Contrary to what is perhaps the pervading public opinion, Finch isn't a half-bad thief. No, the rub is he's pretty damn good at what he does, his cocky persona built on a lifetime of clever escapes and his lithe figure darting into the shadows at just the right moment to escape unscathed with a pocket full of clinking treasures. When he had finally been caught by Jack, it had been an inevitable surprise; like Vesper said, it's better to rely on skill than luck and for all his wily ways, his tricky fingers and meticulous planning, Jack didn't become the man he is now by letting someone as insignificant as Finch best him, no matter how clever.
As he kneels in front of the rusted lock, pant legs soaking through instantly with the salty brine that covers the floor, his world narrows and sharpens until its just him and his target. A little flick of his wrist conjures his lockpicks where they were hidden in his sleeve, the spindly instruments bronze and unassuming in his deft fingers. He studied the lock, takes in the curve of the rock that shelters it, the rust that has been building on its edges and rotting away with the mechanisms. Running a finger over it, he cocks his head and brings his gaze a little closer, disassembling the pieces of the puzzle in his head. It's a common type, albeit one of an older model, crusted and rusted with years of weather and the smooth, constant drip of saltwater.
The picks enter the lock and he begins his work. He's careful, methodical and strategic in a way his demeanor doesn't suggest, and the artful precision of his pianist fingers perhaps would be seen as boastful if Finch wasn't so utterly focused on his task. The pins in the lock are stubborn, not out of any particular security on the part of the lock, but merely because it has atrophied into something stronger. A smile grows on Finch's face as he works the lock, thoughtful and genuine, as his unwavering hands manipulate it. This, the illicit artistry of coaxing secrets to spill, is perhaps the simplest task of the thief, but that makes it no less satisfying to complete; and, no less satisfying to do well. And this, Finch can do very well.
His mind cedes into an almost meditative state as the picks climbs in and out, until after a few minutes, the lock gives and Finch claims his victory. "Done," He exhales, mind still so firmly set on the task at hand he forgets to boast, forgets some smarmy comment about earning his keep or proving a worthy investment. Instead, the only thought that echoes through his head is satisfaction at the completion of his task and the mundane joy that comes from the solving of a difficult puzzle.
He huffs out a slight exhale and glances up at Vesper. The job isn't done until he opens it up, fulfills his role as potential bait. The easiest way to disarm a trap is to trigger it, let it lop off your fingers, after all, and Vesper's ringed fingers are too nice to sacrifice. Finch's aren't, but he'd still prefer to keep them, so he wiggles out a little contraption from his boot he designed himself (he's not thinking about Lark, he's not), a little grabber-type thing which he uses to pry the receptacle open.
He tosses a wink at Vesper before prying the little door open, maneuvering the weight of his slender body against the contraption to break it free from where it's slightly rusted. Though the hinges have long-since rotted, it makes no noise as it swings open. Out of the corner of his eye, Finch watches Vesper, looking for a tell.
As he kneels in front of the rusted lock, pant legs soaking through instantly with the salty brine that covers the floor, his world narrows and sharpens until its just him and his target. A little flick of his wrist conjures his lockpicks where they were hidden in his sleeve, the spindly instruments bronze and unassuming in his deft fingers. He studied the lock, takes in the curve of the rock that shelters it, the rust that has been building on its edges and rotting away with the mechanisms. Running a finger over it, he cocks his head and brings his gaze a little closer, disassembling the pieces of the puzzle in his head. It's a common type, albeit one of an older model, crusted and rusted with years of weather and the smooth, constant drip of saltwater.
The picks enter the lock and he begins his work. He's careful, methodical and strategic in a way his demeanor doesn't suggest, and the artful precision of his pianist fingers perhaps would be seen as boastful if Finch wasn't so utterly focused on his task. The pins in the lock are stubborn, not out of any particular security on the part of the lock, but merely because it has atrophied into something stronger. A smile grows on Finch's face as he works the lock, thoughtful and genuine, as his unwavering hands manipulate it. This, the illicit artistry of coaxing secrets to spill, is perhaps the simplest task of the thief, but that makes it no less satisfying to complete; and, no less satisfying to do well. And this, Finch can do very well.
His mind cedes into an almost meditative state as the picks climbs in and out, until after a few minutes, the lock gives and Finch claims his victory. "Done," He exhales, mind still so firmly set on the task at hand he forgets to boast, forgets some smarmy comment about earning his keep or proving a worthy investment. Instead, the only thought that echoes through his head is satisfaction at the completion of his task and the mundane joy that comes from the solving of a difficult puzzle.
He huffs out a slight exhale and glances up at Vesper. The job isn't done until he opens it up, fulfills his role as potential bait. The easiest way to disarm a trap is to trigger it, let it lop off your fingers, after all, and Vesper's ringed fingers are too nice to sacrifice. Finch's aren't, but he'd still prefer to keep them, so he wiggles out a little contraption from his boot he designed himself (he's not thinking about Lark, he's not), a little grabber-type thing which he uses to pry the receptacle open.
He tosses a wink at Vesper before prying the little door open, maneuvering the weight of his slender body against the contraption to break it free from where it's slightly rusted. Though the hinges have long-since rotted, it makes no noise as it swings open. Out of the corner of his eye, Finch watches Vesper, looking for a tell.
