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Summary
Curiosity had a way of hanging around, like an unwanted guest who never got the hint. And humanity (messy and very horny humanity) was nothing if not infectious. The Corinthian could laugh it off most of the time, yet after a while, those images he’d collected started to jab at him from the inside, a constant little "go on, try it, you sunglasses-wearing coward."
So one night, in the Dreaming, with no mortals to haunt and no one to laugh but himself, he gave in.
Not because he needed it (because he didn’t.) Not because he was lonely (because he wasn’t.) It was research, he told himself.
OR
In which The Corinthian and Johanna Constantine touch themselves to the thought of one another.
