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[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]

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.