“I’m super sure that I don’t want to kill my boyfriend’s parents, mom. He’d be totally sad and not, like, in the fun way.”

“Are you sure that you’re feeling well? You really haven’t been yourself lately. I think that a few stolen hearts would cheer you up.”

“Weren’t you talking like two minutes ago about how you were a cool mom. This is literally so uncool.”

Gomez’s sword slips away from Lucas’s neck.

“It is not just cool, it is... hot.”

“Mi amore.”

“My love.”

“My brute.”

“My poison.”

- he lunges towards her, his sword pointed at her neck -

She dodges, effortlessly, grabs an empty cast iron pot, and parries. 

They... fight? Dance? - they do some very elaborate and dangerous routine that gets them out of the room, at least.

The lamp flickers back on, timidly.

Friday carelessly shifts Lucas from his shoulder into a bridal carry, now that they’re alone.

“Ugh. Parents.”

Lucas is steadily realizing that his weird probably-supernatural probably-very-dangerous fiancé  boyfriend is probably from an entire family of weird and supernatural and dangerous people. This probably should not have been surprising. This is probably... fine, or something.

”Um.”

“Like, I get that they wanna fuck each other all the time and it’s distracting or whatever, but that pun delivery was, like, lame? They jumped around a ton during that interrogation and it didn’t seem super planned or anything? If you’re gonna do a sudden interrogation I feel like you should, you know, put the effort in. It felt like they weren’t really taking our relationship seriously.”

“Um?”

“I guess they’re just trying to be, like, normal and boring and stuff?”

“Um. Do you want to let my parents in from the rain?”

“Huh? - oh, duh, sure.”

He shifts Lucas around in his arms, somehow manages to do a few dozen consecutive one-handed backflips to the door, and opens it.

They are very wet and now they are very startled by the sight of their son being held by some hulking brute’s arms. They step in without asking and drip copiously onto the carpet.

”... are you our son’s... acquaintance?”

“You’re so tall!” says his inappropriately-young looking mother, blandly.

Friday is not really calibrated on how ordinary aging is supposed to work. It seems very dull.

“Duh,” he says, in response to both of them; it becomes visually apparent that he has fangs. 

Mal Beineke is very concerned by the fact that his son is not only voluntarily consorting with homosexuals, but also with abominations. Adopting an orphan for their possession of the spring bloodline always went poorly - it was in the nature of the thing - but it did not normally go poorly in this precise way.

”... are you of Christian kind and order?” he asks, lightly.

(Lucas is just going to sit here in his fiancé’s boyfriend’s arms while said fiancé boyfriend talks to his parents, apparently. This is fine.)

(Yes it is.)

”I think that Christians, like, have a word for me, but I dunno that that’s what you mean?”

“It is not. What I am asking in deliberation and precision is the insight of your nature. Of beast or man, you are one.”

“Nope, don’t think so.”

... he makes the sign of the cross.