Bear looks less than thrilled about the hand reaching his way; the ears are still up, but there's no growl, just wary alertness. The dog sniffs deliberately at Spike's pale hand. Finch muses on this; he tends to trust Bear's judgment of people, as a rule, but he sees nothing terribly concerning about the young man's behavior. The picture he's assembling of 'Spike' is one of someone from an affluent enough background to recognize 'posh'ness-- and who knows his science-fiction-- but who is doing his best to dress like a poster child for rebellion: a slumming rich kid, essentially. Rather nerdier than the wardrobe would suggest. There's no threat in that.

Maybe Bear just dislikes the smell of the hair product and the nail polish, he thinks absently.

Polite non-recognition marks his expression at the little burst of singing. "I'm afraid not, no. Hm? Oh, um, I don't know if we have a specific sort--"

Finch quickly considers and discards Kenny G; lying for covers is all well and good but it's a lie he may have to live with. Let's see, who's a perfectly-statistically-average musician for someone of his age and apparent background to like? Aretha Franklin. John Denver. Paul McCartney-- there, yes. (Bonus points for the awful crime, to a Brit, of appearing to prefer McCartney to Lennon, no doubt.)

"--but I've always liked Paul McCartney," he says innocently. "As far as newer stuff, Norah Jones has a nice voice. And Michael Buble too."

Being boring is hard work but Finch has practice. He wonders if Spike has heard of Neulander or Aphex Twin.