The streets are glistening, in this corner of the world; Veronica would have to look at her plane ticket to remember exactly where she is, and the wind stirs wet leaves into sluggish dervishes and the streetlights all have that same tired glow. The night is nastily silent; everything that breathes has found shelter, and the only sound left is the mournful drift of the wind. Veronica tightens the sash on her black trench and shoulders her way into a bar, the pure joy of warmth promised by the golden glow in the window and the rich sheen of battered leather seats and the amber heart of the local single-malt.

She loves the CIA, loves the travel, loves being someone else, and in absolutely none of the thousand profiles or tests or analyses did she ever say that she always hopes, for the brevity of a gasped second, that she will see one particular brown-haired head in a crowd of otherwise meaningless tongues and faces. She knows that wherever he is, Logan is keeping warm, probably with his own cut-crystal decanter, and her father, and everyone she loves, but she does always wonder.

She glances at her watch. It's past midnight in Neptune, and her heart always seems to be on that time.

"What'll you have?"

Veronica picks apart the breaths and elides and stops and sorts them neatly into place, translating as she deftly closes the umbrella and unbelts her trench, leaving a spill of black lace over her thigh and an answering grin of the face of the guy on the next stool. "Vodka rocks and a diet coke," she smiles. More than half the time, her cover is that of a simple prostitute; she's very aware that her small stature and sunny smile and bright eyes make her look like anything but an agent. She just wishes it didn't involve hooker boots quite so often.

The bartender slides her the glass and she raises it in silent toast before taking a long sip, chasing it with the coke.

"Celebrating?"

Veronica nods, stifling her eye-roll before she's all wide-eyed delight for her overeager neighbor. "Birthday of a friend," she says, tilting her head.

"That deserves another round."

Veronica glances around, as the bartender concocts some elaborate drink that, she's sure, is meant to tip her over the edge. She always goes to bars that she thinks he'd like; bars full of deep well-worn leather and men who drink with their shoulders hunched to curve over the bar.

She's almost sure she's the only one still looking. Almost sure.

The second drink, when it comes, she nurses until the man staggers off to the back. The vodka warms her, down to her frozen fingertips.

She feels bittersweet when she thinks about him. She hasn't been blonde in a while, she thinks, catching her image in the mirror. Not long blonde hair. And she's never had that simple faith in the world again, especially not now.

But it doesn't matter. Duncan Kane is alive and breathing, another year has passed and he's still safe, and sometimes she thinks she's the only one who still remembers, but that's all right.

"Hey."

She thinks, slowly, that it's the same guy coming back, before she thinks that it's in English, and that it—

She turns, not trusting her eyes, not trusting the slow prickle she hasn't felt in years, and Duncan's there, standing there, behind her chair, and his hair isn't right either, but he's grinning at her, in black wool and sturdy gloves.

She launches herself into the space between them, wrapping herself around him hard, and she can't be sure but there might have been a high jovial squeal. He catches her. Of course he catches her.

She catches the middle syllable of her name, her real name, as he whispers it into her hair.

"God, I am so happy to see you."

"You?" Her eyes are probably swimming. "Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world—"

"You're always stealing my lines," he growls, good-naturedly, right before he kisses her.

In the thick, appreciative silence, her high heel slides off her foot and falls to the floor.

It's just like she's always wished it would be.