Finch suppresses a flinch as Vesper's words about Lark floats over his shoulder and stabs him in the buried place where he keeps his hurt. His breathing stays calm and even, his steady silent footsteps remaining even against the ground as he follows his guide deeper into the humid tunnels. Vesper said them evenly, as neutral as such words can be, and Finch tries to let them pass through him without impact. He shouldn't be surprised the son of the man who owns his debt knows such things; perhaps it would've hurt less if Vesper had said them with any kind of vitriol or intention for cruelty. The impassive words, instead, devoid of edge, merely remind him of how unimportant he is to the people who have his life in his hands. He doesn't respond, focusing on his hand on the wall, identifying the knots and curves passing under his fingers. The Thieves' Cant is a familiar sensation, almost familial in the way the tips of his fingers recognize what they're saying, and he clenches his jaw at the wave of poisonous memories that rise. As the water drips softly in the distance, the cool press of the cave sinking heavier onto his shoulders, Finch lets the comment pass. He's not sure what he would say to it, anyway.
When Vesper's cool gaze met his dark one, he holds it levelly through his dark lashes, letting his grin quirk up into something someone could consider charming. The tone is coolly neutral, same as before, and with enough plausible deniability that if Vesper were feeling facetious, he could claim they were blank statement not necessarily aimed to strike at Finch's exposed underbelly. Even so, and despite popular opinion, Finch isn't stupid enough to chomp at its implied bait and catch his maw on the hands that feed.
"So don't get caught," his own shoulder lifting in a facsimile of Vesper's loose shrug. "I don't. Not usually. I've only ever been caught once," He lifted a slender finger at Vesper's steady gaze, leaning into the attention rather than feeling caught in its hold. "And now I'm here, in a slimy tunnel with good-looking company, so perhaps all things are as they should be." It was a shameless flirt, and utterly transparent in its intention to flatter the man and gage a reaction. If Finch is on a leash, he needed to know how far it could extend; and, a little flirting was harmless, anyway. Usually. And, he wasn't lying -- Vesper really was rather handsome, with his sharp jawline and smattering of freckles across his nose.
On the wall, the Thieves' Cant grows more ragged and worn, years of wind and water sanding it down to smooth and almost natural etchings in the walls instead of a protrusion. How many thieves had come and gone into this tunnel? Finch knows he certainly won't be the last. He dares not ask how much farther to go, but wonders how deep into the bowels of this place Vesper will drag him before he's asked to do his penance for his father.
When Vesper's cool gaze met his dark one, he holds it levelly through his dark lashes, letting his grin quirk up into something someone could consider charming. The tone is coolly neutral, same as before, and with enough plausible deniability that if Vesper were feeling facetious, he could claim they were blank statement not necessarily aimed to strike at Finch's exposed underbelly. Even so, and despite popular opinion, Finch isn't stupid enough to chomp at its implied bait and catch his maw on the hands that feed.
"So don't get caught," his own shoulder lifting in a facsimile of Vesper's loose shrug. "I don't. Not usually. I've only ever been caught once," He lifted a slender finger at Vesper's steady gaze, leaning into the attention rather than feeling caught in its hold. "And now I'm here, in a slimy tunnel with good-looking company, so perhaps all things are as they should be." It was a shameless flirt, and utterly transparent in its intention to flatter the man and gage a reaction. If Finch is on a leash, he needed to know how far it could extend; and, a little flirting was harmless, anyway. Usually. And, he wasn't lying -- Vesper really was rather handsome, with his sharp jawline and smattering of freckles across his nose.
On the wall, the Thieves' Cant grows more ragged and worn, years of wind and water sanding it down to smooth and almost natural etchings in the walls instead of a protrusion. How many thieves had come and gone into this tunnel? Finch knows he certainly won't be the last. He dares not ask how much farther to go, but wonders how deep into the bowels of this place Vesper will drag him before he's asked to do his penance for his father.
