A/N Liz attempts to move on with her life, but finds herself unable to let go of the past. Forgiveness is a complicated, but rewarding path. I hope you are enjoying this fic as much as I am writing this story of sin and redemption. I love reviews like Cameron loves pigs. Disclaimed (including the bit about Cameron :-)

Two years have passed

Annabelle Lasseter sat across the dining table from a charismatic young man, fiddling with her napkin ring while he jokingly imparted a story about the difficulties of brokering sales on behalf of tempestuous artists. She tried to focus – it was genuinely funny after all, and he… well he was undeniably attractive. He was roughly her age, but his blond hair and slightly cherubic features made him appear younger. She looked up and smiled apologetically when she realised he had stopped talking. He reached for her hand, turning her palm up and exposing the intricate scar that stretched from her wrist. He avoided touching it.

"Annie? Are you alright? You seem miles away – a guy could get insecure."

"Sorry, yes I'm fine – it's been a tough week, that's all. And it's just Annabelle. I've never been one for nicknames."

At least not now, she thought. She'd been just Annabelle for two years now. It still sounded wrong. Annabelle Lasseter was a clinical psychologist who had given up her practice to teach at a small liberal arts college in Virginia. Her students loved her, both for the insight she brought to her classes and the guidance she offered those who approached her with personal problems. Her colleagues found her pleasant enough but distant, with an abrasive edge that precluded her forming any real bonds at her place of work.

This, she concluded, was probably for the best. It would be so easy to slip up if she let anyone in; how Tom had managed to take on identity after identity and live each one to the full she would never fully comprehend. And yet here she was, wearing a scoop neck black satin dress on a second date with Simon, a man she'd met at a local gallery and who had pursued her despite her initial recalcitrance. Elizabeth Keen struggled to let go of her past, nursing an ache inside her that she feared might never heal. But Annabelle Lasseter… she was lonely. She deserved a life.

She concentrated on the man in front of her, trying to feel the warmth of his smile.

"Well Annabelle, it seems you might be in need of a holiday. I know how stressful a career in teaching can be."

"I guess it is a little overwhelming sometimes." But compared to being shot, tied up, infected with a deadly virus and framed for murder… it's a beach, she thought wryly. She still felt a little vulnerable without her service weapon pressing reassuringly into her side. It was one of the conditions of her immunity deal and new identity – she would never again be permitted to possess a firearm.

Simon nodded sympathetically. "Have you ever been to Canada? The western provinces? It's a place of true beauty, and by far the most relaxing environment I can think of. Perhaps I could take you there sometime."

She felt sick as she recalled the lake house, the scent of pine and charcoal as visceral in her memory as if it had happened yesterday. The ice cold of the water, his arms around her, his breath, his voice…

"No. I mean I have, I just… it wasn't for a holiday. I'd prefer somewhere warmer."

After that their conversation flowed easily enough, but she was grateful when the cheque came and he ushered her to his car to drive her home. When they arrived he walked up the path with her and she did her best to smile at him as they reached her front door.

"Simon, thank you for taking me home. I'm sorry I haven't been the best company tonight."

He smiled at her boyishly and shrugged. "The night's still young."

She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. She'd been on very few dates over the past two years. Only once had she invited a man into her bedroom. She had cried afterwards in the privacy of her bathroom, and ignored the polite messages he left on her machine the following week.

"I'm afraid I'm really tired tonight. Perhaps we can do this again another time?" She reached into her purse for her keys as she spoke, suddenly desperate to be alone. She opened her front door and turned to say goodnight. She jumped when she found him right behind her, and then his hand gripped her arm, his expression full of contempt.

"So that's it, huh? You string me along in a slutty dress and then you can't get away fast enough? No one likes a tease, Annabelle."

Shocked, she shoved him backwards, but not even his sudden change in demeanour prepared her for his response. He backhanded her hard across her cheek, knocking her down against the table in the hall.

"Bitch" he spat, crouching over her and gripping her hair. "Maybe I should teach you some manners."

Disoriented, she instinctively scrabbled behind her for a weapon she realised wasn't there. Just as he raised his fist again a shadow appeared in the doorway, and the next thing she knew he was being dragged off her, swearing. She looked up in disbelief and saw him pinned against the doorframe, a gun barrel jammed into his temple. She tried to focus on the owner of the gun.

It was Dembe. She watched in amazement as the scene unfolded in front of her, satisfied to note that Simon was now a snivelling wreck. Dembe regarded him calmly, his muscular arm immobilising her assailant with ease.

"If you ever come near her again - if you ever treat another woman in this way - I will come for you. Do you understand." It was more of a statement than a question.

Simon nodded and hissed out a "yes" before Dembe released him. They watched in silence as he ran down the driveway to his car and sped away. Dembe turned to her and offered his hand, helping her up.

"I don't know what to say" she managed finally. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, Elizabeth."

She smiled at the sound of her name. No one had called her that in two years.

"So he's having you watch me, then" she ventured cautiously. "I must be losing my edge. I've never noticed."

Dembe paused. "No. There is no one watching. On the day that you left, Raymond charged me with ensuring you had what you needed. Since then I have passed through occasionally to see that you are well. Tonight was one such night. I hope it is not an imposition."

She laughed softly. "Well, tonight at least I am very grateful you were here. It's good to see you. To see someone who knows who I really am."

He nodded in quiet understanding.

"Would you like to come in? I have some beer in the fridge."

"I do not wish to disturb you."

"Nonsense, I'm glad you're here. Please stay."

Dembe smiled then. "I would like that."

Once they were settled in the living room, beers in hand, she looked at him, wondering what his life had been like in the past two years. More than anything she wanted to ask about his employer, his friend… the man who haunted her dreams. He hadn't offered her any news of Red. Perhaps he wouldn't want to tell her anything. Perhaps she had no right to ask.

"So… he doesn't know you're here then," she tried.

Dembe remained silent and a sudden fear gripped her stomach like ice.

"Dembe" she whispered. "He's not… he's not dead, is he? Tell me he isn't dead!"

He regarded her solemnly. "No, Elizabeth, he is not dead."

She felt the knot in her stomach lessen. "Good. That's good. It's just… he leads such a dangerous life. I still remember the day he was shot."

"As do I."

She looked away for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. It had occurred to her before that Dembe might blame her for that, though if he did he had never indicated as much.

"I guess agent Ressler is still on his tail then. The elusive concierge of crime." She smiled sadly.

Dembe leaned forward a little and clasped his hands together. "Officially, yes. Unofficially, I believe the FBI has little interest in Raymond at the moment."

She looked at him questioningly. "Why's that? What are you not telling me?"

Dembe's expression remained stoic, his knack for deflection rivalling that of his employer. "Do you remember the organisation of Floriana Campo?"

"Yes, of course – it was a front for people trafficking."

He nodded evenly. "And Geoff Perl. His wildlife protection fund."

"Another corrupt charity."

"Over the years Raymond has encountered several charitable ventures which are fronts for organised trafficking , poaching and smuggling. He has taken an interest in reinstating the organisations for their rightful purpose, although he cannot involve himself much personally now", he said carefully. "I myself am proud to oversee one such organisation in my home country of Sierra Leone."

Raymond Reddington, philanthropist. Well there's a turn up for the books, she thought, her mind racing.

"I'm pleased for you, Dembe" she smiled. "I really am. But I doubt his motives are as pure as yours. What's in it for him? He always had an angle."

He looked at her solemnly. "Forgiveness, Elizabeth."

"Forgiveness?" she echoed.

"I believe it is what he seeks. It is what he has always wanted for as long as I have known him." Dembe regarded her earnestly.

"Do you mean forgiveness from me? Because I have forgiven him Dembe. He knows that."

"And I believe that has brought him comfort" he said kindly, "but that is not what I meant. He needs to be able to forgive himself. That is a longer and more difficult journey."

She stared at him numbly, her mouth suddenly dry. She licked her lips nervously.

"Dembe, how is he? How is he really?" She could no longer ignore the ache in her chest when she thought of him; feelings she thought she had long since buried rushed to the surface like blood in a healing wound torn open afresh.

He looked away from her for a moment and then looked back and responded with a question she didn't expect.

"Elizabeth, are you happy?"

She blinked. "Well I haven't been shot at in two years. That counts for something."

"No," he said thoughtfully "but you have been attacked."

She grimaced. "I forget that life can be dangerous for ordinary people. He looked so harmless. Almost angelic. I should have been on my guard."

Dembe nodded. "It isn't always clear. Some wolves wear sheep's clothing…others are capable of great love."

She felt her stomach churn again, and then a swell of anger rising inside. "You're too much like him, you know. I won't be manipulated. I'm glad you're doing well, but so am I. I've moved on."

If he was affected by her outburst he didn't show it. He merely nodded and rose to his feet.

"I will not inconvenience you further. Keep well, Elizabeth."

She nodded and waited until she heard the front door close before she allowed the tears to fall. Eventually, she hauled herself up from the sofa and made for the stairs, where something on the table in the hall caught her eye. It was a plain business card with a hand written address on the front.

Damn him.

She paused and then continued up the stairs to her bedroom. Red had moved on, and she had to do the same. She lay on her bed and stared around the room, her profiler's brain working on overdrive. There were no photographs of family, or friends. No pictures. A generic yellow color scheme that she didn't even like. This room belonged to someone in limbo. Someone with no roots. Either that, or someone bereft. Someone who didn't have a past, or a passion…or a future.

She threw on some jeans and a shirt, before grabbing an overnight bag and shoving in a change of clothes and a washbag. Slinging the bag over her shoulder she went back downstairs and picked up the card on her way out of the door. The address seemed familiar. Oh. The writer's house. Back where it all started, she thought.

As she drove her hands shook on the wheel. What was she thinking? She'd arrive late at night, even if she drove straight. She had no idea what to say to him, or what she wanted, or if he'd even be there now. As she neared a gas station she considered turning round. Instead, she found herself putting her foot to the floor.

It was well past one am when she pulled into the grounds of the house. Even in the dark the twisted trees that arched over the front windows triggered memories that made her ache inside. I don't even know why I'm here. As she stood in front of the door she paused. There were lights on, but no sounds or movement. It suddenly occurred to her that he may have company. Raymond Reddington was not a man who would want for female companionship. She'd be a fool to think he hadn't slept with a hundred women since she left. Perhaps there was even someone special, she thought with a pang. An unwelcome image came to her of Madeline Pratt and her sophisticated clothes and long, blonde locks.

She steeled herself and knocked on the door once and then again. No answer. She looked back towards her car and stood numbly in the cold, wondering what to do, when the door opened behind her. She turned back and was met with the beady gaze of Mr Kaplan. She heard the sound of the safety being replaced on a gun and smiled in spite of herself. Another familiar face. Another link to him.

If Mr Kaplan was surprised to see her she didn't show it. She looked her up and down, her eyes flitting from her face to her overnight bag. "You'd better come in, dearie."

They paused at the entrance to the old living room, the place where she'd seen him years ago, the light glinting through the trees and playing off his handsome features and golden eyelashes. Mr Kaplan took her bag and gestured towards the door of the sitting room.

"He's in there" she said, unceremoniously. "But I don't know what humor he'll be in to receive you just now."

With that, Mr Kaplan withdrew to the kitchen and Liz opened the living room door, her heart thumping in her chest. When she entered she saw him slumped in an armchair by the window. He had lost weight, his skin was sallow and his shirt was crumpled, the top buttons undone. His customary vest was absent and silvery stubble dotted his face. The room was musty, as though he had been smoking cigars in there, and she caught the acrid aroma of stale alcohol. She took in the empty bottle of scotch on the table beside him, a tumbler nestled under his fingers in the chair. The chaise on which they had sat together years ago was now piled high with papers and files, yellowed by cigar smoke and coated in dust. Several of the files had scratched and faded photographs attached, each of young girls, their faces bruised and bloodied. She swallowed.

"Red? It's me. Can I come in?"

He turned his head slowly towards her and squinted a moment. He passed his hand over his face before turning back to the window. She waited for him to respond but there was nothing. She watched as he raised the tumbler to his lips.

"Red, for God's sake. Look at me!"

He turned back to her, his head whipping round this time, and she realised painfully that the first time she had spoken he hadn't known or believed she was there. He was looking directly at her now with the same penetrating gaze she remembered.

"Lizzie." For a moment her heart sang at the deep rumble of his voice, at finally hearing him say her name again. He dropped his head for a moment, and when he looked back at her his face was blank, his mouth set in a thin line.

"Not really the best time for me, sweetheart."

TBC