Work Text:
The morning sun over Arlen is a pale, shivering thing, barely cutting through the uncharacteristic chill that lingers after yesterday’s freak snowfall. Inside the wood-paneled office of Strickland Propane, Hank Hill stands stiff-necked, his jaw working a rhythm that Peggy would recognize as the "dangerous" one. Before him stands Lloyd Vickers, a man whose suit is too slim for a town that eats brisket and whose handshake feels like damp cardboard.
"Ten cents, Hank. Across the board," Vickers says, tapping a gold-plated pen against a clipboard. "Market scarcity is a beautiful thing. It’s Econ 101. Supply and demand."
Hank feels a heat behind his ears that has nothing to do with a clean-burning flame. "Mr. Vickers, we have a responsibility to the people of Heimlich County. Families are shivering. Raising prices now... it isn't right. It isn't the Strickland way."
"The Strickland way got Buck a quadruple bypass, Hank," Vickers retorts, turning his back. "And check the manifest. I’ve ordered GPS tattlers for the whole fleet. No more twenty-minute 'neighborly chats' on the route. If the wheels aren't turning, the company isn't earning."
Hank walks out to his truck, the weight of the world settled squarely in his lower back. It isn't just the price gouging; it’s the silence waiting for him at home. Last night, after he told Peggy he’d been passed over for the manager position in favor of dog-sitting, the air in their bedroom had turned colder than the snow outside. Peggy’s ambition for him was often louder than his own, and her disappointment felt like a judgment. She hadn’t even packed his favorite almond cookies in his lunch today—just a bruised apple and a sandwich with the crusts still on.
At 3:30 PM, the big blue Ford pulls into the middle school pick-up line. Bobby is waiting by the curb, his oversized parka making him look like a wayward marshmallow. He hops into the cab, sensing the atmospheric pressure immediately.
"Hey, Dad," Bobby says, his voice hopeful but cautious. "Mom said you were busy with... the puppies?"
Hank grunts, shifting the truck into gear. "It’s a temporary assignment, Bobby. Mr. Strickland is in a fragile state. Someone has to look after his interests."
"Is that why Mom was crying while she was folding the Fruit of the Looms?" Bobby asks, his eyes wide. At twelve, Bobby is a barometer for the household’s emotional weather, and right now, the needle is pointing toward 'Storm.'
"Your mother is... she’s just passionate about career advancement," Hank says, gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. "Don't you worry about that. We have a job to do. We’re going to the Strickland estate."
The drive is quiet, save for the hum of the heater. Bobby watches the passing strip malls, feeling the rift between his parents like a physical gap he can't quite jump across. He tries to lighten the mood with a joke he heard on The Tom Green Show, but one look at his father’s grim profile tells him to keep it to himself. They arrive at Buck’s sprawling ranch-style home. It’s a monument to excess—limestone, wide porches, and the incessant, high-pitched yapping of two spoiled Pomeranians. Hank leads the way inside, the heavy brass key feeling like a badge of shame in his pocket.
"Okay, Bobby. You get the kibble. I’ll check the water bowls," Hank instructs, his voice echoing in the hollow, expensive house.
They move into the kitchen, a space filled with high-end appliances and granite countertops. Hank stops mid-stride. His eyes fixate on the center island. He looks like a man who has just seen a ghost, or perhaps something worse.
"Dad? You okay?" Bobby asks, holding a bag of 'Puppy Chow.'
Hank doesn't answer. He reaches out a trembling hand and touches the surface of the range. It isn't the familiar, comforting cast-iron grates of a gas stove. There are no burners. There is no blue flame. It is a flat, black, soulless sheet of ceramic glass.
"It's... it's electric," Hank whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of a thousand betrayals.
Bobby peers over. "Is that bad? Connie’s mom says the flat tops are easier to wipe down."
Hank turns to his son, his face pale. The man he looks up to—the man who owns a company dedicated to the purity of propane—is cooking his eggs with glowing coils. Between Vickers' greed, Peggy's cold shoulder, and now this, the foundation of Hank Hill’s world isn't just cracked; it’s crumbling.
"Bobby," Hank says, his voice low and gravelly, "get the dogs. We’re leaving."
He stands there for a moment longer, staring at the electric range as if waiting for it to apologize. It doesn't. Out in the hallway, a Pomeranian yaps, and for the first time in his life, Hank Hill feels truly alone in the heart of Texas.