Chapter Text
It should never be so easy to find someone drinking alone. Any bar big enough for one lonely person should be big enough for dozens. But there he was, a lone blond figure tucked away at a table in the corner of the bar, nursing a glass of some hard liquor or other.
Minho didn’t hesitate. He’d come too far, done too much work to reach this point, to hesitate. He crossed the bar and sat down in front of the blond. “Newton?” he asked.
The blond’s eyes flicked up, then back down to his drink. “Newt,” he corrected. He took a sip of his drink before adding, “As in the slippery little bugger who let his Sentinel get killed.”
That statement hung in the air, and Minho had the feeling it was meant to make him leave. When he didn’t, Newt sighed.
“Look. I know what you are, you know what I am, and there’s only one reason someone like you goes looking for someone like me, and the answer’s no.”
Minho raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t asked the question yet.”
“Fine.” Newt waved a hand in a ‘go on’ gesture. “Ask.”
“I need you to--”
“No.”
Minho glared at him. “That’s not what I was going to ask.”
Newt sighed. “If I listen, will you go away?” he asked petulantly.
“Nothing would make me happier,” Minho assured him.
Newt motioned him on again.
This time Minho backed up. “I only manifested a few months ago.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Bullshit.”
Minho glowered until Newt relented. “I had all the gene markers,” he said, “but I never manifested. It happens.”
“True,” Newt said slowly, “but those people never manifest. They don’t wait until they’re in their twenties and suddenly develop their senses.” His eyes narrowed. “How many did you manifest, anyway?”
“All of them.”
Newt whistled. “And in your fairy tale,” he said, “what prompted your very delayed manifestation?”
“I’m a cop,” Minho said flatly. “A detective. A month ago I was in Vice, working undercover. I got busted. The op was bigger than we thought, a lot bigger, and then tortured me for three days. Total isolation.”
Newt sipped at his drink while Minho spoke, considering his words. Minho waited, nervous. This guy, useless as he claimed to be, was his only hope.
Total isolation--”vision quests”, to be more specific--were how Sentinels had triggered their manifestations in tribal days, before excessive tampering with food had led to early puberty and hormone-triggered manifestations. Before Sentinels had come out to the public and before the Sentinel-Guide Administration, the SGA, had been founded to pair superhuman Sentinels with their empathic Guides so that both parties could function normally, even above normally. Minho’s story was rare, but not totally unheard of.
Newt apparently agreed. “And?” he asked eventually.
Minho blinked. “And what?”
“What do you need from me?” Newt asked patiently.
“I’m a detective,” Minho said. “I want to stay a detective. I don’t want to be moved to the Sentinel unit.”
“So don’t,” Newt said with a shrug. “Lie. Keep your abilities a secret.”
“I’m trying. That’s where you come in.”
Once more the blonde made a ‘go on’ gesture. Minho wanted to punch him for it, wipe the smug grin off his face, but instead he kept going.
“Yesterday I zoned out at a crime scene. I’ve had spikes at my desk. So far they’re just being put down to PTSD but that’s bad enough. I’m on probation, if I don’t shape up soon I’m off. Permanently. Sentinel unit won’t even take me if I’ve got PTSD.”
“But you don’t have PTSD,” Newt said. “You have enhanced senses. All five of them, you said. "
Minho nodded.
Newt whistled lowly, shaking his head. “You don’t do things halfway, do you?”
Minho grimaced. “Believe me, I would’ve been a lot happier with just one or two. But no. I get all five.”
Newt raised his eyebrows appreciatively and leaned back in his seat. “So you’re at maximum risk of zone-outs and spikes and you’re running around with no control whatsoever? That’s a dangerous move, my friend. But I’m still not going to be your Guide.”
“I don’t want you to be.” This was the part that had given him so much trouble. “Not officially. Officially, you’re still licensed to practice therapy. Officially, you’re going to be getting me past the panic attacks and dissociation I’ve been having.”
“And unofficially, what? We bond?” Newt said the word like it made his mouth curdle.
“No. No bonding.” Minho shook his head. “You help me with control. Off the books, under the table, no one knows what’s really going on. Three months is how long it takes to get certs, right? So in three months we part ways and never see each other again.”
“Three months,” Newt mused. “Three months is how long it takes in a controlled facility with multiple instructors.”
Minho leaned forward. “If I’m not better in three months I’m on a desk for the rest of my life. And I won’t accept that. So three months is our deadline.”
“Well, then.” Newt took another gulp of his drink. “My original answer stands. No.”
Minho grabbed his wrist. “I need you,” he growled. “Don’t your Guide instincts have something to say about you saying no?”
Newt narrowed his eyes. Very lowly he said, “Get. Your hand. Off me.”
Minho withdrew before he thought about what he was doing. “Did you just--”
“I Guided you, yes.” Newt drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s what you’re asking for, isn’t it?”
“I’m asking for help,” Minho said. “I’ll pay you,” he added desperately. The guy had to have some buttons, right?
Silence stretched between them as Newt finished off his drink and beckoned for another. Finally he leaned forward. For someone who’d had a full tumbler of hard liquor, he looked sharp-eyed and alert.
“Four hundred a week,” he said. “Paid Thursdays. Plus room and board. I don’t go in your head, you do what I say when I say, and at the end of three months, no matter what state you’re in, I leave. And should you terminate our agreement before the three months are up, I still get paid.”
Minho blinked. “Wow, you don’t ask much, do you?”
Newt smiled grimly. “If you had any other options you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
The guy had a point. Still. “What makes you think I’ve got four hundred a week to spend on you?”
“You touched me,” Newt said patiently. “For a good three or four seconds. I know how much you make, I know your bloody shoe size. And I know the department will reimburse you for at least half my services.”
Damn Guides.
“Fine,” Minho said, leaning in again. “Here’s my terms. You stay clean and sober for three months. No drinking, no smoking, no whatever else you do to fill that big gaping hole your dead Sentinel left in you.”
Newt’s expression darkened.
Minho wasn’t done. “You use anything, anything at all, and I’ll kick you to the curb and you won’t get shit.”
“One more thing,” Newt said. “You keep the bloody swearing to a minimum.” He extended a hand across the table. “I’ll be at yours tomorrow morning. Since you’re the one demanding I clean up, you get to help me through it.”
Minho hid his distaste and nodded. He shook the offered hand. “Deal.”
Newt smiled. “Deal.” Almost maliciously, he added, “Sentinel.”