Mateo's touch is feather-light against Finch's firmer grasp, his hands just a little dirty from his pot. The touch surprises Finch only because in negotiations such as there -- well, perhaps not exactly like these where there's a promise of taking one home and Finch absolutely plans on following that thread as far as he can -- the other party typically tries to crush his nimble thief's fingers in a display of power. It's not a bad change in his circumstances, though.
Finch considers the question with a tilt of his head. In his particular line of work, it serves him well to be uncontactable, untraceable, no footprints left behind to follow. Still, he had promised Mateo a favor, and perhaps he would want to see the man again after their business transaction for other reasons, so he certainly wasn't opposed to finding a way for him to drop a line.
"How familiar are you with the Fingers?" He deliberates, hesitant to send this gentle man with the twinkle in his eyes anywhere near that sprawling, slippery death trap. "There's an entrance not far from here. I can show you where it is. Leave a note there and I'll find it." Mateo may have to get creative to shelter it from the constant pouring rain of Flowerbirth and the perpetual damp of the Fingers, but Finch figures it's a safer method of communication than making the man linger somewhere for him.
The thief unfolds himself from his stool, silent and lithe, and follows Mateo out the door as a ghosting shadow. The rain is no surprise to Finch, cold and wet as it hammers into his already-damp clothing from the journey in, and he raises a shoulder in a shrug before turning his sharp grin onto Mateo.
"I mean, I was hoping I'd get wet sometime today," He cracks.
Finch considers the question with a tilt of his head. In his particular line of work, it serves him well to be uncontactable, untraceable, no footprints left behind to follow. Still, he had promised Mateo a favor, and perhaps he would want to see the man again after their business transaction for other reasons, so he certainly wasn't opposed to finding a way for him to drop a line.
"How familiar are you with the Fingers?" He deliberates, hesitant to send this gentle man with the twinkle in his eyes anywhere near that sprawling, slippery death trap. "There's an entrance not far from here. I can show you where it is. Leave a note there and I'll find it." Mateo may have to get creative to shelter it from the constant pouring rain of Flowerbirth and the perpetual damp of the Fingers, but Finch figures it's a safer method of communication than making the man linger somewhere for him.
The thief unfolds himself from his stool, silent and lithe, and follows Mateo out the door as a ghosting shadow. The rain is no surprise to Finch, cold and wet as it hammers into his already-damp clothing from the journey in, and he raises a shoulder in a shrug before turning his sharp grin onto Mateo.
"I mean, I was hoping I'd get wet sometime today," He cracks.
