2012-09-13 He's Real

Usually when someone moves in it's flat-pack furniture and suitcases, maybe a moving pod from a shipping company. Not -this- hustle and fuss. The people doing the moving are all in dark blue suits, shades like your average FBI mook. One of them pushes through with a crate branded with a mysterious logo. A circle in which a fist is gripping the hilt of a sword. 
They're efficient, too, working without much talk to each other and no talk to anyone else. Every time the door to the quarters next to Doug's whisks open, the air that wafts out smells like an apothecary and a second-hand book store at once. 
Someone's not just moving in, they're being moved in. A whole life transfered at top speed. Things are arranged so that one is not encouraged to peek. That's what the spare agents are for. And then, the agents are gone. Poof. Like they were never there. 
A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent saunters through, pulls a nameplate out of his pocket, and slides it into the empty spot by the door.
 
Doug left for breakfast too early to see the fleet of suit-clad movers arrive, but he's returning to his quarters just in time to see them finishing up. (Yes, he eats breakfast in his uniform. He likes his uniform. Wanna fight about it?) He blinks owlishly, bewildered, and offers the lot a polite nod on his way up to his door. But once they're gone... well. Curiosity gets the better of him. He inches over to get a look at the nameplate.
And he blinks. "No shit?"
 
"Yeah, that's what I said." The voice is a bass rumble from way up over Doug's head. Agent Hellboy fills the hall as he arrives, the artifical lighting bounces off his red skin, and he hitches the duffle over his shoulder with an awkward shrug. "Whole 'agent' thing makes me sound like a dick."
 
To his credit, Doug does not squeak. He does jump a bit, but he does not squeak, so he's at least got that going for him. Very slowly, he turns around to look behind him, and then up. And up, and up, and up. 
"I still feel like they're talking to somebody else when they call /me/ 'agent,'" Doug admits. "I mean, I'm still a trainee, but they do it anyway." ...wait. He should probably be polite, huh. With no outward fear of Hellboy's appearance (a good heap of awe and respect, yes, but no fear), he sticks out a hand. "Uh, Doug Ramsey. Next door down. You're very tall for an urban legend."
 
"Nice to meetcha, Ramsey. Wisdom's partner, right?" Hellboy offers him the Right Hand of Doom. It's very enormous for an urban legend. Up close, he's even bigger. Nearly three-Dougs-big bigger. His eyes are vibrant yellow with black centers and... oh, yeah. Horns. Those are legitimate, sawed-off horns.
Doug takes the Hand of Doom for a shake. Which is to say, a finger, resembling nothing more than a small child shaking hands with a much larger adult. Shake, shake. Does he care? NOPE. "Yeah, that's me. Pete's good people, even if he does seem to have a knack for landing in the infirmary." Usually via getting zapped, fried, or otherwise scorched. But that's kind of normal 'round here.
 
"Yeah, we turfed a demon downtown th'other day, went for a drink... held me up a little." It was a very substantial drink, even for Hellboy. There was other drinking after it. And then some more drinking. Possibly some carousing. Okay, a lot of carousing. Singing, too. 
"Well. Let's see how they did." Hellboy squares his shoulders and faces the door to his quarters. "I told Dad I could do it myself, but does he listen? Probably put my name all over everything, too..." he mutters direly under his breath as he opens the door.
 
Doug doesn't know why Hellboy talking about 'dad' gives him pause. Oh, there are plenty of reasons it could, but he's still momentarily baffled by himself. Then he shrugs and follows Hellboy to the door, peeking around the edge to see inside. "You know how parents can be. They like to help," he muses thoughtfully, glancing up at him. "Even if we don't necessarily want it."
 
"Come on in." Hellboy sets his duffel down on the workbench with surprising care and begins to unpack it. Polished boxes, a couple urns, a glass-lidded case holding what's likely a folded Nazi flag. "Weird in here without the cats." Kind of lonely, too. It's nice to have a dozen warm, furry little friends mewing and nuzzling the minute he gets in, even if they are only looking for food. 
 
"Oh, thanks." With an invitation, Doug goes ahead and slips inside, and even with some of the more skull-y decor, he can't help but smile at the smell. The books, more than the herbs. "I've never had cats," he admits, tucking his hands into his pockets. Don't snoop, Doug. It's not your stuff and he's, like, way bigger than you. "My family moved around too much for pets to be an easy thing. Then I was basically at a boarding school. Then..." Dead. "...here."
 
"Cats like me." Hellboy shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on a hook over by the door. For some reason, losing the coat makes him seem even bigger. He's shirtless, a wall of muscle engraved--not tattooed, but actually carved--here and there with strange spirals. "People keep dumpin' them in the sewers, I keep pickin' 'em up going on fifty years." He pulls a horseshoe out of the coat then returns to the bench, revealing a long, red tail that curls and twitches as he talks. 
 
Doug doesn't even stare. He grew up at Xavier's -- he has, in all truth, seen weirder. "No wonder they like you. You've been helping them out for generations," he notes with a small grin, glancing around to try and find a likely-looking spot to hitch up and sit. He's not due anywhere for a while, and besides, it's /Hellboy/. He is real and they are chatting. He's gonna stick around a while.
 
There are perches around the room for someone Doug's size. A stool here, a chair there. Someone anticipated that Hellboy might have company. 
"There is that." Hellboy stops and tilts his head as though he hadn't thought of it before. "Cats are weird. Lot of 'em aren't entirely -in- this world. They see stuff." 
Hellboy pulls a long nail out of a drawer under the workbench and squints at it as though he has a chance of recognizing it by the rust flakes on it. Apparently he does because he grunts in satisfaction and rumbles over to the door. With his left hand, he slaps the horseshoe up--open end up--and holds the nail over one of the holes in the lower curve. Then he brings his right fist down on it and drives the nail clean through into the metal wall behind. "That's better," he says, backing up to admire his handywork.
 
Aha. A stool. Doug hitches up and folds his hands over a knee. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. Cats have always seemed like they know /something/ we don't. Only makes sense that they actually do."
Doug peers after Hellboy and the horseshoe with a curious tilt of his head -- and then /winces/ at the noise that comes along with hanging it up. Not only the loud WHANG, but the metal on metal from the nail. Ow. Still... it did work. "Good luck charm?" he hazards, gesturing at it curiously. "Or something else?"
 
"Not luck. The iron, the association with earth and horses, freaks out a lot of creatures. Also adds to the strength of the threshold if you're talkin' vampires and things that supposedly have some manners. Superstition isn't just nonsense, some of it's based on shit we know from feeling it but can't explain." Hellboy puts his hands on his hips and nods up at the horseshoe. "I know most of this stuff looks like crazy crap but most of it's got a purpose and it -works- when you hit the right thing with it."
 
"I don't think it's crazy," Doug promises, holding up his hands. "I've seen things you -- well," he amends, already butchering the reference. It pains him. Sorry, Mr. Hauer. "Things /most people/ wouldn't believe. You're way more of an expert on that kind'a stuff than I am. So's Pete, for that matter. I only know superstitions as far as I've seen it on TV, but I do know a lot of it works."
 
"You're the kid who speaks all the languages, right?" Hellboy fixes Doug with a critical yellow stare. "Man. Now -that- is weird. We could use you down in B.P.R.D.. Translating demonic language is a bitch. I can do it, but it ain't exactly what I want to do with my time." He holds up his hand--huge and huger. "Penmanship and typing, not really my thing either. I got this text in what looks like Sumerian but I think the guy was dyslexic. Or high. I can't tell."
 
Doug bobs his head in confirmation. "That's me. I just wanted to translate intercepted transmissions or something, but..." He gestures at his uniform. His armored, pseudo action hero-y uniform. Yeah. No desk job for him. "I'm not even sure how safe translating demonic language is. Most of the stuff I've done so far has been a bit more mundane." He pauses. "...except for that time I spoke with a cosmic artifact. She was very nice."
 
"Ah, safe-shmafe." Hellboy blows that all off with a wave of his hand. "Demonic's just another tongue--all the types of demonic. I've translated grocery lists... really gross ones, of course," he adds with a shrug. "You can summon shit and open the gates of Hell in just about any language if you're good enough. You could probably build a difference engine outta Legos, too. You're not gonna turn into a demon because you read the language." He snorts and gestures at him. "I started out like this, don't worry."
 
"I'm less worried about turning into one than I am in getting a mean one's attention," Doug says with a laugh. "I've gotten in over my head before, it rarely ends well for me. Still," he admits, gesturing towards Hellboy with both hands. "Expert. If they ask me to translate something like that, I'll freak out a lot less with you around."
 
"That's what I'm here for. And just hitting things in general. I don't mind readin' stuff over, either, make sure you're not gonna conjure up something from the ninth dimension. Hate that place." Hellboy pulls a cigar out of a pocket and shoves it in his mouth without lighting it. "Anyway, Sumerian document's right there if you ever want a look." He waves to... a crate. A crate with the sword and fist logo on it.
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