8. Why is there a stocking with my name on it above the fireplace?

It's the most wonderful time of the year, Liz thinks scathingly. Yeah, right.

She's sitting here in her ratty, old sweatpants in an empty, undecorated house, nursing a too-small glass of wine on Christmas Eve.

And she's never been more miserable.

It's Liz's first Christmas without both Sam and Tom and she didn't expect it to be this hard. She was nothing but optimistic back in September when she bought a new house, one without depressing memories of Tom and their fake life, planning on decorating and having a quiet holiday celebration come December as an independent, single woman.

But then a chill entered the air and familiar songs started to play on the radio and she felt herself descending into a sad stupor, heavy and pressing, like bricks tied to her feet, weighing her down.

She has yet to surface.

Liz feels perfectly justified in mourning her father's passing at the holidays, that is only to be expected and she misses him dearly, but she feels a certain self-loathing deep inside her about missing Tom.

She doesn't miss the actual person, of course, Tom, Jacob, whoever he was. The sting of betrayal runs far too deep for that. But she misses the illusion of Tom, the memories, the comforting presence of another person to share the holiday cheer with.

(She's never been this alone on Christmas.)

And Liz is feeling that absence the most right now, on Christmas Eve, sitting here sad and not nearly drunk enough.

But then her phone rings.

Liz frowns. Clearly, she has nobody, so who the hell would be calling her on Christmas Eve? She snatches up her phone, glances at the screen, and then almost throws it through the front window.

Nick's Pizza.

What could he possibly want that can't wait until after the holiday, for God's sake? Why can't he just let her alone to wallow in peace? Liz growls to herself as the phone rings for the fifth time, showing no signs of stopping. Liz throws back a mouthful of wine, knowing she'll need it, and jabs the 'accept' button.

"What?"

"Well, good evening, Elizabeth. Merry Christmas. How are you?"

"Red, I'm not in the mood. What do you want?"

"I see. Well, since we're getting straight to the point, we need to meet. I have important information regarding the newest blacklister."

Liz grinds her teeth. "And I'm sure there's no way this can wait until, oh, I don't know, after Christmas?"

"No, I'm afraid not, Lizzie. When can you get here?"

Liz closes her eyes, feeling perilously close to angry tears. "And you expect me to drive all the way to the outer boroughs on Christmas Eve like a f–"

"We've actually relocated, Lizzie, thank you for reminding me," he interrupts her tirade smoothly, stopping her before she can really get going.

"Oh," she mutters, and listens as he gives her an address that's only about twenty minutes away, as opposed to the hour and a half from the city he was yesterday. "Fine. I'll be there in half an hour."

"Wonderful," he says happily. "I'll see you soon then?"

Liz hangs up on him.

After throwing a pair of jeans and a sweater, keeping up a running commentary of curses all the while, Liz is bundling up in her outerwear and climbing into her cold car, not bothering to let it warm up before she's setting off for Red's questionably obtained safehouse.

It's not until she's throwing the car in park that she manages to remove most of the scowl from her face, trying for a work-appropriate, no-nonsense look instead. She doesn't think it works but she doesn't care enough to pull down the small car mirror and work on it.

(She is already missing her bland, thoughtless state of vegetation in her apartment, complete with wine. Lots of it.)

Liz makes a point to slam her car door shut, trying to get some of her aggression out now so she doesn't murder the FBI's fourth most-wanted on Christmas Eve. She stomps up to the front door of the large, admittedly pretty house, and takes a deep breath of the cold winter air before knocking forcefully on the door.

She doesn't have to wait long.

It swings open almost immediately to reveal not Dembe, as Liz had expected, but Red, clad in a festive red apron.

She blinks, a little of her anger fading in her surprise.

"Lizzie! Come in, please, and make yourself at home! I'll just be a moment in the kitchen!"

And he's turning around and hurrying off, leaving the door wide open with her standing there.

Okay.

Liz is mildly curious now and the warm air wafting out of the house is too enticing to resist. So, she steps inside and closes the door behind her.

After being enveloped by the heat in the house, a warmth so encompassing that she's quickly shedding her coat and draping it over a nearby chair, the next thing she registers is the mixture of smells. She easily identifies hot chocolate, eggnog, and gingerbread.

(It smells like Christmas.)

"Red?" she calls out, feeling a little confused and overwhelmed.

"In the kitchen, Lizzie!" he repeats.

That's not exactly helpful, as she has no idea where the kitchen is, but she wanders forward anyway, following the lovely smells and the sound of Red's voice.

Liz turns left off the entranceway on a hunch and spots him, busy taking a tray of what looks like beautifully decorated gingerbread cookies out of the oven and sliding them off onto a wire baking rack to cool.

Well, that explains the apron.

Liz stands there, brimming with questions, but decides to start with the first one that occurred to her and go from there.

"Where's Dembe, Red?"

"Why, with his family, of course, Lizzie. You don't think I'd keep the poor man away from his loved ones at Christmas, do you?"

Liz frowns. "I didn't know he had a family," she states simply.

(That's not exactly true. The first response that leapt to her lips was that she thought Red was his only family, but something stopped her from saying that.)

"Oh, yes," Red continues, finishing with the cookies and turning to a large pot on the stove and stirring the contents. "He likes to go stay with his daughter for Christmas. She's a lovely young woman, Isabella is her name. Would you like some hot chocolate, Lizzie?"

"Oh, um –" but he's already grabbing two mugs from a cabinet and pouring.

"Marshmallows or whipped cream?" he asks, actually pausing to turn this time, looking at her expectantly.

She blinks at him for a moment.

"Marshmallows," she says eventually, and he nods happily, taking a bowl from the counter and scooping several small white blobs into one of the mugs.

He hands her the mug before moving to the fridge and retrieving a can of whipped cream, shaking it vigorously before putting a copious amount onto what she assumes is his mug of hot chocolate.

(In fact, she thinks he may have more whipped cream than actual liquid, which makes her lips quirk despite herself. Typical.)

Red smoothly removes his apron, revealing a lovely, gray vest underneath, and hangs it on a high kitchen chair before picking up his mug and turning to her.

"Would you like to go and sit in the living room?"

"Sure," she says, still feeling a little flustered at the bright, holiday cheer that is permeating this house, so unlike her dark, quiet one.

Red nods, pleased, smiling happily at her and placing a gentle hand on the small of her back to lead her out of the kitchen and back down the hallway to the front living room.

(She can feel the heat of his hand through her sweater.)

As they enter the room, the sheer spectacle of it takes Liz's breath away.

Because there is a huge tree standing proud in front of the picture window in the living room, decorated to breaking point with lights, ornaments, garland, and a twinkling star on top. The fresh scent of pine hits Liz and mingles perfectly with the smell of food in the air. More lights, red and green, are strung above the windows, blinking cheerfully at her, with the pretty white drapes below pulled shut against the cold winter air.

Liz's awed gaze moves, with considerable difficulty, to the fireplace, which has multiple Father Christmas's sitting happily atop the mantle, a mere decoration to the three beautiful stockings hanging from the edge.

Liz frowns for a moment, craning her neck to peer at them. Why are there three and why does the one in the middle look strangely familiar –

She gasps, a hand flying to her mouth.

"Red," she breathes. "Why is there a stocking with my name on it above the fireplace?"

Liz turns to look at him, eyes wide and pleading, feeling her throat tighten as she stares at his face, watching his expression melt into something far more tender than she can handle right now.

"You didn't think I'd let you spend Christmas alone, did you, Lizzie?"

And those words of his break some dam inside of her and she's bursting into tears, completely hysterical within seconds, all of the sadness and loneliness finally boiling over and breaking free.

To his credit, Red stays completely calm, perhaps after an initial moment or two of surprise, and quickly jumps into action, taking her mug of hot chocolate and setting it aside on the coffee table before gently steering her to the couch, where he effortlessly pulls her into his side and she goes without protest, so happy to have someone to lean on, figuratively, literally, finally.

She's not sure how long she cries into his shoulder, mourning for the loss of all she had this time last year, but she thinks it's probably long enough that she should be embarrassed. However, she feels no shame inside her when she finally calms, coming back to herself with the feeling of his hand rubbing her back and his kisses pressed into her hair. She can only identify an odd sort of relief at having expressed her feelings and a resulting bone-deep exhaustion.

It takes her a moment, as she's focusing on slowing her breathing, before she becomes aware of Red speaking softly to her, quiet words that she clings to.

"…that's it, it's all right, Lizzie…let it out, sweetheart…I know you've been struggling…you tried to hide it but I can see…I know you miss Sam…I do too, Lizzie, and I wish more than anything I could bring him back for you…it's okay, Lizzie…just breath, sweetheart, I'm here…"

Liz gives a weak sniffle and tentatively reaches out to place a hand on his knee, a signal to let him know she's okay now. She slowly begins to sit up but stays close, remaining pressed against his side, but now sitting up independently, no longer leaning against him for support. She uses her sleeve to dab at her eyes uselessly, feeling Red looking at her with concern.

"I'm sorry about that," she whispers, her voice weak from crying. "It's been…festering."

Red just nods sympathetically.

(The understanding in his eyes warms her more than hot chocolate ever could.)

Liz takes another moment to gather her bearings with Red absently rubbing her arm. Only one thing is still nagging at her.

"Red, how did you get my childhood stocking here?"

He's silent for a moment before answering, his voice quiet but deep and heartfelt. "I found the box marked 'Christmas decorations' in your storage unit. I decided to take the liberty. I knew it was a risk and you might be angry with me, but I had a feeling you would…need some cheering up."

Liz nods slowly. "I'm not angry," she says after a moment, waiting to make sure it's true. "But how did you know that I was…in a rough place?"

"It takes one to know one, Lizzie," he says simply, and Liz turns to look at him and she feels sure that the sad smile he gives her would have knocked her off her feet, if she had been standing.

Of course. Christmas is hard for him too.

The thought of what he's lost brings a fresh wave of tears, the renewed wetness making her sore eyes sting. He's lost so much more than her, and in a much more horrible way, and yet here he is decorating and cooking just to make her happy.

(He is the most selfless man she's ever known.)

Her lip trembles as they gaze at each other, already pressed close on the couch, and it's absolutely nothing to move forward, place a steadying hand on his chest, and press her lips gently to his. He hums in surprise and brings a hand up to her face, one of his thumbs brushing over her cheek as gently as his lips caress hers.

It's not a long kiss, and she makes it a little wet with her tears, but it's heartrendingly sweet and so perfect. Liz pulls back just enough to press her forehead to his, opening her eyes to see she managed to transfer one of her tears to his cheek.

A mirror image.

(They are more similar than she knows.)

She wicks it away with a thumb.

"Why didn't you just tell me about all this? Why the blacklister pretense?"

Red's mouth twitches. "Would you have come here tonight if it wasn't for work?"

She feels her cheeks flush. "No, I guess not." They share a quiet chuckle, still pressed close together, their shared warmth a wonderful thing glowing between them. "Is that why you moved to a closer safehouse too?"

He simply inclines his head and she sighs, her aching eyes closing as she feels shame and gratefulness wash over her in waves.

"Red…"

"I wanted to, Lizzie," he speaks quietly before she can say anything. "I'm well accustomed to my grief. The weight of it is…familiar. But it's brand new for you, overwhelming and suffocating. I want to help lighten the load, in any way I can. I know you feel alone but…for what it's worth, I care."

More tears spill over her cheeks. "Thank you," she simply breathes, completely at a loss of what else she could possibly say.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her cheek, smoothing her hair under his hand, tucking her into his side.

(She has a feeling she's not going anywhere anytime soon. She doesn't have to be alone on this Christmas. And neither does he.)

"Merry Christmas, Lizzie."

"Merry Christmas, Red."