Neal balks internally at the signs of foreign habitation, as though he has any right at all to the space. It still makes him feel strange, makes it very clear that he won’t be spending his next inevitable death toll reclined on Malcolm’s couch in the company of Goya’s masterworks. He and Malcolm aren’t paired any more. That’s that.

Neal smiles when he sees Malcolm, disorientation at the realized change warring with intense curiosity. He holds up the jar of tea, giving it a little shake. There’s a ribbon tied around the neck. “Happy Wolfday?”