Work Text:
give me these moments back
give them back to me
***
Full moons are a time of ritual, celebration and intention; the divine feminine and beyond. Yet there’s nothing to celebrate, Luther notes, staring at the milky rock in the sky, fingers stroking at the curtain as he observes. Father is evasive as always, never had fully debriefed him, leaving him in limbo: years of Luther's life lost to space and seemingly all his future years lost whenever he unbuttons his shirt.
How can he possibly have a future in such a body, after all. Moving his hand gingerly in the privacy of the one occupied superhero bedroom, Luther traces the fabric that covers his gigantic flesh, swallowing the anger that always makes itself known as he does so.
His body used to be his pride. It remained as everything else deserted him, after everyone left, long after magazine articles about Spaceboy’s sexy muscles! dried up. And yet, those memories - his body as something to be desired, attractive - stayed, giving him secret pleasure within the cage he calls home.
Luther can’t make sense of the emptiness combined with his furiously large body, anger always leaving to make room for fierce sadness.
He doesn’t remove his hand from his arm, almost busting out of his shirt, hot tears of humiliation prickling. It can’t be a surprise and yet it always is whenever he refuses another inane mission of Dad’s, too quick to mumble his refusal and retreat back to his childhood bed.
Disgusting, hideous, enormous, freak , he thinks, breath picking up as the demons come to play.
A knock startles them away, Luther afraid for a moment, before he sees the same sweet smile he sees everyday, Mom stood in the door way as poised as always.
“Luther, would you like a bedtime hot chocolate, dear?” she asks, conservatively dressed in a blue satin night wraparound, hair still pinned. As if purposely trying to embarrass him, his stomach rumbles, the temptation of sugar interesting it and yet she still waits, looking at her son expectantly.
“No, Mom, thanks,” he manages to get out, turning back to the window to avoid her seeing his face flare up in shame. He wishes she’d leave, nervous as he senses her move forward, a kind hand on his shoulder. She must think him a beast, hideous, being able to feel just how much of him there is under his sweater - his head hangs in realization.
“You know, darling,” Grace all but whispers, “I read the poetry that you sent to your Father, when you were away.”
He relaxes, just a touch.
“You did?”
“Of course, dear. The stars are my friends? That was my favorite,” Mom smiles sweetly, Luther humbled by her admission. He sighs, the silence comfortable as they look out to the city. Dad never told him the outcome of the mission, a large question mark hanging over the lost years he spent away from earth.
“I’m awfully glad you stayed, Luther,” she admits, almost sad, if robots can be sad, “it gets oh so quiet these days.”
He thinks it over, slow cogs in his brain beginning to turn. He’s never made effort with Mom, adulthood one long frustrating, unsatisfying mission of waiting around for whenever Reginald clicks his fingers and demands his obedience.
“A hot chocolate would be great, Mom,” he eventually admits, her face lighting up.
**
Reginald throws him across the corridor with a strength that surprises seventeen year old Diego, falling on his ass, staring up at his Father hatefully. His bloody nose throbs, chest heaving, scrambling to get up and get back in there - knife Luther in the throat - but Reginald crouches down and grabs him tightly.
“ Get to the medical room,” Dad hisses, “Grace will see to this mess. Imbecile,” he finishes with, pushing Diego once more and leaving him a sprawled, breathless, furious mess on the wooden floor.
I’ll knife you in the throat too, he thinks, momentarily terrified his Father can read minds as the old man whips round, silently cursing his wayward second son.
Reluctantly, he obeys, if only because he needs the blood to stop pouring from his face. It hurts , he thinks childishly, stomping down to the room he knows Mom will be instructed to go to as well. Luther, oaf that he is, was bearing down on Klaus as they had their half an hour of free time, knowing full well Number Four breaks too damn easily. Diego challenged him to fight a worthy contender, leave Klaus alone to enjoy his make-up sessions with his sister, and naturally Number One took it as a threat to his dominance.
Which, well, it was .
“Oh, my darling boy!” Grace exclaims, dainty hand going to her bosom, worry etched on her features as she takes Diego’s chin and lifts his face up.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles, letting himself be maneuvered into a chair so she can administer some cleaning and tape to it, “Luther was being a dick.”
“Diego Hargreeves! How dare you use such language!” Grace admonishes, not one for discipline usually but programmed to be intolerant of foul manners. He blushes, ashamed to upset her, mumbling an apology of sorts.
“ Boys will be boys ,” she sings, her favorite phrase, even if Diego knows deep down it’s a loaded term, one his Father thinks is an adequate bandage to all the shitty ways the boys are allowed to be rude to his sisters - and Klaus , not quite a brother. It hits Diego he’s not that different from Luther, happy to steamroll certain siblings in favor of a win for himself.
He winces at Mom applies the antiseptic, calm now he’s listening to her whistle an old tune, working carefully.
“It’s not broken,” she informs him happily, “try not to play so roughly, sweetie.”
He’s about to open his mouth and protest, Mom, it was Luther , but she’s looking at him like the job’s done, proud of herself.
“I’ll try, Mom.”
**
Tucking the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands, Allison’s fury is cruel as it whispers: what did you expect, fool? She had been too eager to open their fan mail, not bothering to wait for an allocated time after Reginald and Pogo had gone through it and censored anything they found distasteful. She was impatient, and now the ink has left the paper and been injected into her veins, her internal commentary, painting a bruise on her heart.
Allison is a BITCH! Ugly African slut. Go home .
They may be sheltered more than most inner city kids but she knows what it means, fast to daydream of finding the writer and using her power, watch them as they humiliate themselves, hurt themselves, Allison stood watching, reveling -
“Allison, dear! You must wait for your Father to approve these little letters,” Mom calls out, making her way into the study, feather duster in hand. Of course, Grace is right, Allison sulks, desperately angry. There’s a reason Dad - piece of shit asshole that he is - makes them wait, but it never occurred to Allison he was doing it to protect them. She had always assumed he was just jealous or bitter, as it's not like anyone’s going to fawn over him .
“Are they all like this? About me?” she asks, hating how vulnerable she sounds in the quiet eeriness of the study, Mom averting her eyes. Even a robot can experience the feeling of awkwardness it seems, human habits picked up after well over a decade as mother to seven human children.
“Darling,” Mom starts, walking over to her slowly, “you mustn’t put your worth in the hands of strangers.”
It’s probably a quote Reginald’s pumped into her programming, downloading ‘ nice things to say when someone’s sad ’ into her hard drive because he may be more human than her but he’s still a cold, callous man with a cold, callous tongue. Allison lets Mom take the envelope out of her grip, softening when Grace comes into clear view.
“Don’t tell the boys,” Mom whispers, “but you’re the most powerful out of all of you, sweetheart. Never forget it.”
Looking back, Allison doesn’t think Grace meant it the way she took it - blazing forward in a path of rumors, snatching love, roles, marriage, adoration as she did so - but she never forgot.
**
Klaus jumps so violently as the creaky old door opens that he drops off the lavish chair, it falling with him, until he’s a pretty, sweet-smelling mess on the floor, skirt crumpled upwards. He clings to the arm of it, terrified as Grace runs over, hand to her mouth.
He breaks into giggles as soon as Mom does before she’s leaning down, checking him for cuts.
“Oh, my Klaus,” she sighs, still amused by his clumsy, bizarre state, “whatever are you doing?”
She pulls the chair away, back to her dressing table, full of her pots and dishes with lipsticks, blushers, brushes, curlers, pins, to name just a few. He pouts, hands attempting to smooth down the dress he’s wearing, pinched from her closet. It’s obvious what he was doing. She takes his face and turns it both ways before reaching up, locating a plush brush, pink and pretty, creating soft circles on his cheeks.
“You must smooth this out,” Grace says haughtily, “you want to look fresh, pretty. Not like a clown,” Klaus giggling again. He really thought Dad would be with her, sighing with relief that the old man must be crouched over a dusty book in a different wing of the house. Klaus notes how in her dress, still not in night clothes, Mom looks perfect - it fits her at the waist rather than the enormous gaps Klaus has, too skinny for her custom-made outfits.
“You’re not mad?” he blinks up, needing the audible validation, even if Mom seems to enjoy having her own doll to play with, swiping a soft pink on his lips.
“Not with you,” she smiles, “my little terror. Setting fire to your bed, smoking those funny cigarettes. Wearing my make-up,” she sighs fondly, “you’re an extremely interesting boy, Klaus.”
“I am?” he checks, liking the way it sounds, so much more pleasant than his usual parental reviews from his Father: lazy, useless, vain, weak, girly, pathetic, naughty, stupid .
“The most interesting by far,” Mom winks, as if she’s letting him in on a little secret. Klaus beams, overcome by a sensation he didn’t understand for many years, something he later can label as pride.
**
The deserted wastelands of the city, rubble and dust, decaying bodies making him crave meat of all things, Klaus’s eyes, dead and blown wide -
He gasps, half awake and half still in the apocalyptic streets, brain’s circuit cut short as time and age become a distorted, surreal concept. He feels the pull, the electricity that vomited him back up and at the feet of his adult siblings, the grief at looking down and seeing his skinny, thirteen year old calves -
“Not to worry,” he hears, unable to pinpoint whether it’s a voice from the past or not, “just a dreadful dream, Number Five. It’s quite alright, dear.”
Mom? he thinks, tossing and turning in this never-ending battle, kicking a leg out at invisible monsters, shaking terribly.
“You never did use the name I gave you, did you?” she asks, her soft voice carrying despite the tornado raging on in Five’s mind, “the favorite of all my choices. Always such an independent, firebrand of a boy.”
There’s something warm and welcoming on his temple, the burning ache slowly releasing pressure as he fits and shakes between two worlds, an outsider in both.
“You aren’t alone, Five,” Mom promises, her maternal touch powerful, even in the face of the after-world and all the heartbreaking, eternal loneliness that chomped up Five’s brain and spat it out, back into his skull, leaving him wretched and insane.
But, this time, now, she’s right. He isn’t alone anymore.
**
The funeral is held on Thor’s day in honor of Ben’s fierce fighting skills. A quiet warrior but perhaps the most deadly of them all.
Grace runs on a ‘comfort’ programme, particularly close to Klaus and Vanya as the two softer of the children openly weep at the unveiled statue of their deceased brother. She cradles them close to her waist, the teenagers unsteady as they mourn. Klaus is especially affected, eyeliner streaked and making black tear tracks down his face, guilt eating the boy up.
She checks for her other three, stood solemnly, eyeing the statue with an aloof air.
“Number Six,” Mr. Hargreeves announces, joining them all in looking at the stone that looms over the family before turning back to his alive children, “this must serve as a reminder to all of you just how deadly weakness can be.”
Klaus sobs out loud, falling to his knees, startling his Mother.
“Up we get, sweetie,” she encourages, quick to find a tissue and dab at the mess that is her fourth son’s face. No sooner as she’s able to comfort him does Mr. Hargreeves march over, grabbing Four by the arm and forcing him upright.
“Enough. What’s done is done. Children, you will shower and get to bed. Four, you will be coming with me.”
No one seems to notice when Grace stands behind, watching them make their way miserably back into the Academy. She turns to look at the immortal body of Six. Such a quiet, good boy; intelligent, strong. A certain loss to their family, she computes, feeling something rise in her chest, a tightening that can’t be put down to a blockage or broken wire. Her face contorts, mouth down-turning, eyes wet - how awful that her children experience such an unpleasant, uncontrollable sadness - before she meets Ben’s never closing eyes.
“I fear there won’t be much wisdom among your siblings. Not with you gone, my sweet Six,” Grace tells the wind.
**
Grace shuts the door of Mr. Hargreeves' study after delivering him his midnight scotch, nodding politely at Pogo as she clip-clops her way to her chambers, ready to go into snooze mode for the night. It's not spoken of, young Number Seven's entrapment in the impossibly locked steel cage, yet there's something that bothers Grace about it. Quite odd, her programming working hard to label the discomfort it's experiencing yet not able to and it's with that she makes a quick detour to the kitchen to pick up cookies from her earlier batch. A cover story, if you will, not that the males of the house keep a track of her whereabouts. Why would they? Grace is always on time. She has to be. She is always ready, alert, picture perfect, a Republican dream of motherhood in her fitted dresses and her ever-smiling, shut mouth.
The perfect Mother, Reginald has said in years gone by, a decent placebo effect for the children, a surface level nurturer.
Yet, little Seven, so small - so alone up there - Grace can't help but question her maker as she turns the wheel to Vanya's new home, not without some effort. The alert alarm playing in her brain at how she's breaking her routine, that visiting Vanya alone is utterly out of bounds, quieten when the child turns and sees her Mother.
"Mommy!" Vanya yells, delighted, rushing to her skirt tails and clinging to them, "Mommy, I missed you."
Grace feels a rush of warmth, offering the girl a cookie which is accepted immediately and greedily.
"Not long now, little Vanya," Grace promises, even if it isn't her promise to give, "you can come back downstairs very soon."
Vanya nods, hands sticky from the caramel goodiness as she wolfs her treat down, causing Grace to tut and take her tiny hands in her own, wiping the mess on her dress.
"Your dress is dirty now, Mommy," Vanya wonders in innocence.
"It will be all clean tomorrow, sweetie," she reassures her, "are you being good up here? Are you ok?"
Vanya looks to her feet, as if, even at her tender age, she knows the truth ought to be concealed.
"Well, we're all missing you," Grace tells her, feeling something she believes the humans would call 'happy' as Vanya grins toothily.
"Everyone? Allison misses me?"
The visuals click through Grace's memory at lightening speed.
"Yes, of course," she lies, "now, let me read you a story. It's very late, dear," she tuts, patting the small bed and helping the girl up, warmed by her easy cuddles. Mr. Hargreeves is insistent she does not administer too much physical affection, it's not becoming of warriors to be coddled by their Mother, but is Seven a warrior? Not to Vanya's knowledge, but of course, Grace knows better. Besides, he's wrong - just a man with a man's way of thinking, quick to sneer at empathy and love as if they're a plague. Maybe, just like that, Reginald's rule is surface level. Grace strokes through the girl's hair, a private vow settling somewhere inside of her.
A Mother, indeed, but not a placebo one; maybe skyscrapers can be built from the dusty, broken bricks of this home.