This story is mine, the idea is mine, but the characters of course aren't...!

This is a re-post. The story was posted before, I did that myself last January on another site; my dear friend posted it a few weeks ago on this site. And afterwards, she had to read the most repulsive reaction to this story that was originally meant to comfort her with her mother's death. I'll refrain from extensively reacting on the very hurtful comments, varying from a comparison with another writer on this page - which was in a way a compliment for me, I'm Dutch, English is not my native tongue, and I consider it an honor if someone thinks it is - to the denial of a mother's death.

I could answer to these suggestions. But, well, I'mnotgoingtogo there. It's probably a waste of time. Rather, I would like to thank the people that did comment with warmth and compassion.

What I do wish to do now, here, is to express my deepest sympathy with all of us who did suffer from the loss of a dear one, amongst others: daughters that lose or have lost their mothers, and the family and friends who now, one year after she died, commemorate Michelle Weiner, one of the authors of Perry and Della stories on this site. Bless you all, and I do hope that fond memories will soon replace the pain and hurt of losing someone you love.

No need to say it's good to have seen the TVmovie 'TCOT Telltale Talkshow Host' before reading this one.

And, last but not least, I want to thank my wonderful patient beta OldEnglishD for beta'ing this for me.

Enjoy.

1. Mixed emotions

Della Street, seventy one years of age, draped her arms over her head, and held her pillow. She tried to remain floating in the comfortable slumber she had been in since he'd left their embrace, and then their bed, some long or short moments ago.

It was reality that tugged at her. The aroma of good, strong coffee, his coffee, his starting anchor for the day, was oozing through the house now, a typical scent for a very early morning, a very early start for him. Coffee seemed to be necessary, to wake him up or otherwise.

He couldn't have had much sleep. Not very much more than she.

The thin soft flesh of her inner thighs was still sensitive, sensuously irritated by what they called his 'extra' beard - the strip of day-old stubble above his neatly trimmed regular beard. Mellowed and silkened with age, and groomed daily to within an inch of its life, it had become part of his personality. The stubble, also part of his personality, had left secret scratches, little imprints of a devious act. The indecency of it had been larger than the man himself, as would be his grin when he'd secretly recall it during the course of this day. She knew better than not to enjoy this silent, hidden pleasure with him.

She sighed, inhaled the aroma of freshly brewed coffee again, opened her eyes, and stared into the early morning darkness. She turned to lay on her side.

Her deeply rooted secretarial urge to know and to control, manage as much about the future as possible, had more than once resulted in reading signs, real or imagined, in the mud of coffee grounds. But one day she would not want to know about the future. She'd deny both future and present, that first day when she would only want to look back and find the past the most appropriate era to live in. The first day, when the truth and the universe would compel her to live without him.

The demons, if given room, left no opportunity unused to remind her of that day and they had visited again, in the deepest dark of the past night, the snake pit of unwelcome thoughts and profound fears that whirled when he was peacefully asleep and there were no clients, no phone calls, no files to open or to close. When there was nothing to distract her, when there was no rest to be found in her daily, trivial tasks, when the only place to hide was present in the warm arms of the man she feared to lose most.

And so she'd seek his closeness, his massive arms, the grey hair on his chest and his warmth for reassurance, to listen to the rhythmic sounds of his living body, yet, no matter how many heartbeats or breaths she counted, there was no banishment, no secret spell to be spoken to prevent this all from ending completely one day.

That one day.

She dreaded that first day.

That first day, when she had to wake up without him. Presuming she could ever sleep without him. But eventually, after fighting it, she would have to rest and she would sleep dreamlessly, and then she would have to wake up, eventually. She'd wake up alone and the daylight would hurt her eyes for the first time ever. It would tell her unkindly, make her aware harshly, that she was alone.

But she would wake up. There was no alternative, other than sleeping without awakening. That would be an alternative. But, to quote Perry Mason himself: an alternative, but not an option.

He'd whispered to her ear at times what she didn't want to hear, but what she had to know when the time would come. The text on his grave stone had to be : Perry Mason - Q.E.D. , the abbreviaton for Quad erat demonstrandum, a phrase he repeatedly translated as 'what had to be proven, is proved' or, a little more dramatically and loosely translated : 'the defense rests' or, when he was in a real humourous state of mind, as 'Quite Easily Done'.

A soft chuckle left her throat, though it was still thick with tears. His sense of humour was what she would miss most, probably, more than anything. More than the feel of her fingers on his shirt, unbuttoning the buttons there to enable her to rake through the chest hair she had seen maturing into an enticing tone of grey during all these years until now.

She turned to her other side, pulling up the warm and soft duvet over her shoulders and she stroked his deserted pillow, then hugged it to her.

The flip side of this coin of Fate was that one day he might have to wake up without her. Sometimes he said he'd cease to exist instantly, he'd simply cancel or dismiss himself, he'd die together with her, joking about his favourite notion of simultaneousness and how he considered it his sacred task to accomplish as many moments of simultaneousness with her as humanly possible. Yet they both knew he wouldn't die with her. Hooked on life like she, he would muddle through somehow, possibly enjoy life without her, maybe just a little, despite the sharp fresh zest of the palpating pain that would be his constant companion. The pain would become a friend, maybe, hopefully, during that first year of firsts. The first birthday alone, the first Thanksgiving, Christmas … spring, summer, fall, winter.

The subject had been talked about, the taboo long gone. Life had had its way so far and had shown them both, that it just ended and ended for a reason, or no reason at all. Not discriminating, not being unfair, not favouring anyone. They had come to know Death as the most decent Judge of all. One verdict, never retiring, straight forward, clear. Unavoidable.

She had to urge herself to stop pondering, had to ignore the bitter aftertaste that dwelled in imagining this loneliness when alone. The demons had to leave, not just for now, but forever. It was of no use to think about his passing away, not now, not yet. He was still here, very much alive. To think about his parting from her for too long was a waste of time, fruitless, counterproductive.

And he was here, now, in this house, wasn't he ? At ease, having breakfast, probably reading yesterday's paper and surely drinking his coffee. It was early, it was still dark. He had left her alone, in bed, thought she was asleep and needed that. Loved her too much to wake her up for no other reason than to have her company.

And so she chose to doze a little longer, comfortably resting her warm blushing cheek on his now cool pillow. Snoozing on the pleasant memories of the night before, she inhaled deeply, contentedly.

The remains of the glorious love they'd made, that very essence of them together had left a lovely scent of sweet and salty mingling in the room.

He had started it, long after she had fallen asleep with her head on his chest. The reassuring warmth of his hand had been on the bare skin of her shoulder first, and was later resting comfortably on the perfect curve of her silk clad waist. He'd held her close, kissed and nuzzled her hair every now and then, when he turned the pages of the journal he was reading, and needed the hand he held her with for that reason. At one point he must have thrown the journal aside, and turned off the light. His fingers must have walked over the fabric that hugged her, because they'd always done it that way, tucking it up in exactly that manner, and this time they had found nothing that resembled any fabric underneath. Ever so slowly waking her up, invading her unconscious mind long before she realized he'd left their embrace, he had molded himself into a known pose underneath the duvet. He'd woken her up in the way he used to wake her up at the spectacular moments, not just in their younger days, when gymnastics in bed were more rule than exception. Neither his size, nor his age had ever stopped him from being his devious self in bed, when he didn't carry the weight of the world on his back. Just a duvet.

He'd made use of the wide expanse of the huge matress his own massiveness covered and covering, displaying a proficient agility only observable by the urgent sounds she made, fully conscious of what he was doing.

Dazed from the engulfing and overwhelming sensations, she'd slipped her hands under the duvet, down to where he ministered to her intimacy, while she was literally gasping at the relentless, pityless skilled labour of his cleverly gifted, sugaring mouth. And he hadn't shaved. Dear Lord, he hadn't shaved.

He'd elevated when she'd urged him to, brushing the furry, rugged bear-like torso against her susceptible skin, then without any extra effort he had shifted her body to lay it on its side, his arms comfortably circling her, one of his large hands on her breast, the other one on her navel. He'd eased into her, and in reaction her hand had reached behind her to grasp his side, his hip, while every slow stroking thrust left her more and more whole, and more.

Whole. And every time more alive than before, until long after she'd released his name, and he'd breathed his own final soft primordial grunt, biting her bare shoulder, the same shoulder where he'd started the caresses that had led them here. Sometimes the circle was perfectly round. Sometimes even the circle it was circling in, the orbit, was perfectly round.

It was at times like these she couldn't let him leave her, and just held onto him, strongly tightening her grasp on his arm around her, entangling her fingers with his on her navel, her other arm flung backwards still holding onto his thigh. She cried the tears silently. And he would let her cry the tears silently, patiently, and spill some of his own, sighing against her shoulder, holding onto her as if his life depended on it.

And sometimes, but only sometimes, like last night, he'd be inside her long enough to feel these tears and their cause subside, and the slight change in her breathing would alter his state, his actual physical state, no words would be needed, nothing would be to it, it happened, addicted as he was to the way he felt possessed by her. In advance, he'd taste the sweet sweat that was about to bathe her creamy skin again, and he had her again. Effortlessly.

And this would end one day too.

She sighed and turned again, felt restless. She couldn't rest without him. And it was getting lighter outside.

Of course there were two classical ways to look at this. There was an active choice to be made, consciously. Either living in the fear of nearing and inevitable Death, or living life to the fullest while it's still lasting. Have the cake, or eat it. And enjoy.

Della Street smiled, feeling blessed, because the decision had already been made for her. The demons could leave for now. Loving and living with Perry Mason meant the latter. Living with Perry Mason was tantamount to loving and living life to the fullest. He embodied it. Literally.

Having the cake with Perry Mason was the same as eating it.

The sound of his heavy footsteps drew her out of her bittersweet salty daydream, and she moaned sleepily.

Her eyes still closed, she automatically reached out for his cheek, before he kissed her. She tasted the coffee, breathed in the smell of it, his sweetened coffee. His lips grazed, the moist of his mouth waking up her senses like it had done the night before. A different time of the day, a different part of her body, almost the same effect.

She smiled as she turned towards his endearments, the sheet softly brushing the rash he'd left behind, not meant to be a reminder, but soon a fond memory.

" Are you leaving me ? " She asked softly.

" Yes. But it's early. " He whispered. " You don't have to wake up yet."

" What time is it ? "

" Half past five. I'm going to see Judge Nelson to ask his advice about Sheila Carlin's case. "

" You're going to see Judge Nelson? This early ? But he's retired. "

" I need his advice, and yes, this early, and yes, he's retired. He's fishing now. I'm meeting him at the lake. "

" About the case ? And admire the Judge's newest fishing gear, hmm ? "

Of course. Perry Mason was a master at combining work with pleasure. It was the basis of his life, his work. And, it was the basis of his relationship with her.

" Yes. That too. " The wideness of his smile was audible in his voice. She heard and felt his thrill, his young excitement. There was nothing to it. As the years had made them older, their senses just seemed to mingle into one, seeing and hearing, feeling, smelling, tasting. Making sense. She would never make sense without this man. She could have made sense before meeting him, before falling into love and life with him, maybe, but not now, not anymore.

" I'll see you at the office, baby. " He struggled to stand up, grabbed his cane and stumbled toward the door.

" All right, Perry … "

He turned. The wistful tone and the meaning of her words were mismatched. The contradiction hit him. One hand on the doorframe, the other one holding his cane, he looked straight into her eyes, knowing by heart where they were exactly in the dark bedroom, and he said out loud what he had been wanting to say at a moment, just a few hours ago, when she had crawled into his arms, shaking like a frightened child. " Stop thinking so much, Della. "

" I love you. " It was not a logical thing to say. The words were always welcome, he knew it was true, but now, they were simply not logical.

He sat back down next to her on the matress, leaning forward over her face, his warm breath comforting her before he spoke the words that would do the same. " Tell the demons to go away, Della. I noticed them. You nearly climbed inside me a few hours ago. "

" The demons can't keep me awake when I'm in your arms … " Her low honest voice told him the truth.

" Maybe. But they are still present somehow, and when I'm gone, they come back. " He couldn't possibly know how right he was. " Tell them to go away and leave you alone, Della. I might become jealous from how much time you spend with them. "

" I'll try. "

" Don't try it, Della. Do it. " His large hand rested on her hip briefly before he hefted himself off the bed and walked with as little reliance on his cane as possible, for her sake. Shadowed in the doorway once again, he stood straight and tall. " And I love you too. I'll need at least another forty years to make sure you know exactly how much. Remember that. Then send the demons away. "

- TBC -