Idly, Grace checks the timer she'd set for the cookies in the oven, the soft ticking a measured, consistent anchor in the face of this confusing outburst.
"...so?" She twists her head to face him, brows lifted, smile wavering. There's a heat crawling up the back of her neck that doesn't feel right, something- sharp and snarling in her chest that she's familiar with only in connection to Reginald, to Pogo. Feeling this coiled, frustrating thing aimed at one of her children that winds tighter and tighter with every tick of the timer-
He's not a child, but he's her child, and she doesn't yell at them. She doesn't hurt them. She provides, she cares for, she corrects gently. "I would expect this from Luther, not you."
Luther, who has been here the longest, Luther, who wavers on seeing her as a parent from time to time due less to his own opinions and more to overexposure to Reginald and everything the man thought of this house, this world. It isn't- it isn't much by way of hiding but it's the most pointed correction she can offer as she turns back to the trash, dumping the muffins-
When she feels the soft, sugary slide of the pavlova dropping off her skirt, splitting to the ground in the otherwise silent kitchen.
For five seconds exactly, she's frozen. She doesn't need to breathe, so there isn't any breathing to calm herself. Counting doesn't do anything for you when your mind is a computer, so there is no counting. The structured stillness that snaps the moment the timer on the counter clicks to the end with a cheerful Ding!
"Cookies are ready." It's forced now, her cheer. Obviously and painfully forced as she steps around the pavlova to turn off the oven and remove the tray as though Five hadn't just ruined at least an hour's worth of work, her dress, and whatever peace he'd managed to collect. For a moment it seems as though she'll continue on with the baking but the moment, the instant she's certain the cookies won't burn? SHe turns to five, heat behind her eyes. "Quintus Reginald Hargreeves the First."
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"...so?" She twists her head to face him, brows lifted, smile wavering. There's a heat crawling up the back of her neck that doesn't feel right, something- sharp and snarling in her chest that she's familiar with only in connection to Reginald, to Pogo. Feeling this coiled, frustrating thing aimed at one of her children that winds tighter and tighter with every tick of the timer-
He's not a child, but he's her child, and she doesn't yell at them. She doesn't hurt them. She provides, she cares for, she corrects gently. "I would expect this from Luther, not you."
Luther, who has been here the longest, Luther, who wavers on seeing her as a parent from time to time due less to his own opinions and more to overexposure to Reginald and everything the man thought of this house, this world. It isn't- it isn't much by way of hiding but it's the most pointed correction she can offer as she turns back to the trash, dumping the muffins-
When she feels the soft, sugary slide of the pavlova dropping off her skirt, splitting to the ground in the otherwise silent kitchen.
For five seconds exactly, she's frozen. She doesn't need to breathe, so there isn't any breathing to calm herself. Counting doesn't do anything for you when your mind is a computer, so there is no counting. The structured stillness that snaps the moment the timer on the counter clicks to the end with a cheerful Ding!
"Cookies are ready." It's forced now, her cheer. Obviously and painfully forced as she steps around the pavlova to turn off the oven and remove the tray as though Five hadn't just ruined at least an hour's worth of work, her dress, and whatever peace he'd managed to collect. For a moment it seems as though she'll continue on with the baking but the moment, the instant she's certain the cookies won't burn? SHe turns to five, heat behind her eyes. "Quintus Reginald Hargreeves the First."