Yes, well – you all know my sunset syndrome will manifest itself sooner or later…

Add the usual: not mine, don't sue, no money anyway.

___________

Black.

Darkness.

Breathe.

Where?

Ceiling crack.

Ceiling crack?

Ceiling crack!

Clarice sat up with a gasp in her own bed. What a horrible nightmare! Imagine Dr. Lecter showing up after everything that had happened the night before at the lake house. Had he really driven her home? The lines between what had actually occurred and the scenario of her dream were fuzzy. She didn't doubt that the morphine in her system had played a part in her blurred recollections.

She traced the events from the pig barn in her mind. Waking up in the house, in the dress. Having dinner with Paul. Being kissed in the kitchen. The man who had driven her home. She was fairly sure everything up until that point had actually happened. The phone call from Pearsall? Most likely real. But after that, she must have fallen asleep again. It was no wonder she was having nightmares. Anyone who had been through what she had in the last twenty-four hours would be nuts if they didn't have bad dreams. She thought about jumping between Lecter and the 'firing squad'. Even if it was only a dream, it merited some serious consideration. Our subconscious often speaks most clearly in our dreams. Would she actually sacrifice herself for him? If he was in danger, yes. She had proven that yesterday when she went after him at Verger's estate. She would help any creature that was in need. She had realized that after her encounter with the doctor in Memphis; after she told him about the lambs.

Maybe she should consult a good psychiatrist. She snorted. She was sure she knew someone who would gladly volunteer. His fees, however, would be exorbitant.

She rolled over, to reach for the water on her bedside table, and fetched up solidly, from shoulder to toe, against a warm body.

What the hell? she thought, as an arm reached around her waist to hold her partially on top of the other person in her bed.

"Something you needed, my dear?" he asked.

____________

I don't know if that qualifies as a real cliffie, but at least they're still alive right? Waiting on a certain high priestess to offer her sage advice (or anyone else with any bright ideas for that matter) to this poor directionless writer. Hopefully more soon, luna.