Chapter Text
Number Five came into the kitchen with his bandaged arm smarting and aching under his sleeve and his fingers tingling disquietingly. All of the kitchen lights were on. Dolores sat on a stool at the kitchen island. Grace stood at the counter. Close at hand she had an opaque yellow glass mixing bowl and an array of baking ingredients—flour and vanilla, and sugar in the same old canister Number Five knew from when he was a kid. Grace wore an apron printed with bright white daisies on a royal blue background, and held a measuring cup in one hand and a table knife in the other.
Number Five had known in his mind that he must be hungry, having had only one white-bread peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich since time-and-space-traveling home. When he saw his mother in an apron and cookie ingredients on the counter, he suffered a violent pang and his hunger was no longer merely an idea. His stomach tightened further in protest when he forced himself to ignore it for a moment and went to Dolores and kissed her on the cheek. "Dolores."
"How was the service?" asked Dolores. She hadn't been able to safely pay her respects in the courtyard, because of the rain.
"Stupid," replied Number Five, "but at least I was there."
He teleported to the counter and reached to slide up the lid of the breadbox. As he leaned into Grace's space he greeted her. "Mother."
"Number Five," Grace said in a measured, significant tone.
It was the first time Number Five's mother had spoken to him personally since he had made his way home. He abandoned the breadbox. "So you’ve noticed I'm back."
"Oh, I've noticed." She set her mixing bowl down on the counter with a decided clunk, punctuating the way she turned to face Number Five. She was very nearly frowning.
"Okay…" He pointed at the pile of baking ingredients. "Are those going to be sugar cookies?"
Grace turned away and bowed her head. "Yes, Number Five. The kind you like. But you have to be patient." Her tone began as rather stern but her voice faded until Number Five could barely catch the words.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "I mean besides the obvious, but you seemed as okay as could be expected in the courtyard. Do you need to recharge?"
Grace gave the mixing bowl a couple of quarter turns with her fingertips. "I started to, but I couldn't settle down. I'll try again when I'm tired." She reached for a wooden mixing spoon, paused, and a resolute tightening showed briefly at the corner of her lips. She set the spoon on the counter and faced her son. "Number Five, sweetie. We need to have a serious talk."
She stepped close to him and laid her hand on his cheek. "Now, I'm not mad, but we need to discuss the consequences of your behavior."
"I was just looking for something to eat. I went to Griddy's and I didn't even get a doughnut. I don't mean to get in the way of your baking. I was looking for food. Is that butter all for cookies, or can I spread a lot of it on something?"
Grace removed her touch from Number Five's face. "Of course!" She said, brisk and bright. "You must be starved. We'll talk after you've eaten. Luckily I have lots of meatballs in the freezer. I'll finish the sugar cookies later. Supper will be ready in half an hour."
"I'll be back. I can make myself wait that long. I'll get some research done."
Grace said, "Don't forget to wash your hands."
Dolores said, "I'm going to sit in here and spend the time with your mother."
Number Five grunted in acknowledgement and went to his room.
He came back on the dot in thirty minutes and washed and dried his hands at the kitchen sink. The kitchen smelled of oregano, garlic, and rich tomato sauce. Dolores had been served with a steaming, piled-high plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Number Five's mouth watered.
Grace said, "Have a seat, sweetie. Isn't your girlfriend feeling well?"
"Mom, this is Dolores. Haven't you met? I thought, since she was in here with you—"
"Oh, yes, we're acquainted. Klaus has introduced us. She's charming."
"Thank you, Ms. Hargreeves," said Dolores. "You're charming, too."
Grace went on speaking, asking Number Five, "Isn't my cooking all right?"
"The food smells delectable," said Number Five. "And Dolores is feeling fine, right, Dolores? But Mom, she can't eat. She's a mannequin."
"Sure wish I could," said Dolores. "It looks divine, Ms. Hargreeves."
Grace, flustered, reached for Dolores's plate. "Oh, I'm sorry, that was so insensitive of me."
"You can call her Grace," Number Five told Dolores.
"Grace is a lovely name," Dolores said, adding in a low aside to Number Five, "Do you really think I should call her by her first name? She's your mother."
"Both of you relax. Neither of you has a thing to worry about. Mom, don't take that plate away. I'll eat hers and mine."
Grace set a bottle of ginger ale at Number Five's right hand. He picked up his fork with his left hand, picked up the ginger ale with his right, put it down again and slid it over to the left side of his plate. He rested his right hand in his lap.
Dolores asked, "What's wrong with your arm?"
"I'll tell you later."
"Tell me now."
"I cut it," he answered.
"I thought you said you were going out for coffee. What happened?"
"I got some coffee." Number Five took a swig of ginger ale and dug into his spaghetti and meatballs. "So Klaus introduced you two. That must have been entertaining."
Dolores said, "Klaus is adorable. I'm not certain whether or not he can hear me. He leaves plenty of time for me to speak, then makes up something for me to say and pretends I'm saying it. He's like a cuddly book of Mad Libs."
"He probably listens to you about as well as he listens to the rest of us," said Number Five.
He finished two heaping plates of spaghetti and two ginger ales—Grace had given him a second one without his asking. Number Five put his plates in the sink, pressed Grace's upper arms and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for the homemade food, Mom. That was unbelievably delicious. Nobody cooks like you."
Grace appeared to be touched but amused. "You're buttering me up so you won't get in trouble."
Number Five involuntarily tightened his grip on his mother's arms. "Mom, I am in trouble."
Grace gave a tiny, sympathetic click of her tongue and said softly, "Oh—" She put her hands around his waist and bent her head to nuzzle his hair.
Number Five put his arms around Grace’s neck and laid his cheek on her chest, shuddered and let his mother take his whole weight. Grace stroked his hair. "Poor boy. Don't be worried. We'll talk it over and come up with a fair consequence together. It won't be anything too dire."
She wore a touch of fragrance on her shoulder that reminded Five of the light pink peonies that used to bloom every June in the sunniest part of Pogo's garden. Number Five closed his eyes and mumbled, "The longer I stay with you, the longer I'll go on staying with you."
Grace ruffled the hair at his nape. "Silly little Number Five."
"No. You're a magnet." Number Five straightened out of the hug with a jerk and had to set a foot back, hard, to catch his balance. "There's no time."
"Please keep powerful magnets several feet away from me," said Grace.
"Yeah, okay." Five went around the kitchen island and picked up Dolores.
"Wouldn't you and Dolores like to help me make these sugar cookies?"
"I wasn't planning on it, Mom. Leave them out on the counter for me. I'll come back and get a plateful to eat in my room. I can snack while I do some figuring."
"Which shapes would you like? We have hearts, and all kinds of dinosaurs … I just got some African safari cookie cutters. There are separate cutters for the legs, so you can make the animals stand up."
Number Five had turned away from his mother in order to leave the kitchen, but when he took the next step he hovered his foot for a second, set it down again in the same spot and started over. Dolores, tucked under his arm, noticed. "You used to love those kinds of things as a kid, didn't you."
Grace persisted. "You can stay and help me, and we can talk while we have pleasantly busy hands."
"Yes, do that, Number Five," said Dolores.
"I've got a job to do." Number Five carried Dolores toward the archway leading to the rest of the house.
Grace asked, "How long will your little errand take?"
"Well, Mom, all I can tell you is that if it takes more than a week, the world’s going to end."
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