[Finch is there fairly quick - quicker than he would on an average day, when his mind isn't racing and he doesn't feel this protective urge to walk faster, and be efficient with every stride. He's always watching - every person he passes, every roof top and window, something that extends to the insides of buildings when he's in them - boarding house especially.
He knocks his knuckles on her door, before making clear:]
[ The sound of footsteps coming to the door, she unlocks it to greet him with a smile, steps aside to let him inside. Room kept impeccable, as always. ]
[Tensing up the way he does eats away at him over time, but he shrugs as he slides on in to her perfect little room. He looks around, glancing back to make sure the door shuts behind them and nobody's prowling out in the hall. He shrugs off his jacket, since they've got business to (eventually) get to.]
You know you should carry a knife or something on you, right? Do you have one?
[He makes a show of pretending to look at the front of him, but then starts unbuttoning the front of his shirt - he doesn't let himself dwell on any awkwardness, pulling it up and off overhead.]
It's either on my back or my ass? My stupid - fucking curse mark's back there too, never get to see it. Can these names show up on our skulls? I'm not shaving my head.
[ She knits her brows, appreciates the humor whether it's intentional or not.
(Robin's curse mark is hidden in the back of her head; she'd have to shave it for someone to see it glow. Still,) ]
No, I don't think so. Here, [ She's behind him, taking the shirt away so it goes in the closet as well. She doesn't want to wrinkle it. ] Okay, let's see...
[ For some reason, Robin doesn't think to start at the neck. His shoulder blades are checked first, then down his spine, the sides of his torso, but there's nothing. When she traces her fingers back up, she freezes.
Robin Becker. Right where she should have started. ]
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[...]
I think it's like my mark, and somewhere on my back. I was thinking of asking you to help me.
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[ She doesn't like the implications, but if Finch killing his target means he'll be spared, that's all she needs. ]
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[He'll defend himself if he needs to, but he's hoping it's too early for the full on dramatics.]
Where?
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[ She can defend herself. She just doesn't want people to know that. ]
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He knocks his knuckles on her door, before making clear:]
It's Finch.
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Are you all right?
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[Tensing up the way he does eats away at him over time, but he shrugs as he slides on in to her perfect little room. He looks around, glancing back to make sure the door shuts behind them and nobody's prowling out in the hall. He shrugs off his jacket, since they've got business to (eventually) get to.]
You know you should carry a knife or something on you, right? Do you have one?
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[ Of course Robin knows how to take care of a bad shoulder.
She gets his jacket, hangs it in the closet, clasps her hands in front of her skirt to join him. There's a chair for him to sit down on. ]
I don't — really want to carry any weapons on me. [ Faked discomfort. She clears her throat. ] Where have you looked?
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It's either on my back or my ass? My stupid - fucking curse mark's back there too, never get to see it. Can these names show up on our skulls? I'm not shaving my head.
tbc in the event log!
(Robin's curse mark is hidden in the back of her head; she'd have to shave it for someone to see it glow. Still,) ]
No, I don't think so. Here, [ She's behind him, taking the shirt away so it goes in the closet as well. She doesn't want to wrinkle it. ] Okay, let's see...
[ For some reason, Robin doesn't think to start at the neck. His shoulder blades are checked first, then down his spine, the sides of his torso, but there's nothing. When she traces her fingers back up, she freezes.
Robin Becker. Right where she should have started. ]