Finch is almost impressed at the quick pivot to the plan B. Almost. He’s more annoyed than anything else, the boy’s shrill cries piercing his ears and he winches. Alright, he wanted to play. Thought he was clever. Every trick this little amateur had, though, him and his brother probably invented before this little bastard was born. In his hand, he can’t help but notice how thin the kid’s wrist is where it’s grasped in his hands. Against his better judgement, he feels a lurch of pity. But not that much pity.
“I TOLD YOU, MOM SAID WE HAVE TO BE HOME BY MIDDAY!” He bellows, just as loudly, putting a whine in his voice every parent or older sibling could immediately resonate with. His face screws up into one of overwhelmed concern and annoyance. “I KNOW YOU’RE HAVING FUN BUT WE HAVE TO GO! PLEASE!” This isn’t his first rodeo. “Listen, kid, I’m not gonna rat you out,” he murmurs under his breath, low and where only his writhing prisoner could hear. “I just want anything you took from my pocket.”
With a waggle of his fingers, like he’s a magician showing off his trick for a new audience, he pulls out the pocket-watch from where he’d snaked it from the kid’s pockets when he was writing around claiming kidnapping. He let it dangle from his middle finger, tantalizing and taunting. “I’ll even give this back to you. But I’m keeping the candy. That’s mine by rights.”
He straightens up and tosses a wink at the boy. “AND WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER? MOM’S GONNA KILL US!” He begins to drag the boy’s flailing form to where his presumably-brother was truly chewing the scenery, wrenching and gagging and pointing indignant fingers. Finch paused before muttering, “does he know he doesn’t have to swallow the peel?”
“I TOLD YOU, MOM SAID WE HAVE TO BE HOME BY MIDDAY!” He bellows, just as loudly, putting a whine in his voice every parent or older sibling could immediately resonate with. His face screws up into one of overwhelmed concern and annoyance. “I KNOW YOU’RE HAVING FUN BUT WE HAVE TO GO! PLEASE!” This isn’t his first rodeo. “Listen, kid, I’m not gonna rat you out,” he murmurs under his breath, low and where only his writhing prisoner could hear. “I just want anything you took from my pocket.”
With a waggle of his fingers, like he’s a magician showing off his trick for a new audience, he pulls out the pocket-watch from where he’d snaked it from the kid’s pockets when he was writing around claiming kidnapping. He let it dangle from his middle finger, tantalizing and taunting. “I’ll even give this back to you. But I’m keeping the candy. That’s mine by rights.”
He straightens up and tosses a wink at the boy. “AND WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER? MOM’S GONNA KILL US!” He begins to drag the boy’s flailing form to where his presumably-brother was truly chewing the scenery, wrenching and gagging and pointing indignant fingers. Finch paused before muttering, “does he know he doesn’t have to swallow the peel?”
