As Finch hurries down the busy street, weaving quickly and lithely through groups of people, he curses himself for running so tightly against the clock. On any other occasion it would've been a pleasant day, the sun trickling through air just a little south of chilly, and Finch wishes he could take a moment to enjoy the way it caresses against his face. He also wishes, though more out of habit than anything else, that he could take the time to let his nimble fingers dart in and out of pockets and purses as he hurries through the streets. It would be so easy, to indulge in this talent of his, and really, he was already late so what was the harm of a few more minutes of tardiness if there was something to show for it?
He pushes that impulse aside. At least for now, his talents aren't his own. The noose has already been extended once, and he would be a fool for asking it to stretch any farther.
Hurrying his pace, he hears his feet begin to pound against the pavement, kicking up little conspicuous clouds of dust and gravel as he forces himself to ignore all developed instinct to stay unnoticed and unobtrusive, just another thieving little fly on the wall, and instead get to where he was needed. The details given to him about this job were sparse -- of course they were, why would they even tell him ahead of time what he was expected to do when they know he would just do it -- but what he'd been told seemed unpleasant, something about slime and passageways and the unspoken threats of his life on the line if he did an unsatisfactory job and all that jibber-jabber. He'd heard it before, and frankly, was getting a little tired of it. Not that the severity of his crime, his debt, was lessening in his head; no, he wasn't stupid enough to forget that.
As he rounds the corner to the rendezvous point, his breath stutters in surprise for a brief moment seeing who, exactly, was overseeing him on this mission of slime and subterfuge. He'd never met Vesper, the son of the man who held his leash, but he'd be a fool not to recognize him from the tales alone. He curses his liberal interpretation of the concept of being on time and then smooths himself, collecting himself, trying to appear professional and impressive and not like someone Vesper would want to kill.
He approaches, nodding his head in greeting. His scar pulls as he stretches his mouth into a charming smile, the ones that made suitors and old ladies faint from its dashing roguishness. He dares not apologize for being late. "Hello," he offers, eying the spinning card in the man's fingers. "I'm Finch. I was told we're working together today? I'm an acquaintance of your father," A neutral enough statement on its own, able to be explained as a easy misunderstanding if he did have the wrong person. Though, studying the handsome man's face, eyes catching on the tell-tale star under Vesper's eye, he didn't think he did.
He pushes that impulse aside. At least for now, his talents aren't his own. The noose has already been extended once, and he would be a fool for asking it to stretch any farther.
Hurrying his pace, he hears his feet begin to pound against the pavement, kicking up little conspicuous clouds of dust and gravel as he forces himself to ignore all developed instinct to stay unnoticed and unobtrusive, just another thieving little fly on the wall, and instead get to where he was needed. The details given to him about this job were sparse -- of course they were, why would they even tell him ahead of time what he was expected to do when they know he would just do it -- but what he'd been told seemed unpleasant, something about slime and passageways and the unspoken threats of his life on the line if he did an unsatisfactory job and all that jibber-jabber. He'd heard it before, and frankly, was getting a little tired of it. Not that the severity of his crime, his debt, was lessening in his head; no, he wasn't stupid enough to forget that.
As he rounds the corner to the rendezvous point, his breath stutters in surprise for a brief moment seeing who, exactly, was overseeing him on this mission of slime and subterfuge. He'd never met Vesper, the son of the man who held his leash, but he'd be a fool not to recognize him from the tales alone. He curses his liberal interpretation of the concept of being on time and then smooths himself, collecting himself, trying to appear professional and impressive and not like someone Vesper would want to kill.
He approaches, nodding his head in greeting. His scar pulls as he stretches his mouth into a charming smile, the ones that made suitors and old ladies faint from its dashing roguishness. He dares not apologize for being late. "Hello," he offers, eying the spinning card in the man's fingers. "I'm Finch. I was told we're working together today? I'm an acquaintance of your father," A neutral enough statement on its own, able to be explained as a easy misunderstanding if he did have the wrong person. Though, studying the handsome man's face, eyes catching on the tell-tale star under Vesper's eye, he didn't think he did.
