[center][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=Miles%20Catrose&name=Hopeless%20Place.ttf&size=50&style_color=f2f3f4[/img]
[img]http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/35400000/G-DRAGON-CROOKED-M-V-g-dragon-35479318-500-247.gif[/img]
[i][u]Location[/u]:[/i] Churchill Gardens, 3B → The Early Bean
[i][u]Interacting With[/u]: -[/i][/center]
[hr]
The first thing Miles notices when he wakes up is the cold, because [i]of fucking course[/i] the radiator’s broken down again.

The second thing he notices, as he burrows further into the confines of his bed, is the metaphorical ice pick lodged into his brainstem. Honestly, Miles finds it ridiculous that even as a Fae, he had to suffer the drawbacks of copious ingestion of alcohol. They were, after all, magical beings from a separate dimension. You’d think they’d be able to get shitfaced without suffering the consequences.

But alas, that was not the case, and he had the sinking feeling that the effects of one too many vodka shots would continue to linger throughout the rest of the day.

It isn’t until ten minutes later, when a particularly strong gust of wind hits him right in the face, that Miles tumbles out of bed with an agonised moan, still wrapped in a cocoon of scratchy cotton sheets. He prays - actually [i]prays[/i] - with all his heart that Mrs. Atkinson from the local salon would ring him up to say that he didn’t have to come into work that day, thus allowing him to spend his day curled up in a ball of self-pity, but that hope quickly dissolves with the ringing of the alarm clock, and he lets out another noise of nauseated distress before reluctantly pulling himself to his feet.

Miles goes about his morning routine with a gruelling slowness, a far cry from his usual bouncing-off-the-walls persona. Every movement was an aching slog through his own personal hell, and it took him a good while before he started feeling less like a zombie. Of course, he still felt like shit, but he almost believed that after a cup of coffee, he could get through the day without keeling over and dying.

Key word: [i]almost[/i].

It takes him way too long, but Miles gets things done [i](courtesy of a face full of ice-cold water that’d sent him shrieking in surprise)[/i]. His breath is minty fresh from brushing his teeth three times, and what used to be a cowlick-ridden bedhead has been successfully wrangled into a fauxhawk with half a can of hairspray. Throwing on whatever that’s clean - which, surprise surprise - consisted of a leather jacket, a black t-shirt and a pair of too-tight jeans, Miles makes a quick stop in front of the bathroom mirror with an armful of makeup to make sure that he no longer looked like he’d been out partying till five in the morning. Sure, he could just use a glamour, but he [i]really[/i] couldn’t be bothered to keep it up the entire day, and with the recent anti-Other sentiment brewing amongst the humans, minimising the risk of getting found out sounded like the best course of action.

Now he’s probably gonna get yelled at for showing up late to work, but he’d be damned if he stepped out of his front door looking like a hot mess. He had a reputation to maintain.

...Well, it wasn’t a very good reputation, but you get the picture.

Pulling on a pair of black Doc Martens, woolly gloves, a scarf, plus an extra hoodie under his jacket because [i]goddamn[/i] was it cold, he casts a glance back at his disaster zone of an apartment before venturing out into the frigid winter. [i]Those fucking Unseelie Fae[/i], Miles thinks to himself, lips curling into a scowl. He didn’t even have to watch the news to guess that this was all their doing.

[hr]
On his way to [i]The Hair Lair[/i] - as he’s taken to calling the salon he works at - Miles wanders into a coffee shop, because hey, since he was already late, there wasn’t any harm getting his hands on a cuppa first, was there? And he’s sure that Mrs. Atkinson would appreciate him getting her a coffee as well… or at least that’s what he tells himself as he strides up to the counter, ordering two cappuccinos and contemplating a muffin.

Whether it was a stroke of bad luck, or simply just bad timing, Miles had somehow managed to miss every last bit of information regarding the Others on TV, with the one in the corner moving on from the morning news to its scheduled daytime programming. The Unseelie Fae’s continued protest, the Creature Rights Act, not to mention the murder of Nick Bloodfang at the hands of a group calling itself ‘Helsing’ - were all but unknown to him. But as the saying goes; what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, and he felt certain that once he got to work, he’d be caught up on all the latest gossip.