"My what?"

                "Your first kiss, Meryl," repeated Millie brightly. "You know, the original, one-and-only, first really romantic kiss you never forget?"

                Meryl sniffed into her tea. "I don't know what this has to do with anything," she said haughtily, but there was a pink tinge to her nose and cheeks.

                "Mine was when I was eighteen," Millie continued, oblivious to Wolfwood's snicker. Vash hadn't looked up from his drink. "There was a boy named Peter in my class, and he was so polite! It was Valentine's Day, and the flower shop was out of roses, so he—"

                "Honestly," interrupted Meryl, pink darkening to red, "can't we be a bit more mature?"

                Wolfwood gestured to the bartender, who obligingly poured out a couple of more heavy beers and slung them down the bar right into Wolfwood's hands. It was late, and only a few regulars still cluttered the bar, listening to the latest satellite news off of an ancient receiver set, but the vodka was still going strong and the old man with the ancient guitar in the corner didn't show any signs of quitting. Wolfwood wished the girls would just go on up to the hotel proper so that Vash and he could get down to some real drinking.

                "Mr. Priest," persisted Millie, apparently wide awake from the three pudding cups she'd breathed in, "when was yours?"

                Wolfwood grinned slyly. "That depends on what's being kissed, doesn't it?"

                Millie blushed and sputtered and Meryl rolled her eyes, muttering about foul-mouthed men in general. Vash still didn't look up, but the glass of alcohol paused on its way to his lips.

                "That's not what I meant!" cried Millie. "I mean a real first kiss!"

                "Relax," Wolfwood sighed, reaching for another cigarette. "It was a joke."

                Millie was still red, but she nodded and let it go, and Meryl scowled blackly into her tea. The old man in the corner hit a sour note and Vash twitched like a burned cat.

                "Mr. Vash," said Millie, still game, "you had a special kiss, didn't you?"

                Diversionary tactics, decided Wolfwood, and nodded to the bartender to bring on the hard stuff. Maybe if they got stinking drunk, the girls would get disgusted and leave and Millie would give up this really strange conversation.

                "Millie!" griped Meryl. "That's not—"

                Vash lifted his eyes then, expression cheerful and normal and…strangely unreadable. His smile was as empty as the sky when he said, "Me?"

                "Of course!" Millie faltered. "I mean…didn't you?"

                Wolfwood caught the vodkas with a swallowed curse.

                Even Meryl shut up to listen. Three pairs of eyes locked onto Vash's face.

                He wasn't looking at them. He stared down at the table, one hand toying with the glass of whiskey in front of him, tipping it to one side, then to the other. His mouth was set in a straight, tight line, and his eyes were…

                "Yes," he said quietly.

                Meryl looked skeptical. Millie, usually such a perceptive girl, only smiled gaily, happy to be getting somewhere. "Was it nice, Mr. Vash?"

                Wolfwood could have kicked her.

                It was like watching a flower bloom. The expression on Vash's face changed so slowly, so obviously, yet so incredibly, that no one missed it, even Millie, like watching skin blacken and char. His eyes narrowed, a corner of his mouth dragging downward, and such an intense pain bled into his face that it made Wolfwood clench his teeth to see it, such powerful, inhuman pain that surely no one normal could possibly bear it. Half-gloved fingers stiffed on the round shot glass, to the point where it cracked lengthwise and booze began to pool on the table.

                Without speaking, Vash took his fingers from the glass and looked at them. Blood slicked his skin and dribbled down his palm, spotting the table, whiskey and blood. A peculiar look was on his face, an unfamiliar thing Wolfwood had never seen in Vash the Stampede's eyes, and it took way too long for him to realize that what he was seeing was fear, so much fear in that bar that Wolfwood could taste it like a fine cigar.

                "No," murmured Vash, voice calm and quiet and completely separate from his expression, "it wasn't. It wasn't nice."

                He stood up, tucked his sliced fingers into a pocket, where the blood would not show, and left.