Finnick used to be that naive child. For four hundred years he was happily ignorant; the mortal real was more like a playroom then. Something base and romantic. But he's not a child anymore, even though he's still relatively young for a fae.

When he looks up at Eames, there's a smirk on his face that he hasn't even attempted to play off as genuine. "I can fake kindness well enough, as much as I hate them. And at this point in my life, I come by the teeth naturally." The smirk fades. "I'm just not one for the long game. Not for planning, at least." He can survive. He's shown that well enough.