A sunny start, OTA

[stepfordbot]

Routines are important. Establishing them, maintaining them- a lifetime spent with a house full of children that required minding and strict standards to follow as to their care filled Grace's days and gave her purpose. As the family waxed and waned, as the children grew and lives became infinitely more complicated the routine changed. But one thing remains the same no matter how old or young, no matter how full or empty the house has become. The most important meal of the day.



Nutrition dictates a certain variation now and then, but a single dish tends to surface over and over. Be it the dietary value or the aesthetic- or that it was one of the few ways she could, when they were young, offer the children a moment that was close to normal. Normal children aren't raised with an unloving and distant father, Normal families don't run drills with knives and violence instead of nursery rhymes and storybooks. Normal families and normal children had eggs sunny side up with smiling faces made with bacon.

Which is on the menu today alongside a stack of pancakes and a few prepared, wrapped and warmed sandwiches of egg, sausage, cheese, and english muffins for those that need to eat and run. Sliced fruit and glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice.

She's singing under her breath, something simple and lilting as the smell of bacon fat and frying eggs fills the air. No matter what happens, she's been able to feed and provide. As soon as the first set of eggs are finished she calls out- "Children! Eggs are ready."

Comments

[belay]

Lara had been here a handful of days, and in that handful of days, she's learned that the most important person in Diego's life was his mother. Lara, having lost hers at a very young age, could understand the importance of that, so since her arrival, she's been nothing short of respectful and polite to Grace. Asking if she wanted help at meal times, keeping her own belongings clean and contained in the room Diego set for her.

Cleaning up after herself around the house. Grace was a lovely woman, and Lara could see why Diego and the other Hargreeves children adored her so. In fact, Lara found herself caring for the woman almost as much as she loved her own mother.

She wasn't entirely over her jetlag, but she was working on it. That meant having her own routine. Up at six-thirty AM, out for a jog, showered and dressed by seven-thirty AM. And now she was down in the kitchen, asking her usual morning question after greeting Grace.

"Can I help you with anything?"

She's a polite houseguest. Her parents would roll over in their graves if she was anything but.

[stepfordbot]

"Laura, you're our guest-" A friend of Diego's, more than welcome in their home- but a good hostess doesn't make her guests work while they're visiting. A proper hostess takes care of them like they're family. And yet Lara is as comfortable in the house as anyone that lives here, and offers so kindly. consistently. It's become easy to allow little moments of assistance.

The kids, after all, set the table on occasion. When they were older. When structure could be flexible.

"But if you insist." And she does. Grace beams as she hands off a bowl of fruit yet to be sliced. "Hull the strawberries for me?"

[belay]

"Gladly," Lara replies, taking the bowl and heading to the counter with it. Pulling her hair back and washing her hands, she digs around in a drawer for a straw, using that to hull the strawberries quickly and carefully. There's not much in the way of wasted fruit, either.

"My mother taught me this when I was five, and it's been my favorite way of doing this," Lara says after a bit, looking up at Grace with a smile.

[the_horror]

Ben had been reading, but he could smell the smell of home cooking coming his way. He could tell it was close to time to eat. He wondered where Elle was. Before he new it was ready he got up, put his book away and went to Elle's room, knocking on the door. "Breakfast is almost ready. Lets go eat." He said, trying to get her attention.

He wondered if they had eggos. Or maybe he could convince mom to make home made waffles sometime. Though he knew what it was going to be. He knew there would be eggs and bacon and that sounded fine to him.

[upsidedowns]

Elle had been up for just a few moments before Ben knocked, answering the door still in borrowed pajamas and rubbing sleep out of her eye. She looks up at him for a moment, mildly confused until the smell of bacon hits her. Her bedroom door is then slammed shut and there's the sound of drawers opening and closing.

It's about two minutes before Elle comes out in an old Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Whose clothes they were, she couldn't say, but she was glad to have them.

She looks up at Ben and nods. "Ready." Lead the way, big brother.

[lucky_no_7]

Like any stepchild, there had been a long period of time when Lucy had first arrived at the house, seven years old and already full of spite and vinegar, where she'd flat out refused to call Grace 'mom' like the rest of them did, because she already had a mom, and the fact that said mom had abandoned her here didn't change the fact that Grace wasn't her mom.

But that had softened considerably during Lucy's recovery from a fall from a gable roof, one that had miraculously -and due to at least some of Lucy's own ability- ended up with nothing worse than a sprained ankle a cleanly broken arm, and bruised ribs. But Grace had been there through her recovery, something that her own mother had certainly never done, aside from the occasional childhood flu or cold.

And now, after a few days back in the house, Lucy woke up to the familiar smell of breakfast and then, right there, Grace calling them down to eat. She smiled, making her way downstairs, dressed for the day, but barefoot as she almost always had been in her younger years, padding into the kitchen, "Morning, mom. Five didn't abscond with all the coffee yet, did he?"

[stepfordbot]

Before Reginald passed, coffee wasn't to be found in the house. He detested it on principle, it seemed, and he never offered a proper explanation. Now that he's gone and she can tend to the kids she was made for without overt meddling?

Two pots of coffee are custom at breakfast. One for most, and one carafe for Five. It lessens the likelihood of running out before everyone else has their fill.

Another benefit to an absence of her creator's presence- Grace has taken to adjusting standards in the kitchen- bottles of flavored syrups, indulgent treats more often than once every third Wednesday at precisely two thirty pm. It seems to brighten everyone's day when they can have what they want as they want it rather than how she's made to prepare it for everyone across the board. "He gave the second carafe a look but it's topped up for you, Lucy."

Grace flicks her wrist, sending a pancake shaped like a flower in a graceful flip through the air onto the plate in her opposite hand. "Did you sleep well?"

[n5]

Five leaves his room to get his coffee fix, rubbing at his left eye and trying to forget the nightmares of the night before. They might have delayed the Apocalypse but there was still so much to fix, so many dangers around, that he can't fully put his worries to rest.

This morning, however, he's greeted with the smell of delicious food the moment he sets foot in the kitchen. As tempting as the eggs and bacon are, his eyes immediately go to the sliced fruit and fresh squeezed orange juice. Fruit and vegetables were a rare thing in the Apocalypse unless he was lucky enough to find them in a can.

Sometimes, the click-clack Grace's heels make on the floor startles Five for no other reason that it sounds exactly the same as the Handler. It brings him memories of unwanted fingers brushing his cheek, of conversations veiled with second meanings and intimidations.

The confusion never lasts long. Grace's hair is more golden than bleached blond, the smile fonder and non-threatening, the smell of cookies trails behind her instead of smoke and cigarettes. She brings him memories of home instead of gunpowder and blood.

A home where Five rarely feels himself fitting, if he ever did.

"Good morning, Grace." Five says politely because against popular belief he does have manners. He's glad to see her alive an well, for a wide definition of alive.

[stepfordbot]

Relative age, time travel, and a second go at puberty aside- Grace has made a habit of bending (breaking) old standards of Reginald's in favor of what makes her kids happy. Life is tragically short, one never knows when someone might vanish or-

She forces her mind away from Ben's situation in favor of pulling down Five's mug, setting it next to the carafe of coffee she makes for him each morning, labeled with his number. It's easier than trying to keep up with his consumption when nights run long. "Good morning, Five."

Designed to be approachable and non-threatening, programmed to nurture, there's always a moment of disquiet when she looks to five and feels a distance. Like there's an echo of someone else hanging around her shoulders connected to the horrors Five endured on his own before his miraculous return. Flexing her newfound freedom to change how she styles her hair subtly, use paler, softer makeup in the mornings might seem insignificant to most- but Five has always been particularly observant. Much like the coffee, the extra serving of fruit shes dishing out for him- it's a gesture, an olive branch. An attempt to bring the boy home. Or at least help it seem less foreign. "I hope you slept well."

[obediences]

Luther is already awake shortly after dawn, workout done and showered (old habits die hard), by the time the sounds of breakfast come from the kitchen. And it catches him off-guard, as it's done ever since his return; the sound of Grace humming and the smell of bacon rockets him right back, across all the years and years.

He'd eventually taken it for granted, during the latter half of his time here. It simply hadn't been the same once the others left. Mealtimes had never been jolly affairs, but they had taken an even more dour tone after that: Luther staring down at his plate and not meeting Sir Reginald's eye as they sat at the two opposite heads of the table. Grace flitting around like a hummingbird, trying to keep up appearances and pave things over, but unable to disguise the fact that they lived in an empty nest.

Now, the family is back, and there's the hum of voices up and down the corridors as people get ready, as some grab food and run. And for a moment, if Luther squeezes his eyes shut, it's as if they're back there and no time at all has passed and there's probably a mission right around the corner—

He shakes it off. Dries his hair and wanders downstairs, dressed in oversized sweaters and long sleeves as always, to the laden table.

"Hey, Mom," he says, voice softening. Apart from that temporary blip where he'd suspected her of murder (guys, families are complicated) and he'd started calling her Grace, he'd quickly course-corrected, jotted her back into the spot she belonged. For the better part of a decade, it had just been her, him, Reginald, Pogo.

Long years.

[stepfordbot]

"Good morning, Luther." It's easier to project cheer, now, than it's ever been. No more requirements for her to curb her affection, no regulations as to how much she is or isn't allowed to dote. Her purpose has ever been to care for and provide and mealtimes are hectic come the rest of the day but- a good start, a healthy start? Is important. And being a little creative with the shapes of the pancakes has been a delight. Someone (Klaus? it might have been Klaus) showed her videos of particularly artistic renderings done in pancake batter. It isn't as easy to manage freehand but the hot plate she slides across the table to Luther?

Layered and browned to look like the moon, his second a little astronaut to be perched on top. Something she'd never get away with if Reginald was still here. Now and then there is a twinge when she remembers- her life so full with the kids, with the family that it's almost easy to forget most days, but of all of them?

Luther and Pogo understand that conflicted grief. It's enough for her to let go of whatever snarled knot of frustrated, detached emotion burbled to the surface when she thinks back to Reginald's plan, and Luther following neatly along with the play. It isn't, wasn't, his fault. They had parts to play ad some of them were easier to predict, to nudge along than others.

Sweeping those thoughts away and behind she pours Luther a mug of coffee, setting it next to his plate. "I don't know if you've seen, but Pogo and I retooled your bike." For his increased muscle mass. "If you wanted to ride, after breakfast."

[excessed]

The bizarre time function that's let their world become this has meant two important things to Diego. Patch and Grace both lived. Yes, it's important that the rest of the world is, for the time being, saved as they work things out - something that with the true family environment might be easier than they thought with how much love and family has been shown of late to everyone. Luther included -but that those two women that mean so much to him have lived means that Diego can take some time and just breath. Or, in this case, eat. So even when she calls for them, Diego is already standing there in the doorway, arms folded over his chest and watching her. Maybe one day images like this will replace that last moment staring up at her. Images that he blinks away now with a shake of his head, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "You know you can make us fend for ourselves right? I mean, with all of..." He pushes away from the door, waving a hand to indicate the house and all that's become of it with everyone running about. "You don't have to do this, and what can I help with?" He should have come down sooner, or not been caught up with his thoughts of how much losing her has hurt, or what he's done in the past to protect others and only managed to hurt himself in the process. "Whatever you need, Mom. You only have to ask."

[stepfordbot]

"When you were younger- I had to do this." It's easier with a few of them, with Diego especially, to set aside the sunny smiles and let her new, growing emotions and convictions settle into place. Calm and contemplative and still humming she flips the next skinny pancake, a dagger, and makes space on the griddle for a domino mask. "No one else could cook- Pogo wasn't tall enough and your father-"

One day, one day she'll be able to call the man by his name and not use a title he never truly earned. How flat her voice is when it wraps around 'father' ought to be proof enough of how she feels over being made to still refer to him as such. "Never had the time. Now?"

Grace wipes her hands on her apron, extending one hand to Diego without having to look. A hyperawareness of where they are in the room (once the meddling with her circuits had been corrected) made her a perfect caretaker, but it's yet another sign of how she's slight...other. "Now? I want to. These are breakfasts where we can talk across the table or eat as you need and go and- it's normal."

She so desperately needs for them to have something close to normal.

[numberthree]

Mornings are the hardest. Waking up, specifically.

Not the process of it, specifically, but the happening of it. Allison's therapist says it'll get easier, but her therapist is full of shit sometimes, no matter how hard Allison wills herself not to say a single thing like that, or to her voice hold any of it in her tone. Mornings are the hardest, because in the morning just for a second right between waking and sleeping, she can't remember, and then she does.

She does. And it's like the weight of everything presses her breathless, clenching her eyes. Patrick is gone. They're divorced, all so publicly, and all so fine without her. And. Claire. Claire won't be down the hall. Tucked into her bed. A sleepy mess of curls, trying to curl under a pillow, or chubby fingers rubbing at her eyes and curling up next to her instead.

Gone. Gone. Gone. Not better. Each day is so much. It's another day she survives past it happening again, which makes her feel like more of a failure not less. And yet at the same time, every day longer she stays out here feels like a disservice to her parenting, too. Even there's no chance to see her yet. Like being this far away is endangering everything she's trying desperately to do right.

But her family is here — all of them.

(All of them, except Claire.
Like the world, except without the air.)

All of them under one roof, together, for the first time in nearly a decade and a half. Pulled together to save the universe, and they did, and somehow they all stayed. All of them. Under this room, and in these rooms. Still, even though the world is saved, maybe trying to figure out how much of a chance they have at saving their own world. The one she has, if wary, a vested stake in. Cautious hopes for. About.

Allison manages to shuffle into clothes. Morning clothes. Clothes that aren't clothes, but are clothes, in general, are enough to reach coffee. Her father would have a fit, but her father isn't alive. Wasn't much of a father. Her words; but her therapists, too. Soft black leggings, and a baggy shift, with a cut line exposing one shoulder that mirrors another at the bottom of the shirt, cutting the line from her hip on one side to her mid-thigh on the other.

There aren't even slippers. Coffee. Just coffee.

It's the main thought she has before she does the rest of everything. Anything.

[stepfordbot]

"Good morning, Allison." A benefit to Reginald's obsessive observation of the children after they left (of even Vanya, he always knew where and how she was doing) was the opportunity for Grace to keep up with the details of her kid's lives. Distance and time and what she was kept her from Allison's wedding, but it didn't prevent her from sending a card with Pogo's assistance. It kept her from holding her hand while she brought another life into the world- but it didn't keep her from sending a delicately stitched blanket. Whether these letters and gifts ever reached Allison, whether they were kept? She doesn't know.

But she can imagine how difficult it must be to have a house full of family and have someone missing. Those 16 long years without Five, without Ben come to mind. Grace hums quietly as she smiles over her shoulder to Allison- every single reminder that Reginald isn't there to curtly demand they dress a certain way, they behave a certain way? Brings her no little joy. They aren't machines, time away has holy cemented that for the kids. "I've been thinking-"

She offers, easy and apropos of nothing. "Of sending one of the boys into town to get an espresso maker. Something a little more exciting than drip coffee to start the day."

[ouiking_ouija]

Klaus had been sleeping on the couch, again, he'd found that it made the ghosts quieter, sometimes, but these days it was always a trade-off, either the ghosts were quieter and the nightmares were worse, or the nightmares weren't as bad but the ghosts screamed.

Who knew that an attempt at sobriety -longer now than he'd managed before- was going to be such a pain in the ass?

But the smell of breakfast had managed to stir him to something close to awake even before the call, and even that was just so... normal, like maybe, after everything, their sort-of second chance might work out better. He just wished that working out better for some of them didn't mean working out worse for others. But he wasn't going to let himself get into that kind of thought loop when he'd just woken up.

So instead he shuffled himself around upright, rubbed his eyes hard enough to see spots on the off-chance that would make it so he didn't see any ghosts as soon as his eyes were open, decided that what he'd slept in was good enough to eat breakfast in, and made his way to the kitchen.

He leaned in to brush a kiss against Grace's temple as he stirred what was probably too much sugar into his coffee, "Smells good, mom. Is there turkey bacon?" Somehow, cutting back on his pork products had been easier, and longer-lived, than basically anything else he'd set his mind to, and he was quick to add: "S'okay if there's not."

[stepfordbot]

Her lilting song stops for a moment as she leans back into Klaus, more open and human with her gestures of affection now that she won't be glowered down for it. "I have it baking in the oven- and I meant to ask if you wanted an egg white omelet instead of fried eggs."

There's never been any judgement from her regarding Klaus' choices. The dead are terrifying, to see them when in your right mind from so young an age? Anything she could do, any understanding she could offer to ease his distress is gladly given. Any assistance with cleaning himself up? Embraced. Whether or not dialing back to a lighter, healthier diet would help him adjust she's not quite sure, but any change can only be for the better.

The record player that used to run in perpetuity for every meal, lecturing this or that has Grace abandoning the stove for a moment- she doubts she can drown out any lingering, whispering dead but a little pleasant jazz is a cozy way to start the day.

thread crashes are fine by me, for the record

[screamingdahl]

Dahlia is still adjusting to being in this house, with all these people. So many people, everywhere, all the time. This constant buzz of a house alive, even sometimes, in the dead of night. She's figured out that many of the late-night rumblings she hears are often belonging to any one of the Klauses roaming the house at a given time. She knows she doesn't belong here, she isn't one of them, but she's trying to be courteous in her dealings with people. Of everyone, besides Klaus--and in particular the one that found her that first night--Dahlia thinks she likes Grace the most. She's the most mothery-Mom she can remember ever meeting. Dahlia's memories of her time before The Order of Morta and their whitewashed facility are muddled at best, but she remembers her parents, her little sister... Natalie Martin was nothing like Grace Hargreeves, and it makes some part of Dahlia ache that she couldn't have had something like this all along. She puts the thoughts away as she wanders her way downstairs to the kitchen, the smell of bacon calling to her. The food she became accustomed to was never as good as anything Grace made, at any given time. She still feels awkward here, displaced, out of sorts. She doesn't belong, and it's like that thought just does its damndest to fill her entire being, keeping her frozen in the doorway to the kitchen, debating disappearing before anyone sees her and drags her to the table.

[stepfordbot]

Grace focuses on the griddle and eggs in the pan, humming as she moves from plate to plate, filling in specific orders tailored to personal preferences she'd never had to ask after, simply knew by observation. Turkey bacon for Klaus, extra coffee brewed rich for Five, protein smoothie for Luther- details for a detail-oriented mind best suited to meticulous curating of meals, memories, and heartfelt moments. As crowded as the house has become? She's in her element. More people to mind and care for, more people to dote on. Being a mother is her purpose. Her sole reason for existing.

To that end she allows an arbitrary measure of time to pass, waiting for Dhalia to make up her mind on her own before calling out to Dhalia in the doorway. "Come sit down, Dhalia, your plate is almost ready."

thread crashes are fine here too

[ghostphone]

Don't have to tell Klaus twice! He bounds down the stairs two at a time, still in pajama pants that Charlie had found and re-sized for him. He barrels into the kitchen so fast, he slides across the floor in his socks and barely manages to stop before he throws himself full-stop into the table already decked with every possible best breakfast food known to man.

"Hey, mom." Maybe he's this perky because he never bothered to sleep last night, but he's not going to mention it. The only ones that need to know are the older versions of him that also happened to be in their room that they've decided to just mutually share-- because they are all him- and them- and the stuff in there is all of theirs, in some capacity or another and moving rooms felt weird, wrong, and like entirely too much effort. He grabs a seat at the table and starts piling food onto a plate. "It smells amazing."

[stepfordbot]

One of the better surprises of whatever broke to bring everyone together, everyone back, is having a younger Klaus in the house again. Without Reginald around to scowl and glower, without the rules and regulations that imprisoned them for so long? She's better able to dote. To be a little more open, a little more human as she works around decades old programming. "Good morning Klaus."

She flips a fresh pancake onto a plate, sliding it over to Klaus. Fresh and steaming is a kitten curled up in a little loaf, tail trailing off, ready for syrup. "Did you sleep well?"

[bestfuneralever]

Some things had been pretty shaken up around this house in the last handful of weeks. But some things stayed essentially exactly the same. Minus Dad. And Klaus can't say that he hates it. Added weirdness of seeing doubles of himself and a smattering of his siblings walking around aside, these have been arguably some of the best weeks of his life. He supposes that's a bit sad and pathetic, but he'd rather just take the wins where they're for the taking. Not to say there's no suffering left to be done because, hoo boy, is there ever. Sleep has never been his best friend, but since bunking with his other selves, it seems like it's even harder to come by. And it isn't for not trying-- they all try to sleep, but some nights it seems like they feed off of each other's distress. Those nights are spent playing cards, dominoes, or board games until they pass out. The tiniest version of him didn't sleep at all last night, and Klaus might have managed a handful of hours himself. One of the others had eventually wandered out of the room altogether. It was an unfortunately rather eventful night in the Klauses room. Which is probably why this Klaus feels half-dead on his feet as he drags himself downstairs, one of Allison's robes draped around himself, a sloppy bow tied around the front to keep it together. "Nngh." is the best greeting he could manage as he nodded at Mom on his way to pour a cup of coffee. He knew she'd understand-- she was awesome that way.

[stepfordbot]

A double helping of pancakes is on the way, in shapes like stars and flowers and rabbits- easy, harmless things that have no real connection to ghosts or the dead. Grace sets the plate in front of Klaus and smooths his hair back, lips brushing against his forehead. A subtle way of checking his temperature among other things- fatigue is easy enough to gauge, anything more? Difficult without knowing how well he'd rested. But it goes without asking that- he likely didn't sleep terribly well.

"Were they loud last night?" The unspoken, unnamed they, the ghosts she's never been able to see that torment her boys.

[gigue]

Vanya's memories of Mom are - complicated now. They're good, they're mostly good, except now that she knows the truth some hazy memories keep filtering back in. She almost remembers why she hates choking down oatmeal, but the details elude her like waking from a dream.

That doesn't make coming down to the sight of her cooking breakfast any easier. The last time they spoke - did they speak? Mom wouldn't answer her, and it felt like just another way no one in this house wanted her. Maybe that's not fair, Mom isn't exactly living and breathing, but--

Only Vanya could overthink staying for breakfast like this. She shuffles forward, wrapping her hands around the back of a chair to give herself something to focus on.

"Mom?"

It's about as unsettling as could be. Mom was already dead, well, turned off, last she heard, and - it's weird. It's just weird, and V is a little afraid that every aspect of her life will be from now on.

[stepfordbot]

"Good Morning, Vanya." Grace turns, eyes bright, clear- lucid. She hadn't quite been when last they spoke and- well. While she knows full well she can't feel guilty for it, Grace can't help but wonder if things would've been better if Reginald hadn't kept out of her circuits. (The answer is yes, always, she's best off without him poking at her insides). "Your eggs are ready- your pancakes are almost finished."

Gently, because this is odd. Kindly for the irrefutable fact that she would not exist without Vanya. The circumstances were less than pleasant but- without Vanya? Without what she could do, without a childlike dislike of oatmeal? There wouldn't have been a need for her.

In light of that, almost everything could be forgiven. "I heard you made first chair?"

Prompting conversation as she layers batter, flipping a violin shaped pancake over carefully.