Malcolm stared blankly at his ceiling, a thin whistle of air the only indicator that he was breathing, save the near imperceptible rising and falling of his chest. His eyes were bloodshot, and his bangs were plastered damp against his forehead with sweat. It was too hot. He hadn’t slept all night, deigning instead to post himself by the shop, should the new hire arrive late in the night. Just in case. So he’d sat in the middle of the parking lot for hours throughout the night, busying himself by counting the number of stars in the sky. Malcolm greatly enjoyed the act of counting things. The simple task of tallying up quantities of various different [i]things[/i] was an undertaking that he would throw himself into eagerly. Stars were something of an annoyance, though. Malcolm could swear the twinkly little bastards rearranged themselves every single night.

So around the third time he managed to lose count upon getting into the triple digits, he had decided to that perhaps it would be best to return home.

And that was how he found himself sprawled out on his bed like a corpse hoisted upon a trolley, looking up at the drab gray paint above him for the better part of two hours. Malcolm, having briefly acknowledged the futility and admitted pointlessness of his current task, continued to stare. The ceiling did not stare back. [color=8882be]“You, ceiling,”[/color] He began to drawl in a monotone, flavorless cadence that was not uncommon for him. [color=8882be]“Have a point. How is it fair for me to be lying about here when there’s shit to do?”[/color] He smacked a hand against his forehead then, in an expression of mock annoyance. [color=8882be]“Of course! The new hire would probably be showing up [i]today[/i].”[/color] Plus, there was only one star in the sky that he would have to count. Good old ceiling though. Always helping him out of a bind.

Then, with a grunt and a heavy sigh, he hoisted himself up off the bed and onto his feet. Right. Get cleaned up, get dressed, then figure out what the fuck to do today. 

So that’s what he did.

Boots laced, pants zipped, two layers of shirts pulled over his head and one ratty leather jacket shrugged on, Malcolm made his way to the kitchen. Waiting on the counter for him was a generous serving of coffee, still lightly steaming. Halle-fucking-lujah. He sipped tentatively at the brew first, before being assured that it was sufficiently sweetened. Gulping it down greedily, the remainder of the mug’s contents were drained in seconds. Bless Angela. He set about cleaning up the two dirty things he could find in the kitchen; one mug that was his, and another that must have been Angela’s. Malcolm peered suspiciously around the kitchen as he did this, searching for any sign of mischief the brownies might have caused. 

Satisfied that there was nothing unpleasant to discover, he ambled his way out the door and into the bright, balmy morning. He squinted and grimaced, temporarily stunned by the sun’s rays, before slowly stepping forward just in time to hear someone style him as “Tinkerbell”. Spots clearing properly from his eyes as he drew ever closer, the forms of Hunts and Angela became apparent to him, as well as that of the golem, Baldwin. 

[color=8882be]“Good morning to you, Angela,”[/color] Malcolm said with all of the enthusiasm of somebody that had been awake for over twenty-four hours. [color=8882be]“I was going to head to the shop, keep watch for the new guy. If he shows, I’ll let you know.”[/color] He waved the little purple scrying orb around with a languid flourish. [color=8882be]"Thank you, by the way, for the coffee."[/color] The troll, Malcolm turned to and gave a little frown. Tinkerbell? Really? [color=8882be]“There’s no such thing as fairies.”[/color] He paused for a moment, an over-exaggerated look of anticipation on his face. [color=8882be]“Nope, nothing. Not a single fairy dropped dead just now. And just like that myth, Tinkerbell also [i]isn’t real[/i].”[/color] While his tone wasn’t by any means aggressive, it was certainly unfriendly, and it was certainly unamused.