(no subject)
[Odin wakes early, as he always does, after only a few hours of sleep. He never really counts it as sleep - it's more like he closes his eyes for a moment, and suddenly it's three to four hours later and the sun is up. He's suffered from insomnia long enough that he's learned to deal with it. Sleep means dreams, and dreams usually mean connecting to a part of him that he mostly tries to distance himself from.
So, he gets up from his couch (the bed mostly stays untouched in the bedroom, a room he hardly ventures into), stands in the kitchen and watches the coffee machine percolate for a few minutes. When he's got strong, dark, almost undrinkable coffee, he fills a mug with it, and uses it to swallow three aspirin. He leans against the counter for another long moment, letting the caffeine wake him a little more, and when he feels he's ready to step out and get the newspaper, he does so.
The newspaper is there, as it always is. So is something else.
His fingers tighten around the mug's handle and he blinks once, slowly. He takes a step back, moving to turn back into the apartment and shut the door, but he pauses. Stares. Frowns. It's a scowl that could make children cry. Eventually, he bends down, grabs his newspaper, and backs into the apartment, shutting the door quietly against the outside world. He sits at his desk, sets his coffee and his newspaper down to the side, and opens up his laptop.]
It's too early for this shit.
Whoever left their gay midget firetruck in front of my place should move it before I think of something better to do with it.
So, he gets up from his couch (the bed mostly stays untouched in the bedroom, a room he hardly ventures into), stands in the kitchen and watches the coffee machine percolate for a few minutes. When he's got strong, dark, almost undrinkable coffee, he fills a mug with it, and uses it to swallow three aspirin. He leans against the counter for another long moment, letting the caffeine wake him a little more, and when he feels he's ready to step out and get the newspaper, he does so.
The newspaper is there, as it always is. So is something else.
His fingers tighten around the mug's handle and he blinks once, slowly. He takes a step back, moving to turn back into the apartment and shut the door, but he pauses. Stares. Frowns. It's a scowl that could make children cry. Eventually, he bends down, grabs his newspaper, and backs into the apartment, shutting the door quietly against the outside world. He sits at his desk, sets his coffee and his newspaper down to the side, and opens up his laptop.]
It's too early for this shit.
Whoever left their gay midget firetruck in front of my place should move it before I think of something better to do with it.