As the shadows slip over Finch’s hand, he avoids thrashing or resisting, allowing the dark wisps to pin his callused, slender thief’s hand into the stone and keep it there. The tendrils are barely present against his palm, whispered suggestions of cool movement, the slightest breeze on a warm day portending a distant storm to come. Incorporeal as they are, just a brush of something empty and cool against his skin, the force of it cannot be denied and Finch feels his hand anchored solidly against the glassy stone under him.
He’s heard rumors and gossip of what Vesper can do, but he had largely chalked the information up to drunken tavern talk. Vesper’s alleged powers certainly weren’t leant any particular credence when drunken thieves slurred tales of absolutely true stories their cousin definitely saw Vesper do one night (while they were also drunk). Whenever told, Finch had just rolled his eyes and toasted to the artful boats of thieves, the grain of salt he needed to take the stories with turning to handfuls the more he heard.
It was a careful demonstration of strength from Vesper, the flexing of a well-trained muscle that could cause much more pain if Finch pressed it to do so. As Finch tests the boundaries, Vesper answers, delineating exactly where one man’s power begins and more importantly, where a charming thief’s ends.
Finch meets Vesper’s eye with his own charismatic grin, though pointed into something slightly sharper now he was pinioned against the wall. He refuses to shirk, to press his back against the wall in a futile attempt to create distance between the two, instead leans into the space between the two. He was a dog showing his stomach but his teeth are still bared. As Vesper speaks his words, just quiet enough that they feel almost intimate in their danger, Finch’s grin widens into wolfish. There’s a knife at his throat, he thinks, but the hand that wields it isn’t bloodthirsty. Still, if he were to jerk and buckle, it would cut his jugular nonetheless. Somewhere between flirtation and threat, Vesper draws a line with his shadows and Finch wonders how much room Vesper has left him to dance.
“I certainly think so,” he grins, but the message was received nonetheless, and Finch has found the end of the rope which will give him no slack as he strains. And then Vesper jostles him and his hand frees from the wall and the moment has passed and he is not nearly stupid enough to believe it crossed over into anything close to affection.
“I guess it is,” he agrees lightly, pulling his hand from the wall casually like it had been there by choice. He wasn’t rattled, not really, not by the display of power or by Vesper’s use of magic. If anything, the display made him feel a little more secure in exactly where he stood in the man’s esteem; though, of course, that was shifting sands under his feet.
(If he enjoyed feeling the pin of Vesper’s gaze on his face, who had to know?)
He quirked an eyebrow, not about to ask if they were to delve deeper into the tunnels, not necessarily eager to continue into the grime accepting it with a grim determination. He’d keep playing this game, if Vesper wanted, but he knows his debt will not be paid off by pretty words and cocked eyebrows. Under his fingers, the thieves’ cant heralds a warning of slippery rocks ahead.
“I’m sure my luck will hold,” he says affably, rolling his shoulders back as if in anticipation of a gymnast’s trick.
He’s heard rumors and gossip of what Vesper can do, but he had largely chalked the information up to drunken tavern talk. Vesper’s alleged powers certainly weren’t leant any particular credence when drunken thieves slurred tales of absolutely true stories their cousin definitely saw Vesper do one night (while they were also drunk). Whenever told, Finch had just rolled his eyes and toasted to the artful boats of thieves, the grain of salt he needed to take the stories with turning to handfuls the more he heard.
It was a careful demonstration of strength from Vesper, the flexing of a well-trained muscle that could cause much more pain if Finch pressed it to do so. As Finch tests the boundaries, Vesper answers, delineating exactly where one man’s power begins and more importantly, where a charming thief’s ends.
Finch meets Vesper’s eye with his own charismatic grin, though pointed into something slightly sharper now he was pinioned against the wall. He refuses to shirk, to press his back against the wall in a futile attempt to create distance between the two, instead leans into the space between the two. He was a dog showing his stomach but his teeth are still bared. As Vesper speaks his words, just quiet enough that they feel almost intimate in their danger, Finch’s grin widens into wolfish. There’s a knife at his throat, he thinks, but the hand that wields it isn’t bloodthirsty. Still, if he were to jerk and buckle, it would cut his jugular nonetheless. Somewhere between flirtation and threat, Vesper draws a line with his shadows and Finch wonders how much room Vesper has left him to dance.
“I certainly think so,” he grins, but the message was received nonetheless, and Finch has found the end of the rope which will give him no slack as he strains. And then Vesper jostles him and his hand frees from the wall and the moment has passed and he is not nearly stupid enough to believe it crossed over into anything close to affection.
“I guess it is,” he agrees lightly, pulling his hand from the wall casually like it had been there by choice. He wasn’t rattled, not really, not by the display of power or by Vesper’s use of magic. If anything, the display made him feel a little more secure in exactly where he stood in the man’s esteem; though, of course, that was shifting sands under his feet.
(If he enjoyed feeling the pin of Vesper’s gaze on his face, who had to know?)
He quirked an eyebrow, not about to ask if they were to delve deeper into the tunnels, not necessarily eager to continue into the grime accepting it with a grim determination. He’d keep playing this game, if Vesper wanted, but he knows his debt will not be paid off by pretty words and cocked eyebrows. Under his fingers, the thieves’ cant heralds a warning of slippery rocks ahead.
“I’m sure my luck will hold,” he says affably, rolling his shoulders back as if in anticipation of a gymnast’s trick.
