Finch takes the instruction without comment or complaint, committing the commands to memory and trying very, very hard to not be in a bad mood about it. His eyes rove Jack's maps hungrily as the man scribbles, the worn parchment covered in clean lines and careful diagrams undoubtably holding years of forbidden information won by blood or stealth or both. A man can do a lot of damage with those maps, and Finch follows the splotches of dark inch as they weave information into a colorful tapestry of a glimpse of an empire. He was a little surprised Jack was even showing it to him, even with his promise of loyalty; surely Jack, in all his violent wisdom and foresight and eerie knowledge of everything that seems to happen under his empire, knows that Finch would not be seen as the wisest person to display this information to, even in a fleeting glimpse and accompanied by strict orders. It doesn't quite feel like trust, perhaps never will, but it feels like the leash lengthens just a tad. Perhaps it's just more slack to eventually hang him with, though.
Still, he nods as Jack speaks, already planning and scheming the best way to complete the job. A brittle lock is a gamble for a nimble thief, either an easy mark to wiggle open and make off like a bandit, or so predisposed to freeze up, trapping picks inside and ensuring a very loud struggle to try and break it open would ensue. It wouldn't be hard, per se, but it would be cold and wet and back in the claustrophobic confines of the Fingers where the endless drip of the water would echo in his ears like a clock ticking out the rest of his life. He wonders if he'd have a babysitter again. He wonders if they'll be as handsome as Vesper was.
"On it, boss," He says instead of any of that, fingers already itching for the feeling of a lock under them. For as precarious as his position is, and for how much he recommends not getting oneself indebted to the most vicious person around, at least Jack is using him for what he's good for. The thrill of the hunt, the careful coaxing of a lock under his fingers, the charming of a target; it was all much more pleasurable than being in the ground somewhere. Being useful is better than being dead.
He flicks his fingers to his head in a mock salute, a sharp grin sprawling across his face and tugging painfully at his scar in the cold. His guard is not down, never is anymore, but his shoulders slant into an easy curve and his body morphs into something less predatory and more easygoing. His performance of Finch slides back onto him, slick as water off the deck of a boat. "Offer still stands to use me," He says, but it's lighthearted and teasing, fingers darting across an open flame to see if they'll burn.
Still, he nods as Jack speaks, already planning and scheming the best way to complete the job. A brittle lock is a gamble for a nimble thief, either an easy mark to wiggle open and make off like a bandit, or so predisposed to freeze up, trapping picks inside and ensuring a very loud struggle to try and break it open would ensue. It wouldn't be hard, per se, but it would be cold and wet and back in the claustrophobic confines of the Fingers where the endless drip of the water would echo in his ears like a clock ticking out the rest of his life. He wonders if he'd have a babysitter again. He wonders if they'll be as handsome as Vesper was.
"On it, boss," He says instead of any of that, fingers already itching for the feeling of a lock under them. For as precarious as his position is, and for how much he recommends not getting oneself indebted to the most vicious person around, at least Jack is using him for what he's good for. The thrill of the hunt, the careful coaxing of a lock under his fingers, the charming of a target; it was all much more pleasurable than being in the ground somewhere. Being useful is better than being dead.
He flicks his fingers to his head in a mock salute, a sharp grin sprawling across his face and tugging painfully at his scar in the cold. His guard is not down, never is anymore, but his shoulders slant into an easy curve and his body morphs into something less predatory and more easygoing. His performance of Finch slides back onto him, slick as water off the deck of a boat. "Offer still stands to use me," He says, but it's lighthearted and teasing, fingers darting across an open flame to see if they'll burn.
