It was the sort of thing that should have required a group intervention. It was why she hesitated when he found her apartment five days after she'd last seen him.
Minako had arrived home late, her shoes in her hands and her make up smeared. He'd been sitting outside her door playing solitaire. He'd looked very young as she caught sight of him from down the hall. It had made her wistful.
She'd stopped, feeling rather exposed and a little afraid. After all, she was vulnerable now, a realization that still left her bitter and queasy each time. Still, she'd simply arched an eyebrow and asked, "How did you find me?"
He'd looked up, not that surprised to see her. He'd probably heard her humming on her way up the stairs. "I have my ways."
"That's unsettling," she observed.
"I knew a private eye once," he elaborated. He spared a very small smile. "Intimately." Then he'd turned back to his game. He was reshuffling the deck after a loss. "Didn't you say you wanted to make sure I was all right?"
Minako had blinked, recalling this, but hardly expecting a regular update on his condition. She hadn't been sure she was quite that interested. "Umm... yes?"
"Well, I'm not," he'd said simply, honestly. "And I'd like your help."
Minako had been naturally dubious. She didn't know him. She'd known him for a day or less, and seen just how broken he was. It was enough to make the strongest run away, and she was no longer that strong. "You don't even know my name, Jaded Boy."
He'd shrugged again. She had been amazed at how he could make the gesture seem so effortless and so heavy at the same moment. "And yet I know you so well."
She'd never appreciated people making such assumptions about her, so her tone had lost a lot of its pleasantness in her response. "Do you now?"
He'd nodded, sniffing a bit. "I do."
"What do you know, Sage?" she'd asked, switching nicknames in a rush of bitterness and memories.
He had looked up and made eye contact. His eyes had made her stop breathing. "Don't you want to save me?"
It was the sort of thing that should have required a group intervention, the healing of a man. It was why she hesitated when he asked. Because they didn't know each other. Because they'd slept together once, inebriated by lust and Smirnoff’s. Because she knew how damaged he was, knew how weak she was, and knew that if she got in too deep, she might end up drowning at his side.
But she couldn't seem to breathe when she looked in his eyes.
"Get inside," she said against her better judgment, wondering why a part of her still insisted on playing the hero. But she still didn't hesitate to help him to his feet, looping her arm through his as she opened the door.
It wasn't until later, after he was asleep on her couch when she looked up and asked whoever was listening what the hell had possessed her.
