Finch tries his best to enjoy his last few moments of being alive as Jack rolls to his feet, limber and lithe as a threat hanging in the air. He doesn’t question his uncanny ability to have known exactly where he was in the room, the exact moment he entered, without needing to open his eyes to see; some magic tricks are best undiscovered, and someone who can spy Finch’s silent shadow in the dark is not someone to be questioned. The way his blue eyes pin Finch in their cold and intense gaze reminds him all too presently of Vesper’s, and the more he studies the angles of Jack’s face, the more he can see the family resemblance between the two. For all the flirting he did with the man’s son, though, he wouldn’t dare to apply to Jack, no matter how similar their handsome features.
The man’s hand is a blade in front of him, outward and expecting, rings glinting like a dagger in the low light of the map room. The theatrics of it seem obvious, yet dangerous in the way it’s poised, a dagger in a sheath with a hand rested on it. Finch’s hands are, quite obviously, empty as a waiting grave. None of his pockets hood a bulge large enough to conceal a ledger or anything but a few scattered coins and the tools of his trade. The words must be spoken, nonetheless, as Jack appears to wait, patient as a snake in the grass, for admission of failure.
“The cache was empty,” he says simply, releasing it into the open placing his head onto the executioner’s block. “The lock was old and rusted, like it had been closed for years, but whatever was meant to be inside it was gone.” He refuses to let his dark gaze falter, refuses to bluster and hide behind excuses or reasonings or pleadings of mercy. He did what he was bid and he failed; he would not give Jack the satisfaction of seeing him snivel. His heart picks up a beat, the blood pounding in his ears, but his face stays steeled and impassive. He refuses to die on his knees.
The man’s hand is a blade in front of him, outward and expecting, rings glinting like a dagger in the low light of the map room. The theatrics of it seem obvious, yet dangerous in the way it’s poised, a dagger in a sheath with a hand rested on it. Finch’s hands are, quite obviously, empty as a waiting grave. None of his pockets hood a bulge large enough to conceal a ledger or anything but a few scattered coins and the tools of his trade. The words must be spoken, nonetheless, as Jack appears to wait, patient as a snake in the grass, for admission of failure.
“The cache was empty,” he says simply, releasing it into the open placing his head onto the executioner’s block. “The lock was old and rusted, like it had been closed for years, but whatever was meant to be inside it was gone.” He refuses to let his dark gaze falter, refuses to bluster and hide behind excuses or reasonings or pleadings of mercy. He did what he was bid and he failed; he would not give Jack the satisfaction of seeing him snivel. His heart picks up a beat, the blood pounding in his ears, but his face stays steeled and impassive. He refuses to die on his knees.
