Old Writing 2: Friday Night Dinner (Patreon)

Dylan hated Friday night family dinner. It was awkward when it was just him and dad and it was even more awkward with his new stepfather. Archon was always hard to read, mainly because he wore a gold and white helmet that made Darth Vader’s look minimalist. It wasn’t clear to Dylan how he could eat through the mask, but he did.

“This is good, dear,” Archon said. He either had some kind of voice modulator or ate sandpaper; keeping a voice that deep and gravelly was just not possible without help.

“Thanks, I tried a new recipe.” Dylan's dad chuckled, "It was really easy, actually—“

“Are we just going to continue pretending this is normal?” Dylan interrupted, pointing an accusatory fork at his father. “That you married a supervillain?”

Archon said nothing but set down his cutlery. He wasn’t mad, because when he was mad things started to catch fire.

“I know it’s… complicated. I’m sorry, I know it’s hard, I know it’s got to be weird, but… I love Archon. He completes me. He fulfills me. It’s a big adjustment, but—“

“He threw a minivan at me once.” Dylan cut in again.

“Two years ago,” Archon countered, “and it wasn’t personal, and it wasn’t with lethal intent.”

“It was a minivan! I was fifteen!”

“And I don’t throw heavy machinery at children unless I’m sure they will survive.”

“You hear this, dad? This is the guy you want to spend your life with?” Dylan threw his fork at Archon, which bounced harmlessly off of his helmet.

“Don’t throw the silverware!” Dylan’s dad snapped, “it was a wedding gift.”

Archon cocked his head. “We didn’t get… ah.”

Dylan stopped. He was still mad, furious even, but he knew when to fold. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown that.”

“At?” His father prompted.

“At Archon.”

“Thank you.” He sighed. “I know this is hard. I get it, okay? You don’t have to figure it all out right now. But you’re not getting anywhere,” he pointed to Dylan, “if you refuse to budge. There’s got to be a compromise.”

“I don’t want an evil stepdad.”

Archon chuckled. “I’m not evil. You want evil? There’s a company in town that conscripts children into hazardous situations with minimal supervision and for no pay. That’s evil.”

“You broke into a bank and stole like ten thousand dollars last month.”

“And where do you think your college funds are coming from?”

“I don’t need a C-list villain paying for my school!”

“C-list? C-list!? I don’t harvest the reality-bending power of dying stars to be called C-list.” Archon was glowing dully orange, his tee shirt beginning to sizzle.

“That’s why they send kids after you instead of professionals,” Dylan continued, reveling in this chance to piss off an adult. “They know you’re not worth the trouble.”

“They know that if they sent professionals after me I would kill them.”

“That’s not what your file in the archives says.”

Archon’s rage had progressed to searing white. He held a clenched fist up, then relaxed. The heat and light pouring off of him dimmed.

“I don’t care what your bosses think of me. I don’t care.” He sighed. “Dylan. I don’t know if I can ever change your mind, but… I can’t change what I’ve done in the past, and neither can you. Can we just call a truce? At home, at least. For Lamar’s sake.”

Dylan harrumphed. “Fine. I don’t like it, but okay.”

Lamar laughed. “See, nobody’s happy. Perfect compromise.”

Despite themselves, Dylan and Archon both laughed.

“Can you please go put on some pants, dear?”

Archon blinked. “Ah, yes. Of course. I’ll be right back to clean up the soot.”

Dylan side-eyed his father as Archon disappeared into another room. “He fulfills you, eh?”

“Don’t give me that, young man. Besides, he’s usually not the—”

“Gross, dad. TMI.”

“You started it!”

There was a crash from the direction of the master bedroom. “Lamar, dear,” Archon called. The fire alarm went off. “The bed’s on fire again.”