Finch snatches the paper back from the little bastard's finger, scowling at himself. How could he have gotten so distracted by their shenanigans that he allowed those sticky (literally) fingers to nimble themselves in their and grab it? He was supposed to be better than that. The paper crumples a little when he grabs it and stuffs it deep into his pocket, but the parchment is still worn and soft under his hands thankfully whatever schmutz the little thief picked up on his fingers didn't stick onto the valuable document.
The street he's pulled them onto is blissfully quiet and blissfully free of slushee vendors. He takes a moment to settle himself and runs his fingers through his dark hair, breathing through his frustration to look at the situation from an unbiased perspective. The two little boys in front of him are young and lithe, shockingly similar in appearance, and looking at him with an emotion that could only be described as "expectant." If it's for slushees, they'll be waiting a long time.
"No, you don't have to swallow the peel, you just have to chew it enough to feel sick; and I don't have a mom too, so you're not special," He says wryly, flicking the nose again of Wailing Child (he thinks -- honestly, now that they're side-by-side it's harder to tell which is which). Outside of the prying gaze of the sunbathers and marks, in the privacy of the quiet street, he tries to slough off the role of older brother, letting it slink off his shoulders like a too-large coat that didn't fit. It wasn't a role these two boys want him in, or should want him in, and he eyes them with an air of the wry amusement.
"And it wasn't that you were clumsy. You just can't out-thief a thief," He said, his grin quirking up despite himself. Oh, he was going to blow these kids' mind. "It's a common distraction. Too common. That poor hel vendor gets accused of selling rotten meat three times a week. I was pulling the same scam with my twin before you two were sneaking your way out of your mother's womb."
The thought of his brother doesn't wound him. It doesn't. He keeps his eyes on these thieves and on their tricky little fingers and his thoughts away from dark nights on cobblestone streets with his own fingers in pockets. He sighs and leans against the wall, graceful and light. "How long have you two been thieving?" He asks, afraid of the answer.
The street he's pulled them onto is blissfully quiet and blissfully free of slushee vendors. He takes a moment to settle himself and runs his fingers through his dark hair, breathing through his frustration to look at the situation from an unbiased perspective. The two little boys in front of him are young and lithe, shockingly similar in appearance, and looking at him with an emotion that could only be described as "expectant." If it's for slushees, they'll be waiting a long time.
"No, you don't have to swallow the peel, you just have to chew it enough to feel sick; and I don't have a mom too, so you're not special," He says wryly, flicking the nose again of Wailing Child (he thinks -- honestly, now that they're side-by-side it's harder to tell which is which). Outside of the prying gaze of the sunbathers and marks, in the privacy of the quiet street, he tries to slough off the role of older brother, letting it slink off his shoulders like a too-large coat that didn't fit. It wasn't a role these two boys want him in, or should want him in, and he eyes them with an air of the wry amusement.
"And it wasn't that you were clumsy. You just can't out-thief a thief," He said, his grin quirking up despite himself. Oh, he was going to blow these kids' mind. "It's a common distraction. Too common. That poor hel vendor gets accused of selling rotten meat three times a week. I was pulling the same scam with my twin before you two were sneaking your way out of your mother's womb."
The thought of his brother doesn't wound him. It doesn't. He keeps his eyes on these thieves and on their tricky little fingers and his thoughts away from dark nights on cobblestone streets with his own fingers in pockets. He sighs and leans against the wall, graceful and light. "How long have you two been thieving?" He asks, afraid of the answer.
