Archive of Our Own

Luther didn't know how to rest. He never had. He'd always been tightly wound up, coiled and ready to spring. Unlike his siblings, though, who would lash out and bite at anyone with nary a care, Luther held it in. Every slight, every insult, no matter how it hurt, would be swallowed down and held inside. It would burrow in deep, growing and festering, where it would sit, solid as ever, until he could pretend it had always been there.

Everything had moved so fast. He'd come back from the moon with barely a day to take it in, after receiving word of his father's death. The body had been cremated before he'd arrived back on Earth, and the public memorial happened while he was on the bus home from the space centre after he'd landed and been decontaminated. Five had turned up, the apocalypse had begun, the apocalypse had ended with much less fanfare, and, quickly as they had reappeared in his life, his siblings had disappeared again.

At no point did Luther remember to let go of the breath he'd begun to hold all those years ago. He had careened from one life-shaking situation to the next, and now, with the major source of those moments gone, he had no idea what he was going to do. His childhood had been incredibly rigid, with every hour of the day planned, and the bulk of his adult years had been spent in the most extreme form of isolation.

His siblings left the Academy and returned back to their usual homes. Luther watched them leave from the bottom of the stairs, as Grace saw them off with a kiss to their foreheads and a packed lunch. Standing there, alternating between shoving his hands in his pockets and crossing his arms over his chest, he turned to head back upstairs as the door closed behind Allison, who was the last to leave.

And then it was quiet. It felt like it had reverted back to exactly to how it had been before he'd left for the moon. Just him and his thoughts in a massive house that had never been a home. Just him and Pogo and Grace and-

Well, maybe not exactly the same. But close.

Part of the problem was Grace. Guilt still ate at him for suggesting they turn her off, and seeing her forcibly shut down had driven home how wrong that was. Seeing her walk about now, ever so slightly different but still Mom dug that in.

She'd been growing restless, Luther now realised, before he'd left for his solitary confinement. Just like him, she'd gone from a bustling home to three people. Then, with him gone, that had dropped to just two. She'd never been created to serve only Reginald and Pogo- she'd been created for the children. Without them, she had little to do.

It was too much.

The first night, after his return from the moon, after the apocalypse hadn't occurred, after his siblings had left for the second time and once more Luther was the only child (adult) in the house, he shut himself in his bedroom and stared at the ground.

He heard footsteps on the floor outside. Gentle, steady, heeled. Grace.

She knocked ever so carefully on the door frame. She never knocked on the door. It was probably part of her programming.

'Luther, dear?' she called, her voice barely muffled by the door. 'Dinner's ready. Would you like to come down?'

Pulling at the sleeves of his coat, still a little torn and bloody from the fight, he stumbled in his response, before replying.

'No.'

It had been years since he'd actually eaten a meal in front of someone.

He could hear Grace pause at his response, as her programming changed pathways. Then, 'I'll leave it outside your door.'

It took him until she had reached the end of the corridor to realise he'd never said no to her before.

*

It took him him three days and several meals to realise the source of his discomfort. He sat on the ground, hunched over his plate with the tray balanced upon his crossed legs. It was how he'd often sat in the capsule upon the moon, when his sole desk was piled high with correspondence, tests, notebooks and poems. Holding the spoon, which felt comically small in his still-strange hand, he shovelled the chickpea curry into his mouth.

It was uncomfortable to eat in front of others. He'd been alone for so long, and simply existing amongst others was strange and unnerving. But there was something so vulnerable, so raw about sitting down at a dining table, with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, and let someone witness him feeding himself. That moment with Allison in the park had been an exception, and a moment he now shied away from repeating. Even thinking about it had him shoving his face in his hands to cover the blush.

The Academy was too quiet now. Even when Reginald was home, there'd still be at least some kind of noise. Quiet conversations between closed doors between him and Pogo, or meetings with statesmen from different cities still happened. Politicians would be over for dinner, businessmen would be over for drinks. Luther was occasionally expected to be there, and he'd smile and shake their hands; that was before he'd become a misshapen accident.

There was nothing like that to distract him now, which also coincidentally meant there was nothing to distract Grace.

If she heard so much as his footsteps on the hardwood floors, she would come right up and ask if he needed help. She'd hover, taking his dirty dishes from him if he had decided to bring them down. Then the questions would start; if he was hungry, if he was thirsty, did he have any laundry or mending, had he spoken to his siblings recently. Luther would deflect, eyes down, trying to side-step around her as she stepped far too close into his personal space.

No, no, no.

He'd said it more times to her than he ever had before.

Each time, each utterance, she'd stop and stumble and shake her head, the single syllable word so foreign from his mouth.

*

A part of him wished he'd learnt to live outside of the Academy. The moon didn't count. The moon had been an extension of home, with a schedule that had seemed so rigid and immobile at first. He knew when he was expected to wake up, he knew when to have lunch. It had felt so important that he stuck to that schedule at the time, and now...

And now.

Grace still ran like clockwork. She was knocking on his bedroom every morning at the same time as breakfast had been served when he was a child. Lunch was the same. She seemed to fumble at dinner, and sometimes he caught her standing over the dining table, five places already set. Reginald, his own, Diego's next. Then Allison and Klaus. She'd always stumbled at Five, and then Ben.

'Will you be joining us tonight?' she asked, catching him one evening.

He didn't ask who she meant by us. Herself and Pogo, most likely, though Pogo had rarely ever joined them. He could get away with that. Luther never could.

'Oh...'

'I made meatloaf with mashed sweet potatoes.'

'Oh.'

He could remember that from his childhood. He'd always enjoyed it. None of his siblings particularly had, with both Klaus and Allison both spearheading the distaste by flirting with vegetarianism for vague and various reasons for a spell. But Luther had always been fond of it. It was filling, familiar, familial. He'd never not been in the middle of a growth spurt, and would have been doomed to be tall even before the accident, and the protein from it had kept him sustained.

He was still hungry now. He was hungry all the time. The hunger had started while on the moon, when the rations had begun to slow. The new body was never satiated, and he didn't think it ever would be.

Grace was still speaking, rattling off the ingredients- ground beef, ground veal, eggs (two, large, freshly collected that morning, though Luther didn't know from where), thinly sliced pancetta and a cup of Parmesan.

'Okay. I'll sit.'

The words slipped before he realised what he'd said. Even Grace seemed stunned into silence. Their eyes met, the first time since he'd led the cause to turning her off, and Luther hastily looked at his normal seat.

With a refreshed smile, Grace nodded and gestured for him to seat. She quickly scurried out to bring out the serving cart that held the still-steaming tray of meatloaf and pot of potatoes. She had yet to cook smaller dishes.

Although it had been commonplace in his childhood for Grace to serve them, as an adult, it filled Luther with an awkwardness. Sure, he'd missed that pivotal young adult period where he learnt to cook more than toast or pasta (his meals on the moon were typically the sachet kind where he only needed to add water), but he was used to serving himself now.

He stared at the meatloaf that had been dished upon his plate, along with a heaping serve of mashed potatoes. On either side of the plate was the cutlery. Fork, knife, spoon. Glass of water by the plate, as always. Reginald had always hated anything other than water being served to the children at dinner. He'd have red wine.

And there stood Grace, hands folded in front of her as she waited behind Reginald's empty seat. That hadn't changed, either.

Luther picked up a fork. Held it. Turned it over. It felt far too small in his fingers. He was still getting used to how things felt on Earth. He'd grown accustomed to being lighter on the moon, despite his mass. Everything on the moon had been oddly weighted and shaped, to account for the lighter gravity.

She was watching him. He couldn't eat if she were watching him.

He grabbed the glass of water, swallowed it. Held it out to her.

'May I have a glass of juice, please, Mom?' he asked, looking more at her necklace than her face. It felt weird, lying to her. 'Tropical?'

'Oh- your father- '

'I haven't had any since I came back, and... just as a treat.'

Grace looked over at the chair, where his father and her creator once sat. She'd been different, since Pogo had rebooted her. She'd taken risks a little more often, had indulged herself more. Luther had definitely noticed the paprika in the chickpea curry. She'd never added it to anything before. Reginald had believed salt and pepper were seasoning enough- it had been a wild discovery when Klaus and Ben had smuggled fried chicken home one night, and all seven of them had been wildly ill during the night.

She took the glass and smiled.

'Just between us two,' she said; Luther wouldn't have been surprised if she had decided to wink.

As she slipped out, he grabbed the fork again. He still wasn't used to the feeling of them in his hands. Up in his bedroom, he'd had to practice holding the cutlery again. The forks would wind up bent, the knives would be twisted. If he pressed too hard, he might wind up slicing the damn plate in two.

He cut the meatloaf in two. The knife scraped along the crockery, though, thankfully, it didn't break. Stabbing one half of it, he shoved it in his mouth, not wanting to dare a second slice. Grace walked in just as he began to chew, and he a shoved a hand over his mouth, eyes dropping down.

'There we go, dear. One glass of tropical juice.'

She'd added a small novelty umbrella and a spiralling straw. Luther nearly choked.

Reginald had called straws frivolous and unnecessary. The children weren't meant to use them. Therefore, they had become a source of desperate interest for the seven of them, and they had all at one point or another started to collect them. Grace would only hand them out when they'd suffered sore throats or arching jaws; straws were reserved for the sick, like musk sticks and aniseed balls. Luther had counted three by the time he was ten-years-old. He was sure he still had them somewhere.

Picking up the glass, he pinched the straw between his fingers. He could almost justify the size difference. His fingers had always been thick (Klaus had said he'd be glad about that when he was older, and now the idea made him blush). But they were always hairer, with a tough black skin that they had never been before.

Not wanting to let Grace down, he fixed his gaze onto the cheerful yellow paper umbrella and sipped the juice through the straw.

God, he hadn't realised how much he missed that.

He set the glass down.

Grace was still watching.

He looked up at her and she lurched forward into action. Her hand laid upon his wrist, gentle as ever as she smiled.

'Is that good? Would you like ice? Would you- '

'Can I take my meal up to my room?'

He'd asked before he'd even thought it through. But he couldn't eat it, not now, not when she was still so close and crowding him as she was. Her face was too close to his own, her smile too wide and her smile with an almost false sincerity. Grace had never been false in his life, and it left him uneasy.

Her smile fell. Her eyes darted to his plate and then back up.

'Is something wrong?'

'Oh- no, no, it's wonderful- '

'I can make you something else.'

She'd already gone to collect his plate, her hands delicately picking it up and moving it away from him. His stomach growled and he tried to snatch it back, the crockery straining under his fingers.

'No, I just- there's a radio program I want to listen to,' he lied weakly. 'And- and- '

'We could listen to it together,' Grace insisted.

She still held onto the plate herself and she tugged. The plate almost slipped from Luther's hands; he'd never realised how strong she was.

'I don't think you'd understand, it's complicated.'

'I understand complicated.'

He didn't quite understand her emphasis. 'It's part of a series.'

'I'll follow along, I promise.'

'I want to be alone.'

'I don't.'

The plate broke. The meatloaf slid off and slapped against the table, where it broke in half and part of it fell onto the ground. The mashed potato slithered down and landed on a splat on the tablecloth. Sauce marred it all, from the wood grain on the leg of the table, to Luther's pants and Grace's shoes.

Of course she was strong. Grace may have been wrapped in a pretty and a delicate package, but underneath her softness was literal steel. It was difficult to comprehend sometimes.

Luther dropped his half of the plate. Grace eyed the mess and then looked up at him. Her face was difficult to read, not because he couldn't interpret her expression, but because he got it far too well. She was shocked and saddened.

He had to get out of there.

'I'll heat some leftovers up later,' he muttered.

Snatching up the glass of juice, the umbrella and straw twirling around, he pushed past her. Stepping over the destroyed dinner, he left her standing there, still holding half the plate and gaping at the gargantuan empty space he had occupied.

*

The fight with Grace was a built-in excuse to avoid her even more. Luther didn't leave his bedroom until late in the morning, and when he did, he stuck to areas of the house he knew she didn't frequent. The old training rooms, Reginald's quarters, the courtyard.

He'd expected some kind of retaliation, but he realised soon that he had no idea how she'd retaliate. She seemed to, though, in strange ways. Instead of bacon and eggs in the morning, a tray of cold cereal and a small jug of meal was left at his door. Lunches were sandwiches, with extra tomatoes that Grace surely remembered he'd hated as a kid. Once, dinner was five minutes late.

He awoke to vacuuming every morning, the head repeatedly smacking against his door. His shirts were folded or hung up in his closet, though they weren't ironed. After the fifth day of avoiding her, he spotted her dumping cleaning sheets on his bed and then storming out. After two seconds, she shook her head and pivoted to actually go and put them on herself.

Some things could be put down to programming, but not all of it.

Standing in the doorway, a sandwich he'd made himself in hand, Luther watched as Grace began to rip the bedsheets off with precision. She'd been doing this for so long, she knew the exact angle to stand for maximum efficiency. Maybe she'd been programmed with that. Maybe she'd also been programmed to change all the beds, even though they were empty.

She went to lift the corner of the mattress to tuck the fitted sheet in.

'I can do that, if you want,' he said, gesturing to the bed.

Grace looked at him, holding the mattress up with one hand. She eyed the sandwich. 'You need a plate.'

'It's fine,' he replied, just as the slice of ham fell out and landed on the floor.

Grace stared at him. The mattress was dropped.

'I'll get you a plate.'

Her voice was pleasant and held its typical melodic tone. Her face, however, was tense, her lips pursed tight. It was confounding.

*

Luther found himself creeping around the house, trying to remember where the creaky floorboards were, the tearing in old wallpaper, the small notches in the skirting the siblings had carved out to hide small mementos. The wrappers from boiled candies, receipts from nights out that were all dated as being between one and two AM, ticket stubs and crumbly leaves.

Sometimes he'd stand over a chair or hold a textbook in his hand and it would seem like the right size. Other times, the objects would feel all far too small. He'd begun to acclimatise to the gravity again, but furniture would still groan under his weight. He'd been more used to it growing up. His bones were denser, the fibres of his muscles thicker than most kids his age. Living on the moon, though, had made him forget all that, particularly when so much had been custom built for him.

He sat in his father's office. In front of him sat a large stainless steel cup, half-filled with a protein-shake infused milkshake. Although he didn't think he was meant to drink out of the stainless steel cup itself (it wasn't like he and his siblings had been free to make milkshakes growing up), it felt appropriately sized in his hand. Allison had tried to take him out for coffee before she'd left, and between the tiny cafe chairs and the even tinier cups, he'd felt like a clown.

The spoon, though, still seemed ridiculous. He spun it inside the cup, listening to it clink and clatter against the edges. Leaning back in Reginald's old chair, wondering how long the furniture would remain before it was sold off (and wondering if that duty fell to him or Pogo), he listened to the chair groan underneath him. The noise covered up the sound of the floorboards outside, and he'd already lifted the cup up to drink from it as Grace opened the door.

He was lowering it and turned a little in the chair, just in time to see Grace taking a step back. Fumbling with lowering the cup, their eyes met and an awkward silence descended between them. They'd barely spoken since he'd caught her changing his sheets.

'Hi,' he finally said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'I forgot- I thought it was Mister Hargreeves.'

'Technically I am.'

'You know who I mean, silly.'

Her behaviour was confusing to Luther. He'd never known her to trip over herself like that. The Grace of his childhood had always followed a linear track; she didn't forget or stumble or get confused about things. He'd have suspected her coding was broken again, if Pogo hadn't confirmed she was running fine.

Furthermore, she'd never held onto her grudge, not once in her life. She'd never argued and her scolding had always been an educational experience. Pettiness wasn't in Grace's vocabulary. If the children had been angry or mean, the way children always were, she'd respond with pure kindness. It was hard to be cruel to someone who was always smiling and loving.

She'd changed.

It was the simplest explanation.

'Would you like to be alone?'

She wasn't throwing it in his face, but it still felt like that to Luther. It had come out badly when he'd said it to her at the dinner table. It had taken some time for him to digest her words afterwards, when he'd let himself play it back in his mind and wasn't filled with a hot-burning shame.

She didn't want to be alone, almost as much as he truly didn't. They'd been alone, in some manner of speaking, for the same length of time. After his siblings had all left home, it had just been them, for days and days and weeks and weeks and finally months and almost years. His father and Pogo had had each other, which meant he and Grace had only had each other.

Days spent when Grace would repeatedly ask him if he wouldn't mind sampling the different eggs she'd fried up.

Days spent with Luther taking apart different radios and asking her if she liked one acoustic setting over another.

Days spent with them recreating dance scenes from Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth films and laughing as they'd inevitably trip and fall over themselves (well, Luther would fall- Grace would pretend, just to make him feel better).

'No,' he finally admitted, mumbling the word into the cup.

Grace hovered. She did that so much these days. Hands wringing together, eyes lowered as she took the time to think things through. She'd never really done that before. Everything had been automated. Luther wanted to know if it were part of her programming, or her systems lagging, or, maybe, a choice on her end.

'That isn't very nutritious, Luther.'

'It's got protein,' he tried to argue. 'Dairy. Fat- fat can be healthy. Uh. Extra protein. I added berries, see?'

Grace seemed unimpressed. With a sigh, he set it down on Reginald's desk (no coaster, he'd be fuming- Luther felt like Diego when the thrill hit him).

'It's comforting. Is that so bad? Just something simple and- and easy- '

'I used to make you milkshakes. Do you remember?'

Luther, who had been scraping the sides of the cup down with the spoon, stopped. He looked up as Grace approached him, delicate and careful as ever, her hands still wringing in front of her. She took a breath (all artificial but deliberately reminiscent of human behaviour) and stood in front of the old, heavy desk.

'What?'

'You were sick as a child,' Grace said. 'You were oh-so-young. An ear infection. Your father didn't believe it possible, that any of you were capable of being unwell. It went untreated, despite protests from myself and Pogo. Your little throat became so inflamed and swollen and you were in such a terrible pain.'

As she spoke, Luther's fingers lifted to the side of his throat, just under his jaw where his lymph nodes were. It was one of the few parts of his human body left.

'By the time he permitted antibiotics, you could barely eat, you poor thing. Full of fever and crying all the time.'

A hand lifted to her face, as though she were about to cry. Her fingertips dabbed at her dry cheek, and she sniffed and turned away.

'You were quite young and ever so sick. I suppose you don't remember now.'

Luther shook his head. He didn't.

In the back of his mind, though, tapping around in the periphery of his memory like the old dance steps of the movies of old, he could faintly recall the press of a cold spoon on his tongue. Freezing ice cream, half-melted by the time he could actually manage to swallow it of his own accord, instead of waiting for it to slip down his throat.

His fingers pressed to his lymph nodes again. If he strained, he could almost remember it. A throbbing pain in time with his heart beat, a horrible burning every time he tried to speak. Cotton wool in his ear and an ice back against his neck.

Grace was leaning over and peering into the metal cup. She picked up the handle of the spoon and mixed it about, her lip curling back in a far too human expression.

'Does this even taste good?' she asked.

'The protein powder hasn't fully mixed through,' Luther admitted a little sheepishly.

'I could make you another.'

The idea of a milkshake, even if the first hadn't been satisfying, sat heavily in Luther's stomach. So did the idea of a drink served in a normal glass; no matter how tall it would be, it would still appear far too small in his hands.

'Maybe another time,' he offered instead.

He didn't give any form of reasoning or indication when that would be. All he did was nudge the oversized cup towards Grace and folded his hands back on his lap. With a polite nod, Grace stumbled a little, before taking the cup and carrying it out.

He'd tell her eventually. Somehow.

*

Telling her, it turned out, was far more difficult than he'd originally anticipated. Luther knew he'd struggle with it, predominately because he didn't even know what he was trying to articulate.

Earth didn't fit him anymore. It was like his trenchcoat. Everything was too tight around his shoulders, the seams strained against his body, it didn't quite reach his feet. It was like walking into a child's classroom as an adult and trying to fit behind a petite desk. His knees would reach his chin and objects felt hilariously fragile in his fingers. It felt comical to hold plates and tea cups and saucers and forks and wonder if any of it would ever feel normal again.

Grace had begun to press him. He'd begrudgingly began to emerge from his room, and though he had yet to sit back down at the dining room table, he'd offer to stand behind the sink with her and dry up. Maybe it would help to desensitise the shape of it all in his hands.

He took a breath. Looked at the plate. The dish cloth, the suds dripping down his wrists.

'When I look at myself, I don't see what I feel.'

'And what's that?' Grace had an air of distraction to her, but there was an uncanny feeling that that couldn't be further from the truth. She was good at that.

Luther fumbled, nearly dropping the plate, and then gestured vaguely with his hands.

'It doesn't match up. This isn't my body. Not what I remember it to be, anyway. I… I think of myself, and I see what I was. What I used to be. Not- not this, with what I have now.'

Grace was quiet. She set down the sponge she'd been washing up with, to allow him her full attention. Her hands folded together on the lip of the sink, the yellow rubber gloves slightly ruining the sight of it, and she gazed down and to the side, the way she did when she was processing a tough piece of information.

'I think… I think I feel like that sometimes.'

Luther furrowed his brow. He set down the dried plate. 'What? How?'

'I don't look the way I feel inside.'

'Why? What do you think you are?'

Her eyes darted briefly up to him and then away. 'Sometimes I forget I'm not real. Sometimes I forget I'm… I'm a vacuum.'

'Mom, that's not what I meant. That- I didn't even say that.'

'No. But your father did use a vacuum component inside of me. I can even be used to suck- '

'Please don't finish that.'

Grace stopped and smiled politely. 'Yes, dear.'

Luther grabbed a pot, which had been filled with water and left to soak on top of the stove. Taking it from him, Grace dripped the sponge inside and began to scrub it clean.

'I've noticed you've been preferring to eat things with your hands. Sandwiches. Snack foods. Would it help if I made you something like that for dinner?'

It was easier to talk about it when they were both distracted. Luther hated those psychological tricks. Allison had always been so much better at them than the rest of the siblings.

'Maybe,' he said, shrugging a shoulder.

'What would you like?'

With the pot freshly scrubbed, Grace rinsed it clean and went to fill it with more soaking water. She picked it up and set it down, the weight of it ricocheting off the sink. The gloves were snapped off and set down, delicate as ever. He wondered just how strong she was, if she could possibly be a match for him.

'I like hot dogs,' he admitted.

Her head snapped up to face him. She stared, her eyelids fluttering as she processed it.

'Hot dogs?' she repeated.

'Yeah. You know. A bun, a sausage. Maybe some onions. Mustard, ketch- '

'I know what hot dogs are,' she said quickly, with a hurriedness that suggested maybe she didn't. 'I thought maybe you meant something more like a... a Cornish pasty. Or maybe a pannzerotti.'

'No, a hot dog's fine.'

'Maybe a fleischkuelke.'

'Bless you.'

Grace gave a heavy sigh (again, something fake and definitely learned), before conceding with a nod.

*

Lifting the tray up (Grace had given him a baking tray from the oven, which fit better in his hands than a typical plate), Luther offered it up to her to admire. On the tray lay three hot dogs. The sausages lay nestled in their buns with a liberal squirt of ketchup and mustard. A dollop of onions had been dropped on top.

Grace looked completely and utterly unimpressed.

'Where's the greens?'

'What?'

'The vegetables. This is meat.'

'What?'

'This is not healthy, Luther.'

'It... it doesn't have to be. It's comfort food,' Luther explained as he picked one up and held it out to her. 'I thought we agreed on comfort food.'

The hot dog continued to be held out. Grace furrowed her brow, and though she seemed uneasy about it, she took it from him and turned it over. Treats and desserts were one thing, but Grace had always prided herself (whether she were programmed or not to do so) in providing nutritious meals. A hot dog definitely didn't fall into that category.

'No, no,' Grace murmured as she shook her head and set the hot dog back down. 'This won't do.'

'Mom, you can't put lettuce or spinach in a hot dog.'

'I can do better. We both can. Here, you can be my sous chef.'

It had long been a coveted role for the children growing up. They were rarely allowed in the kitchen, but, occasionally, if their studies had finished early and there were no evening jaunts for them to run off to, Reginald would permit one of them into the kitchen to learn some cooking skills. In the kitchen, Grace would present the children with an apron that would hang around their ankles (bar Luther, where it would typically end mid-shin) and let them stand upon a stool while they mixed dry ingredients or carefully chopped onions and cucumbers.

There was no apron this time, nor a stool to step upon. The hot dogs were set aside (much to Luther's disappointment) and Grace busied herself gathering ingredients. Thick, crunchy bread rolls, chorizo sausages, jalapenos. Carrots, cucumbers, peanuts, cilantro. Vinegar, sugar, sriracha.

'Dad hated spicy food.'

'Your father's not here, silly.'

'I'm pretty sure Pogo would die if you gave him anything spicy.'

'Your brother likes it.'

'Diego?'

He was surprised by the idea that Diego willingly came back to the Academy with any kind of frequency for a sit-down meal; Luther hadn't seen him once. But, after seeing the place he called home, he supposed it wasn't entirely out of the question. The cooking facilities were a little lacking and Grace wouldn't allow any of her children to knowingly go hungry.

'Slice the rolls,' she said, as she went about clearing bench space for the two of them. 'Please.'

The bread knife, which had been thrust into his hand, felt good. Solid. A little longer than necessary for eating dinner, but it's thicker handle meant it didn't feel ridiculously small.

He ran the blade through each roll, trying to recall the lessons he'd been given two decades ago. He could feel Grace's eyes upon him as she went about preparing the grill in the oven (a barbecue, Luther knew, would be better, but Reginald had never approved).

With the rolls sliced, Luther was then tasked with grating the carrot. The large size, Grace directed. Although he fumbled with the carrot and the handle of the box grater, he managed to avoid slicing his knuckles. He'd take the wins where he could get them.

The cucumber and jalapenos was sliced as the chorizo was placed on the grill. Grace mixed up the vinegar and sugar, while Luther was tasked with stirring in the carrots.

'How did you immediately know how to put this together?' Luther asked as Grace pulled the cooked sausages from the oven. This didn't seem like the sort of thing Diego would want to eat.

Each chorizo was set upon a serving tray and carried to the long-scarred kitchen table. Luther followed her leader and set the bowl of sauce down beside them, as well as the rolls and remaining ingredients. He sat down and then pulled out the seat beside him for Grace to sit down. She hovered, as she had taken to doing, then carefully eased herself down beside him.

There were no plates, only large cloth napkins. Grace shook one out and laid it down in front of Luther, then the same in front of herself. While she seemed to have some internal cavity that allowed her to pretend to eat, she still rarely did it.

'I had a lot of time by myself, after you left,' Grace replied. She took one of the rolls, set it on the napkin in front of her, and pulled it open. 'I did a lot of reading. Cook books, travel guides, historical biographies. Your father was ever so busy, and he never noticed.'

A trickle of cold guilt ran down Luther's spine. He may have been on the moon, but maybe he could have done something to help. Perhaps he could have sent a message out to his siblings, asked them to check in on her a little more often.

Grace took a chorizo from the tray with a pair of tongs and set it down on Luther's roll.

'I've enjoyed being able to try some of the recipes, which your father would have never allowed. I made a tiramisu for Five.'

'I bet he enjoyed that.'

'He took the coffee home with him.'

Luther hadn't asked where Five had gone when the rest of his siblings left. He just hadn't turned up for breakfast one morning.

That, though, was Five in a nutshell.

'Make sure to have some vegetables, dear. Here, let me top that up for you.'

Leaning back in his seat, he let her go about adding the toppings to the hot dog. As hungry as he'd been for the plain hot dogs he had prepared, he was now salivating over the rich, sweet-sour smell from the gourmet dogs in front of him. His stomach gave another growl as Grace added the last of the peanuts to the top.

'What are these meant to be?'

'Banh mi. The chorizo is incorrect, but these will suffice for now. Go on, take a bite.'

Picking up the bun, Luther turned it over in his hand. The bread was thick and didn't immediately fall apart, as the traditional buns had. The toppings threatened to fall out, and though it would land on the napkin, it didn't feel as ridiculous as sitting in front of a tiny plate did.

He took a bite. It was rich, slightly salty and slightly sour, with a mild spiciness. One the cucumbers slipped out of the end of the hot dog and fell upon the napkin with a wet splat, but Luther paid it no heed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grace piling up her own hot dog. She raised it to her mouth as though to take a bite, but didn't progress any further.

'Good?' she asked.

Luther nodded, his mouth full.

'Better?' she asked.

He nodded again. It was better. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowed, and smiled appreciatively when Grace handed him a napkin. There had never been a time when Grace would sit at the table with the children; even when he had grown, she'd stick to standing at the head of the table.

That, in of itself, was better.

He set the hot dog/banh mi combination down, wiped his hands again (this time on the napkin)

'Mom?'

'Yes, dear?'

Without a word, Luther reached over and wrapped his arms around Grace into a hug. She remained uncertainly stiff in his embrace at first, a small 'oh!' of surprise coming from her, until she leant in and returned the gesture. Now this was definitely better.