!-- / Style Definitions / p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; page Section1 size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0; div.Section1 page:Section1; --
Shawn turned pale, the cookies in his stomach suddenly threatening to lurch back up as his father squeezed his shoulder again.
Gus' mouth was hanging open, his jaw practically scraping the floor.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
"Dude…" Gus laughed finally, starting to recover from his shock. "He actually said it!"
Shawn looked over at him, his eyes as wide as two extra large pizzas. "Gus!" he croaked, looking like he was about to be sick. "Get me a paint can!"
"You can't hit him again, Shawn!" Gus told him sharply.
"Well, I have to do something!" Shawn shouted back. "My dad just told me he loves me!"
Gus rolled his eyes. "Shawn…disregarding how disturbing it is that your reaction to hearing your dad loves you is to bash the man upside the head with a blunt object, he clearly already has a concussion! We have to get him to a hospital!"
"I don't have a concussion." Henry spoke up, blinking in bewilderment as he finally released Shawn's shoulder from his loving death-grip.
"Are you kidding?" Shawn snorted, stepping back. "Dad! You have a second head growing out of your skull!"
Henry gingerly rubbed the sizable goose egg jutting out of his forehead. "I guess I have a little bump…" he conceded. "But that doesn't have anything to do with it. I mean, do I really have to be seriously injured to tell my son how I feel?"
"Yes!" Shawn and Gus exclaimed at the same time.
"Oh." Henry seemed surprised by the virulence of their response. He shrugged it off, however, and went back to the oven, opening the door and peeking inside at the latest batch of cookies. "Well, I meant it, Shawn. I love you."
"Dad!" Shawn groaned, shuddering. "Seriously! I will hit you with another paint can! You're freaking me out!"
"Why is it freaking you out?" Henry demanded softly, closing the oven door again. He looked back at his son, wiping his hands off on his apron. "What the hell did I do to you that you're so afraid of emotions?"
"I'm not afraid of emotions!" Shawn insisted, snorting as if the very idea was ridiculous.
"Well…" Gus cut in, suddenly looking thoughtful. "You do tend to make jokes when things get too serious."
"That's because I'm hilarious!" Shawn crossed his arms defensively. "Not because I'm afraid of feelings! They're feelings! Unless they're armed with blasters, they're not that scary!"
"Then why can't you talk about them?" Gus demanded.
"I can!"
"Then why do you want to hit me in the head with a paint can when I want to talk about them?" Henry added, coming alongside Gus. They both crossed their arms and stared expectantly at Shawn, who had suddenly found himself outnumbered.
"Yeah, Shawn." Gus agreed. "Why do you want to hit your dad with a paint can just because he loves you? Why can't you just tell him you love him back?"
Shawn stepped back as they closed in on him, suddenly realizing there was no way out of this private Hell. "Actually, I don't think a paint can will do it at this point…" he murmured. "I think I need either garlic or silver bullets."
"You're not going to shoot your dad, Shawn!" Gus cut him off before that thought could progress any further.
Shawn sighed, rolling his eyes. "The bullet is for me, Gus."