Child's-palm sized flakes of snow were collapsing on the windshield of a black Chevrolet Tahoe. Its wipers swished back and forth, sweeping the icy drops with a hissing "Swoosh!" over and over.

Skyscrapers, grey and dirty by day, molded in nightfall, flickering in reds, yellows and greens. Brakes screeched and honks blared below, the street grey-and-white from mud and snow. Coffee shops signs invitingly winked with crisp lettering at every corner, ready to welcome a passer-by for a cup of hot latte.

Just when Tahoe left tail light flicked orange, a red right blinked. The SUV braked at the crossing, giving way to pedestrians. Those had definitely underestimated today's weather—a trench coat wasn't of great use; one'd better wear a woolen hat and wrapped themselves in a scarf.

Washingtonians hadn't expected this year's winter to have learned some tricks from her Russian sister. Snow plows could hardly keep the road clean and spread salt on the sidewalks. The freak weather made all the sane folks chill at home, watch TV and, maybe, have a beer or two.

All, but Donald Ressler, the Special Agent with the FBI. Another day, another psycho on the streets. Thugs didn't give a damn about Christmas, so the task force closed a case. It had definitely boosted their boss's mood, so everyone got a Christmas day off.

Donald took the FBI's civillian SUV to drive home because his own car would stuck in the Gulliver-like snow mounds. Anxiously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Ressler glanced either on his watch or the traffic light.

Christmas Eve was around the corner, almost hitting him in the forehead.

The twenty-fourth of December. Seven o'clock.

If he could, he would rather spend Christmas with his mom and brother. But the skies snorted at him, producing a flow of non-stop wet and sleazy cotton candy. He'd be lucky not to get into a blizzard on his way home.

The phone buzzed in his jacket's pocket. Ressler slipped a curse. Red light had already turned green, so he hurried to push the gas pedal at the impatient "Beep!" from behind.

Someone must have really needed him, judging by the unsteady vibration tickling his chest every ten seconds.

Whoever this was, they could wait. He'd be of no use to anyone if he crashed right now.

Ressler cast a quick glance at the rear-view mirror. His heavily gelled hair was now messy and tousled like he'd just woke up. A few stray strawberry blond bangs fell onto his forehead. Pandas envied his eyes' dark bags—sleep deprivation was his best friend these days. Steering his way through, he unconsciously licked his full, chapped lips, dehydrated from the AC's hot air.

Someone hysterically honked behind again. To his left a reddish Mazda rushed to blinking green at the intersection.

Jerk.

In no time Donald braked at red light. The dick of a Schumacher had already halted there.

"Suck it," Ressler muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes on the traffic light, he resisted to show that dick the middle finger.

Donald rubbed his sore eyes, their green-tobacco hue gleaming in the tail lights of a car in front.

One could squeeze him like a lemon and he wouldn't feel a thing.

Shower. Dinner. Bed.

A workaholic Holy Trinity.

The light changed to green.

About time.

Already dreaming of his comfy quilt and pillow, Ressler accelerated. Chevy's engine gratefully purred when he smoothly shifted the gear, speeding up.

The vibration in his left inside pocket was almost aggressive. And the snowfall inherited dogged vibes from his cell too: he could barely see anything on the road, snowflakes splashing over the windshield with a nasty slurping sound.

Passing a Chinese take-out to his right, Ressler finally took the cell out of his pocket.

Nick's Pizza.

Pizza delivery, my ass. He knew who hid behind that caller ID.

"Yes?" Ressler angrily blurted, pressing the cell to his ear.

"Good evening, Agent Ressler."

He would have recognized this voice out of hundreds, no, thousands of people. Silky smooth, always with a hint of a genuine laugh at everything. But most of the time it was he, Donald, the guinea pig of the mockery.

The infamous Raymond "Red" Reddington.

Each time Red gave the task force a case, Donald, his teeth gritted, would cut a deal with his own conscience. The Bureau threw a scumbag behind the bars; Reddington—got rid of an annoying competitor.

"Shouldn't there be a Christmas tree for Christmas?" Reddington politely inquired.

Tahoe jerked, almost sliding in a dangerous proximity to a street pillar, but Ressler steered her right back in a moment.

"What…" he bit his tongue not to slip a curse, "tree?"

"Green, Donald. My God, these walls… No wonder you're so uptight."

Who the fuck he thinks he is?!

Ressler didn't breath a sound. He dug his fingers into the steering wheel so hard it hurt.

"I apologize for the intrusion, but I'm afraid it's rather urgent. Besides, no one of sane mind would look for me at your place."

If he could, he'd bribe any amount of mercenaries if it spared him of this arrogant, self-absorbed, ridiculously wealthy prick.

Fortunately or not Reddington was the adjunctive informant to the FBI. It meant he was his responsibility, regardless how badly Ressler wanted to barbeque his guts. Ressler would always do his job even if the only mention of Concierge of Crime made his stomach turn with disgust.

"I'll be there in two hours," Donald growled, hanging up, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

If the blizzard went on like that, he'd be home way past Christmas.

Ressler parked the car, trying to wrap his mind about the fact Raymond Reddington broke into his apartment.

It's Christmas, for God's sake!

Muttering curses, Donald picked up his laptop bag and three pizza boxes from the backseat.

He sauntered to the front door and turned the doorhandle. The hall met him with the usual epileptic blinking—one of the bulbs hadn't met its end yet.

Cleaning the mailbox of ads and bills, Ressler threw the latter into the bag with pizzas.

The elevator softly beeped behind his back.

Donald got in and pressed "10". The elevator creaked up to the tenth floor much longer than usual, its snail-like speed driving him crazy.

It suddenly stopped, the door opening at the seventh floor. A man stepped in, wearing a grey coat and a red hat. His snow-white beard and thin rimmed glasses reminded Ressler of Santa Claus. The man's hands were busy with two green and bushy Christmas trees.

Really?!

Life had a twisted sense of humor.

Somewhere a cell rang.

Not mine.

"Yes, honey," the stranger said, trying to make one of the trees stand straight on the floor. A trace of unwavering obedience was heard in his voice. He glanced at the changing floor number. "Just as you asked—" His forehead sank into a confused frown. "But, dear..."

A spiteful hissing of the man's wife on the other end reached Donald's ears. Nerves of steel? Endless love? He hadn't even raised his voice to argue.

"I'll figure something out... Yeah, okay." He let a weary sigh. Noticing Ressler, he asked, "Want a Christmas tree?" There was so much hope in his voice that Donald felt sorry for him.

But he wasn't sure it was a good idea. And yet nothing in his apartment said "Merry Christmas!" except three pizzas—cheese, pineapple and anchovies—and a six pack of beer he had bought before.

There was a box with Christmas lights somewhere in the kitchen. And another box with Christmas toys in the closet.

"Yeah, why not."

Donald reached for his wallet.

"Nah, it's Christmas," the man said. The elevator halted on the tenth floor. "Woah, we're neighbors. Merry Christmas!"

"You too."

Ressler had almost took the keys out of his pocket when he reached the door to his apartment. A second later he realized that Reddington had already to be inside.

He simply turned the handle and entered. It took some time and effort to secure the Christmas tree straight up, but he managed. It stood perfectly still so far, leaning against the wall. He also put his laptop bag and pizza down.

The hallway smelled of home baking.

Neighbors? If it was Reddington, he'd rather eat his badge.

The Concierge of Crime in the apron? Ridiculous.

"Ah, Donald, here you are. I was getting worried you'd stuck in there," Reddington's sneaky voice caught him off hard.

The badge slipped from Ressler's hand, but he managed to catch it. He felt Reddington's eyes on him, so he muttered something about the weather.

Reddington knowingly nodded, his eyes shifting to the Christmas tree, almost five feet tall.

"Ah, the spirit of Christmas isn't dead, is it? Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in."

"It's my apartment," Ressler growled, taking off his shoes.

Whenever Reddington was around, Donald felt a worthless, miserable loser. It wasn't true; he had been on top of his class in college and at the Academy. He had spent countless hours undercover and conducted a series of successful operations.

The one and only time the luck had turned its back on him was the Concierge of Crime's assassination in Brussels.

It cost him dearly—he had to work his way back for almost a year to restore his reputation.

Few years later Raymond Reddington surrendered to the FBI, demanding to speak exclusively with the man who had spent the prime years of his career chasing him all over the world.

Soon enough Donald spent more time napping on the jets to Cuba, Mexico and Prague than at his bed. His fiancé, tired of the competition, left him. He couldn't blame her, though.

Now Reddington looked much better in person than his sketch in the database. Well-groomed, not a wrinkle on the round face, though he was over fifty. He was slightly overweight whim made him quite appealing. Some agents called him "Reddybear" behind his back.

Ressler could argue that Reddington's reaction depended on his appearance or age. And as much as he wished to ignore it, it had saved his life once.

However, if he had the chance, he would rather shovel the Christmas tree star up into his ass.

Is he glued to floor or what?

Reddington still stood there, his thin lips twisted in a cheeky grin.

What the..? Whatever.

Donald took off his black coat and hung it on the rack. After a day of nonstop run-and-chase even a vagabond wouldn't want to wear his coat. He had almost let a low grunt seeing Reddington's ash-colored cashmere coat on the rack next to his leather jacket.

Reddington was a sucker for luxury and wealth. He would always show-off wearing his three-piece suits and rarely stepped outside without a fedora.

Tonight wasn't an exception.

"Donald, you'd better wear a scarf next time. You don't want to catch a cold, do you?"

Almost rolling his eyes, Ressler watched Reddington leave the hallway. He took the Christmas tree and went into the living room.

What the hell...

To say he was surprised was an understatement.

"I asked Dembe to give me a hand. He wanted to help with the Christmas tree, but since it's your place, I think you should be doing it." Reddington took a sip of whiskey from the tumbler in his hand.

Ressler missed half of the sentence Reddington was saying, trying to take in what had just happened to the living room.

"...We left the bedroom untouched. Unfortunately, the nightmare you call "wallpapers" is still there. However," Reddington grinned, "you don't invite the guests straight to bedroom, do you?"

Donald had an urge to show the exact destination he'd love to invite Reddington. Part of him wanted to strangle the bastard for what he'd done, but the other part was actually grateful. A tiny bit. Just a bit.

The room had indeed become much better: an old and tattered couch was replaced with a new, wide and comfy along with two armchairs. The walls were painted in a pleasant sandy yellow instead of the old wallpapers peeling off at the corners. There was a couple of plant pots on the windowsill—Donald had no clue where they came from. He wasn't a plant-friendly guy, so he'd bet a hundred bucks those were dead in a week.

Now the living room was much cozier than before. His coffee table remained at the same place, and yet it was fixed up, scuffs and scratches gone. A neat pile of The Washington Post and car repair mags had been left exactly the same way Ressler did this morning.

"You like it?" Reddington asked, a hint of genuine care heard in his voice.

Reddington and care? I must be delusional.

"Yeah, thanks. But why?"

"It's Christmas. Of course," Reddington gave him a foxy smile, "I'm not expecting anything in return. Gifts make me uncomfortable." He took another sip. Swirling the tumbler, he said, "I'm afraid I couldn't help myself. I usually prefer the taste of a much higher price tag, though... I hope you don't mind."

"Does it make a difference?"

"Donald, you're a picture of hospitality."

"I'm not the one who breaks into the apartments on Christmas." Ressler pointed at the Christmas tree. "A hand, please?"

To Ressler's surprise, Reddington actually helped him to put up the Christmas tree.

"Thanks. Where's Dembe?" As far as he remembered, Dembe was Reddington's shadow to follow him wherever he'd go. "I owe him for this one."

For a moment Reddington's eyes seemed to get wet with tears.

No, just a trick of light.

He and Reddington shared the same eye color—a rich green-tobacco. Each time their eyes met Ressler felt extremely odd and uncomfortable.

As if you were looking into your own.

But the difference was, one would want nothing but to escape the hard, assessing stare, picking every detail, every change you hadn't even suspected of.

Reddington had a massive amount of dirt on everyone—CEOs, politicians, bankers, defense contractors... You name it. He also knew the whereabouts of the most dangerous outlaws no one had even heard of. Nothing slipped from him. He told Ressler once that almost all people were an open book for him. It was true.

At times Ressler was terrified at what Reddington could've read learned about him. He wished to erase a lot of stuff for these years of the game Reddington and the Bureau had been playing.

The fact that most of his memories involved Reddington, the man who forsook his flag and country, drove Ressler nuts.

At first he was desperately looking for the "Why me?" answer. Somehow he wanted to believe it was he who made Reddington surrender.

What could possibly the most boring person like himself do to make Concierge of Crime seek the FBI's protection?

So he let it go.

"He's with his granddaughter," Reddington answered.

"Oh."

It was beyond awkward. If he didn't know better, he'd say Reddington had the blues.

Could he, really?

Reddington's eyes faded, and he seemed rather stiff. For a moment Ressler missed the Reddington who's used to cite one of those smart-ass quotes or crack a joke. Obviously, the favorite subject of ridicule was he, Donald. But eventually Ressler simply rolled with that.

Unexpectedly for himself he wanted to soothe him somehow.

Soothe?! Soothe him?!

Reddington was the FBI's asset, an informant. And an extremely dangerous criminal. His empire thrived on money laundering and arms dealing. Any competitor met his maker in a shot. Literally. And though Reddington had never killed an innocent man, it didn't change the fact he had blood on his hands.

So why it feels like shit?

The man before him wasn't the Concierge of Crime, but a man, drowning in sickening, almost suffocating loneliness. The one Ressler knew too well.

At least there was one thing they had in common—building bulletproofs walls around themselves. Anyone who'd try to pass was immediately brushed off, with no further regrets.

The fact Reddington hadn't hopped on his private jet to Monte Carlo, but came over to the person who hated his guts, was quite telling.

Reddington and those like him didn't have friends. Allies, partners, acquaintances... Anyone but friends.

The very first year of Reddington and the Bureau's symbiosis was memorable. Ressler caught a bullet into his thigh and lost lots of blood. And, as fate would have it, he got locked up with Reddington. And he, to Donald's utmost surprise, performed a field transfusion which saved his life. Ressler was lucky they shared the same rare blood type—B negative.

Suddenly Ressler realized a thing.

Reddington considered him a friend. At least, in his twisted paradigm. If to roll with the snarky comments, Reddington must have a sort of admiration for him. He even told him that in person. But Donald would rather swallow a bullet than admit he respected Reddington.

They went into the small kitchen. There were two bags from the Sticky Fingers on the counter. The mix of ginger and vanilla in the air reminded Donald about his mom's baking. He'd sell his soul for her pie with berries and wallnuts.

Donald put pizza boxes on the counter and then looked into the first bag.

Ginger-honey biscuits, ginger biscuits, chocolate muffins, pretzels, cupcakes, donuts. The second bag was with pies. One of them Donald instantly recognized—his Mom baked exactly the same. The other one was a meat pie.

"I didn't know what you like. There must be baklava somewhere too." Reddington put a teakettle on the stove, ignoring the electric one just on his right. "If we want to have Christmas dinner on time, we'd better dress the green lady up in the living room first."

Concierge of Crime making tea in his kitchen! It's like a snowstorm in Ecuador.

But there he was, in flesh and bone, humming some Christmas carol.

"You said it was urgent. I'm all ears." Donald opened the drawer, taking out the box with Christmas lights.

A number of conflicted and particularly twisted emotions was itching within him right now. The change of the subject seemed the perfect way to cool down.

"Ah, indeed. Must have slipped my mind." Reddington paused. "I'd like to offer you a job."

"The FBI works for you already. I can't believe I'm saying it, but it's a fact," Ressler said, trying to untangle the lights' cord with the bulbs.

Somehow Reddington knew the exact place Ressler kept the cups and dishes. He unpacked the pie and one of the pizzas and put them in the oven. Then—arranged the muffins, cupcakes and pretzels on the plate. The rest of the goods he hid in one of the cupboards where Ressler kept bread.

Reddington found the teapot Donald hadn't used since college and added the tea in it.

"Forget the FBI. I need you. You're the best man for the job. Especially after Laurel's death."

At this point Ressler would love nothing more but to strangle Reddington with the Christmas lights' cord and, maybe, lit it up.

Laurel Hitchin had been his nightmare for more than a year. Deep down he knew it had been an accident.

I didn't mean it, for God's sake!

But he didn't call it in.

Instead, he called a cleaner.

Like the last piece of thrash on Earth.

Of course, the luck had turned its back on him. Again. So he, once an honored FBI agent, did a number of unforgivable, horrible things. Bribing witnesses, blackmailing, moving the dead bodies, covering up murders, fabricating evidence... He did all that to keep his secret safe.

"I was ready to go to jail. I didn't need your help. And I didn't ask to burn Prescott alive!"

"That's why I need you, and no one else," Reddington put a cup in front of him and sat at the table. "You trust no one but your gut. You're walking on a tightrope, yet at the end of the day you make the right choice. And you can't be bribed." Reddington gave him a wide grin. "And, finally, you're damn good at what you're doing."

"As hundreds of other agents."

"Donald, don't be shy," Reddington took a sip of tea and bit at the ginger-honeyed biscuit. "M-m... Perfect. If you like honey, you're going to like this one." Red took another sip. "Think about it."

Ressler wanted to refuse at once, but Reddington raised his index finger. Apparently, he wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

"You have a week."

Ressler sighed deeply. The cup warmed his hands, but on the inside he felt colder than an iceberg.

He didn't realized the room was getting filled with the smell of prunes and apricots mixed with pineapples, until it's aroma tickled his nose.

"Better do a raincheck on that." Reddington stood up, and went to the oven.

And Donald was left to fight with his own conscience.

To work? For him?!

The system he always put his trust with had been rotten to the core. It stank of corruption and cover-ups. More and more cases got tossed away if some moneybag threw in some cash here and there. And one could do nothing.

But what Reddington was offering... It crossed everything he woke up for in the mornings.

To seek justice for those who couldn't do it on their own. And to punish those who deserve it.

But hadn't he crossed the line one couldn't go back?

The world wasn't no longer black and white, good and evil.

Because Reddington showed him there was much more to it.

And hadn't he become everything he loathed?

A crooked cop.

There was no way to change that, no matter many scumbags he'd lock up.

No way to erase it. No way to make amends.

Reddington stared at him. There was something in his eyes Ressler couldn't identify yet.

Empathy?

Understanding?

"I know what you're thinking, Donald. And no, there are plenty of men capable of a killing job at my hire. I wouldn't ask you to do that. At least out of the respect how much you value someone's life." Reddington paused, looking Ressler straight in the eye. "Even if it's as miserable as mine."

Ressler winced at the memory he had once caught a bullet for Reddington.

"You're my responsibility. No matter how badly I hate your guts, it's my job to protect you."

"I know, Donald. And I'm ready to do the same for you."

Reddington gave him a long, piercing look. It seemed he was put under the microscope. Ressler could swear his whole body grew Alaska-like cold on the inside.

Donald withstood the overwhelming, almost stripping stare. Though the tide of doubts within was already coming up, ready to submerge him.

He didn't know what to say. To he honest, he'd always been allergic to this elaborate and confusing mechanism they called a human soul. That was the reason he had almost flunk the exam on profiling.

Reddington theatrically clapped his hands.

"My goodness, the time! Donald, decorate the Christmas tree. We have one hour left. But please, don't fall from the ladder like last time. Remind me, what was your disguise?.. Ah, the museum curator. An early Picasso hit you really bad on your head, didn't it? Fun times, fun times indeed..."

It took Ressler a real effort not to roll his eyes on him.

This year's Christmas seemed fun. Sort of.

Well, at least there was one thing he was still sure of.

You won't get bored with Raymond Reddington.