Shawn fought, quite valiantly, not to tug anxiously at the collar of his shirt. His new shirt. His IRONED new shirt. After all, impressions were everything… even if they weren't first, second, or even third impressions. Okay, so how could he have known he'd been viewed all this time as a deviant in training? Truly, it had come as quite a blow. In fact, his ego was currently being squashed under the unblinking double glare laser-beaming across the table and through his forehead. He was certain it would leave a mark. He almost asked his dad if there was a smoking crater between his eyebrows, but Henry seemed like he was pretty focused on swallowing a healthy bite of turkey at the moment. Though, Shawn was fairly sure, it was avoidance and not hunger that drove his appetite.

Nearby, Gus loudly snapped his napkin before placing it in his lap. Now, as far as the reason for his best friend's ire, Shawn was convinced it had nothing to do with his five agonizing minutes of self implosion while trying to paint himself in the best possible light- obviously forgetting that paint worked better for blocking light than shedding it. Oh no no no. Gus, that sneaky snapdragon, was battling his own personal eager beaver verbal suicide bomb. "I get mine!"

"GUHUH!" Shawn immediately slapped a hand over his spasm induced laugh. Dark eyes, again, swiveled towards him… from all sides.

Boy, this really was a nice tablecloth…

"You know, Gus and I really are doing great with the Psych business! And you shouldn't worry about his health- he's actually getting really tough! He didn't even throw up the last time we found a body…"

He blinked. Did he just jab an ice-pick through his brain?

Gus's mom raised a thin eyebrow delicately. Somehow, though, she didn't really have to say anything to convey exactly what she thought of THAT; Gus's toe driving sharply into his shin notwithstanding.

His father still wasn't speaking, the sound of chewing his only contribution.

At the head of the table, Mr. Guster coughed quietly and spread butter over his mashed potatoes.

Shawn drummed his fingers on his thigh. He considered reaching for another biscuit, but the silent way Mrs. Guster was studiously eyeing him while she sipped at her wine sorta leeched the desire for flaky bread right out of him. Instead, he picked up his fork and slid his braised carrots from the left side of his plate to the right. Dragging the tines through his potatoes, he spread the fluffy mashed spuds across the top of the china. Next, becoming engrossed in the activity, he slid a couple of pieces of baby corn to the bottom in a horizontal line. The lone piece of turkey that remained was just about the right size. Lifting it to his mouth, he nibbled the edge until it morphed into the shape he needed. With a smile of satisfaction, he placed the fragment on the center of his plate.

God he was good! Amidst the remains of his meal appeared the face of SBPD's Head detective, sporting a delicious gravy tan. He was just thinking of asking to borrow Gus's camera phone when his father apparently glanced over.

"Shawn, stop playing with your food!"

He looked up quickly. Oh crap…

"I'm sorry the meal doesn't suit your exacting tastes." Said Mrs. Guster archly.

Shawn rubbed the back of his neck. He was really starting to question the wisdom of dressing in layers…

Gus was still shooting overly obvious pretend-subtle glances in his direction every few seconds. He knew his friend was still wanting him to do something, say something… preferably NOT self-destructive, to get him in good with the fam. The fact that a rabid monkey took over his vocabulary every time he opened his mouth wasn't really helping him any.

He really and truly would probably sound more intelligent if he just started quoting Family Guy. Surely the near poetic verbage of Peter Griffon couldn't be any less offensive than his own blazing Hindenbugian word confetti. Did he actually say something about Jesus not being black? Okay, bad enough when he actually controlled his own sentences, but this panic-induced autopilot topic tennis needed to die a swift and painful death. Possibly involving gasoline and a match.

And then, to his horror, he found himself clearing his throat again.

"Look, I know it was a while ago, but I just want to say I'm sorry about knocking over Great Grampa Guster's ashes when I was twelve. I totally didn't see the urn when I was jumping to catch the football…"

"You did what!?"

"Shawn, I didn't tell them about that!"

"You knocked over their grandfather's ashes!?"

Tick

Tick

Tick

Tick

"Did I say that?"