Through the thick wood of the ship, Finch can hear the luring calls of the Echo Sharks trying to persuade him to give his body to the sea. He thinks, for a moment, that the feeling of the rushing waves swallowing him and the comparatively gentle teeth of the sharks at the rip him apart would be preferable to this. He barely avoids winching as Jack’s quiet words ripping into him, his jaw ticking slightly from how tightly he’s clenching his teeth.
Jack’s anger is a slow simmer, alighting just under FInch’s skin and ticking the temperature of the room up by a few small degrees as a time. Finch knows, from close experience, that an anger that roils under cool eyes and flenched fists is more dangerous than one that explodes an in all-encompassing flame; the quiet has time to subsume, to plot and scheme and nurse itself into something deadly. Jack’s quiet does not make him any less dangerous, and when he moves his back to Finch, the slender thief knows it doesn’t mean his anger has passed. A man as powerful as Jack doesn’t mean surrender when his back is turned — it just means he knows his power is so absolute, so iron and gripping on his prey, that there is no such thing as exposed. Finch can feel the leash tighten on his jugular.
He doesn’t respond to Jack’s questions, knows they weren’t poised for genuine answers and that trying to fill the void they created would only dig him further into his grave. In truth, he hadn’t even thought to do those things, focused more on reporting back to Jack. He was a thief, not a spy, and Vesper’s shadows and uncanny grave spooked him as much as they enticed him. If word got back to him that Finch was sniffing around about who took the haul, more likely than not, it would look like the slippery thief was looking to take the score home rather than find a way to deliver it.
“I can’t speak for him, but he saw the same thing I did,” He dares to say. “I passed his… interrogation. Any other information you’ll have to settle with him.” He said them smooth and quiet, not testy, not an accusation, just a simple explanation of fact. He would not dare speak for Vesper, wouldn’t dare to put words in the mouth of Jack’s son knowing to do so and presume wrong would be worse than lying. “The cache was empty.”
He hoped it wouldn’t be interpreted as backtalk. The all-ten of his fingers-ness was delightful to have.
Jack’s anger is a slow simmer, alighting just under FInch’s skin and ticking the temperature of the room up by a few small degrees as a time. Finch knows, from close experience, that an anger that roils under cool eyes and flenched fists is more dangerous than one that explodes an in all-encompassing flame; the quiet has time to subsume, to plot and scheme and nurse itself into something deadly. Jack’s quiet does not make him any less dangerous, and when he moves his back to Finch, the slender thief knows it doesn’t mean his anger has passed. A man as powerful as Jack doesn’t mean surrender when his back is turned — it just means he knows his power is so absolute, so iron and gripping on his prey, that there is no such thing as exposed. Finch can feel the leash tighten on his jugular.
He doesn’t respond to Jack’s questions, knows they weren’t poised for genuine answers and that trying to fill the void they created would only dig him further into his grave. In truth, he hadn’t even thought to do those things, focused more on reporting back to Jack. He was a thief, not a spy, and Vesper’s shadows and uncanny grave spooked him as much as they enticed him. If word got back to him that Finch was sniffing around about who took the haul, more likely than not, it would look like the slippery thief was looking to take the score home rather than find a way to deliver it.
“I can’t speak for him, but he saw the same thing I did,” He dares to say. “I passed his… interrogation. Any other information you’ll have to settle with him.” He said them smooth and quiet, not testy, not an accusation, just a simple explanation of fact. He would not dare speak for Vesper, wouldn’t dare to put words in the mouth of Jack’s son knowing to do so and presume wrong would be worse than lying. “The cache was empty.”
He hoped it wouldn’t be interpreted as backtalk. The all-ten of his fingers-ness was delightful to have.
