At the sight of the empty cache, Finch's heart sinks, breath catching inside his throat in a panicked inhale of confusion and fear. He should've known the task was some sort of trap, a test of something he was not privileged enough to understand. Why, otherwise, would they have sent Jack's son with him as warden and gravedigger? The task was too simple, too benign to be anything but a knife pressed to his ribs. He had thought the simplicity of it was the test -- how far would Finch jump when commanded, if Jack had commanded him to? -- but as Vesper speaks, voice lilting in its false neutral inquisitive notes, Finch can almost feel the sharp tug of a chain around his neck bringing him to heel.
Slowly, he pushes his damp kneels off the slick, salted floor, rising to meet Vesper's narrow gaze with his own dark, glittering eyes. He keeps his shoulders loose but squared, the hands that coaxed the lock open with such practiced precision carefully lax at his side. He will not run from this accusation, will not sputter in indigence and dig his own grave by begging and pleading inadequate whines of innocence. He will, of course, deny the accusation, though will not claw and scream against it. Despite his profession, despite the series of desperate and hungry decisions that lead him to this damp tomb, Finch considers himself both an honest thief and one that values filling his lungs with breath and his body with living blood. Still, he's not surprised it settles squarely on his shoulders, knows who is is to Jack's family.
Finch's gaze is attentive and intense, but not defensive; he is in this instance innocent, and at the very least, will have the cold comfort of dying an innocent man. It's not defeat in the lines of his jaw, but rather a determination to stand as himself. "I did not," He answers simply, jaw clenched and eyes flared. If Jack needs a scapegoat, it would explain why he had been kept around so long, and if Vesper's shadows came toward him with deadly intent, well, his feet were already half-poised to run. "I've already stolen from your father once. I don't need a reprise," It was tossed at Vesper, half-sharp, half-defeated, landing somewhere in the middle, not defensive or pleading but just a true statement. If this tunnel were to be his grave, he'd try to make it an honorable one. Here, Finch is laid bare to Vesper to do as he wishes, peeling back the bluster of the cockiness and the bravado just for a moment as Vesper's brow quirks and his fingers fiddle with his rings. It's as close to trust he can give the man, as close to vulnerability he thinks he's capable of getting, and yet, as snarling, scratching, sweet-talking street kid, he almost knows it won't be enough.
Slowly, he pushes his damp kneels off the slick, salted floor, rising to meet Vesper's narrow gaze with his own dark, glittering eyes. He keeps his shoulders loose but squared, the hands that coaxed the lock open with such practiced precision carefully lax at his side. He will not run from this accusation, will not sputter in indigence and dig his own grave by begging and pleading inadequate whines of innocence. He will, of course, deny the accusation, though will not claw and scream against it. Despite his profession, despite the series of desperate and hungry decisions that lead him to this damp tomb, Finch considers himself both an honest thief and one that values filling his lungs with breath and his body with living blood. Still, he's not surprised it settles squarely on his shoulders, knows who is is to Jack's family.
Finch's gaze is attentive and intense, but not defensive; he is in this instance innocent, and at the very least, will have the cold comfort of dying an innocent man. It's not defeat in the lines of his jaw, but rather a determination to stand as himself. "I did not," He answers simply, jaw clenched and eyes flared. If Jack needs a scapegoat, it would explain why he had been kept around so long, and if Vesper's shadows came toward him with deadly intent, well, his feet were already half-poised to run. "I've already stolen from your father once. I don't need a reprise," It was tossed at Vesper, half-sharp, half-defeated, landing somewhere in the middle, not defensive or pleading but just a true statement. If this tunnel were to be his grave, he'd try to make it an honorable one. Here, Finch is laid bare to Vesper to do as he wishes, peeling back the bluster of the cockiness and the bravado just for a moment as Vesper's brow quirks and his fingers fiddle with his rings. It's as close to trust he can give the man, as close to vulnerability he thinks he's capable of getting, and yet, as snarling, scratching, sweet-talking street kid, he almost knows it won't be enough.
