A/N: A little holiday crack-y fun for the winter hiatus. Un-beta'd and very much not owned by me. Although an excellent gift idea, should anyone feel generous. :-)

Silent Night

It wasn't supposed to be this cold in Mississippi, Lizzie thought as she let herself into the apartment she was sharing with Red in Tupelo. She had driven up from Birmingham that day and she was tired. All she really wanted was a sandwich and a shower, followed by a crash landing into whatever bed she found first. As she made her way down the short hallway, past the kitchen, she could see Red sitting on the couch, watching television. It looked like a holiday special was playing, a concert of some kind.

The orchestra backing up the singer on the stage began to play "Silent Night" and, as she watched, Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, began to sing along, in an enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, baritone. Truly the season of miracles, Lizzie smiled to herself as she shrugged off her coat and scarf, making enough noise to catch his attention; she was not anxious to have a gun pointed at her today.

"Lizzie? You made it, finally. Come and sit, would you like some wassail?" Red bounded up from the couch, smiling. She had always envied him his unflagging energy.

"Wassail? Do I even want to know what that is?"

"Well traditionally it's an alcoholic beverage similar to punch, served warm. I don't know what the original ingredients were back in merry old England, but I've gone with a mulled red wine, spiked liberally with brandy. Here, try it." He ladled some into a mug and passed it to her with a smile just lopsided enough to know he had been enjoying his libations for some time.

"Are you drunk, Red?" He looked affronted by the question, but she noticed the faintest flush colored his cheeks. With his usually inscrutable green eyes gone bright, he seemed effervescent, like the holiday lights Lizzie had seen while driving the back roads of Mississippi.

"Nonsense. I've had maybe a cup or two of wassail and a bit of fruit cake. You should definitely try the fruitcake. It's homemade and delicious."

"Red, fruitcake is the national punch line of the holidays. It's horrible. It's a gag gift or something you give a co-worker you don't really like. I think I gave some to Ressler last year."

"I'll have you know, Lizzie, that fruitcake, done properly, is a delight. And this was obtained from an authentic source. "

"An authentic source. Which would be?"

"Church ladies."

"Church ladies…Red, what on earth? Did you steal a cake from some church-going grandmother?"

Red seemed more insulted, if possible. He wandered back into the living room and resumed his seat on the battered couch. The cake sat on the coffee table, on a large platter, studded with red cherries and pecans. Lizzie followed him with her steaming mug of fragrant wine punch. She went to set her cup on the table, and as she did, her nose twitched at a familiar scent. A few more discerning sniffs confirmed her theory.

"Red, the cake smells like a distillery. Did you spill a bottle of scotch over it?"

"Of course not. Real, genuine fruitcake is soaked in alcohol, usually brandy. And I purchased it from Beatrice's "secret stash" at the bake sale that the church down the street was having. So, to answer your earlier question, I didn't steal a cake from anyone's grandmother. I'm not a monster."

Lizzie picked up the knife and cut a portion of the cake, laying it on a nearby napkin. The first bite almost took her breath away. Her eyes watered as she chewed.

"Oh I should have mentioned. Beatrice was out of brandy when she was making her cakes last Sunday. So she had to substitute with what she had on hand, which, unless I miss my guess, was Wild Turkey 101."

Lizzie took a sip of her drink to cleanse her palate. The irony of that didn't escape her and she chuckled briefly. That cake was strong enough to kill a horse, and given the size of the slice that was missing from it, she made her way to the kitchen while Red continued to watch Mariah sing about all she wanted for Christmas.

"Lizzie, what are you up to?"

"Making some coffee, Red. I think you're going to need it."

The coffee began to brew and the scent warmed the air. Lizzie turned off the burner under the wassail before returning to her place on the couch. She picked up the fruit cake once again and broke off a small bite. Once you got past the burn of the bourbon, the cake itself was not bad, rich with spices and dried fruit. Red looked over and smiled at her as she finished the slice.

"It's actually pretty good cake."

An hour later, the coffee sat on warm. The blue light of the television played over the man in the vest, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, snoring gently, and the blond woman asleep, curled up beside him, head on his chest. On the coffee table sat two empty mugs and half of a fruitcake.

All was calm. All was bright.