"I," Finch says with all the gravity and severity of an incredibly important announcement, "Am a great little thief. That's why I washed up on the shore with the lockpicks." He leaned in, ruffling Carlo's hair (and ew, it was a little sticky, he probably shouldn't have done that). "You had to be born with lockpicks or else you can't use them, sorry," He shrugs, refusing to feel bad about the lie because he was really doing these kids a favor. Carlo's hand is out in front of him and Finch knows what he's waiting for, but he stole that candy fair and square and he isn't going to give it back just because someone shot him the puppy-dog eyes. It wasn't his first time around the block, and definitely not his first time stealing candy from babies.
It was a rather bleak picture painted by these two, a negligent family too preoccupied with other (probably rather important, if he followed Calan's meandering story threads correctly) duties that took priority over the whip-smart, curious kids grown in their garden. He'd been nine once, and a nine-year-old thief at that, dreaming of adventure and thieving had seemed rather exciting and glamorous before the realities of the trade had set in. Something rises up in his chest, something hurting and furious, and he clenches his fist against it, gritting his teeth against the swelling of fury that threatens to overcome him. No wonder Calan and Carlo resorted to this life; they were scrabbling for something, anything to enrich them as their family floated past them, queens and heroes and botanists who somehow didn't have time for these two smart, funny, admittedly annoying little firecrackers who were clever enough to make it this far in the world on their own. Calan and Carlo should grow up like little spoiled princes, not scrabbling around in the mud for entertainment, Finch thought.
"You are going to get yourselves killed," He says, dark and quiet and hurting, and it's not a threat but his words are laden with all the omnipotence of an oracle. "You still have a family to miss you. This game isn't as fun as you think," and the scar on his cheek burns like a brand. "Go join a theatre troupe, or something. You'd be good at that. Or ask your dads to get you, like, a tutor. I don't know. Just don't do this. Go home. The thrill isn't worth it."
It was a rather bleak picture painted by these two, a negligent family too preoccupied with other (probably rather important, if he followed Calan's meandering story threads correctly) duties that took priority over the whip-smart, curious kids grown in their garden. He'd been nine once, and a nine-year-old thief at that, dreaming of adventure and thieving had seemed rather exciting and glamorous before the realities of the trade had set in. Something rises up in his chest, something hurting and furious, and he clenches his fist against it, gritting his teeth against the swelling of fury that threatens to overcome him. No wonder Calan and Carlo resorted to this life; they were scrabbling for something, anything to enrich them as their family floated past them, queens and heroes and botanists who somehow didn't have time for these two smart, funny, admittedly annoying little firecrackers who were clever enough to make it this far in the world on their own. Calan and Carlo should grow up like little spoiled princes, not scrabbling around in the mud for entertainment, Finch thought.
"You are going to get yourselves killed," He says, dark and quiet and hurting, and it's not a threat but his words are laden with all the omnipotence of an oracle. "You still have a family to miss you. This game isn't as fun as you think," and the scar on his cheek burns like a brand. "Go join a theatre troupe, or something. You'd be good at that. Or ask your dads to get you, like, a tutor. I don't know. Just don't do this. Go home. The thrill isn't worth it."
