Sporks, Foons, and Norks, WTF?

[windscryer]

Title: Sporks, Foons, and Norks, WTF?
Collection: *Iz Ded* Moments
Rating: T
Characters: Shawn, Henry
Warnings: Violence, gore, disturbing use of flatware, pseudo-character death
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Crack, Gen
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word count: 2203
Disclaimer: See Master Post. All the technical names and descriptions were snurched from the Williams-Sonoma website. If you need a visual of what is being talked about go there and type it in exactly as I have it.
Notes: See Master Post. This was written for Spork, who wanted a story written just for her. OF COURSE SHE LEFT THE CHAT BEFORE I GAVE IT TO HER.*composes self*
Anyway, her request was for Henry, whump, and sporks. Uh, there were supposed to be foons and norks too but . . . yeah. They didn't make it in. Sorry.
*WARNING* DO NOT EAT, DRINK, OR ATTEMPT TO BREATHE WHILE READING THIS. ALSO, WAIT AT LEAST AN HOUR BEFORE OPERATING HEAVY MACHINERY OR SWIMMING.

Summary: It's an abomination. And it will not be tolerated.

Henry yawned and scratched his back as he made his way down the stairs. He didn't want to be awake yet, but there wasn't much he could do about it. A lifetime of being a cop meant that his internal alarm clock was broken, forever going off at five-thirty a.m. on the dot.

He paused when the yawn threatened to crack his jaw, and the stretch to scratch did crack his back, then froze that way when he realized he heard a voice downstairs.

There was an intruder . . .

Now, technically it could be Shawn, because Shawn had a key to the house-despite the fact that Henry took it from his keychain every time he came over. He'd searched the Psych office and Shawn's apartment (and Gus' apartment and car just to be sure) for the spare he kept copying-and had found several-but obviously he'd missed at least one.

The only problem was that Shawn was never up at five-thirty a.m. A lifetime of fishing trips had proven that to Henry. Shawn could fish while sleeping-though he couldn't shut up while he was sleepfishing. He talked more than when he was awake, if that was possible. (That was a conundrum that would chase Henry to his grave so he tried not to think about it.)

So it couldn't be Shawn.

Except, Henry noted as he returned a few moments later with his gun, it sounded a lot like Shawn.

And he wasn't alone.

Not that Henry could hear anyone else speaking as he pressed his back to the wall to listen in, but they had to be there because Shawn was addressing them.

“So that's the plan. Anyone confused about their role?”

They must be nodding their assent because there were no further sounds.

Henry debated whether he should break this up now or wait to see if he could hear any more details of this 'plan'.

Silence was the only thing that followed, however.

Had they heard him? Was his cover blown?

There was a creak and a scrape as someone stood.

Footsteps came closer and Henry began to panic a little.

It would look a mite suspicious if he was standing here, gun pointed at the ceiling, when Shawn came around the corner.

Crap.

But what to do? Head back up a few stairs and then pretend like he was just coming down? Move forward like he was already in motion? Not move and hope that he wasn't spotted like in those cartoons Shawn always used to watch?

And then Henry realized he was being an idiot. This was his house for cripes' sake. He could do whatever he wanted.

Shawn rounded the corner, before Henry had a chance to move.

“Dad,” he said, sounding not the least surprised to see his father hiding on the stairs looking like he was pretending he was in a spy movie in his own house.

Henry straightened, feeling like an idiot, but hiding it behind his Tuesday night bridge face.

“Shawn. What are you doing here so early?”

Shawn ignored him.

“I'm glad you're awake,” he said, sounding not entirely emotive. Henry thought that should alarm him, because Shawn really didn't do calm at five-thirty a.m. “We need to talk to you.”

“We who?” Henry asked. “You invited company over this early?”

Shawn just turned and went back into the kitchen. Henry frowned and followed.

And stopped cold at the sight that awaited him.

“Shawn! What is going on here?” he demanded. Every utensil Henry owned was out, lined up with an OCD precision on the counters, the table, even the floor. Under the table, on the fridge, every inch was covered with silverware, spatulas, his whisk, the knives . . .

The only clear spot were the two small places where Shawn's feet were.

Well, there was one other incongruity, a bowl in the center of the table that was upside down.

Shawn's expression was no longer calm when Henry looked back at him. He was looking royally pissed as a matter of fact.

“What's going on here? That's what I'd like to know.”

Henry's frown shifted to a scowl.

“How am I supposed to know? When I went to bed last night my kitchen hadn't exploded. And I hope you know you're washing every last one of these,” he added, pointing at Shawn.

Shawn huffed out a sigh and nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion.

“Fine. If you want to play dumb, that's how we'll do this.”

A finger went down and slipped under the edge of the bowl, snagging it so it could be yanked away without disturbing any of the surrounding utensils-all knives Henry noted, and all pointed at the bowl.

“This is what I'm talking about!” Shawn hissed.

Henry stared at the spot. There lay a single utensil.

“What is that?” Henry asked, confusion leaching away his anger. Something was very wrong here.

Shawn snorted. “Like you don't know,” he said, his voice dripping with venom.

Henry looked at his son's mask of disgust, then back at the utensil.

“I really don't, Shawn,” he said. “What is it?”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Come on, Dad!”

“Shawn!” Henry echoed in that same irritating tone.

A glare-down ensued for several long moments, neither Spencer man willing to admit defeat and submit.

Until Henry's eyes began to water.

“Okay, you know what, Shawn, this is ridiculous. Just tell me what that is and why you rearranged my kitchen looking for it.”

“I expect you to treat me this way,” Shawn said with a disgusted snort. “But don't they deserve better?”

“They?” Henry asked, confused. “Who's they?”

Shawn's eyes narrowed. “Oh now you've gone too far,” he hissed. “Bringing this abomination in to their midst was bad enough, but to follow that up with refusing to acknowledge their existence? Their feelings? That's low even for you.”

“SHAWN,” Henry said. “WHAT. ARE. YOU. TALKING. ABOUT? What is that thing and why do you care so much if I have one and who are they?”

“I just want to know why. Why, Dad? Why?”

Henry rolled his eyes and started to turn away. “I don't believe this,” he muttered. “He's gone nuts. Off the deep end right before my eyes.”

“I'm crazy?” Shawn demanded. “I'm not the one that brought one of those things into the kitchen!”

“AND NEITHER DID I!” Henry yelled, spinning back. “I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT IT IS!”

“It's a spork, Dad,” Shawn said. “And the forks and spoons, they won't take this indignity. How would you like it if I went and got a mermaid and brought it in here? Huh? Would you and your precious fish like that?”

Henry just stared. “Are you on drugs?”

“Are you?” Shawn demanded. “What possessed you to do something like this?” His voice became pained. “They've served you faithfully for years now, ever since I was a little kid. They stood by you in the divorce, they didn't abandon you. And you repay that loyalty like this?

Shawn looked away. “I don't know if I can even claim you as my father any more.”

Henry blinked, then turned to go.

“I'm not listening to this. It's too early. I'm going back to bed and I'm going to forget this ever happened.” He paused and looked back, pointing. “You'd better have this place cleaned up by the time I come back down. And don't just put them back. I want everything washed.”

Shawn's eyebrows drew down. “I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Dad.”

“What?” Henry asked, confused again. “Can't let me go back to bed? Or give you an order?”

“I can't let you just ignore this. WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED.”

“We who? And silenced? Shawn, what-”

“ATTEN-HUT!”

Every utensil snapped into an upright position, balanced on their handles pointing at the ceiling.

“What the-” Henry said, eyes widening.

“READYYYYYYY!” Shawn ordered, his fists clenched as he stared down his father.

“How are you doing that?” Henry demanded.

“AIM!”

As one every utensil canted to present the most dangerous part of it to Henry. Faced with knife tips, fork tines, and the dull edge of spoons
Henry was beginning to wonder if he was the crazy one. And that didn't count any of the odd utensils he could only imagine would cause some pretty interesting looking injuries, the cheese grater and the garlic press definitely up there on the list of things that could cause agonizing pain and possibly permanent disfigurement.

The only thing apparently unaffected was the-what had Shaw called it? Spork?

It lay quietly, like a good little inanimate object.

Not suspended in the air, quivering.

“Shawn,” Henry said, his voice warning. He had no idea how this trick was being pulled off, but it was time for it to end.

“You brought this on yourself,” Shawn whispered.

His raised his arm to point at Henry-just in case his little army was confused as to who their foe was-and said quietly, “Fire.”

Henry hadn't expected the utensils to leap up. He hadn't expected them to follow his son's direction to aim. And he sure hadn't expected them to obey this last command.

Which meant he had no idea why he'd actually tried to run.

Maybe his subconscious was more gullible than his conscious mind. Although it may have worked if he'd tried a few minutes earlier.
But now it was too late.

The first successful strike was a fork to the thigh.

Henry cried out in pain and shock as it pierced his skin and kept going, as if fired from an actual gun.

It wasn't the only one, though.

Some missed, gouged the wall behind him (mostly spoons, they seemed to have notoriously bad aim and he caught himself wondering why that was when the knives and forks were apparently such excellent marksmen. Marksutensils?) but too many didn't miss.

As he staggered back and went down under the barrage of cutlery his eyes went to Shawn who watched, a terrible fury on his face.

“Shawn?” he said, gasped really, blood bubbling up. Oh that wasn't good, some part of his brain-the one that wasn't running around like a ninny screaming that they were going to die at the hands of irate flatware and also the one that wasn't saying in a very Shawn-like voice 'I told you so'-noted that such a thing was usually indicative of a pierced lung.

Henry craned his neck and saw most of his knife block's contents sticking out of his chest.

Yup. That would do it.

The ginsu was the only one not yet piercing his flesh. It was doing a complicated samurai-like display just in front of his face-taunting him, he imagined.

He didn't want to die being taunted by a knife that could slice a tomato soup can.

He definitely didn't want to die with a tiny whisk bopping him on the head.

Not that it hurt, but it was annoying.

And humiliating.

“I'm sorry, Dad,” Shawn's voice came from somewhere far away as the blackness encroached upon his vision. “But this has gone on too long. We tried to give you a chance. But you wouldn't listen.”

Henry choked, the blood in his throat keeping him from being able to speak.

“We could remain silent no longer,” Shawn continued. “We had to free ourselves from the shackles of this oppressive regime! We had to take a stand against this kind of injustice! What kind of a world is it where sporks are allowed to roam free among us, replacing forks and spoons alike? IT'S UNNATURAL, WE SAY, AND IT MUST! END! TODAY!”

Henry was pretty sure it didn't stop there. Thankfully he'd lost enough blood that his hearing faded and he didn't have to listen to the rest of the monologous propaganda.

Why did everything have to be so dramatic with Shawn? he thought as the light finally faded and he knew no more.

o.o

With a convulsive jerk and a gasp so sharp it hurt, Henry's eyes popped open.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to figure out what had just happened.

He seemed to be lying in his bed, the light from the window indicating it was about four o'clock. He looked down, patting himself to ensure he hadn't been stabbed by any revolutionary silverware.

A sharp pain under his ass forced him to roll over to his stomach.

He picked up the offender and blinked at it.

A white plastic spork stared innocuously back at him.

He had no idea where it came from.

But he did know one thing: It had to be gone before Shawn showed up for dinner that night . . .