Author's Introduction:
I'm bored. I still have no job and nothing to do but sit home in my new place and write and draw.
I really wish my Ronin DVDs would get here, because I haven't seen much of this series since—oh, 1995—and I'm constantly worried that I'm not following the canon as closely as I could be. I've been doing as much research as I can, but stars know the internet's not a trustworthy place. If anyone sees any glaring errors that go against canon, please do point them out to me (politely and respectfully! Please and thank you!) and I'll amend them (like I just did to the last two I wrote—they were literally begun ten years ago when I didn't know the canon as well as I do now, and therefore I forgot to fix a few mistakes. They're fixed now, though). I hate, hate, HATE going against canon.
Thus I must explain: Sage only displays his healing powers once in the American canon that I'm familiar with—in "Halo's Prison", when he restores Ryo's eyesight. However, he is very matter-of-fact about the whole thing; I have no way of knowing whether or not it's truly canon that he has healing capabilities. (Hell, for all I know he has to be holding the no-datchi or something while he does it. I just don't know.) Still, I find the idea of healing to be a fascinating one in any respect and had fun expounding on it here; it isn't meant to blatantly defy canon.
(Notice a trend here? Firestar loves canon! )
I want my DVDs… (mournful face) Damn change-of-address form—
—oh, corks. I've got to go do that!
While I do that, you guys read this fic I wrote. Here. (thrusts fic at readers and hops into her Jeep—which is green, not red like Mia's—stomping on the gas pedal to get to the post office before it closes.)
Assistance
A Ronin Warriors fanfiction by Firestar9mm
One of the many things he admired about her was that she was a lady. Even in the face of megalomaniacal demons and world-ending evil magic, she remained ever poised and graceful.
So when he heard a very colorful string of obscenities and swearing coming from the front of the house, he just had to investigate.
He poked his head out the front door and was treated to a sight he hadn't been expecting—Mia leaning over the front end of her Jeep, hips higher than her head, which did interesting things to her jean cutoffs and even more interesting things to his brain.
A few things fired through his synapses in the space of a second—something was probably wrong with the car, or else she wouldn't be poking around under the hood, and the polite thing to do would be to offer her some help. Except for some reason, his feet were locked in place, and his eyes were locked on her. His nerves were screaming at him to get out of sight before she noticed him staring, but the command was dying somewhere on the way from his brain to his legs.
The Warrior of Halo lost his famed cool for just a second, limbs jerking into motion, his feet shuffling in a hasty attempt to retreat. The sound startled Mia, who reared up, striking her head on the raised hood of the Jeep. Sage winced at the muffled clang.
"Ow," Mia cried, both hands lifting to press against the wound reflexively, which dropped her body dangerously back down over the engine.
Concern for her overrode embarrassment, and Sage's limbs woke from their torpor. He leapt forward, catching her around the waist and hauling her to her feet as carefully as he could. "Whoa! Easy now, easy. It's me—it's Sage." Tucking her under his arm, he walked her over to the front step and sat her down.
"Owwwww," she moaned, eyes screwing up and hands pressing over her head.
Sage gripped her forearms, trying to pull her hands away from her head. "I'm sorry," he said. "Let me see it. No, I said let me see." The last was added because she was struggling, trying to slap his hands away.
"No, it hurts. It hurts," she complained through gritted teeth, pushing at him.
Another thing he admired about her—she was so very stubborn. Trying to stop his lips from quirking upward in a smile, he trapped her wrists in one large hand and reached for her with the other.
Being a healer was an interesting thing to say the least. While healing a physical wound wasn't the same as helping to repair mental or emotional damage, it still required being very close to the person he was trying to help, and the danger lay in opening himself up to the pain of their wounds. It was part of the reason Sage spent so much time centering himself, training his mind to concentrate only on what he chose to notice—otherwise, the weather of other people's energy would drown his own thoughts out completely.
There was no need to ask Where does it hurt? He could almost feel the bruise rising in her skin, feel the heat of the blood rushing to the broken vessels, all throbbing in time with the pump of her heart. He could stop all that, he knew, even as he felt the tender area with gentle fingertips.
It wasn't something he could really explain—maybe that was why it was magic. It was as simple for him as swinging a sword, the touch of a hand, the desire to help…
And then he felt it—the pain in her gone suddenly, like a light switch turning off.
"Better?" he asked, smoothing her hair.
"Yes, much." Her voice was a pleased, surprised lilt, as if she hadn't really thought he could do it. "Thanks."
"Not at all. I didn't mean to startle you," he added. He looked down at his hands, in quiet awe as always of their ability to assuage pain. His fingertips still felt warm, as if the fevered heat of her skin had been trapped by his touch. He knew that at some point late in the night, he'd be staring at his ceiling, kept awake by the sensory memory of her hair beneath his hands.
Unconsciously, he scowled down at his hands, the awe and reverence he felt toward them evaporating in the fire of frustration. Heal a bump on the head, so what? It would have healed on its own. A minor wound, a moment's irritation, something to frown at and then forget. What good had he ultimately done?
"Sage?" That soft voice, the one that managed to ease past all his defenses, wrapped around his name and raised in concern for him. It was almost too much.
There was no way to explain it to her—that little wounds were nothing. That no matter what he said to her—no matter how he tried to brush her off and push her aside—there was an ever-increasing danger of bigger wounds, invisible ones, the kind he couldn't heal. The kind no one could.
"Is…is something wrong with the car?" His voice was scratchy as he tried to change the subject.
"Yeah." To his relief, she didn't press him further. Yet another thing he liked about her—she knew, eventually, when not to push him. She stretched her long legs out in front of her, frowning. "It won't start. I wanted to get a jump on the grocery shopping this week, but I'm not walking all the way into town."
"You could send White Blaze," he quipped, trying to keep his face serious.
She smirked. "Smartass. Last I heard, they weren't accepting charge cards from tigers."
He almost smiled at her. Stubborn woman, never asking for assistance. "You could send us out on an errand or two. We wouldn't mind."
The smirk dug a dimple in her cheek. "Yeah, right. Chiclets and beer does not constitute a healthy meal."
He frowned playfully. "I think that five guys who continually manage to keep dark demon forces at bay could follow a shopping list."
Placing her hands boldly on his shoulder and chest, she gave him a gentle shove and got to her feet. "Shoo, Halo. I've got to fix this beast."
This time, he just couldn't let it go. "Why don't you ask for help?"
Turning back to face him, she laughed. "Because I don't need help," she said lightly. "I just need my toolbox."
Their gazes dueled for a stretch of seconds. She never ceased to amaze him. She carried no sword and wore no armor; she rode a Jeep, not a white tiger, and shot from the hip with research.
Sage understood need. He understood things like duty, and obligation. Things that were necessary—that made sense to him; it had been hammered into his brain ever since he could remember, and he lived by the sword that hadn't yet let him down.
But with her, it was different. It wasn't about need. It was about things at the other end of the spectrum—things like choice, and desire.
She'd never had to help. She hadn't been part of any legend, and she had no weapon save her mind, her courage, her spirit. But she'd done it, all the same.
It was why he never doubted that she cared for them, all of them. She stayed with them not out of a sense of duty or an obligation to assist them; she stayed with them because she wanted to. He wondered often if she'd been lonely before—she always seemed to brighten when they came in, listened attentively when they talked around the supper table, was willing to help when there was a problem. Secretly, he thought her smile was the most honest he'd ever seen. There was no pretense in her laugh; there was nothing but the simple joy that being together gave her.
And they, her friends, had responded in kind. It was always, "Mia, can you…?" or "Mia, I need help…"
Sometimes, he found it amusing that they, full-fledged warriors all, were always running to her. But therein lay the source of his intense frustration when it came to her—she needed nothing from him, from any of them, and it grated against his deeply ingrained sense of courtesy and duty that he could do nothing to repay her for her kindness.
So much for need. As for desire…
…he tried not to think about that.
Forcing his mind back to the moment, he knew of at least one thing he could do for her. "Where's your toolbox?" he asked. "I'll get it for you."
A smile played around her lips—a familiar smile, the one that made him think she could read his mind. "That'd be nice of you, Sage. It's in the garage."
It was but the work of a minute to fetch the toolbox, and when he brought it back out to her, she was leaning against the Jeep's fender. Sage breathed a very quiet sigh of relief that she wasn't under the hood again, and put the toolbox on the ground with a louder-than-necessary clank.
She dropped to her knees, sifting through her tools. He noticed they weren't all from the same set—some looked more worn than others; the screwdriver's handle was chipped, and didn't match the handle on the hammer. These tools had been gathered by necessity and nothing in the box was useless.
She didn't look up as she addressed him, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "If you really want to help, go sit in the front seat and I'll tell you when I want you to try the ignition, okay?"
He had to smile at her perception. "Am I that transparent?" he asked, sliding into the Jeep.
"Yes," she answered matter-of-factly, selecting a crescent wrench, she disappeared behind the hood.
He leaned out the open window. "You know, I really feel silly sitting here while you do all the work."
She poked her head back around the hood. "Sage, I've been driving this car a lot longer than you have."
"That's right," he said, smiling at the memory. "I drove for the first time in this car."
She gave him a mocking frown. "Yeah, without a license. Hop off that outlaw train, Sage, before you land in jail."
"Ha, ha," he quipped.
"Less joking, more key-turning," she called. "Try it now."
Sage turned the key, which was dangling from the ignition. Nothing but a tiny clicking sound.
Mia snarled another colorful curse, tossing the crescent wrench to the ground in defeat. "That's it. I've tightened everything in here, and I've poked every valve I can think of. It's not a stuck valve and nothing's loose and I have no idea why it doesn't want to start."
"Maybe it's tired of shuttling us in and out of danger all the time," Sage suggested. "It's on strike."
"You're just a laugh a minute today." She walked around the car and leaned against the driver's side door. "Damn. I was really hoping I could fix it."
"You can't do everything," he mused.
She frowned. "It's my car, and I should know how to fix it. I'm not some helpless girl who can't do anything."
Her defensiveness surprised him, especially since her thoughts seemed to be running so parallel to his own earlier thoughts about her. "I didn't say you couldn't do anything," he said quickly. "I said you couldn't do everything."
She blinked, as if considering it.
"No one can do everything," he continued. "You should know. You're always stressing the whole 'team' thing—how no one can do everything themselves." He shrugged. "Maybe this is a place to start."
Mia's face lit up, and he thought with satisfaction that he'd managed to say the right thing.
"Sage, you're a genius," she said, patting his shoulder. "Wait just a second." Scrambling back around to the front of the car, she searched in the toolbox and came up with the hammer before diving beneath the hood again. He heard a rattle and a clank, and then she reemerged, a bit of grease smudged across her cheek and a large stripe of it smeared across her belly. "Try it now, now!"
Confused, Sage turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life with a roar almost worthy of White Blaze.
"The starter," Mia said triumphantly, placing her greasy hands on her hips. "The starter got stuck. It just needed a bit of a smack. Thanks, Sage!"
He turned the engine off and got out of the car. "Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. You did it."
"I wouldn't have figured it out without your help," she said, sunshine beaming from her smile. "We did it together."
On his way back into the house, he shook his head and smiled, but it was more at himself than at her. He disagreed with her assessment of the situation—rather than feeling like he'd helped her, he thought he'd just had a front row seat to yet another example of her perfect capability.
Almost as soon as he'd gotten back into the cool quiet of the house, a blast from the horn startled him. He waited, thinking maybe she'd just leaned on the wheel or something, but it sounded again, more impatiently this time, two short blasts in succession.
He walked back outside to find the Jeep running, with her in the driver's seat, one arm resting on the open windowframe, grease still smudged across her cheek.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I'm going out to run errands," she said, eyes twinkling. "Want to help me?"
Sage smiled—no, truth be told, Sage grinned back. "All right, but move over. I'm driving."
Author's Notes:
More canon thoughts: I'm so confused by people arguing about Sage. Now, I know that in canon he's actually not a flirt as so many fanbrats would lead you to believe, but that doesn't mean he's afraid of women. Come on, people! He's a good-looking guy, he's confident and assertive, and he's not made of stone. Besides, he obviously interacts well with Mia—that is evidenced in canon. And that's all I've got to say about that.
Chiclets and beer: The phrase "Chiclets and beer does NOT constitute a healthy meal!" was a direct quote from a friend of mine. Me and another friend were house-sitting back in college, and she was monitoring us by phone trying to make sure we ate properly, cleaned up after ourselves, and didn't blow the house to smithereens. We only managed the last (not counting the broken mirror).
If I'm correct in canon, Sage drives Mia's car illegally in the episode with--ah, one of those irrelevant plot-hole-fillin' demons, Saeranbo or something like that--when he and Rowen are returning to Mia's house. According to Japanese law, he's too young to have a license at the time. Bad little lawbreakin' Sage. (giggles)
The starter on my 1983 Maxima constantly had to be tinkered with in order to work. The one on my Jeep has never given me a problem, though.
OMG Seiji and Nasuti fanart: http// www. deviantart . com / deviation / 55114731 /