VESPER
While Finch works, Vesper draws a card from somewhere inside his sleeve and lets it travel between his fingers, the motion smooth enough to look idle if one misses the precision of it. The card rolls over his knuckles, disappears against his palm, returns between two fingers, and all the while his pale eyes remain lowered toward the lock and the man kneeling before it, watching the clean little theatre of competence with more interest than his expression cares to admit.
Finch’s thoughts narrow until they are almost quiet, the usual bright clutter of charm, fear, and opportunism filing itself down to pins, pressure, rust, resistance. It is a useful thing to see. A mind like his does not become honest, exactly, but it does become occupied, and Vesper follows the shape of that focus the way one might keep a fingertip against a pulse. If Finch has any clever notion about pocketing something, palming a second prize, or proving that Jack’s leash has frayed already, it does not rise to the surface. Only satisfaction does.
The card stills for half a second between Vesper’s fingers as the lock gives, caught there by the sudden clean warmth that lifts through Finch’s mind. Not smugness, not yet, but the neat, private pleasure of a thing done well. Vesper’s mouth shifts faintly around the peppermint bark still tucked against his tongue, and when Finch looks up, he answers with nothing more than a raised brow and a small tilt of his chin toward the cache; Open it, then.
He ignores the wink because rewarding it would be too easy, though the thought of it hooks itself briefly in the corner of his amusement as he pushes away from the wall. His card vanishes again with a turn of his wrist, tucked out of sight as he steps in behind Finch, close enough to look over him without crouching, close enough that the thief would feel him there before he saw him. The little contraption from Finch’s boot earns a flick of Vesper’s eyes, a note made and stored away, but no comment; clever fingers are still clever fingers, even when attached to a man with poor judgement.
Vesper sees the empty cache at the same moment Finch does, and in the next breath his mind has already gone hunting through the thief’s reaction for the snag of guilt, the hot twitch of recognition, the sudden inward flinch of a man whose lie has arrived before his face knows how to wear it. There is none of it. Finch’s surprise has the right shape, raw-edged and immediate, and that tells Vesper more than any protest could have. Unfortunately for Finch, truth has never been the same thing as mercy.
Vesper straightens slowly, silver rings glinting as he smooths his thumb over the edge of one before letting out a soft, dry tut. "Now," he says, his drawl mild enough to be almost conversational, "you didn’t happen to come and take what you were meant to steal ahead of time, did you?" His gaze drops briefly to the weathered lock, then returns to Finch with a brow raised, pale eyes bright and narrow in the dark. "All sorts of magic in the world can make a freshly opened lock look rusty." He lets the accusation settle between them, not because he believes it, but because Finch expects to be suspected and people are often most useful when pressed against the shape of what they fear. Vesper turns one of his rings once, slow and exact, while the shadows around his boots remain quiet against the stone.
Finch’s thoughts narrow until they are almost quiet, the usual bright clutter of charm, fear, and opportunism filing itself down to pins, pressure, rust, resistance. It is a useful thing to see. A mind like his does not become honest, exactly, but it does become occupied, and Vesper follows the shape of that focus the way one might keep a fingertip against a pulse. If Finch has any clever notion about pocketing something, palming a second prize, or proving that Jack’s leash has frayed already, it does not rise to the surface. Only satisfaction does.
The card stills for half a second between Vesper’s fingers as the lock gives, caught there by the sudden clean warmth that lifts through Finch’s mind. Not smugness, not yet, but the neat, private pleasure of a thing done well. Vesper’s mouth shifts faintly around the peppermint bark still tucked against his tongue, and when Finch looks up, he answers with nothing more than a raised brow and a small tilt of his chin toward the cache; Open it, then.
He ignores the wink because rewarding it would be too easy, though the thought of it hooks itself briefly in the corner of his amusement as he pushes away from the wall. His card vanishes again with a turn of his wrist, tucked out of sight as he steps in behind Finch, close enough to look over him without crouching, close enough that the thief would feel him there before he saw him. The little contraption from Finch’s boot earns a flick of Vesper’s eyes, a note made and stored away, but no comment; clever fingers are still clever fingers, even when attached to a man with poor judgement.
Vesper sees the empty cache at the same moment Finch does, and in the next breath his mind has already gone hunting through the thief’s reaction for the snag of guilt, the hot twitch of recognition, the sudden inward flinch of a man whose lie has arrived before his face knows how to wear it. There is none of it. Finch’s surprise has the right shape, raw-edged and immediate, and that tells Vesper more than any protest could have. Unfortunately for Finch, truth has never been the same thing as mercy.
Vesper straightens slowly, silver rings glinting as he smooths his thumb over the edge of one before letting out a soft, dry tut. "Now," he says, his drawl mild enough to be almost conversational, "you didn’t happen to come and take what you were meant to steal ahead of time, did you?" His gaze drops briefly to the weathered lock, then returns to Finch with a brow raised, pale eyes bright and narrow in the dark. "All sorts of magic in the world can make a freshly opened lock look rusty." He lets the accusation settle between them, not because he believes it, but because Finch expects to be suspected and people are often most useful when pressed against the shape of what they fear. Vesper turns one of his rings once, slow and exact, while the shadows around his boots remain quiet against the stone.
wake me when it's over
like a bad dream
like a bad dream
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
