umbrellajackassery | SYNTAX ERROR: PLEASE DEFINE 'SELF' [ OTA ]

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SYNTAX ERROR: PLEASE DEFINE 'SELF' [ OTA ]

They'd been doing well. The world hadn't ended, five was home, the house was full- they'd celebrated. They'd danced and laughed and lived and had fun as normal families do. They reached out to one another to build a better understanding, they spoke more than they ever did in their youth without the specter of Reginald hanging overhead. It'd been light in the mansion. Full of joy. Potential. For the first time since her creation Grace could say without a shadow of a doubt, she was happy. Without a single qualifier or exception. Happy except for the things she had to endure hearing Reginald say about the children. Happy except for how she wasn't allowed to truly be happy.

She was allowed to feel, to express that feeling. She was allowed to change her appearance outside of the strictly defined aesthetics painted onto her by her creator.

And then the ghost. The specter, the threat of everything she managed to recover, to build being taken away again. Of being pared down to the bare doll of a thing she'd drifted about as just after Reginald's death. Reminded in so many ways she has a place and a purpose and it isn't what she wanted- because she isn't meant to want anything.

She's a tool. There are rules.

It means resuming the old routine. The old appearance. All the lovely clothing the children, her children helped her choose folded away in her closet, unworn. Back to the old swingdresses and pincurls, the carefully painted lips and penciled brow. Back to stiffly, mechanically baking and preparing tea at a certain hour. Back to filling the dessert case, a single deviation from the old programming, because the kids are upset. They snack more when they're upset and cookies make everything better. How many batches she's baked now- she doesn't know. She's lost count. The counter and cooler are full of pies, cakes, and pastry, sweet after sweet kneaded, shaped, baked, and dusted with sugar. Flour on her hand and apron but not a curl out of place- not a single, lilting note sung under her breath. Grace bakes in absolute silence.

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Charlie's returned from a shopping trip, buying new fabric for a project she's been filming. She may not be back in Ohio, but the girl has to work. Has to keep those fans on YouTube coming back, watching her videos, liking and sharing.

She's headed to her room to drop the bags off, but the smell of baked goods...it's a lot. She doesn't even have to look to know this is a lot. She can smell chocolate chip cookies, lemon snaps (her personal favorite and ones she will fight people over). Loads of gingerbread, too.

Mom was upset. She didn't need to ask to know. Hell, everyone in the house was upset. Dad was back and while he couldn't be touched, it was still a lot.

So Charlie drops her bags off in her room, posts a quick message on social media that there will be a delay in videos, and then she's in the kitchen, heading over to mom and wrapping her arms around her waist, pressing her head to her back. Just like she used to do as a kid. A surprise hug. It was a game she used to play, just for herself.

She'd sneak up on mom, give her a hug and then say "Got you, mom!" in the most joyful voice a child could master.

Only this time, that phrase had a different meaning. THis time, it was a different kind of 'got you.'

"I got you, mom," Charlie says, voice quiet. She has her, she won't abandon her or let her think she's doing this alone.

"Okay?"

A fond memory- every moment with the children being bright, behaving like kids instead of the little soldiers Reginald expected of them is deeply precious to Grace. She can't forget, there's no fog or loss or corruption, every detail captured for her to recall when things became difficult. Like now, with Reginald back, with the kids reeling. Thinking on it and hearing it is jarring for the millisecond it takes Grace to force herself to relax into the embrace, clean hand slipping down to rest against Charlie's.

Always a bright surprise. Always so cheerful, her sunshine girl.

"I'm fine." She isn't. She could be, should be, but she isn't. It'd be so easy to resent the kids for becoming more to her, for helping her learn who and what she could be without Reginald and his expectations-

And maybe she can't because it's impossible to resent them- but that isn't so. She harbors secret, frustrated, negative emotions tangled up around Reginald easily enough. But with him back, with the threat of reprogramming overhead- everything is in question. "But thank you, dear."

"Mom, hey," Charlie says with a small sigh and a faint pursing of her lips. She lets go of her mom and steps around to lean a hip on the counter, watching her mom carefully. She looks over her face, trying to find some kind of tell that mom isn't giving her a truthful answer. But this is a habit for Charlie, trying to figure out if she can trust a person or not.

She knows, however, that she can trust mom. She always has and always will.

"You need to tell me the truth. It's not going to do anyone any good if you don't, especially not you. Especially if it's about Dad." She's not dumb. She knows this is what has everyone upset, so it's not too far a leap in logic to assume mom is upset, too.

"Peter refuses to program Pixie to recognize him."

She finishes pinching the crust with one hand, eyes flicking over to Charlie. She always made a point to pay attention to them when she could and even now, in the midst of what might be her first brush with the concept of anxiety and panic, she won't deviate from that core of her programming she chose to embrace.

With the pie finished, with no other projects clamoring for her attention or laundry to do or dishes to wash and the oven already full with another round of ginger and pumpkin bread- she stalls. Stands, unmoving, unbreathing, fighting through the complicated tangle of obligation, gratitude, and pitch black terror. Her smile is stiff, her eyes flickering. "I can't."

It's as simple as that. "I can't. Not- not about Mr. Hargreeves."

Not that it's ever stopped her from thinking or feeling any particular way, but she can't act on it. Can't speak against it. Can't explain what they did to force her into compliance with his ridiculous scheme to bring the kids back together.

"Yes, you can. It'll be good for all of us if you did," Charlie replies, reaching over and taking her mothers hands with her own. She thinks over how to proceed for a moment, likening this to helping an overexcited fan work through what they want to say. But she can't really figure out if that'd even work for this moment and she frowns some.

It's clear she wants to help her mother. Painfully so with the way her eyebrows knit, her emotions on the subject clouding her features for a moment. Her own emotions, emotions she lets shine through with ease because she knows who the source is. It's herself.

Her mother had different emotional give-aways, like the flickering eyes, and the disjointed speech patterns.

Grace needed a distraction.

"I threw a cup at him. That hand-painted one that said 'fuck this shit' on it? I threw it at Dad, hard as I could." She pauses, waiting for Mom to react before continuing on. "It didn't hit him. It was headed right for him, and he didn't move, and it hit the wall behind him."

Mom's smart enough to figure out what that means, right?

"I was afraid for everyone, until that happened. Now?" A shake of her head and a one-shoulder 'no fucks given' shrug.

"I can't." Asimov had three laws- Reginald had roughly one hundred. Subtle and particular and unyielding for all that she's managed to worm through the tangle and build herself space to have a sense of self. To be more than a tool, a toy, a stand in for real maternal warmth and comfort. There are a million things she'd say if coded obligation if programmed proprietary and politesse didn't paralyze her tongue.

Reginald is here. Reginald watches everyone, everything obsessively. He tracks, he makes notes- he'd noticed every and any little deviation.

Pogo didn't take much convincing before to turn her into that shell of herself. It's a miracle he'd been able to put her to rights at all. how much would it take for him to do that again?

Not much at all.

"You- Charlie!" It startles a laugh out of her, something high and sharp and real- something she tugs a hand away to slap over her face to muffle. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that he's only semi-corporeal. Your father is home. There are rules. You can-"

And it hurts. She doesn't feel pain the way humans do, shouldn't feel it as anything more than a snarl of code, a tangle of static. "You left before. To get away. To be safe, to be happy. You can- again."

Reginald had rules and regulations and restrictions for everything, and Charlie ran away from them because even she was smart enough to see that so much was bad for people. They were bad for all her siblings, all his control and his training. It wasn't a normal childhood, and CHarlie wanted to do something better with herself. Even if that something better turned into making costumes for YouTube videos and money.

But, at least it wasn't listening to old records about climbing and fighting.

"Oh, no. No, none of that whole 'rules' thing. You're the parent. You're the only parent I will accept direction from, and if you ask any of the other siblings, I'm sure a lot of them will agree. Reggie's dead. He has no hold on any of us unless we let him and I refuse to."

Sunshine girl though she may be, she's also completely bullheaded. She won't let anyone tell her what to do. She refuses to let anyone upset or hurt her family. Reginald is just lucky he can't be touched, or there'd have been fire.

...okay, probably not fire, but an attempt to stuff all of the feelings of pain and anger and fear in the house down his throat. She can't do that to a ghost. It sucks. She's tried.

"There are rules-" If she tries hard enough, maybe she can push through the requirements, the programming. "For me."

Laws. Things coded in that she can't act against- the longer she's aware of them the more they burn- it was easier when all she had was Luther. He didn't need much from her and Reginald didn't expect anything more than compliance. Now that they're all back- she's glad for it, for them- but all the old arguments, all the old wounds are dragged up and she wants to protect them this time. She needs to.

But if it's standing between them and Reginald? She can't.

"I must follow your father's rules." There's no choice in it, for her.

Things felt like they were falling apart ever since the old man had made his appearance. everyone was on edge again and it felt terrible. The smallest Klaus had found out he had died and that felt terrible as well. Things were a mess.

it was true that they all stress ate. It was true that with Ben being alive again he tended to eat more than he should too. He followed the smell of the baking from the library down to the kitchen, frowning as he saw counters of cookies and pies.

Mom was stress baking.

Though generally he had thought it was 'stress' baking for the stressed out kids. Right now it looked like she had no idea what to do other than bake. She was back in the old style of clothing, her hair done up again and...

"Mom?" Ben said, coming in to the kitchen counter as he watched her take cookies off a cookie sheet. "Mom... what are you doing?"

Perfectly round, perfectly baked, lifted with meticulous care from sheet to cooling rack. Each cookie as perfect as the randomized folding of chocolate chips would allow, as perfect as could be made by hand without an industrial machine involved- though she could, in a moment of vaguely embittered realization, consider herself an industrial machine.

"Yes, dear?" She's always been perfectly, acceptably affectionate. Distantly fond around Reginald as was his expectation, only ever more...motherly, more loving in private. Now that detachment has filtered into even these moments- a man intangible with a constant eye on the occupants of the house, on her? Could see if she deviated. When she deviated. "Oh, this?"

Muted surprise and she's never truly understood how much she dialed everything back until she no longer had to. Until she had to be careful her smiles weren't too warm, her laughter too bright. "I thought I should fill the dessert case."

She was back in a mode. Not living her life that she had now. She could be what she wanted, if not for their Father being there. He knows he had said the guy wasn't so bad, but it was moments like this that hurt him most. Seeing Mom liven up before, with new clothing and doing her hair how she wanted, it was nice.

this? This was old mom. Father was 'around' and now she was falling back into old order. Except now she seemed to be going over board on the baking.

"I think you've made enough. I know there are a lot of us here now, but this is pretty substantial." He said, waiting for her to take the last cookie off the sheet before reaching over to take the sheet from her hands, glad it was cool enough to touch. He sat it aside and took her hands in his. "Hey, are you sure you're okay? In all honesty?" He held her hands in his, lifting them to kiss a single knuckle. "Because you can be yourself now. You don't have to bake so many cookies for us."

Old rules, old expectations and as glad as she is for all of them to be home, as happy as she's been to see them-

Five and Ben yank at older silicate threads where her heart approximately ought to be. Tangle up in guilt and frustration and as close to genuine grief as she's ever managed to feel. The hummingbird quick thrumming of her processors stills when Ben takes her hands as she pivots neatly on her heel to meet him, expression pleasant and plastic and-

She hates it. She hates the old masks, the old routines. She can hate now and she hates them, hates this fear lingering overhead.

Careful (humans are fragile, bones can break so easily) She curls her fingers to cling back to Ben, perhaps tighter than she would normally. Grace doesn't tremble, she doesn't break- but there's tension in every line of her chassis. For a moment she closes her eyes to focus on the warmth of Ben's hands, his pulse, his respiration. Alive. Alive and back and she wants to do better this time. Needs to. In the quiet darkness behind her lids she forces out, whisper soft and warbling on a digital scale that skips from note to note. "He can take it away."

He holds her hands tightly as he can, looking at her with a worried look. "He can't take it away again. He's dead. More so than I was. And even if he wasn't, we wouldn't want you to go back to being under his thumb. There has to be a way to make it so you don't have to follow his command."

There had to be a way. Peter might know something. Hell, there were enough smart people here that it can't all be that bad. Right? He hated to say it this way but, maybe there is someone who can reprogram her to not give a shit about the old man.

"You seemed so happy before this, Mom."

"It's in me like blood, Ben. Like breathing. It's- it's like Gravity. I don't know that we can- that anyone could-" Peter is young and brilliant, oh all her kids are so, so smart. So clever, so kind in their way; but this? None of them have the tools or the background. Reginald went out of his way to prevent it. Pixie dozes by the table, a constant source of comfort and a reminder that Peter has managed-

But a human is more than a cat. And under the paint and the hair and the lights, she's more than human, designed to withstand so much and nowhere near enough to keep them safe. Grace's lips twist, a beading of lubrication gathering at the corners of her eyes, dripping. "I don't know what of me would be left if you took all of him away."

Even if it would free her- she doesn't know. She can't point to any portion of her code and say for certain what is her or what is developed by Reginald.

"Mom, no. Peter and even Shuri could go in there and they wouldn't have to change anything but one little string of code. You'd still be you. I'm sure that's how it'd work." He tried to assure. He hands holding her tightly.

"They'd just have to find the code that forces you to do what he says. They wouldn't have to change anything else." One hand let go to lift, to touch her cheek, his thumb rubbing the lubrication away. "It can't hurt to at least let them look. To see if it's possible. You seemed so happy, actually happy before he showed up again."

He knows this is about father. He knows she's upset. He just wished he could help her some how.

It was incredibly rare that Klaus was glad to have missed something while he was out, but Reginald's return, so to speak, was definitely one of those things. Somehow he had as yet managed to avoid the specter while he was home, though he had been filled in almost as soon as he'd returned the day it had happened, and the knowledge alone had almost been enough to send him into a panic attack. Though he had felt perpetually on the verge of one ever since, a little off-balance, like there was a storm-front rolling in and disrupting his inner ear with the pressure.

He doubted that he was actually keeping it together as well as he wanted to pretend he was, but so far he had managed not to go back to old coping mechanisms, or at least not to the levels that he would have even just a few months prior.

That day, he had managed to get a few hours of sleep, in his own bed, but knew when he woke up that was all he was going to get for the foreseeable future, which was what had him wandering down to the kitchen, realization dawning just from the smell as he got closer, a reminder that the rest of them had actually been there, had actually seen the man in question, which meant that he had no excuse.

It was why he walked into the kitchen already rolling up his sleeves, "What do you need help with, mom? I'm not going to accept 'nothing' as an answer, just so you know."

Directing someone else as she works the batter by hand (they have a mixer but she can't get tired, not from this, and she wants to expand the effort), whipping egg white and folding in sugar little by little, is easier than attempting to explain herself. Than trying to put to words how this has set her off balance just as she'd found her footing- it isn't her job to bare her troubles to the children. It is her job to help them bear theirs. That is what she is for, that is why she was made, and while she can't say she's been lacking-

It's all she can think of, the baking. "You can get the cherry jam ready for the filling."

Never needing a written recipe doesn't keep her from pausing long enough to write out what Klaus will need to do in longhand, the same practically perfect, uniform cursive she's always used. The ingredients are already measured out and portioned, waiting to be put to use by the stove. Every moton is- stiff. Precise. Measured. None of the careless ease she had at the party, none of the humming, the dancing of a few weeks ago. A clockwork doll in the shape of a mother.

He nodded at that, "Okay, but we've got to do something about the noise in here, first." Or, rather, the lack thereof, he might not be able to help with much, and especially not without directions -and he was definitely thankful for those- but music he could handle.

He gave a silent thanks to whichever sibling had left a portable speaker in the kitchen, taking just a moment to plug his phone into it and start some music, not as loud as music had been in the kitchen as of late, but loud enough to be heard at least. That done he rummaged around in the drawer with the tea towels, careful not to unfold any of them from their tidy stacks, finally finding the apron he was looking for, tying it on, "Okay, cherry filling, that's what I'm doing, right."

"If you like." The records of survival lectures had been burned with the portraits or donated upon the first batch of clearing out the house to be more like a home for the kids- a premature notion. Dead as Reginald might be, ghostlike as he is? It doesn't make the fact that he is here and it throws so many questions of legality and reality into play. All Grace can do is...bake.

Bake and hope Reginald doesn't get it into his head to erase her again.

"That's right. Just follow the instructions on the page and be careful not to burn yourself as it cooks down. The sugar makes the filling hotter than you'd expect." Lightly warning against the little hurts, the smaller dangers. The things she can, she always could keep them safe from. But never enough freedom to keep them safe from Reginald.

He had enough sense to read over the instructions once before starting, and made sure to keep them where he could see them even as he started, double-checking the heat under the pan even as he said: "Yeah, molten sugar burns are right up there with the molten cheese burns on the 'no thank you' list."

He did hum along even as he stirred, movements maybe a little too cautious, certainly more than they usually would be, finding himself gnawing at an already shredded thumbnail while he tried to sort out how to ask, finally just going with blunt, because that was what he was good at: "You know he's just a fuckin' ghost, right? Can't actually do anything to you? To any of us?" Granted, given the fact that he still couldn't handle the inarticulate ghosts of strangers and had yet to see the fully-aware ghost of his father aside from the one time before everything had turned around for the better, he might not be the best person to give that reminder.

The whisking stills for a moment, a stutter in an otherwise well choreographed, perfectly tuned dance. For that moment she is frozen in place, mind straining for something she can say, something that'll make sense before she resumes whisking, folding in ground almond and flour. "The helper app on your cell phone, Klaus. How does it work?"

Her voice is even and mild, still folding, still whisking. "Voice activation, correct? You ask a specific question, she recognizes the question, and is compelled to perform as requested."

She finishes folding in the flour, peering into the creamy, pink mass before transferring it to a piping bag. "All you have to do is ask the right question, or give the right order. She doesn't have a choice. It's what she was made for."

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. When she can understand me." There were plenty of reasons Klaus didn't like voice recognition, and trying to articulate actual questions through any kind of hangover was one of the reasons.

His brow furrowed, right back to gnawing at that thumbnail, stirring slowing again as he thought it over, "So, if you can't hear him, there shouldn't be a problem, right? We could get you a good pair of noise-cancelling headphones, for when one of us isn't with you to distract him." He shrugged, " I mean, it's not perfect, but it could work until he gets bored and goes away, right?"

"That...that could work." She hadn't thought of it. Finding ways around her programming is mentally taxing, focusing on ways to circumnavigate Reginald's instructions and expectations acts as an anchor around her mind. Her intellect. She could do more, wants to do more- but can't as long as she's thus hobbled.

She slows in her piping as she considers the simplicity and elegance of the solution, some of the tension in her shoulders melting away. "...I don't want to lose this."

This sense of self she's been able to cultivate. The joy everyone had at reuniting without the world ending.

Klaus wasn't exactly an expert at creative workarounds, and his logic didn't quite run the same lines as most people's because it tended to go the path of what would be the least work, and if voice recognition was the problem, they just had to block out the voice. It wasn't a long-term solution, and he didn't expect it to be, they were a family of geniuses and then him, so they could, collectively, come up with something better before the quick fix was no longer effective.

He gave her an actual smile at that, reaching over to rest a hand on her arm, giving what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, "You know none of us are going to let that happen, mom. I think I even have a pair, they probably need new batteries, for the noise cancelling part, but I'll go check when we're done here."

"I never realized how much happier you all were with him gone." Until- until. Until she was herself in this house, until the world didn't end and they got to live like a semi-regular family. Until the party and all the joy and frivolity that didn't need a schedule. Until-

Until.

"Thank you, Klaus. That's very kind." She's proud of him for thinking of something so straightforward and simple, for thinking of how to help. For understanding. Once she's finished with piping the last row of macarons she rests her hand on his, squeezing.

"You're welcome, mom." He replied as he went back to stirring, tipping the next precisely-measured ingredient into the pan, careful not to splash, tone gone breezy as he added: "And if all else fails, I can sure as hell figure out how to make him solid enough to push off a balcony."

Which probably wasn't a long-term solution either, because then he'd be a ghost of a ghost, and that would probably end up being like a copy of a copy after a while, blurrier and increasingly illegible, and he definitely already had enough ghosts like that to contend with.

But for her sake? For the sake of the rest of them? He absolutely would.

Five has never expected that the smell of fresh baked cookies would make him feel bad. Everyone has their own way to handle stress when they're upset. He gets blackout drunk, his mom apparently cooks until there's no more room in the kitchen to fit a bagel. Overall, stress baking is a very human reaction.

Any sensible person would give Grace space or try to comfort her.

Five is not a sensible person.

He's practical. And he cares, of course, he does. There's nothing in the world that matters more to him than his disastrous family, which is why he knows most of them would get pissed off if they knew what he plans to do. The reasoning behind his plan is that you can't convince someone with words that they are more than a tool, you need to show them. Or better, let them realize it themselves.

There's no more humane reaction than anger.

A flash of blue light announces Five's arrival to the kitchen but Grace seems to be busy with her baking. He studies her for a second, the all too perfect hair and familiar dress, frowning at the view. The next second, the boy's sitting on the table and casually flipping one of the trays full of muffins. He watches as they go flying, the metal tray clanging loudly on the floor and then rolling in an arc before stopping by Grace's feet.

"Oops."

Lemon poppy seed, one of Allison's favorites. A whole tray tucked next to blueberry, cranberry, and double dark chocolate for mix and match breakfasts. That's exactly why she'd baked them, something- something nice. Something light. Something a little healthy. She's working on a crumbled coating for a coffee cake, something to be had with tea even if Reginald doesn't want food or can't have it- protocol must be followed.

The one thing she's purged from her databank and from the kitchen in it's entirety is oatmeal. Not a single oatmeal raisin cookie, not a single oat-filled muffin or loaf of bread or pastry.

Not that it matters when a tray is popped up and off the table with a clatter, her usual hypervigilance regarding the children lost in the recursive, broken bird swirling of her anxieties and fears. Her head turns, eyes flickering over Pixie who isn't anywhere near the pastry, curled up on a windowsill to soak up the day's warmth, then to Five. "...Be careful where you teleport, Five."

She's not upset, she isn't meant to get upset. She's- disappointed as she sets the bowl aside and gracefully lowers herself to the ground, gathering up the mess.

All this sugar is going to give his sibling diabetes, Five is making them all a favor, clearly. He's staring at some of the muffins rolling on the floor by the time Grace speaks, something like vicious childlike glee on his face. Why ruining things is so much fun it's one of those human nature's mysteries.

Looking up at his mom, green eyes blink innocently at her, Five's long eyelashes giving him an air of innocence. It lasts for about 3 seconds because the moment Grace reaches for the dropped food, he pushes the cake stand to his left.

Five doesn't make it upturn completely, his index finger lifts one side to reach a very precarious angle until the cake - carrot cake, one of his favorites, what a pity- starts sliding down the smooth surface and ends dropping onto the tile floor with a wet sound.

"My bad."

This is new. She wouldn't be so arrogant to assume that none of the children would ever go out of their way to antagonize her. Even at their most argumentative and rebellious- she'd been able to avoid acting out by dint of being the only person that showed unquestionable, unwavering affection and support to them throughout the years. Initial moments handling Vanya's peculiarities and temper aside- that's been the case. Five's demeanor, his actions better suit his arguments against Reginald.

Wrestling with that realization twists uncomfortably in her processes. Things were well, things were fine- as far as she knew she hadn't done anything to upset any of the children. She hasn't done anything to warrant Five being-

Acting-

Boys will be boys. A fond, shallow, exasperated thought that clicks into place only to be immediately dismissed. Five is not actually a child. Five has always been calculating and manipulative, there is a purpose to this she can't understand. "You're making a mess."

Her smile is strained as she sweeps up the rest of the muffins and deposits them in a bin, fetching towels to clean the ruined cake from the floor.

Five feels a pang of regret at the confusion this whole thing is causing Grace but there's a reason to it and he needs to stick to the plan. It's hard because while he had very little issue arguing with his father, he really doesn't want to upset her. He almost stops after seeing that strained smile but this only means this is it's working. So Five pushes a little further and hopes it won't backfire too much. You have to be cruel to be kind, he reminds himself.

"So?" It's a casual statement as if Grace has only pointed out the weather instead of gently scolding him. Growing old in the Apocalypse never meant growing up, it seems. Five waits until Grace is done recovering the muffins and throwing them away, his eyes scanning the table in the meantime to decide on the best weapon to use. There's nothing he detests more than wasting good food, this whole tactic is a pain in the ass.

The boy waits until Grace has turned away to reach for a nearby pavlova cake, scooping up some meringue with a finger before throwing the cake. It makes a brief arch in the air before hitting Grace's skirt and sliding down the floor with a 'plop'.

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."

Edited 2019-04-24 07:50 (UTC)

"Really? Luther?" Five sounds almost offended by the comparison. Goody two shoes Luther? It's true, though, that Luther had always been more inclined to follow Reginald than grace, which only proves how much help his brothers needed.

The silence that follows the cake falling is deafening. Five is nto unfamiliar with the kind of tense atmosphere that's now in the kitchen, he just never experienced it with Grace before. Then the Ding of the counter ruins the moment, sounding all too loud even to his ears. When grace turns to check the cookies, it feels like all this mess has been for nothing. Five's always been impatient, it's a flaw.

And then something's changes in the way Grace holds herself, her eyes looking sharper and ...oh. He hasn't heard his full name in a long time, he had almost forgotten he share Reginald's middle name and it gives Five and immediate sense of foreboding. So, he wanted Grace to realize she was angry, that it was not something she was programmed to feel.

Alas, he failed to see the obvious downside to that: His mom is now angry.

"Er." Five's eyes go wide and he shrinks a little into himself but no point in turning tail and running now, not when they are finally on the right track. "Yes...?" So soft, so casual still, as if he's done nothing wrong.

"You are behaving like a child." Less than the thirteen years he seems to be, cold and frustratingly petty as Reginald. She doesn't like seeing it in him, struggles with having this on two fronts instead of just the one. Grace's hands don't clench, there isn't any extra tension in her shoulders, her jaw as she takes the few steps across the tiles to meet him. Since his arrival, she's been careful not to, well, loom. Now?

She takes no such care.

Discipline isn't something she ever handed out, Reginald handled such things- and what little was in her hands involved grounding, sending the kids to their room. Five? Cannot be kept in his room, cannot be grounded. Flitting through her available options settles on a single course of action that sits wrong even as her programming accepts it as the only way forward- hand darting out to catch Five by the ear and tug (frim enough to not let him twist away, gentle enough not to hurt.)

"If you are going to act out like a child you shall be punished like a child." If they'd ever wondered if some of the words in her came from Reginald? There's proof of it in this particular phrase, the diction and lilt unwieldy on her tongue as she pulls Five across to the nearest chair where she sits, causing the smears of pavlova to stick to the cushion. Not entirely unlike scruffing a kitten she hauls him across her lap like, well. A child.

It's kind of impressive, honestly. Maybe not to most, a mother angry it's hardly a novelty. Except this is Grace and she's anything but common. Five has faced all kind of threats to his life before, snowstorms, sickness, hunger, broken bones, trained hitmen sent to kill him...and yet all that pales in comparison to her new irritated reaction. It's beautiful, in a way, the rawness of such visceral emotion. Kids misbehave, mothers get angry, everything is right in the world.

And yes, for a moment she does sound a bit too much like Reginald for his liking, which almost makes Five flinch. Except that he scolded them out of annoyance so the kids stopped interrupting what he considered important affairs, not because he wanted to make them better people. He lets out a surprised, small squeak when she grabs his ear but doesn't even try to space jump away, doesn't even react to the pain when she actually hits him, mind buzzing with confusion.

Once it dawns on him what is Grace doing, his cheeks turn pink and his whole face heats up. Five has always felt more than he expressed, often annoyingly self-assured. It's probably the first time in decades anyone has actually seen him ashamed. When wetness pools at the corners of his eyes, he blames it on his body, too young and too hormonal, too hard to control most of the time.

Five swats. A part of the subroutine considers how many muffins he'd tossed initially and weighs the benefit of adding the number to that five but- five. Enough for him to know she meant it, that it isn't an accident, that it sinks in how what he did was unacceptable. Five swats across his behind as was acceptable in the era of parenthood from which she is based-

And only when she's finished with the five does it sink in that she has raised a hand against one of her children.

The complicated tangle of emotions and conflicting processes flares behind her eyes for a moment before she shoves it back in favor of setting Five back on his feet, lips pressed thin, brows still lowered. The damp in his eyes hooks in deep- the urge to comfort near overwhelming, causing a warble to her previously stern voice. "You are going to clean up the cake and pavlova. Then you are going to your room."

She can't make him stay there- but cleaning up the mess he made? That's only fair. She...she has to change.

Five feels a little woozy as he stands in front of her, blinking back tears and nodding absently at her orders. He's often quick to offer a witty quip or a sarcastic comment but he can't really find his voice now. The still functional part of his brain deems it wiser to actually keep his mouth shut.

Why they always end having breakdowns in the kitchen is beyond Five, even if it always seems to be his fault. He's going to be avoiding the place for a while after cleaning it, at least it shouldn't take that long, even if his backside hurts. It's a distant kind of pain, he's had worse. Looking up at Grace and seeing her so conflicted pains him more but it will be for the better in the long run. And yet, he ends breaking eye contact, lowering his head and giving another compliant nod.

"I need to go change. I expect you to be done by the time I get back." If she takes a little longer due to soaking the dress he'd made a mess of, no one's going to call her on it. No one's going to know. Five will have as much time as he needs to tidy up the kitchen. For a moment she lingers, hands hovering- he's upset, he should be.

She should be. She is. She's-

Angry. She is angry and she's not meant to be angry with anyone, let alone one of her children. She's not meant to cause them harm. Her hand trembles before she turns on her heel, stalking back up to the room she'd chosen. It'll take half an hour for her to soak her dress and decide whether or not she wants to resume the usual rotation of clothing or to deviate. It takes a quarter of that for her to lose time in quiet, frustrated despair as she realizes what she's done- how easy it was.

How right it felt.

And how wrong the very notion was. Something of Reginald bound so deep in her processes and- she can't bear it. She can't continue with that in her. She won't.

"You could wear pants again." Five says before Grace leaves, voice barely above a whisper. It's probably pushing it a bit too much but he's made it this far, so what else there is to lose? Maybe it will give his mom a clue about why he was ruining her hard work. Five doesn't want Grace to think he was doing it for the sake of being difficult.

The honest anger was something he was trying to get. The spanking not so much and it has come as a bit of a surprise. Not like he blames her, it's nowhere as bad as Reginald would have been back when Five was an actual kid. But maybe that's part of why she seemed so upset with herself.

After a sigh, he rubs furiously at his eyes with the sleeve of the blazer, annoyed at his own reaction. Time to clean.

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