#i swear i haven't been drawing for weeks and was too busy to paste at least one here lol

[m4rk-has-arrived]

aaa I'm back baby !! not for long, but still here :3

[femslashfeb]

HELLO ALL

TLDR

No reblogging from the blog this year - posting prompts tomorrow the 31st

For the past few years I've very much struggled with reblogging everyone's activity in the tag. So this year I will not be doing so.

(OR maybe I will? I just don't want to commit)

Even if I knew how to make a bot that reblogs - a lot of people still use the unique tag to tag outside challenges. So I've always had to hand submit. However it became too stressful for me and for the past few years I ended up avoiding it until later weeks or even months.

If you noticed I didn't finish reblogging last year so- I've just given up on that.

Honestly I've struggled a lot with depression for the last 7 years or so. It's been harder and harder to find my way back to tumblr. It doesn't help that my phone can barely handle the amount of apps it already has.

My main account @puff-pink hardly ever updates because of my big sad. And I don't know if I'll ever get back on the horse in the same way I did before.

Some of you know me as an artist, and tho I still churn out subpar art for my day-job I've struggled a lot to make art for myself during my depression. Partially because one year I overworked my hand - and still deal in continual wrist aches. Even the weeks I don't pick up a drawing tool.

I intended this challenge for myself and maybe the small fandoms I was in at the time. But it took off among writers and creators of all types across all fandoms.

One year I even tried to tally the most popular fandoms but there were honestly too many to keep track of- and I stopped after the first three pages of submissions.

I don't claim to have invented the concept of FemSlash February. Before I started the prompts I swear I had heard the phrase somewhere. Tho not sure where. Perhaps it had been amongst my friends on Skype. Back when I had online friends and Skype(I'm still not sold on Discord🤷‍♀️).

However that January I thought it would be fun to partake in a challenge of some kind. But scouring tumblr and the general internet. I could only find half hearted efforts on fanfiction sites from years past.

I'm so proud of all my Sapphic creators on here that have partaken every year. Even if I've never shown favoritism or awarded anyone. I do notice those that actually complete the challenge AND those that keep coming back each year(looking at you H20 writer(I don't remember your username but there's a mermaid writer that's a writing machine)). I truly am proud of you especially in my shriveled state of creativity. Thank you for your efforts. For your hype. And for your love of women of all kinds across all the universes.

Each year I'm surprised to find even more categories I never thought to include. From mood boards, to doll photography, to ofc the classic art and writing. May your pencils forever be in union with your sister mediums.

On that note. There is a strict NO AI GENERATED ART or writing this year.

Not that I could physically stop anyone who does use AI. But I do not want that sort of thing associated with this challenge. It's become scarily good in 2023 to the point it can't always be identified. So I simply ask for the honor system when it comes to AI generated creations.

That being said. If you've made it to the end of this post:

Prompts will be posted tomorrow.

I usually prefer to give yall more of a buffer, but I've been busy. Both with Big Sad, rescuing some feral cats, my own life, errands, chores and work.

If you're still here- here is a preview of the first three days.

FEB 1 - black

FEB 2 - spring

FEB 3 - cake

The 14th as usual will be some sort of Valentine romance type theme(haven't decided specifically yet) and as always there will be a Rest Day.

Expect some repeat prompts. In the past I tried to avoid them but idc anymore.

It's also a Leap Year this year so expect one extra prompt to throw off the symmetry of what's normally 28 days.

Thanks for coming back this year. And thank you to those that still check on this blog.

❤️🧡🤍💜🩷

Keep loving girls

-PuffPink

[mraprilfools]

Hope everyone's been having keeping warm this Holiday season! It's been a bit since I've posted any lengthy works but that doesn't mean I haven't been working on some projects.

So I decided to share a few snippets of a couple projects I'm working on!

I got a snippet below of a Staticbelle and Reader x Vox! Vox fans rejoice!

Snippets under the cut

Taking place in an AU where Vox ends up becoming co-host of the Hazbin Hotel and Charlie's friendship with Vaggie progresses past friendship the two awkwardly fumble with their increasing awareness of the other as the opposite sex:

“We have a total of five more check-ins this week, which is great but the load is becoming a little more than you can handle on your own Princess. You’ll need to hire more help to train to make sure everyone gets the amount of attention they deserve?” With a sheaf of paper held in Vox’s hand, he glanced over the report Papermint had written up for his and Charlie’s weekly meeting. Their usual meeting spot was an office that had been made for personal interviews and other more private therapy sessions that may be necessary.

Charlie had been distracted during this meeting, drawing on a clipboard with crayons of what Vox could swear was himself and Charlie herself. She often drew the people of the hotel so he didn’t pay it much mind, but her silence was concerning. He gently poked her shoulder to try and gain her attention.

“Princess?”

The clipboard went flying out of her hands, her red eyes wide as saucers when she met his. “OH! Vox! I’m sorry I didn’t hear you! What-- What were we talking about?” The forsaken item smacked against the wall, muffled by the plush carpet below. Vox followed the trajectory with an impressed hum.

“I was suggesting hiring another therapist to handle the new check-ins. You’re taking on too much lately. That or I’m so boring you’re already tired of talking to me.” Vox smiled ruefully, shaking his head. Charlie immediately sat up, twisting her body until she was facing him. Gripping his shoulders as she took dramatic offense at this joke.

“No! Not at all! I was-- uh busy thinking about something else!”

“Thinking about what, Princess?”

Panic quickly settled in, with Charlie’s fingers dancing on his firm shoulders. It was as solid as the day she helped him into the bed. Awareness of the man in front of her, with his gaze so close and steady gaze made her suddenly self-conscious.

“Do you remember… what happened that night when you got drunk?”

By the raise of his brow, the answer hit her like a brick wall. “No.” A fist came up to press against his lips. “I’m sorry if I acted in any way that was inappropriate toward you Princess. Is that why you’ve been acting so weird lately?”

Before Vox became a powerful Overlord, he was a down on his luck Sinner like everyone else. So... what happened if the reader met Vox before his fateful meeting with Alastor?

“Hello?”

You tried to call to the man, but there was no reaction. A second step and your shoes splashed against another puddle. You sucked in a breath, staring at your feet fearing blood but it was a dark murky liquid watered down with rainwater. Beer, by the thick smell of alcohol. A skittering shadow flashed through your peripheral vision making you dance to see what passed by. A cat. Just a cat, or something that looked like a cat. When it turned its head, the large split face full of teeth made you mentally rename it a Danger Kitty.

After locking eyes with the feline, it arched its back and hissed. A long winding pink tongue with multiple prongs of tentacle-like muscle stuck out. Then it ran off after its authority was challenged.

“Pssh never stood a chance Pussy.”

The brilliant mocking quip for your defeated challenger would have to go unappreciated, as this strange man was still saying the same old this. Fshhhhhhhh. Having gotten a closer look, you saw the tell-tale signs of a mugging. A gash in the chest bleeding dark blue, pockets turned inside out, both of his shoes yoinked. The culprit must have hated the guy. There were multiple tears and frays in his clothes as if their only intention was to ruin his coat. It was a miracle the head was still intact, but the broken screen spoke of better days.

“Eugh, bad day huh?” You asked, not expecting an answer. Nothing besides fssssh, of course.

You knelt by the man, putting your palm over his chest. There was no heartbeat whatsoever. His body was cold to the touch. You yanked her hand away, tucking it back into your pocket. Seemed like it was too late for this man. Unfortunate, but that was life in hell. You stood up, turning around to leave when you felt a tug on your jacket.

You immediately spun back around, shocked to find that the ice-cold corpse was gripping your jacket. A scream ripped from your throat, and you jumped backward landing on the cold blacktop after slipping on the dark blue liquid surrounding the man. A hand smacked the side of the TV’s head, with an artificial voice that sounded like it came straight out of one of those new-fangled television devices.

“Stop screaming! You’re going to attract attention!”

THUNK. A harsh artificial noise cracked from what sounded like the interior of the television. A black and white face slowly revealed itself, with large cartoonish eyes and a row of sharkish teeth. One eye was closed completely into a squint beneath a webbing of cracked glass more clear with the smooth face in view. The monochrome right eye looked directly at you.

“You’re… alive?”

[darkparanormalactivities]

The Haunting Within: Unseen Shadows and Whispered Voices

Haven't we all seen something? Even if it's just a shadow from the corner of our eye, we know there was something there. Such incidents have happened many times in our family. I asked my father if I had said anything to him as a child that I no longer remember. So these are the events that I remember and that were told by my father. These are the most important and strange events.

The first incident happened when I was about two years old. My father left me in my room and went downstairs. Since I was still young, they installed a camera in my room. I used to look at the wall and talk to someone. And this time, my dad says someone answered. He says it was a man's voice, deep and muffled. They ran into the living room, but no one was there. He asked Finja, who were you talking to? I replied, "From my friend."

The second incident occurred a few months later. It was around 4 am. My father left his door open so that if I or my brothers needed anything, we could go to him. When I came to his room, he asked what is the matter, daughter? I called out, "Daddy, there's a man in my closet and he won't stop talking, drive him away." They checked and there was no one there.

I remember when I was eight years old, I was sitting in my room drawing when suddenly the pen next to me started automatically rising into the air. I immediately ran and then heard the sound of the pan falling. There was generally a murkiness in one corner of my room that never disappeared, regardless of how much light there was in the room.I always felt a strange dread there and often ran out crying because someone inside was telling me to get out.

I glimpsed a head peeking through the door frame and saw a shadowy girl standing in the hallway who walked into the kitchen a few seconds later. My brothers also swear they saw me laughing through the window, but then I walked past them and never saw the doppelganger.

Something is wrong, either with this house or with our family. Two weeks ago, I heard my brother screaming from the basement, even though he was right next to me. Since Dad was not home, my other brother raised a gun and shouted, "I don't know who you are, but get out of our house immediately. You are not welcome here." We heard a rustle and someone answered in my brother's voice, "This is my house, not yours." My brother immediately locked the door and said, "Finja, go get the locks." I ran and got three locks because one lock was not enough for me.

When dad came home we told him everything, but he only said not to go into the basement. Our mother is often on business trips, so I couldn't ask her to change the lock on my room door.

Six days ago, I thought maybe I didn't need locks. But that night, I heard breathing outside my room. The sound grew closer and closer, until it was very close to the door. The door was knocked and opened.Then, at that point, I heard a delicate snicker, similar to an elderly person who had been smoking cigarettes for his entire life. I terrified and, despite the fact that I'm 16 years of age, I concealed my head under the sweeping and began asking.The door opened wider and I prayed louder. Then I didn't understand anything and I fainted. When I opened my eyes, my father was scolding me. "Are you okay?" he asked. I replied, "What's the definition of fine? Physically I'm fine, but not mentally."

Dad asked, are you hurt? I said no why? "Your brother has heard your screams in the night," he said. Hearing this, I blushed. Since then I sleep in my gun brother's room. He said that on the first night, he saw a man in our house in a dream.

My dog ​​also keeps barking towards my room and I am too scared to sleep there. Strange things are happening all the time, and I'll be sure to let you know if anything new happens.

[legends-of-time]

The Journey of Living at Downton

Chapter 31: June 1922

Masterlist

"Are you sure?" Emma asks Rose as the two convene in the Drawing room, knowing no one will be in there at the moment.

"I thought you of all people would like the idea!" Rose huffs.

Emma rolls her eyes. "I do like the idea and I'd say bollocks to the lot of them, but are you sure about it? You know how the family are. They're not always as open as you think."

Rose had dragged Emma further into her plans for Robert's birthday. It's soon clear that Rose plans on using the band that Mr Ross was a part of as the surprise. Emma hadn't realised that there had been contact between the two and worries about the mistreatment the singer will receive from the family because of their unconscious racism.

"But isn't this a part of the inclusivity you always talk of?" Rose argues.

Emma sighs and rubs her head. "Yes... and I suppose everyone will enjoy it. It's not like they'll want to make a scene if they don't."

Rose grins. "Exactly. I'll contact Mr Ross and organise it."

"Remember, we need to inform Cora about this, well, sort of tell her."

Rose nods eagerly.

Emma squints her eyes at Rose suspiciously. "There isn't another reason why you are so eager to do this?"

Rose's eyes widen and she shakes her head a bit too quickly. "No! I just think it'll be a nice surprise for Cousin Robert."

"Hmm. Mary tells me that Mr Napier and his boss Mr Blake are coming next week, they'll be here for Robert's party." Emma warns.

Rose shrugs with a grin. "More the merrier!"

"I think they may be more interested in the pigs and Mary in Mr Napier's case." Emma remarks with a grin.

Rose nods. "Yes, Tamworth's. We had them at Duneagle. Daddy swears by them."

"It's a new thing for us." Emma says. "Tom's been a bit restless with waiting for their arrival. We haven't done much with pigs before."

"Not disrupting anything else?" Rose remarks with a grin.

Emma lets out a fake scandalised gasp before creasing over with laughter.

——

Tom tells Emma a couple of days later that Harold, Cora's brother, has apparently come into difficulty in his business. Emma is curious as to why Harold has written to Robert of all people about it though.

Emma and Rose knock on the door and open it to find Cora in an armchair, reading a book.

"Cousin Cora?" Rose greets her as she closes the door behind them.

"I think you can call me Cora now." The Countess says with a smile.

Emma huffs out a slight laugh. "She wouldn't dare with Robert."

"She must dare with me." Cora remarks. "How can I help?"

Rose and Emma sit down opposite her.

"I... we wanted to tell you that we've settled the surprise. For his birthday." Rose tells her.

"Since you won't tell me what it is, I don't know what to say." Cora comments. "But I'm assuming everything is alright if Emma is involved so, good?"

Emma feels a rush of warmth from how much Cora seems to trust her.

"Well, if you're alright with it. Is it okay if we let Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson know since they'll be the ones that has to deal with it?" Emma asks. "It's only on the day. And it's only till after dinner."

It's at that moment that Baxter walks in, taking away the breakfast tray. Emma watches her as she walks past. She wonders what the lady's maid's history is with Thomas. The woman seems nice enough but Emma hasn't really had the chance to get to know her.

"I suppose so."

——

Emma and Rose soon find themselves in Mrs Hughes' Sitting room.

"A band?!" Mrs Hughes exclaims in surprise.

Rose and Emma look at each other in alarm at how loud Mrs Hughes is being.

"Shh! No one must know." Rose whispers. She closes the door furtively.

"We'll get the carpets rolled up and everything arranged during dinner. So that when His Lordship walks out of the Dining room, there it is." Emma eagerly explains.

"And we're to hide them until then?" Mrs Hughes questions.

Rose lets out an exasperated huff. "Oh, 'hide' them? You just have to keep them with you. His lordship won't come down here, will he?"

"He doesn't. Downstairs is a foreign land to him." Emma remarks. This lifts a slight smile onto Mrs Hughes' face.

"So, I have to find them food and beds. How many are there?" Mrs Hughes asks, slightly disgruntled.

"Six, I think. But I'll check." Rose replies

"And Her Ladyship knows about it?"

Emma presses her lips together, highlighting her discomfort. "Well, um, she doesn't know it's a band, but she does know there's a surprise that you're helping us with. We just want it to be a surprise for her too."

"Very well. I'll see what I can do." Mrs Hughes tells them though Emma can see she's not entirely convinced.

"Thank you." Rose says gratefully.

They walk out together, and Mrs Hughes sees them up the stairs.

——

Emma walks into the Outer Hall to find Edith by the telephone, trying to hold back tears.

Emma walks up to her in alarm. "Edith. What happened? What's the matter?"

"Michael's vanished into thin air. Nobody's heard from him, no one can reach him." Edith replies shakily.

This was what Emma was afraid of. She can't think that now and mustn't worry Edith until they are sure something has happened. "I'm sure it's just a failure of communication. If anything had happened, we'd've heard."

"Maybe." Edith says unsurely. "I just wish to God he'd pick up the telephone."

"He will. Come on." She holds her hand out to Edith. "We must ought to do the important ritual of getting changed for dinner." She remarks sarcastically.

Edith smiles slightly at the comment as they walk towards the stairs, hand in hand.

——

They all assemble in the Drawing room after dinner with the exclusion of Robert attended by Mr Carson and Alfred.

Robert enters.

"You're back." Cora says from the settee she sits on with Rose and Emma. Tom, Mary, Edith and Billy sit scattered about on the other chairs. "I thought you must've missed the last train."

"No. But I only just caught it." Her husband replies as he walks into the room.

"Do you want some dinner?"

"I ate in the restaurant car." He leans down to kiss his wife.

"You weren't very long in London." Edith comments. Emma is happy to see she's perked up a little though she won't be okay until they know what's happened to Michael.

"There wasn't much to do. Just sign some papers for a trust that Billy Sheffield set up for his son." Robert explains as he takes place in front of the fireplace

"What will that entail?" Billy queries.

"Mainly telling the boy to drink less and be nicer to his mother."

"We learned at dinner that Alfred's leaving. He's got a place on the Ritz cookery course after all." Cora tells him.

"He'll be a bit behind but he can catch up." Emma adds.

"Ah?"

"I'm sorry to cut and run, M'lord." Alfred apologises.

"Don't worry about that. We're proud of you." Cora says sincerely.

"You must return one day as a famous chef." Mary remarks.

"Now you're back, M'lord, there's something I wanted to say." Alfred declares. "I've been well treated in this house, and I want you all to know that I'm very grateful."

"Thank you, Alfred." Cora says.

"Mr Carson has been a kind—" Alfred swallows, overcome with emotion, "—and wonderful teacher."

Emma feels genuinely touched and she can see everyone else is overcome by Alfred's words.

"Much more and we shall all burst into tears." Robert comments.

"I'm sorry, M'lord. Come along, Alfred. Let's get back to work." Mr Carson instructs but he is very touched, too. They start clearing away the drinks.

Robert addresses them, "How's my birthday dinner coming on?"

Rose and Emma share an alarmed look before the former says, "How do you know about the dinner?"

"The Coldhursts rang yesterday and said they'd love to come." Robert explains as he takes his drink that Mr Carson offers.

"Weren't we all sworn to secrecy?" Billy questions.

Emma huffs. "Some people just can't keep a secret."

"I don't mind." Robert reassures them. "It won't spoil it if it's not a surprise. Not for me."

"There may still be a surprise." Rose tells him.

"So, I should hope!"

——

The next day, Emma makes her goodbyes to Alfred. The boy had been nice as far as she could gather from brief interactions but most of her knowledge of him comes from Gemma who's been whinging on about the square between Alfred, Ivy, Daisy and Jimmy. Emma is glad that she isn't downstairs anymore and hadn't have to experience it. Maybe Alfred going will sort things.

Emma also hears from Anna that she and Mr Bates are going out on a date to the Netherby Hotel, which Emma is happy to hear.

That evening, they all, minus Cora, who's also at the Netherby Hotel, but for a committee meeting, come walking out from dinner. Emma notices Mr Carson approaching Edith with an envelope on his salver. She pauses as the others walk ahead.

"I do apologise, M'lady. But this came in the evening post and it appears to have been overlooked." Mr Carson tells her

"Not to worry." Edith reassures him as she quickly slits it open and reads the letter. Mr Carson moves on.

Emma watches as Edith's face morphs into panic and shock. Emma swears she sees her eyes welling up.

"Edith, what's the matter? Is it Michael?" Emma questions, startling Edith who hurriedly looks up and attempts to school her features.

"No. Not at all. Just more dead leads." Edith folds up the letter and quickly walks past her.

Emma frowns. "If you're sure..."

Edith pauses. "I am. We mustn't keep the others waiting." She quickly enters the Drawing room before Emma can say anymore.

——

Emma finally gets a chance to talk to Edith on her own when she finds her alone by the fire on the pouffe in the Library, crying. Emma immediately comes to her side and sits down next to her.

"Edith? Hey, what's the matter?" Emma questions, gripping her hand and looking at her earnestly.

Edith sniffles. "It's nothing."

"We both know that's not the case." Emma says. "Was it the letter? It was about Michael, wasn't it?"

"In a way."

"Perhaps you should get your father involved? Send someone over there?" Emma suggests. It hurts to see Edith so upset.

Edith shakes her head. "No. His office has already done that. There's a detective in Munich now, working with the German Police."

Munich... A significant place that changed the Nazi party's tactics. Emma knows Hitler hasn't led the 1923 coup yet but that doesn't mean he's not lurking. Emma hopes his brown shirts have nothing to do with this.

"Then you just have to be patient." Emma says instead.

"I want to know what's happened. If he's... trapped somewhere, or falsely imprisoned. Or even dead." Her voice catches on the last word. Emma looks at her alarmed. "I mean it. If the worst's happened, I want to know. It's just so impossible to plan in this... fog."

Emma gently squeezes her hand. "Well, I'm sure he's not dead." She hopes anyway. The fact that it's been some months since he was last heard from, but she can't share her doubts

Edith sees right through her. "No, you aren't. Because none of us can be."

——

Mr Napier and Mr Blake soon arrive and are being greeted by Cora, Emma and Mary in the Great Hall.

"It's so kind of you all to have us." Mr Napier says, turning pointedly to his boss. "Isn't it, Charles?"

"It is." Mr Blake replies. Emma can't help but feel that he'd rather be somewhere else.

"We're anxious to do our bit." Mary says pleasantly.

"What do you mean by that?" Mr Blake questions. Oh, dear.

"Well, you're here to advise the landowners on how to get through this crisis, aren't you? To save the estates that need saving." Mary replies. Emma is now feeling a bit uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid Evelyn may have given you the wrong impression." Emma is not liking what seems to be a judgemental attitude behind the mask of Mr Charles Blake.

"In what way?" Mary questions.

"The government is aware that up and down the country, great estates are being sold in large numbers." Mr Blake explains.

"Precisely."

"North Yorkshire has a lot of these estates, big and small. And many are in difficulty. We will have every variety of problem to study." Mr Blake continues.

"And you're here to help."

"Not quite. We're here to analyse the situation and ask whether our society is shifting fundamentally. Will it affect food production, and so on?" Mr Blake finishes.

Emma admits that he does have a point but it'll make an enemy out of Mary. She decides to cut into what is clearly brewing to be a sparing match. "So, it's not about how the owners feel, but the food supply?" She asks.

"If that's how you want to put it..." Mr Blake replies.

"I'm afraid that owners will not enjoy that, may see it as mean-spirited," Emma warns. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma sees Edith and Rose walk up to them and greet Mr Napier, who seems quite relieved about it.

"Mr Lloyd George is more concerned with feeding the population than rescuing the aristocracy. That doesn't seem mean-spirited to me." Mr Blake quips.

Emma can't help but feel a bit annoyed herself with his blasé attitude.

Mr Napier is quick to butt in, "I'm afraid you may find us disappointing guests, if you want us to stay up till two in the morning being witty."

"Don't worry. I don't expect Mr Blake to be witty." Mary snarks.

Mr Blake gives her a look that says 'challenge accepted'.

Robert arrives and shakes hands with Mr Blake before moving to Mr Napier. "How long will you be with us?"

"Until the job is done and we can write a report. If you'll have us." Mr Blake replies.

"You must be sure to get rid of us when we become a nuisance." Mr Napier adds.

"The gong is rung at seven, and we meet in the drawing room at eight." Cora tells them. "You know it's Robert's birthday?"

"So, you must try to be witty tonight, Mr Blake. After that, we'll lower our expectations." Mary quips.

By the look on his face, Mr Blake has definitely accepted the challenge. Emma can't help but think this is moderately similar to how Mary and Matthew's relationship began.

"The girls will show you up." Cora says.

——

Emma and Rose enter the Servants' Hall to see that they are having their tea, served by Ivy and Daisy and Emma is pleasantly surprised to see Mr Molesley as they walk to the doorway. Everyone gets to their feet as they enter. Emma still finds it very strange when they do that.

"Lady Rose, Mrs Branson! Can I help?" Mr Carson questions.

"Oh, please, don't let us disturb you. But Lady Rose and I wanted to make a speech. Mrs Hughes may have told you—" Emma begins to say. She consciously decides to keep the titles and be formal about those upstairs so as not to throw Mr Carson's nose further out of joint than they will be doing anyway.

"I haven't yet." The housekeeper interrupts. Emma is amused by the disgruntled look on Mr Carson's face.

"Well, we should tell them now," Emma says. She tries not to show her anxiousness and nerves as she turns to address the rest of the servants. "As a treat for His Lordship, a London band is coming to play after dinner."

"A London band? That's the berries." Jimmy comments.

"From a nightclub called The Lotus." Rose adds.

"A nightclub? Really?" Daisy asks excitedly.

"But it must be a complete surprise." Emma warns them. "No one knows anything. And they mustn't. That is, Her Ladyship knows that something's going to happen, but even she doesn't know what."

"And you think she'll be pleased?" Mr Carson asks doubtfully.

"She'll be thrilled." Rose insists.

"We'll look after your secret." Jimmy promises. Emma is thankful for it but she still doesn't know how she really feels about the footman.

"So, until then, if you can just make them comfortable. I know musicians are outside your daily round." Rose adds.

"Don't worry about that, M'lady. We can take it in our stride. We may be Yorkshiremen, but we do know a little of life in the city." Mr Carson says with a smile. Emma internally winces, she somehow doubts that a bit.

A male voice can be heard. It's Jack Ross, the band's singer. "Hello? Uh... is anyone there?" He comes walking confidently into the Servants' Hall. "I think this is where we're supposed to be."

Mr Carson is so struck by his appearance that he knocks over his teacup. There's a shocked silence. Emma frowns at disappointment to see even Mrs Hughes and Thomas are being a bit funny about it.

Rose, determined to save the situation, smiles at Jack. "Welcome to Downton." She and Jack shake hands.

——

Emma and Tom walk to the Nursery before dinner so that they can feed the children along with Billy and Mary. Emma knows they're already there before her, but as she reaches the door, she hears Isobel's voice and what she says gives her pause and she turns to Tom to shush him.

"When I got engaged, I was so in love with Reginald I felt sick. I was sick with love. Literally." She laughs a little. "It seems so odd to think about it now. It really does."

"It was the same for me." Billy murmurs. "As if I'd gone mad, or been hypnotised, or something. For days. Weeks. All I could think about was her."

"And me. I was standing outside in the snow, and I didn't have a coat. But I wasn't cold, because all I kept thinking was, he's going to propose, he's going to propose!" Mary reminisces.

Emma and Tom turn to each other and smile softly, thinking of their own engagement. Emma has happy memories but she always can't help but feel guilty about how she had left him hanging for so long.

"Well. Aren't we the lucky ones?" Isobel remarks.

Emma can't help but feel guilty that, unlike Isobel, Mary and Billy, she still has Tom, and that she has what they have lost.

She decides she and Tom have heard enough. The three in there turn to them as Emma says, "Isobel, are you here to join us in the chaos of feeding time?"

"I thought I might." Isobel says with a smile.

The door opens, and the nannies come in with George and Michael in their arms and leading Ivy and Sybbie by their hands.

"Oh! Look who's here!"

"Hello!" Isobel greets them.

"Come here, Sybbie." Billy gathers up his daughter.

"Daddy!" Ivy squeals as Tom picks her up while Emma scoops Michael into her arms.

——

A large dinner party has been assembled for Robert's birthday with Mr Carson, Thomas, Jimmy and Mr Molesley attending them, the latter being a pleasant surprise. While Emma usually hates them, the guests are seemingly alright so far. Thankfully she's at the end of the table with Mary, Edith, Rose and a couple of gentlemen while Tom is next to Mr Napier and Cora and Billy are sitting with Isobel. What's worrying is that Mary is sitting next to Charles Blake.

"But I can't help feeling sorry for the poor pigs." Mary says.

"Do you eat bacon?" Mr Blake asks.

"Yes."

"Sausages?"

There's a layer of irritation underlining Mary's features. "Yes."

"Then you are a sentimentalist who cannot face the truth." Mr Blake remarks.

Mary rolls her eyes at him. "I'm not often called sentimental."

Emma huffs a quiet laugh and quickly takes a sip of her wine to hide her amusement. Her smile dims when she sees the unhappy look on Mr Napier's face. Seems to have realised that he has, yet again, brought a man to this house whom Mary infinitely prefers to him.

"Carson," Emma hears Robert call to the butler, who's assisting with clearing away the plates, "you don't mind if we go on calling Molesley Molesley, do you?"

"Of course not, M'lord." He clearly does, but he doesn't say a word.

"I'm catching the ladies' eye." Cora says after a short while. Everyone rises to give the ladies the chance to withdraw.

Rose and Emma share a look of alarm and the former quickly stands, protesting, "Oh, no!"

"Rose?" Cora questions in surprise.

"No. We're not splitting tonight. We're all going out together!" Rose then darts out of the room.

"What on earth is she talking about?" Edith wonders.

The dinner party are still on their feet, clueless while Emma waits amusedly.

Rose comes rushing back in as the music starts up. "Happy birthday, Cousin Robert!"

Robert laughs. "I say!"

——

The dinner party enter the Hall to find a band has been set up and the carpet has been rolled up. Rose is pulling Robert out into the Hall by his hand. Jack Ross is singing 'I'm just wild about Harry'. Robert is willing enough at first, but he stops dead when he sees it's a black singer. His family and guests come walking out after him, looking on uncertainly. Rose, however, has already found another dance partner.

"Who is this singer? And how did he get here? Isn't it rather odd?" Edith questions causing Emma to frown.

Robert snaps out of his stupor. "No, I think it's fun." He and Cora start to dance, too.

"Don't be disappointing, Edith." Emma warns. She moves on to dance with Billy as Isobel has snatched Tom away – they're absolutely enjoying themselves. More and more couples join the dance floor.

Emma and Billy soon begin discussing her and Tom's plans to move to America.

"Maybe I should follow what you and Tom are doing, making a new start elsewhere." Billy remarks.

"You don't think you will make a life here? That you have one?" Emma questions.

Billy gives her a pointed look. "Don't you?"

Emma shrugs, fair point. "Maybe. But I know Tom doesn't feel like he's one of them and I want him to be happy."

"That's what I always wanted for Sybil. That's gone now." Billy murmurs sadly.

Emma gives him a sympathetic look. "Perhaps not forever. You might find someone one day."

"Would there be another earl's daughter who'd be keen to take me on, do you think?" Tom remarks doubtfully.

"Well, I don't know. It would depend on her." Emma admits.

"No. She wouldn't." Billy corrects. "There aren't many as free as my Sybil."

"Well, I agree with that." Emma concedes. "Maybe Tom can introduce you to one of his cousins?"

"Not sure an Irish working girl will make everyone comfy." Billy remarks and Emma chuckles at that.

The song soon ends, and everyone claps.

——

Emma is dancing with Tom now. The band are playing a slower instrumental number now.

"Isobel said something interesting earlier." Tom remarks as they brush past Mr Napier and Violet dancing.

Emma looks up at her husband questioningly. "Oh?"

"How this, the band, shows how things can happen at Downton that no one imagined even a few years ago."

"She's got a point, I suppose." Emma ponders for a moment. "There's so much development here that was definitely not the case when I first came here."

"Yes. She says we should listen to that before giving up being here entirely." Tom adds.

"Do you think we should?" Emma questions as they move around Mary and Robert.

Tom lets out a quiet hum before replying, "Maybe, for now."

——

A/N: Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

[dumblydork]

Wasn't expecting to be back as a writer so soon but I just absolutely CANNOT get enough of writing headcanons and AUs and JUST BEAR WITH ME OKAY

Also I feel like this is super long but it might not be idk

Some more Hinny, with a bit of Romione! So this one is set in the modern magical world. Hope you enjoy! And don't forget, if you have absolutely ANY Hinny headcanons you'd want to see written, please drop me a message or an ask anytime and I'll do my best to write one 3>

~~

"This class just CANNOT get any worse." Ron muttered, drawing lazy lines with his pen on the History of Magic textbook they were reading.

"We literally live in 2020, do we really HAVE to study all this old age crap?" He continued, now shifting to drawing circles as the teacher droned on.

Harry for one, wasn't listening to the professor (though he did vaguely hear him mention 'Goblin War' but that was about it) and neither to Ron. Harry was busy staring out of the window onto the busy streets of London below their high classroom, thinking about a certain redhead.

A certain redhead who also happened his best friend's sister.

"Hi!" Hermione's voice came in an excited whisper as she started taking out her textbook, the dull grey of it made slightly happy with all the colourful muggle stickers (once affronted, she had told Harry that they were called 'Post Its' but Harry just could never bother with the name), full of notes and extra bits. Hermione was careful not to let the professor know that she was suddenly here, a thought which hit Harry when Ron exclaimed almost loudly before Hermione kicked his foot under the table to shut him up.

"I swear to Godric you weren't here literally a minute ago how- Harry?" Ron wondered, calling his best friend.

"Yes it's very odd Ron." Harry almost sighed, back to his brooding. Hermione was doing weird things always- it was nothing new.

"Please be like Harry and stop looking so surprised. Let me focus." Hermione sneered at Ron and whipped out her pencil, furiously noting down from the board whatever the professor had been droning on about for the past 45 minutes.

"And that, is all on the Goblin War of 1785 today. Make sure you finish your homework- remember, 4 pages on the magical strategies used by the two goblin sides to win the war. I need it handed in on Monday. Class dismissed." The professor walked out with his nose in the air, as if he had imparted the knowledge of a lifetime in one single lesson. He waved a lazy hand at the board which wiped off all the notes, releasing a few cries from the back where some kids were still making notes.

"Thank Godric that's over!" Ron could almost cry. Harry was back to paying attention, especially after Hermione slapped his hand. "Earth calling whatever planet Harry Potter is on!" She laughed. The three of them got up and walked out into the corridor.

"What lesson do we have next?" Harry asked absentmindedly.

"What's up with you today? You've been like this since we returned from the Burrow well over a week ago." Ron said thoughtfully, an arm slung carelessly around Hermione's shoulder, who was surprisingly okay with it.

Harry snapped back to reality. If Ron found out, it would be Harry's head and nothing else.

"And what about the two of you? Care to explain," Harry looked at the Ron's arm, "whatever this is? You two have been just finding ways for touching each other, don't think I haven't noticed." Harry finished with a whistle, knowing this was the nerve he had hit. He almost grinned to himself.

"That," Hermione shrug off the arm around her, blushing furiously, "is just two friends being friendly." She finished, but there was a considerable change in the pitch of her voice.

"Yes yes whatever." Harry flicked a lazy hand at the two, knowing fully well they had gotten up to something in the Burrow which was only between the two of them.

The trio had reached the cafeteria where they sat down on one of the empty benches, having half hour free before moving on to Harry's most despised class- Chemistry, or Potions as it was called in the older ages.

Harry let his thoughts move back to the Burrow (courtesy this couple who were now sitting with their sides practically touching). The Burrow was Ron's house, and the trio's favourite hangout. They were there for the summer break, which had ended a week ago, but the memories were still as old as yesterday.

"Oh please, I will kick your ass at Quidditch." Ginny, Ron's younger sister and the youngest Weasley piped, her fiery red hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Quidditch was the one thing Harry really enjoyed- it was rare to have Quidditch matches in school now with so much course load, so these summers were what he lived for.

Particularly this one summer where Ginny had turned up looking just gorgeous, something Harry had failed to notice in the 6 years he had known her. It wasn't as if she wasn't gorgeous before- it just struck him differently this time. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the fact that she could make Harry laugh almost always. She was not only gorgeous- Ginny had developed a sense of humour and sarcasm quite unlike her brothers- they were fond of practical jokes, whereas Ginny was more of the sharp tongued type who could make an entire room laugh without as much as waving a hand. And it was absolutely fabulous. Harry had found himself staring at her practically everyday of summer since he came to the Burrow three months ago.

The way she tied her hair up, or how she bit her lip when exasperated with her Math homework and the way her lips opened slowly first when she laughed. The slight, barely perceptible crook in her teeth and the generous sprinkling of freckles all across her face. It was all suddenly very endearing to Harry.

And hence, midway through his last week at the Burrow, Harry had come to the conclusion that he had started fancying Ginevra Weasley, his best friend Ronald Weasley's younger sister. Not to mention practically Hermione's best friend, despite being an year younger.

So that was why Harry was barely able to keep his impulses in check when he saw Ginny in her Quidditch outfit, wearing a red and gold jersey with cream coloured bottoms. But when he thought of how he could have his ears boxed in by Ron, he could very much focus back on the match and not on a heart-achingly stunning redhead.

"Language, Ginny. This girl," Ron's mom, Molly, muttered under her breath, currently putting up laundry by swishing her wand back and forth. All of the Weasley siblings were back home at the Burrow, except for Percy and Bill, who were both busy working.

"Sorry mom! As I was saying Harry, I will definitely kick your bottom in this match." Ginny corrected herself.

"Please, we shall see." Lately it was getting increasingly difficult for him to produce coherent responses in front of the woman he had come to consider as practically a sarcastic goddess. But he was proud of this response- he should continue thinking about Ron's punches.

"Okay, positions, and go!" Harry heard Arthur, Ron's father say and the match began in earnest. Hermione was sitting this one down with a novel, but at the moment was preparing a jug of lemonade the Muggle way.

Ron and Harry were one team, whereas Ginny, George and Fred were another. The game lasted for a good 40 minutes before Harry and Ron won the game by obtaining the 'snitch' (which was actually just an enchanted flying ball, kindly given to them by Arthur who had an obsession for all things Muggle).

"What happened to all that talk of kicking ass, huh?" Harry laughed, almost falling into one of the reclining chairs. Molly was handing out cool glasses of lemonade. "I think mine needs more ice." Harry said, sipping from his glass.

"Oh I totally forgot the ice! My wand is in the kitchen though." She said sheepishly, not wanting to give up her spot on the recliner. Or rather not wanting to get up from her spot next to Ron, who had decided to perch himself on Hermione's recliner despite there being an extra empty one.

"That's okay, I'll get some myself." He grinned. "I'll come too- I need to change out of this." Ginny added. They walked back inside the Burrow which was empty, with the entire family outside in the garden.

Harry waved his wand which was lying on the kitchen counter into a bowl and ice appeared, shining in the sunlight but not melting. Magic.

He added a few to his glass and leaned on the counter, sipping lazily on the drink. It was good to be away from the noise for a minute. Ginny reappeared downstairs, having changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and unholy thoughts came rushing back into Harry's brain.

"I'll get some ice too, now that I'm here." Ginny took out an empty glass and filled it with ice, presumably wanting to fill it with lemonade later. But the way she took the ice gave Harry goosebumps- she leant across him instead of asking him to move and picked a few pieces of ice from behind him. Harry was frozen in his place- Ginny made no move whatsoever to stand behind. She stood inches away from Harry, just a few centimetres shorter than him.

"Oh for goodness sakes Harry, kiss me already." She rolled her eyes but the tip of her ears went red.

"What?" Harry spluttered- it was something he had been wanting to do since the start of summer but putting it into words stunned him of sorts. Was he THAT readable?

"Don't think I haven't seen the way you've looked at me all summer, Harry. It's not that difficult to know that you fancy me. A lot. And just so you know, I do too. A lot. Have done so since Ron introduced us.* She whispered, but stepped back after her confession.

Harry was still stunned, but could anyway notice the distance she had put, now slightly unsure after her brazenness. She still stared at him, her lips shaped into an imperceptible 'O', begging to be kissed. So that's what Harry did- he pulled Ginny back towards him by her waist and placed his lips on hers, almost tasting sunlight but with cherry swirled in it. His hands remained at her waist but Ginny moved hers to lock around Harry's neck, slowly playing with the curls at his nape. She smiled into the kiss, parting her lips were slightly, just so Harry could taste her; it was sinful but decadent. Very much like a good bar of chocolate. More than good. An absolutely unbelievable bar of chocolate.

When they finally pulled back after what could have been a lifetime, or an eternity, or a few seconds, Ginny grinned at Harry. "Do you not have anything to say?" She stood there's suddenly a bit shy, with her arms still around Harry's neck.

"You said all of it for me. I do fancy you- maybe way too much." He said, feeling as if Ginny's brazen confidence was transferred into his veins.

"That's a relief, because I might or might not have been looking to get you to kiss me." She said, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

"You what?" Harry stared at her incredulously, before breaking out into a wide smile.

"Don't worry, the bit about me fancying you is real. Have done so since I was 10." She added seriously.

"So are we a thing now?" Harry raised an eyebrow, quite enjoying the small circles he was making on Ginny's side.

"Keep dreaming on, Potter." She removed her hands from around his neck and disappeared like she had reappeared after changing, what felt like ages ago. Harry smiled to himself before walking outside again, his lemonade glass forgotten.

---

"Really Harry, one would think you're in love the way you're zoned out." Ron stared at him, as Harry snapped back into the real world.

"Huh? Oh yeah." He agreed absent mindedly, still reeling a bit from that summer afternoon.

"You're in love?" Hermione asked, an eyebrow raised as she looked up from what looked like homework.

"Forget me, but you do seem to be." Harry glanced at her notebook, which had R+H scribbled messily on the margins. He grinned as Hermione and Ron blushed furiously.

"Okay fine, me and Ron might have kissed at the Burrow." Hermione said, snapping her book shut as Ron stared at her longingly.

"How interesting, because me and Harry did something similar." Ginny suddenly appeared from behind and sat beside Harry, pressing her lips to his cheek.

The two boys stared back and forth. Ron's eyes widened but returned to their normal size, as Ron slung an arm around Hermione again, except this time she actually leaned into him.

"What? Is happening?" Harry looked around, first at the couple in front of him and then at Ginny. This was all extremely confusing.

"Did you think you were the only observant human to ever exist? Hermione Granger is my girlfriend, Harry. Nothing escapes her. Not when one of her best friends kisses another one of her best friends." Ron laughed.

"Wait so you're not mad?" Harry was still shaken. Was his worrying all a waste? If he'd known, he could have spent more time with Ginny, locked behind doors, his lips on hers-

"Why would I be? I'd rather Ginny end up with you rather than some other git from school." Ron's voice cut into his thoughts breezily.

"Oh. Okay." Harry settled before smiling at Ginny and weaving his hand through hers.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Harry's eyes widened.

"Wait. Hermione Granger is your girlfriend?!" The typical Potter late realisation. The three people around him laughed heartily before Harry joined in, shooting Ginny an endearing look, making the tips of her ears turn red.

[phoenixhalliwell]

Well Helloooo Nurse

Pairings: Will Miller  X Gender Neutral Reader ( Nurse Lark but goes by the name of Birdie) 

Word count: 1887

Author's Note: Good Evening all, welcome to the Will Miller show. Please be gentle as it’s my first time writing for him. I also have no idea how the inside of an ER works, i’m just winging this whole thing lmao  I hope whoever stumbles on this enjoys it :) 

Hope you don’t mind the tags: @lilacyennefer​ @cinewhore​ @dignityneeded

Thanks to his idiotic brother, Will ends up in the ER. Benny in an attempt to make amends, tries to be his wingman. 

Throwing yourself down into your chair, you let out a small cry at the relief at finally being off your feet. To say it's been a long week is an understatement. Your back is in agony, your stomach won't stop growling  and there's a throbbing pain behind your eyes . The ER has finally quietened down after a disastrous morning and you're counting down the minutes until it's home time.  

'Is it just me or is time moving slower?'

You glance at the clock. Another 20 minutes  and you are free for the next two days to do absolutely nothing. Closing your eyes you smile at the thought of the large glass of wine, warm bath and take out that awaits you when you get home. Your happiness is short lived though when you hear your name being called out.

'Urghhh, just leave me alone'

"Birdie, my good friend. How are you? You are looking fiiinnneee today, is that a new pair of scrubs."

Opening your eyes, you glare at your friend Letti who is currently batting her eyes at you. You scoff. You  know for a fact you look like shit. Your hair looks like a bird's nest ( no pun intended) and you're pretty sure that your scrubs have seen better days.

"What do you want?" you narrow your eyes at her.

"You know how you're my absolute best friend and you love me so much? Could you find it in that golden heart of yours to stay on just a little longer and cover the end of my shift. It's only a couple extra hours. I wouldn't normally ask but Scott has managed to ship the kids off to his mum's tonight and it's been so long since we've had adult time, if you catch my drift. Please. Help me out here Birdie I am dying" She begs.

'Pfft least you're getting the option for adult time' you think to yourself.  You watch as she clasps her hands to her chest and starts to give you the sad puppy dog eyes .You can feel your resolve start to crumble. Groaning, you throw your head back in defeat.

"Fine, but you owe me one and you better believe I will collect" you sigh. Letti fist pumps the air before grabbing your face and giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I fucking love you Birdie. I will name my next child in your honour"  she promises.

"Yeah like I haven't heard that before" you snort, wiping your cheek. Letti suddenly thrusts a clipboard into your hand before rushing  you through your next patient, eager to get home to her husband. You're not really listening to her, nodding along  every so often as you try to decipher the chicken scratches on the paper in front of you.  

' Did a child fill in this form?'  

You hear snippets of what she is saying: "Hotter than sin..... If I wasn't married...  wouldn't be able to walk straight"

You are finally able to pick out the important information:  

Exam Room 3 - William Miller, 40, laceration to left arm.

'Ok I can work with that'

Calling out your goodbyes to Letti  and telling her to have a good time, you make your way to exam room 3 to get started. Drawing back the curtain, you step into the room and  call out

'Mr Miller?'

"Yes?" two voices answer at the same time.  

" They are talking about me Dumbass, I'm the one that's currently bleeding no thanks to you. Please excuse my brother, he was dropped on his head a lot as a child"  your patient apologises to you. You let out a snort at the quip.  It's not until you get a proper look at his face that  your laughter is quickly cut off.

'Oh' is all you can think before your mind goes blank. Sitting in front of you is a man you can only describe as an Adonis.  Even though his face is twisted slightly in pain, you would gladly stare at him  for the rest of eternity. Beautiful  blue eyes, soft blond hair, a well groomed beard. Your mind  takes you to some bad places when you think about that beard.

'Hotter than sin indeed...."  

A choked out laugh causes you to tear gaze away from William and over to the other man in the room who waves at you looking far too amused.

'Oh god, he knows I was checking out his brother' You cringe internally.

"Hi I'm Benny in case you were interested" the other man jokes. He is also a fairly attractive man  -you can see some similarities between the two. However, Benny has nothing on his brother. You shyly nod your head in greeting before making your way to Will's bedside.

"Ok Mr Miller, I am Nurse Lark. From what I could make out from your form, it says that you have a laceration on your left arm. Is this correct?"  you ask the older Miller.

"Yes that's right. Sorry about the scrawl, Benny didn't make it past the 3rd grade."  Will  teases.

"Fuck you dickhead" Benny hisses back.

"Boys, settle down, this is an ER  not a playground " you interject. Both men mumble their apologise and you try not to laugh. Gently picking up Will's arm, you turn his arm left to right to get an idea of  the extent of his injury. He's lucky in the fact it's not too deep. Unfortunately it cuts directly through the tattoo on his lower arm. Potentially a future scar but that was out with your control. Raising your head, you notice how close you are to each other's faces. Will stares back at you and you lose yourself for a minute.

"For fuck sake, get a room" You hear Benny mutter behind you. You cough and busy yourself getting the equipment you need to start patching Will up.

"I'm sorry but this might hurt a little"  you warn him in advance.

" Don't worry about me, I'm tough as nails " He smiles reassuring you.

You nod before getting started. So focused on your work, you didn't notice Will admiring you from where he sat. He liked the way  your eyes never wavered from your task despite Benny blabbering on in the background. How your nimble fingers made quick work of his wound. He thought the way you stuck your tongue out slightly in concentration was the cutest thing.

Benny was quick to notice his brother's heart eyes and started snickering.

" You know what Will? Maybe if you're a good boy the nice nurse will kiss it better once they are done"

You glance up in time to see Will's face turn scarlet. 

'Just when I thought he couldn't get any cuter'

"That's it, Benny get out now!" Will  growled.

Benny sighs dramatically and sulks out the room but not without muttering "just trying to help you get laid dickhead". You glance back at Will who is now staring up at the ceiling, looking as though he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

"It's days like these I really wish my parents had got me a puppy instead of a little brother"

"Well from what I've seen of him so far, the man is basically a gold retriever in human form" you joke back. The laugh he lets out catches you off guard.

'I  could get used to that sound.'

You had to stop yourself from sighing and scolded yourself for acting like a love sick fool instead of the professional you are.

The conversation came easy for you both after that.  You started by telling him your name before the both of you shared little tidbits about each other. Will seemed like an interesting man from what information he gave. He was funny and incredibly smart.

'He's perfect'  is all you could think. However, it didn't take long after Benny got asked to leave to finish patching the rest of Will's arm up.  

"Well Mr Miller, I guess that's you done. Please make sure to keep the area as clean as possible and have someone help you change your bandages"

You feel sad at the idea of him leaving. It is evident that he feels the same by the way he stalls collecting his things. He looks like he's debating with himself before he finally turns to you looking determined.

" Would you maybe like to go to dinner with me sometime? I know we haven't met under the best circumstances but I had a really great time talking with you. I'd end up hating myself if I didn't at least ask"

Your heart races at the question and you don't hesitate to tell him yes. His face lights up and you find yourself falling a little more for Will Miller. Grabbing a pen from your top pocket, you hastily write down your phone number and hand it to Will. You both wish each other goodnight before parting ways. You find yourself grinning and bite your lip to try and contain your glee.

" Guess  I will be naming my first child Letti"

 Outside the hospital

Benny leans against the wall (pouting like a child) and waits for his brother . He still can't believe he got thrown out of the room. It feels like forever and a day before Will finally makes his appearance with a smug grin on his face.

'He looks like the cat that got the cream'

' What's with the grin man? Did they give you the good shit for the pain or something?"

Will shakes his head before showing Benny the piece of paper in his hand. A set of digits.

"William, you sly dog" Benny laughs in delight before he slaps Will's arm. He's quick to realise his mistake when his brother grunts in pain clutching his bad arm. Benny panics and makes to touch him but is stopped in his tracks.

"Don't . Fucking . Touch me.  Just get in the fucking car. " Will hisses. He marches off to the car park, swearing under his breath.

'Well that victory was short lived' Benny thinks, following his brother.

Bonus Scene - Date night

'Is it just me or is time moving slower?'

You glance at the clock for what feels like the millionth time. Another 10 minutes before Will is suppose to arrive. It's been so long since you were last on a date and you can't remember being this nervous. You look down at your outfit and run a hand over it to make sure there wasn't any creases. Will had text earlier to let you know to dress casual for your evening out but wouldn't give you any more information. The sound of the doorbell interrupts your thoughts and you let out a nervous giggle.  Trying not to seem too eager, you give yourself a beat before  opening the door. You feel yourself go weak in the knees. Will is dressed to impress - A black leather jacket over a soft grey t-shirt with a nice pair of black jeans that does wonders for him. He lets out a soft laugh at the way you are blatantly eyeing him up before doing the same to you. He lets out a low whistle.

"Well hellooo nurse"

[girlpornparadise]

The Caged Bird Moans (pt 1)

Pairing: Diego Jimenez/f!Reader (Power - Starz)

Word Count: ~2600

Warnings:  It's a bit Stockholm syndromey, but that's not a real thing anyway (look it up). Not exactly non-con, but it skirts the idea, so if power disparities aren't your jam, please move along. It just real dirty. SMUT!

Personal ramble: Would anyone actually react like this to the situation I've set forth? No. But just as the pizza guy is never hot and doesn't offer you his extra sausage, this is porn people! So suspend your disbelief and don't hate on me for my bullsh*t.

I also wrote all this nonsense a week ago before I read anything from the lovely @1zashreena1 , @heresathreebee or @nicke0115 so sorry if it looks similar, I swear it's a coincidence.

"Ouch", you think to yourself but instead swallow the pain. Your arm hurts under the firm grasp of the thug dragging you from the elevator into the spacious penthouse.

"Be careful with that." Says a commanding voice from across the room.

The grip loosens, but he's still using your momentum to force you forward. You stumble, unsure of just how much danger you are in.

As you take in your surroundings the owner of the voice turns around and approaches you. He looks you up and down, examining you like a prize he had won.

"We can't afford to damage her." He states plainly, looking at the man still holding you in place.

As he examines you, you examine him right back. Whereas he is doing it in an obvious way, head nodding to rake his eyes over you, you move your eyes only, unable to control your body in this moment. You follow the carefully polished boots up past the fitted black jeans to the black buttoned up shirt with the slight sheen to it, that accentuates his frame. Everything is obviously expensive and very deliberately chosen. As your eyes settle on his face, a recognization dawns on you. Diego Jimenez. One of the heads of the Jiminez cartel. His reputation was well known to you. An unstable, merciless man whose penchant for partying made him a big name in certain circles. You were scared before, but now your body goes rigid with fear and your gaze hits the floor with force.

Though you're no longer looking at him directly you can sense his smugness and satisfaction at knowing you are now showing the appropriate amount of fear for the situation you're in. Maybe it's your hind brain telling you you are in the presence of an apex predator. Maybe it was the clipped snort he let out, tinged with amusement as he nodded with approval.

After what feels like an eternity, but was probably mere seconds, he speaks again.

"Take her to the guest room." He orders the man still firmly gripping your arm. "Lock this little bird in her cage."

Dragging you again, this time down the hall, Diego's orders are followed to completion. You are practically thrown into the room as the door slams shut behind you.

You stumble, catching yourself on the bed. You collapse onto it as tears prick your eyes and subsequently fall down your cheeks. You begin to sob, but muffle it in the covers, assuming someone is standing guard outside and not wanting to seem even weaker in such an intense situation. But the tears flow freely as the shock of what's happened slowly wears off and you begin to process the details of your abduction.

You hadn't grown up in this world, though your ties to it were strong. You were part of the Bennet family, a rival cartel, headed by your grandfather. He insisted you grow up distanced from this world. A world of violence and cruelty. A world of drugs and guns and transactions ending in death. Based on your current reaction, you couldn't help but think maybe it was because you're so weak. Both you and he knew it was true, you were too soft to be a part of the business, too kind to do what would be required of you. So he kept you away, from his city and his dealings and all of the darkness that came with it.

You were in town for a rare family visit when you were taken without warning, snatched from the street at gunpoint. They were able to do it without drawing attention, entirely professional, and you complied with their every demand as a sense of terror ripped through you.

And now here you were, trapped by a barbarous stranger who could end your life at any moment without a second thought.

As you wore yourself out from crying, you began to take in the room, determined to get your bearings. It was sparsely decorated, obviously the work of a man unattached. It was also immaculately clean, obviously the work of his maid. As your breathing slows and your senses sharpen, you become aware that the comforter you are still on top of is plush and expensive, like the kind found at a swanky hotel.

Curiosity returning with your senses, you walk over to the window that stretches from floor to ceiling and take in the impressive view of the city. If the long elevator ride weren't a clear enough indicator, the view tells you that you are in the penthouse of a very upscale building.

Next to the window is a large bathroom and you walk in. You splash cold water on your face and dry it on one of the plush towels. You can't help be momentarily amused by how well stocked the room is with soaps and lotions. There were definitely worse places to be trapped. Was this the definition of a gilded cage?

As you settle down, you take off your shoes and sit back down on the bed. You're exhausted to your core, and you sink into the mattress, wanting to disappear. You want to keep your wits about you, alert and on guard, but instead the stress combined with the late hour forces you to sleep.

You are woken up abruptly the following morning when the door swings open and you are literally dragged out of bed by the same man as yesterday. 

You're a bleary eyed, rumpled mess and the same fear and pain shoot through you as you remember where you are and how you got there. Your breathing is shallow as you try not to panic.

You've been dragged before Diego who is standing imposingly before you, hands clasped in front of him, chin slightly upward so he can look down his nose at you.

He examines you once more and you can tell he's disgusted by what he sees.

"Get our guest something to wear." He barks. "And get her something to eat. We can't bargain if she's broken."

As he turns away from you to resume whatever you interrupted, you catch the flash of the gun in his waistband and the fear settles once again in the pit of your stomach.

You are escorted back to the room forcefully and your mind is racing. You know everyone who comes through the penthouse is armed to the teeth and there's no chance of escape. You're not just weak, you're helpless. You assume you're being held for some kind of ransom, probably territory or resources as opposed to money, and you silently pray that a deal for your release is struck quickly so this nightmare can be over.

Soon after, the door opens and a housekeeper enters carrying a couple of bags of clothes. She doesn't look you in the eye and you wouldn't know what to say to her anyway. 

Once she has left, you rummage through the clothes. There's nothing there you'd pick for yourself, but you settle on a white fitted t-shirt and jeans. You carry them with you into the bathroom along with a handful of drugstore makeup you find in the bottom of the bag.

You look at yourself in the mirror and the reason for Diego's revulsion becomes clear. Your clothes are wrinkled and creased and your mascara is smudged under your eyes. You lock the bathroom door behind you, strip down and take a shower. The running water calms you and once you finish you get dressed and approximate your normal makeup routine with what you have. If you're going to put on a brave front, you need to be as put together as possible.

When you emerge from the bathroom a tray of breakfast is waiting on the nightstand next to the bed. Eggs sunny side up and toast, simple and straightforward. You devour it greedily since you haven't eaten since lunch yesterday.

The day passes with 2 more meals brought to you by the same housekeeper at the appropriate intervals. In the absence of your phone, you distract yourself with mindless TV on the rather large set opposite the bed. You don't take in much as you think about your predicament and then try to force those thoughts of the worst case scenario from your mind.

Your sleep that night is restless.

You are brought before Diego once again in the morning, shortly after you wake. 

This time you are allowed to walk under your own power, though your legs feel wobbly and your feet unsure as you approach him.

You're wearing a cotton t-shirt and shorts,  the closest thing you could find to pajamas. As he looks at you, you become painfully aware that you're not wearing underwear, his eyes seeming to stop at all the places where it should be.

You are at least able to look at him and take in more this time. He's clad in a similar black button up shirt and black jeans as yesterday, a uniform of sorts to convey his status. His hair is neatly cut and accentuates his angles, sharp jaw and well placed cheekbones. His greying facial hair gives him some earned distinction and his expression is hard and deliberate to elicit a specific reaction of fear. Through the careful tailoring of his shirt you can see that his body is sturdy and muscular. His tense posture using his frame to his advantage, making him seem larger than he actually is. You know to fear him, but he may be the most attractive man you've ever seen in real life.

He obviously cultivates an aura of power, and you can't help but be drawn to him as an Alpha Male. As you steel yourself, you dare to look him in the eyes. His eyes are cold but impossibly magnetic and you can't look away. He's looking back at you now, into you. Your heart forgets how to beat in rhythm and you swallow thickly.

He sees your fear and is clearly amused by it.

"Breakfast will be ready soon. You should go take a shower." He says, his lips curling upwards. 

"I, I was going to." you stammer.

"Good girl." It comes out as almost a purr and sends a shiver down your spine.

This time it's Diego, not his associate who accompanies you back to the bedroom. His hand is hovering above the small of your back, ushering you forward while maintaining a small distance. You enter the room and the lock clicks behind you.

You turn to see that he's still in the room and with his gaze set upon you, you begin to back away towards the bathroom,  afraid to turn your back on him. This was clearly his intended effect.

You expect him to leave, but he's doing the opposite. He is stalking forward. Your heart is pounding out of your chest and your uneven breathing becomes gulping for air.

As he closes the gap between your bodies, he repeats his suggestion. "You should go take a shower." It's not a suggestion though, it's a command.

He leans in. "Go on." His lips are close enough to your ear that his breath catches in your hair.

His thick body is now urging you through the bathroom doorway by its approach. You back through it, still transfixed by his gaze. 

You glance side eyed to your left at the shower that takes up the far wall. It's one of those large walk-in showers with a stone floor and a rain showerhead. It suddenly seems less like a shower and feels more like a trap about to spring shut.

"Take off your clothes." He says. He's not asking.

You gulp, your eyes have gone wide at the demand.

"Take. Off. Your. Clothes." He repeats in a tone that is both amused and losing patience. He raises his eyebrows slightly as he says it.

You look away, ashamed, and slowly and nervously acquiesce. You stand before him completely naked and try to avert your gaze. You are drawing your body inward, trying to conceal yourself in any way you can.

"Turn on the water." he says with his wicked smile widening.

You turn on the shower and wait for it to warm. It dawns on you that there's no shower curtain to protect you or glass wall to hide behind. You are fully exposed and will remain so.

You step under the water, unsure of what to do next. You'd obviously showered hundreds of times, but this wasn't a shower. It was a show.

"Wash yourself." His voice is quieter, more of a harsh whisper.

You grab a washcloth and pump the foaming body wash onto it. You rub it on the back of your neck and slowly work your way down to your shoulders. Your nerves have subsided a little as the water washes over your skin.

He's mesmerized by the motion of your hands and you drag the washcloth across your collarbones and down to your breasts, where you languidly rub them with the cloth as well as your free hand.

Your nipples harden at your own touch. He notices and his tongue drags over his bottom lip. You close your eyes in an attempt to momentarily escape.

When you open your eyes you notice him shift his weight and catch a glimpse of the shift in his muscles under his shirt. You get a rush as you feel the power dynamic shift slightly. You are slow to rub the washcloth down your legs and you arch your back slightly as you bend over, purposely sticking out your ass more than you naturally would. 

His eyes are dark with lust and you can feel the warmth radiating from between your own legs.

"Rub your clit." He says, reclaiming his power.

You look at him with shocked eyes and your eyebrows knit.

"You heard me." he says. "I won't ask again." His head tilting slightly.

You put the washcloth aside and tentatively slide your middle finger between your thighs to your bundle of nerves. You notice how wet you already are and using gentle pressure you begin to rubbing in circles.

You close your eyes and swallow as your walls contract and release. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier until you're panting. Panting and touching yourself for this fixated man. 

"Cum for me." He demands. "I need to see you cum." 

You think to fake an orgasm. To end this little game he's playing, but it's too late. Your finger presses harder on your clit and you tremble as the real thing rips through you. You close your eyes and cry out with abandon.

When you regain yourself you look at him. You are raw and exposed and at your most vulnerable. His mouth is in a wide smile and his eyes gleam with satisfaction. 

He reaches out to you, towel in hand. You steady yourself, turn off the water, and take the towel from him. You wrap it around yourself, suddenly panged with shame at how readily you revealed your most intimate self to this menacing stranger. Your posture closes, and reflects your return to shyness.

"Good girl." He says, and you feel the words like honey dripping in your ears.

He turns and leaves, his confident stride drawing your attention to how his jeans hug his perfect behind. 

You dry yourself off and as you get to your inner thighs you're reminded of how wet you are. How wet you are for him. You want to blame the shower, but you know the truth. You're spellbound by this man, and god are you in trouble.

[fleckcmscott]

To Have and To Hold

Summary: Y/N makes an oversight at work. The resulting extra hours with Arthur delight them both.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 4,272

A/N: This story had been kicking around in my head for about two months, but I hadn’t been sure if I was going to write it. Then I read @sweet-nothings04‘s amazing Hand-in-Hand (which you all need to check out, if you haven’t), and knew I had to put it on paper. Thanks to her for the inspiration to finally develop this, and for the title, too!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! 

Perhaps it was the sunshine that stirred her. Or the horns of traffic on congested streets. The hammering of a distant construction site. The chatter and occasional yelling of passersby.  The hum of Gotham awakening.

Y/N blinked in confusion - how could it be so bright this early? - and squinted at the clock at Arthur's side of the bed. No numbers greeted her, just its blank, plastic display. Stretching, she reached to her left for her watch, in its spot by the beige rotary phone on the nightstand.

"Shit!"

Nearly knocking over her glass of water, she clambered off the mattress. Arthur had warned her the lights could go off in his apartment. Not often and not for long. But enough to annoy. Naturally, his building's shoddy electricity had to mess with the alarm today. When she'd stayed up too late. When he'd had to leave ahead of her to commute to the other end of the city for a rare winter gig. When her body had chosen to oversleep in the coziness of his blankets.

Her nylons had never been yanked on with such haste. Arthur had made coffee but she skipped it in favor of brushing her teeth. Pausing on her way out, she took a calcium supplement and grabbed a note from the counter. She read it while riding the wood-paneled, graffiti covered elevator: "Your presentashin will be great. You snored a lot. Good thing your cute. - Arthur." He always signed his name. As though she wouldn't recognize his scrawl. As if anyone else wrote her sweet, sassy missives. She grinned until she hopped on the for-once punctual subway.

The presentation he'd referred to was set for that afternoon. She was expected to discuss the evidence and court file for this week's contested hearing. Last night, she'd sat at Arthur's breakfast bar to compile the case's final details and finish prep sheets. Gently, she'd rebuffed his subtle advances. His attempts to draw her attention from work to him.

Excitement had been palpable as he'd hovered near her. She was fairly certain she knew the cause because it enthused her as well. In three and a half short weeks, he'd be moving in with her. They'd officially begin traversing whatever the future held for them together. Hesitation had been clear in his posture, his drawn shoulders when (after plenty of convincing on her part that yes, she really, really, wanted him) he'd finally accepted the key to her place. But since he'd added it to his own keyring, he'd brightened. Strode a little taller. Walked a little prouder. Touched a little bolder. As though the weight he carried had lessened, at least by a couple cinder blocks' worth.

At his slight pout, she'd decided to find a way to involve him. He'd perched on the stool next to her, rested his cigarette in the pink ashtray to the left, and taken the proffered exhibit stickers with a quirked brow. Y/N had handed him papers, which he'd added labels to for her to write on. Then she'd stacked them in four different piles according to type. It had taken longer than usual - she was faster alone. But the intimacy of sharing the professional elements of her life with Arthur (besides the office wear he liked, claiming it showed how "smart" and "pretty" she was) had tightened her chest. And the curved-up corner of his thin lips had reflected how pleased he was, too.

They hadn't been able to collaborate on everything, however. It was past midnight by the time she'd joined Arthur, who had retreated to the bedroom an hour or so earlier. He'd been sitting against the headboard, half under the cover. The harsh blue light emanating from the old black and white TV at the foot of the bed had sharpened his features. Deepened the set of his eyes. He'd stubbed out his smoke as she closed the door. "I taped The Honeymoon Game. We can watch it when you're here again." A beat. "If you're not busy."

"This is supposed to be my last big project for a month or so." Sighing, she'd gotten her nightgown from her overnight bag. "I didn't mean for it to take all evening." She climbed in next to him and threw her arm across his lap. "I'm sorry."

He'd been stiff. Unyielding. The telltale signs he was miffed or upset. But he'd twined her hair around his finger, let his touch fall to her brow bone. "It's okay," he'd said lowly, adjusting to lie alongside her. "I don't want to be... I'm not being fair."

"You don't have to pretend with me, Arthur. It's all right to be annoyed." Tiredness had pulled at her as she'd fought to watch the rest of Gotham Tomorrow Tonight. The contact of his socked toes to her bare ones had made her smile, though, and she'd nuzzled his bicep. "I missed you," she'd mumbled, then promptly passed out.

The squeal of wheels on metal tracks prompted her to sling her canvas tote onto her shoulder. Shaw & Associates was a short sprint from the nearest station. She was certain she looked ridiculous, running down the street in her high heels. But she managed to slip into the office with two minutes to spare. Once she poured herself a cup of joe and straightened her blazer, she settled in her cushioned chair to get started.

It was only when Matt told her he wanted to meet before lunch that she'd rummaged in her bag. And realized she'd neglected to bring the file. Recalled it was sitting on Arthur's kitchen counter.

Fuck.

Her nails tapped the wood surface of her desk. Excusing herself to the bathroom so she could go retrieve it wouldn't fly. Matt would send a search party. She could try to discuss everything from memory, tell him documents were still being gathered. But he wasn't that oblivious. She settled on owning her error. "It's at home." Her delivery was nonchalant.

He waited until she'd loaded her typewriter with paper, then responded wryly. "You're not supposed to take files home anymore. Remember what happened last time?"

She leaned back as he stepped in front of her. "There was the slew of family cases that came in. With Patricia on leave, I'm handling all our calls and mail. Not to mention paperwork on her filings. It wouldn't have gotten finished if I hadn't taken it." Snorting, she shook her head at herself. Heat bloomed in her neck. "Not that it matters when I don't have it."

Expression softening, Matt stuck his hands in his pockets and jutted his chin at her. "How long did you work on it?"

It was hard to discern if he actually cared about the hours she put in. Or if he merely wanted to gauge the possibility of her doing investigations off the books again, something he'd explicitly prohibited. "I don't know." She waved dismissively. "Three or four hours?"

He let out a huff. "You put in enough time already. Go home at noon. We'll get to it first thing tomorrow."

"I have a lot to do." Her eyes widened at the myriad piles of folders laying around. "And I can't imagine you playing operator."

"I've managed when you've both been in court or at appointments. Besides," he continued as he headed back to his office. "You never take days off."

Straightening, she wheeled her chair to watch him plop down on his leather seat. "I'm taking three days next month," she countered.

His glare contained an unequal mix of mirth and consternation. "Y/N?"

The phone started ringing. She succeeded in making one ear ignore it. "Yes?"

"I know you haven't forgiven me for that whole Renew Corp. thing." She flinched at the casual mention of the company she loathed. Of her failure. But she forced herself to listen. Matt picked up a pen and started writing. “Rather than being stubborn, try saying, 'You're right.'"

~~~~~

Y/N stood in front of the narrow, white stove, stirring the soup she'd thrown together using bouillon, carrots, onions, and pasta. Ingredients she'd found in Arthur's kitchen. Music poured, at a respectable volume, from the radio on the windowsill. Swaying out-of-time, she added a sprinkling of black pepper, one of the only three spices he had (along with powdered garlic and salt). Wearing a content smirk, she sampled the steaming broth.

When she'd left the office, she'd been frustrated at herself. Yes, she was human. Everyone made mistakes. But she wasn't the forgetful type. Particularly if someone was depending on her. However, as she'd stopped in Burnley for another change of clothes, hopped on the train to Otisburg, and pictured Arthur's reaction to finding her in his home instead of having to call to wish her sweet dreams, her disposition had improved. Not only would he have her for an extra night. He'd get a late lunch, too.

The click of the deadbolt and clank of his keys on the entrance table came the second she turned off the stove. She listened to his heavy exhale as his bag dropped to the floor and shut the door. In her peripheral vision he froze, then approached tentatively. She reveled in his delicate hold on the dip of her waist, the peck he planted on her cheek. The smell of greasepaint wafted to her nose. "I hoped I hadn't made this up," he sighed with what sounded like relief. "But your meeting."

She angled herself towards him, gaze roving over his red and blue plaid blazer. The painted-on smile. His irresistible brown curls, mostly flattened by the wig he'd worn. Fidgeting with the petals of the squirting flower on his lapel, she scrunched up her face. "This morning went to shit." She explained the power outage, the clock, her own stupidity at leaving the file in his apartment. "I've packed it. Don't worry."

His posture grew pensive. "Sorry. Maybe- Maybe we should have stayed at your place. Your building's better."

Him thinking her error was somehow his fault had to be nipped in the bud. "No," she said. "You asked to make more memories here before we move in together. I'm happy to do that."

He paused, long enough she could have sworn she'd heard the gears in his head grinding. "Are you in trouble?"

Not unexpectedly, he had put together her mistake and her early dismissal from work and assumed the worst. "If I wasn't fired for trying to stop the Waynes, it's going to take more than an oversight to get me thrown out on my ass." Her brow furrowed. She sneaked a hand under his jacket and placed her palm on his chest. "I just hate that I wasted last night for nothing."

Soft lips, slightly sticky with red paint, grazed her temple. "It's okay," he said. "You're here now. And I got to help you."

The balm of his kindness loosened her rigid stance. His zeal to assist her, to ask questions, to learn about every aspect of her branded her heart completely. She leaned into him, kissed the squishy fold of skin under his chin, and nudged his ribs. "Food's ready. Go change. I want to hear all about your day."

Arthur emerged from the bathroom within minutes, clad in his worn, blue house pants and toweling his hair. Dimples were on constant display while they ate. The glint in his eyes was the one he usually had if his act or a job had gone particularly well, if he was pleased with himself. Was the one starting to be an almost weekly occurrence. Was the one that made his green eyes sparkle and caused her stomach to flip. He inched closer to her with every sentence.

The kids at the new children’s medical center had liked Carnival, he said. They hadn’t minded that he’d "filled in" for Gary. The magic tricks had all gone without a hitch, and the clinic had provided the balloons, which was a savings. The nurses and doctors had been nice; they’d even asked for his card. He’d had to provide a slip of paper with his address and telephone number instead. But he was sure he’d be invited to perform again. And he asked Y/N for help writing Gary a thank you note for the referral, claiming, “You’re better at that than me.”

“You’re the one who journals every day.” Her bowl and spoon clattered in the sink. “And your letter to me was beautiful. Just let me proofread it.”

Soon they were reclined on the sofa, sharing the flat pillow he’d used when he’d had no choice but to sleep there. The tape he’d recorded yesterday was playing. The Honeymoon Game had been a casual watch before, he’d explained. Not a nightly ritual like Murray. Given that he had a girlfriend and was a boyfriend himself, it had become fun to view.

She was only half-focused on the TV’s talking heads. Her mind was drifting to moving day, which filled her with gladness. She examined the plaid walls, the white cream color ceiling, the knick-knacks strewn about in the glow of the setting sun. The lantern with an owl hanging in the corner; the green, plastic drawers by the television; the curio cabinet... They were all a part of 8J, but assuredly not a part of him. How much would he be bringing with him, she wondered. And what would he be leaving behind?

“With one sugar and a shot of milk.” Arthur’s lively voice broke through her contemplation. Ah. He was reacting to the questions posed to the contestants, and making the answers about her, as he was wont to do.

She nestled back into the pleasant warmth of his firm frame. “Three sugars,” she replied, confirming she knew how he took his coffee. They continued to play along, with him showing off everything he’d memorized about her, and her replying with what she’d gathered about him.

Eventually, he shifted behind her. Raised himself on his elbow. “How did you know you loved me?”

Her hum was soft. Short. Possible responses were multitude. She’d suspected she could fall for him early on. When he’d wanted to repay her for doing what anyone should have done on the subway. And the first time he’d had the courage to call her after they’d split a slice of pie, his slight stammer revealing his nervousness. Maybe she’d say it was how slowly he’d drunken his wine during dinner, initially squinting as he sipped, his inexperience with alcohol obvious.

But she chose to go with what she believed was truest. What she assumed he’d hear most keenly. “Before we slept together, I hadn’t been with anyone for four years. And even then, it was different.” His hand splayed on her abdomen, thumb dragging along the waistband of her green leggings. A delightful ache flared in her center. “When I woke up, I felt perfect.”

“You felt like you were perfect?”

“No, silly,” she laughed, batting his forearm. “I knew I hadn't made a mistake. I reached out to your side, first thing - I’d thought of it that way, even then.” At the sensation of his hardening shaft against her rear, she giggled. “You’d made me so happy. You always do. I wanted to you to bed me again.”

The round tip of his nose skimmed her cheek, and she shivered at the dip of his fingers into her panties. “I want to again,” he rasped, paraphrasing her. The grind of his length was making her light-headed, and she twisted her torso to look at him. “I’ve been thinking about it.” Cheekbones glowing, he averted his eyes. “Ever since I woke up.”

“My monthly started,” she said regretfully. His descent halted, and a groan of frustration left him as he lowered his forehead to her shoulder. She mused. While he was becoming more apt to say what he desired, it happened rarely. But she loved it and didn’t want to discourage him from letting himself be assertive. Would he be offended by her suggestion? “I freshened up before we laid down. I have a tampon in. There are other things we can do.” She pressed her lips together, hoping she didn’t sound presumptuous. “If you’re comforta-“

“I’m comfortable.” His mouth quickly claimed hers, opening on a sigh. The tip of his tongue laved at the seam of her lips, and his messy enthusiasm made her whimper. Leaving a scorching trail in its wake, his hand traversed to her upper leg, gliding over the crease where her thigh and vulva met.

Shallow breaths caressed the nape of her neck, stoking the heat threatening to consume her. But the studio audience blaring from the television’s mono-speaker kept wresting her out of her haze. She snatched the VCR remote from the coffee table and hit the pause button.

The tease of his fingertips at her dark curls caused the peaks of her breasts to stiffen. She gasped as the rough fabric of her sweater dragged along them. His fore- and ring fingers spread her outer lips and she shuddered. The leisureliness of his fondling didn’t detract from its intoxicating effect.

Though it was a tad rough. “You’re kinda dry. Hold on.” Swiftly, he brought his hand to his mouth and wet his fingertips. Y/N blinked at him. It was clear he thought nothing of it, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering he’d confided he liked going down on her. Still. Seeing this normally reserved man improvise so he could pleasure her made her center throb with need.

Y/N was doing her damnedest to get her leggings and underwear down. Arthur snorted at her spirited, failed attempt at kicking them away. “It’s okay,” he chuckled, pushing them off her ankles with his foot. Then his touch fluttered at her swollen folds. She arched into him, already feeling as though she would burst. Bent at the knee, her leg lifted until her foot was flat on the couch cushion, allowing him easier access. He took advantage, sweeping forward and back along the rigid line of her engorged clitoral hood. She rolled towards him subtly, her moans getting louder with each tap to her sensitive nub.

Still holding himself up, he cradled her head. "Your sounds make me crazy," he said lowly. Once his hips started following hers, faintly rutting against the flesh of her backside, she closed her eyes. Hurriedly, she reached behind her to yank at his pajamas. "What?" he asked.

"I want to feel you," she whispered. There was a huff and some fumbling. And moments later his cock was settled at the cleft of her bottom. She bit her lip, savoring the weight of him. God, he felt wonderful.

His fingertips whispered over her clit, daring to follow the edge of her inner labia. She heard him gulp. "How does it feel when we're together? When- When I'm in you?"

"Warm. Full. Like you belong there," she replied with a smile. That last part of her response must have been unexpected, given that his grazes ceased and he trembled. "Don't stop," she whined, placing her hand on his. "Please, Arthur. You know just how to touch me."

Groaning, he started anew, deftly swiping quicker and quicker. The undulations of her pelvis hastened unevenly, begging both for release and for their coupling to last forever. She ran her palm up her torso, kneading her breast and plucking at her nipple. He nuzzled at her ear, grunting low in the back of his throat. Winding her fingers into his loose waves, she tugged lightly. Her belly twitched. Her whole frame tingled.

His skillful touch. The love they had for one another. The noises he was making in the crook of her shoulder. They all combined to throw her over the edge, and a wave of pleasure crashed through her. She cried his name brokenly, feeling empty without him inside her. But he kept holding her, guiding her through the crests of her climax. She was gasping, struggling to suck in air. Surely, she thought, he could detect the thundering of her heart against her ribs.

Gradually, the quivering grip she had on his locks eased. The kisses he planted on her neck were open-mouthed, desperate. And he hadn't halted the ardent movements of his hips. Y/N turned onto her other side. Gazing at him, she raked his curls out of his face, caressed his cheekbone with her knuckles. His look was hungry, darkened with need. The creases between his brows deepened as her hand trailed through the sparse dusting of hair on his chest.

There was a youthful charm to this situation, she considered. To them craving each other but not completely joining. It reminded her of being a teenager. When she'd been curious and horny, but nervous and not quite ready to go "all the way" with her ex. Being with Arthur allowed her to do all that again. To relive those experiences, to explore and make discoveries with him. To fall further in love with him daily.

She tenderly pecked the freckles at the top of his sternum, nestled against the notch above his clavicle. "I'm lucky to have you."

He didn't miss a beat, even as she trailed past the ticklish spots on his flank. "I'm luckier."

"I disagree." She outlined the slender muscles of his stomach, the v-lines leading to his cock. Played with the springy, brown curls at the base of him. "Without you, I'd only have my work. Which was enough before. But not now." After a moment, she concluded she was being sappy. She had to change it up. "And I wouldn't be having the best sex of my life."

Clearly flustered, he muffled his laugh. "Really?" His blush was prominent, his grin ecstatic.

"Really." Groans short and sudden, he rocked into her touch when she encircled his ample girth. Her fingers danced along his shaft, marveling at the contrast of his velvety skin with how hard he was. Pumping up and down, she tugged at him, trying to match the speed of his thrusts. He nudged his nose to hers, gazing at her before his hooded eyes flitted to watch what she was doing. Then she looked, too.

The sight of him fucking into her hand made her dizzy with want, even though he'd just gotten her off. The crimson, swollen head glistened, slick beading generously at the tip. Y/N licked her lips and spread it around him with the pad of her thumb. Moaning sharply, he bucked harder. Her motions quickened, flicking repeatedly at the notch on the underside.

Demand was implicit in the grasp he had on her upper arm. And it strengthened as his hips' stuttered, becoming unpredictable. Ragged pants hit her face. "I'm- I'm gonna make a mess.”

"It's all right," she soothed. Keeping ahold of him, she lay on her back. He followed and settled on top of her. Whimpering her name, he rubbed himself against her labia. But she gently pushed him onto his knees and continued palming him, her fingers teasing the ridge on his erection. It wouldn't take long to make him come. She could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tightening cords in his neck, his abrupt, needy cries...

Plunging forward, he held himself in place, grunting, clutching her urgently. His release hit her abdomen, warm and wet, and she gasped, her body curving up towards him. The feel of him spilling onto her couldn't completely distract her, though. Not from the beauty of his parted lips. Not from the relief that gradually spread across his features. Not from the slackening of his muscles as tension ebbed.

Sweat had gathered on his forehead. A droplet ran from the end of a dark brow to his jawline. Then he kissed her, his mouth groping at hers. "I love you," he said. He gave her one last peck and sat up on his knees. Holding onto the arm of the sofa, he retrieved her underwear from the floor and wiped her belly off. "That was fun." He tucked his chin bashfully.

"I concur." She entwined their hands and sat, then stretched as she pushed herself to stand and walk to the bathroom. The washcloth he'd designated as hers hung on the hook by the towels. She cleaned herself, listening as Arthur started the show again.

A new round of questions was just beginning. "When you and your spouse first met," the host started, "what was your first impression?"

Arthur's answer was instant. "Nice."

Y/N said the first thing that came to mind. "Handsome."

She popped her head out of the room to find him leaning on the entrance of the short corridor, beaming at her with hitched giggles. He was probably waiting for his turn to clean up. Like he normally did. But she couldn't stop herself from staring at him. Loving eyes met hers and his brows lifted expectantly. "Yes?"

Smiling, she wrung out the washcloth and put it back in its place. She stepped to him with a smile and smoothed his hair back. The rush of happiness in her soul, one she wasn't even sure she had, enamored her. Not only at what they'd shared on his old, scratchy sofa. But at Arthur being Arthur. At knowing soon she'd get to sleep next to him every night. Build a life with him, one she hadn't dreamed of even six months ago. Nothing she could say seemed adequate. So she went with a kind gesture, one she knew he'd appreciate. "I'll make us some decaf. And I love you, too."

~~~~~

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[imagine-that-one-thing]

Sodden Curls.

Authors Note: Idea from the  “If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to God! You’re on the couch for a month!” drabble challenge from LIST

You can find my Blurbs HERE

Warning: Smut! (Nothing too bad, but it is still there). It is very very mild tbh.

Rated M. Enjoy! Xx

Usually, you wake up to the character of a subdued house and whatever serene sounds whistle outside in the early hours of the morning, from cascading rain to birds chirping, you always have a somewhat quiet sound echoing peacefully. 

The last week, instead, you have been waking up to the sound of the shower and the soft hums of your husband, his routine being mayhem. He is no longer waking up at five and leaving before you are awake. Now— now he is waking up at seven, absolutely interrupting your routine. 

You shift the covers off of you and groan dramatically, a desire to stay in bed overcoming you sharply. With heavy force, you get up and pad your way around the generous bedroom, accumulating your clothes for the breakfast you have to attend. You ensured your sister you would attend her breakfast she insisted on having so you, along with her bridesmaids, can discuss the wedding. 

Why you can’t do that over lunch and coffee? You do not know. 

You meekly wait on the bed, anticipating for Harry to get out of the shower, your nerves ticking with each passing second. 

You don’t desire to be that wife that disturbs their man in the bathroom of all places; Harry cherishes his heated showers a little too much, whether that is in the morning or in the evening.

You step into the bathroom, his faint hums generating a smile to appear across your face, you clear your throat before deciding to disturb him, “H, are you nearly done? I have to leave in an hour.” You say over the cascading water, his head of damp curls immediately popping out from the shower, 

“I literally just got in.” He responds, “Mornin’, by the way, sleep well?” He questions, going back to his tepid shower. 

“Yeah, I guess, you?”

“Mhm, I have that dinner Jeff tonight, ~ Don’t forget.” He reminds you for the third time this week, “Oh, can you pick up my suit? I forgot to get it yesterday and I am busy today." 

"Yes, now hurry up.” You whine, sitting up on the bathroom counter top, impatiently watching the time— You hate being late.

“I am washing my hair, damn, you are pushy this morning.” He chuckles, seeming delighted by your impatient tendency. 

“If you use up all the hot water again, I swear to God! You’re on the couch for a month!” You threaten him— knowing very well you will not follow through with your threat— “Harry, hurry up!” You huff like a child, not wanting to show up to your breakfast late and looking like a mess. 

“If you stop being grouchy, I will let you join me.” His voice travels through the bathroom, a smile instantly brushing across your lips. You slide off of the counter and wander towards the shower. 

“I have to be ready in an hour, Harry.” You sigh just as he peaks his head out again. He gives you his cheeky grin, his eyes narrowing down on you mischievously.

“We will be done by then, take your clothes off before the hot water turns cold.” He winks, intriguing you with his sodden hair hanging around his face, his tanned body dripping wet, and his lips pursing with that precise shade of pink. “The hot water is running out, baby.” He sneers, his eyes following your gradual hands as they move to the hem of your t-shirt and you throw it off, swiftly undressing and stepping into the shower, feeling the supremely warmed water tapping your skin. “Morning, darlin’” He grins happily, gently drawing you closer to kiss you while the warmth of the water cascades around you, delicately caressing your skin and slipping down your body.

“Morning, handsome,” you mumble against the softness of his wet lips, his fingertips caressing your back soothingly, your own fingers entangling with his sodden hair. 

“You haven't washed your hair,” you comment, observing how it isn’t nice and smooth as you lace his curls with your fingers. 

He chuckles, leaning down and kissing you again, intensifying the kiss before pulling away nonchalantly, teasingly brushing his tongue against your lips. "Nope, wanted you to get in.“

You shake your head at your husband, the water dripping between you as you stare into his breathtakingly vibrant, Persian Green eyes.

"You, you are very cheeky," you whisper, tugging your hands away from the sodden curls that you adore a little too much.

He shrugs while sinking his teeth into the calamine pinkness of his bottom lip.

You allow your hands to flow across his shoulders before travelling themselves down his chest, your thoughts become entangled with only one—him.

Thoughts only he can appease.

His excellent molecular structure entices you for a moment, his lips pressing themselves to the slender column of your neck, leaving a trail of honeyed kisses.

Your hands explored the texture of his damp body, moderately working their way past his abs, your fingers reaching across his V line in a teasing matter. You feel his teeth sink into your delicate skin, a small groan escaping from him as you inch closer to his arousal; your hands enthralling him with your touch.

You halt as you remember your promises of the breakfast you're meant to be showering for— the proper shower that Harry is distracting you from.

"I have to get ready," you whisper, not wanting to leave in the slightest.

You're hungry, and craving what's right in front of you. "We'll be done before the hour is up," his husky voice whispers, the sound of his voice repressing a want and need, only igniting your hunger more prominently. "I promise." He mumbles against your lips, taking bold possession of them, his kisses holding promises of fulfilment.

Aching tension builds between the two of you, the water cascading over the both of you, both sets of hands examining every inch of each body, gliding against dips and curves, tugging at sodden hair....

You heavily huff as you stumble into the bedroom in nothing but a towel, Harry right behind you, his chuckles lighting up the room.

"Harry, I'm late." You huff, trying to get ahold of the clothes you had earlier decided on.

"Not my fault." He shrugs, stepping past you with just a pair of sweats hanging lowly.

Not his fault, no.

You shake your head, glancing over at him as he smirks. "You can't blame me. I didn't force you into the shower," he smiles pleasantly, doing his best to come off as innocent, knowing very well and good this is his fault.

"I hate you, damn." You mutter out of frustration before you feel his hands on your bare arms. You glance at him, your eyes focused on his lips, craving more of the delicious taste he allows.

"You hate me? Hm," Harry challenges, leaning down and kissing you lightly, skimming his tongue over the edge of your already tingling lips.

You don't say anything, instead, you take bold possession of his succulent mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck, allowing your towel to fall to the floor.

He hoists you up on his torso, inching closer to the bed before benevolently lowering you down to rest on it. "My breakfast," you mumble against him, remembering your plans that you're still late too.

"Fuck the breakfast, you're sick," he mutters, having no shame in tempting you with missing your morning plans. "You're hot, too warm to be out. I'll take care of you," he adds, his words whispering against your desirable lips.

You give in, wanting him, again.

You feel the kissing intensifying more eagerly than previously, an opiate rising, one you have no wish to kick....

[andya-j]

William Pearl did not leave a great deal of money when he died, and his will was a simple one. With the exception of a few small bequests to relatives, he left all his property to his wife. The solicitor and Mrs Pearl went over it together in the solicitor's office, and when the business was completed, the widow got up to leave. At that point, the solicitor took a sealed envelope from the folder on his desk and held it out to his client. 'I have been instructed to give you this,' he said. 'Your husband sent it to us shortly before he passed away.' The solicitor was pale and prim; and out of respect for a widow he kept his head on one side as he spoke, looking downward. 'It appears that it might be something personal, Mrs Pearl. No doubt you'd like to take it home with you and read it in privacy.' Mrs Pearl accepted the envelope and went out, into the street. She paused on the pavement, feeling the thing with her fingers. A . letter of farewell from William? Probably, yes. A formal letter. It was, bound to be formal - stiff and formal. The man was incapable of acting otherwise. He had never done anything informal in his life. My dear Mary, I trust that you will not permit my departure from this world to upset you too much, but that you will continue to observe those precepts which have guided you so well daring our partnership together. Be diligent and dignified in all things. Be thrifty with your money. Be very careful that you do not . . . et cetera, et cetera. A typical William letter. Or was it possible that he might have broken down at the last moment and written her something beautiful? Maybe this was a beautiful tender message, a sort of love letter, a lovely warm no of thanks to her for giving him thirty years of her life and for ironing a million shirts and cooking a million meals and making a million beds, something that she could read over and over again, once a day at least, and she would keep it for ever in the box on the dressing-table together with her brooches. There is no knowing what people will do when they are about to die, Mrs Pearl told herself, and she tucked the envelope under her arm and hurried home. She let herself in the front door and went straight to the livingroom and sat down on the sofa without removing her hat or coat. Then she opened the envelope and drew out the contents. These consisted, she saw, of some fifteen or twenty sheets of lined white paper, folded over once and held together at the top left-hand corner by a clip. Each sheet was covered with the small, neat, forward-sloping writing that she knew so well, but when she noticed how much of it there was, and in what a neat businesslike manner it was written, and how the first page didn't even begin in the nice way a letter should, she began to get suspicious. She looked away. She lit herself a cigarette. She took one puff and laid the cigarette in the ash-tray. If this is about what I am beginning to suspect it is about, she told herself, then I don't want to read it. Can one refuse to read a letter from the dead? . Yes. Well... She glanced over at William's empty chair on the other side of the fireplace. It was a big brown leather armchair, and there was a. depression on the seat of it, made by his buttocks over the years. Higher up, on the backrest, there was a dark oval stain on the leather where his head had rested. He uþed to sit reading in that chair and she would be opposite him on the sofa, sewing on buttons or mending socks or putting a patch on the elbow of one , of his jackets, and every now and then a pair of eyes would glance up from the book and settle on her, watchful, but strangely impersonal, as if calculating something. She had never liked those eyes. They were ice blue, cold, small, and rather close together, with two deep vertical lines of disapproval dividing them. All her life they had been watching her. And even now, after a week alone in the house, she sometimes had an uneasy feeling that they. were still there, following her around, staring at her from doorways, from empty chairs, through a window at night. Slowly she reached into her handbag and took out her spectacles and put them on. Then, holding the pages up high in front of her so that they caught the late afternoon light from the window behind, she started to read: This note, my dear Mary, is entirely for you, and will be given you shortly after I am gone. Do not be alarmed by the sight of all this writing. It is nothing but an attempt on my part to explain to you precisely what Landy is going to do to me, and why I have agreed that he should do it, and what are his theories and his hopes. You are my wife and you have a right to know these things. In fact you must know them: During the past few days I have tried very hard to speak with you about Landy, but you have steadfastly refused to give me a hearing. This, as I have already told you, is a very foolish attitude to take, and I find it not entirely an unselfish one either. It stems mostly from ignorance, and I am absolutely convinced that if only you were made aware of all the facts, you would immediately change your view. That is why I am hoping that when I am no longer with you, and your mind is less distracted, you will consent to listen to me more carefully through these pages. I swear to you that when you have read my story, your sense of antipathy will vanish, and enthusiasm will take its place. I even dare to hope that you will become a little proud of what I have done. As you read on, you must forgive me, if you will, for the coolness of my style, but this is the only way I know of getting my message over to you clearly. You see, as my time draws near, it is natural that I begin to brim with every kind of sentimentality under the sun. Each day I grow more extravagantly wistful, especially in the evenings, and unless I watch myself closely my emotions will be overflowing on to these pages. I have a wish, for example, to write something about you and what a satisfactory wife you have been to me through and I am promising myself that if there is time; and I still have the strength, I shall do that next. I have a yearning also to speak about this Oxford of mine where I have been living and teaching for the past seventeen years, to tell something about the glory of the place and to explain, if I can, a little of what it has meant to have been allowed to work in its midst. All the things and places that I loved so well keep crowding in on me now in this gloomy bedroom. They are bright and beautiful as they always were, and today, for some reason, I can see them more clearly than ever. The path around the lake in the gardens of Worcester College, where Lovelace used to walk. The gateway at Pembroke. The view westward over the town from Magdalen Tower. The great hall at Christchurch. The little rockery at St John's where I have counted more than a dozen varieties of campanula, including the rare and dainty C. Waldsteiniana. But there, you see! I haven't even begun and already I'm falling into the trap. So let me get started now, and let you read it slowly, my dear, without any of hat sense of sorrow or disapproval that might otherwise embarrass your understanding. Promise me now that you will read it slowly, and that you will put yourself in a cool and patient frame of mind before you begin. The details of the illness that struck me down so suddenly in my middles life. are known to you. I need not waste time upon them except to admit at once how foolish I was not to have gone earlier to my doctor. Cancer is one of the few remaining diseases that these modern drugs cannot cure. A surgeon can operate if it has not spread too far; but with me, not only did I leave it too late, but the thing had the effrontery to attack me in the pancreas, making both surgery and survival equally impossible. So here I was with somewhere between one and six months left to live, growing more melancholy every hour and then, all of a sudden, in comes Landy. That was six weeks ago, on a Tuesday morning, very early, long before your visiting time, and the moment he entered I knew there was some sort of madness in the wind. He didn't creep in on his toes, sheepish and embarrassed, not knowing what to say, like all my other visitors. He came in strong and smiling, and he strode up to the bed and stood there looking down at me with a wild bright glimmer in his eyes, and he said, 'William, my boy, this is perfect. You're just the one I want!' Perhaps I should explain to you here that although John Landy has 'Look,' he aid, pulling up a chair beside the bed. 'In a few weeks you're going to be dead. Correct?' Coming from Landy, the question didn't seem especially unkind. In a way it was refreshing to have a visitor brave enough to touch upon the forbidden subject. 'You're going to expire right here in this. room, and then they'll take you out and cremate you.' 'Bury me.' I said. 'That's even worse. And then what? Do you believe you'll go to heaven?' 'I doubt it,' I said, 'though it would be comforting to think so.' 'Or hell, perhaps?' . 'I don' really see why they should send me there.' 'You never know, my dear William.' 'What's all this about?' I asked. 'Well,' he said, and I could see him watching me carefully, personally, I don't believe that after you're dead you'll ever hear of yourself again unless...' - and here he paused and smiled and leaned closer- '...unless, of course, you have the sense to put yourself into my hands. Would you care to consider a proposition?' The way he was staring at me, and studying me, and appraising me with a queer kind of hungriness, I might have been a piece of prime beef on the counter and he had bought it and was waiting for them to wrap it up. 'I'm really serious about it, William. Would you care to consider a proposition?' 'I don't know what you're talking about.' 'Then listen and I'll tell you. Will you listen to me?' 'Go on then, if you like. I doubt I've got very much to lose by hearing it.' 'On the contrary, you have a great deal to gain - especially after you're dead.' I am sure he was expecting me to jump when he said this, but for some reason I was ready for it. I lay quite still, watching his face and that slow white smile of his that always revealed the gold clasp of an upper denture curled around the canine on the left side of his month. 'This is a thing, William, that I've been working on quietly for some years. one or two others here at the hospital have been helping me, especially Morrison, and we've completed a number of fairly successful trials with laboratory animals. I'm at the stage now where I'm ready to have a go with a man. It's a big idea, and it may sound a bit far-fetched at first, but from a surgical point of view there doesn't seem to be any reason why it shouldn't be more or less practicable.' Landy leaned forward and placed both hands on the edge of my bed. He has a good face, handsome in a bony sort of way, with none of the usual doctor's look about it. You know that look, most of them have it. It glimmers at you out of their eyeballs like a dull electric sign and it reads Only I can save you. But John Landy's eyes were wide and bright and little sparks of excitement were dancing in the centres of them. 'Quite a long time ago,' he said, 'I saw a short medical film that had been brought over from Russia. It was a rather gruesome thing, but interesting. It showed a dog's head completely severed from the body, but with the normal blood supply being maintained through the arteries and veins by means of an artificial heart. Now the thing is this: that dog's head, sitting there all alone on a sort of tray, was alive. The brain was functioning. They proved it by several tests. For example, when food was smeared on the dog's lips, the tongue would come out and lick it away, and the eyes would follow a person moving across the room. 'It seemed reasonable to conclude from this that the head and the brain did not need to be attached to the rest of the body in order to remain alive provided; of course, that a supply of properly oxygenated blood could be maintained. 'Now then. My own thought, which grew out of seeing this film, was to remove the brain from the skull of a human and keep it alive and functioning as an independent unit for an unlimited period after he is dead. Your brain, for example, after you are dead.' 'I don't like that,' I said. 'Don't interrupt, William. Let me finish. So far as I can tell from subsequent experiments, the brain is a peculiarly self supporting object. It manufactures its own cerebrospinal fluid. The magic processes of thought and memory which go on inside it are manifestly not impaired by the absence of limbs or trunk or even of skull, provided, as I say; that you keep pumping in the right kind of oxygenated blood under the proper conditions. 'My dear William, just think for a moment of your own brain. It is in perfect shape. It is crammed full of a lifetime of learning. It has taken you years of work to make it what it is. It is just beginning to give out some first-rate original ideas. Yet soon it is going to have to die along with the rest of your body simply because your silly little pancreas is riddled with cancer.' 'No thank you,' I said to him. 'You can stop there. It's a repulsive idea, and even if you could do it, which I doubt, it would be quite pointless. What possible use is there in keeping my brain alive if I couldn't talk or see or hear or feel? Personally, I can think of nothing more unpleasant.' 'I believe that you would be able to communicate with us,' Landy said. 'And we might even succeed in giving you a certain amount of vision. But let's take this slowly. I'll come to all that later on. The fact remains, that you're going to die fairly soon whatever happens, and my plans would not involve touching you at all until after you are dead. Come now, William. No true philosopher could object to lending his dead body to the causes of science.' 'That's not putting it quite straight' I answered. 'It seems to me' there'd be some doubts as to whether I were dead or alive by the time you'd finished with me.' 'Well,' he said, smiling a little,'I suppose you're right about that. But I don't think you ought to turn me down quite so quickly before you know a bit more about it.' 'I said I don't want to hear it.' 'Have a cigarette,' he said, holding out his case. 'I don't smoke, you know that.' He took one himself and lit it with a tiny silver lighter that was no bigger than a shilling piece. 'A present from the people who make my instruments,' he said. 'Ingenious, isn't it?' I examined the lighter, then handed it back. 'May I go on?' he asked. 'I'd rather you didn't.' 'Just lie still and listen. I think you'll find it quite interesting.' There were some blue grapes on a plate beside my bed. I put the plate on my chest and began eating the grapes. 'At the very moment of death,' Landy said, 'I should have to be standing by so that I could step in immediately and try to keep your brain alive.' 'You mean leaving it in the head?' 'To start with, yes. I'd have to.' 'And where would you put it after that?' 'If you want to know, in a sort of basin.' 'Are you really serious about this?' 'Certainly I'm serious.' 'All right. Go on.' 'I suppose you know that when the heart stops and the brain is deprived of fresh blood and oxygen, its tissues die very rapidly. Anything from four to six minutes and the whole thing's dead. Even after three minutes you may get a certain amount of damage. So I should have to work rapidly to prevent this from happening. But with the help of the machine, it should all be quite simple.' 'What machine?' 'The artificial heart. We've got a nice adaptation here of the one originally devised by Alexis Carrel and Lindbergh. It oxygenates the blood, keeps it at the right temperature, pumps it in at the right pressure, and does a number of other little necessary things. It's really not at all complicated.' 'Tell me what you would do at the moment of death,' I said. 'What is the first thing you would do?' 'Do you know anything about the vascular and venous arrangement of the brain?' 'No.' 'Then listen. It's not difficult. The blood supply to the brain is derived from two main sources, the internal carotid arteries and the vertebral arteries. There are two of each, making four arteries in all. Got that?' 'Yes.' 'And the return system is even simpler. The blood is drained away by only two large veins, the internal jugulars So you have four arteries going up they go up the neck of course and two veins coming down. Around the brain itself they naturally branch out into other channels, but those don't concern us. We never touch them.' 'All right,' I said. 'I imagine that I've just died. Now what would you do?' 'I should immediately open your neck and locate the four arteries, the carotids and the vertebrals. I should then perfuse them, which means that I'd stick a large hollow needle into each. These four needles would be connected by tubes to the artificial heart. 'Then, working quickly, I would dissect out both the left and right jugular veins and hitch these also to the heart machine to complete the circuit. Now switch on the machine, which is already primed with the right type of blood, and there you are. The circulation through your brain would be restored.' 'I'd be like that Russian dog.' 'I don't think you would. For one thing, you'd certainly lose consciousness when you died, and I very much doubt whether you would come to again for quite a long time if indeed you came to at all. But, conscious or not, you'd be in a rather interesting position, wouldn't you? You'd have a cold dead body and a living brain.' Landy paused to savour this delightful prospect. The man was so entranced and bemused by the whole idea that he evidently found it impossible to believe I might not be feeling the same way. 'We could now afford to take our time.' he said. 'And believe me, we'd need it. The first thing we'd do would be to wheel you to the operating-room, accompanied of course by the machine, which must never stop pumping. The next problem...' 'All right,' I said. 'That's enough. I don't have to hear the details.' 'Oh but you must,' he said. 'It is important that you should know precisely what is going to happen to you all the way through. You see, afterwards, when you regain consciousness, it will be much more satisfactory from your point of view if you are able to remember exactly where you are and how you came to be there. If only for your own peace of mind you should know that. You agree? I lay still on the bed, watching him. 'So the next problem would be to remove your brain, intact and undamaged, from your dead body. The body is useless. In fact it has already started to decay. The skull and the face are also useless. They are both encumbrances and I don't want them around. All I want is the brain, the clean beautiful brain, alive and perfect. So when I get you on the table I will take a saw, a small oscillating saw, and with this I shall proceed to remove the whole vault of your skull. You'd still be unconscious at that point so I wouldn't have to bother with anaesthetic.' 'Like hell you wouldn't,' I said. 'You'd be out cold, I promise you that, William. Don't forget you died just a few minutes before.' 'Nobody's sawing off the top of my skull without an anaesthetic,' I said. ' Landy shrugged his shoulders. 'It makes no difference to me,' he said. 'I'll be glad to give you a little procaine if you want it. If it will make you any happier I'll infiltrate the whole scalp with procaine, the whole head, from the neck up.' 'Thanks very much,' I said. 'You know,' he went on, 'it's extraordinary what sometimes happens. Only last week a man was brought in unconscious, and I opened his head without any anaesthetic at all and removed a small blood clot. I was still working inside the skull when he woke up and began talking. "Where am I?" he asked. "You're in hospital." "Well," he said. "Fancy that." "Tell me," I asked him, "is this bothering you, what I'm doing?" "No," he answered. "Not at all. What are you doing?" "I'm just removing a blood clot from your brain." "You are?" "Just lie still. Don't move. I'm nearly finished." "So that's the bastard who's been giving me all those headaches," the man said.' Landy paused and smiled; remembering the occasion. ''That's word. for word what the man said,' he went on, 'although the next day he couldn't even recollect the incident. It's a funny thing, the brain.' 'I'll have the procaine,' I said. 'As you wish, William. And now, as I say, I'd take a small oscillating saw and carefully remove your complete calvarium the whole vault of the skull. This would expose the top half of the brain, or rather the outer covering in which it is wrapped. You may or may not know that there are three separate coverings around the brain itself the outer one called the dura mater or dura, the middle one called the arachnoid, and the inner one called the pia mater or pia. Most laymen seem to have the idea that the brain is a naked thing floating around in fluid in your head. But it isn't. It's wrapped up neatly in these three strong coverings, and the cerebrospinal fluid actually flows within the little gap between the two coverings, known as the subarachnoid space. As I told you before, this fluid is manufactured by the brain and it drains off into the venous system by osmosis. 'I myself would leave all three coverings - don't they have lovely names; the dura, the arachnoid, and the pia? - I'd leave them all intact. There are many reasons for this, not least among them being the fact that within the dura run the venous channels that drain the blood from the brain into the jugular. 'Now,' he went on, we've got the upper half of your skull off so that the top of the brain, wrapped in its outer covering, is exposed. The next step is the really tricky one: to release the whole package so that it can be lifted cleanly away, leaving the stubs of the four supply arteries and the two veins hanging underneath ready to be reconnected to the machine. This is an immensely lengthy and complicated business involving the delicate chipping away of much bone, the severing of many nerves and the cutting and tying of numerous blood vessels. The only way I could do it with any hope of success would be by taking a rongeur and slowly biting off the rest of your skull, peeling it off downward like an orange until the sides and underneath of the brain covering are fully exposed. The problems involved are highly technical and I won't go into them, but I feel fairly sure that the work can be done. It's simply a question of surgical skill and patience. And don't forget that I'd have plenty of time, as much as I wanted, because the artificial heart would be continually pumping away alongside the operating-table, keeping the brain alive. 'Now, let's assume that I've succeeded in peeling off your skull and removing everything else that surrounds the sides of the brain. That leaves it connected to the body only at the base, mainly by the spinal column and by the two large veins arid the four arteries that are supplying it with blood. So what next? 'I would sever the spinal column just above the first cervical vertebra, taking great care not to harm the two vertebral arteries which are in that area. But you must remember that the dura or outer covering is open at this place to receive the spinal column, so I'd have to close this opening by sewing the edges of the dura together. There'd be no problem there. 'At this point, I would be ready for the final move. To one side, on a table, I'd have a basin of a special shape, .and this would be filled with what we call Ringer's Solution. That is. a special kind Of fluid we use for irrigation in neurosurgery. I would now cut the brain completely loose by severing. the supply arteries and the veins. Then I would simply pick it up in my hands and transfer 'it to the basin: 'This would be the only other time during the whole proceeding when the blood flow would be cut off; but once it was in the basin, it wouldn't take a moment to reconnect the stubs of the arteries and veins to the artificial heart. 'So there you are,' Landy said. 'Your brain is now in the basin, and still alive, and there isn't any reason why it shouldn't' stay alive for a very long time, years and years perhaps, provided we looked after the blood and the machine.' 'But would it function?' 'My dear William, how should I know? I can't even tell you whether it would regain consciousness.' 'And if it did?' 'There now! That would be fascinating!' 'Would it?' I said, and I must admit I had my doubts. 'Of course it would! Lying there with all your thinking processes working beautifully, and your memory as well...' 'And not being able to see or feel or smell or hear or talk.' I said. 'Ah!' he cried. 'I knew I'd forgotten something! I never told you about the eye. Listen. I am going to try to leave one of your optic nerves intact, as well as the eye itself. The optic nerve is a little thing about the thickness of a clinical thermometer and about two inches in length as it stretches between the brain and the eye. The beauty of it is that it's not really a nerve at all. It's an outpouching of the brain itself, and the dura or brain covering extends along it and is attached to the eyeball. The back of the eye is therefore in very close contact with the brain, and cerebrospinal fluid flows right up to it. 'All this suits my purpose very well, and makes it reasonable to suppose that I could succeed in preserving one of your eyes: I've already constructed a small plastic case to contain the eyeball, instead of your own socket, and when the brain is in, the basin, submerged in Ringer's Solution, the eyeball in its case will float on the surface of the liquid.' 'Staring at the ceiling,' I said. 'I suppose so, yes. I'm afraid there wouldn't be any muscles there to move it around. But it- might be sort of fun to lie there so quietly and comfortably peering out at the world from your basin.' 'Hilarious;' I said. 'How about leaving me an ear as well?' 'I'd rather not try an ear this time.' 'I want an ear,' I said. 'I insist upon an ear.' 'No.' 'I want to listen to Bach.' 'You don't understand how difficult it would be.' Landy said gently. 'The hearing apparatus - the cochlea, as it's called - is a far more delicate mechanism than the eye. What's more, it is encased in bone. So is a part of the auditory nerve that connects it with the brain. I couldn't possibly chisel the whole thing out intact.' 'Couldn't you leave it encased in the bone and bring the bone to the basin?' 'No,' he said firmly. 'This thing is complicated enough already. And anyway, if the eye works, it doesn't matter all that much about your hearing. We can always hold up messages for you to read. You really must leave me to decide what is possible and what isn't.' 'I haven't yet said, that I'm going to do it.' 'I know, William, I know.' 'I'm not sure I fancy the idea very much.' 'Would you rather be dead, altogether?' 'Perhaps I would. I don't know yet. I wouldn't be able to talk, would I?' 'Of course not.' 'Then how would I communicate with you? How would you know that I'm conscious?' 'It would be easy for us to know whether or not you regain consciousness,' Landy said: 'The ordinary electro-encephalograph could tell us that. We'd attach the electrodes directly to the frontal lobes of your brain, there in the basin.' 'And you could actually tell?' 'Oh, definitely. Any hospital could do that part of it.' 'But I couldn't communicate with you.' 'As a matter of fact,' Landy said, 'I believe you could, There's a man up in London called Wertheimer who's doing some interesting work on the subject of thought communication, and I've been in touch with him. You know, don't you, that the thinking brain throws off electrical and chemical discharges? And that these discharges go out in the form of waves, rather like radio waves?' 'I know a bit about it;' I said. 'Well, Wertheimer has constructed an apparatus somewhat. similar to the encephalograph, though far more sensitive, and he maintains that within certain narrow limits it can help him to interpret the actual things .that a brain is thinking. It produces a kind of graph which is apparently decipherable into words or thoughts. Would you like me to ask Wertheimer to come and see you?' 'No,' I said. Landy was already taking it for granted that I was going to go through with this business, and I resented his attitude. 'Go away now and leave me alone,' I told him. 'You won't get anywhere by trying to rush me.' He stood up at once and crossed to the door. 'One question,' I said. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. 'Yes, William?' 'Simply this. Do you yourself honestly believe that when my brain is in that basin, my mind will be able to function exactly. as it is doing at present? Do you believe that I will be able -to think and reason as I can now? And will the power of memory remain?' 'I don't see why not,' he answered. 'It's the same brain. It's alive. It's undamaged. In fact, it's completely untouched. We haven't even opened the dura. The big difference, of course, would be that we've severed every single nerve that leads into it - except for the one optic nerve - and this means that your thinking would no longer be influenced by your senses. You'd be living in an extraordinarily pure and detached world. Nothing to bother you at all, not even pain. You couldn't possibly feel pain because there wouldn't be any nerves to feel it with. In a way, it would be an almost perfect situation. No worries or fears or pains or hunger or thirst. Not even any desires. Just your memories and your. thoughts, and if the remaining eye happened to function, then you could read books as well. It all sounds rather pleasant to me. 'It does, does it?' 'Yes, William, it does. And particularly for a Doctor of Philosophy. It would be a tremendous experience. You'd be able to reflect upon the ways of the world with a detachment and a serenity that no man had ever attained before. And who knows what might not happen then! Great thoughts and solutions might come to you, great ideas that could revolutionize our way of life! Try to imagine, if you can, the degree of concentration that you'd be able to achieve!' 'And the frustration,' I said. 'Nonsense. There couldn't be any frustration. You can't have frustration without desire, and you couldn't possibly have any desire. Not physical desire, anyway.' 'I should certainly be capable of remembering my previous life in the world, and I might desire to return to it.' 'What, to this mess! Out of your comfortable basin and back into this madhouse!' 'Answer one more question,' I said. 'How long do you believe you could keep it alive' 'The brain? Who knows? Possibly for years and years. The conditions would be ideal. Most of the factors that cause deterioration would be absent, thanks to the artificial heart. The blood-pressure would remain constant at all times, an impossible condition in real life. The temperature would also be constant. The chemical composition of the blood would be near perfect There would be no impurities in it, no virus, no bacteria, nothing. Of course it's foolish to guess, but I believe that a brain might live for two or three hundred years in circumstances like these. Good-bye for now,' he said. 'I'll drop in and see you tomorrow.' He went out quickly, leaving me, as you might guess, in a fairly disturbed state of mind. My immediate reaction after he had gone was one of revulsion towards the whole business. Somehow, it wasn't at all nice. There was something basically repulsive about the idea that I myself, with all my mental faculties intact, should be reduced to a small slimy blob lying in a pool of water. It was monstrous, obscene, unholy. Another thing that bothered me was the feeling of helplessness that I was bound to expenence once Landy had got me into the basin. There could be no going back after that, no way of protesting or explairing. I would be committed for as long as they could keep me alive. And what, for example, if I could not stand it? What if it turned out to be terribly painful? What if I became hysterical? No legs to run away on. No voice to scream with. Nothing. I'd just have to grin and bear it for the next two centuries. No mouth to grin with either. At this point, a curious thought struck me, and it was this: Does not a man who has had a leg amputated often suffer from the delusion that the leg is still there? Does he not tell the nurse that the toes he doesn't have any more are itching like mad, and so on and so forth? I seemed to have heard something to that effect quite recently. Very well. On the same premise, was it not possible that my brain, lying there alone in that basin, might not suffer from a similar delusion in regard to my body? In which case, all my usual aches and pains could come flooding over me and I wouldn't even be able to take an aspirin to relieve them. One moment I might be imagining that I had the most excruciating cramp in my leg, or a violent indigestion, and a few minutes later, I might easily get the feeling that my poor bladder - you know me - was so full that if I didn't get to emptying it soon it would burst. Heaven forbid. I lay there for a long time thinking these horrid thoughts. Then quite suddenly, round about midday, my mood began to change. I became less concerned with the unpleasant aspect of the affair and found myself able to examine Landy's proposals in a more reasonable light. Was there not, after all, I asked myself, some thing a bit comforting in the thought that my brain might not necessarily have to die and disappear in a few weeks' time? There was indeed. I am rather proud of my brain. It is a sensitive, lucid, and juberous organ. It contains a prodigious store of information, and it is still capable of producing imaginative and original theories. As brains go, it is a, damn good one, though I say it myself. Whereas my body, my poor old body, the thing that Landy wants to throw away well, even you, my dear Mary, will have to agree with me that there is really nothing about that which is worth preserving any more. I was lying on my back eating a grape. Delicious it was, and there were three little seeds in it which I took out of my mouth and placed on the edge of the plate. 'I'm going to do it,' I said quietly. 'Yes, by God, I'm going to do it. When Landy comes back to see me tomorrow I shall tell him straight out that I'm going to do it.' It was as quick as that. And from then on, I began to feel very much better. 1 surprised everyone by gobbling an enormous lunch, and short after that you came in to visit me as usual. But how well I looked, you told me. How bright and well and chirpy Had anything happened? Was there some good news? Yes, I said there was. And then, if you remember, I bade you sit down and make yourself comfortable, and I began immediately to explain to you as gently as I could what was in the wind. Alas, you would have none of it. I had hardly begun telling you the barest details when you flew into a fury and said that the thing was revolting, disgusting, horrible, unthinkable, and when I tried to go on, you marched out of the room. Well, Mary, as you know, I have tried to discuss this subject with you many times since then, but you have consistently refused to give me a hearing. Hence this note, and I can only hope that you will have the good sense to permit yourself to read it. It has taken me a long time to write. Two weeks have gone since I started to scribble the first sentence, and I'm now a good. deal weaker than I was then. I doubt whether I have the strength to say much more. Certainly I won't say good-bye, because there's a chance, just a tiny chance, that if Landy succeeds in his work I may actually see you again later, that is if you can bring yourself to come and visit me. I am giving orders that these pages shall not be delivered to you until a week after I am gone. By now, therefore, as you sit reading them, seven. days have already elapsed since Landy did the deed. You yourself may even know what the outcome has been. If you don't, if you have purposely kept yourself apart and have refused to have anything to do with it - which I suspect may be the case - please change your mind now and give Landy a call to see how things went with me. That is the least you can do. I have told him that he may expect to hear from you on the seventh day. Your faithful husband, William PS. Be good when I am gone, and always remember that it is harder to be a widow than a wife. Do not drink cocktails. Do not waste money. Do not smoke cigarettes. Do not eat pastry. Do not use lipstick. Do not buy a television apparatus. Keep my rose beds and my rockery well weeded in the summers. And incidentally I suggest that you have the telephone disconnected now that I shall have no further use for it. W. Mrs Pearl laid the last page of the manuscript slowly down on the sofa beside her. Her little mouth was pursed up tight and there was a whiteness around her nostrils. But really! You would think a widow was entitled to a bit of peace after all these years. The whole thing was just too awful to think about. Beastly and awful. It gave her the shudders. She reached for her bag and found herself another cigarette. She lit it, inhaling the smoke deeply and blowing it out in clouds all over the room. Through the smoke she could see her lovely television set, brand new, lustrous, huge, crouching defiantly but also a little Self-consciously on top of what used to be William's worktable. What would he say, she wondered, if he could see that now? She paused, to remember the last time he had caught her smoking a cigarette. That was about a year ago, and she was sitting in the kitchen by the open window having a quick one before he came home from work. She'd had the radio on loud playing dance music and she had turned round to pour herself another cup of coffee and there he was standing in the doorway, huge and grim, staring down at her with those awful eyes, a little black dot of fury blazing in the centre of each. For four weeks after that, he had paid the housekeeping bills himself and given her no money at all, but of course he wasn't to know that she had over six pounds salted away in a soap-flake carton in the cupboard under the sink. 'What is it?' she had said to him once during supper. 'Are you worried about me getting lung cancer?' 'I am not,' he had answered. 'Then why can't I smoke?' 'Because I disapprove, that's why.' He had also disapproved of children, and as a result they had never had any of them either. Where was he now, this William of hers, the great disapprover? Landy would be expecting her to call up. Did she have to call Landy? Well, not really, no. She finished her cigarette, then lit another one immediately from the old stub. She looked at the telephone that was sitting on the worktable beside the television set. William had asked her to call. He had specifically requested that she telephone Landy as soon as she had read the letter. She hesitated, fighting hard now against that old ingrained sense duty that she didn't quite yet dare to shake off. Then, slowly, she got to her feet and crossed over to the phone on the worktable. She found a number in the book, dialled it, and waited. 'I want to speak to Mr Landy, please.' 'Who is calling?' 'Mrs Pearl. Mrs William Pearl.' 'One moment, please.' Almost at once, Landy was on the other end of the wire. 'Mrs Pearl?' 'This is Mrs Pearl.' There was a slight pause. 'I am so glad you called at last, Mrs Pearl. You are quite well, I hope?' The voice was quiet, unemotional, courteous. 'I wonder if you would care to come over here to the hospital? Then we can have a little chat. I expect you are very eager to know how it all came out.' She didn't answer. 'I can tell you now that everything went pretty smoothly, one way and another. Far better, in fact, than I was entitled to hope. It is not only alive, Mrs Pearl, it is conscious. It recovered consciousness on the second day. Isn't that interesting?' She waited for him to go on. 'And the eye is seeing. We are sure of that because we get an immediate change in the deflections on the encephalograph when we hold something up in front of it. And now we're giving it the newspaper to read every day.' 'Which newspaper?' Mrs Pearl asked sharply. 'The Daily Mirror. The headlines are larger.' 'He hates the Mirror. Give him The Times.' There was a pause, then the doctor said, 'Very well, Mrs Pearl. We'll give it The Times. We naturally want to do all we can to keep it happy.' 'Him,' she said. 'Not it. Him!' 'Him,' the doctor said. 'Yes, I beg your pardon. To keep him happy. That's one reason why I suggested you should come along here as soon as possible. I think it would be good for him to see you. You could indicate how delighted you were to be with him again - smile at him and blow him a kiss and all that sort of thing. It's bound to be a comfort to him to know that you are standing by.' There was a long pause. 'Well,' Mrs Pearl said at last, her voice suddenly very meek and tired. 'I suppose I had better come on over and see how he is.' 'Good. I knew you would. I'll wait here for you. Come straight up to my office on the second floor. Good-bye.' Half an hour later, Mrs Pearl was at the hospital. 'You mustn't be surprised by what he looks like,' Landy said as he walked beside her down a corridor. 'No, I won't.' 'It's bound to be a bit of a shock to you at first. He's not very prepossessing in his present state, I'm afraid.' 'I didn't marry him for his looks, Doctor.' Landy turned and stared at her. What a queer little woman this was, he thought, with her large eyes and her sullen, resentful air. Her features, which inust have been quite pleasant once, had now gone completely. The mouth was slack, the cheeks loose and flabby and the whole face gave the impression of having slowly but surely sagged to pieces through years and years of joyless married life. They walked on for a while in silence. 'Take your time when you get inside,' Landy said. 'He won't know you're in there until you place your face directly above his eye. The eye is always open, but he can't move it at all, so the field of vision is very narrow. At present we have it looking up at the ceiling. And of course he can't hear anything. We can talk together as much as we like. It's in here.' Landy opened a door and ushered her into a small square room. 'I wouldn't go too close yet,' he said, putting a hand on her arm. 'Stay back here a moment with me until you get used to it all.' There was a biggish white enamel bowl about the size of a washbasin standing on a high white table in the centre of the room, and there were half a dozen thin plastic tubes coming out of it. These tubes were connected with a whole lot of glass piping in which you could see the blood flowing to and from the heart inachine. The machine itself made a soff rhythmic pulsing sound. 'He's in there,' Landy said, pointing to the basin, which was too high for her to see into. 'Come just a little closer. Not too near.' He led her two paces forward. By stretching her neck, Mrs Pearl could now see the surface of the liquid inside the basin. It was clear and still, and on it there floated a small oval capsule, about the size of a pigeon's egg. 'That's the eye in there,' Landy said. 'Can you see it?' 'Yes.' 'So far as we can tell, it is still in perfect condition. It's his right eye, and the plastic container has a lens on it similar to the one he used in his own spectacles. At this moment he's probably seeing quite as well as he did before.' 'The ceiling isn't much to look at,' Mrs Pearl said. 'Don't worry about that. We're in the process of working out a whole programme to keep kim amused, but we don't want to go too quickly at first.' 'Give him a good book.' 'We will, we will. Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pearl?' 'Yes. 'Then we'll go forward a little more, shall we, and you'll be able to see the whole thing.' He led her forward until they were standing only a couple of yards from the table, and now she could see right down into the basin. 'There you are,' Landy said. 'That's William.' He was far larger than she had imagined he would be, and darker in colour. With all the ridges and creases running over his surface, he reminded her of nothing so much as an enormous pickled walnut. She could see the stubs of the four big arteries and the two veins coming out from the base of him and the neat way in which they were joined to the plastic tubes; and with each throb of the heart machine, all the tubes gave a little jerk in unison as the blood was pushed through them. 'You'll have to lean over,' Landy said, 'and put your pretty face right above the eye. He'll see you then, and you can srnile at him and blow him a kiss. If I were you I'd say a few nice things as well. He won't actually hear them, but I'm sure he'll get the general idea.' 'He hates people blowing kisses at him,' Mrs Pearl said. 'I'll do it my own way if you don't mind.' She stepped up to the edge of the table, leaned forward until her face was directly over the basin, and looked straight down into William's eye. 'Hallo, dear,' she whispered. 'It's me - Mary.' The eye, bright as ever, stared back at her with a peculiar, fixed intensity. 'How are you, dear?' she said. The plastic capsule was transparent all the way round so that the whole of the eyeball was visible. The optic nerve connecting the underside of it to the brain looked like a short length of grey spaghetti. 'Are you feeling all right, William?' It was a queer sensation peering into her husband's eye when there was no face to go with it. All she had to look at was the eye, and shekept staring at it, and gradually it grew bigger and bigger, in the end it was the only thing that she could see - a sort of face in itself. There was a network of tiny red veins running over the white surface of the eyeball, and in the ice-blue of the iris there were three or four rather pretty darkish streaks radiating from the pupil in the centre. The pupil was large and black, with a little spark of light reflecting from one side of it. 'I got your letter, dear, and came over at once to see how you were. Dr Landy says you are doing wonderfully well. Perhaps if I talk slowly you can understand a little of what I am saying by reading my lips.' There was no doubt that the eye was watching her. 'They are doing everything possible to take care of you, dear. This marvellous machine thing here is pumping away all the time and I'm sure it's a lot better than those silly old hearts all the rest of us have. Ours are liable to break down at any moment, but yours will go on for ever.' She was studying the eye closely, trying to discover what there was about it that gave it such an unusual appearance. 'You seem fine, dear, simply fine. Really you do.' It looked ever so much nicer, this eye, than either of his eye used to look, she told herself. There was a softness about it somewhere, a calm, kindly quality that she had never seen before. Maybe it had to do with the dot in the very centre, the pupil. William's pupils used always to be tiny black pinheads. They used to glint at you, stabbing into your brain, seeing right through you, and they always knew at once what you were up to and even what you were thinking. But this one she was looking at now was large and soft and gentle, almost cowlike. 'Are you quite sure he's conscious?' she asked, not looking up. 'Oh yes, completely,' Landy said. 'And he can see me?' 'Perfectly.' 'Isn't that marvellous? I expect he's wondering what happened.' 'Not at all. He knows perfectly well where he is and why he's there. He can't possibly have forgotten that.' 'You mean he knows he's in this basin?' 'Of course. And if only he had the power of speech, he would probably be able to carry on a perfectly normal conversation with you this very minute. So far as I can see, there should be absolutely no difference mentally between this William here and the one you used to know back home.' 'Good gracious me,' Mrs Pearl said, and she paused to consider this intriguing aspect. You know what, she told herself, looking behind the eye now and staring hard at the great grey pulpy walnut that lay so placidly under the water, I'm not at all sure that I don't prefer him as he is at present. In fact, I believe that I could live very comfortably with this kind of a William. I could cope with this one. 'Quiet, isn't he?' she said. 'Naturally he's quiet.' No arguments and criticisms, she thought, no constant admonitions, no rules to obey, no ban on smoking cigarettes, no pair of cold disapproving eyes watching me over the top of a book in the evenings, no shirts to wash and iron, no meals to cook - nothing but the throb of the heart machine, which was rather a, soothing sound anyway and certainly not loud enough to interfere with television. 'Doctor,' she said. 'I do believe I'm suddenly getting to feel the most enormous affection for him. Does that sound queer?' 'I think it's quite understandable.' 'He looks so helpless and silent lying there under the water in his little basin.' 'Yes, I know.' 'He's like a baby, that's what he's like. He's exactly like a little baby.' Landy stood still behind her, watching. 'There,' she said softly, peering into the basin. 'From now on Mary's going to look after you all by herself and you've nothing to worry about in the world. When can I have him back home, Doctor?' 'I beg your pardon?' 'I said when can I have him back - back in my own house?' 'You're joking,' Landy said. She turned her head slowly around and looked directly at him. 'Why should I joke?' she asked. Her face was bright, her eyes round and bright as two diamonds. 'He couldn't possibly be moved.' 'I don't see why not.' 'This is an experiment, Mrs Pearl.' 'It's my husband, Dr Landy.' A funny little nervous half-smile appeared on Landy's mouth. 'Well…' he said. 'It is my husband, you know.' Ihere was no anger in her voice. She spoke quietly, as though merely reminding him' of a simple fact. 'That's rather a tricky' point,' Landy said, wetting his lips. 'You're a widow now, Mrs Pearl. I think you must resign yourself to that fact.' She turned away suddenly from the table and crossed over to the window. 'I mean it,' she said, fishing in her bag for a cigarette. 'I want him back.' Landy watched her as she put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. Unless he were very much mistaken, there was something a bit odd about this woman, he thought. She seemed almost pleased to have her husband over there in the basin. He tried to imagine what his own feelings would be if it were his wife's brain lying there and her eye staring up at him out of that capsule. He wouldn't like it. 'Shall we go back to my room now?' he said. She was standing by the window, apparently quite calm and relaxed, puffing her cigarette. 'Yes, all right.' On her way past the table she stopped and leaned over the basin once more. 'Mary's leavingnow, sweetheart,' she said. 'And don't you worry about a single thing, you understand? We're going to get you right back home where, we can look after you properly just as soon as we possibly can. And listen dear...' At this point she paused and carried the cigarette to her lips, intending to take a puff. Instantly the eye flashed. She was looking straight into it at the time, and right in the centre of it she saw a tiny but brilliant flash of light, and the pupil contracted into a minute black pinpoint of absolute fury. At first she didn't move. She stood bending over the basin, holding the cigarette up to her mouth, watching the eye. Then very slowly, deliberately, she put the cigarette between her lips and took a long suck. She inhaled deeply, and she held the smoke inside her lungs for three or four seconds; then suddenly, whoosh, out it came through her nostrils in two thin jets which struck the water in the basin and billowed out over the surface in a thick blue cloud, enveloping the eye. Landy was over by the door, with his back to her, waiting. 'Come on, Mrs Pearl,' he called. 'Don't look so cross, William,' she said 'softly. 'It isn't any good looking cross.' Landy turned his head to see what she was doing. 'Not any more it isn't,' she whispered. 'Because from now on, my pet, you're going to do just exactly what Mary tells you. Do you understand that?' 'Mrs Pearl,' Land; said, moving towards her. 'So don't be a naughty boy again, will you, my precious,' she said, taking another pull at the cigarette. 'Naughty boys are liable to get punished most severely nowadays, you ought to know that.' Landy was beside her now, and he took her by the arm and began drawing her firmly but gently away from the table. 'Good-bye, darling,' she called. 'I'll be back soon.' 'That's enough, Mrs Pearl.' 'Isn't he sweet?' she cried, looking up at Landy with big bright eyes. 'Isn't he heaven? I just can't wait to get him home.'

William Pearl did not leave a great deal of money when he died, and his will was a simple one. With the exception of a few small bequests to relatives, he left all his property to his wife. The solicitor and Mrs Pearl went over it together in the solicitor’s office, and when the business was completed, the widow got up to leave. At that point, the solicitor took a sealed envelope from the folder on his desk and held it out to his client. ‘I have been instructed to give you this,’ he said. ‘Your husband sent it to us shortly before he passed away.’ The solicitor was pale and prim; and out of respect for a widow he kept his head on one side as he spoke, looking downward. ‘It appears that it might be something personal, Mrs Pearl. No doubt you’d like to take it home with you and read it in privacy.’ Mrs Pearl accepted the envelope and went out, into the street. She paused on the pavement, feeling the thing with her fingers. A . letter of farewell from William? Probably, yes. A formal letter. It was, bound to be formal – stiff and formal. The man was incapable of acting otherwise. He had never done anything informal in his life. My dear Mary, I trust that you will not permit my departure from this world to upset you too much, but that you will continue to observe those precepts which have guided you so well daring our partnership together. Be diligent and dignified in all things. Be thrifty with your money. Be very careful that you do not . . . et cetera, et cetera. A typical William letter. Or was it possible that he might have broken down at the last moment and written her something beautiful? Maybe this was a beautiful tender message, a sort of love letter, a lovely warm no of thanks to her for giving him thirty years of her life and for ironing a million shirts and cooking a million meals and making a million beds, something that she could read over and over again, once a day at least, and she would keep it for ever in the box on the dressing-table together with her brooches. There is no knowing what people will do when they are about to die, Mrs Pearl told herself, and she tucked the envelope under her arm and hurried home. She let herself in the front door and went straight to the livingroom and sat down on the sofa without removing her hat or coat. Then she opened the envelope and drew out the contents. These consisted, she saw, of some fifteen or twenty sheets of lined white paper, folded over once and held together at the top left-hand corner by a clip. Each sheet was covered with the small, neat, forward-sloping writing that she knew so well, but when she noticed how much of it there was, and in what a neat businesslike manner it was written, and how the first page didn’t even begin in the nice way a letter should, she began to get suspicious. She looked away. She lit herself a cigarette. She took one puff and laid the cigarette in the ash-tray. If this is about what I am beginning to suspect it is about, she told herself, then I don’t want to read it. Can one refuse to read a letter from the dead? . Yes. Well… She glanced over at William’s empty chair on the other side of the fireplace. It was a big brown leather armchair, and there was a. depression on the seat of it, made by his buttocks over the years. Higher up, on the backrest, there was a dark oval stain on the leather where his head had rested. He uþed to sit reading in that chair and she would be opposite him on the sofa, sewing on buttons or mending socks or putting a patch on the elbow of one , of his jackets, and every now and then a pair of eyes would glance up from the book and settle on her, watchful, but strangely impersonal, as if calculating something. She had never liked those eyes. They were ice blue, cold, small, and rather close together, with two deep vertical lines of disapproval dividing them. All her life they had been watching her. And even now, after a week alone in the house, she sometimes had an uneasy feeling that they. were still there, following her around, staring at her from doorways, from empty chairs, through a window at night. Slowly she reached into her handbag and took out her spectacles and put them on. Then, holding the pages up high in front of her so that they caught the late afternoon light from the window behind, she started to read: This note, my dear Mary, is entirely for you, and will be given you shortly after I am gone. Do not be alarmed by the sight of all this writing. It is nothing but an attempt on my part to explain to you precisely what Landy is going to do to me, and why I have agreed that he should do it, and what are his theories and his hopes. You are my wife and you have a right to know these things. In fact you must know them: During the past few days I have tried very hard to speak with you about Landy, but you have steadfastly refused to give me a hearing. This, as I have already told you, is a very foolish attitude to take, and I find it not entirely an unselfish one either. It stems mostly from ignorance, and I am absolutely convinced that if only you were made aware of all the facts, you would immediately change your view. That is why I am hoping that when I am no longer with you, and your mind is less distracted, you will consent to listen to me more carefully through these pages. I swear to you that when you have read my story, your sense of antipathy will vanish, and enthusiasm will take its place. I even dare to hope that you will become a little proud of what I have done. As you read on, you must forgive me, if you will, for the coolness of my style, but this is the only way I know of getting my message over to you clearly. You see, as my time draws near, it is natural that I begin to brim with every kind of sentimentality under the sun. Each day I grow more extravagantly wistful, especially in the evenings, and unless I watch myself closely my emotions will be overflowing on to these pages. I have a wish, for example, to write something about you and what a satisfactory wife you have been to me through and I am promising myself that if there is time; and I still have the strength, I shall do that next. I have a yearning also to speak about this Oxford of mine where I have been living and teaching for the past seventeen years, to tell something about the glory of the place and to explain, if I can, a little of what it has meant to have been allowed to work in its midst. All the things and places that I loved so well keep crowding in on me now in this gloomy bedroom. They are bright and beautiful as they always were, and today, for some reason, I can see them more clearly than ever. The path around the lake in the gardens of Worcester College, where Lovelace used to walk. The gateway at Pembroke. The view westward over the town from Magdalen Tower. The great hall at Christchurch. The little rockery at St John’s where I have counted more than a dozen varieties of campanula, including the rare and dainty C. Waldsteiniana. But there, you see! I haven’t even begun and already I’m falling into the trap. So let me get started now, and let you read it slowly, my dear, without any of hat sense of sorrow or disapproval that might otherwise embarrass your understanding. Promise me now that you will read it slowly, and that you will put yourself in a cool and patient frame of mind before you begin. The details of the illness that struck me down so suddenly in my middles life. are known to you. I need not waste time upon them except to admit at once how foolish I was not to have gone earlier to my doctor. Cancer is one of the few remaining diseases that these modern drugs cannot cure. A surgeon can operate if it has not spread too far; but with me, not only did I leave it too late, but the thing had the effrontery to attack me in the pancreas, making both surgery and survival equally impossible. So here I was with somewhere between one and six months left to live, growing more melancholy every hour and then, all of a sudden, in comes Landy. That was six weeks ago, on a Tuesday morning, very early, long before your visiting time, and the moment he entered I knew there was some sort of madness in the wind. He didn’t creep in on his toes, sheepish and embarrassed, not knowing what to say, like all my other visitors. He came in strong and smiling, and he strode up to the bed and stood there looking down at me with a wild bright glimmer in his eyes, and he said, ‘William, my boy, this is perfect. You’re just the one I want!’ Perhaps I should explain to you here that although John Landy has ‘Look,’ he aid, pulling up a chair beside the bed. ‘In a few weeks you’re going to be dead. Correct?’ Coming from Landy, the question didn’t seem especially unkind. In a way it was refreshing to have a visitor brave enough to touch upon the forbidden subject. ‘You’re going to expire right here in this. room, and then they’ll take you out and cremate you.’ ‘Bury me.’ I said. ‘That’s even worse. And then what? Do you believe you’ll go to heaven?’ ‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘though it would be comforting to think so.’ ‘Or hell, perhaps?’ . ‘I don’ really see why they should send me there.’ ‘You never know, my dear William.’ ‘What’s all this about?’ I asked. ‘Well,’ he said, and I could see him watching me carefully, personally, I don’t believe that after you’re dead you’ll ever hear of yourself again unless…’ – and here he paused and smiled and leaned closer- ‘…unless, of course, you have the sense to put yourself into my hands. Would you care to consider a proposition?’ The way he was staring at me, and studying me, and appraising me with a queer kind of hungriness, I might have been a piece of prime beef on the counter and he had bought it and was waiting for them to wrap it up. ‘I’m really serious about it, William. Would you care to consider a proposition?’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Then listen and I’ll tell you. Will you listen to me?’ ‘Go on then, if you like. I doubt I’ve got very much to lose by hearing it.’ ‘On the contrary, you have a great deal to gain – especially after you’re dead.’ I am sure he was expecting me to jump when he said this, but for some reason I was ready for it. I lay quite still, watching his face and that slow white smile of his that always revealed the gold clasp of an upper denture curled around the canine on the left side of his month. ‘This is a thing, William, that I’ve been working on quietly for some years. one or two others here at the hospital have been helping me, especially Morrison, and we’ve completed a number of fairly successful trials with laboratory animals. I’m at the stage now where I’m ready to have a go with a man. It’s a big idea, and it may sound a bit far-fetched at first, but from a surgical point of view there doesn’t seem to be any reason why it shouldn’t be more or less practicable.’ Landy leaned forward and placed both hands on the edge of my bed. He has a good face, handsome in a bony sort of way, with none of the usual doctor’s look about it. You know that look, most of them have it. It glimmers at you out of their eyeballs like a dull electric sign and it reads Only I can save you. But John Landy’s eyes were wide and bright and little sparks of excitement were dancing in the centres of them. ‘Quite a long time ago,’ he said, ‘I saw a short medical film that had been brought over from Russia. It was a rather gruesome thing, but interesting. It showed a dog’s head completely severed from the body, but with the normal blood supply being maintained through the arteries and veins by means of an artificial heart. Now the thing is this: that dog’s head, sitting there all alone on a sort of tray, was alive. The brain was functioning. They proved it by several tests. For example, when food was smeared on the dog’s lips, the tongue would come out and lick it away, and the eyes would follow a person moving across the room. ‘It seemed reasonable to conclude from this that the head and the brain did not need to be attached to the rest of the body in order to remain alive provided; of course, that a supply of properly oxygenated blood could be maintained. ‘Now then. My own thought, which grew out of seeing this film, was to remove the brain from the skull of a human and keep it alive and functioning as an independent unit for an unlimited period after he is dead. Your brain, for example, after you are dead.’ ‘I don’t like that,’ I said. ‘Don’t interrupt, William. Let me finish. So far as I can tell from subsequent experiments, the brain is a peculiarly self supporting object. It manufactures its own cerebrospinal fluid. The magic processes of thought and memory which go on inside it are manifestly not impaired by the absence of limbs or trunk or even of skull, provided, as I say; that you keep pumping in the right kind of oxygenated blood under the proper conditions. ‘My dear William, just think for a moment of your own brain. It is in perfect shape. It is crammed full of a lifetime of learning. It has taken you years of work to make it what it is. It is just beginning to give out some first-rate original ideas. Yet soon it is going to have to die along with the rest of your body simply because your silly little pancreas is riddled with cancer.’ ‘No thank you,’ I said to him. ‘You can stop there. It’s a repulsive idea, and even if you could do it, which I doubt, it would be quite pointless. What possible use is there in keeping my brain alive if I couldn’t talk or see or hear or feel? Personally, I can think of nothing more unpleasant.’ ‘I believe that you would be able to communicate with us,’ Landy said. ‘And we might even succeed in giving you a certain amount of vision. But let’s take this slowly. I’ll come to all that later on. The fact remains, that you’re going to die fairly soon whatever happens, and my plans would not involve touching you at all until after you are dead. Come now, William. No true philosopher could object to lending his dead body to the causes of science.’ ‘That’s not putting it quite straight’ I answered. ‘It seems to me’ there’d be some doubts as to whether I were dead or alive by the time you’d finished with me.’ ‘Well,’ he said, smiling a little,’I suppose you’re right about that. But I don’t think you ought to turn me down quite so quickly before you know a bit more about it.’ ‘I said I don’t want to hear it.’ ‘Have a cigarette,’ he said, holding out his case. ‘I don’t smoke, you know that.’ He took one himself and lit it with a tiny silver lighter that was no bigger than a shilling piece. ‘A present from the people who make my instruments,’ he said. ‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’ I examined the lighter, then handed it back. ‘May I go on?’ he asked. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ ‘Just lie still and listen. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.’ There were some blue grapes on a plate beside my bed. I put the plate on my chest and began eating the grapes. ‘At the very moment of death,’ Landy said, ‘I should have to be standing by so that I could step in immediately and try to keep your brain alive.’ ‘You mean leaving it in the head?’ ‘To start with, yes. I’d have to.’ ‘And where would you put it after that?’ ‘If you want to know, in a sort of basin.’ ‘Are you really serious about this?’ ‘Certainly I’m serious.’ ‘All right. Go on.’ ‘I suppose you know that when the heart stops and the brain is deprived of fresh blood and oxygen, its tissues die very rapidly. Anything from four to six minutes and the whole thing’s dead. Even after three minutes you may get a certain amount of damage. So I should have to work rapidly to prevent this from happening. But with the help of the machine, it should all be quite simple.’ ‘What machine?’ ‘The artificial heart. We’ve got a nice adaptation here of the one originally devised by Alexis Carrel and Lindbergh. It oxygenates the blood, keeps it at the right temperature, pumps it in at the right pressure, and does a number of other little necessary things. It’s really not at all complicated.’ ‘Tell me what you would do at the moment of death,’ I said. ‘What is the first thing you would do?’ ‘Do you know anything about the vascular and venous arrangement of the brain?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then listen. It’s not difficult. The blood supply to the brain is derived from two main sources, the internal carotid arteries and the vertebral arteries. There are two of each, making four arteries in all. Got that?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And the return system is even simpler. The blood is drained away by only two large veins, the internal jugulars So you have four arteries going up they go up the neck of course and two veins coming down. Around the brain itself they naturally branch out into other channels, but those don’t concern us. We never touch them.’ ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I imagine that I’ve just died. Now what would you do?’ ‘I should immediately open your neck and locate the four arteries, the carotids and the vertebrals. I should then perfuse them, which means that I’d stick a large hollow needle into each. These four needles would be connected by tubes to the artificial heart. ‘Then, working quickly, I would dissect out both the left and right jugular veins and hitch these also to the heart machine to complete the circuit. Now switch on the machine, which is already primed with the right type of blood, and there you are. The circulation through your brain would be restored.’ ‘I’d be like that Russian dog.’ ‘I don’t think you would. For one thing, you’d certainly lose consciousness when you died, and I very much doubt whether you would come to again for quite a long time if indeed you came to at all. But, conscious or not, you’d be in a rather interesting position, wouldn’t you? You’d have a cold dead body and a living brain.’ Landy paused to savour this delightful prospect. The man was so entranced and bemused by the whole idea that he evidently found it impossible to believe I might not be feeling the same way. ‘We could now afford to take our time.’ he said. ‘And believe me, we’d need it. The first thing we’d do would be to wheel you to the operating-room, accompanied of course by the machine, which must never stop pumping. The next problem…’ ‘All right,’ I said. ‘That’s enough. I don’t have to hear the details.’ ‘Oh but you must,’ he said. ‘It is important that you should know precisely what is going to happen to you all the way through. You see, afterwards, when you regain consciousness, it will be much more satisfactory from your point of view if you are able to remember exactly where you are and how you came to be there. If only for your own peace of mind you should know that. You agree? I lay still on the bed, watching him. ‘So the next problem would be to remove your brain, intact and undamaged, from your dead body. The body is useless. In fact it has already started to decay. The skull and the face are also useless. They are both encumbrances and I don’t want them around. All I want is the brain, the clean beautiful brain, alive and perfect. So when I get you on the table I will take a saw, a small oscillating saw, and with this I shall proceed to remove the whole vault of your skull. You’d still be unconscious at that point so I wouldn’t have to bother with anaesthetic.’ ‘Like hell you wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘You’d be out cold, I promise you that, William. Don’t forget you died just a few minutes before.’ ‘Nobody’s sawing off the top of my skull without an anaesthetic,’ I said. ‘ Landy shrugged his shoulders. ‘It makes no difference to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be glad to give you a little procaine if you want it. If it will make you any happier I’ll infiltrate the whole scalp with procaine, the whole head, from the neck up.’ ‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘it’s extraordinary what sometimes happens. Only last week a man was brought in unconscious, and I opened his head without any anaesthetic at all and removed a small blood clot. I was still working inside the skull when he woke up and began talking. “Where am I?” he asked. “You’re in hospital.” “Well,” he said. “Fancy that.” “Tell me,” I asked him, “is this bothering you, what I’m doing?” “No,” he answered. “Not at all. What are you doing?” “I’m just removing a blood clot from your brain.” “You are?” “Just lie still. Don’t move. I’m nearly finished.” “So that’s the bastard who’s been giving me all those headaches,” the man said.’ Landy paused and smiled; remembering the occasion. ”That’s word. for word what the man said,’ he went on, ‘although the next day he couldn’t even recollect the incident. It’s a funny thing, the brain.’ ‘I’ll have the procaine,’ I said. ‘As you wish, William. And now, as I say, I’d take a small oscillating saw and carefully remove your complete calvarium the whole vault of the skull. This would expose the top half of the brain, or rather the outer covering in which it is wrapped. You may or may not know that there are three separate coverings around the brain itself the outer one called the dura mater or dura, the middle one called the arachnoid, and the inner one called the pia mater or pia. Most laymen seem to have the idea that the brain is a naked thing floating around in fluid in your head. But it isn’t. It’s wrapped up neatly in these three strong coverings, and the cerebrospinal fluid actually flows within the little gap between the two coverings, known as the subarachnoid space. As I told you before, this fluid is manufactured by the brain and it drains off into the venous system by osmosis. ‘I myself would leave all three coverings – don’t they have lovely names; the dura, the arachnoid, and the pia? – I’d leave them all intact. There are many reasons for this, not least among them being the fact that within the dura run the venous channels that drain the blood from the brain into the jugular. ‘Now,’ he went on, we’ve got the upper half of your skull off so that the top of the brain, wrapped in its outer covering, is exposed. The next step is the really tricky one: to release the whole package so that it can be lifted cleanly away, leaving the stubs of the four supply arteries and the two veins hanging underneath ready to be reconnected to the machine. This is an immensely lengthy and complicated business involving the delicate chipping away of much bone, the severing of many nerves and the cutting and tying of numerous blood vessels. The only way I could do it with any hope of success would be by taking a rongeur and slowly biting off the rest of your skull, peeling it off downward like an orange until the sides and underneath of the brain covering are fully exposed. The problems involved are highly technical and I won’t go into them, but I feel fairly sure that the work can be done. It’s simply a question of surgical skill and patience. And don’t forget that I’d have plenty of time, as much as I wanted, because the artificial heart would be continually pumping away alongside the operating-table, keeping the brain alive. ‘Now, let’s assume that I’ve succeeded in peeling off your skull and removing everything else that surrounds the sides of the brain. That leaves it connected to the body only at the base, mainly by the spinal column and by the two large veins arid the four arteries that are supplying it with blood. So what next? ‘I would sever the spinal column just above the first cervical vertebra, taking great care not to harm the two vertebral arteries which are in that area. But you must remember that the dura or outer covering is open at this place to receive the spinal column, so I’d have to close this opening by sewing the edges of the dura together. There’d be no problem there. ‘At this point, I would be ready for the final move. To one side, on a table, I’d have a basin of a special shape, .and this would be filled with what we call Ringer’s Solution. That is. a special kind Of fluid we use for irrigation in neurosurgery. I would now cut the brain completely loose by severing. the supply arteries and the veins. Then I would simply pick it up in my hands and transfer ‘it to the basin: ‘This would be the only other time during the whole proceeding when the blood flow would be cut off; but once it was in the basin, it wouldn’t take a moment to reconnect the stubs of the arteries and veins to the artificial heart. ‘So there you are,’ Landy said. ‘Your brain is now in the basin, and still alive, and there isn’t any reason why it shouldn’t’ stay alive for a very long time, years and years perhaps, provided we looked after the blood and the machine.’ ‘But would it function?’ ‘My dear William, how should I know? I can’t even tell you whether it would regain consciousness.’ ‘And if it did?’ ‘There now! That would be fascinating!’ ‘Would it?’ I said, and I must admit I had my doubts. ‘Of course it would! Lying there with all your thinking processes working beautifully, and your memory as well…’ ‘And not being able to see or feel or smell or hear or talk.’ I said. ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something! I never told you about the eye. Listen. I am going to try to leave one of your optic nerves intact, as well as the eye itself. The optic nerve is a little thing about the thickness of a clinical thermometer and about two inches in length as it stretches between the brain and the eye. The beauty of it is that it’s not really a nerve at all. It’s an outpouching of the brain itself, and the dura or brain covering extends along it and is attached to the eyeball. The back of the eye is therefore in very close contact with the brain, and cerebrospinal fluid flows right up to it. ‘All this suits my purpose very well, and makes it reasonable to suppose that I could succeed in preserving one of your eyes: I’ve already constructed a small plastic case to contain the eyeball, instead of your own socket, and when the brain is in, the basin, submerged in Ringer’s Solution, the eyeball in its case will float on the surface of the liquid.’ ‘Staring at the ceiling,’ I said. ‘I suppose so, yes. I’m afraid there wouldn’t be any muscles there to move it around. But it- might be sort of fun to lie there so quietly and comfortably peering out at the world from your basin.’ ‘Hilarious;’ I said. ‘How about leaving me an ear as well?’ ‘I’d rather not try an ear this time.’ ‘I want an ear,’ I said. ‘I insist upon an ear.’ ‘No.’ ‘I want to listen to Bach.’ ‘You don’t understand how difficult it would be.’ Landy said gently. ‘The hearing apparatus – the cochlea, as it’s called – is a far more delicate mechanism than the eye. What’s more, it is encased in bone. So is a part of the auditory nerve that connects it with the brain. I couldn’t possibly chisel the whole thing out intact.’ ‘Couldn’t you leave it encased in the bone and bring the bone to the basin?’ ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘This thing is complicated enough already. And anyway, if the eye works, it doesn’t matter all that much about your hearing. We can always hold up messages for you to read. You really must leave me to decide what is possible and what isn’t.’ ‘I haven’t yet said, that I’m going to do it.’ ‘I know, William, I know.’ ‘I’m not sure I fancy the idea very much.’ ‘Would you rather be dead, altogether?’ ‘Perhaps I would. I don’t know yet. I wouldn’t be able to talk, would I?’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘Then how would I communicate with you? How would you know that I’m conscious?’ ‘It would be easy for us to know whether or not you regain consciousness,’ Landy said: ‘The ordinary electro-encephalograph could tell us that. We’d attach the electrodes directly to the frontal lobes of your brain, there in the basin.’ ‘And you could actually tell?’ ‘Oh, definitely. Any hospital could do that part of it.’ ‘But I couldn’t communicate with you.’ ‘As a matter of fact,’ Landy said, ‘I believe you could, There’s a man up in London called Wertheimer who’s doing some interesting work on the subject of thought communication, and I’ve been in touch with him. You know, don’t you, that the thinking brain throws off electrical and chemical discharges? And that these discharges go out in the form of waves, rather like radio waves?’ ‘I know a bit about it;’ I said. ‘Well, Wertheimer has constructed an apparatus somewhat. similar to the encephalograph, though far more sensitive, and he maintains that within certain narrow limits it can help him to interpret the actual things .that a brain is thinking. It produces a kind of graph which is apparently decipherable into words or thoughts. Would you like me to ask Wertheimer to come and see you?’ ‘No,’ I said. Landy was already taking it for granted that I was going to go through with this business, and I resented his attitude. ‘Go away now and leave me alone,’ I told him. ‘You won’t get anywhere by trying to rush me.’ He stood up at once and crossed to the door. ‘One question,’ I said. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. ‘Yes, William?’ ‘Simply this. Do you yourself honestly believe that when my brain is in that basin, my mind will be able to function exactly. as it is doing at present? Do you believe that I will be able -to think and reason as I can now? And will the power of memory remain?’ ‘I don’t see why not,’ he answered. ‘It’s the same brain. It’s alive. It’s undamaged. In fact, it’s completely untouched. We haven’t even opened the dura. The big difference, of course, would be that we’ve severed every single nerve that leads into it – except for the one optic nerve – and this means that your thinking would no longer be influenced by your senses. You’d be living in an extraordinarily pure and detached world. Nothing to bother you at all, not even pain. You couldn’t possibly feel pain because there wouldn’t be any nerves to feel it with. In a way, it would be an almost perfect situation. No worries or fears or pains or hunger or thirst. Not even any desires. Just your memories and your. thoughts, and if the remaining eye happened to function, then you could read books as well. It all sounds rather pleasant to me. ‘It does, does it?’ ‘Yes, William, it does. And particularly for a Doctor of Philosophy. It would be a tremendous experience. You’d be able to reflect upon the ways of the world with a detachment and a serenity that no man had ever attained before. And who knows what might not happen then! Great thoughts and solutions might come to you, great ideas that could revolutionize our way of life! Try to imagine, if you can, the degree of concentration that you’d be able to achieve!’ ‘And the frustration,’ I said. ‘Nonsense. There couldn’t be any frustration. You can’t have frustration without desire, and you couldn’t possibly have any desire. Not physical desire, anyway.’ ‘I should certainly be capable of remembering my previous life in the world, and I might desire to return to it.’ ‘What, to this mess! Out of your comfortable basin and back into this madhouse!’ ‘Answer one more question,’ I said. ‘How long do you believe you could keep it alive’ ‘The brain? Who knows? Possibly for years and years. The conditions would be ideal. Most of the factors that cause deterioration would be absent, thanks to the artificial heart. The blood-pressure would remain constant at all times, an impossible condition in real life. The temperature would also be constant. The chemical composition of the blood would be near perfect There would be no impurities in it, no virus, no bacteria, nothing. Of course it’s foolish to guess, but I believe that a brain might live for two or three hundred years in circumstances like these. Good-bye for now,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop in and see you tomorrow.’ He went out quickly, leaving me, as you might guess, in a fairly disturbed state of mind. My immediate reaction after he had gone was one of revulsion towards the whole business. Somehow, it wasn’t at all nice. There was something basically repulsive about the idea that I myself, with all my mental faculties intact, should be reduced to a small slimy blob lying in a pool of water. It was monstrous, obscene, unholy. Another thing that bothered me was the feeling of helplessness that I was bound to expenence once Landy had got me into the basin. There could be no going back after that, no way of protesting or explairing. I would be committed for as long as they could keep me alive. And what, for example, if I could not stand it? What if it turned out to be terribly painful? What if I became hysterical? No legs to run away on. No voice to scream with. Nothing. I’d just have to grin and bear it for the next two centuries. No mouth to grin with either. At this point, a curious thought struck me, and it was this: Does not a man who has had a leg amputated often suffer from the delusion that the leg is still there? Does he not tell the nurse that the toes he doesn’t have any more are itching like mad, and so on and so forth? I seemed to have heard something to that effect quite recently. Very well. On the same premise, was it not possible that my brain, lying there alone in that basin, might not suffer from a similar delusion in regard to my body? In which case, all my usual aches and pains could come flooding over me and I wouldn’t even be able to take an aspirin to relieve them. One moment I might be imagining that I had the most excruciating cramp in my leg, or a violent indigestion, and a few minutes later, I might easily get the feeling that my poor bladder – you know me – was so full that if I didn’t get to emptying it soon it would burst. Heaven forbid. I lay there for a long time thinking these horrid thoughts. Then quite suddenly, round about midday, my mood began to change. I became less concerned with the unpleasant aspect of the affair and found myself able to examine Landy’s proposals in a more reasonable light. Was there not, after all, I asked myself, some thing a bit comforting in the thought that my brain might not necessarily have to die and disappear in a few weeks’ time? There was indeed. I am rather proud of my brain. It is a sensitive, lucid, and juberous organ. It contains a prodigious store of information, and it is still capable of producing imaginative and original theories. As brains go, it is a, damn good one, though I say it myself. Whereas my body, my poor old body, the thing that Landy wants to throw away well, even you, my dear Mary, will have to agree with me that there is really nothing about that which is worth preserving any more. I was lying on my back eating a grape. Delicious it was, and there were three little seeds in it which I took out of my mouth and placed on the edge of the plate. ‘I’m going to do it,’ I said quietly. ‘Yes, by God, I’m going to do it. When Landy comes back to see me tomorrow I shall tell him straight out that I’m going to do it.’ It was as quick as that. And from then on, I began to feel very much better. 1 surprised everyone by gobbling an enormous lunch, and short after that you came in to visit me as usual. But how well I looked, you told me. How bright and well and chirpy Had anything happened? Was there some good news? Yes, I said there was. And then, if you remember, I bade you sit down and make yourself comfortable, and I began immediately to explain to you as gently as I could what was in the wind. Alas, you would have none of it. I had hardly begun telling you the barest details when you flew into a fury and said that the thing was revolting, disgusting, horrible, unthinkable, and when I tried to go on, you marched out of the room. Well, Mary, as you know, I have tried to discuss this subject with you many times since then, but you have consistently refused to give me a hearing. Hence this note, and I can only hope that you will have the good sense to permit yourself to read it. It has taken me a long time to write. Two weeks have gone since I started to scribble the first sentence, and I’m now a good. deal weaker than I was then. I doubt whether I have the strength to say much more. Certainly I won’t say good-bye, because there’s a chance, just a tiny chance, that if Landy succeeds in his work I may actually see you again later, that is if you can bring yourself to come and visit me. I am giving orders that these pages shall not be delivered to you until a week after I am gone. By now, therefore, as you sit reading them, seven. days have already elapsed since Landy did the deed. You yourself may even know what the outcome has been. If you don’t, if you have purposely kept yourself apart and have refused to have anything to do with it – which I suspect may be the case – please change your mind now and give Landy a call to see how things went with me. That is the least you can do. I have told him that he may expect to hear from you on the seventh day. Your faithful husband, William PS. Be good when I am gone, and always remember that it is harder to be a widow than a wife. Do not drink cocktails. Do not waste money. Do not smoke cigarettes. Do not eat pastry. Do not use lipstick. Do not buy a television apparatus. Keep my rose beds and my rockery well weeded in the summers. And incidentally I suggest that you have the telephone disconnected now that I shall have no further use for it. W. Mrs Pearl laid the last page of the manuscript slowly down on the sofa beside her. Her little mouth was pursed up tight and there was a whiteness around her nostrils. But really! You would think a widow was entitled to a bit of peace after all these years. The whole thing was just too awful to think about. Beastly and awful. It gave her the shudders. She reached for her bag and found herself another cigarette. She lit it, inhaling the smoke deeply and blowing it out in clouds all over the room. Through the smoke she could see her lovely television set, brand new, lustrous, huge, crouching defiantly but also a little Self-consciously on top of what used to be William’s worktable. What would he say, she wondered, if he could see that now? She paused, to remember the last time he had caught her smoking a cigarette. That was about a year ago, and she was sitting in the kitchen by the open window having a quick one before he came home from work. She’d had the radio on loud playing dance music and she had turned round to pour herself another cup of coffee and there he was standing in the doorway, huge and grim, staring down at her with those awful eyes, a little black dot of fury blazing in the centre of each. For four weeks after that, he had paid the housekeeping bills himself and given her no money at all, but of course he wasn’t to know that she had over six pounds salted away in a soap-flake carton in the cupboard under the sink. ‘What is it?’ she had said to him once during supper. ‘Are you worried about me getting lung cancer?’ ‘I am not,’ he had answered. ‘Then why can’t I smoke?’ ‘Because I disapprove, that’s why.’ He had also disapproved of children, and as a result they had never had any of them either. Where was he now, this William of hers, the great disapprover? Landy would be expecting her to call up. Did she have to call Landy? Well, not really, no. She finished her cigarette, then lit another one immediately from the old stub. She looked at the telephone that was sitting on the worktable beside the television set. William had asked her to call. He had specifically requested that she telephone Landy as soon as she had read the letter. She hesitated, fighting hard now against that old ingrained sense duty that she didn’t quite yet dare to shake off. Then, slowly, she got to her feet and crossed over to the phone on the worktable. She found a number in the book, dialled it, and waited. ‘I want to speak to Mr Landy, please.’ ‘Who is calling?’ ‘Mrs Pearl. Mrs William Pearl.’ ‘One moment, please.’ Almost at once, Landy was on the other end of the wire. ‘Mrs Pearl?’ ‘This is Mrs Pearl.’ There was a slight pause. ‘I am so glad you called at last, Mrs Pearl. You are quite well, I hope?’ The voice was quiet, unemotional, courteous. ‘I wonder if you would care to come over here to the hospital? Then we can have a little chat. I expect you are very eager to know how it all came out.’ She didn’t answer. ‘I can tell you now that everything went pretty smoothly, one way and another. Far better, in fact, than I was entitled to hope. It is not only alive, Mrs Pearl, it is conscious. It recovered consciousness on the second day. Isn’t that interesting?’ She waited for him to go on. ‘And the eye is seeing. We are sure of that because we get an immediate change in the deflections on the encephalograph when we hold something up in front of it. And now we’re giving it the newspaper to read every day.’ ‘Which newspaper?’ Mrs Pearl asked sharply. ‘The Daily Mirror. The headlines are larger.’ ‘He hates the Mirror. Give him The Times.’ There was a pause, then the doctor said, ‘Very well, Mrs Pearl. We’ll give it The Times. We naturally want to do all we can to keep it happy.’ ‘Him,’ she said. ‘Not it. Him!’ ‘Him,’ the doctor said. ‘Yes, I beg your pardon. To keep him happy. That’s one reason why I suggested you should come along here as soon as possible. I think it would be good for him to see you. You could indicate how delighted you were to be with him again – smile at him and blow him a kiss and all that sort of thing. It’s bound to be a comfort to him to know that you are standing by.’ There was a long pause. ‘Well,’ Mrs Pearl said at last, her voice suddenly very meek and tired. ‘I suppose I had better come on over and see how he is.’ ‘Good. I knew you would. I’ll wait here for you. Come straight up to my office on the second floor. Good-bye.’ Half an hour later, Mrs Pearl was at the hospital. ‘You mustn’t be surprised by what he looks like,’ Landy said as he walked beside her down a corridor. ‘No, I won’t.’ ‘It’s bound to be a bit of a shock to you at first. He’s not very prepossessing in his present state, I’m afraid.’ ‘I didn’t marry him for his looks, Doctor.’ Landy turned and stared at her. What a queer little woman this was, he thought, with her large eyes and her sullen, resentful air. Her features, which inust have been quite pleasant once, had now gone completely. The mouth was slack, the cheeks loose and flabby and the whole face gave the impression of having slowly but surely sagged to pieces through years and years of joyless married life. They walked on for a while in silence. ‘Take your time when you get inside,’ Landy said. ‘He won’t know you’re in there until you place your face directly above his eye. The eye is always open, but he can’t move it at all, so the field of vision is very narrow. At present we have it looking up at the ceiling. And of course he can’t hear anything. We can talk together as much as we like. It’s in here.’ Landy opened a door and ushered her into a small square room. ‘I wouldn’t go too close yet,’ he said, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Stay back here a moment with me until you get used to it all.’ There was a biggish white enamel bowl about the size of a washbasin standing on a high white table in the centre of the room, and there were half a dozen thin plastic tubes coming out of it. These tubes were connected with a whole lot of glass piping in which you could see the blood flowing to and from the heart inachine. The machine itself made a soff rhythmic pulsing sound. ‘He’s in there,’ Landy said, pointing to the basin, which was too high for her to see into. ‘Come just a little closer. Not too near.’ He led her two paces forward. By stretching her neck, Mrs Pearl could now see the surface of the liquid inside the basin. It was clear and still, and on it there floated a small oval capsule, about the size of a pigeon’s egg. ‘That’s the eye in there,’ Landy said. ‘Can you see it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So far as we can tell, it is still in perfect condition. It’s his right eye, and the plastic container has a lens on it similar to the one he used in his own spectacles. At this moment he’s probably seeing quite as well as he did before.’ ‘The ceiling isn’t much to look at,’ Mrs Pearl said. ‘Don’t worry about that. We’re in the process of working out a whole programme to keep kim amused, but we don’t want to go too quickly at first.’ ‘Give him a good book.’ ‘We will, we will. Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pearl?’ ‘Yes. ‘Then we’ll go forward a little more, shall we, and you’ll be able to see the whole thing.’ He led her forward until they were standing only a couple of yards from the table, and now she could see right down into the basin. ‘There you are,’ Landy said. ‘That’s William.’ He was far larger than she had imagined he would be, and darker in colour. With all the ridges and creases running over his surface, he reminded her of nothing so much as an enormous pickled walnut. She could see the stubs of the four big arteries and the two veins coming out from the base of him and the neat way in which they were joined to the plastic tubes; and with each throb of the heart machine, all the tubes gave a little jerk in unison as the blood was pushed through them. ‘You’ll have to lean over,’ Landy said, ‘and put your pretty face right above the eye. He’ll see you then, and you can srnile at him and blow him a kiss. If I were you I’d say a few nice things as well. He won’t actually hear them, but I’m sure he’ll get the general idea.’ ‘He hates people blowing kisses at him,’ Mrs Pearl said. ‘I’ll do it my own way if you don’t mind.’ She stepped up to the edge of the table, leaned forward until her face was directly over the basin, and looked straight down into William’s eye. ‘Hallo, dear,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me – Mary.’ The eye, bright as ever, stared back at her with a peculiar, fixed intensity. ‘How are you, dear?’ she said. The plastic capsule was transparent all the way round so that the whole of the eyeball was visible. The optic nerve connecting the underside of it to the brain looked like a short length of grey spaghetti. ‘Are you feeling all right, William?’ It was a queer sensation peering into her husband’s eye when there was no face to go with it. All she had to look at was the eye, and shekept staring at it, and gradually it grew bigger and bigger, in the end it was the only thing that she could see – a sort of face in itself. There was a network of tiny red veins running over the white surface of the eyeball, and in the ice-blue of the iris there were three or four rather pretty darkish streaks radiating from the pupil in the centre. The pupil was large and black, with a little spark of light reflecting from one side of it. ‘I got your letter, dear, and came over at once to see how you were. Dr Landy says you are doing wonderfully well. Perhaps if I talk slowly you can understand a little of what I am saying by reading my lips.’ There was no doubt that the eye was watching her. ‘They are doing everything possible to take care of you, dear. This marvellous machine thing here is pumping away all the time and I’m sure it’s a lot better than those silly old hearts all the rest of us have. Ours are liable to break down at any moment, but yours will go on for ever.’ She was studying the eye closely, trying to discover what there was about it that gave it such an unusual appearance. ‘You seem fine, dear, simply fine. Really you do.’ It looked ever so much nicer, this eye, than either of his eye used to look, she told herself. There was a softness about it somewhere, a calm, kindly quality that she had never seen before. Maybe it had to do with the dot in the very centre, the pupil. William’s pupils used always to be tiny black pinheads. They used to glint at you, stabbing into your brain, seeing right through you, and they always knew at once what you were up to and even what you were thinking. But this one she was looking at now was large and soft and gentle, almost cowlike. ‘Are you quite sure he’s conscious?’ she asked, not looking up. ‘Oh yes, completely,’ Landy said. ‘And he can see me?’ ‘Perfectly.’ ‘Isn’t that marvellous? I expect he’s wondering what happened.’ ‘Not at all. He knows perfectly well where he is and why he’s there. He can’t possibly have forgotten that.’ ‘You mean he knows he’s in this basin?’ ‘Of course. And if only he had the power of speech, he would probably be able to carry on a perfectly normal conversation with you this very minute. So far as I can see, there should be absolutely no difference mentally between this William here and the one you used to know back home.’ ‘Good gracious me,’ Mrs Pearl said, and she paused to consider this intriguing aspect. You know what, she told herself, looking behind the eye now and staring hard at the great grey pulpy walnut that lay so placidly under the water, I’m not at all sure that I don’t prefer him as he is at present. In fact, I believe that I could live very comfortably with this kind of a William. I could cope with this one. ‘Quiet, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘Naturally he’s quiet.’ No arguments and criticisms, she thought, no constant admonitions, no rules to obey, no ban on smoking cigarettes, no pair of cold disapproving eyes watching me over the top of a book in the evenings, no shirts to wash and iron, no meals to cook – nothing but the throb of the heart machine, which was rather a, soothing sound anyway and certainly not loud enough to interfere with television. ‘Doctor,’ she said. ‘I do believe I’m suddenly getting to feel the most enormous affection for him. Does that sound queer?’ ‘I think it’s quite understandable.’ ‘He looks so helpless and silent lying there under the water in his little basin.’ ‘Yes, I know.’ ‘He’s like a baby, that’s what he’s like. He’s exactly like a little baby.’ Landy stood still behind her, watching. ‘There,’ she said softly, peering into the basin. ‘From now on Mary’s going to look after you all by herself and you’ve nothing to worry about in the world. When can I have him back home, Doctor?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘I said when can I have him back – back in my own house?’ ‘You’re joking,’ Landy said. She turned her head slowly around and looked directly at him. ‘Why should I joke?’ she asked. Her face was bright, her eyes round and bright as two diamonds. ‘He couldn’t possibly be moved.’ ‘I don’t see why not.’ ‘This is an experiment, Mrs Pearl.’ ‘It’s my husband, Dr Landy.’ A funny little nervous half-smile appeared on Landy’s mouth. ‘Well…’ he said. ‘It is my husband, you know.’ Ihere was no anger in her voice. She spoke quietly, as though merely reminding him’ of a simple fact. ‘That’s rather a tricky’ point,’ Landy said, wetting his lips. ‘You’re a widow now, Mrs Pearl. I think you must resign yourself to that fact.’ She turned away suddenly from the table and crossed over to the window. ‘I mean it,’ she said, fishing in her bag for a cigarette. ‘I want him back.’ Landy watched her as she put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. Unless he were very much mistaken, there was something a bit odd about this woman, he thought. She seemed almost pleased to have her husband over there in the basin. He tried to imagine what his own feelings would be if it were his wife’s brain lying there and her eye staring up at him out of that capsule. He wouldn’t like it. ‘Shall we go back to my room now?’ he said. She was standing by the window, apparently quite calm and relaxed, puffing her cigarette. ‘Yes, all right.’ On her way past the table she stopped and leaned over the basin once more. ‘Mary’s leavingnow, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘And don’t you worry about a single thing, you understand? We’re going to get you right back home where, we can look after you properly just as soon as we possibly can. And listen dear…’ At this point she paused and carried the cigarette to her lips, intending to take a puff. Instantly the eye flashed. She was looking straight into it at the time, and right in the centre of it she saw a tiny but brilliant flash of light, and the pupil contracted into a minute black pinpoint of absolute fury. At first she didn’t move. She stood bending over the basin, holding the cigarette up to her mouth, watching the eye. Then very slowly, deliberately, she put the cigarette between her lips and took a long suck. She inhaled deeply, and she held the smoke inside her lungs for three or four seconds; then suddenly, whoosh, out it came through her nostrils in two thin jets which struck the water in the basin and billowed out over the surface in a thick blue cloud, enveloping the eye. Landy was over by the door, with his back to her, waiting. ‘Come on, Mrs Pearl,’ he called. ‘Don’t look so cross, William,’ she said ‘softly. ‘It isn’t any good looking cross.’ Landy turned his head to see what she was doing. ‘Not any more it isn’t,’ she whispered. ‘Because from now on, my pet, you’re going to do just exactly what Mary tells you. Do you understand that?’ ‘Mrs Pearl,’ Land; said, moving towards her. ‘So don’t be a naughty boy again, will you, my precious,’ she said, taking another pull at the cigarette. ‘Naughty boys are liable to get punished most severely nowadays, you ought to know that.’ Landy was beside her now, and he took her by the arm and began drawing her firmly but gently away from the table. ‘Good-bye, darling,’ she called. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ ‘That’s enough, Mrs Pearl.’ ‘Isn’t he sweet?’ she cried, looking up at Landy with big bright eyes. ‘Isn’t he heaven? I just can’t wait to get him home.’

From Horror photos & videos July 07, 2018 at 08:00PM