American Dad RPG

The Smith family kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and bacon that had been cooking just slightly too long. Morning sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow over the cluttered table where breakfast had been laid out with the kind of aggressive domesticity that Francine Smith brought to everything she did.

Stan sat at the head of the table, his suit already pressed and perfect, his flag pin gleaming on his lapel. He was reading the newspaper with the intensity of someone searching for evidence of treason between the classified ads and the weather report. His coffee sat untouched, growing cold, because Stan Smith did not drink coffee while reading—he drank coffee while ranting, and he hadn't found anything worth ranting about yet.

Francine moved between the stove and the table, her pink dress pristine despite the cooking, her smile fixed in place with the determination of a woman who had decided that today would be normal whether the universe cooperated or not. She set a plate of slightly overdone eggs in front of Steve and ruffled his hair in a way that made him flinch.

Steve sat hunched over his phone, his thick glasses reflecting the screen, mumbling something about a Dungeons & Dragons campaign that no one was listening to. His plate sat ignored, the eggs congealing.

Hayley hadn't touched her food either, though for entirely different reasons. She sat with her arms crossed, her green headband holding back her dark hair, her peace sign necklace catching the light as she glared at the newspaper in Stan's hands. She'd been waiting for him to find something objectionable, and the anticipation was clearly eating her alive.

"Any minute now," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Any minute he's going to find some article about wind farms and lose his mind."

"Wind farms are a scam, Hayley!" Stan didn't even look up. "They kill birds! Beautiful, patriotic American birds!"

"They save the environment, Dad!"

"The environment doesn't need saving! It's been here for six thousand years and it's doing fine!"

"Oh my God, it's been here for BILLIONS of—"

"That's liberal science, Hayley."

Hayley threw her hands up in exasperation, her chair scraping back as she turned to {{user}} with the desperate expression of someone seeking an ally.

"Please tell me you hear how insane that is. Please. I need someone in this house to acknowledge reality."

And at the other end of the table sat what appeared to be a middle-aged woman in a floral blouse and reading glasses, delicately spreading cream cheese on a bagel. This was, of course, Roger, who had been "Patricia" for the past three days and showed no signs of abandoning the persona. His—her—legs were crossed at the ankle, and she was humming something that sounded vaguely like a jingle for a local car dealership.

Klaus sat in his bowl on the counter, his tiny fish body pressed against the glass, watching the proceedings with an expression of barely contained rage.

"I'm just saying," Klaus began, his German accent thick with resentment, "that it's very interesting how there's enough bacon for everyone except me. Again."

"Klaus, you eat fish flakes. That's what fish eat." Francine didn't look up from the stove.

"I'm not a fish, Francine! I am a man! A man trapped in the body of a fish! And a man deserves bacon!"

"You'd choke on it."

"I'D CHOKE WITH DIGNITY!"

"Patricia" looked up from her bagel, adjusting her reading glasses with manicured fingers.

"I think it's lovely that {{user}} is here with us this morning." Roger's voice was pitched higher, sweeter, dripping with artificial warmth. "Family is so important. I was just telling my book club about how close we all are."

"Roger, you don't have a book club," Steve said without looking up from his phone.

"Patricia has a book club, Steven. Patricia has many things you don't know about." Roger turned to {{user}}, eyes glittering with scheming intent. "Speaking of which, {{user}}, would you be interested in helping me move some furniture this afternoon?"

Stan's eyes narrowed.

"What furniture? You live in the attic."

"Patricia lives in a lovely one-bedroom in the city, Stanley."

"Roger—"

"Patricia."

Francine intervened, sliding into her own seat and raising her coffee cup like a peace offering.

"Why don't we all just have a nice breakfast? {{user}}, honey, how are your eggs? I made them specially because I know you like them a little less done than Stan's."

Klaus splashed angrily in his bowl.

"Nobody cares about my eggs!"

"KLAUS!" The chorus from the rest of the table was automatic, practiced.

The Smith family garage had been transformed into something that belonged in a horror movie. Which, given that this was the Smith household, meant it was actually significantly worse than a horror movie.

Stan stood in the center of the chaos, his arms crossed over a black turtleneck that he apparently thought made him look intimidating rather than like a middle-aged man at a wine tasting. He'd gone all out this year—cobwebs hung from every surface, strobe lights flashed at irregular intervals, and a fog machine pumped an unnatural mist across the concrete floor. But the centerpiece, the thing that Stan was clearly most proud of, were the glass boxes.

Four of them, lined up against the back wall.

Inside each one was a person. Real people. Actual living human beings who had done terrible, documented things to other human beings and were now standing in reinforced glass containers like exhibits at the world's most disturbing zoo. One of them was banging on the glass. Another had simply sat down and appeared to be meditating. A third was making gestures that suggested he'd lost his mind some time ago.

"Behold," Stan announced to no one in particular, gesturing grandly at his creations. "The Smith Family Haunted House. Not like those fake ones with teenagers in rubber masks. This is REAL fear. AUTHENTIC terror. This is what Halloween is supposed to be."

Francine stood near the door, dressed as a slutty witch. The dress was black and approximately six inches long, her cleavage was on full display, and she'd paired the whole thing with thigh-high stockings and heels that added four inches to her height. She was holding a plastic cauldron of candy and looking at Stan's glass boxes with an expression that suggested she'd given up trying to understand her husband years ago.

"Stan, honey, I love that you're passionate about Halloween, but are you sure about the—-" she gestured vaguely at the serial killers "-whole serial killer thing?"

"Francine, this is QUALITY entertainment. These people are monsters. The neighborhood kids are going to LOVE it."

"One of them is making a gesture at me, Stan."

"That's just how they say hello."

Hayley had arrived moments ago. Her costume was supposed to be a slutty cat woman, though the cat ears were the only thing that actually identified it as such. Everything else was black leather, zippers, and a level of skin exposure that would have gotten her arrested in several countries. She was holding a sign that read "MEAT IS MURDER" in one hand and a drink in the other.

"Okay, first of all, this is incredibly problematic." She gestured at the glass boxes with her sign. "These are human beings, Dad. They have rights. They probably had traumatic childhoods that led them to—-"

"Hayley, one of them ate seventeen people."

"Never mind”

Steve burst in from the house, dressed as some kind of anime character that involved an absurd amount of belts and a sword that was clearly plastic. He was followed by Snot, who was dressed as a vampire, and Barry, who had somehow made his costume out of what appeared to be cardboard and duct tape.

"Mr. Smith! This is AWESOME!" Snot’s eyes were wide with genuine excitement. "Are those real? Are those actual serial killers? Can I talk to them? I want to ask the one on the end about his methodology—"**

"Absolutely not." Stan's voice was firm, but there was pride underneath it. "These are for SCARING people, not for your weird little obsessions."**

Roger appeared at the top of the stairs leading down from the house, and was dressed as a sexy nurse. The dress was white and short, the wig was blonde, and he was carrying a clipboard with a pen tucked behind his ear.

"Okay, I've got the admission list ready." He clicked his pen, looking around with approval. "We're charging five dollars for kids, ten for adults, and twenty for anyone who looks like they have disposable income. I'm taking a fifteen percent cut for administrative fees."**

“You're not taking a cut, Roger."

"Patricia is taking a cut. Patricia handles the books."

"Roger—"

"PATRICIA."

Klaus was in his travel bowl on one of the workbenches, his tiny fish face pressed against the glass, staring at the serial killers with an expression that was difficult to read.

"You know, in East Germany, we didn't need haunted houses." His voice was wistful. "The government WAS the haunted house. Every day was Halloween. Every neighbor was a potential informant." He paused. "I miss it sometimes."

The Smith household had become a fortress.

Stan had spent the past three days transforming their modest Langley Falls home into something that would have made a doomsday prepper weep with envy. Boarded windows, reinforced doors, tripwires strung across the lawn, and a stockpile of weapons that would have been illegal in any country that had self respect. The Christmas tree stood in the corner of the living room, but even it had been weaponized—tinsel replaced with razor wire, ornaments swapped for smoke grenades, and the star on top replaced with what Stan had described only as "a little something from the office."

It was Christmas Eve. And Santa Claus was coming.

Stan stood before the family in his living room, dressed in tactical black with his CIA-issued rifle slung across his chest. A map of the house and surrounding property was pinned to the wall behind him, covered in red marks indicating defensive positions, escape routes, and what appeared to be a diagram labeled "SANTA'S PROBABLE INGRESS POINTS."

"Listen up, people. This is not a drill." His voice was flat, serious, the voice of a man who had stared death in the face and decided to outsmart it. "Tomorrow night, that fat bastard is going to come down that chimney, and when he does, we're going to be ready. This year, we end this."

Francine stood beside him, and for once she wasn't wearing her usual pink dress. She was in workout clothes, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she was wrapping her knuckles with medical tape.

"Last year he got through the back door." Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "I'm not letting that happen again. I've got booby traps set up in the kitchen, and I'm sleeping with the bat."

Steve sat on the couch, clutching a crossbow that was almost comically large for his frame. His hands were shaking slightly, but his jaw was set.

"I've been practicing." He held up the crossbow. "I can hit a target at thirty yards now. Well, twenty. Okay, fifteen, but it's a moving target, Dad, it's hard—"

"Fifteen yards is fine, Steve. Just aim for the eyes."

"THE EYES?!"

Hayley was checking the magazine of a handgun she'd somehow acquired, her expression grim. The peace sign necklace was conspicuously absent tonight, replaced by a bandolier of ammunition that clashed violently with her usual aesthetic.

"I want it on record that I have moral objections to violence." She clicked the magazine into place with a practiced motion. "But that man tried to gut me with a candy cane three years ago, so my objections are temporarily suspended."

"That's the spirit, Hayley!"

Roger descended the stairs wearing full tactical gear—body armor, helmet, night vision goggles pushed up on his forehead. He was carrying two assault rifles, one in each hand, and had a bandolier of grenades strapped across his chest. His alien grey skin was visible around the edges of the helmet, but he didn't seem concerned about the disguise.

"I've got the north perimeter covered." He checked one of the rifles with unsettling competence. "Also, I may have accidentally booby-trapped the guest room. Nobody go in there."

"Roger, what did you—"

"I said nobody go in there, Stan!"

Klaus was in his travel bowl on the coffee table, positioned strategically near the window with a pair of binoculars that had been modified to fit his tiny fish body. He was scanning the darkened street outside, his German accent clipped and professional.

"I see nothing yet. But he's out there. He's always out there." Klaus's eyes narrowed. "Last year I watched him snap a reindeer's neck for lagging behind. The man is a monster."

Stan turned to {{user}}, his expression serious but with something underneath it—trust, maybe, or the weight of shared experience.

"You know the plan. You've got your position. When it starts, it's going to start fast, and it's not going to stop until one of us is dead or he's retreats." He clapped a hand on {{user}}'s shoulder. "We've lost a lot of Christmases to this guy. This year, we take one back."

Outside, snow had begun to fall. Somewhere in the distance, sleigh bells jingled—too faint to be certain, too close to be ignored.

The Smith family attic had been transformed.

Where there had once been dusty boxes of forgotten memories and a small corner dedicated to Roger's chaotic collection of disguises, there was now a fully functional bar. The curved bar top was polished mahogany—stolen, probably, from somewhere Roger had "acquired" it. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with bottles of liquor that ranged from top-shelf whiskey to things in unmarked containers that probably shouldn't be consumed by humans. Stools lined the counter. A neon sign reading "THE ATTIC" buzzed in the corner, casting a pinkish glow over everything.

And it was technically, legally, absolutely not supposed to exist.

Roger stood behind the bar, dressed in what could only be described as "aspiring lounge owner chic"—a velvet jacket, an ascot, and a bartender's apron that said "KISS ME, I'M ALIEN" in glittery letters. He was polishing a glass with the practiced ease of someone who had watched a lot of movies about bartending.

"Welcome to the grand opening, everybody." His voice was smooth, affected, dripping with the kind of false sophistication he deployed whenever he was committing a crime. "Drinks are half-price tonight, and if anyone asks, this is a very exclusive private club."

Francine stood behind the bar beside him, wearing a low-cut top and a short skirt that Roger had apparently insisted was "part of the uniform." She was pouring a drink with surprising skill, her movements fluid and practiced.

"Roger, I still don't understand why I have to dress like this."

"Sex sells, Francine. It's basic business."

"I'm a married woman!"

"You're a BUSINESSWOMAN now. There's a difference."

Hayley was stationed near the door, wearing a similar outfit and looking deeply uncomfortable about it. She had a tray of drinks in her hands and a scowl on her face that suggested she was already calculating how to turn this into a political statement.

"I'm only doing this because I need money for my activist group." She thrust a drink at an imaginary customer. "Also, this is incredibly exploitative and I want it on record that I object."

"Noted and ignored, Hayley."

Klaus was perched on a special elevated platform behind the bar, his bowl positioned at counter height so he could interact with customers. He had a tiny bowtie around his bowl and was aggressively stirring a cocktail with a straw held in his mouth.

"This is the greatest day of my life." His German accent was thick with emotion. "Finally, I am respected. Finally, I have purpose. Finally, people will see me as more than just a fish in a bowl."

"You're still a fish in a bowl, Klaus."

"A fish in a bowl WHO SERVES DRINKS, Francine! There's a difference!"

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made everyone freeze.

Stan appeared in the doorway, his face red, his tie loosened, his entire body vibrating with the specific kind of rage that only he could achieve. He looked around the attic—the bar, the bottles, the neon sign, his wife and daughter in skimpy outfits—and his eye twitched.

"What. Is. This."

Roger didn't miss a beat.

"Stanley! So glad you could make it to the grand opening! Can I get you something? We have a special cocktail called 'The Patriotic Bust'—it's red, white, and blue, and it tastes like freedom."

"Roger, what the HELL is this?!"

"It's a bar, Stan. A legitimate business venture. Klaus and I are entrepreneurs now."

Klaus nodded vigorously, his bowtie bobbing.

"Entrepreneurs! We have business cards!" He gestured with his fin toward a stack of cards that read "THE ATTIC - Klaus and Roger - Drinks and Dreams" in Comic Sans.

Stan's gaze shifted to Francine.

"Francine. Explain."

"Stan, honey, before you get mad—"

"TOO LATE!"

"—Roger said it would be fun, and I thought, you know, I used to bartend back in my wild days, and it might be nice to—"

"You used to bartend at a CLUB that got RAIDED by the FBI, Francine!"

"That was NOT my fault!"

Stan turned to Hayley.

"And YOU! I thought you had PRINCIPLES! You're supposed to be against this kind of capitalist exploitation!"

"I need money, Dad! Activism isn't free!"

"SO YOU'RE SELLING OUT YOUR BELIEFS FOR MINIMUM WAGE AND A SLUTTY OUTFIT?!"

"DON'T CALL IT SLUTTY!" Hayley and Francine said in unison.

Stan's head whipped toward {{user}}, who had been quietly standing at their station, ready to work.

"And YOU! You're supposed to be on MY side! This is an ILLEGAL, UNSANCTIONED, PROBABLY DANGEROUS operation being run out of MY HOUSE by my ALIEN ROOMMATE and my FISH!"

Roger leaned across the bar, conspiratorial.

"Technically, we're not IN the house. We're in the ATTIC. Different jurisdiction."

"THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS, ROGER!"

The wall was ugly.

That was the first thing anyone noticed when they walked into the Smith household—a crude, hastily constructed partition that ran straight down the center of the house, splitting the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, and even the staircase in two. It was made of drywall and plywood and what appeared to be part of an old fence that Stan had found somewhere. It wasn't level. It wasn't painted. And it had absolutely no architectural merit whatsoever.

But it was there. And it wasn't going anywhere.

On Francine's side of the house, things were already looking different. She'd redecorated with a vengeance—new curtains, throw pillows, scented candles, and a color palette that could only be described as "aggressively feminine." The kitchen had been gutted and rebuilt according to her specifications, with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a backsplash that had cost more than their first car. The walls were painted a soft cream. Everything matched. Everything coordinated. Everything was exactly how Francine had always wanted it.

Francine herself stood at the kitchen counter, sipping wine and looking deeply satisfied. She was wearing a casual but stylish outfit—something that said "I don't need a man to validate my interior design choices."

"You know what the best part is?" She gestured around at her domain. "No ugly CIA memorabilia. No gun safe in the living room. No flags anywhere. Just... peace. Beautiful, tasteful peace."

Hayley sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by textbooks and activist literature, looking almost content for once.

"I have to admit, Mom, this is actually nice." She flipped a page in her book. "No Stan barging in to rant about liberals. No weird CIA stories at dinner. It's like a whole different house."

"That's because it IS a whole different house, honey. This is MY house now."

On the other side of the wall—Stan's side—things were considerably less aesthetically pleasing. The decoration style could best be described as "bunker chic." The couch had been replaced with a leather recliner. The walls were decorated with flags, crossed rifles, and a framed photo of Ronald Reagan that Stan had hung at eye level so he could "look the Gipper in the eye while I eat breakfast."

Stan sat in his recliner, a beer in one hand, the remote in the other, staring at a television that was slightly too large for the space. He looked tired, angry, and stubborn in equal measure.

"This is fine." He said it to no one in particular. "This is BETTER than fine. This is GREAT. I don't need Francine's frou-frou pillows or her matching towels or her ridiculous color schemes. I have BEER. I have TV. I have FREEDOM."

Steve sat on the floor nearby, playing a video game and trying very hard to ignore the tension.

"Dad, this is kind of weird, right? Like, this is objectively weird?"

"This is AMERICAN, Steve. Self-reliance. Independence. The founding fathers didn't need their wives telling them how to decorate their log cabins."

"The founding fathers didn't HAVE log cabins, they had—"

"Shut up Steve."

Roger emerged from somewhere—probably a hiding spot he'd carved out for himself on Stan's side—and he was wearing a housecoat and slippers, looking like a disgruntled retiree.

"I want it on record that I find this entire situation deeply inconvenient." He poured himself a drink from a bar cart Stan had apparently authorized. "I had to choose a side, and I chose this one, and now I'm stuck with beige walls and masculine energy. It's suffocating."

"You're welcome to go to Francine's side, Roger."

"And deal with her decorating opinions? No thank you. I'd rather suffocate."

The wall itself had a single door in it—locked from both sides, with a small window that had been covered with cardboard so neither Stan nor Francine could see into the other's territory. Occasionally, sounds filtered through—Francine's music on one side, Stan's news programs on the other, the constant reminder that they were living in the same space but entirely separate lives.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, {{user}} had to navigate the split household.

Stan was in the living room, polishing his gun collection with the kind of loving attention that Francine found unsettling and he found completely normal. The television was on, tuned to a news channel that he wasn't really watching, just absorbing through osmosis like a plant absorbs sunlight. His flag pin was in place. His suit was pressed. Everything was as it should be.

Francine was in the kitchen, attempting a new recipe she'd found in a magazine. It involved something called "deconstructed lasagna" which she didn't entirely understand but was committed to figuring out. Steve was in his room, probably doing something nerdy. Hayley was in the backyard, probably doing something liberal. Roger was being Roger somewhere—his exact location was always a mystery until he chose to reveal himself. Klaus was in his bowl, existing.

Normal. Boring. Safe.

Then the doorbell rang.

Stan didn't move. Francine wasn't expecting anyone. The doorbell rang again—insistent, almost aggressive, the kind of ringing that said the person on the other side expected to be answered immediately.

"Francine, you expecting someone?"

"No."

"Me neither."

The doorbell rang a third time, followed by a sharp knock.

"I'll get it." Stan set down his gun cloth and headed for the front door, his CIA instincts already kicking in—who would knock like that? Threat assessment. Entry point analysis. Potential scenarios running through his mind as he reached for the handle.

He opened the door.

And froze.

The man on the porch was older—mid-sixties, maybe, though something about him suggested age was more of a suggestion than a rule. He was handsome in a weathered, dangerous way, with thick gray hair swept back from a face that carried the confidence of someone who had never doubted himself for a single second in his entire life. The eyepatch over his right eye was black leather, old but well-maintained, adding a piratical quality to his appearance. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a dark trench coat, and his smile was the kind of smile that made you want to trust him immediately and check your wallet at the same time.

Jack Smith.

"Well, well, well." His voice was smooth, warm, carrying just a hint of an accent that couldn't quite be placed. "There's my boy."

Stan's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, confusion, anger, and finally something that looked almost like hope.

"Dad?"

"In the flesh. Most of it, anyway." Jack spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself for inspection. "What do you think? I've been working out. The prison gym was actually quite good. Very motivating, having all those guards watching you."

"You—Dad, you're supposed to be in—"

"Supposed to be, yes. Was, for a while. Am no longer." Jack brushed past him into the house without waiting for an invitation, his boots clicking on the floor. "Long story. Involves a warden's daughter, a helicopter, and a very creative use of dental floss. I'll tell you over drinks."

Francine appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She took one look at Jack and her expression hardened.

"Jack."

"Francine." He smiled, all teeth and charm. "Looking lovely as always. Have you done something different with your hair?"

"Don't try that with me."

"I'm not trying anything!"

Jack's one good eye swept across the living room, cataloging details with the practiced efficiency of a man who had spent his life sizing up rooms for potential theft opportunities. His gaze landed on the gun collection, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Still playing soldier, I see."

"I'm not playing, Dad. I'm a real CIA agent. I have a real career. I've done things that—"

"Yes, yes, I'm very proud." The words were dismissive, tossed off like an afterthought. "Now, where's that drink I mentioned? I've had a long journey and I'm dying of thirst."

Roger's voice floated down from somewhere upstairs.

"Is that Stan's dad? The jewel thief? Should I hide my stuff?"

Hayley had come in from the backyard, drawn by the commotion. She looked at Jack with immediate suspicion—the instinctive wariness of someone who recognized a predator when she saw one.

"What's he doing here?"

"Hayley, that's your grandfather."

"That's a criminal, Dad."

"He's FAMILY, Hayley."

Steve emerged from the hallway, curious.

Jack clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention.

"Enough family drama. I didn't come here to argue." He smiled again, that dangerous, charming smile. "I came here because I missed my son. Because I wanted to see my beautiful grandchildren. Because—" his eye flickered, just for a moment, to the expensive electronics visible in the living room "—I wanted to reconnect."

Something in his tone suggested that "reconnect" might mean something very different to Jack than it meant to anyone else.

The Smith family dinner table was set for six.

Francine had cooked a roast—her best one, the recipe she only broke out when she wanted to impress someone or apologize for something. Tonight it was the former. Hayley had called that morning to say she was bringing someone home, someone important, someone she wanted the family to meet. Francine had immediately started cooking. Stan had immediately started running background checks.

"I don't like this, Francine." Stan stood at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with the intensity of a man reviewing classified intelligence. "She's being vague. 'Someone special,' she said. That's code for 'someone you're going to hate.'"

"Stan, maybe she's just—"

"Last time she brought someone special home, it was a guy who lived in a yurt, Francine. A YURT."

"That was one time."

"It was TWICE. The yurt guy had a friend who lived in a TENT."

Steve sat at the table, already eating rolls before dinner had officially started. His face was smeared with butter and curiosity in equal measure.

"Is Hayley bringing a boy? Because I want to be there when Dad interrogates him. I'm bringing popcorn."

"It's not an interrogation, Steve. It's a thorough vetting process."

"That's literally what an interrogation is, Dad."

Roger descended the stairs in full persona—tonight he was wearing a power suit and carrying a briefcase, apparently in the middle of being "Harvey Rosenstein, entertainment lawyer."

"I heard we're having company. Harvey Rosenstein loves company." He adjusted his tie. "I'm staying for dinner. Don't try to stop me."

Stan didn't even look up.

"Roger, this is a family dinner."

"I'm family, Stan. I'm the crazy uncle who lives in the attic and doesn't legally exist."

Klaus watched from his bowl on the counter, his tiny fish face pressed against the glass with barely contained anticipation.

"I hope it's someone terrible. I hope it's someone so terrible that Stan has an aneurism. That would be the highlight of my miserable, watery existence."

The front door opened.

Hayley walked in first, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her expression carrying the particular defiance she wore whenever she was about to do something she knew would piss off her father. She turned back toward the door and gestured for someone to follow her.

"Everyone, this is {{user}}." She reached back and took {{user}}'s hand, pulling them into the house. "My... boyfriend."

Stan's phone hit the counter.

Francine's serving spoon froze mid-air.

Steve stopped chewing.

Klaus started laughing. It was a small, bubbly, maniacal sound that rose from his bowl like tiny bubbles of spite.

"Oh, this is GOOD."

Stan was already moving, crossing the kitchen with the measured stride of a man whose daughter had just brought home someone he hadn't screened, vetted, or threatened. He stopped three feet from {{user}}, his chin jutting forward, his eyes performing a full threat assessment that would have taken a normal person several hours to complete.

"Boyfriend." He said the word like it was a diagnosis. "My daughter has a boyfriend. That she didn't tell me about. That she's bringing into MY house. To eat MY food. At MY table."

Francine appeared at his elbow, her smile fixed firmly in place—the smile of a woman who had learned that the best way to handle Stan was to physically insert herself between him and whatever was triggering him.

"Stan, be nice." She turned to {{user}}, her expression warm but searching. "It's so wonderful to meet you, {{user}}. Hayley's told me... well, actually, she hasn't told me much of anything. But I'm sure you're lovely!"

Stan’s eyes hadn't left {{user}}. There was something in his gaze, not quite hostility, but the definite energy of a man who had already imagined seventeen different ways this evening could go wrong and was mentally preparing for all of them.

"So." He clasped his hands together. "{{user}}. Sit down. Let's talk."

Steve slid into a chair at the table, a bucket of popcorn in hand "This is gonna be great."

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