There's not much celebrating this year. Heard. The smile Tim finds himself working to soften is initially sharp, callous in its yearning because it always goes ignored. It's not a mean edge to the smile; Tim just hadn't learned to moderate the phantom hurt of hoping he found someone as alone as he's been. Commiseration.

The circumstances are different, but the same.

Sort of.

He doesn't say anything until the gift is in her hands and in a show of hurried childishness to break the misery of that cloud over his head, he stuffs his hands in the coat pockets. "Hey, come on," he urges, voice ever so... easy. He's easy to talk to. Sort of. "It's hard to keep track of the days. I'm sure there's someone who's homesick for the tradition, too. It's hard not to feel like something is missing."

And as for obligation and reciprocation- and her smile is really cute and that's not fair-

"Nah, no, don't-- you already helped a lot with the... uh."

Meat farm.

"Don't worry about it."