'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan’s fingers are just beginning to make what he considers promising progress when Finch’s hand closes around his wrist. His lower lip pops out immediately, not because he thinks it will work, but because it is important that everyone nearby understands he has been wronged in several directions at once. "YEAH, WELL MAYBE IF YOU ASKED NICELY FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE," he bellows back, leaning hard into the shape Finch has already made for them: terrible brothers, worse manners, probably a mother somewhere who has a headache without knowing why.
Then Finch hisses about the orange peel, and Calan’s indignation trips over itself, and his voice drops all at once. "Wait," he says, blinking up at Finch through watery eyes, the fight going out of his shoulders just enough to be noticeable. "What about not swallowing the peel?" For the first time since he started dying for profit, Calan looks properly interested in something other than pockets. His gaze narrows, not with suspicion exactly, but with the prickling awareness that there had been a rule and nobody had told him. Worse, there had been a better way to do the thing he had just done very badly and very bitterly, and this man knew it.
The echo shark threat lands a second later, and Calan looks from Finch to Carlo, to the crowd still pretending not to watch while very much watching, and makes a quick private calculation, deciding there is only one reasonable position to take. "OKAY," Calan hollers, loud enough for three aunties and the accused meat vendor to hear, "BUT YOU’RE PAYING SINCE SOMEONE STOLE ALL OUR MONEY." He gives Finch a pointed look then, as if the rules of reality have now been shouted into place and therefore must be followed. His wrist is still caught, his stomach still hurts, and his tongue still tastes like punishment, but his expression says, very clearly, that if Finch wants to be their brother badly enough to yell about it on a beach, he shoulder suffer the financial responsibilities too.
Then Finch hisses about the orange peel, and Calan’s indignation trips over itself, and his voice drops all at once. "Wait," he says, blinking up at Finch through watery eyes, the fight going out of his shoulders just enough to be noticeable. "What about not swallowing the peel?" For the first time since he started dying for profit, Calan looks properly interested in something other than pockets. His gaze narrows, not with suspicion exactly, but with the prickling awareness that there had been a rule and nobody had told him. Worse, there had been a better way to do the thing he had just done very badly and very bitterly, and this man knew it.
The echo shark threat lands a second later, and Calan looks from Finch to Carlo, to the crowd still pretending not to watch while very much watching, and makes a quick private calculation, deciding there is only one reasonable position to take. "OKAY," Calan hollers, loud enough for three aunties and the accused meat vendor to hear, "BUT YOU’RE PAYING SINCE SOMEONE STOLE ALL OUR MONEY." He gives Finch a pointed look then, as if the rules of reality have now been shouted into place and therefore must be followed. His wrist is still caught, his stomach still hurts, and his tongue still tastes like punishment, but his expression says, very clearly, that if Finch wants to be their brother badly enough to yell about it on a beach, he shoulder suffer the financial responsibilities too.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
