Trouble seems to be becoming his stock and trade.

He loves a good brawl. It must be the Irish in him. And - as always seems to be the case - it's the right place, the right time.

He's kind of in the restless mood, had been ever since that Ranger character had made his little appearance. The man is right, Finn's been busy - that itch, ever since that first flight, that one night...

And to think it started as showing off. He might have known it wouldn't end there - he knows himself too well. It's been his way, his life, the purpose of his existence, for so long that he can't remember a time when he hadn't been that guy.

The hero. Guardian, protector, angel, god, superhero. He'd been called them all, and more.

There had been dark times. Errors, mistakes, things done wrong.

Losses, pain, at his hands or at others.

He'd felt responsible for them all. Had been responsible for them, in his eyes. But as time wore on and the world grew, he made less of a difference.

And less.

Here, though - here, there is a chance. Here one man can make a difference.

So it's not that the man was wrong about Finn. Far from it.

His problem is simple - trust.

That's what he's struggling with when the sounds of chaos in the pub get his attention, even through the closed doors, out in the street. Not that it's all that difficult, really, with the crashing and yelling...

It's not even a question, really. He needs the diversion, something to clear his head of the thoughts rattling around in it. And what better way to do that than by some good, old-fashioned, blood-and-thunder violence?

The door being opened gets lost in the chaos inside. Just like any good bar brawl, fists, bottles and bodies are flying in equal measure. As he looks around the bar, he comes to the center of the chaos, a flash of crimson locks glinting in the dim light.

Migh've known.

The guy she's tangling with is near to twice her size, ugly as sin, and paying for whatever he did to earn her ire with a right hook at the moment, followed by a swift uppercut. As he watches, another man comes up behind her, a bottle raised over his head.

His blow never lands - with one hand Finn grabs him by the back of his shirt and takes a step back, yanking hard. With a ripping sound and a yelp the man gets flung down to land on his back with force enough to send a ripple through the floorboards, knocking two nearby tables over. Turning, Finn puts a boot to his midsection that sends him skidding across the floor to collide against a wall with a resounding CRASH! He doesn't show any inclination towards getting up.

A glass bottle comes crashing over his head, shattering it to shards. He looks around just in time to see a fist the size of a canned ham come looping in at his face. His own hand balls up, snapping up and colliding with the bigger man's. Surprisingly high-pitched screams accompany the sound of his fingers and wrist fracturing in multiple places as he drops to his knees, grabbing for that hand instinctively. A swift tap to his temple puts an end to that.

He turns just in time to see Avy kick her opponent in the knee. Wincing slightly at the crack as the man drops to the floor, he grins and catches her eye with a wink just as she's putting her boot to the back of the ugly's head.

"Well, now...if'n et isnae one sexeh Irish lass in a pub kickin' the crap ou' a man twice her size. Ah'm pre'y sure I've nae seen an'thin' sexier than tha'!"

Catching a hint of motion from the corner of his eye, he turns and brings his hands up just in time to catch the bar stool being swung at his head. With a hard yank he pulls it from the assaulting man's hands and tears it apart like it's made of cardboard. The former owner of the stool looks like he's about to have second thoughts when a piece of that stool flung by Finn catches him right in the center of his forehead hard enough that it throws him back to land on the bar, out cold.

Turning back to Avy, he chuckles. "Oi...ye sure know how tae pick 'em, don' ye?"