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."