"Happy birthday."

One candle, lit in the forest of brightly glowing tapers and set on the shelf, unnoticed amid the flickering lights of other people's prayers. He lit one for Meryl, once a year, like she'd asked, saying more would be too extravagant and he dwelled on things too much already. She was right, of course; he lit one for Rem anytime he passed a cathedral with the option. But only for Rem and Meryl. Each time he would pick up one more candle from the basket and look at its new, unlit end, think of striking matches, and put it back.

You'd laugh at me, wouldn't you?

The church was new, in a shiny uptown part of December, and the long marble steps had been slick with rain as he came in, moving silently past pedestrians sheltering under the overhang and swearing at the cloudburst. A hundred years ago, they wouldn't have been so inconvenienced. A hundred years ago, they would have been awed by an early summer rainstorm in the city of December, but a century of careful, subtle terraforming had softened the inhabited part of the planet, and was slowly changing the environment of the whole world. Wood and rain were not so rare as they had once been. He ran his fingers along the worry-polished mahogany of the prayer rail, and behind his sunglasses his eyes flicked to the woman kneeling and weeping quietly, the candle in her hand waiting for fire.

Go with god, little sister.

His boots echoed as he strode down the side aisle past other alcoves of candles, an unremarkable young man, hands in the pockets of his long coat, hair damp with rain. From the dark row of confessionals was a murmur of voices and for a moment he hesitated, staring hard at the open door of one of the small dark closets.

And say what? One hundred years ago, I killed a man. I avenged a friend.

The thunderstorm was a better confessional. Unlike the citizens of December, he was still awed by such things. It had turned into a slow damp drizzle while he was in the cathedral, and by the time he crossed the street into the park it was just cool wet mist rising up from the cobblestones. The cement ledge of the fountain was damp under his bare palms as he sat down, lifting his eyes to the city lit clouds, water splashing demurely from basin to basin in the fountain behind him.

He liked this park; a small square set to the side across the street from the Church of Our Lady of December, a little patch of green grass and fountain and a few trees, a bronzed section of unearthed spacecraft hull, in memory of the first settlers of the planet. It hadn't been here the last time he was in December. He considered getting an apartment, staying for a while in the city. It had been years since he had a place of his own, not since Meryl died. It might be nice to stay still for a bit. There was a great doughnut place down the street from the park. He grinned. All the necessities of life, in a convenient location.

But he wouldn't, he knew. The urge to keep moving was too strong, and bright as this city was, there was nothing in it to keep him.

Footsteps gritted on the wet pavement behind him, approaching the fountain and stopping, followed by the sounds of someone else sitting down with a sigh. There was a rustle of clothing, a frustrated noise, and a moment of thoughtful silence.

Vash, once called The Stampede, closed his eyes and relished his anonymity.

Until someone poked him in the shoulder.

"Hey, you got a smoke, pal?"

He started, and badly, his heart lurching in that half-familiar way every time he was asked such a question.

"Sorry, were you asleep?"

Vash shook his head, not turning, and pulled an unopened pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his coat. "Help yourself."

"Hey, thanks. You sure?"

He nodded, and the packet was pulled from his hands. Vash closed his eyes. There was a fisk of a lighter striking, not the scrape and hiss of a lit match, the whisper of paper catching and burning quietly and the familiar smoke scent contrasting warmly with cold wet pavement and a city's night. A bus rumbled dimly past, two streets away.

"Thanks." Muffled, spoken around the filter. Cellophane crinkled. "We smoke the same brand, even." Vash opened his eyes to a hand offering him back the pack of cigarettes.

"I don't smoke."

"No kiddin'? You just carry 'em around for bums like me?"

Vash felt the corner of his mouth lift, involuntarily. "Something like that." He realized that the cigarette logo was still hovering in front of his face, and he reached up to push them back, to give him the whole pack like he always did. Their fingers brushed, warm through Vash's glove.

Warm. Even though he knew the moment he walked in the door, knew the terrible stillness in the room and the small singed place on the rug from a dropped cigarette, he had still been warm, sliding limply against Vash like he had a hundred other times before: dozing off beside him on the bus, or leaning back comfortably on some rickety hotel bed. As if he was simply asleep, sure to wake up and tell Vash to shut the hell up, couldn't he see that he was tired? How could a guy get any rest with some spiky-headed idiot clinging to him and blubbering something stupid about love and blame? Crissakes, Vash, how'd I get stuck with a sentimental moron like you?

Silence. Only silence, and one man weeping.

"Keep them." Vash dropped his hand, grateful the artificial tendons of his gun-arm could not tremble.

"Really? Much obliged."

Go ahead, Vash. Look at him. You know you have to. Too old, too young, wrong hair color, wrong face, and laugh at yourself. Then go out and buy another pack to carry until next time.

Inevitable as the disappointment was, his breath was still coming too fast as he turned his head, wondering what stranger would be sitting there. His eyes went wide behind his sunglasses, and for a moment, immortal or no, Vash thought he might be capable of something like a heart attack.

Slouched on the fountain's edge, chin in hand with the half-smoked cigarette dangling between his fingers, profile achingly clear against the wet reflected streetlights in the pavement, sat a ghost. He flicked away ash, absently, and ruffled his charcoal-colored hair with a sigh. It took Vash a second for his brain to catch up, that this was no ghost and some things were different, hair longer in a sloppy ponytail, an earring that hadn't been there before. But he was still dressed in black, his eyes were the same slate color and the arch of his cheekbones the same, even the way he sat perfectly still, eyes half-shut, drinking in the smoke like it was sweeter than water.

Wolfwood?

Vash reached out, to touch his arm, to ask his name, his throat volunteering only a silent motion of air, not willing to form the words-

You remind me of someone I knew once.

Chimes clanged loudly and both men jumped, Vash blinking as if his companion were a mirage. The cathedral bells rang out eleven times, and the young man got to his feet, scowling at the bell-tower.

"Sweet Jesus, I'm late." He glanced back at Vash, a half-smile, a lazy wave. "Thanks again." His boots clattered on the pavement as he jogged across the street towards the church, and Vash could not move, watching him go, heart thundering in his chest. Traffic rumbled between them and he was gone, and the loss was almost too much for Vash to handle, staring numbly at the empty place on the lip of the fountain, the cement slightly drier from the pressure of a warm body.

He was there. He was right there, and I've lost him again.

A car turned across the street, headlights flashing on a small object by the fountain's rim, throwing light against Vash's face. He bent to pick it up without really thinking, turning it over in his fingers. A cigarette lighter, a nice one, silver plate, chased with a cross in gold. The metal was still hot from the pocket it had just slipped out of, engraved letters gleaming in the streetlight.

Nicolai Wolfe.

Vash looked up, aquamarine irises narrowing on the entrance to the church, on his feet and moving already.

"Gotcha."

Maybe he would take that apartment after all.