their way to avoid any contact with the Agency and John was not really surprised. It hurt a bit that they didn’t even deem it necessary to leave him a freaking Goodbye card, but after a while, he stopped thinking about it. There was too much to do to muse over his hurt feelings.

So, he has been promoted. Officially because o f his experience in dealing with supernatural eye-to-eye. He couldn’t deny, while chasing after Hellboy trough few dozens of missions he’s managed to glimpse this and that. But in no way that prepared him to be a leader the administration wanted him to be.

What was he supposed to do on his own? Replace three agents that until now were pulling BPRD forward? Him and what army?

Agency couldn’t count on its’ agents to get into the thick of things with guns blazing anymore. Only Hellboy could do it. Against supernatural, one-on-one, humans always lost. Manning realised it a little too late.

Their only hope now was in the knowledge that was suddenly much harder to acquire without Abe’s help. Library of the late professor Bruttenholm was a very useful resource, but it took time to get through most of it. Many sleepless nights. It was of essence to change the tactics of certain squads; make some idiots aware that no matter how cute this thing looks, it’s still able to bite off their legs; that there are things one shouldn’t touch until they attack first, and even more things that one shouldn’t touch EVER. That, if you want to be a hero, you better make sure beforehand that you’re over six feet tall, built like a brick house, red, horned and pretty much indestructible. Otherwise, stick to the fucking plan!

Now it was John’s responsibility – to make up these plans.

He’s got wiser out in the Antarctic base. He came to the conclusion that dying before turning forty would sucks, so he didn’t let them push him out in the field. Not this time. Instead, he’s buried himself in the books, documents and files of the professor, he’s honed up his knowledge of history, widely understood occultism and religion. Slowly, but steadily the sleepless nights spent at the desk opposite Abe’s empty tank were giving off effects. After a while John could easily tell apart most of the creatures that could be dangerous from those that were essentially harmless.

It was a little scary how many of those harmless Others were incorrectly put on the list titled “Exterminate”. Trying to correct that gross mistake took professor Bruttenholm a big part of his life with little success. John had a little more luck – because he’s got less scruples and easier access to the databases. A few smears of correction pen, swift use of a Del key and the world was a little bit nicer.  

At least right until the new administration decided that knowing your enemy is a road to success, so let us know our enemies really well.

That’s how the Morgue came to exist. A set of rooms that could remind a museum – if any museum displayed ghosts of mages and murderers locked in glass cubes, mummies, frozen bodies of werewolves and vampires, tooth fairies, gnomes, trolls and... Sidhe.

“The pearl of the collection,” murmured John sourly, standing by the dead elven prince.

The cold face was emanating such calm it was actually hard not to look at. At the first look it seemed human enough, but there was something very... alien about it. Something that pulled at the attention and made the prince seem less human than a fully transformed werewolf. Nuada was reasonably handsome, with strong, even features and unsettling shadows around his closed eyes. There was something violent and wild in the set of his lips, the tightness of the eyebrows, but lying there, so calm and still, he looked almost... beautiful.

Ladies from Section Five often wasted their lunch breaks staring at the camera’s feed from this part of the Morgue. John understood them a little – because, my God, a real elf! And, true, he was way behind Legolas, but he was a piece of nice looking flesh and cute at that... was!

The girls had to go out more often, that was John’s opinion that he shared with the director at every occasion. And they should bury the prince as the common courtesy demanded. Maybe he was a bastard set on offing humans, maybe he killed many and wanted to destroy the world as they know it...   

But he was dead now. He’s lost – in more ways than one. His plans were in shambles, his world was once again pushed to the side, forgotten again. His sister was dead and his people didn’t want to remember their prince.

John understood that in the Other World memory was everything. Being forgotten was the worst that could happen to anyone. World of magic was very literal; how others seen you meant how you were. And if they didn’t see you, simple, you weren’t.

And prince Nuada very certainly was. And, in spite of his faults, he deserved to be remembered.  

They all deserved it – the Other Kind – because their world was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, it was something that the humanity discarded maybe too quick. It was like porcelain dolls that the mothers of John’s generation used to play with – all lacy dresses that were a treat to look at, but their unmoving smiling faces brought fear when the lights were off. It was better to just hide them, lock them in the cupboard and try to forget their shiny glass eyes.

Not many people realised that together with them, they’re locking up their own childhood. Secrets whispered under the blankets and a calm, steady magic that every mother knew how to use – kissing a booboo so it stopped hurting. It was a sad thing.

And he was too young to get all sentimental!

“You’re only twenty seven, John!” Agent Myers scolded himself harshly. “Too early for mushy conversations with ghosts.”

Well, truth to be told, in his profession it was never too late too. You never knew when the director decides to send you to some haunted church – because, against popular opinion, ghosts loved churches and often choose them as their residence. Churches were calm and quiet – total opposite of graveyards.   

He knew about it thanks to one elder lady who liked to crochet in one of the small churches in Leesburg, Washington. It was one of the rare missions that John let himself be dispatched on and didn’t regret it in the slightest. Luise McCoy (yes, my dear, real McCoy) was a lovely older lady who looked at the ‘youth nowadays’ with a quiet smile and gladly shared her recipe for an amazing apple pie. She was doing no harm sitting there under one of the windows where the light was the best, calmly crocheting frilly serviettes. Until.

Until one young idiot decided that robbing the church is a grand idea. Gran McCoy, quite rightly, didn’t like that attitude one bit. In the end the young idiot went to the hospital with a cardiac arrest and the ghost of the older lady had to be calmed down and reassured that, no, they’re not removing her from the church. It’s fine and she can stay.

John liked missions like this one. Ones that affirmed his quiet belief that not everything that’s  “different” is evil; that it’s possible to live in co-existence with them as long as they’re allowed to exist in peace. That most of the Other Kind just want to live their lives.

A pity that prince Nuada didn’t belong to that group. Everything could have been different then.

Agent Myers looked at the stone catafalque for the last time before turning away and leaving the Morgue. On his way out, he switched the lights off, and it didn’t surprise him in the least that, even in the darkness, Nuada’s body glistened like fresh snow.     


Then it was okay for a while.

Until the unicorn showed up.

That damn hack!