#umbrellamom

Grace silently entering the room after the sixth hour mark and holding the glass so Klaus can take sips of water.

  “….oh… I see…” Slowly, Grace’s arms lowered from their extended position, hands that had been opened in greeting instead clasping against her apron. She wondered how she had missed her own children growing too old to give her hugs anymore…

         “Well…” She paused, mentally calculating whether her next words would be welcome, “….I prepared a snack… you’ll still have some, won’t you, dear?”

It was unlike him to not rush into any offered embrace. Klaus had always been an incredibly tactile child, even as he matured into his teenage years but today? He didn’t want to be touched. The night before had been hell on earth and it had taken everything he had just to get out of bed. His skin was crawling and burning and all he wanted was to pop some xanax, smoke a joint... anything and crawl back into the confines of his bed. Accepting an embrace from mom? Klaus had a feeling it would break the last vestige of self control he had left.

The last thing he wanted to do was start crying in such a public part of the house, where his father might see. So, swallowing hard, he’d shaken his head and backed off from the offered hug, hating himself even more when he saw how she reacted. “Sorry mom, just... I slept funny last night-” he didn’t sleep at all, actually. “-back hurts...” It was a flimsy excuse and, if she knew what he’d gone through last night- if she’d been party to, or had seen Reginald and Pogo walking him out to the mausoleum she’d know precisely what was wrong.

Grace laughs, the sound muffled into the napkin held to her lips. The robot doesn’t eat (unnecessary waste), but Mom learned early on to taste-test her culinary creations before presenting them to her family. (One prank involving sugar switched for salt saw to that… no one wanted a repeat of Dinner on August 20th, 1996, 7pm.)

        Accordingly, she has half of a fresh baked cookie in her hand, a small bite taken from its center to confirm ingredients and state of doneness (eggs, butter, sugar confirmed; core temperature cooled to less than 156 degrees Fahrenheit). The cookies are, indeed, ready.

       “–Yes, darling….” She says, extending the remainder of the treat to Number Four’s small form. He’s growing, but so lean. And he won’t be justNumber Four for much longer, Grace knows this in her code. Whether he become The Seance or something else… (something with a K)…. time will tell. “… Here you are, just for you. The first cookie.”

Four watched the robot check the cookies, eyes gleaming with excitement. It wasn’t often they were given sweets, let alone cookies. It had been dad’s rules after all-- they all had a specific diet. The giddiness he feels over having the opportunity of getting to eat cookies makes him smile from ear to ear.

SEND 😴 FOR MY MUSE TO FALL ASLEEP WITH THEIR HEAD IN YOUR MUSE’S LAP.

The glow from Allison’s phone illuminated the hundreds of paintings in the picture gallery on the second floor. It was night and for once, she was the only one still awake. Except for Mom, maybe. She didn’t know where she was. 

The images on her phone seemed to fit in perfectly with those on the wall, in their own, strange way. A selfie courtesy of Claire with a diamond filter adorning a crown on her head fit in perfectly with the regal looking woman three down and two to the left. Another string of filtered animal face pictures they had taken together to entertain Claire on her first plane ride paired nicely with a landscape where a couple of bunny rabbits populated the foreground. Allison may have scrolled through that gallery for half an hour, her fingernails rhytmically swiping next and then looking away to the paintings when remembering had gotten too much. Tap, tap, tap. She almost didn’t notice when she wasn’t the only one making the noise.

Mary Jane heels on the hardwood floor.

Mom. 

“I’m sorry,” Allison said. “I know this is your place and you’re probably tired. I’ll get out of your hair.” She didn’t know why she’d come up here, why she was even doing this to herself. It was just torture, plain and simple. She turned around and moved to vacate the curved sofa but the look on her mother’s face only read no, stay. It always did. 

When the Hargeeves matriarch came to sit next to her Allison’s head snapped back to the paintings, trying to find one to focus on but having little luck. She had other things on her mind. 

“Hey Mom? I have a question.” She didn’t wait for an answer to keep going. She knew if she paused she would never keep going. “How did you do it? I mean, be a mom. I know we weren’t the easiest kids growing up or even the best ones but you never faltered, ever. You always knew what to do. How did you know that? You can’t learn that from any book or the internet.” She shook her head, eyes quickly flicking through the paintings that had caught her attention before. “I don’t understand,” she sighed, her eyes coming to land back on the painting of the noble woman and as she did something broke, snapped hard like a piece of plywood. She didn’t know why. It was the same kind of snap that lead her to make all of her stupid decisions. Allison hiccuped her words. “You can try so hard to be a good parent and still end up doing the wrong thing. It’s like trying to walk through a god damn minefield but you made it look so easy doing it.” Tears pooled in her eyes and she covered her face in her hands. The last thing she wanted was to start crying. “I just don’t understand. I don’t know how to make it right again. I don’t know how to make anything right.” She sniffed and felt a hand on her back. She shook her head, didn’t stop hiding. But that was alright. Mom always knew what to do, because she was Mom. Allison let the hand stay on her back, she let her mom pull her in and hug her. She let her mom comfort her without really saying much at all. She let herself fall tired. She let herself be gently eased down to her mother’s lap. She let herself have the reprieve from trying to fight the encroaching sleepiness. She fell into dreams. And maybe, in the morning, she wouldn’t be waking up alone again.  

he would never admit he was having a panic attack – not because he was ashamed, but because he wasn’t even sure it was anything to worry about. a wave had come over him. impending doom. like everything inside of him wanted out and he knew, deep down, down past the horrors, that there would be nothing he could do to stop them. but it was fine. he was fine. right?        dark eyes blink, chest heaving, and ben reaches for her needing her touch to feel grounded. he’s nodding. willing himself to believe the light words parrying his darkness.   ❝ — mom? ❞

@umbrellamom

“…remember, look for things that you can touch. ground yourself.” {{ Wherein Reginald Hargreeves taught Klaus to look for the dead, but Grace taught him to look for the living. }}

he comes back to himself slowly, curled onto his side.  he thinks he’s on the sofa, which means…means he failed.  means he passed out again, when he was supposed to be learning, supposed to be concentrating, supposed to be channeling.  he’d felt something, something in his core, hands that weren’t his moving of their own accord.  it had stopped before his father had come back, before he had lost himself to darkness again.

❛ no, mom.  i’m fine. ❜ he snaps the words out, harsh and biting, hands curled on the table.  he sighs almost as soon as it comes out because he doesn’t mean it like that, didn’t mean it to come out so fast, so hard, so mean.