Finch isn't delusional enough to be relieved, isn't naive enough to assume just because Jack was dismissing him with all his limbs still attached to his body that he was off the hook and able to skip back to Torchline with a happy new assignment and delightful new artifact to steal. The dismissal was sharp-edged and dangerous, the tightrope trick he walks between usefulness and inconvenient growing thinner by the day. As Jack demands the parchment and turns away, Finch scowls slightly at the assumed obedience, at the utter confidence Jack has that Finch will just jump to obey and click his heels in delight to do yet another errand for him. No, not an errand, an implication; Jack has not yet given him a task, just the shape of his anger and the ghost of a threat and an expectation that his little errand boy will jump to please him. The worst part is that Finch probably will.
Under his callused fingers, the parchment is worn and aged, a little warm from the heat and intensity of Jack's hand as it graces his. He studies it for a moment, committing the touch of it to memory before flicking it to Jack's desk, quick as a striking snake. His eyes flash for just a curious moment to the other rolls of parchment on the shelves of the maproom, a treasure trove that any thief would kill and die to grasp. There was absolutely no way he was stealing from Jack twice -- the first time had gone poorly enough for him he'd nearly sworn of a life of crime before it was commandeered for Jack's service -- but his fingers itch to open and learn, to make himself more useful than just a disposable lackey best for bait. Not that he wanted to do that for Jack, anyway.
His curiosity catches (almost always something that ends in disastrous results) as Jack passes him the note for his erstwhile mate. With a little magician's flick, the note is up his sleeve and out of his sight, and he absolutely intends to stick his nose in it later to see what, exactly, Jack is passing notes about. But the man probably expects him to peek, the note likely scribbled with something like 'throw Finch overboard and let him drown,' or better yet, 'stop snooping you slimy bastard.' He plans to look anyway.
"Anything else I can do for you?" He asks, an edge of sarcastic resentment creeping into his voice against his better judgement. He's smarter than this, but no, actually, he isn't, and the guillotine has been hanging over his neck for so long he's beginning to grow tired of the shadow. "Any other miracles you wish performed? You have me, so may as well use me," And oh, that came out a little more flirtatious than he intended, not quite there but halfway between bitter and honeyed, the edge of a knife as it balanced in a soft hand. It was only flirtatious of one wished to choose to see it that way, and from every other angle it was shades closer to anger.
Under his callused fingers, the parchment is worn and aged, a little warm from the heat and intensity of Jack's hand as it graces his. He studies it for a moment, committing the touch of it to memory before flicking it to Jack's desk, quick as a striking snake. His eyes flash for just a curious moment to the other rolls of parchment on the shelves of the maproom, a treasure trove that any thief would kill and die to grasp. There was absolutely no way he was stealing from Jack twice -- the first time had gone poorly enough for him he'd nearly sworn of a life of crime before it was commandeered for Jack's service -- but his fingers itch to open and learn, to make himself more useful than just a disposable lackey best for bait. Not that he wanted to do that for Jack, anyway.
His curiosity catches (almost always something that ends in disastrous results) as Jack passes him the note for his erstwhile mate. With a little magician's flick, the note is up his sleeve and out of his sight, and he absolutely intends to stick his nose in it later to see what, exactly, Jack is passing notes about. But the man probably expects him to peek, the note likely scribbled with something like 'throw Finch overboard and let him drown,' or better yet, 'stop snooping you slimy bastard.' He plans to look anyway.
"Anything else I can do for you?" He asks, an edge of sarcastic resentment creeping into his voice against his better judgement. He's smarter than this, but no, actually, he isn't, and the guillotine has been hanging over his neck for so long he's beginning to grow tired of the shadow. "Any other miracles you wish performed? You have me, so may as well use me," And oh, that came out a little more flirtatious than he intended, not quite there but halfway between bitter and honeyed, the edge of a knife as it balanced in a soft hand. It was only flirtatious of one wished to choose to see it that way, and from every other angle it was shades closer to anger.
