Part I.

"Oh, God. Don't stop." His dazed murmur both an order and a plea, Blair lay spread like a sacrifice to the strange god who knelt between his legs. "Yeah." He gazed down what seemed like miles of his own sweat-gleaming body, to see the strangely glowing head slowly rising and falling over his groin. "Ohhhh, man, that's so good." Why was the god glowing? Did gods always sport buzz cuts? Blair's disjointed thoughts darted in and out of focus as the golden statue-come-to-life turned his attention to Blair's balls, fingers brushing lower.

"You say something, kid?" The god released the cock he'd been slowly teasing, raised his haloed head and met Blair's incredibly dilated eyes. "You okay, kid? You look a little queasy there. Should I stop? You'll still get your money."

No. No stopping. Blair wasn't sure if he'd spoken aloud or not. So he tried again, just to be really sure the pleasure wasn't going to be taken away from him. "Nahhhh..." was pretty much what came out, accompanied by a vague wave of a lead-weight arm. Hey look. His arm had a halo too. Cool. He admired his own wavy outline for a moment before the arm became too heavy and flopped back down beside him. He wasn't entirely sure it was actually his own arm. He took a long look around the room. It was all hazy and ringed with gold as well. Maybe he'd turned into a god too. Or maybe he'd died and gone to heaven. Yeah. This must be heaven. Take a look at the body on this guy. His mouth certainly felt heavenly.

Blair felt so out of it. When had he gotten drunk? Hadn't done drugs in years. Why was everything ringed in a nimbus of shifting light?

Golden God Guy had returned to his ministrations at Blair's oblique insistence. Blair tried to focus on the pleasure he was receiving. Holy shit, this guy is good. I've never felt anything like this. I think I'm gonna come. I think I'm gonna be sick. I think I'm gonna die.

"Oooohhhh!"

Right the first time.

Part II.

Jim swallowed reflexively as the bitter-salt taste crossed his palette. Eyes closed and enjoying the sensation, he instinctively released his hold on his sense of taste to catch the essence of the pretty young man. And quickly pulled away, heart thudding in panic. Latex. He shouldn't be tasting both come and latex. He bolted downstairs to the bathroom, leaving the stoned-out hooker still shuddering through the last of his orgasm. With the restraints fully back on taste, he hastily swished a mouthful of hydrogen peroxide around teeth and gums, spitting noisily into the sink. What the hell? What the hell? Jim cursed himself for his negligence. He'd forgotten about that ragged back tooth, the result of something unexpected and unexplained in his chili at lunch yesterday. It had been driving him crazy, wearing a sore spot on his tongue. Oh, Christ, no! An open sore. A hooker's jism. A recipe for disaster.

Jim's insides clutched in panic. Okay, Ellison, get a grip. What's the plan of action? The kid had felt pretty tight when Jim had shoved a couple of fingers in him. And Jim had never seen him around before - either as a cop or as a customer. Maybe he hadn't been in the business long, or didn't do it often, or didn't go in for the hardcore stuff, or, or, or. Okay, Ellison. Go be a detective. Interrogate the rent boy.

Returning to his bedroom, Jim gently shook his guest, trying to get his attention. "Hey, kid. Wake up now. I'm gonna ask you some questions and you're gonna answer me. Okay?" Hopefully whatever the kid was high on would serve to disable his capacity to lie.

The hooker stared blearily at him. Unable to focus for long, his eyes started to roll back in his head as it lolled on his shoulders. Jim reached out and lightly slapped the tanned cheek. Absently, he noted the kid's tawny skin colour. He hadn't noticed the healthy glow before. The man almost looked golden. And come to think of it, the whole room seemed bathed in an incandescent halo of soft gold light.

He blinked rapidly, hoping some magic would clear his vision. Jesus, not again, not now. He couldn't take another endless round of tests and experimental drug therapies, couldn't stand not being in control of his own goddamned body. What the hell had this fucking kid done to him?

"Stay with me here, kid. This is important. How long have you been hooking?" He glanced at the golden highlights in the shoulder-length chestnut curls. Funny. He hadn't noticed them before.

"Not a hooker. 'M a Professor. Doctor. Ph.D," the kid mumbled. It took Jim's distinctive hearing to unscramble the slurred syllables.

Great. He's delusional. What the hell is he on?

Growing more panicked, he demanded, "Do you have AIDS? Are you HIV positive?"

This seemed to get through to the semi-conscious boy. He actually lifted his head and looked into Jim's eyes for a long moment before responding. His words came out surprisingly clear. "Get tested regularly. Not sick. Wouldn't be here if I was." He seemed to want to reassure his host of his continued health. Jim relaxed a little, finding it hard to stay panicked. He found himself focussing on the languorous features, enjoying the sight of the bronzy glow outlining the beautiful mouth and reached out a glowing hand to trace the patterns as they sparkled and danced.

The hooker's head fell back heavily on the pillow.

Jim continued to admire the naked man in his bed. "Beautiful," he murmured, no longer wondering what had inspired him to do so many things against his better judgement. What was different about this wasted waif that he had wanted to make it good for him? Why hadn't he stuck to his usual pattern and just taken the guy to a cheap hotel? What if the kid remembered his address? And wasn't he just a gorgeous piece of ass?

Jim's mind wandered from danger and inexplicable actions to the fact that his hard-on had returned, announcing that while he'd taken care of the rent boy, the rent boy had yet to take care of him. He ran his hands all over the firm young body, gently at first, just enjoying the intense sensation of touch, then more roughly; kneading and stroking, unable to get enough of this beautiful man. He lay down on the barely responsive body and began to rub against him. Feeling his hair and sensitive skin catch, he realized fuzzily that he hadn't removed the offending condom, and rolled off the boy to do so. The dead soldier sailed toward the trash but failed to complete its trajectory, puddling on the floor beside the wastebasket instead. Jim couldn't bring himself to care. He rolled back against the closest warm body part - a sweaty flank - pressing his demanding cock against hot flesh.

Sensual pleasure notwithstanding, Jim's thoughts ping-ponged around his skull, making it hard for him to focus on any one thing, not even on his dick, which usually managed to absorb his attention. A blunt hipbone was interfering with the delirious friction. He rolled away a bit and pushed at the young man. "Rollover." Jim's turn to mumble. After couple of unsuccessful attempts the boy flopped onto his belly like some dying fish. Searching for the tube of lubricant, Jim managed to find it and get some on his dick.

Then he half lifted and half flung himself across the boy's ass, shifting until his cock was lined up between exquisitely rounded ass cheeks.

Retreating to his one-syllable vocabulary, the hooker managed to raise his head and call "Nahhhh" back over his shoulder.

Equally articulate, Jim responded with "Whaaaa?"

"Don' do that, man. Don' wanna," the kid whined.

Gathering his minimal resources, Jim slurred entire phrases, a full sentence beyond him: "Don't worry. Not gonna fuck you. Just gonna rub off. 'Kay?"

"'Kay." Reassured, the angel face returned to its pillow.

Despite his reeling thoughts and fired-up senses, or maybe because of them, Jim found the sensations of this basic act absolutely incredible - positively transcending. He couldn't get enough of the skin-to-skin contact with this beautiful glowing body, beautiful golden ass, beautiful radiating man. Time became elastic, and a couple of hours or a couple of minutes later he experienced the most powerful orgasm of his life, oblivious to the fact that his partner had passed out.

He rolled off the mess that was his guest, and collapsed beside him, wondering when the room had gotten so dark he couldn't see. At all.

Part III.

"Oh. Shit." Blair slowly raised one hand to the top of his head in order to keep it from coming completely off. Then he tried to sit up. What the hell had happened last night? Where was he? Right. Right. He'd let some buff guy cruise him. Well, not the first time. But what was with the stone? He hadn't done drugs since undergrad, more than six years ago.

Succeeding on the second try, he gently levered himself up, his hand still buried in sweat-matted curls. Jesus Christ, he was hurting! Turning his head with care, he glanced at his sleeping host. Unlike other highs, whatever this was hadn't messed up his memory of the previous evening too much. He pretty much remembered everything - right up to passing out. He knew he'd been fucked up before he met the guy. In fact, the only reason he let the guy pick him up was because he was so out of it. Normally he never would have gotten into a car with a strange man. No matter how gorgeous. He tried to be grateful to be alive, but with this hangover it was difficult.

One important detail he remembered was the location of the bathroom, and he made his unsteady way down the stairs to the main level of the loft-style apartment. This was a hell of a lot nicer than the rat-infested warehouse he called home.

Reaching the bathroom, he made himself at home, rummaging through Buff Guy's medicine cabinet. Jesus, it was full of prescription drugs - painkillers, desensitizers, anti-depressants, tranquilizers. Most looked to be scarcely touched, yet the labels indicated they had been dispensed at different times over the last three years; as if the guy had experimented with a lot of different medications, quickly giving up and moving on to the next.

Jesus H. Christ! Blair experienced a moment of blind panic, unable to catch his breath. He vaguely remembered the guy asking him about AIDS and HIV. He sat heavily on the closed toilet, waiting for the light-headedness to pass, and prayed to whatever that the guy wasn't sick or anything. Blair reached around and checked - no, reality matched memory. He hadn't been fucked. But his hand came away covered in white flakes of dried come. He remembered the guy had come on his ass. He relaxed a little. 'Come on me, not in me,' was the safe sex mantra of the AIDS generation. And he'd worn a condom when the guy had blown him. Thank heaven for small mercies. Still, he would have to address this with the guy, just to be on the safe side. Any thoughts of escaping the uncomfortable 'morning after' were dismissed.

When his heart began to slow and he thought he could stand again, he found some Tylenol Twos that were only a little past their expiration date. He chased them with antacids, tap water and a shudder, and availed himself of the guy's toothbrush. Hey, if the guy could rim a total stranger, he shouldn't have too many hangups about sharing a toothbrush. He took a long, hot shower.

That done, he donned yesterday's grungy clothing that he had collected on the trip downstairs and across the living area, and wandered into the kitchen to seek out a source of caffeine.

Having successfully located coffee maker and supplies, he was on his second cup and starting to appreciate the purloined medications when he heard movement and moaning from the upstairs area.

Damn. He should have just left. Now he had to stay and do the 'nice guy thing'. Blair could no more have not done the 'nice guy thing' than he could have let someone he'd just met fuck his ass. He moved up the stairs, speaking softly when he got to the top.

"How ya doing, Big Guy?" He put a tentative hand on Big Guy's shoulder.

More moaning was the response, followed by "Bathroom. Now. Gonna puke." A hand fastened around his wrist.

"Okay. Okay. Let's get you downstairs. Or should I get the garbage can? You gonna make it?" Without answering, his host heaved himself up using Blair for leverage, almost causing him to lose his balance.

Blair helped him down the stairs and into the bathroom, barely getting him on his knees before the john when the partially digested contents of his stomach made their reappearance. Blair hovered half in and half out of the bathroom, not sure whether he would be needed or if the guy would prefer his privacy. It was over pretty quickly. Blair reached across and turned the knob next to the light switch that he had ascertained turned on the exhaust fan.

Then he helped Big Naked Guy to his feet. "Here's your toothbrush, man. I hope you don't mind that I used it."

Several expressions chased each other fleetingly across the toothbrush owner's face - disgust, resignation, then indifference. He held out the brush, and Blair applied lots of toothpaste to it - lots.

The guy re-enacted Blair's earlier quest for the miracles of modern science, pulling down bottles and squinting at them: holding them up close, and then farther away from his face, apparently without success. Leaning heavily on the sink, he directed Blair: "Can't see. Find me Anaprox. And Gravol."

"I thought Anaprox was for menstrual cramps. You got your period?" Blair thought the moment had come for a little humour. His host ignored him. "Two of each?"

The big guy nodded, grimacing at the imprudent movement, and held out the hand that wasn't being used to support himself against the counter. "Only pain killer I can tolerate. I don't do well with drugs." He swallowed the pills Blair had spilled into his palm, chasing them with the glass of tap water provided.

He turned back to the toilet and took a long piss. Hanging just outside the door, Blair asked if he should leave.

"Hang on a minute. I have something for you."

"Whaddya mean, something for me?"

"Help me to the couch. I can barely see through this goddam golden fog." Complying with the guy's request, Blair helped him over to the sofa.

"Hand me my jacket, will ya? It's the brown leather one on the hook there by the door. Can you sit down with me here for a minute? I want to ask you something."

Blair recalled he had a health-related question or two of his own to ask as well. He got the jacket and sat on the couch next to his host.

"Thanks." Taking the jacket, Big Guy groped around in the pockets, apparently looking for something by touch. "Just getting you your money, Chief. You earned it."

"My money?" Blair puzzled over that for a minute, then said indignantly, "I told you last night I wasn't a hooker."

"Yeah, right, Professor. You were hanging out on the street corner with all the other whacked-out Ph.Ds."

Blair rolled his eyes, leaning to one side so he could get at his back pocket. He reached for his wallet to show this guy some identification; although why he should care what the guy thought was beyond him. "Oh, shit. I've lost my wallet. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck!"

Blair put his head in his hands as he considered the situation. He had no idea how he'd gotten high, or where he'd left his wallet. All he remembered was a night of incredible, if unathletic, sex with this guy. He felt a warm hand on his wrist, followed by something cold, then heard the click of metal on metal. He pulled his hands away from his eyes just in time to see the other half of a set of shiny chrome handcuffs being snapped around his host's wrist, the first half having been snugly clipped to his own.

Cold fear gripped his heart. The guy was into something heavy, kinky, not something Blair wanted to be into right now. He opened his mouth to tell him so, and was silenced by the most unexpected, most terrifying speech he'd ever heard.

"You're under arrest for drugging an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent..." and Blair listened numbly to his Miranda rights as the implacable stranger beside him reached for the phone.

Squinting painfully at the numbers on the receiver, the cop pressed a speed dial button. "Simon Banks, please. Jim Ellison calling."

Well, at least Big Naked Handcuff Guy had a name now.

Part IV.

Simon Banks had turned out to be a huge, imposing man, who was exceptionally not amused. Jim had insisted that Simon and only Simon come to the loft and help him arrest the man who had drugged him. Between the time that Jim had made the call and Simon's arrival some twenty minutes later, Jim had re-cuffed Blair to the thick wooden support beam in the kitchen, and felt his way upstairs to put on some raggedy old sweats. He'd made a point of bringing along his gold Detective shield so Blair would know this was real - all too real.

Grimly, with a minimum of words, Jim had explained to Simon that Blair was a prostitute who had drugged him.

"Jesus, Jim. You must have been stoned to have brought him back to your apartment instead of the PD when you arrested him."

"Actually," Jim looked uncomfortable, "he drugged me after we got here."

"Didn't you know he was a prostitute?" Simon peered at Jim. "It's an offence to pick up..."

"Hey, look! I am not a prostitute!" Blair cut in forcefully. "I'm a Professor at Rainier University. I teach Anthropology."

"Does he have any ID?" Ignoring Blair, Simon addressed his question to Jim.

"Claims to have lost his wallet." Jim said scathingly. "Just like he claims to be a Professor. A Ph.D, no less."

Simon took a quick look at the long-haired, dishevelled young man in wrinkled shirt and worn jeans who was huddling against the support beam, and smirked. "And would our Doctor have a name?"

Fuck you, he'd wanted to respond. "Blair Sandburg," was what he'd said.

Simon had insisted on dragging them both to the hospital. They would need blood tests to determine what drug Blair had somehow slipped to Jim, and whether there would be permanent damage to Jim's vision. They would also have AIDS tests while they were there.

Despite Jim and Simon's Officer of the Law status, they were left to sit in the waiting area of Cascade General's Emergency Department until there was a lull in the bloodier and more critical cases.

Blair was sandwiched between a large Jim and massive Simon, hands conspicuously cuffed together. He slumped in his seat and focussed on the gray machine coffee they had graced him with when they bought their own. He was just raising the oily paper cup to his lips when a voice called out his name.

"Blair!" Margaret had been among the brightest students in his first Anthro 101 class. His well-deserved praise and attention had helped her decide to major in Anthropology and she was now a Master's candidate herself, as he had been when he had TA'ed her class.

He froze, cup halfway to his mouth, the clearly visible handcuffs like tacky chrome bracelets. He slowly lowered his manacled hands to his lap. "Margaret," he acknowledged feverently, joy at seeing a friendly face outweighing mortification - just barely. "I've lost my wallet. Can you tell these nice Officers who I am?"

"Of course I can. What happened? Why are you here? Why is he in custody?" The last was addressed at Simon. A glance at the roughly attired, unshaven Jim Ellison had dismissed him as unimportant, but Simon Banks, in a well-tailored suit and elegant cashmere coat, just screamed authority.

"He was inebriated in a public place last night." Simon covered smoothly. "Who are you? Can you vouch for him?"

"I'm Margaret Smed, Grad Student at Rainier University." As she talked, she waded through her large shoulder bag, eventually coming up with identification that confirmed she was who she said she was. "Blair must have drunk some of the punch at last night's end-of-term mixer. Everyone's talking about it. Some crazy spiked it with that new designer drug - Golden."

"There were drugs in the punch at an official university function?" Simon asked incredulously. "Don't they have staff at these things? Who was in charge?"

Margaret fixed her gaze on Simon. "I'm not answering any more questions until you identify yourselves. I want to see some ID now!" Standing, she was able to peer down her nose at a seated Simon.

"I'm Captain Simon Banks with the Major Crime Unit of the Cascade PD, and this is Detective James Ellison." She took the proffered badge and business card and examined them closely. A few seconds later, Jim had located his badge and was offering it in Margaret's general direction. "Feel free to call the Precinct to check. We're not going anywhere soon."

Blair sunk further into his seat, the cold remains of his coffee drooling from the sloping cup onto his leg and the floor.

"Fine. I'll believe you are who you say you are. Professor Sandburg was head chaperone at the party. Now tell me why he's sitting in a hospital waiting room in handcuffs."

A crowd of other would-be patients and hospital staff had begun to mill around the Emergency waiting area, some openly staring, some surreptitiously watching the display. No one was paying attention to the television set in the corner of the waiting room where Regis and Kathy Lee were both perky and soundless.

"He really is a Professor? He had no ID so we couldn't check." Jim hooked his thumb in Sandburg's direction. "Isn't he kinda young to be a Professor?"

"Dr. Sandburg is a Professor of Anthropology. He set the academic community on its ear last year when he published a cross-discipline doctoral thesis on the Archetypal Myth of the Tribal Watchman. The Anthropologists had a field day at the expense of the Jungians." She glanced with pride at Blair, as if he were her own anthropological discovery. "It is an honour to be associated with him."

Jim gawked at Blair's shimmering silhouette. Blair flushed. Simon rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, that's me all right." Blair's glare at Jim was lost on the big detective. "Dr. Rent Boy, Ph.D."

Ignoring this last comment as well as the indignant Margaret, Simon looked across Blair at Jim. "But you weren't at the party, were you, Jim? How did you get the golden into your system?"

A lengthy pause ensued, during which the four individuals contemplated this puzzle. After several long moments, Blair's head snapped up from his ongoing examination of his handcuffs: "Transference... topical contact - trans-dermal or oral ingestion."

"And what exactly does that mean?" Simon barked.

With an impatient sigh, Margaret translated the geek-speak: "You know, 'transference', like via body fluids - sweat, saliva, semen..." her voice trailed off and her cheeks grew pink as she looked from Blair to Jim and back to Simon. Simon groaned.

Just then the Emergency clerk called for Ellison and Sandburg, directing them to Exam Room 'B'.

Part V.

"Come in. It's open," Blair called out in response to the soft knock on his office door. It was well after office hours, but panicking students, knowing his tendency to work late, tended to drop by at all hours. He didn't look up until a large shadow fell across the blue book he was filling with red marks.

He sat back in his chair and gazed up calmly into the eyes of his visitor. "Well. Well. Detective... Ellison is it? What brings you to my humble office?" Blair remembered Jim's name quite clearly, along with a number of other personal details, but he didn't feel very charitable toward his arresting officer at the moment. Blair watched Jim glance around his recently acquired office. Gone were the days of Storage Room Number Three. His new digs, although not large, were on the second floor, with a nice view of the quad. He'd been offered a larger office across the hall, but for some reason, the view of the fountain made his flesh crawl. Certainly his office was better than Ellison's little desk in the middle of an open area - not even a cubicle or a partition in sight. Blair had seen it when they'd taken him back up to Captain Banks' office to discuss his situation. A quick check with Rainier's student health clinic had turned up a number of similar cases of involuntary drug ingestion. All charges against Dr. Sandburg had been dropped.

Still, a number of the parents of these involuntary ingestors had felt that Rainier, and Dr. Sandburg in his role of Official Party Chaperone, had a lot to answer for. The deluge of angry parents had tapered off after the Cascade PD had succeeded in rousting the disgruntled janitor who had spiked the punch in a broad-spectrum bid for revenge at being laid off. The investigation and subsequent arrest had been attributed to Inspector Megan Connor and her partner, Detective Joel Taggart. Detective James Ellison had been removed from the case due to 'personal involvement'. And for once, he had listened to Simon's directive.

Clearing his throat, Jim shifted from foot to foot. Blair had not invited him to sit down; there was nowhere to sit anyway, with books and papers scattered over every available surface. "Yeah. It's 'Ellison'. Um. Jim. Um." He trailed off.

Blair hid his surprise. Ellison had seemed an always-in-control kind of guy. There was a long, uncomfortable pause before Jim continued: "And thanks for calling to see if my eyes were okay. They are, by the way." He punctuated this statement by looking briefly into Sandburg's eyes, quickly returning his gaze to his shoes again.

"And..." Blair was willing to be just that helpful and no more. Jim would have to do this on his own.

"I'm here to apologize. I think maybe I didn't handle things as well as I could have. Maybe should have."

Another long pause. Blair decided he didn't intend to drag this out. He just wanted to get the whole awkward scene over with. Although that would mean Jim would go away and he'd never see him again.

"Look, Jim. You don't have to do this. I already told Captain Banks I wasn't going to sue for false arrest. Or entrapment. Or defamation of character. Or public humiliation." Blair stared fixedly at Jim. He'd almost forgotten just how gorgeous Jim was.

"I know that, Chief. Simon told me. I just wanted to apologize anyway. And return your wallet. Somebody turned it in yesterday, sans cash of course." Jim held up the wallet for a moment, looking at it like he wasn't sure what it was or where he'd gotten it. Then he reached down and placed it on the desk before Blair like an offering. To Blair, Jim looked for all the world like a student asking for an extension on a term paper. He almost expected to hear "but my dog ate it".

Silence filled the office. Jim continued to look uncomfortable. Good, Blair thought. Payback's a bitch. He watched Jim struggle for words, different emotions flitting across his face - embarrassment, annoyance, longing.

Finally Blair relented. Softly, he said: "You were only doing your job."

"Yeah. I know."

"What?" Blair hissed. "If you don't think you did anything wrong, then why the hell are you here? Why are you begging my forgiveness, man? Your apology was just bullshit then? What the fuck are you really doing here?" Blair was working up to a true rant. He took a deep breath - not to calm or centre himself - but to really let Ellison have it.

And exhaled in surprise when Jim cut the wind from his sails by quietly saying, "I really just wanted to see you again, Blair. I, uh, I've been thinking about you. About that night. A lot."

Blair felt his heart speed up. This was new, but he could handle it. Quickly shifting gears, he let instinct take over. "You want to see me again?" He rose from his chair. "You were thinking about that night?" He advanced around the desk to where Jim was standing. "A lot?" Ellison fell back a step, then stood his ground. Blair strode right up into the big guy's face. "You wanna see me again. Make it up to me?" he breathed.

"Yeah, I do." Ellison seemed even more nervous now.

"Good." Blair spun away back towards his desk. "You can buy me dinner. Now. I'm starving. And somebody stole my cash." He gestured at the wallet lying on his desk, then glanced up at the Detective, trying for a stern expression, but ending up grinning instead.

"Dinner." Jim leaned slightly towards Blair in acknowledgement, relief plainly etched on his handsome features, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. "I can do dinner." He looked like a death row prisoner who'd gotten a last minute call from the Warden.

"I'll just be a second here." Blair seated himself back down and began to gather up a few papers to finish grading at home. No matter how well the dinner portion of the evening went, he had no intention of a repeat performance of their first night together. Ellison would have to work for that. Work hard. Blair chuckled softly. "Work hard, get hard, play hard," he mumbled under his breath, mind on the not-too-distant future.

If Jim heard this odd statement, he gave no indication. Instead, he wandered over to a stack of identical hardcover books bound in a soft gray leather. "Is this the famous thesis that set the academic world on fire, Professor? What's it about?"

Without glancing up from his papers, Blair answered. "One tiny element of a rather small part of academia saw fit to give my humble dissertation some attention, yes." The quiet pride in his voice belied the modesty of his words.

Jim picked up the top copy and read the title aloud: "'The Archetypal Mythology of the Tribal Watchman: Debunking the Myth of the Sentinel'. What's a 'Sentinel', Darwin?"

Blair had finished packing papers into his backpack, and grabbing his coat, headed towards the door. "It's a long story, Jim. In a nutshell, it's a legendary kind of superman, but they don't really exist."

Jim opened the door and followed him through it. "Tell me over dinner?"

Blair locked his office and turned to walk down the hall with Jim by his side. Bumping shoulders playfully, he answered: "Hey. This is my life's work we're talking about here. I'm pretty sure it'll take a lot longer than dinner to get the whole story, man. A lot longer."

End