Her gaze doesn't get any less dangerous, but there seems to be less of the immediate edge of imminent, incoming danger, so Finch counts that as a victory. He has found the line, found exactly where he can press and needle but not any farther. He has what he wanted when he first started this conversation -- a rise, a reaction, the easy enjoyment of juggling knives -- and if her face had not darkened as it had, if she had not presented this dare to look away from the oncoming storm, he may have left her to drink in peace.
But now, she's presented to him perhaps the worst thing to give to a thief (save your wallet): a puzzle. Finch sees her challenge like the tumblers of a stubborn lock, rusted and complex, but able to be coaxed open with the right tools and the right wielder. She hasn't told him to leave her alone or go stick his head somewhere unsavory, which is as much of an opening as he could ask for. What is he trying to do?
As a thief, Finch knows how to spot value, a glittery treasure amongst pocket detritus. He's run into dozens of people annoyed with him, dozens of people who challenged him to prove himself more than just a sweet-talking pickpocket with something to prove. The question he ran into, over and over, was which people were worth entertaining, and which were just petty entertainment. Her challenging gaze, the thrum of something interesting and ancient under her condescending look, tells Finch there's something interesting to be discovered here. Whatever it is, he doesn't know.
When he hits a stonewall, he starts looking for cracks. He hums, raises the last of the tankard he's nursing and takes a slow sip, calculating his next move. "I'm trying," He starts, the words slow and considering on his silver tongue, "To find something worth my while tonight. Something more valuable than what I can find in pockets."
But now, she's presented to him perhaps the worst thing to give to a thief (save your wallet): a puzzle. Finch sees her challenge like the tumblers of a stubborn lock, rusted and complex, but able to be coaxed open with the right tools and the right wielder. She hasn't told him to leave her alone or go stick his head somewhere unsavory, which is as much of an opening as he could ask for. What is he trying to do?
As a thief, Finch knows how to spot value, a glittery treasure amongst pocket detritus. He's run into dozens of people annoyed with him, dozens of people who challenged him to prove himself more than just a sweet-talking pickpocket with something to prove. The question he ran into, over and over, was which people were worth entertaining, and which were just petty entertainment. Her challenging gaze, the thrum of something interesting and ancient under her condescending look, tells Finch there's something interesting to be discovered here. Whatever it is, he doesn't know.
When he hits a stonewall, he starts looking for cracks. He hums, raises the last of the tankard he's nursing and takes a slow sip, calculating his next move. "I'm trying," He starts, the words slow and considering on his silver tongue, "To find something worth my while tonight. Something more valuable than what I can find in pockets."
