they laughing at the top like they can't see the bottom

Mateo's touch is feather-light against Finch's firmer grasp, his hands just a little dirty from his pot. The touch surprises Finch only because in negotiations such as there -- well, perhaps not exactly like these where there's a promise of taking one home and Finch absolutely plans on following that thread as far as he can -- the other party typically tries to crush his nimble thief's fingers in a display of power. It's not a bad change in his circumstances, though. 

Finch considers the question with a tilt of his head. In his particular line of work, it serves him well to be uncontactable, untraceable, no footprints left behind to follow. Still, he had promised Mateo a favor, and perhaps he would want to see the man again after their business transaction for other reasons, so he certainly wasn't opposed to finding a way for him to drop a line. 

"How familiar are you with the Fingers?" He deliberates, hesitant to send this gentle man with the twinkle in his eyes anywhere near that sprawling, slippery death trap. "There's an entrance not far from here. I can show you where it is. Leave a note there and I'll find it." Mateo may have to get creative to shelter it from the constant pouring rain of Flowerbirth and the perpetual damp of the Fingers, but Finch figures it's a safer method of communication than making the man linger somewhere for him. 

The thief unfolds himself from his stool, silent and lithe, and follows Mateo out the door as a ghosting shadow. The rain is no surprise to Finch, cold and wet as it hammers into his already-damp clothing from the journey in, and he raises a shoulder in a shrug before turning his sharp grin onto Mateo.

"I mean, I was hoping I'd get wet sometime today," He cracks.

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

"Oh, not at all," Mateo says with a warm laugh about Rae's Fingers, though by the tone of his voice that doesn't seem to pose a problem one bit. "If it is just an entrance I am sure I will be able to find a suitable rock to leave a note for you. I am sure a lot of people do the same." Whether or not those notes go unread by all but their intended recipients is something the botanist neither knows nor cares about, and if this is where his new acquaintance wants to correspond, that's fine with him.

They head out into the rain together, Mateo's curls instantly growing heavy and dark as the fat droplets cascade down, though his steps grow no quicker for it. The other man stands a couple of inches taller than him, he notes, but not too much - a refreshing surprise to a certified short king - and he turns to grin back at him. "Could be worse," he supposes, "you might be wet and alone." A travesty, truly.

It isn't far to Wildering House from The Last Word, luckily, the mansion in its private cove looming up even through the gloom and the clouds, though it seems more tropically haunted than sunny paradise right now, and the botanist points up into the weather where his schooner can be seen - just - over it. "There are steps up to it along the side of the house," he says, "so long as you are up for the walk?"

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

"Gods forbid," He laughs at Mateo's hypothetical scenario of being drenched all by himself. A true nightmare. Good thing Finch was tricky enough to find himself in constant company, whether that be a crowded street of pockets to pick, a jail cell after said endeavor, or in the companionship of someone interesting and charming. Or someone who wanted to kill him. Often those two overlapped. 

The walk to Mateo's place doesn't seem too far, with Finch following a half-step behind to let Mateo take the lead. If this handsome man with the dark curls and kind eyes were leading him off a cliff, Finch was too committed to this to do anything but follow. But, true to his word, there's a hint of purple schooner if Finch cranes his head just so, a tad ominous where it looms just off in the distant rain and fog. Yeah, this was looking more and more like one of those ghost stories they tell to children about the dangers of wandering off with strangers. If he disappeared him, the only one who would likely miss him was Jack, and he'd only be pissed someone else destroyed his property before Finch's warranty was up. It would be nice to be missed, even if it was in the way someone missed their wallet or a particularly trusty dagger. 

"I don't mind a walk," Finch says. He spends so much time hunched behind people to creep up on them, or running, or scuttling, or trying not to slip and eat shit in the sewers, that it's nice to stretch his legs every so often. He knows how to walk without sneaking, thank you very much. Still, his feet are silent behind Mateo's, even the splashes of puddles meeting his feet somehow disguised. "'sides, good company makes the walk go faster."

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

"I was hoping you would say something like that," Mateo says with a wink; his good company is something he prides himself on after all, and given how miserable the walk up to his schooner might be otherwise, he's glad Finch is of a similar ilk. They are lucky in that the wind doesn't pick up as they head higher, but by the time the lavender cascade becomes properly visible through the low hanging clouds, Mateo is properly drenched. 

"Welcome to La Verbena," he says of his little ship, gesturing to the schooner as if she might pipe up and introduce herself as well. She doesn't of course, and Mateo ensures things aren't about to get dangerously breezy before he scurries up her gangplank and hops aboard, throwing a careless hand out behind him in case the other man needs assistance. (He doubts it - Finch seems very much like the nimble sort, but you never know).

On the deck of La Verbena are scattered a great number of plants in pots as well as the tirelessly maintained curtain of lavender, but Mateo pays those no mind and moves towards the steps down into the belly of the ship. "I keep all the more dangerous ones a little less available to the public," he explains.

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

Finch, with his lifetime scuttling up various places he shouldn’t be, ranging from smooth outside walls in the pouring rain, to clamoring into rafters to avoid suspicion from prowling watches, does not need to take Mateo’s hand that offers assistance into the schooner. For a heartbeat, he’s torn between showing off a touch and scurrying aboard the gangplank as effortlessly as he knows he can; and for taking the excuse to let his linger in Mateo’s for for the sake of the touch.

He chooses a path in between, letting his hand rest lightly on Mateo’s but not using its promised strength and flexibility as he lightly clamors next to him on the boat. Upon the deck, he takes in the lovely assortment of plants, all looking (to his scant knowledge, at least) well-taken care of.

In defense of the intelligence of the spindly thief, Finch does pause when Mateo lures him into the basement. Following a stranger to his house on promise of poison and/or an entertaining afternoon? Rather par for the course. Following a stranger into his basement for poisons? The start of a folk tale about wiley foxes who got what they deserved. The basement was, all things considered, the best place to keep poisons. But also the best place to get rid of nosy thieves.

Finch lingers at the top of the stairs for a moment before offering a small prayer to Ludo for the sake of his tricky little soul. He rationalizes to his God that if he were to meet a gruesome, though perhaps karmic death here, his lifetime of antics and mayhem will end here. Then he follows the handsome stranger into the mysterious basement full of poison.

He does quip, “Is this also where you keep the bodies of your victims?” Though, because he can’t help it.

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

Offering a theatrical half-bow as Finch takes his hand more as an accessory than something he truly needs, Mateo remains blissfully unaware of the serial killer vibes he's apparently started to give off. Heading into the hull of the ship (never once has he thought it gave off creepy basement vibes), perhaps Finch will be pleasantly surprised to see the door open into a richly decorated interior. A maximalist by nature, Mateo's home aboard La Verbena is all thick rugs, mismatched furniture and boxes of tea, though it's been some time since he was here and so it is a little chilly.

"Victims of what?" he quips automatically, the question wrapped around a laugh too incredulous to think Finch has asked his own in seriousness. "Give me a second, I will warm the place up for us. There are plants and saplings in that case over there, if you want to take a look." Gesturing to a glass terrarium along one wall, the specimens inside seem to be growing remarkably well, each meticulously labelled in the botanist's own hand. "I used to have more, and I was working on creating hybrids too, but of course when Stormbreak fell I had to abandon the projects."

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

Admittedly, the basement doesn't look like a serial killer's lair. Any mysterious dried bloodstains soaked into the floorboards are covered up with lush rugs, the place artfully and eclectically decorated. It looks cozy, if a mysterious basement full of poisons can be called that, and Finch begins to drift around to do his professional business of snooping. He nods as Mateo gives him permission to snoop (at least, that's how he took it) and begins examining the aforementioned greenery. Some of the plants he recognizes, some he doesn't, and regardless, he decides it may be wisest to keep his thieving hands squarely to himself this time around. It would be a terribly annoying (though karmically fitting) to touch something he's not supposed to and keep over from some mysterious and painfully poisonous thing. 

"I dunno. You tell me," Finch says, laughing at the sense of utter incredulity in the botanist's words. "You meet me, a stranger, at a bar, we discuss deadly plants and you lead me back to a basement full of aforementioned deadly plants?" He runs his hands over the cool glass of a terrarium, careful not to leave any fingerprints behind. "If you weren't so charming, I might have run." 

He drifts back over to Mateo, already-silent footsteps muffled further by the rugs, and levels his glinting gaze at the man who lured him here. "Well. You bought me and drink and brought me home. What's next?" The curve of his crooked mouth spiders upwards, a sly cat's grin.