Finch is about to give him many, many good reasons beyond just saying so, starting with mentioning what usually happens when an adult finds a little hand picking their pocket and explaining the specifics of a broken wrist, but then a little foot connects with his shin and he doubles over in pain. The shin is one of those places on the body where it’s soundly unfun go get kicked by a child, shoe connecting strict with bone, and he crumples to one knee, breathing fast through the fire licking up his leg.
“Okay,” He gasps, “We’re doing this.” He grabs Carlo by the scruff of his neck, like he’s nothing more than a little, wiggly kitten, and hauls him up until his feet are just barely dangling on the cobblestone street. The hand that isn’t holding onto him reaches out and snaps at his wrist, squeezing it tight.
“The thing is,” He says, casually and conversationally, like he’s remarking on the weather or the price of eggs, “It’s not just ‘cause I say so. Some of us have had a little more experience in pickpocketing. Some of us know that usually, if someone gets caught, they lose a finger. And that’s the best case scenario. And you, my friend, are very catchable.” He gives Carlo a little shake before dropping him on the ground unceremoniously.
Out of his pocket, he reappears the candy and tosses it up a short distance before it lands back on his palm. Surreptitiously, he disappears his money and the map into a pocket deep in his jacket right by his heart, nearly unreachable by those with itchy fingers. The bag of candy goes up and down, up and down, a gentle arc, dancing tantalizingly in the air.
“Tell you what,” He says, lifting an eyebrow at the two sneaks. The candy disappears into a pocket, fingers snaking in and out before Finch can even blink. “If you can pick it out of my pocket without me feeling it, you can get it back. If not?” He leaned back against the cool wall, ignoring the way his shin was throbbing. He’d have to ice that later. “I’ll break your wrist and tell your dads. Deal?”
“Okay,” He gasps, “We’re doing this.” He grabs Carlo by the scruff of his neck, like he’s nothing more than a little, wiggly kitten, and hauls him up until his feet are just barely dangling on the cobblestone street. The hand that isn’t holding onto him reaches out and snaps at his wrist, squeezing it tight.
“The thing is,” He says, casually and conversationally, like he’s remarking on the weather or the price of eggs, “It’s not just ‘cause I say so. Some of us have had a little more experience in pickpocketing. Some of us know that usually, if someone gets caught, they lose a finger. And that’s the best case scenario. And you, my friend, are very catchable.” He gives Carlo a little shake before dropping him on the ground unceremoniously.
Out of his pocket, he reappears the candy and tosses it up a short distance before it lands back on his palm. Surreptitiously, he disappears his money and the map into a pocket deep in his jacket right by his heart, nearly unreachable by those with itchy fingers. The bag of candy goes up and down, up and down, a gentle arc, dancing tantalizingly in the air.
“Tell you what,” He says, lifting an eyebrow at the two sneaks. The candy disappears into a pocket, fingers snaking in and out before Finch can even blink. “If you can pick it out of my pocket without me feeling it, you can get it back. If not?” He leaned back against the cool wall, ignoring the way his shin was throbbing. He’d have to ice that later. “I’ll break your wrist and tell your dads. Deal?”
