Groundlings

Clark was driving him absolutely fucking insane. That was a good thing, the old geezer was good at discipline, but Finch fought against his constraints. Now that departure was soon, training happened every single day. It had been so for a good two weeks already, and Finch wasn’t sure he could make it through one more week of it without getting his ass beat. Or, rather, without dumping a large amount of booze down his throat and getting his ass beat for it.
Yeah. It was important distinction.
Still, Finch had to respect the man. He was good at what he did, and not many lived to reach his age. It mean that not only was he good, he was one of the best. If he wasn’t The best. And that was certainly worth respect. So Finch tried his best to kick the alcohol habit and comply.
It was so, so fucking difficult. Probably the hardest thing in Finch’s entire life.
And so it was that the second training was done, Finch found himself staring into a glass of whiskey at one of his favorite watering holes. The owner had almost been concerned when he hadn’t shown up in an entire week. His first drink on his first night back had been on the house, as congratulations for still being alive. He probably kept that place afloat all by himself.
He’d probably spent thousands on booze alone by now.
That was a sobering thought. He had to get out of here right now.
After all, he was leaving town to better himself. Or something like that, at least. He still wasn’t sure completely what his motivations were. All he knew is that they were strong enough to drag him by the back of his collar along their bumpy road to wherever they were going, and he also knew that it was far easier to just stand up and walk by his own damn self.
And so he walked. Marched his ass right out of that sorry joint. He had better things to move on to. He had a better man to be. There was a whole world out there, and it was Finch Anderson’s to conquer, and he’d be damned if he didn’t do it with style.
And well, stumbling drunk wasn’t stylish. It was a spectacle, for sure, and even an entertaining one if you really looked at it hard enough. But it definitely did not look good, and not even Finch’s gorgeous jawline and artfully messy hair could save it from itself. Shame, really. Otherwise it would’ve suited him so well.
Finch shambled home. It wasn’t dark yet and he wasn’t drunk enough to be completely useless. His apartment was a goddamned mess. Finch hadn’t cleaned it in ages, which he found surprising. He loved cleaning. Often when he cleared the clutter out of his space, it cleared the clutter out of his mind too.
But oh god, there was so much work to do. There were bottles and dirty clothes all over the place. It reeked to high heaven. God, how did he even put up with himself? He answered his own question immediately. Alcohol. That’s how he did it.
It was the answer to every deep mystery of his life, probably. Finch, why were you late this morning? Alcohol. Finch, why do you look so sick? Alcohol. Finch, why did you murder you brother? Alcohol. Probably.
Finch couldn’t quite remember.
So, yeah, alcohol most likely. The fact that he couldn’t really remember his motivations was, truth be told, kind of a big hint.
Alcohol. He’d showed up to work drunk and things just… Happened. How much resentment was behind it was anyone’s guess. No one really bothered to guess. Finch and Starling had had some animosity towards each other, but they both had simply written it off as part of the package that came with their status as twins.
What was done was done, and besides, Finch was the only one who knew he’d done it. He’d take the secret to his grave. Or rather, his patch of dirt that he’d land on when they tossed his corpse over the railings like a sack of rotten vegetables.
Wait, no.
There would be proper burials where he was going. For some reason, that thought was invigorating. He’d rest like a real person in the end. It almost made life worth really living.
Almost, he thought to himself, sweeping up the broken glass on his floor. How long had that been there? At this point it was a miracle he hadn’t cut his feet open a billion times, considering how often he walked around barefoot. Sometimes he said he did it because he liked the feel of the wood on his skin, it made him feel more grounded somehow.
Most of the time he was just too lazy to put on shoes.
That was the thing about Finch-- he was good at misdirection. He was charismatic even at his worst moments, and it made people more inclined to trust him. They never knew how bad of an idea that was. He never let them know until it was too late. Funny how people just listened to you if you were practiced at sounding like you knew what you were saying.
That was gonna have to stop eventually. Finch didn’t like being a manipulative jackass, it was just that it was all he was good at.
Well, alright. He did enjoy it just a little bit. Just as much as a manipulative jackass should, but definitely no more. Definitely.
Maybe.
That was his problem-- he knew so little about himself. He had no idea what was under the layers of alcohol and charisma, or whether that really was all there was to him. Finch generally didn’t like thinking about it. It was a disturbing idea, so he dwelled as little on it as he possibly could. He supposed now was not the time for it, either.
He’d have plenty of time to think out there, just walking around for days. That’s what it would mostly be, he’d predicted. With the population of zombies going down in recent years, the expedition would be relatively safe, he believed. Sure, there would be some encounters, but the living would so overarmed that they needn’t worry. His training with Clark was almost laughable. They were going on an extended hiking trip, not marching to war. Still, he supposed it was better to be overqualified for the job than under.
And who really knew what out there anyway? Maybe they were preparing all wrong. It was all up in the air, and that was what bothered Finch most. For the first time in his life, he would have absolutely no control over what would happen to him.
He was going on an adventure.