'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
The moment Finch grabs Carlo again, Calan’s cheeks puff out until he looks less like an outraged boy and more like a small alleycat that has just discovered it has been given the wrong dinner. He can’t do much about his brother being held up, not without giving Finch another wrist to grab and proving the whole point of the lecture for him, but the candy is right there. Finch keeps tossing it, smug as anything, and that seems like a mistake worth investigating. Calan darts in with both hands, reaching for the little bag just as it drops, only for Finch to whisk it away at the last second such that Calan's fingers close on air.
Finch tosses it again. Calan lunges, quick and hopeful, and Finch shifts it to the other hand before he gets there. Again, nothing. Again, Finch’s stupid face probably does something very pleased with itself. By the third attempt, Calan is hopping a little with frustration, arms snapping back to his sides as he scowls up at the older thief, who is clearly cheating by being tall and knowing what he is doing.
When Carlo is finally dropped, Calan’s attention snaps back to the actual problem. His brow knots deeply at Finch’s threat, the words serious enough that even he can tell they are meant to be frightening, though the part about telling their dads feels more like a nuisance than a consequence. He turns his head toward Carlo, and there is only a brief pause between them, just enough for Calan’s eyes to say what his mouth does not: this is mean, but we can still win it. "If you actually hurt us," he mumbles gravely, "our dads will send you straight to Mort." Then he straightens, small shoulders pulling back as he looks Finch in the eye. "So deal."
They have never planned for exactly this, which hardly matters. The best plans are only ever half planned anyway, because the other half is where the clever bits happen. Finch is waiting to feel a hand in his pocket. He is watching for little fingers. He is expecting them to try and be quiet, and he knows an attempt will be coming. So, Calan reasons, they just need to make it so that what he does feel, is the wrong thing. Rushing forward and hoping that it looks like another attempt at the candy, his face all fierce determination and badly contained orange-peel misery, at the last second, he aims higher than Finch’s shin had been, driving his small fist straight between the thief’s legs with every bit of nine-year-old power he can put behind it.
Finch tosses it again. Calan lunges, quick and hopeful, and Finch shifts it to the other hand before he gets there. Again, nothing. Again, Finch’s stupid face probably does something very pleased with itself. By the third attempt, Calan is hopping a little with frustration, arms snapping back to his sides as he scowls up at the older thief, who is clearly cheating by being tall and knowing what he is doing.
When Carlo is finally dropped, Calan’s attention snaps back to the actual problem. His brow knots deeply at Finch’s threat, the words serious enough that even he can tell they are meant to be frightening, though the part about telling their dads feels more like a nuisance than a consequence. He turns his head toward Carlo, and there is only a brief pause between them, just enough for Calan’s eyes to say what his mouth does not: this is mean, but we can still win it. "If you actually hurt us," he mumbles gravely, "our dads will send you straight to Mort." Then he straightens, small shoulders pulling back as he looks Finch in the eye. "So deal."
They have never planned for exactly this, which hardly matters. The best plans are only ever half planned anyway, because the other half is where the clever bits happen. Finch is waiting to feel a hand in his pocket. He is watching for little fingers. He is expecting them to try and be quiet, and he knows an attempt will be coming. So, Calan reasons, they just need to make it so that what he does feel, is the wrong thing. Rushing forward and hoping that it looks like another attempt at the candy, his face all fierce determination and badly contained orange-peel misery, at the last second, he aims higher than Finch’s shin had been, driving his small fist straight between the thief’s legs with every bit of nine-year-old power he can put behind it.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
