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There were a few redeeming qualities to working an art shop that had a very unique clientele - and that was that they all had a schedule. Which meant that at some hours of the day, Thorne's world inside of the shop flat-lined. No customers came, and the parking lot outside settled into a serene, timeless quality that the ex-captain could get used to.

And because of the lack of customers in the shop, that meant he could blast trash pop as well. As tranquil as the art shop attempted to be, it wasn't tranquil enough to survive Thorne's privately held guilty pleasure.

The ex-captain bobbed his head along to the trash pop playing from the sonos system he'd recently installed, and his mouth moved in time with the lyrics soundlessly as he angled the sketchbook down and swiped the charcoal across it again, his fingers dusted black as he worked on another piece.

Little did he know his life was about to change. And not necessarily for the better.

Thorne was lenient, not dumb. Damn it, Shiloh.

The first shadow that slipped in the corner of Thornes eye had drawn him from his enjoyable free time. At first he thought it might have been a bird passing one of the windows or a cat that had come to rest in the shade. But no - it was inside of the shop. He kept his attention half-focused on the sketch and half-focuses on his new-found ghost.

He let the shadow shift and move between the aisles for a few moments, not bothering to turn down the music just yet. After all, what was the point? There was no point yet in marking the occasion by talking.

But finally, he had to make a move. He knew his customers and the slow trickle of newcomers and he knew how most of them acted and this wasn't it. Even as a part-timer, he had picked up quickly on the quiet routine of the shop, the routine of its patrons and artists.

And this was none of that.

Putting the sketchbook on the counter, Thorne slid one leg down from the knee it was balanced on and stretched forward, half over the counter for how tall he was.

"I'm not blind and I'm not deaf," he said in the silence between songs,"You might as well say hello first."

Thorne laughed. Actually laughed. Had he been that terrible as a child? No. Maybe. Alright, probably. But damn, this kid had guts. He was stealthy and quiet and if Thorne didn't make it half of his life to make sure he was always near to an exit if and when a person appeared within thirty feet of him, he might not have caught on.

But he had. and Shiloh was cute, and Thorne wasn't a terrible human being, but he wasn't about to let this unruly child go without a bit of a lesson first. And if he sprinted - well. Thorne hadn't had a good run in a while.

"Is that the same story your hands want to tell?" Thorne retorted, his tone half-amused and half-exasperated. "Did no one ever tell you self-preservation skills, kid?"

He pushed his hands to the counter and hauled himself over it in one easy swoop, landing on his feet and leaning his hip against the side of the desk.

"So what kind of game are we going to play today?" His lips curved into a careless half-smile. "I bet I could beat you to the door."

Thorne wondered if kids these days were just stupid, or if kids these days really had it bad.

Not that he hadn't - but well -

The boy was squirrel-like, didn't even talk. Just bolted. Straight for the door and the streets. And where did he think he was going anyways? He didn't look like a street rat necessarily, but Thorne didn't think that he was in a great situation either if he was pick pocketing sketchbooks in his spare time.

Thorne blew a raspberry and launched after the kid as he bolted for the door. They were barely past it before Thorne caught his arms around the kids middle and drew them both to a jolting, clumsy stop.

"Woah there," he said, frowning down down down at the kid, "Listen, I know I'm not one for manners, but it's usually common courtesy to introduce yourself before pulling s**t like this."

Without even considering any other route to success (or like, teaching Shiloh a lesson), Thorne tossed him over his shoulder like a misbehaving sack of potatoes.

"For the record," he said, glancing around at the empty parking lot, "I'm Thorne."

Thornes head hurt. Actually, every part of him hurt now that Shiloh was trying to beat his way out of his situation. He wasn't easily moved, and this kid was far too short to do any actual damage, but that didn't make it anymore comfortable to deal with.

Nudging open the art shop door and ignoring everything left behind in the chaos, Thorne perused past the low-rise shelves full of junk and up the stairs to the second floor where an office space and a lounge had been lazily arranged, Thorne dumped the kid on a beaten down sofa from what looked like the 1950's and said, "I really don't want to have to chase you down a set of stairs and kill both of us in the attempt, so look. Let's start over, alright?"

He rested his tattooed arms on the inside of his sides, looking up at Shiloh. "I'm not planning on calling the cops, and we're not fighting each other because if you stopped screaming away your brain cells, you'd realize that I've got years on you, kid."

He grinned wryly. "My name is Thorne. Look, you can give me a fake one, or a real one, I don't care. But let's at least start with that. And then maybe you can show me what you can do with one of these." He brandished a sketchbook from nowhere and shrugged. "And why you're in here in the first place. Aren't you a bit young to be out of school?"

He paused, chewing his lower lip in thought.

"Or you could fight me," he added, his mouth curving into a laughing grin, "but I'm really not that easy to take down."

Thorne sat down when he was certain Shiloh wasn't hell-bent on imminent escape and ran a hand through his hair, ink flashing as he moved and settled to watch the other throw whatever venom he could at Thorne.

"I'm thirty, congratulations," Thorne deadpanned, glancing at the kid. So he really was that young. Thorne wasn't surprised, but at the same time it rankled him - the idea that this kid might have a s**t situation back home, might not even have a home. But it wasn't his place - not yet - to pry into that.

"Sure you don't," he said, "But it's not like you have anything better to do since you're obviously not invested in school." His grin flicked, cheshire, across his face. "I would know. I've been there before."

He shifted and pushed himself up to sit next to Shiloh on the couch, lounging far enough away from Shiloh to give the other kid a sense of space. The last thing he wanted to do was invade his space and make him bolt a second time. Especially now that he was drawing.

"You're pretty good for a delinquent," Thorne said, his voice low with tease. He reached over the side of the couch and pulled a larger, thicker sketchbook from the side of the sofa along with a beaten tote bag featuring a skull and what looked like a hand painted set of flowers. He rifled through it for a messy palette of watercolors, a beaten mug, and a set of charcoal pencils.

"Do you know how to use any other medium?" He asked mildly, leaning back and glancing down at Shiloh. "And by the way - keep that." He gestured at the sketchbook and the pen before offering the watercolor palette. "If you want."

"No, I don't." Thorne leaned back, glancing at the other. He knew the infuriating feeling of being treated like a kid. Knew what it was like. He didn't presume to know the troubles of Shiloh, but there was an instinct in his gut, hungry and primal and raw, that wanted to protect him from whatever it was. Or at least give him a safe place away from it.

Maybe it was his mongrel blood calling out to others.

"I'm not pretending to know your situation." Thorne wasn't a therapist and he didn't know what he would even say to his younger self in a situation like this. "I don't. I don't know anything. But look, I'm not going to springboard a cop call on you. I just want to make sure you're not going to die or somethin' tragic after walking out that door." He paused and shrugged. "It might be hard to believe," he added wryly, "but I've been somewhere like you."

He closed his eyes and leaned back, pulling out his own sketchbook and rifling through the pages. He didn't want to push his attention on Shiloh and give the kid stage fright. He didn't want to be someone that Shiloh had to fear. But he looked up at the mention of a ditch and frowned, his fingers stuttering over the page as he tilted a pencil between his fingers.

"You're not," he said finally, slowly, softly, "They don't know that. And you - " He pointed at the sketchbook that Shiloh was drawing in. "You have something going for you. You might not be what they want, but ******** them." Thorne laughed. "I dragged you into this shop. I can damn well drag you out of a ditch too."

Thorne retreated immediately when Shiloh went back against the couch, acting the very expression of guilt and concern. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other and laid the watercolors down between them with enough space for Shiloh to stay easily curled up.

"Well, if you ever want the opportunity," Thorne said, "I work shop all week. Sometimes weekends too, and its hellish and slow when certain delinquents are skipping school." His smile was slow and cautious. "I usually leave the back door open for the shop cat."

It was an offer. Shiloh had the freedom to choose.

At least Thorne could give him that.

Thorne laughed, starting to sketch a rough of flowers, birds. He let the pencil slide, and suddenly there was the silhouette of a wolf, its jaws up against the edge of the body of a swallow, wings spread in an attempt to fly. He glanced up at Shiloh, his eyes flickering slightly at the accusation, the question.

And what was his answer? That he saw a little bit of himself in Shiloh? That he wanted to offer what had never been offered to him? He bit his lip, thinking. There was a comfort in a lie or an evasion, but he wasn't that kind of person. He wouldn't be that person, not to a kid that didn't need that kind of s**t in his life.

"Because," he said, tasting the word, "If someone had offered this to me when I'd been younger, I might not have ended up where I am." He paused. "I'm not comparing us. I'm not pretending like our situations are the same, or even similar. It doesn't matter that there's nothing in it for me, that's not why I'm offering."

He paused, glancing down at the sketchbook in his lap. He traced the line of his tattoos, the thorns and the birds trapped beneath them. "I hated the world for a long time because I was just another number through a crack in the system. And if someone had done this for me, maybe that would have been different." He glanced back at Shiloh. "So if you need anything from me, you're welcome to it. And I'm not going to pry. I don't need to know. That's your decision." He smiled, lopsided. "But I'll pissed if I have to drag you out of a ditch, just so you know."

He leaned back against the couch, tilting his back and exposing the jagged scar on his throat. "Yeah," he said, "I've never been the best decision maker. But I have a thing for strays, it seems."

He grinned at Shiloh sideways. "It's a bad habit. One of many."