wash my hands in dirty water

VESPER

Deepfrost sits strangely over Haulani, less like winter and more like the city has briefly remembered how to breathe cooler air. The canals still gleam warm beneath the afternoon light, and the lower market still carries the smell of fried fish, salt, fruit, and too many people with too many pockets, but the breeze coming off the water has enough bite in it that Vesper has bothered with a dark sweater beneath his coat.

He waits where Jack told him to wait, not far from one of the quieter ways into Rae’s Fingers. From the street, the entrance looks like little more than a shadowed gap between stone and sea-wall, half-hidden behind trailing greenery and a stack of crates someone has taken care to leave in exactly the right place. It is not inviting, which is likely the point.

Vesper stands with one shoulder near the wall, pale hair stirred by the wind, the star beside his eye catching briefly whenever the light shifts. One hand rests in his pocket, silver rings cold against his fingers; the other turns a single playing card over and over with idle precision. He does not look impatient, though there is a certain limit to how long one can wait for a thief before lateness begins to look like character.

The job he's here to oversee is simple, which means it almost certainly isn’t: Somewhere inside the tunnels, tucked beneath a marker only smugglers and fools would think to trust, there is supposed to be an oilskin-wrapped ledger no bigger than a man’s palm. Jack wants it back quietly, which is the sort of instruction that sounds simple until other people become involved. Finch is one of those people, though Vesper only knows him by description for now: the man who stole from his father and lived long enough to be made useful instead of dead.

A charitable arrangement, really.

The card turns once more between his fingers as Vesper glances toward the market, then back to the narrow mouth of the tunnel where the dark waits cool and damp beneath the city.

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

As Finch hurries down the busy street, weaving quickly and lithely through groups of people, he curses himself for running so tightly against the clock. On any other occasion it would've been a pleasant day, the sun trickling through air just a little south of chilly, and Finch wishes he could take a moment to enjoy the way it caresses against his face. He also wishes, though more out of habit than anything else, that he could take the time to let his nimble fingers dart in and out of pockets and purses as he hurries through the streets. It would be so easy, to indulge in this talent of his, and really, he was already late so what was the harm of a few more minutes of tardiness if there was something to show for it? 

He pushes that impulse aside. At least for now, his talents aren't his own. The noose has already been extended once, and he would be a fool for asking it to stretch any farther. 

Hurrying his pace, he hears his feet begin to pound against the pavement, kicking up little conspicuous clouds of dust and gravel as he forces himself to ignore all developed instinct to stay unnoticed and unobtrusive, just another thieving little fly on the wall, and instead get to where he was needed. The details given to him about this job were sparse -- of course they were, why would they even tell him ahead of time what he was expected to do when they know he would just do it -- but what he'd been told seemed unpleasant, something about slime and passageways and the unspoken threats of his life on the line if he did an unsatisfactory job and all that jibber-jabber. He'd heard it before, and frankly, was getting a little tired of it. Not that the severity of his crime, his debt, was lessening in his head; no, he wasn't stupid enough to forget that. 

As he rounds the corner to the rendezvous point, his breath stutters in surprise for a brief moment seeing who, exactly, was overseeing him on this mission of slime and subterfuge. He'd never met Vesper, the son of the man who held his leash, but he'd be a fool not to recognize him from the tales alone. He curses his liberal interpretation of the concept of being on time and then smooths himself, collecting himself, trying to appear professional and impressive and not like someone Vesper would want to kill.

He approaches, nodding his head in greeting. His scar pulls as he stretches his mouth into a charming smile, the ones that made suitors and old ladies faint from its dashing roguishness. He dares not apologize for being late. "Hello," he offers, eying the spinning card in the man's fingers. "I'm Finch. I was told we're working together today? I'm an acquaintance of your father," A neutral enough statement on its own, able to be explained as a easy misunderstanding if he did have the wrong person. Though, studying the handsome man's face, eyes catching on the tell-tale star under Vesper's eye, he didn't think he did.

VESPER

Vesper doesn’t search the faces passing by, nor does he seem especially concerned with the possibility of being kept waiting. His gaze remains lowered to the card turning between his fingers, its edge flashing white, black, white again, though the touch of Finch’s mind announces him well before his footsteps do. It comes fluttering into the edge of Vesper’s magical awareness full of hurry, calculation, consequence, and the familiar little itch of hands that have not yet learned to stop wanting what isn’t theirs.

Only then do his pale eyes lift, the timing casual enough to look like chance; such was how he kept his telepathy a secret. The young demigod appraises Finch without returning the smile, taking in the wiry build, the dark hair and darker eyes, the crooked set of his nose, and the scar cutting through his mouth toward his cheekbone. Pretty, perhaps, if life had been kinder; dangerous, certainly, if one was sentimental enough to find hunger charming.

"You were told right," Vesper says, the card flickering once more between his fingers before disappearing up his sleeve with a neat little flourish. Pushing himself away from the wall, he inclines his head toward the nearby entrance to Rae’s Fingers, where the gap between stone and shadow waits half-hidden behind crates and hanging greenery. "There’s a library book on loan we’ve got to go pick up." It is, in truth, the sort of job that only requires one man, though given how little anyone trusts Finch these days, Vesper has been sent to babysit. That, and on the off chance the cache has been trapped, it is better for the thief to lose a few fingers trying to pick the lock than for Vesper to surrender any of his.

"Come on," he adds, already turning toward the mouth of the tunnel. "Less I’m seen here, the better." Gods only knew what rumours Flora would drum up if word of his presence here got back to her.

The air changes almost at once once they step inside, the warmth of Haulani narrowing into something damp, dark, and mineral-cool. Sound behaves differently in the Fingers, footsteps and breath sliding oddly along the lava-smoothed walls while the distant hush of water waits somewhere below, patient as a creditor. At the first split in the passage, Vesper slows just enough to brush his fingers across a bit of thieves’ cant scratched into the rock, reading by touch as much as sight before he continues on without glancing back.

"So," he says mildly, his voice carrying low through the tunnel, "how much of this place d’you know?"

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

The passage Vesper leads Finch into invokes too strongly the sensation of a grave, the humid, cool air pressing into him and latching onto his skin. He was never one for claustrophobia, couldn't be as a thief, but submerged in enclosing tunnel on the heels of a probably-dangerous stranger, he couldn't help but imagine a sensation of being buried alive. Somewhere, off in the forward distance, the sound of water echoes quietly through the Fingers. It could be an excellent place to dump a body, perhaps one of an irritating thief who couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Running a hand across the smooth stone walls as they walked, Finch takes a moment to study the back of the man who led him deeper into this cool-touched grave. Vesper strides with assertion towards their destination, not with the untested swagger of an insecure criminal, but with the cool, graceful litheness of a hunting cat. Whatever happens here, whatever happens to Finch, is not a concern of this cool-eyed man. Babysitter, jailer, warden, gravedigger, accomplice -- whatever Vesper was sent here to be, he does so with an impersonal set to his shoulders. 

He's silent as he follows, the smooth rock under his callused fingers the only evidence of his presence in the tunnel. His light thief's step makes no echoing footfall while he follows Vesper. 
Vesper's question echoes a little as it bounces off the tunnels towards him, and he debates momentarily the merit of trying to charm the son of the man who controlled him. Catching a glimpse of the set of Vesper's jaw, he thinks this particular situation does not incline Vesper to think kindly of him. "Better than your average thief, worse than the average smuggler," He answers after a moment's thought. Small talk, or reconnaissance? Vesper's tone is light, but not particularly revealing.

"I spent a lot of time exploring here with my brother growing up." His fingers find a notch in the otherwise unblemished wall and they rest there a moment before scuttling back alongside his gait. "Not a huge fan, honestly. I like my thieving more aboveground. Pickpocketing, breaking and entering... Anything a little more personal," His grin tinges his words so even Vesper ahead of him could catch the slight teasing lilt of what he said. Was that an edge of flirtation? It was in an eye of the beholder, he supposes. 

Then he remembers who he's talking to, and where. "Not that I'm complaining," he added lightly. "I much prefer the Fingers to the graveyard."

A broad shadow passes lazily across the sand, soft-edged and slow-moving, despite the absence of clouds overhead. Looking up reveals the source: a single Cloud Manta drifting through the air above, its vast, translucent body undulating as though swimming through an invisible sea.

It moves with an almost playful ease, banking gently as it catches unseen currents, its long fins trailing wisps of vapour behind them. Every so often it dips lower, close enough that the air stirs faintly beneath it, before rising again in a wide, looping arc. There is no urgency to its movements, only a quiet curiosity, as though it is enjoying the simple act of being seen.

After a time, the Cloud Manta begins to climb, its pale form thinning against the sky until it becomes little more than a suggestion of motion. Whether it lingers overhead or drifts on beyond sight is impossible to say, its presence as fleeting and gentle as a passing breeze.

---

Cloud Manta Areas Found: Torchline, Maria Mundi — Common These plantimals have flattened, ray-like bodies, narrow, delicate heads with two large dark eyes, and flowing-finned or leaf-like tails similar to bettas. They are equally comfortable underwater and flying through the air. Large green splotches across the upper surface of their bodies are filled with chlorophyll and photosynthesize both food and oxygen. They also make meals of mosses and lichens. As they age a colorful crystal grows in the middle of their foreheads, comprised of excess minerals that they purify out of their bodies. If worn pressed against the throat these crystals are rumoured to allow someone to breathe underwater. Challenge Rating: Moderate | Mythical HP: 1,078 | To Hit: +25 | Dmg: 25 Movement: Swim 40 ft.; Fly 40 ft. SPECIAL SKILLS Breathstone: a harvested forehead crystal worn against the throat may allow underwater breathing; Oxygen Bloom: in bright light they enrich nearby water/air with extra oxygen, easing exertion for companions; Buoyant Escort: can support a small creature beneath their fins, aiding calm passage across waves

TRAITS Amphibious Drift: equally comfortable underwater and in open air; Photosynthetic Patches: chlorophyll-rich splotches produce food and oxygen in sunlight; Silent Glide: broad fins move with near-silent grace through water and sky; Moss & Lichen Grazer: gentle feeders that favour simple flora over live prey; Crystal Growth: a mineral crystal slowly forms at the forehead as impurities are purged ACTIONS Updraft Sweep: fans fins to raise a soft updraft or current, nudging companions and clearing mist; Shade Veil: spreads fins to cast a cool, drifting shade over travellers beneath; Mineral Purge: releases trace minerals that encourage reef growth and subtly purify the surrounding water

VESPER

Above them, the Cloud Manta drifts its slow, pale path across the sky, all quiet grace and translucent breadth, but Vesper has already stepped beneath the city by then, and so the creature passes unseen over the hidden mouth of Rae’s Fingers while the tunnels close around him and Finch instead.

The thief’s suspicion moves almost as clearly as the sound of water somewhere ahead, shaping itself into cages, graves, and the unpleasant possibility of being disposed of somewhere damp and difficult to find. Vesper does not comment on any of it, of course. The edge of his mouth threatens amusement, but he turns it away from Finch, drawing a sliver of peppermint bark from his pocket and setting it between his teeth as though the gesture has merely occupied his expression by chance.

At Finch’s first answer, Vesper glances back over one shoulder, pale eyes dry in the half-light, before the explanation earns a small nod. The thieves’ cant along the wall are not obvious unless one knows how to look, and even then they are less directions than whispers someone has left behind in scratches, chips, and careful little lies. Vesper’s fingers brush them when needed, though his gaze does not linger long enough to seem dependent on them, and he continues deeper into the Fingers with the same unhurried certainty.

"That the same brother who immediately rolled on you?" he wonders, one brow lifting as he looks briefly back to Finch. There is no real bite to it, not quite, though neither is there much sympathy. If anything, the question is too mild, set down in the dark like something Vesper has been curious about rather than something meant to wound, if only because the bond between Vesper and his sisters is nigh unbreakable. He lets it sit there for Finch to do with what he likes, while the tunnel slopes subtly beneath their feet and the air grows cooler around the mineral-slick walls.

As Finch’s tone shades itself toward something more personal, Vesper does not have to turn to catch it. The colour of it reaches him without permission, bright enough against the thief’s unease that the corner of his mouth lifts around the peppermint bark. "All well and good until you get caught," he says, rolling one shoulder in a lazy shrug as he keeps walking. "Then there ain’t anywhere to run to." Hard to claim any sort of deniability when caught with a hand in someone else's pocket, after all.  Only then does he glance back over his shoulder, pale eyes finding Finch in the enclosed dark with a precision that makes the look feel less accidental than the timing suggests. "Besides," he adds, voice mild, "if you ain’t good at it, you’re just a man with clumsy fingers."

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Finch suppresses a flinch as Vesper's words about Lark floats over his shoulder and stabs him in the buried place where he keeps his hurt. His breathing stays calm and even, his steady silent footsteps remaining even against the ground as he follows his guide deeper into the humid tunnels. Vesper said them evenly, as neutral as such words can be, and Finch tries to let them pass through him without impact. He shouldn't be surprised the son of the man who owns his debt knows such things; perhaps it would've hurt less if Vesper had said them with any kind of vitriol or intention for cruelty. The impassive words, instead, devoid of edge, merely remind him of how unimportant he is to the people who have his life in his hands. He doesn't respond, focusing on his hand on the wall, identifying the knots and curves passing under his fingers. The Thieves' Cant is a familiar sensation, almost familial in the way the tips of his fingers recognize what they're saying, and he clenches his jaw at the wave of poisonous memories that rise. As the water drips softly in the distance, the cool press of the cave sinking heavier onto his shoulders, Finch lets the comment pass. He's not sure what he would say to it, anyway.

When Vesper's cool gaze met his dark one, he holds it levelly through his dark lashes, letting his grin quirk up into something someone could consider charming. The tone is coolly neutral, same as before, and with enough plausible deniability that if Vesper were feeling facetious, he could claim they were blank statement not necessarily aimed to strike at Finch's exposed underbelly. Even so, and despite popular opinion, Finch isn't stupid enough to chomp at its implied bait and catch his maw on the hands that feed. 

"So don't get caught," his own shoulder lifting in a facsimile of Vesper's loose shrug. "I don't. Not usually. I've only ever been caught once," He lifted a slender finger at Vesper's steady gaze, leaning into the attention rather than feeling caught in its hold. "And now I'm here, in a slimy tunnel with good-looking company, so perhaps all things are as they should be." It was a shameless flirt, and utterly transparent in its intention to flatter the man and gage a reaction. If Finch is on a leash, he needed to know how far it could extend; and, a little flirting was harmless, anyway. Usually. And, he wasn't lying -- Vesper really was rather handsome, with his sharp jawline and smattering of freckles across his nose.

On the wall, the Thieves' Cant grows more ragged and worn, years of wind and water sanding it down to smooth and almost natural etchings in the walls instead of a protrusion. How many thieves had come and gone into this tunnel? Finch knows he certainly won't be the last. He dares not ask how much farther to go, but wonders how deep into the bowels of this place Vesper will drag him before he's asked to do his penance for his father.

VESPER

Finch gives him Vesper no answer about his brother, but the answer is there all the same, pressed down beneath steady breathing and careful feet, tucked behind his teeth where hurt has learned to sit quietly because making noise has never made it useful. Vesper lets the silence stretch for several steps, his fingers trailing once more along the weathered marks in the stone, before a dry breath of laughter leaves him. "Guess that’s a yes."

The tunnel narrows slightly as they move, its walls slick with mineral damp and old salt, the air cool enough that every breath feels borrowed from some deeper part of the earth. Vesper can feel Finch studying the cant, touching the old marks as if they might answer him more kindly than blood ever had, and there’s a certain usefulness in that. A man who knows the language of a place can still be led by it, misled by it, or made to prove just how much of it he really understands.

But as Finch lifts a slender finger toward him, Vesper stops. For a moment there is only the distant water, the hush of their breathing, and the small bright thread of Finch’s shamelessness testing the leash it has been given. Vesper considers it without surprise. Men in debt often need to know the size of their cage, and thieves especially seem incapable of believing in boundaries until they have put their hands on them.

The demigod's shadows answer before he speaks, sliding up from the uneven dark along the floor with a slow, deliberate grace. They do not strike; they curl. One tendril glides around Finch’s wrist while another slips along his palm, cool and almost gentle as it coaxes his pointing finger down and eases the rest of his hand open against the stone. The motion is almost intimate in the way a lockpick is intimate, precise and invasive without haste, and as Vesper steps forward once, then again, the shadows aim to pin Finch’s hand to the cave wall as neatly as if the tunnel itself has decided to hold him there.

Only when there are mere inches between them does Vesper let his gaze settle fully on Finch’s face, not quickly, and not politely. It moves with the same unhurried precision as his shadows, taking in the pale line of the scar through the thief’s mouth, the calculation tucked behind his lashes, the stubborn charm he wears as if it might still be worth something down here in the dark. This close, Finch can see the faint shift of Vesper’s constellation freckles across his nose, the private little rearrangement of stars beneath his skin, and just how blue his eyes are when there is nowhere easy to look instead.

For a moment, Vesper lets the silence narrow between them until it feels almost chosen.

"That so?" he murmurs, soft enough that the words seem meant for Finch alone, though the stone keeps them greedily all the same. It is not quite a threat, though there is enough danger in it to make pretending otherwise difficult. It is closer to flirtation, worn like a knife slipped beneath silk; an answer to Finch’s testing charm that offers exactly enough warmth for him to perhaps wonder whether he has invited something in, and exactly enough edge to remind him that allowing a man like Vesper the freedom to decide the terms of that invitation. is a very dangerous game indeed.

Then, just as suddenly as he'd invaded the younger man's space, the moment breaks as Vesper straightens, the shadows loosening from Finch’s hand as though they had never touched him at all, and he steps past with a rough pat of his shoulder against Finch’s, enough contact to jostle but not enough to pretend at affection. "Guess that makes this your lucky day," he drawls, with a lazy smirk.

---

Magic: Shadow Touch | Can create and manipulate tendrils of shadow. 30ft radius. Shadows share his STR stat.
Type: Grey | Rank: Upgraded | Cost: Action

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

As the shadows slip over Finch’s hand, he avoids thrashing or resisting, allowing the dark wisps to pin his callused, slender thief’s hand into the stone and keep it there. The tendrils are barely present against his palm, whispered suggestions of cool movement, the slightest breeze on a warm day portending a distant storm to come. Incorporeal as they are, just a brush of something empty and cool against his skin, the force of it cannot be denied and Finch feels his hand anchored solidly against the glassy stone under him.

He’s heard rumors and gossip of what Vesper can do, but he had largely chalked the information up to drunken tavern talk. Vesper’s alleged powers certainly weren’t leant any particular credence when drunken thieves slurred tales of absolutely true stories their cousin definitely saw Vesper do one night (while they were also drunk). Whenever told, Finch had just rolled his eyes and toasted to the artful boats of thieves, the grain of salt he needed to take the stories with turning to handfuls the more he heard.

It was a careful demonstration of strength from Vesper, the flexing of a well-trained muscle that could cause much more pain if Finch pressed it to do so. As Finch tests the boundaries, Vesper answers, delineating exactly where one man’s power begins and more importantly, where a charming thief’s ends.

Finch meets Vesper’s eye with his own charismatic grin, though pointed into something slightly sharper now he was pinioned against the wall. He refuses to shirk, to press his back against the wall in a futile attempt to create distance between the two, instead leans into the space between the two. He was a dog showing his stomach but his teeth are still bared. As Vesper speaks his words, just quiet enough that they feel almost intimate in their danger, Finch’s grin widens into wolfish. There’s a knife at his throat, he thinks, but the hand that wields it isn’t bloodthirsty. Still, if he were to jerk and buckle, it would cut his jugular nonetheless. Somewhere between flirtation and threat, Vesper draws a line with his shadows and Finch wonders how much room Vesper has left him to dance.

“I certainly think so,” he grins, but the message was received nonetheless, and Finch has found the end of the rope which will give him no slack as he strains. And then Vesper jostles him and his hand frees from the wall and the moment has passed and he is not nearly stupid enough to believe it crossed over into anything close to affection.

“I guess it is,” he agrees lightly, pulling his hand from the wall casually like it had been there by choice. He wasn’t rattled, not really, not by the display of power or by Vesper’s use of magic. If anything, the display made him feel a little more secure in exactly where he stood in the man’s esteem; though, of course, that was shifting sands under his feet.

(If he enjoyed feeling the pin of Vesper’s gaze on his face, who had to know?)

He quirked an eyebrow, not about to ask if they were to delve deeper into the tunnels, not necessarily eager to continue into the grime accepting it with a grim determination. He’d keep playing this game, if Vesper wanted, but he knows his debt will not be paid off by pretty words and cocked eyebrows. Under his fingers, the thieves’ cant heralds a warning of slippery rocks ahead.

“I’m sure my luck will hold,” he says affably, rolling his shoulders back as if in anticipation of a gymnast’s trick.

VESPER

Most of the rumours about Vesper’s shadows are wrong in the way rumours usually are, dressed up by men who need the story to sound better than the part they actually survived. Pain is easy to imagine, and death easier still, but the truth is that the same dark that can peel a man open can coax an orgasm out of someone with just as much patience, just as much precision, and with Vesper’s mind threaded through the body beneath his hands, there is very little guessing involved once he decides he wants a sound out of someone.

Finch’s pulse is still there in the dark when Vesper lets him go, caught for a second longer in the memory of shadow against skin, and the rest of him is no harder to read. Not fear, exactly. Not enough of it, anyway. Curiosity, caution, want, and that bright little strain of a man discovering where the leash ends and leaning into it just to feel the pressure back. Vesper can respect that more than he probably should, though respect does not mean trust, and trust is not the sort of charity Jack has sent him down here to offer.

His shadows slide loose from Finch’s hand and coil back around his boots as he turns away, their edges dragging through the tunnel’s dimness before sinking into it. The rock beneath them grows slicker as they move, wet with salt and mineral seep, and the warning in the cant beneath Finch’s fingers proves itself underfoot with every careful step. "I much prefer relyin’ on skill rather than luck," Vesper drawls, glancing back over his shoulder with a brow raised, his pale eyes finding Finch easily in the dark. "But we’ll see if yours holds. Should be right up here."

The passage bends, narrowing enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the wall before it opens around a shallow recess tucked under a lip of lava-smoothed stone. It is not well hidden if one knows what to look for, which means it is very well hidden from nearly everyone else. Vesper crouches just enough to look beneath the overhang, where a small lock sits dulled by salt and damp, plain enough to be insulting and therefore worth treating with caution. He could probably open it himself; however, he also likes having all of his fingers. Telepathy is useful for a great many things, but locks are inconsiderate enough not to think about whether they have teeth, so Vesper straightens and steps aside with an easy tilt of his head toward the cache.

"You’re up."

Should Finch try the lock, he will find it stubborn rather than clever, its pins stiff with age and salt but not trapped. It will take patience, pressure, and a steady hand before it gives, but when it finally opens, there will be no blade, no spark, no clever little punishment waiting inside. There will also be no ledger.

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Contrary to what is perhaps the pervading public opinion, Finch isn't a half-bad thief. No, the rub is he's pretty damn good at what he does, his cocky persona built on a lifetime of clever escapes and his lithe figure darting into the shadows at just the right moment to escape unscathed with a pocket full of clinking treasures. When he had finally been caught by Jack, it had been an inevitable surprise; like Vesper said, it's better to rely on skill than luck and for all his wily ways, his tricky fingers and meticulous planning, Jack didn't become the man he is now by letting someone as insignificant as Finch best him, no matter how clever. 

As he kneels in front of the rusted lock, pant legs soaking through instantly with the salty brine that covers the floor, his world narrows and sharpens until its just him and his target. A little flick of his wrist conjures his lockpicks where they were hidden in his sleeve, the spindly instruments bronze and unassuming in his deft fingers. He studied the lock, takes in the curve of the rock that shelters it, the rust that has been building on its edges and rotting away with the mechanisms. Running a finger over it, he cocks his head and brings his gaze a little closer, disassembling the pieces of the puzzle in his head. It's a common type, albeit one of an older model, crusted and rusted with years of weather and the smooth, constant drip of saltwater. 

The picks enter the lock and he begins his work. He's careful, methodical and strategic in a way his demeanor doesn't suggest, and the artful precision of his pianist fingers perhaps would be seen as boastful if Finch wasn't so utterly focused on his task. The pins in the lock are stubborn, not out of any particular security on the part of the lock, but merely because it has atrophied into something stronger. A smile grows on Finch's face as he works the lock, thoughtful and genuine, as his unwavering hands manipulate it. This, the illicit artistry of coaxing secrets to spill, is perhaps the simplest task of the thief, but that makes it no less satisfying to complete; and, no less satisfying to do well. And this, Finch can do very well. 

His mind cedes into an almost meditative state as the picks climbs in and out, until after a few minutes, the lock gives and Finch claims his victory. "Done," He exhales, mind still so firmly set on the task at hand he forgets to boast, forgets some smarmy comment about earning his keep or proving a worthy investment. Instead, the only thought that echoes through his head is satisfaction at the completion of his task and the mundane joy that comes from the solving of a difficult puzzle. 

He huffs out a slight exhale and glances up at Vesper. The job isn't done until he opens it up, fulfills his role as potential bait. The easiest way to disarm a trap is to trigger it, let it lop off your fingers, after all, and Vesper's ringed fingers are too nice to sacrifice. Finch's aren't, but he'd still prefer to keep them, so he wiggles out a little contraption from his boot he designed himself (he's not thinking about Lark, he's not), a little grabber-type thing which he uses to pry the receptacle open. 

He tosses a wink at Vesper before prying the little door open, maneuvering the weight of his slender body against the contraption to break it free from where it's slightly rusted. Though the hinges have long-since rotted, it makes no noise as it swings open. Out of the corner of his eye, Finch watches Vesper, looking for a tell.

VESPER

While Finch works, Vesper draws a card from somewhere inside his sleeve and lets it travel between his fingers, the motion smooth enough to look idle if one misses the precision of it. The card rolls over his knuckles, disappears against his palm, returns between two fingers, and all the while his pale eyes remain lowered toward the lock and the man kneeling before it, watching the clean little theatre of competence with more interest than his expression cares to admit.

Finch’s thoughts narrow until they are almost quiet, the usual bright clutter of charm, fear, and opportunism filing itself down to pins, pressure, rust, resistance. It is a useful thing to see. A mind like his does not become honest, exactly, but it does become occupied, and Vesper follows the shape of that focus the way one might keep a fingertip against a pulse. If Finch has any clever notion about pocketing something, palming a second prize, or proving that Jack’s leash has frayed already, it does not rise to the surface. Only satisfaction does.

The card stills for half a second between Vesper’s fingers as the lock gives, caught there by the sudden clean warmth that lifts through Finch’s mind. Not smugness, not yet, but the neat, private pleasure of a thing done well. Vesper’s mouth shifts faintly around the peppermint bark still tucked against his tongue, and when Finch looks up, he answers with nothing more than a raised brow and a small tilt of his chin toward the cache; Open it, then.

He ignores the wink because rewarding it would be too easy, though the thought of it hooks itself briefly in the corner of his amusement as he pushes away from the wall. His card vanishes again with a turn of his wrist, tucked out of sight as he steps in behind Finch, close enough to look over him without crouching, close enough that the thief would feel him there before he saw him. The little contraption from Finch’s boot earns a flick of Vesper’s eyes, a note made and stored away, but no comment; clever fingers are still clever fingers, even when attached to a man with poor judgement.

Vesper sees the empty cache at the same moment Finch does, and in the next breath his mind has already gone hunting through the thief’s reaction for the snag of guilt, the hot twitch of recognition, the sudden inward flinch of a man whose lie has arrived before his face knows how to wear it. There is none of it. Finch’s surprise has the right shape, raw-edged and immediate, and that tells Vesper more than any protest could have. Unfortunately for Finch, truth has never been the same thing as mercy. 

Vesper straightens slowly, silver rings glinting as he smooths his thumb over the edge of one before letting out a soft, dry tut. "Now," he says, his drawl mild enough to be almost conversational, "you didn’t happen to come and take what you were meant to steal ahead of time, did you?" His gaze drops briefly to the weathered lock, then returns to Finch with a brow raised, pale eyes bright and narrow in the dark. "All sorts of magic in the world can make a freshly opened lock look rusty." He lets the accusation settle between them, not because he believes it, but because Finch expects to be suspected and people are often most useful when pressed against the shape of what they fear. Vesper turns one of his rings once, slow and exact, while the shadows around his boots remain quiet against the stone.

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

At the sight of the empty cache, Finch's heart sinks, breath catching inside his throat in a panicked inhale of confusion and fear. He should've known the task was some sort of trap, a test of something he was not privileged enough to understand. Why, otherwise, would they have sent Jack's son with him as warden and gravedigger? The task was too simple, too benign to be anything but a knife pressed to his ribs. He had thought the simplicity of it was the test -- how far would Finch jump when commanded, if Jack had commanded him to? -- but as Vesper speaks, voice lilting in its false neutral inquisitive notes, Finch can almost feel the sharp tug of a chain around his neck bringing him to heel. 

Slowly, he pushes his damp kneels off the slick, salted floor, rising to meet Vesper's narrow gaze with his own dark, glittering eyes. He keeps his shoulders loose but squared, the hands that coaxed the lock open with such practiced precision carefully lax at his side. He will not run from this accusation, will not sputter in indigence and dig his own grave by begging and pleading inadequate whines of innocence. He will, of course, deny the accusation, though will not claw and scream against it. Despite his profession, despite the series of desperate and hungry decisions that lead him to this damp tomb, Finch considers himself both an honest thief and one that values filling his lungs with breath and his body with living blood. Still, he's not surprised it settles squarely on his shoulders, knows who is is to Jack's family.  

Finch's gaze is attentive and intense, but not defensive; he is in this instance innocent, and at the very least, will have the cold comfort of dying an innocent man. It's not defeat in the lines of his jaw, but rather a determination to stand as himself. "I did not," He answers simply, jaw clenched and eyes flared. If Jack needs a scapegoat, it would explain why he had been kept around so long, and if Vesper's shadows came toward him with deadly intent, well, his feet were already half-poised to run. "I've already stolen from your father once. I don't need a reprise," It was tossed at Vesper, half-sharp, half-defeated, landing somewhere in the middle, not defensive or pleading but just a true statement. If this tunnel were to be his grave, he'd try to make it an honorable one. Here, Finch is laid bare to Vesper to do as he wishes, peeling back the bluster of the cockiness and the bravado just for a moment as Vesper's brow quirks and his fingers fiddle with his rings. It's as close to trust he can give the man, as close to vulnerability he thinks he's capable of getting, and yet, as snarling, scratching, sweet-talking street kid, he almost knows it won't be enough.

VESPER

Finch’s denial lands cleanly, and Vesper feels the shape of it before the words finish leaving his mouth. There is fear there, yes, and the sharp little readiness of a man whose body has already measured the tunnel for escape, but there is no hooked thread of guilt beneath it, no hot, ugly twist of a secret held too tightly, no thought flinching away from the empty cache as if it has recognized its own work. He is telling the truth, but Vesper turns one of his rings anyway.

The motion is slow, thumb smoothing silver around the base of his finger while his pale gaze stays fixed on Finch’s face, taking in the clenched jaw, the glitter in his eyes, the way his hands hang loose at his sides because he knows better than to make them look busy right now. It would be easy to let him off the hook, easier still to say that he believes him and move on to the more useful problem of who had opened the cache before them, but of course the ruse must continue if only to protect Vesper's secret, and so the shadows around his boots gather and thicken. They draw closer rather than wider, gathering themselves against him in a dark, obedient coil that makes the narrow recess feel smaller without needing to touch Finch at all. Vesper tips his head slightly, one brow lifting, the peppermint cooling sharp against his tongue as the thief’s fear presses against his senses like a pulse under thin skin.

"You’ve done the stealin’ once, yes," he says, mild as ever, though there is less softness in the drawl now and more careful pressure. "But maybe this time you gave one of your friends a tip-off." His eyes flick briefly to the empty cache, then back again. "That way you come out ahead even if it ain’t you doin’ the stealin’." Vesper lets the suggestion sit there long enough to become unpleasant, his fingers stilling on the ring at last.

wake me when it's over
like a bad dream

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!