Lisbeth admits easily enough that the Christmas season is difficult for her, in a variety of ways. She's never really known what it's like to spend the holiday with family or friends, and it reminds her of so many things-- of her mother, hopeful and dreading a visit from him, of seeing the reflection of brightly colored lights on the ceiling as she's strapped to a table, of nearly losing Palmgren and what had followed. And then, of course, of an idiot she'd thought herself in love with, and presumed heartbreak.

She supposes that she must have suffered from it longer in Stockholm, maybe even left the city, but that's a different Lisbeth.

The Lisbeth she is know had plunged into this strange world and had it almost immediately proven to her that while Blomkvist was a needed first step, his attention and care wasn't love at all. She had met Sam, and not only was she suddenly not alone, they had fit together so well she can almost believe in things like fate.

One of the ways they fit together is that holidays in general have been something to dread or suffer through, having had little reason to enjoy them in the first place. They try, though, and that's been more than enough.

It's early afternoon on Christmas Eve, and Sam will be home soon enough. She's been out shopping, and then fussing with what she feels to be an impressive amount of lights hung and twirled through the apartment at the last minute, enough so that between the tree and the twinkly bulbs everywhere, she doesn't need any lamps, even as it gets dark. It's maybe silly, but she has approximately one decent memory, from back before her mother was gone and before Camilla hated her-- they'd gone to some place, normally a garden, but done up with lights everywhere, even strung overhead on arches and netting.

"He'll be home soon," she tells the dogs, and after a few minutes, she curls up on the couch, much like she had so soon after arriving in Darrow-- only this time it's one of Sam's flannels that she uses as a blanket. Intending to just watch the lights for a while, she only fights sleep a little, and then stops, letting herself doze happily enough while she waits.

If it weren't for the fact that the sort of rounds she makes in Darrow, in this sudden and hostile winter, are to check on people she cares about, and if it weren't for the fact that she has someone to return to as well, Lisbeth knows she'd be infinitely worse off. She tends to hole up in the winter, if there's no job, nothing calling her. Time moves around her like light in one of those pictures set to take for hours. She can go for weeks without speaking more than a sentence or two aloud.

This is different, and not only because she's killed a number of goblins already. She runs into them with surprising frequency, but attributes it to the fact that she's cheerfully left their ugly corpses all around.

This is different because she has people she cares about. She loves people, and she's not about to see them hauled off to the hulking dark castle or frozen to death or eaten by that fucking hag in the park.

Eponine texts, and Sam's on his way back from his own set of rounds. She's more nervous about being apart than she'd admit, but he doesn't seem to draw the creatures as much as she does.

The safest thing is to wait, but she can't be sure it's the safest thing for Eponine. She sends a message to Sam, but with spotty reception, she ends up leaving a post-it stuck to the monitor for the camera she thinks will be closest to her location. She signs it, after a moment's debate, with a heart and an L.

From there, she pulls on winter gear, arms herself, and takes off on the bike, still her best bet for travel. The roads are dark, but she's got enough light from the bike as she heads along snow-covered streets as quickly as she dares.

It's not difficult to find Eponine, and she's as close as Lisbeth thought to that particular camera.

"Hey."

Not even forty eight hours have passed for Lisbeth Salander since her bloody and confusing arrival to Darrow.

She'd debated with herself for quite a while about whether she'd go collect her envelope with its money and access to housing. In fact, some of the very little sleep she'd managed to find had been wrapped around her computer bag in a corner of the train station. After about an hour of dozing had led her to investigating the possibility of something softer and warmer, she set up watch outside the apartment building to which she'd been assigned, possibly by some sort of mythological creature, or worse, some sort of welfare fuck.

High Gate Terrace contains less menace and sits far less ominously than she'd imagined, but she's not about to just give in and go sit in her cell.

She blames what happens next on friendly handsome bigfoots and her own complete exhaustion; apparently Sam lives in this building too, and rather than the suspicion she knows she ought to be searching for, she feels relief. From there, she's not even quite sure how she's done it, but his apartment doesn't manage to keep her out, and she's got Pop Tarts from her supply run at a convenience store to offer to the two dogs. She'd been mildly concerned when she'd first identified them being walked by a girl who went in and out of Sam's apartment, but the dogs at least tolerate her presence. "It's been a very long two days. Look," she says, and after peeling off her outer jacket, she sets her stun gun on the nearest flat surface. "I'm just here to sleep. Don't ask why."

It takes only a minute or two, curling up more and more tightly under her jacket, for her to be asleep in the only place she's sure she can trust now-- the couch in Sam's living room.

Phone.