#j. torrence.

It may’ve taken over three months at this point, but something in Solomon had always figured he’d see Jack again. A matter of time; the broker just hadn’t been sure how long.

He straightens up from locking the main door to Royal Pawn, turning with a smooth flip of the keyring around his index finger to catch the keys in his palm. Solomon wonders if he should be concerned, feel threatened, faced with Jack on a dark sidewalk.

Milo hasn’t slept, which isn’t necessarily something new. Sleep had been a crapshoot even before Halloween, but after? He was lucky if all he dreamed about was a wash of blood, and not Rosie’s blank, lifeless eyes.

He’s started going back to the Institute a little bit at a time — a class here, a quick visit with Laurel there — but he still hasn’t had it in him to spend the night yet. After a couple of weeks with Mo and Seven that feeling of being burdensome started creeping in, so Milo has been jumping from couch to couch more recently. It doesn’t bother him like it might most, the impermanence; finding a couch to sleep on when he was on the run was like the holy grail, and it went without saying that it was worlds better than an Essex cell.

This morning he’s bundled up in a blanket on Jack’s couch, watching the first hints of a gray dawn creep up from the horizon. Milo briefly considers pretending to sleep when he hears Jack moving around, but it’s almost as quickly dismissed as stupid.

Jack appears at the door and Milo offers an unconvincing smile, shifting a bit to make room, if he wants. “Morning.”

( this starter is now closed! )​​

Milo had left the Institute as Avery but was currently taking the stairs of the apartment building two at a time as himself, breathing shallow and snagging in his throat. As soon as he’d been able to talk himself down from the all-out panic attack Nathaniel Essex’s morning address had inspired, Milo had no thoughts in his head beyond leaving the mansion. He couldn’t stand to overhear the gossiping on both sides of the fence, nor could he breathe even a single breath freely knowing Emmeline was somewhere on the school grounds. Milo simply had to leave, and let instinct guide him.

Whatever kind of relationship he’d had with Jack at Essex House had been… strange. Complicated. Understanding what he did about Jack’s ability and the needs it left him with, Milo hadn’t minded lending him the energy he could spare from time to time. And because he’d offered it freely, he thought they’d developed at least some kind of bizarre friendship. Once they’d escaped Milo also thought it might dissipate into thin air with the realization Jack had only protected him because he was useful, but even with the vast options of New York City at his fingertips, he hadn’t seemed to mind Milo occasionally poking around.

So, maybe it’s the impulse to seek out someone who’d previously protected him that autopilots Milo to Jack’s doorstep. Only when he knocks rapidly does Milo realize he hadn’t called ahead, and that he probably looks like a neurotic mess. But as long as Jack had seen the morning address, too, well. He assumes the man will understand.

        we’re closed. it’s almost amusing how ready solomon is to say that, but he’s worked enough at different bars to know that there is always someone who doesn’t want to listen. this time, it’s him, although he’s not in to buy anything. “you’re sure you want me to leave?” he asks, leaning against the doorway, brow cocked. “i’ve got something you’ll like, this time.” then again, when doesn’t he? there’s always a shortage of mutations and plenty of people he comes across that are easy enough to steal them from.

It’s always been exceptionally rare that Solomon would let anyone in on his brokerage, but it was also exceptionally rare that he'd meet someone else like him -- both in capability and moral flexibility. To say that he trusts Jack would be vastly overstating things -- they’ve only been working together a handful of months, at this point -- but the man has already proven himself a valuable asset. Solomon is warming to him, which says a lot in and of itself.