Finch is also silent as he shuffles back down the hall. His mind reels: the notion of having an exterior emotional state imposed on his mind, whether positive or negative, is deeply disturbing to him. The closest analogue he can find to it (and Finch's mind is one that hunts analogues, seeks context and comparison) is the gauzey-cottoned feel of his brain after Root had drugged him, the sapping of all his initiative.
But this had been wholly clear-minded, no chemical impairment of his facilities (or was it? the scents-- perhaps an aerosol-based chemical agent? The wall, was there some odorless chemical in the air or - no, it had ended so abruptly when he'd looked away. A sight-trigger, how, how could one instill a psychological trigger of that sort with a sight? Epileptic seizures can be potentially be induced via specific frequencies, certain patterns-- is it something along those lines--) ...
He puts it aside. He will think about it more later; at the moment, the relief of being away from that sensation is replaced by the knowledge that he is walking with someone he-- doesn't know at all, has never laid eyes before. Someone he knows nothing about, who saw him in a rather vulnerable moment. His attention diverts to a sidelong study.
Long leather jacket, clunky boots, platinum hair, young face: this is not the sort of person to whom Finch has an extended exposure. Different social circles. Also not the sort of person Finch would generally expect to be asking do you need to sit down, though he supposes that's something of a stereotype, and one is definitely on shaky ground when making assumptions based on stereotypes. British accent, very fair-skinned, and... and.... he really has not-much-else to go on, does he?
Bear seems uneasy. Bear walks bumping into his leg, every few steps, keeping himself glued between Finch and this young stranger.
"I think I could at that," Finch says aloud. He cannot help but appear vulnerable, as part of who he is and his own failings-of-the-flesh; but that too can be deployed, tactically, as needed. He moves to the nearest... bench, or something that can in a pinch serve as a bench (what is that, petrified wood?) and he sits down heavily on it, then blinks owlishly up at the young man.
"I'm sorry. Harold Finch. Hello," he says, and offers a hand up.
no subject
But this had been wholly clear-minded, no chemical impairment of his facilities (or was it? the scents-- perhaps an aerosol-based chemical agent? The wall, was there some odorless chemical in the air or - no, it had ended so abruptly when he'd looked away. A sight-trigger, how, how could one instill a psychological trigger of that sort with a sight? Epileptic seizures can be potentially be induced via specific frequencies, certain patterns-- is it something along those lines--) ...
He puts it aside. He will think about it more later; at the moment, the relief of being away from that sensation is replaced by the knowledge that he is walking with someone he-- doesn't know at all, has never laid eyes before. Someone he knows nothing about, who saw him in a rather vulnerable moment. His attention diverts to a sidelong study.
Long leather jacket, clunky boots, platinum hair, young face: this is not the sort of person to whom Finch has an extended exposure. Different social circles. Also not the sort of person Finch would generally expect to be asking do you need to sit down, though he supposes that's something of a stereotype, and one is definitely on shaky ground when making assumptions based on stereotypes. British accent, very fair-skinned, and... and.... he really has not-much-else to go on, does he?
Bear seems uneasy. Bear walks bumping into his leg, every few steps, keeping himself glued between Finch and this young stranger.
"I think I could at that," Finch says aloud. He cannot help but appear vulnerable, as part of who he is and his own failings-of-the-flesh; but that too can be deployed, tactically, as needed. He moves to the nearest... bench, or something that can in a pinch serve as a bench (what is that, petrified wood?) and he sits down heavily on it, then blinks owlishly up at the young man.
"I'm sorry. Harold Finch. Hello," he says, and offers a hand up.