He's preparing another comment, something that will undoubtedly piss her off further and delight Finch with her sharp-edged words formed by fangs, when the exhaustion hits him in an abrupt slams. He blinks, trying to keep his eyes open and in focus as an inadvertent yawn slips from his mouth. The nature of his occupation means that his hours are always a little irregular, and a childhood on the streets taught him to sleep with one eye open with a dagger curled into his palm. More often than not, he rests in fits and spurs, matching his patterns to where he needs to strike the following day. A lifetime of running sometimes catches up to him though, and in the dim light of the bar, his body reminds him just how ragged his edges have become.
It's a weakness that's dangerous to show, and for as delightful it is to push buttons of dangerous strangers, he's well aware he balances on a knife's edge between 'not worth getting blood on her nice knives' and 'suddenly worth it.' The cocky attitude she so astutely pointed out is as much armor as metal plating is on a soldier, and the exhaustion this life sometimes brings is a chink. He tries to play it off, centering his awareness away from the heaviness of his limbs and back to her words.
Matching her body language, he takes a slow sip of the cheap ale in his tankard as if he were enjoying the lingering notes of an expensive whiskey. It burns on the back of his throat -- a drink this cheap is meant to be chugged, not savored -- but the bitter flavor serves to turn his smile sharper, more focused, more knowing. His charm is his collection of wicked daggers and though not as intimidating an instrument, nor as bloody, but as he wields it, it can be just as sharp.
Probably not on this woman, though. Finch rests the tankard on the sticky counter, taking in the implied threat of her sprawled body. He leans his body in, pressing his throat against the metaphorical knife and dares her to glide it across his throat. "Good thing I'm pretty good at blowing things," He says, and whatever violence she inflicts upon him he probably has coming for that one. "And I don't think anyone has ever called my fingers fumbling."
It's a weakness that's dangerous to show, and for as delightful it is to push buttons of dangerous strangers, he's well aware he balances on a knife's edge between 'not worth getting blood on her nice knives' and 'suddenly worth it.' The cocky attitude she so astutely pointed out is as much armor as metal plating is on a soldier, and the exhaustion this life sometimes brings is a chink. He tries to play it off, centering his awareness away from the heaviness of his limbs and back to her words.
Matching her body language, he takes a slow sip of the cheap ale in his tankard as if he were enjoying the lingering notes of an expensive whiskey. It burns on the back of his throat -- a drink this cheap is meant to be chugged, not savored -- but the bitter flavor serves to turn his smile sharper, more focused, more knowing. His charm is his collection of wicked daggers and though not as intimidating an instrument, nor as bloody, but as he wields it, it can be just as sharp.
Probably not on this woman, though. Finch rests the tankard on the sticky counter, taking in the implied threat of her sprawled body. He leans his body in, pressing his throat against the metaphorical knife and dares her to glide it across his throat. "Good thing I'm pretty good at blowing things," He says, and whatever violence she inflicts upon him he probably has coming for that one. "And I don't think anyone has ever called my fingers fumbling."
