they laughing at the top like they can't see the bottom

“Just a few specimens,” Finch clarifies as the writhing mass of plant bonked itself determinedly against the window of the bar. He had no particular enemies he needed the gardener to shear at this moment — well, except for one particular untouchable man who held a firm grip on the end of a leash tethered around his neck, but that likely wasn’t a problem that could be solved with a few strategically-placed herbal teas. He’s not much of an assassin, anyway, nor someone who would take that route to solve his problems. His necessity and current shopping list were more to adequacy have all the tools of his trade in his possession, both insurance and expectation wrapped into one. Just as he keeps a dagger hidden in his boots and strapped subtly up his sleeve, ready to be flicked out at a moment’s threat.

He smiles into his drink, feigning absolute and utter offense at his choice of beverage, as if his were an expensive delicacy he was enjoying immensely. “I’ll have you know, this is the finest dishwater this establishment can offer,” He smiles, settling the mug does on the counter and pushing it towards Mateo. “If this isn’t the finest swill you’ve ever tasted, I’ll know you’re a liar.”

Finch leans his body in a little closer, shoulders curved in a slight hint of interest and spindly fingers tapping a mesmerizing pattern on the wood of the counter. “But, I’ll never say no to a handsome man offering to buy me a drink.”