The explanation of the dirt-filled pot being a gift was not necessarily what Finch had expected, but it fills his chest with warmth and fondness as Mateo elucidates. Oh, Gods, this was bad. Why did the man have to make Finch truly, genuinely like him? With his calm presence and easy sense of humor and hints of generosity and family, it would make it so much harder to keep that professional attachment between thief and poison supplier. Why couldn't he be an asshole, like Jack, and drive Finch more towards the discreetness that was so necessary in his profession?
He takes another sip of drink to hide the fond smile that threatens the curve of his mouth, careful to keep his sips low and measured. He's still on the job here, even with this tantalizing offer for Mateo to take him home, and he can't let the liquor and the company loosen his head. (And, on that note, taking him home seemed to have started as code for a professional home office, but the more Mateo spoke -- the more he leaned in and matched Finch's easy charm barb for barb -- the less Finch knew what to expect in that lavender-covered boat).
"You got it. My skills are yours," He says, reaching out his thin, lithe hand to shake. He has not elaborated on what those skills are, but Mateo seems to understand him well enough. He likely wouldn't be calling upon Finch to water his plants or babysit or fetch him something from the store. Someone like Finch projected a curved sense of business, from the jagged scar decorating his cheeks from the flash of lockpicks hidden up his sleeve. Whatever dirty deed Mateo called upon him to do, it would likely be well within his skillset.
Finch finishes his drink, setting it on the counter and tapped it appreciatively. "Much better than the dishwater, I have to say."
He takes another sip of drink to hide the fond smile that threatens the curve of his mouth, careful to keep his sips low and measured. He's still on the job here, even with this tantalizing offer for Mateo to take him home, and he can't let the liquor and the company loosen his head. (And, on that note, taking him home seemed to have started as code for a professional home office, but the more Mateo spoke -- the more he leaned in and matched Finch's easy charm barb for barb -- the less Finch knew what to expect in that lavender-covered boat).
"You got it. My skills are yours," He says, reaching out his thin, lithe hand to shake. He has not elaborated on what those skills are, but Mateo seems to understand him well enough. He likely wouldn't be calling upon Finch to water his plants or babysit or fetch him something from the store. Someone like Finch projected a curved sense of business, from the jagged scar decorating his cheeks from the flash of lockpicks hidden up his sleeve. Whatever dirty deed Mateo called upon him to do, it would likely be well within his skillset.
Finch finishes his drink, setting it on the counter and tapped it appreciatively. "Much better than the dishwater, I have to say."
