Groundlings

The very first thing that greeted Finch Anderson when he woke up was the telltale splitting headache of a terrible hangover. The light that lazily filtered through his curtains was too bright, far too bright, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it and groaned. He reached a long fingered hand to his face to shield himself further, grimacing.
Well, he was awake. No point in running away from it now. No point in rolling back over and pretending. Judging from how much his head hurt, he probably had a lot of cleaning to do anyway. Ugh, why did he always have to be like this?
With another loud groan Finch sat up in bed. His back complained loudly but his head complained louder. He ran a hand through his curly mop of hair, the fingers catching in a particularly badly snarled spot. It took Finch a minute to convince his hand to work at it as gently as he could. And fuck, it hurt like a bitch. Curly hair problems, he supposed.
Finch took his sweet time standing up and stretching. His mirror on the wall showed him what he had already known. He looked fucking horrible. Well, such was life. The first thing he needed to do, he dimly figured, was bathe. It always helped clear his head, at least enough to where he could do everything. Getting to the point of bathing was the real challenge here.
He fumbled with the pipe outlet switch before he finally managed to flip it. It felt like the biggest victory of his life. And while the little tub filled with water, cold to really shock him into existence, he turned his back and pissed. Ah. Much better.
Fuck, he should probably shave today. It would be a miracle if he managed to get it all gone today. Without nicking himself in the process. But hell, Finch was feeling brave. This was a different hangover than usual. Or at least he thought so.
He was able to think? Weird. That was definitely new.
A sudden cold wetness touched one of his bare feet and he shrieked. He’d let the tub overfill again. Flailing about like some kind of madman, Finch rushed for the switch and flipped it successfully on the first try. Well, that had sure been a shock.
And there was more to come. Finch dropped himself like a dead weight into the frigid water, this time holding back another high pitched squeal. He succeeded. Barely.
Oh, fuck, that’s cold. A shiver went through his whole body and he decided he wanted to spend as little time in this damned tub as he could manage, so with all the determination of a kid on their first day of school he set about scrubbing himself clean. He scooped a cupped handful of water out and slopped it on top of his head. Another shudder went through him. His head was screaming at him to stop.
No, he thought. Fuck you.
His head stopped screaming. That’s more like it. Finch rolled his shoulders, leaning back in the tub and letting himself breathe before the cold seeped through his bones completely. Then he got out. Didn’t bother finding anything to dry himself, he would most likely stay at home all day. No rules saying you couldn’t do that naked.
Eh, but he probably should at least put pants on. It would make him feel more like a person as opposed to a headache on slender and hairy well formed legs.
So Finch set to the search of clean underwear and pants, using the excuse to survey last night’s damage. There was little, which was surprisingly. Finch was usually a messy drinker, but maybe he was just off his game. He’d felt like that lately. It definitely looked like he had guzzled less than usual, which he had no problem with. Most of the bottles were already in the dish basin full of water.
Nice one, drunk Finch. You did something good for once. Pat on the back.
The pat on the back was a mistake. Finch twisted too hard, his spine cracking in approximately a billion different spots. He lost his balance for a few precious seconds, sitting against the wall to catch himself. Impact buck naked ass first on the rough wood. Ow.
Was he really going to have to spend his morning picking splinters out of his butt cheeks? He stood up and felt around for a moment, then breathed a sigh of relief when he found the skin unbroken. Dodged a bullet there, man.
His search finally proved fruitful and he dressed himself. Damn him and his tight pants, they were always so difficult to put on. He didn’t need extra difficulty today. Finch gave up after struggling with them for fifteen whole minutes, opting for a pair of sweats he’d worn twice already since their last wash. It was near impossible to tell. They weren’t stained or anything.
It was good enough, and good enough was the best he was gonna get today.
Finch wisely decided to put off his shave until later. He needed to be more lucid for it than he was now and he knew it. Some fresh air might help. He hadn’t checked his mail in days anyway. He should probably do that.
He should probably put on a shirt before he walked out the door like a fool.
Finch’s mailbox was almost as much of a mess as the man himself was. He stuffed the small stack of letters into his left pocket and leaned over backwards, stretching his back. The fog in his head was slowly receding, and the stretch brought a sudden yet fleeting rush of clarity. He didn’t even know the time yet.
A look at the apartment complex’s clock fixed that. Still before noon. Very impressive. That gave him time to actually sort through and maybe even read some of his mail and make something to eat before he had to get ready for work at three. Not too bad.
Well, he wouldn’t have that kind of time for long if he just stood here wasting it all like some kind of dumbass.
Back inside he went, setting the stack of envelopes down on the table and pulling up a chair. The first few were just formal proof he had paid his bills on time. Nothing spectacular. He almost gave up and tossed the whole stack when his eyes settled on his name, written neatly in a style he didn’t recognize.
Now, that was something you didn’t get every day. A glance at the sender’s corner told him it had come from the Sequoia Archive of History, straight from the desk of the head archivist herself. He’d seen her once or twice, and had decided that someone that hot shouldn’t be wasting her youth shut in some stuffy room with old books.
But well, if she was into that.
He pulled a knife from the kitchen and opened the envelope in one clean, swift motion. The letter inside was written in the same neat hand that marked the envelope. Clearly a girl who valued appearances. Finch liked that.
“Dear Mr. Anderson,” he read out loud, his voice scratchy. He coughed once, loud, into a fist and cleared his throat. There. Much better.

“This letter is is sent by the authority of Governor Melissa Powell, to inform you that you have been selected as a candidate for an upcoming expansion project of the Archive’s historical records. Your occupation as a sniper and defender of the city qualifies you to play an instrumental role in securing the safety and well-being of the other participants.
Because the project proposal is still in the works, there is very little else I can tell you at this moment, especially in writing. I urge you to visit me at the Archive or to contact the Governor herself for more information and to accept or decline the offer.
We hope to hear from you soon, Mr. Anderson.

Sincerely,
Catherine Siobhan McCarthy, Head Archivist and Historian in Chief”

Well, shit damn. Color me interested, he thought. Some big secret mission just for him? Sounded exactly like what Finch needed. Plus, it would give him an excuse to meet the girl for real. His cousin had been dating her before he’d died, but Finch’s work had kept him from introducing himself formally.
She’d even been at the funeral.
It felt like years ago. If it had happened at all. Alcohol did that to memories. Funny stuff.
Finch stood up and stuffed the letter in the outside pocket of his backpack, for safekeeping.
He was paying the library a visit tomorrow.