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

[obediences]

When he catches sight of the pancakes, there's a hitch of surprise. A pang in his chest. The moon was once such an object of longing and determination, his goal, his dream to get his certificate and get up there, and now... it's complicated. But the cartoonish astronaut still makes his heart twinge, a swelling of affection for this little gesture. And more curiously, it's a deviation from protocol. Something new, outside the usual pre-approved recipes outlined in Reginald's catalogue and tirelessly prepared for the children, day in, day out. And yet, still as neat and precise as if Grace had measured each pancake with a ruler.

"Thank you," Luther says as he sips at the coffee, looking up at her; gratitude for the breakfast and the bike alike. Then, a rueful smile: "To ride it inside the house or out?"

Most families would frown on bicycles indoors, but the Hargreeves manor had been an exception; strictly speaking, he hadn't been allowed outside when not on-mission.

Nowadays, that rule doesn't feel quite so solid anymore. She's not the only one foraying outside her protocols.

[stepfordbot]

"Hm..." The rules were always a little different and now? They've an opportunity to change yet again. Most (nearly all) of the kids in the house aren't children anymore and can do as they please- but Luther has been here, has been hers the longest. Of any of them he's who she's known the longest, perhaps knows best. Head tilted to the side she hums quietly, considering for all of three, four moments. "Why not both?"

They can leave the house now whenever they like, even if there are moments when Grace would rather keep them around if only due to the fact she'd know beyond a shadow of a doubt they are safe and well if they're in the house with her. But freedoms are meant to be enjoyed and there is no harm in doing so. Not right now. "I think the ballroom is clear enough for a few laps if you want."

[obediences]

"It's definitely big enough, at least." Still clutching the mug of coffee contemplatively, which is dwarfed in his hand, Luther considers the question. Pulls out the chair and settles in at the table with his plate (still instinctively taking one of the heads of the table, as ever, because some things didn't change).

The ballroom is a kind little gift, but something twists in his chest at the thought of it. Too many memories of too many hours and days circling this house, riding his bike until it wore a groove in the carpet, seeing the same walls and portraits and posters sliding by. Monotonous. Unchanging.

"I think," Luther says carefully, as he sets down the coffee and picks up knife and fork, and looks up at his mother, "that I'll take it outside after breakfast. You wanna come with? See how it runs."

Another little gift, an invitation. She should probably get out from these walls, too, eventually.