A/N Liz finds herself a home, while Red adapts to the light… Romangst. As near to fluff as you'll ever get from me. Only one more chapter to go – I've loved your reviews so much, don't stop now! I own nada.

The next morning she woke late, the sun streaming through the window. She lay there for a moment watching the patterns of light dancing on the carpet, before a dull, radiating pain in her muscles reminded her of the horrible events of the night before. Her neck was stiff and sore, and her hips were bruised from where he had forced her against the wall. She thought about facing him in the cold light of day and felt sick to her stomach. For a profiler, she thought, she had misjudged the situation spectacularly. She had completely failed to read him properly over the last few weeks, to see that he was growing depressed, angry and volatile. But then, he had never made it easy for her to figure out what he was thinking. There were so many layers to him, and he was so damaged…

Her mind returned to the night before, the way he had looked at her like she was a gazelle and he a starving lion. She had almost forgotten how intense the force of his feeling for her could be - he'd hidden it so well for the majority of their acquaintance, measured affection and concern masking the storm raging underneath. The times when it was unleashed though, God… it was like being swept away in a rip tide, struggling just to breathe. She wondered how far he would have gone last night if she hadn't said anything and realized with a dull horror that she didn't really know for sure. Misery and solitude had changed him, and she understood now why Dembe had wanted her to come here. Perhaps it was too late.

She showered and dressed quickly, certain only of the fact that they had to find a resolution one way or another. She wouldn't leave without it. Other than that, her thoughts bounced, propelled by a plethora of emotions. She loved him dearly and her heart ached with sadness for him, for the life of terrible pain and loss he had experienced. She hated him too, for weaving this web for her, for making her love him…for making her feel afraid.

As she passed his room she noticed that the door was ajar and she tentatively pushed it open. He wasn't in there, but nor had she expected him to be at this late hour. The bed was made neatly and the curtains were open, the same bright sunlight flickering in through the windows from a different angle. She shuddered slightly and went downstairs to find him. He wasn't in the living room or the kitchen, and both areas had been tidied much as his bedroom had been. There was no trace in the kitchen of their meal from the night before, or the wine and scotch that had fueled his outburst. She looked out of the window across the garden, watching a breeze wrench the browning leaves from the trees. The house felt perfectly quiet, and still and empty.

When she turned back from the window she saw a bunch of keys and an envelope on the kitchen table where they had sat the night before. "Elizabeth" it said on the front, in deep, red ink. A strange numbness crept over her as she reached for it, and the thick, expensive writing paper felt coarse between her cold fingertips.

Elizabeth,

I have to go away for a short while. I write this with no expectation that you will be here when I return, only the hope that you can find some solace in the knowledge that you have meant more to me than you will ever know. I spoke to you once of living in darkness. You are the most radiant soul I have ever known Lizzie – the time has come for me to adapt to the light.

All my love - always.

Raymond

She felt sick as she read the letter, her stomach jolting as though she had woken up from a dream in which she was falling from a cliff-edge. It was strangely formal, and achingly sad. She thought painfully that it read like he was leaving her forever, like a suicide note, but it wasn't that, she reasoned. He was returning, though when he hadn't said. The last time he had left for 'a short while' was after Anslo Garrick's attack on the post office. He had been gone for over a month. His handwriting slanted to the right, each letter beautifully formed - infuriatingly so – as though this missive hadn't been at all difficult for him to write.

She replaced the letter on the table, and reached for the keys, her hands shaking. The key fob had a yellowing label which simply read F.H. The keys to Frederick Hempstead's house - Red's house. Confused, she picked up the letter again and a memory surfaced of sweat and smoke and Red, calm and contemplative in the midst of chaos – if a ray of light were to make it into the cave… would I become less hideous… She pressed the letter against her lips and closed her eyes.

That evening she cooked a modest meal in Frederick's kitchen, as she had done many times over the past few weeks. The house was very well stocked with food and supplies, as though its occupant had been concerned about a siege or a natural disaster. She ate alone at the big kitchen table, before settling in the living room. She looked at the books, at Frederick's strange scribbles and at the countless files from Red's latest endeavors, now neatly piled on the table. As she surveyed the room it occurred to her that she was living a moment of Red's life – sitting alone with books and files in a comforting home in the painful knowledge that it was someone else's home, and someone else's comfort. Tomorrow, she would leave, she thought. He was gone, and didn't expect her to stay. It was time to resurrect Annabelle Lasseter's life, such as it was.

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But she didn't leave the next day. Or the day after. Oh, she had packed her bags, and each night she cleaned the kitchen so that she would be able to get away early in the morning. But much as it was still the deceased Mr Hempstead's house she felt Red's presence there like a warm blanket wrapped around her, anchoring her there. The pantry still held several bottles of his favorite 30 year old Balvenie, and although the living room had been aired out, a faint smell of smoke, wood, and vanilla remained from his cigars.

Then there were his case files. She began to flick idly through these on her second day of solitude; by the end of the week she had become thoroughly engrossed in the puzzles posed by the cartels' activities and the children who were missing all over the world. She began to make her own notes, drawing connections between cases where she saw them, and then progressed to a wall chart, which she constructed in the living room using garden string and tacks. She paid careful attention to Red's notes as she worked, and found that responding to his theories and thought processes was almost like having a conversation with him.

A week or so after Red's departure she was going over a new case file with a mug of coffee in hand when she heard the front door open. She froze for a moment, her heart thumping. What if it was him? What if it wasn't him? Swallowing her fear she rose and stepped into the hallway. When she rounded the corner she was greeted with a warm smile from Dembe. "Elizabeth!"

She found herself running to give him a hug, which he returned enthusiastically, as if they were old friends. "Hi Dembe. I'm so glad to see you."

"Not as glad as I am to see you Elizabeth. To see you here."

She was suddenly very aware of the fact that she had stayed in the house without permission, without informing anyone, and, truthfully without any sort of plan. "Oh. I… I was going to leave, but I guess I didn't. I hope that's ok."

Dembe looked at her incredulously. "Of course. This is your house as much as his."

Liz looked at him questioningly but before she could ask what he meant she was distracted by a loud whistle from Dembe who had stepped into the living room. "You've been busy!"

"I had a look at some of the files to see if I could help and it got away from me a bit" she said sheepishly.

He turned and looked at her with equal parts interest and admiration. "I think you'd better tell me everything."

She wrapped her arms around herself. "I will. But first you have to tell me something. Where is he, Dembe? Is he ok?"

Dembe frowned. "He did not tell you?"

"We had a fight" she said quietly. She paused and then retrieved the letter from the kitchen and handed it to him. She watched in confusion as Dembe scanned the note, the corners of his mouth turning up at first before he broke into a gentle laugh. "I see what the problem is."

"You do?"

Dembe nodded earnestly. "Mmmm, too busy being romantic to tell you jack shit about what you need to know." He smiled and she suddenly felt a bubble of laughter rising up in her throat, like everything in the world was utterly insane but it didn't matter. Dembe waited patiently for her to calm down before ushering her to sit, his expression now serious.

"Elizabeth, you know that Raymond has been ill. It is my understanding that Mr Kaplan has arranged for him to receive treatment in Switzerland."

Liz's mouth went dry. "Is he going to be ok?"

Dembe nodded. "I have much hope that he will be – thanks to you. His illness is one of the reasons I have become more involved in his work. He was no longer able to travel to Africa. The climate is bad and he can no longer defend himself." He paused, and looked almost pityingly at the young woman sitting beside him. "I know that he has not always done right by you. He should have told you the truth. But I believe you care for him, and now he has accepted that he needs treatment. You have done what I could not, and for that I am eternally grateful."

She realised that although she had been shocked to see Red ill and weakened, she hadn't really grasped what it would mean for someone with his lifestyle. He was in constant danger, he had to be ready to move at a moment's notice. To be weak and vulnerable must have been terrifying, and it hurt her heart to think that his need to punish himself was greater than the fear he must have felt.

After that day, Dembe visited her at Frederick's house fairly frequently, and she took him through the progress she had made with Red's case files. She found that they worked well together; he was thoughtful and insightful, with a gentle humor that did much to stave off the deep loneliness she had felt. Mr Kaplan also dropped by a couple of times, observing her and Dembe's charts with a wry smile and making comments to the effect that they would surely bring the fires of the global south raining down on them and expect her to clean up the mess. She began to feel strangely at home in Frederick's house, a feeling which was prompted in part by the fact that Dembe and Mr Kaplan behaved a little as though it were her home, asking permission to stay over when necessary, or to make use of various supplies.

One day in late fall she was alone in the garden, contemplating her strange new life. It was a bright, crisp day and after having walked the length of the garden she leant against one of the apple trees before a fancy took her and she reached up and swung herself onto a low branch. There she perched, enjoying the smell of fall leaves, and thinking that however small and hidden her life had become, at least it was hers, and she could finally be herself, in peace.

"Lizzie?"

She held her breath. The voice was deep and glorious and unmistakably his. Balancing herself on the branch she turned her head and looked up the garden towards the house. There he stood, his head cocked to the side, a quizzical smile on his face.

She gasped as she took in his appearance. He was still slim – possibly even more so than he had been – but he looked healthier than she had ever seen him. His sickly pallor had been replaced by a warm, even glow, which spread from his face to the 'v' of exposed chest under his shirt. He wore a beige vest and pants tailored to fit beautifully, the unbuttoned collar giving him a relaxed appearance.

He was halfway down the garden now, and she braced herself against the tree to jump down. It wasn't a high branch by any means, but in her haste she landed awkwardly, her foot hitting an uneven patch of grass and twisting over.

"Lizzie!" He was by her side in an instant, his face etched with concern. "My God, are you alright? What were you doing up there?"

She looked up and saw his earnest expression, and was suddenly overcome with the strangeness of this reunion, the terrible memory of him angry and threatening juxtaposed with how relaxed he looked now, how loving and concerned. "You're here." It was all she could manage.

He shook his head in wonderment and a warm smile crept over his features. "So are you, Lizzie" he said quietly. He extended a hand to help her up, but she hissed in pain as she tried to put weight on her ankle. "I guess I'm too old to be climbing trees" she breathed.

He knelt beside her hesitantly. "May I… would you let me help you?"

She looked at his tentative expression and understood then that she was not the only one struggling with the memory of their last exchange. She nodded and he leant down.

"Put your arm around my neck" he instructed.

She did as he asked and wrapped her arm around the collar of his shirt and the warm skin above it. The feel of skin on skin was electric. She expected him to help her walk, but instead he slipped one arm around her waist and the other under her knees, lifting her into his arms.

"Red, you'll hurt yourself! If you could just help me walk-"

He smiled softly at her. "It's fine, Lizzie. I'm fine."

If he was struggling he didn't show it, although he was uncharacteristically silent on the way back to the house. As he carried her through the avenue of winding trees, she couldn't help but settle into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder and luxuriating in the unique scent of his neck. It felt like a blessed home coming. She belonged right there, tucked in his arms, basking in the love and protection he offered. Unable to resist, she pressed her mouth to his neck in a gentle kiss, her lips lingering on his skin – he said nothing but she felt him swallow, hard.

When they entered the living room he set her down gently on the sofa, and went to retrieve an ice pack from the kitchen. If he was surprised by the charts and papers everywhere, he didn't show it. He was utterly focused on her. Sitting on a stool in front of her, he gently removed her shoe and lifted her foot into his lap, cradling it on his knee. She gasped as he placed the ice pack over the swelling on her ankle, his warm hands a tantalizing contrast to the cold. She observed him intently as he tended to her, his hand gently rotating her ankle to assess the damage.

"You look well. Incredible, actually" she ventured.

He paused before meeting her gaze, looking up at her from under long, golden eyelashes.

"I still have a way to go – Mr Kaplan's witch doctor is force-feeding me various drugs that aren't nearly as fun as drugs ought to be. But as I understand it I am now in quite good health. As are you" he continued matter-of-factly. "It's just a sprain. Nothing to worry about."

She assumed that he would stop his ministrations at that point, but he continued almost unconsciously, his hand caressing her with the lightest touch. Holding the ice pack in place, he gently stroked the arch of her foot, his eyes following the path of his thumb. To her it felt shockingly erotic, but his concentration and even tone seemed to undermine the possibility that his actions were fueled by anything other than concern for her well-being. They hadn't been intimate in over two years, and the events of that year were so unparalleled that were it not for the memory of his touch burned into her skin, she could doubt it ever happened. It was strange to have him suddenly inspect part of her so closely, and she was grateful she had painted her toenails a tasteful pink.

"You know" he murmured almost under his breath "it was once considered risqué for a woman to expose her ankle to a man. It was…erotic."

It was like he'd read her mind. As he rolled his tongue around that last word his voice swirled in her belly, amplifying the longing that keened inside her. She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee, but he drew back, shaking his head.

"Lizzie. My behavior towards you the last time I was here… you shouldn't forgive that."

"You're not the only one with a violent temper" she responded quietly. "The warrior gene, remember?"

He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away for a moment, as if staring into another age. "There was time when I didn't think I was at all capable of violence. The thought that I could hurt anyone was…inconceivable." He sighed. "I've rarely thought about the past. But when I have, it seems to me that I've drifted so very far from home. From the man I was."

She drew her arms around herself, her lip trembling slightly as she spoke. "I wish I didn't know what I'm capable of. But I do. We've both been forced to find out. Red – we both need to find our way home."

She removed her foot from his unresisting hands and patted the sofa in silent invitation. His eyes were dark with emotion as he moved to sit next to her. She grasped his hand in hers and he looked at their twined fingers before meeting her shimmering blue eyes.

It was, she thought afterwards, what their first kiss should really have been. It wasn't fuelled by anger, or pain or desperation, or even lust. It was only love. Their lips met softly - tentatively even - brushing together in a sweet caress, his bottom lip covering hers. She pulled back slowly and felt his arms come around her, drawing her gently to his chest. She closed her eyes then, and found herself wondering if it was at all possible that she was already home.

TBC