Now With 50% More Family Conflict
As Stan Smith once said, "A man kills what a man loves, before it weakens him". Aliens aren't exempt from that rule either, especially not those torn between two of them. Roger/Smith het. Significant spoilers for subplot of "The Magnificent Steven".
First for some warnings: medium-to-strong language, hard drug references, a section of non-con, slight cliché use, and not-quite-explicit sexual content with a dash of belly button fetishism and food play. Still, apart from the last two or three it's really no more explicit than the show itself tends to get.
Now for the notes. Firstly, this is my first attempt at American Dad fic (cross-posted from an LJ community), so constructive criticism is welcomed, particularly regarding whether I get them IC or not. Secondly, this story encompasses about a week (a day per section) – twice-to-three-times longer a time period than the episode spans. If you have a problem with this, just call it an AU; if you don't, just call it an AU anyhow. Or don't. I'm not fussed, and the time continuity in the show is a little loose anyways, given that most episodes are self-contained.
Disclaimer: I wouldn't want to remove the American Dad franchise from such a prestigious guy; between you and me, MacFarlane is a bit of a bruiser.
***
Day 1
It shouldn't even be her: that's what gets Roger the most. Sure, the cashier at Booze Town Liquor might be a little uglier than he expected up so close, but how is he to know that feelings can change so quickly? Up until now, he didn't know they could.
"God, baby, your back is so toned."
"Oh, my lats. Yeah, the electric can-opener broke. I've been opening them manually."
It should by all rights just be acting anyway. It was, a few minutes ago. A simple walk-by, some flirts bounced back and forth, the cashier looking on and getting jealous and wanting him for herself, 'dropping' his faux girl and reaping the benefits. Actors pulled it off so easily on TV; for someone as acting-honed as Roger, it should have been a cinch.
"With these big strong hands? Ah, they make me feel so safe."
"Thanks. Cans again."
Maybe that's half the problem. Maybe one or both of them is too into the role set for them. Yeah, that's it. She's played the part too well; she's become more enthusiastic than needed in the clasping of the appendages. His body is just following suit and the hormones are confused, is all.
"I'll tell you the cans I like."
But even with this in mind, it's a little fickle, even for Roger. His planet's sentient species is reputed for indecision when it comes to prospective partners; hell, he's gotten through many an alien, and human, in his lifetime; but even so, he's never known it to be so intense before. It's like a switch has been flicked, a target manipulated under the smoke-screen.
"Oh, sassy hands! Don't just get one cheek, girl. Other side!"
Still, it's pointless arguing about it now. It's been pulled off and the change has happened.
And who is he to pass up the opportunity?
"So, do you think it worked?"
"…Something worked. Hayley, I'm no longer in love with the booze girl. I'm in love with you."
"Uh—"
"Shh. I stole you Dentyne with my big strong hands…"
***
Day 2
He watches her (and her mother) from his viewpoint on the staircase, tentative, taciturn. And it's not often you can apply those words to him. Then, it's not often these sorts of feelings occur in him for one of the people in his surrogate family either.
A gift rests on the step above his: a recreation of the "gondola incident". She wouldn't remember it, it was a while back. But he does. That is one of the very few advantages of being one of those aliens with photographic memory. His snapshots last in the Technicolor they were shot in even when they have long turned to sepia in other minds.
Still, the whole point is rendered moot when her chapter of his photo album only goes back about four years. It will take some 'probing' to fill in the pre-alien gaps.
Which brings his train of thought back to the problem: he really really wants to probe his sort-of-sister.
He doesn't like thinking about that. The more he thinks about it, the bigger of a problem it becomes. Let's look at something else.
What's on the TV the girls are watching? Some modern-day soap opera, it looks like - "Virgin Showers" or something. Strange, that's not normally the tripe Hayley would put up with. Is she just not paying attention, or using drugs to put on a masquerade of focus?
Then he hears a sound bite of one of the characters bringing up 'important environmental issues'. Ah. That explains a lot.
Kvetch drama-soaps are usually more Roger's glass of Chardonnay (or Chateau Margeaux '54 if he's got hangover pills to spare). Then, he's supposedly the TV expert in the family, period. It was a particular sequence on TV that inspired him to do the 'other-girl-posing-as-girlfriend' scheme in the first place.
The scheme that made him fall for Hayley.
Sigh. And again we return to the core of the issue.
There's nothing else in the room that can allow Roger to skim over the topic without focusing on the mundane. It's time for his conscious to just face it: the girl he wants, nay, needs, is technically his sister.
Sure, she's beautiful. And passionate. And an angel. And all those other complimentary terms. She's still his 'sister'.
Isn't she?
This last question makes him catch himself; a loophole has been detected. If he's only a member of the family through hospitality on the part of the alpha male, he's not really related to its inhabitants, is he?
A quick think on the matter decides: no, he isn't. Therefore, Hayley should still be OK. Problem solved.
Wow. He wonders why he didn't think of that five minutes ago. But such is the nature of the alien.
Another problem briefly surfaces – she's already got a boyfriend – but he ignores it. One issue at a time is enough. For now, let's just stare at the beautiful girl in front of him, and temporarily feel happier with the world. And, of course, wonder when the hell the programme will stop so that he can do what he left the attic for in the first place.
Speak of the devil; it's gone to a commercial break. Now's his chance. He makes his presence known – no, damn it, Francine, he's talking to Hayley – and heads down the stairs to present his labour of love.
Twenty seconds later, he goes back the way he came, grin on his face and sweet Twizzler Hayley on his mind.
Turns out there was nothing to worry about there either.
***
Day 3
It's a very strange thing – somehow, in these circumstances, Roger always ends up in the closet. Here he is nestled in amongst all the outfits Hayley scarcely wears, hearing her seemingly muffled voice from the other side of the door.
The on-off boyfriend's popped in again.
He's put on a show of ignorance of her so-called significant other in the past. After all, you can't make friends or enemies or rivals with people who aren't allowed to see you. But he can't ignore him this time, the strange laughter and the constant smell, the smell that proves that even if the stowaway were to burst out of the ceiling wearing a sombrero and doing the hula it would all be put down to the drugs being consumed.
Oh god, the drugs. Those special brownies, the packets of crack. The alien should be able to stand it, but he can't. Hayley can't achieve her highest potential of beauty when locked in that vicious of a cycle. If she remains near that dope of a Jeff, she will lose any semblance of credibility she once had and have her entire life structure broken down. Perhaps even resorting to doing sordid jobs to earn her pay pocket. Disgraced and beaten down by those bastards just to get her kicks.
Uh, not that he'd know anything about that. Nope. Definitely not about that trashy existence.
But still. Jeff isn't good enough for her. Never has been.
Of course, he'd never think this were he sensible and had not fallen for someone who is clearly taken, but love somehow mutes rationale and gives one a sweet clarity at the same time.
It's confusing. But not as confusing as why she's still tolerating the human.
He tries to send a glare in through the crack of the open door, hisses under his breath. Neither will see or hear him. But he does it anyway. To make himself feel better, and to make his anger last longer. She's too good for that fucker.
She doesn't deserve him.
Hm. Strange. Up until now, his love wasn't really serious at all. Now it is, and the intensity of it all scares him a little.
Only a little, though. Not enough to put him off.
As soon as the smell gets a little less intense, which is usually a sign junkie's left the building, Roger emerges from his hiding place and kisses her soft cool lips for the second time since he fell in love with her.
Except it's not a kiss, not really; it's a mark of ownership. It'll tell any subsequent Jeff that tries it with her to back the fuck off.
***
Day 4
"Last time I checked, I lived in this house too."
Pencil strokes, sweeping granite marks, the small nose-hairs from the sneeze of an eraser – the evidence of Roger's latest artistic endeavour.
It is also the evidence of the intensity of his feelings by this point. After all, he's only ever drawn one person nude wearing the Heart of the Ocean before, and that was Dolly Parton.
And even then, he never loved her as much as he loves Hayley.
Of course, the other difference between them is that Dolly is unobtainable, and Hayley is already his. She's sitting just a second across from him right now, eating a sandwich he made for her.
He doesn't just want to make her sandwiches, though. He wants to be the sandwich. He wants her closer to him. Closer, deeper, and more intense. Just like the feelings he holds for her.
Nothing but clichés from the love-struck alien; it's crazy.
But the clichés of such adoration, or as she foolishly calls it, "infatuation", are like celebrity break-ups; they usually come in bunches. Such he discovers when, out of the corner of his eye, he spots the inferior woman of the house.
The inferior woman of the house showing off a lot more flesh than usual.
"Wow, Franny, look at you!" he remarks, in a manner he thinks is nonchalant.
Aw nuts, a coy giggle. What is it with these dames and the coy giggles? Then some tripe about her living in the house or something. He's not really paying attention to the talk, what with that figure. That figure, and the boobs, and… the body… and…
that body, the sensual body, lying across his bed, beckoning… bam in the bam… the bop in the … woo …
No. No no no, hormones, you aren't falling for that, don't you dare. I am NOT going to put myself through all of that again. No, look at Hayley again, look at her, don't, no, fuck DON'T--
But before he knows what's happening, the new chapter in the sketchbook is created, all of the sweeping granite marks from the time before reluctantly for naught.
"I thought you were drawing me," Hayley protests.
"I was, but I never realized your mother had the wa-BAM!" he says on the outside, but on the inside thinking, panicking, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
The old love rival cliché.
***
Day 5
He'll be lying if he tells himself the "grown-up" date with Francine was a bag of crap, but the words "the greatest date ever" aren't exactly true either. He's experienced both better and worse back on his planet and on this one.
The cuisine, on the other hand … sorry, non-converts, but Goldschläger, as tasty as it is when not made from random house ingredients, is never going to be a match for the Red Lobster's dipping sauce. Then, said dipping sauce is draped over what little of Hayley's flesh is normally exposed right now, so Roger might be a little bias.
He licks a little of it from around her belly button, sour tongue working into those soft-to-the-touch places. He knows she likes that. He knows how to make her squirm and scream and giggle in that way.
Hayley in his mouth. But Francine on his mind.
That's not how it is meant to be.
The other cruddy thing about Goldschläger is that it gives you a more realistic viewpoint on things. Francine may be beautiful and more boobiful compared to her junior, but her beauty is technically only skin-deep. On the inside she's still the same Francine she was outside of the skinny-cut dress.
Hayley, on the other hand, has expanded, grown, matured in his head, in her appeal of the looks and the personality. He's found out something different about her every time they have a conversation. Scary dreams here, bisexuality there, and other seemingly insignificant details that still manage to mean so much to him and her.
She's grown. Her mother has not. Hormones can only last for so long.
Which doesn't explain the fact that he's still a little turned on by her mother.
Holy frijoli, Stan, Hayley, Francine - is there still anyone in this family he HASN'T had the hots for at one point?
Steve, he supposes. But Steve's probably next on the list. He wouldn't put it past himself. He's surprisingly astute for a human being. That's the danger of pansexuality – family is never exempt.
(Meanwhile, down in the living room, the goldfish sneezes. He claims it is because someone forgot his existence again. The dust bunnies maintain that it's the fish flu.)
But Francine or Steve or Stan or whoever else he might feel for next isn't important anyway. Hayley is the one he's licking dipping sauce off of. Hayley is the one who's currently causing this predicament in the first place. Hayley is the most important thing at the moment.
He kisses her, almost as if to confirm it to himself. Her mouth alone is a world explored only by Jeff and a few others. He's the first alien to taste it properly.
Delicious.
His doubts further disappear along with her clothes, her underwear, their ethics. They follow the conventions of the normal true love relationship. He kisses her again, they slide under the covers, she does that little thing with her finger, he fucks her in his own way until he is sore, the memories, oh god the memories he gains, it bonds them for life. Then they both cuddle close.
By now he is sure that Francine was a hiccup and that this is real true love. An alien's heart can be a fickle thing indeed.
Afterwards, she whispers in his ear before falling asleep. Nothing too romantic, just a simple sentiment.
"Now I'm yours."
He hears the words slightly differently: now he is hers.
***
Day 6
No sooner has one emotional fiasco ended than he is swept into another. Last night he was making Hayley arch and coil and writhe as his regular self, and today he's been dragged into a more tasteful cinematic date with Francine under one of his other identities.
Irony at its fittest: in the romantic comedy of Roger's life, the protagonist and his potential affair are watching a romantic comedy, on infidelity no less.
Normally he'd be picking up trivialities and plotholes, or staring mesmerized at a particular actor's abs. But this is hardly a normal scenario. The way she grasps his hand until the fingers turn purple, the frightful stare of her eyes in the pitch black audience seating; these, amongst other things, serve to detract his attention from the tale and place the situation firmly in the 'not normal' genre. What else could it be?
It's true what they say, he supposes to himself. Truth is stranger than fiction. And this truth doesn't get any stranger than this.
The tinted glasses particular to this disguise fall off, but he's afraid to pick them up. Any slip-up, any accidental touching of the delicate socked foot next to him, may show some deep feelings he intended for the woman back home. And from the look (and grip) of things, Francine needs little-to-no encouragement on that measure. She'd probably interpret a glance of 'let-me-the-hell-out-of-here-I'm-missing-Name-That-Fruit' as 'move-your-hand-further-down-a-tad-you're-turning-me-on'. Definitely not the message Roger needs to give to the crush with a complex.
So he waits until she slips off for a bathroom break, and then he snatches the glasses from the ground and returns them to the eyes. There's a sex scene on screen now, female-on-male non-con, and he's looking at it through rose-tinted shades. The color of love, blood and Francine.
How much irony did they put in this movie?! It's not like explosions or gay, you know; you can't just slather it on slapdash.
The credits roll, the problem resolved, the audience leaving and chuckling to themselves. But the latest installment of the Roger the Alien series isn't over yet.
Francine's somehow managed to stalk him around to the back of the movie theatre, where only the less-off folk are to witness them. First she tries the easy way of making him a little more 'open', through small talk about the plot, its characters and the comic twist at the end.
"I can't believe she turned out to be the original girlfriend all the time!"
"Yeah, uh-huh."
Dissuaded by monosyllabic answers, she tries another tactic: if he promises to satisfy her in the way he satisfied her daughter, she won't say a word about it to anyone, nor deny him the sweets in the closet when he gets cravings for them.
Yes, it's a jump from the sublime to the ridiculous. But she's a desperate woman.
This is precisely her problem.
She doesn't see that if she comes across as too fanatical about him, it's a turn off, not a turn on. In fact, it's bordering on the realm of frightening, which Roger does not need any more of. He doesn't love her, he only felt for her at the wrong time when she showed a little cleavage and a little more leg. That's not love, that's fucked-up hormones.
Besides, she doesn't feel for him either. Not really. All she wants is proof she's beautiful. She's a jealous married woman, for crying out loud. If she wants to cheat on Stan to prove her sexuality, there are other willing candidates that aren't extraterrestrial.
So he declines. He tells her his honest viewpoint on the situation for the only time in the entire adventure.
This doesn't sit well with Francine.
Quicker than he can register it, she's pushing him up against the wall with such force that he swears the crack of endoskeleton against brick can be heard.
This really, really doesn't sit well with Francine.
Somehow, through the sensation of the wall-edging assault on his mouth and body, he can hear her assert herself, insist her credibility. He can sense it in her movement, through the mind-numbing panic.
Tongue. I do exist.
Caress. I am beautiful.
Clutch. Grind. You do want me. You will want me, Roger.
For a fleeting minute, he's back in the movie, except now he's on the other side of the screen. The hapless young man getting sexually attacked by the crazy psycho bitch, glasses falling off again so it can be seen in all its not-red clarity.
This is one comedy of terror he doesn't want to be a part of.
So before she can go too far, he gives her a quick blast with pepper spray he 'borrowed' from one of the poor folks' pocket, and runs off for home while she's blinded by the stinging.
He runs out of breath about halfway to home, which gives him some much needed time to think. At first all he can think about is the severity of the situation.
Some crazy bitch nearly raped me. Francine has become a crazy bitch. She attacked me just for loving Hayley more than her. God, Hayley is hot. Wonder what she's doing right now.
I'm missing the point. Sorry. Francine nearly raped me. Oh god.
Then. A really chilling thought occurs to him.
Next time I won't have the pepper spray.
***
Day 7
This has to end now. They have to stop luring him in like this. He has to get out.
These are the thoughts of the alien, wracked with soulless laughter as he walks back into the house, hearing the mother bringing up the rear with her 'jokes' and knowing the daughter is practically eagle-spread across the bed in preparation. It's suffocating him, the stamina with which he can keep this up, double-dating between the two.
Tensions are strained; mother-daughter relations are at their lowest. One is silently reminding him of the bargain struck yesterday, whilst the other is probably resorting to obvious tissue boobs. The stress, the pain, the panic cripples him.
He has to get out.
Of course, this doesn't show on the outside of him. By now he has become quite the expert in creating a façade of relative normality. He enters the attic, as he is supposed to; he hears conversation and responds appropriately, as he is supposed to; he observes that this new sex-bomb Hayley is a 'technical knock-out', as he is obligated to do.
But on the inside, his brain is ticking away. It's been doing it since this morning. He has to get some form of escape for himself. He can't keep being insightful and repetitive about his situation while the girls battle it out for his affections. Otherwise he'll break, and hell will break loose with him. All because of a low-key catfight to prove the existence of two girls in the house.
Then, a silent brainwave. It occurs to him when the fakeys are revealed (at least he was right on that measure). It's a low-key catfight right now. So what's to stop him from turning it into a full-scale one?
Sure, it could wreck both relationships entirely. But it offers the perfect rock to hide behind; a rock in the form of a website called . He could cover this whole mess up through that, disguise it as one of his many schemes to avoid the empty wallet dance. Anywho, the relationships themselves have become synonymous with getting ripped apart at the teeth of female canines at this point. He just wants the mental torment to be over, to start afresh, for Hayley to love him, the real un-tense un-torn him, with no competition.
Alien laws are frightfully similar to robot laws, except self-preservation is the top priority.
So he takes the plunge and makes the push.
So he covers it all up, he throws them off the scent and into a pile of deux ex machetes.
So he creates a distraction by giving them some pack of lies about a feelings-manipulating scam for a free T-shirt.
He knows he's a phoney for this. He knows he's a large fraud. But he's going to get a medium.
That way, he can choke on his lies more easily.
During the aftermath spent alone, Roger's body finally succumbs to a stress-induced hibernation cycle. The pressure of two sexual relationships, and then the shame of none at all, have finally taken its tolls on him.
He feels sick as his body shuts down, sick and tired and shameful, but mostly sad. He's completely fucked up his chances with Hayley and he knows it. It had to be done, he knows, but at least he'd held a small hope that she would forgive him and things would be complete with them and they'd be truly together.
But he's lost her now. And this last-ditch exit will not be quick to forgive.
In his last thought before forty-eight hours of nothingness, he wonders if the booze girl is still available. Even the inevitable revelation that she's a dyke would be better than this shit.