SYNTAX ERROR: PLEASE DEFINE 'SELF' [ OTA ]

[stepfordbot]

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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[stepfordbot]

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.

[n5]

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."

[stepfordbot]

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.

[n5]

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'.

[stepfordbot]

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."

[n5]

"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.

[stepfordbot]

"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.

[n5]

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.

[stepfordbot]

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.

[n5]

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.

[stepfordbot]

"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.

[n5]

"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.