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MHA #8, Monday
Stark wasn't entirely unaccustomed to waking up with a sense of impending doom. It just hadn't happened recently. He thought, at first, that he had just startled himself awake from a nightmare that he couldn't remember but usually his nightmares were memorable affairs. This was more a sense that something was wrong or about to be wrong but he didn't know why.
The sense of dread hadn't left him after he was fully awake, or after eating, or a mug of tea. He'd then cleaned the kitchen, trying to channel the nervous energy he seemed full of into something productive even though there was barely anything needed.
Cleaning didn't help. Pacing around the apartment didn't help. He even left to walk outside but that didn't improve things either though at least it didn't make him feel worse.
Going somewhere with people might have helped. He would have at least known that it wasn't just him feeling this way today. But he didn't try that.
Instead, once he returned to his apartment, he looked around for something else to occupy his hands and hopefully his mind with. He needed a distraction from worrying about what was wrong, or might be wrong. All he came up with was more cleaning, at first, until he was hungry and reasoned that if he baked something it would keep him occupied for a while between the actual making of the baked goods, the eating, and cleaning the kitchen again.
If nothing else, the apartment would smell like cookies and there would be something chocolate to eat. That couldn't hurt, even if it wouldn't really help with whatever was bothering him.
[Mostly establishy. Could be open though. I'm not picky.]
The sense of dread hadn't left him after he was fully awake, or after eating, or a mug of tea. He'd then cleaned the kitchen, trying to channel the nervous energy he seemed full of into something productive even though there was barely anything needed.
Cleaning didn't help. Pacing around the apartment didn't help. He even left to walk outside but that didn't improve things either though at least it didn't make him feel worse.
Going somewhere with people might have helped. He would have at least known that it wasn't just him feeling this way today. But he didn't try that.
Instead, once he returned to his apartment, he looked around for something else to occupy his hands and hopefully his mind with. He needed a distraction from worrying about what was wrong, or might be wrong. All he came up with was more cleaning, at first, until he was hungry and reasoned that if he baked something it would keep him occupied for a while between the actual making of the baked goods, the eating, and cleaning the kitchen again.
If nothing else, the apartment would smell like cookies and there would be something chocolate to eat. That couldn't hurt, even if it wouldn't really help with whatever was bothering him.
[Mostly establishy. Could be open though. I'm not picky.]