Clarice woke in her own bed, the covers tucked comfortably around her. It wasn't until she was standing in the shower that she recalled she hadn't fallen asleep there.

No, she had fallen asleep in the music room with the doctor's voice for her lullaby, the smooth rhythm of Italian poetry flowing over his tongue as he read to her. She hadn't wanted to sleep at all, hadn't wanted to give up a single moment in his company, the moments she would cling to as she returned to her job. Her life. Reality.

The week had been a beautiful and dangerous dream. But if she tried to hold onto it… what if it turned out to be nothing more than that? Clouds that shifted and changed into something new even while her eyes strained to force them to hold their shape. Given the shape of her dreams this week… well.

She packed swiftly, not allowing her hands to linger over the things she couldn't take back with her. She'd hardly removed anything from her suitcase since she had arrived; there hadn't been a need to. The doctor had thoughtfully provided everything she could have needed.

She thought of the box buried deep in her closet in the house she shared with Ardelia. A box of gifts she couldn't display, lest Dee ask awkward questions about a Lecter shrine gracing her bedroom. The knife in that box still lay in its glass bed, as she did.

Was he disappointed in her? How long would he wait for her to outgrow this need for externally defined ethics? He believed she had the potential to do so, she knew, but she herself wasn't so certain. There had to be someone more capable – some objective sense of order and justice in the world – someone who wouldn't fail the lambs.

It was a long walk down the stairs with her bags in tow. Though she carried no more than she had arrived with, it all seemed heavier.

The doctor was at work in the kitchen; it was a natural sight to her now, familiar and expected. By tonight she would be back to takeout and false smiles. She paused to watch him in his element, graceful, no wasted motions, and nearly laughed as she realized she was considering asking him to dance with her. In the kitchen. Without music. While breakfast burned.

He'd do it, if you asked. You know he would.

He slid a pan into the oven and turned.

"Good morning, Clarice. Breakfast will be just a few minutes. Would you care for juice?"

"Yes, thank you, Doctor." His voice got her moving again; she crossed the room and deposited her bags beside the back door. He had already removed the pitcher from the fridge and begun pouring her a glass by the time she took her seat in the breakfast nook.

She toyed with the glass for a moment, aware of his scrutiny. When she looked up, she meant to ask what they were having for breakfast; it smelled delicious. That was not, however, the sentence that emerged.

"You carried me to bed, Doctor."

"I took you at your word, Clarice." His head tipped to the right. "Was the invitation issued in error?"

"No… no, I…." It was no wonder she was stumbling through a reply, given that she hadn't intended to raise the subject at all. "I like that you did it, Doctor. I just…."

She shrugged.

"You continue to feel as though you should not."

"Yeah," she said softly, aware that he would hear the note of defeat in her voice. "Yeah, part of me still does."

"Then I expect we'll need to depart for the train station after breakfast, Clarice."

His tone was unreadable. He turned back to the counter, busying himself with cleaning up, presumably waiting for breakfast to finish baking. If her answer had disturbed him, it didn't show in his movements.

But it didn't matter that she could neither hear nor see a negative reaction. She felt it. She had cut him just as surely as if she held his Harpy in her hand. Nine years of living in a box didn't hurt him as much as I do every time I open my mouth.

Her mood was subdued in the car, though that was to be expected. He refrained from attempting to persuade her to stay. Were she not truly committed to the idea, she would come to resent him, forever plagued by might-have-beens. He would spare her that, at least, if he could.

He allowed himself to think of her as she had been last night, clearly reluctant to part from his company. The music had been lovely, and their talk had been… promising… but it had been her shyly voiced request for a bit of reading and the ensuing closeness that he most treasured.

The music room had a very modest library, primarily in German and French; he had added some few books, including the one she had pressed into his hands, admitting as she did that it truly didn't matter what he read – it was merely the sound of his voice that she craved. Mmm. No, that was not the word she had used, but it was fitting, he thought. Her eyes had shown her hunger.

He had thought to take the chair he had rested in the night before, after he had coaxed her to dreamless sleep with his playing, but she had guided him to the settee and curled up beside him, the silk of her sleepwear a whisper-soft rustle against his own. She had tucked her feet against the sofa arm and laid her head against his shoulder.

He had shifted his arm to allow her still closer, his hand finding the graceful curve of her neck and lightly stroking her skin. Her heart had beat as a hummingbird's, then, but her voice feigned haughty amusement as she informed him he could begin the reading at any time.

Obediently, he had read to her in Italian from Petrarch, Il Canzoniere, a crown of Italy rivaling Dante himself. She had relaxed into him as he read, her warmth and weight and drowsy happiness a balm to his soul.

…quando i' fui preso, et non me ne guardai, / ché i be' vostr'occhi, donna, mi legaro.

He had selfishly left her sleep there, tucked against his side, for hours. The room's large front window faced east; he had barely beaten the sun's rays when finally he had gathered her slumbering body in his arms and carried her to her bed, pulling the covers gently over her. He had not joined her, though the wish had been within him.

And now he would have to let her go. She allowed him his courtesies this morning: carrying her things, opening her door, guiding her with the lightest touch of his hand on her back as they entered the station. Her train stood waiting on the track; it would return her to Paris, to the plane that would carry her far from him, to the unknown intervals of time and distance that would divide them once more.

He set her bags by her feet and gave her his full attention. They had made significant progress, he knew; if only he could be as certain that the dullness and tedium, the frustration and anger of her daily life would not erase the gains of this brief interlude. No. She was a warrior. She would find the strength – would find her way to him eventually. Please let it be soon, my dear.

Her eyes roamed over his face, seemingly memorizing his features. Her lips parted slightly; a spark of a question grew in her eyes. For a moment, he believed she might lean in and kiss him.

But she shook her head slightly, in self-denial perhaps, and instead asked, softly, "Why are you waiting for me, Doctor?"

"Oh, Clarice." He allowed mingled fondness and sadness to bleed into his expression, his gaze intent on hers. "When you are able to answer that question for yourself – when you needn't even ask anymore – then all my waiting will be over, hmm?"

He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, relishing the spark that soothed even as it burned.

"You needn't rush. You need only trust yourself and let yourself be guided by your true voice. Have confidence in yourself, Clarice, as I do."

He kissed her forehead, a benediction, and nodded toward the train.

"It's time to go, my dear."

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip.

"We always seem to be saying goodbye, Doctor."

"Perhaps someday we won't have to, Clarice. You know how to find me when you're ready."

He stepped back, imprinting the image of her confused loneliness in his mind, ignoring the twinge that burned in his chest, and walked away without a second glance.

Note: The lines the doctor recalls in Italian are by Petrarch, from Il Canzoniere, Sonnet No. 3: "...that I was captured, and did not defend myself, / because your lovely eyes had bound me, Lady."

Author's note: Yes, this is the end of Playing House. To those who have come this far, my deepest thanks for reading and responding. I'm always fascinated by how readers interpret a story, and I do try to respond to every review or PM I receive, so feel free to let me know what you thought, whether positive, negative, or neutral.

And no, I'm not done playing with this couple yet. I have a handful of scenes left to write and a final edit to do before I can start posting the sequel, Finding Peace. So if there are readers out there who are still interested in continuing with me on this adventure, despite all of the angst I've just put the good doctor and his lady through, do speak up.

BG