A/N Welcome to my new fic - 'Sin' picks up a couple of weeks after Red and Liz's escape. Liz becomes dangerously depressed and tempestuous, threatening everything. Can Red resist her dragging them both down? As ever I don't own The Blacklist, I just enjoy diving in the epic angst and smut pool these characters seem to generate :-)

So I ran to the devil, he was waitin'
I ran to the devil, he was waitin'
Ran to the devil, he was waitin'
All on that day
I cried

(Sinnerman, Nina Simone)

Red looked out over the still lake that lay just yards from the isolated house in which they were staying. Another day was drawing to a close, the sunlight glinting on the water, and the scent of wood and charcoal in the air. It had been over a week since they had crossed the border into Canada, winding their way west through the trees and mountains until it seemed like they were the only people on earth. Despite the beauty and calm of the place his heart was as heavy as it had been in many years. The weight of his failure to protect her from the truth – from ending up a fugitive like him – was only matched by the weight of the secrets he still carried. And then there was Liz.

After they had left she had slept with her head resting on his shoulder for most of the journey, only waking to change vehicles and when they stopped for supplies. He was loathe to wake her, wanting to put off for as long as possible the moment when he would have to see the look in her eyes when she remembered where she was and why. He kept as still as possible, ignoring the growing cramp in his neck and his own exhaustion. It put him in mind of sleeping beauty; how he wished then that she could sleep through everything, sleep safe and unawares until all the battles were done and it was safe to come down from the tower.

He didn't wish for that any longer. Since their arrival she seemed to have done just that – slept-walked through their days so far, offering mechanical responses to his questions, and deferring decisions to him. She had spoken so little. They had eaten together. Or rather he had eaten; she had barely touched her food, and had excused herself to go to bed early most nights or to sit alone outside, eschewing his company. He didn't blame her. It wouldn't occur to her that he might take some solace in her company, and he had no right to demand anything from her. That's what being a sin-eater meant.

Whether he liked it or not, she was a fighter – vibrant, opinionated and contrary - and to see her float through days like a ghost was painful. He knew she needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened, both learning the truth about her father's death, and with killing Connolly. Her killing Connolly bothered him greatly. It was a piece of the puzzle he didn't understand, an unexpected twist that would severely impede his plans for her. He'd tried asking her why she had done it at the time, but received no response. Eventually, he would have to get it out of her through one means or another.

Tonight he would have loved to have taken off for a walk around the lake, drawing the clean air into his lungs. Hell, part of him even conceded that it was a necessary part of his rehab and lord if Dembe wouldn't kill him when he found out he wasn't keeping it up. But he didn't feel able to leave her alone for long in her current state. He knew people, and what undue pressure does to the human spirit, and he had come to know her. He knew without a doubt that she would breakdown soon, and he would be there when it happened.

He entered the house and set about preparing dinner, as he had done every night since their arrival. He knew she didn't want it, but he felt it was important to maintain a routine, and give her a chance to talk should she want to. It was also important for him. He was playing a waiting game now, both with her and with the situation back in DC. The journalists had their task, and they had thrown down the gauntlet to the cabal. He was an extraordinarily patient man, but objected more than he liked to admit to his current feeling of helplessness.

Still, he could control the kitchen. He could try to feed her, to look after her that way. He tried to learn what she liked, to find things to tempt her. To tonight's beet and walnut salad he added pretty white wild garlic flowers he had found growing near the house. It had earned him a frown from her when she saw the dish, but he noted with satisfaction that she finished her meal.

Later in the evening he heard her come in from her perch outside the house, and he expected to hear her soft footsteps on the stairs as she made her way to bed, a pattern to which he had become accustomed over the days that had passed. He tried to hide his surprise and pleasure when the living room door opened and she came in, soft cardigan slung over jeans, her cheeks slightly red from the chill of mountain evenings. She walked over to the counter and poured herself a glass of scotch from the decanter, before facing him. He raised his own glass at her and nodded in a silent 'cheers'.

"I was thinking" she said slowly. "When a person kills someone, that's a homicide. But when you kill your own father, that's patricide. It's so terrible it has another name. It's a one way ticket to hell. Like in Greek tragedies."

Red regarded her from his position on the sofa, his frown increasing as she spoke. "It wasn't your fault Lizzie." His voice was low and strained. "The tragedy is that you had to suffer any of that. You were so…innocent."

"Innocent." she echoed hollowly. "Not anymore. Well I guess by your standards I might be." She knocked back her drink and looked at him square on. "You said you never wanted me to be like you, but I'm not. How many people have you killed? Tens? Hundreds even?" her voice was low and bitter.

He braced himself. She may be in pain, but this was the fiery Lizzie he had come to know before the events of the past few weeks. He should be pleased she was starting to try to make sense of it of it all, but he wondered how much damage she might do to them both in the process.

"Lizzie" he said softly. "Once you start counting – once you start measuring evil in terms of numbers – that's when you lose your humanity. Evil isn't how many people you've killed or hurt. It's whether you feel it or not. And that's what this is Lizzie. You're feeling it, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I failed to protect you from that. But what you're feeling – that's how you know you haven't lost your humanity."

She set her glass down and walked towards him, taking a seat beside him on the sofa. "My soul is darkened. That's what you said, isn't it? Misdeeds darken souls?"

He sighed and looked at her. "I was talking about myself. You…" he paused and took her hand. "I never wanted you to know what it's like to feel this way."

After a long moment she removed her hand from his and placed it on his thigh, the warmth of her fingers spreading through him. He looked down at her hand for a second and then back to her face. He wasn't prepared for her next move, although he thought bitterly afterwards that he should have been. She leaned forward abruptly and pressed her lips to his in a hard kiss. When he didn't respond she drew back and, seeing his shocked expression, laughed harshly before standing up.

"Wow! I must be really damaged goods if even the concierge of crime is horrified by the idea of kissing me" she hissed.

It wasn't her fault, he thought bleakly. She was spiraling and feeling worthless – that was why she was offering herself to him. She didn't think she deserved better. That was something he understood – it was desperately painful, but he understood.

"Lizzie-" he said slowly, but by that point she had made her way to the sitting room door. He crossed the room and took her arm gently – "Lizzie" he said again, but she tore her arm out of his grasp and spun round to face him, her complexion burning with anger and shame, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"No! You don't need to explain. I'm disgusting – I killed my own father. I've done terrible things. I am so evil that it's in my skin – I killed the senator just by touching him. It's even in my DNA, remember? The warrior gene?" Her voice broke as she lost the battle with tears. "I am evil" she sobbed.

Red thought his heart would break listening to her. She was going through all the pain he had tried so desperately to spare her. He put his hands firmly on the tops of her arms. "No, Lizzie, no. There's nothing wrong with you sweetheart, I promise."

He was so gentle, so understanding, now employing his characteristic deep, warm tones to sooth her. He was so good at making her believe that he cared for her, and she almost leaned into him, but the knot in her stomach tightened with bitter remembrance. He hadn't kissed her back. He hadn't wanted her. She stepped back, looked up at him and spoke quietly but clearly, searching his face for his reaction.

"I slept with Tom. The day I shot Connolly. We slept together."

And there it was. The thing he had suspected but would never have asked and certainly hadn't wanted to be confirmed. It felt like a challenge; she was trying to punish him, or herself - probably both. He had promised Sam he would love her and protect her as his own; he knew he had no right to feel hurt, only concerned that she had gone back to a man who hurt her and betrayed her. She had chosen to come with him in the end, and that was what mattered.

Slight tension visible in his jaw was the only clue she had that her words had had any impact. When he spoke, his tone remained gentle. "You've suffered a great deal. It's completely understandable that you would want to seek a measure of comfort where you can."

His last words sounded pointed, like he was offering a typically gentlemanly means to explain away her behavior with him to save them both embarrassment, and humiliation burned in her cheeks.

"Why did you even bring me here?" She sounded exhausted. Defeated. "Why do any of it? I'm the one who killed my father. You don't owe me anything."

He looked at her silently with that implacable gaze before glancing away momentarily. When he looked back at her, he responded gently "tell me why you killed Connolly."

Liz frowned at his deflection but didn't respond.

He tilted his head slightly. "It wouldn't be wise to withhold information from me at this point. Not about this. You need to tell me." His tone, whilst still gentle, had developed an edge which made her shudder before she responded.

"Even now after everything you are refusing to answer one simple question of mine, so why should I answer yours?"

"Your question isn't simple. Mine is. It wasn't self-defense, Lizzie. Why did you do it?"

Liz looked at him defiantly for a moment before turning on her heal and leaving the room.

"Goodnight Reddington."

It was some hours later that he set down his last glass of scotch and climbed the darkened, creaky staircase to his room. He passed her bedroom door on the way, and heard quiet, muffled sobs from within. He closed his eyes for a second, fighting the urge to enter her room, to comfort her. But he couldn't do that now. Tonight had changed things – she had kissed him. She had never shown any romantic interest in him before, and when he had brought her here it wasn't with any expectation that her feelings towards him would change in that way. She was feeling lost, perhaps even indebted to him. Whatever her motivations had been, she was vulnerable, and he would not take the risk of going to her now, in her bedroom, four glasses of scotch down.