Martín looked very uncomfortable at the table in the Professor's hideout home in the Philippines. It wasn't something that the others were likely to notice, but Mirko knew him too well- he could see the tension in his shoulders, how his hands were constantly moving, adjusting little things like the placement of the silverware or the lay of his tie.

Mirko could also guess why- there were too many absences at this table. Two of them he felt himself, and very deeply, but he had always been able to accept grief and learn to live with it- to make it a friend, and smile with it, live his life happily in the present, instead of the regrettable past or troublesome future. Martín was not like that. The past made him insane.

Still, Mirko was enjoying the party. He always loved these yearly reunions. After all, his dearest friends were gathered about the table- the strong, straightforward Denver and gentle, graceful Stockholm, they were always tanned and smiling, and every year little Cincinnati grew larger, spoke more words. Sometimes, Denver's cousin Manila would join, with her particular charm and light wit.

Tokyo was always the one to make the parties parties, and she led many toasts, bright and fierce and so often smiling. Rio, who did not come with her but was happy to see her anyway, looked to be healing a little more each year- even if maybe, what he had gone through would always leave him scarred.

Bogotá did not often come, or if he did he did not stay. Perhaps the absence of that beautiful Kenyan city was too much. No one blamed him. Everyone had loved her.

Marseille, on the other hand, made his visits long, and though his and Stockholm's dietary choices were sometimes a little tiresome, his presence was great fun. This year he brought with him a new friend, who was introduced as Seoul- a lanky German Shepard puppy, who everyone fell in love with immediately.

The Professor and Lisbon, ever the obliging hosts, always managed to bring everyone together- just like the Professor had originally, all those years ago, when those at the table had been but strangers, faces without a name. The Professor, while intelligent and awkward and deeply criminal, was above all a good man- and Lisbon, with her fierce logic and inherent inner strength, matched him perfectly.

These people, Mirko thought contentedly, were his family.

He put one arm comfortably over Martín's shoulders, which caused the smaller man to start, but then slowly he relaxed. He didn't look over (and thus probably couldn't tell that Mirko was watching him, with the state of his eyes) but Mirko saw him smile ever so slightly. A secret, almost sweet smile.

Everything was alright.