If it had been Eliot's choice, it probably wouldn't have been a button. But he has no idea who made the damn thing, only that it was given to some kids in the 20s by some talking rabbit sailors, a fact that, in his mind, is too ridiculous to have been made up.

"Can't say that I have. I'm a big believer in suffering. It makes one mysterious and tragic and generally extremely attractive to a certain type. Besides, who's to say that what's at the bottom of the cliff isn't a worse nightmare?"

Eliot turns and leans his hip against the over, picking up his wine glass again, since he hasn't got a cigarette to occupy his hands. His whiskey brown eyes are sharp - he may not be inspector-level observant, but he's no slouch.

"And only 'not unpleasant'. I must be losing my touch."