Author's note: Okay, so a couple things: this isn't set at any specific time in the Psych verse. I kind of mashed a bunch of stuff together so it isn't set in a specific season, take it as you will.

Also, I realize, so a bunch of people may not actually hold up a restaurant. But I always imagined it had to do with the case Shawn was trying to figure out. ALSO, thank you, Mrs-N-Uzumakifor your continued support and overall awesome-ness.

This is an open-ended story and a one-shot.

It is written in second person POV, which some people may not like but it is my favorite POV to use. The POV, of course, is Henry's.

The first thing you do is grab a coffee. You pull up to the drive-through window of a Starbucks and normally you would brew something at home (better to brew your own than be nickeled and dimed by something as big business, corporate or money-eating as a Dunkin' Donuts or Starbucks franchise) but you are in a rush.

You are going to go to the gym. Yes, that's right. You go to a gym now. You got tired of feeling winded walking from the front door to the mailbox. You also – admittedly – want to look halfway decent for a man your age. You realize you have started a little late, but in some ways, you don't think there are deadlines for a lot of things in life.

At the gym, you do your cardio routine, which leaves you winded. You won't deny it – you are out of shape. You do what you can though, alternately running and getting distracted by the television shows that play over the heads of various members of the gym. After an hour or so, you leave, towel slung over your shoulder.

Afterwards, you go to a nearby diner for your everyday breakfast. Even on days you report to the SBPD, you still find time to go to the diner. You always order the same: black coffee, whole wheat toast, two fried eggs and one single piece of bacon. It is a particular order but then again, you are a particular man.

You walk in the diner, greet Olivia, the hostess and Lisa, the waitress. She asks, "You want the usual?" and, in a fit of inspiration, you spy the morning special on a nearby whiteboard.

"I think I'll have that instead," you say, surprising not only yourself, but the waitress, who has taken the same order from you for almost six months. Nevertheless, she writes pineapple pancakes on her notepad.

You won't deny that you getting these have something to do with Shawn. You haven't seen him lately. He usually gallivants around with Gus for a good week or two before you find him standing in front of your desk, asking for help or advice or a spare dollar.

No, you don't miss him. His presence is just…less…pronounced than it has been which is slightly puzzling.

You receive your pancakes and lift up your fork and knife when suddenly, there he is. Your son is standing in the doorway of the diner, looking every bit like his mother. Curious, always curious, with that sly, half-smirk he got from you, his father. He's slim; you notice and wonder absently if he actually knows how to cook any meals for himself. Once he notices you though, you know it's over. He'll try to swindle you into buying his meal and you may just do it this time.

"Dad!" Shawn saunters over to you, like you are old friends and are just now seeing each other after many years. "What are you up to?" he eyes your plate of pancakes suspiciously and then swipes a chunk of pineapple for himself.

Lisa walks over and asks you if you want any more coffee. You nod and then she takes Shawn's order, something that hasn't changed since he was a child: hamburger, fries, extra pickles and large chocolate milk. You almost find it humorous to see a grown man drink chocolate milk from a crazy straw.

"So how's it going?" you find yourself asking casually. You don't know why your son ended up in here but you don't much feel like asking. Most likely he will get around to telling you himself.

Shawn practically chokes on his milk. "How is it going?" he asks, seeming surprised. "Dad, what's going on?"

"What?" you ask, feeling affronted. Can't you wonder how your son is doing? You ask him as much.

"Not when your father is Henry Spencer," Shawn responds.

You know this is at least slightly true. You and your son can sometimes act like strangers around one another. You never rely on small talk with each other. But you're feeling nostalgic today, wanting to give yourself a new role. Henry Spencer, retired detective, gruff father, feels stale.

"Okay," Shawn eventually says. "I'm okay, I guess."

"You guess." You reach for your coffee. "How is that uh, that woman detective?" Shawn never told you about his romantic interludes when he was younger and you are a little relieved on that. But now you are uncharacteristically curious.

The corner of Shawn's lip twitches. "Juliet."

"Her, yes. So you two are a thing?" Shawn hadn't come right out and told you, but you weren't a stupid man.

"Yes," Shawn says, looking slightly annoyed. "Listen, dad-"

"And Gus," you continue, not able to stop yourself. "I haven't heard from him in a while."

"Gus is doing fine."

You look at him, curious. He's acting more irritated with you than he normally does. You don't believe yourself that difficult to have a conversation with.

"It's just…" Shawn rubs his temples slowly. "I've been trying to solve a case and I came here to clear my mind. I can't figure it out."

You aim to tease. "Maybe you aren't thinking hard enough."

Shawn rubs a palm against the back of his neck, annoyed. "Yeah, what does 'thinking hard enough' entail, huh? You want me to close my eyes and tell you how many people in this room are wearing mustard-yellow shirts? It's four. And one of them should really consider how her bleached hair does not contrast well with that Lacoste polo."

You want to confuse him, see if he falls for it. "I thought there were five." You used to set these traps for him when he was a child.

"That's sunflower-yellow, not mustard-yellow. And her, I would talk to. She has brown hair. It's a perfect combination."

"I never really did go for brunettes," you muse aloud. "Blonde, though…" you know you will annoy your son with talk like this. It is almost too easy. "I guess that means we aren't that different, huh?"

"Gross," Shawn says in response. His food arrives at that moment and he digs into it while you look on in disgust. You never ate like that as a child, even. You wonder where he gets it from. It is as if he is a Hoover vacuum and it doesn't even impact, just goes from Point A to Point B.

Shawn sucks loudly on his drink once it is empty and looks annoyed when the waitress won't pay him any mind. "I need more milk to finish this off," he says morosely.

You are about to tell him to order a soda or something like a real adult, when, a few feet away, the doors of the restaurant slam open with such vigor they clang into the wall and leave marks.

Shawn looks just as curious as you are but then falters once he realizes what is going on.

A group of three men stand in the threshold, dressed in typical robber-garb: black pants, black t-shirts, wearing guns like accessories. You feel something pull at you, scolding you for ordering pineapple pancakes when you could have just stuck with the norm. You almost think you are to blame for this mess.

The tallest man, standing between the two others (most likely the ringleader), holds his AK-47 in the air and shouts to the restaurant, "EVERYBODY DOWN!"

For a moment, all is still, as if nobody can believe something like this is occurring. This is probably true. Santa Barbara is a beach community and this diner is full of people just looking for a relaxing place and a bite to eat. This is no inner-city bank.

Shawn, of course, is the one to break the silence, as all the other patrons of the diner sit in shocked silence. "But…we're already sitting!" he protests.

The shortest man in the group has his own AK-47, which he quickly slides off his shoulder and begins firing at the light fixtures dangling from the ceiling. Sparks shoot off and some fixtures crash down onto the tiled floor. Some diners rush to the ground, covering their heads and cowering. A few attempt to make their way to the emergency exit. The ringleader, unfazed, fires pot shots at them before they too sink down onto the floor in defeat.

The last man of the group, with what you believe to be a ridiculous goatee, marches over to your son and grabs him by his t-shirt. You stand up to protest but the shortest man is suddenly next to you, slamming the butt of his gun down on your hand and reluctantly you lower yourself to the floor.

Your son, as calm as he can be in situations akin to this, looks at you, giving off a slight movement of his eyes. You are suddenly nervous. Shawn can act like an idiot sometimes but you won't lie and say it doesn't provide a welcome distraction. He looks serious right now.

The goateed man reaches for a smaller gun, a handgun off his holster and shoves it underneath Shawn's chin. "I don't like poor listeners," he hisses. "Sometimes you have to shoot a poor listener to become a good listener. Do you want this to be you?"

Shawn stares at the goateed man, almost in disbelief. Finally, he shakes his no twice.

The goateed man withdraws his gun and steps away from your son. "Good," he says. He turns to the other customers cowering in fear underneath tables, behind chairs and crouched beneath the front counter. "You all seem like good listeners. I like good listeners. I don't have to kill them."

You look around, at the men in all-black and the terrified customers, holding onto table legs, some soothing children, others shivering in place, arms and legs trembling.

Almost in an annoyed way, you say to your son quietly, "I never liked this shit back then and I don't like it now." In your years on the force, you have been on duty a few nights where this type of situation occurred and the outcome had never been good. Not many people emerged from these types of things unscathed. You will be damned if something happens to your son while you are sitting right nearby.

"That didn't stop you from putting your job before your family," Shawn mutters under his breath.

You turn to him, surprised and ignoring the sting of the jab. You had almost forgotten he was right beside you.

"Hey!" the shortest man stalks back over to you two. "No talking!"

"I'm trying to have a tender moment with my father, here," Shawn quips, ever so sarcastic in the face of danger.

"Shawn…" you hiss under your breath.

"Well dad, you never did give a response to what I had to say," Shawn continues but the shortest man has had enough with you two. He takes Shawn by the collar of his shirt and drags him across the floor, a few tables away.

"Maybe a little separation will do you two some good," the shortest man kicks Shawn in his side and he exhales a breath, palm exploring the area with a wince.

You are on the defense, immediately, but the shortest man has rounded over to you already. "I wouldn't want your boy to get hurt, would you?" he levels a look with you that makes liquid anger course through your veins. You hold yourself back. Your son is still in your line of vision. He is okay.

You take stock of the area around you once the shortest man has walked over to his buddies. The man with the goatee has ashy-looking skin and a muscular build. His sole purpose seems to be walking up and down the perimeter of the restaurant, eyeing the customers that are in various hiding places. He often shoots a glare in Shawn's direction and you, once again, hold yourself back. Your son is alive. You can still see him.

The shortest man seems to be the ringleader's right-hand man. He may be short but he has large arms and all those damn guns strapped to every part of his body. You wonder momentarily why three men would go to such extremes to rob a small restaurant. There is a case in this, you can just tell.

Of course, the ringleader is at the front of the restaurant, talking heatedly with the store manager, who looks terrified and is visibly shaking. Their moves are predictable, you can see. Next they will be talking with S.W.A.T. rambling about airplanes and cash, whatever criminals want these days.

Shawn looks over at you and raises his eyebrows as if to say, do you have any idea what's going on? You shrug in response.

Unbelievably, Shawn reaches for a French fry off the plate on the tabletop above him. You shoot him an incredulous look.

"I don't want to die on an empty stomach!" he hisses before shoving two in his mouth. He reaches for the plate again.

"Shawn!" you whisper, futilely. Often when Shawn returns home from another shindig with the SBPD, the tightness in your chest does not cease. This is because despite the terror, despite the fear and mortal peril, knowing that at any moment it could all be over, Shawn would do it again. You worry that Shawn will persist until there is no return home.

Shawn holds some fries in his hands and extends them out to you. "You want some, dad? It might relieve your stress a little."

You roll your eyes. "Shawn…" you say, unable to tack on that next word, the most important. Please. As in, Shawn, please don't sit there eating French fries while men around us plan to end our lives.

"Fine," Shawn sighs, releasing French fries onto the floor.

The man with the goatee circles around a nearby middle-aged man, who looks so terrified he can't move. The gunman smashes a glass nearby him, trying to frighten him.

Beside you, Shawn tenses. You watch him, knowing the hero complex in the family runs deep. You keep an eye on him. He seems to settle down but not before saying something that unsettles you further.

"Dad, we've got to do something here."

You give your son a look. There are men surrounding you, intent on killing if you step out of line, people are cowering in fear and they are casting sidelong glances at you and your son – the two men that had been brave enough to speak or act out. You feel a resounding sense of responsibility and there is no doubt your son feels it, too.

"I know," you say, lowly, gravely. The sense of responsibility, while empowering, comes with something else just as overwhelming: fear.

It happens too fast.

You are crouched in an awkward position in front of the booth you and Shawn had been sitting in, mere feet away from your son. He is wired, you can see it: leg jiggling, eyes set and determined. He is going to do something stupid. If you could just get closer…

You manage to make an inch or two of progress before the man with the goatee has his bronze eyes on you. His dry, scaly-like fingers dust over the semi-automatic strapped at his waist and you immediately still your movements.

C'mon Shawn, you stare at him, don't be an idiot.

You feel helpless in what happens next.

The man with the goatee lunges over a nearby woman, her two children wrapped around her legs. One of them is whimpering loudly, sobs sharpening as the man leers at her.

Beside you, Shawn is folding himself out of the position he had been in. He moves from his knees to his sneakered feet in seconds. It is almost as if he has no control over his own actions, words being wrenched from somewhere deep within as he shouts, "Hey, c'mon man, she's got kids; leave her alone!"

Damn it.

You watch, morbidly mesmerized as the man lifts his son up by the jugular, hand firm around his neck, voice resounding in the small diner, "Back the fuck off. Last warning." Then he gives a kick to the nearby woman's midsection and grabs her by the roots of her scarlet hair.

Peering behind himself, Shawn gives you a look you cannot describe. It's an expression you've never seen before, something like resignation and determination combined. He is lying on the floor like a doll that has been unceremoniously dropped – limbs splayed in different directions, his body slumped – but in his eyes is something that shocks Henry still. He rises in front of you, almost as if he has been possessed by a being much stronger than he can fathom.

Shawn dives on top of the man, who is now dragging the woman away from her two children who are screaming for her, begging with tears and outstretched arms. The man immediately lets go of his grip on the back of the woman's blouse and delivers a blow to Shawn's jawline that would normally knock a man to the floor.

Shawn, however, reacts like it was merely a slap. His head still moves backward from the force of the punch but he snaps back just as quickly, bringing a knee up to the other man's stomach and a sharp elbow to the throat.

You cannot believe your lack of a reaction – perhaps your movements are too slow, your reflexes not what they used to be. It is as if you are watching a movie, gripping the armrest of your theoretical chair, every movement your body had previously been making, now still. It is almost like you fear you will miss anything, even by blinking.

The man with the goatee's hands scramble for his throat and Shawn attempts to kick him, foot nearly making contact before swinging back down. Shawn realizes his error quickly when the other man recovers enough to punch him directly in the stomach not once, but twice.

You feel yourself becoming desperate, praying that this will end, somehow. That the man with the goatee will let up, deciding that Shawn is not worth the black eye or that Shawn will admit defeat. Or even that you will wake up to your alarm blaring some ancient Steve Miller Band song and you will realize that, luckily, none of it had been real.

Despite the two severe hits, Shawn is still standing, barely, wheezing. He is looking at the other man with that same determination and you hold your breath.

The man with the goatee kicks his foot directly in Shawn's midsection and he goes down hard, body thudding on the tiled floor.

Around him, the woman runs back to her children and they embrace quickly before taking cover in a nearby booth, further away, young eyes watching with curious fascination. The woman glances over at you and she knows you – you have seen her around before, at the local grocery store. She would pass by you, children at her feet and you never knew her name. You bet she wants to know yours, too – if only to thank you for the sacrifice your son made.

Shawn is slowly propping himself back up on his elbows, though he is now weaker, he is unrelenting. The man with the goatee rears back as if to strike him once more and Shawn is on his feet when the unmistakable sound of something akin to the noise of a firework rings in your ears.

You watch, helpless, as your son falls back onto the ground, but with a noticeable ruby-red stain blooming on the sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt.

People always said that time froze and movements slowed like molasses, that none of it really had the urgency or the desperation in those first few moments. That it seemed almost eerily silent.

You feel like that is a lie because you have never heard a louder sound in your life, never felt a stronger sense of terror or witnessed something so quickly. It's like if someone nearly put fast-forward on this movie a hair too late, you missed a slight movement or gesture that made up the entire action.

Your son lies, bleeding onto the beige tiles, while nearby, the ringleader, the man with the cordless diner phone in one hand and a handgun in the other, steps out from behind the nearby wall.

"Shawn!" you finally blurt, your senses and words returning to you at full volume. You feel like your limbs have never wanted to move more, your voice never wanted to be so loud. You pay no mind to the repercussions – you will reach your son.

You get two feet closer before the ringleader shoots a warning shot somewhere by your shoulder. You hesitate, fury etched into your every feature.

Your eyes flit back and forth, from the two men to your son, bleed seeping from him at a rapid rate. You are no doctor, but the loss of his blood is going at an alarmingly-quick rate. No, you think belatedly. It didn't.

There is no other explanation reaching you. The bullet hit an artery.

Years of memories are going to be stolen from you. These two men will have irreparably damaged your life forever onward because your son will die. There is no mistaking it; a bullet hitting an artery is never good. They will not have that much time. Shawn's life will be condensed to a crimson painting on the tiled floor, a mark that may stay long after they remove his body.

You realize your hands are shaking and teeth are gritting. You will not let this happen to you. You will not become a victim you had once had to console, a person whose hope you had to crush. You do not want to be told, I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do. You will make it out of this. This shitty diner and these terrified customers will not be the last things your son sees.

The two men have looked away from you, dismissing you already. They feel as if you are not a threat anymore. Your son has been taken out so you should not be emotionally prepared for something like this. You are. Your son can see it, too, even from his position on the floor. His fingers are clamped fruitlessly around the wound, rivulets of blood streaming down his arm, staining the sleeve of his shirt further.

Shawn has a look in his eyes that you swear you wore moments before. The silent, desperate plea. He doesn't want you to take on this challenge, just like you hadn't wanted him to do what he had. Unfortunately, your son has a hero complex that never seems to extinguish.

It runs in the family.

You rise to your feet, feeling empowered. The next few moments feel just as fast as your son's previous ones. You grab a nearby chair and sprint to the two men. They hear your movements but react too slowly. The chair collides with the goateed man's back. He collapses to the floor and you swing your arm behind the ringleader's torso, on the nearby booth's table. You smash the glass of water against his skull, ignoring the sting of the glass against your skin.

The ringleader looks gazed but still has the gun in his hand. He raises it to you and you kick it away, leg lifting up higher and faster than you would ever have thought possible. The ringleader is as surprised as you are. Your first collides with his cheekbone and he elbows you in the sternum. You feel like you are made of titanium – even a debilitating hit like that cannot make you fall. You move to retaliate and stop.

Something feels wrong.

The ringleader has stopped fighting you, looking nearly expressionless. As quickly as you had felt the adrenaline, it is now gone. You don't feel like titanium, anymore. You feel exactly as you did when Shawn was on the ground, as fragile and helpless as he looked.

When you look down, you realize why. A wound is in your upper chest that hadn't been there before.

Oh, you think dazedly, I've been shot. Your knees give out moments later at this realization and the man with the goatee holsters his gun before announcing to the room that if anyone else would like to challenge him, to use the two injured men as examples of what will happen afterwards.

You almost want to laugh. You came in here to get breakfast, for Christ's sake. You did not make plan to bargain with God today, to watch your son collapse into himself or for your own chest to tighten with the pain reminiscent of a heart attack, only worse. You can't even make the few movements back to your son, to at least say something, anything. You don't actually have anything planned but you feel as if you may know what to say, if you can stay awake long enough to remember.

You keep forgetting what you want to say, words clogging in your throat, letters tangling with one another. You don't have time to parse out a sentence. You know you have as much of a chance of getting out of this as Shawn.

Nearby, Shawn's eyes are fluttering opened and closed. A nearby patron of the diner is kneeling next to him, holding his own hands on the wound and looking as terrified as Henry feels. He eyes Henry as if to say, I won't let him be alone. You would say thank-you if you could.

Outside, a fleet of police cars and trucks, ambulances, rescue crews and S.W.A.T team members are spilling into the parking lot. Police officers are jumping out of vehicles, most noticeably, Juliet O'Hara, Carlton Lassiter and Chief Vick. Each member of the SBPD outwardly appears as determined as they feel.

Unbeknownst to them, two of their members are inside the diner.

The reaction to the takeover of the diner had been slow. A preteen girl hiding in the diner's bathroom had made the frantic call to 911 only moments before Shawn had fought the goateed man. The local media coverage did not reveal much, as they were only just flanking the police cars on their way to the diner.

Lassiter stalks up and down the length of the building, yelling into a walkie-talkie, demanding names, demanding any kind of information at all. A hostage negotiator, nearby, is only just being informed by the ringleader that they do not have much time for their demands to be met. Two of the diners are injured.

The negotiator relays this information to Chief Vick and her crew and then, clutching onto her shirtfront, she sees what little coverage the camera had been able to get. Terrified Santa Barbara citizens cowering in various positions, one man nursing a head wound and…on the floor. Two suspiciously-familiar bodies.

Chief Vick fights the urge to be sick. She falters, looking at Lassiter, who doesn't miss the look of sheer terror on her face.

"What?" he demands, almost fearful. Then he pivots around and sees the image of Henry and Shawn.

Juliet notices the two of them, mouths agape. "Oh my God," she says, breathlessly. "Henry and Shawn are inside!"

The demands of the three men are unknown. They never announced it to you and you don't have much time left to care. You think they must be celebrating, because they are slapping one another on the back and throwing glasses around like they hit the jackpot. Maybe they wanted money or a helicopter, spiritual enlightenment, whatever.

Shawn had managed to make a garbled, "Dad," to you under his breath. Unable to do much, you had lifted your hand in acknowledgment. As the other men were occupied, a nearby diner patron eased you closer to your son. It hurt like hell and you knew you shouldn't move, shouldn't risk injuring yourself further, but you will be damned if you die a few feet away from your son without getting one last good look at him.

Your son looks worse off than you, eyes getting a misty sheen. You know what this means. The realization sits in your stomach. The blood around him has reached to a few nearby tables. The three men in the front may be celebrating, but the police do not seem as if they will get inside fast enough.

Suddenly, the men in the front of the diner are allowed to make their way out, presumably to whatever area they want to go to, while the police will most likely pretend to comply before going after them moments later, guns blazing.

You can hear a commotion from outside, police officers roaring off into the streets, others barking orders, some rushing to the store's entrance. It seems as if they will never get inside.

"Shawn," you hear yourself say in a raspy voice.

Your son's eyes swivel to you, however unfocused they are.

"Remember that time you…went treasure hunting. With your uncle?"

Shawn huffs out a laugh, so quiet and timid you barely hear it. "Yeah."

"You were an idiot," you say honestly. "But you…you made it out okay." Suddenly, everything around you starts to have a blurred edge, people and objects become less defined, like a watercolor painting.

Shawn understands what you are trying to say. He is holding on, you think, far longer than a typical person would, but it is not long enough. He opens his mouth to respond you, when his eyelids droop downward, a slow motion that stirs desperation in your stomach. You can't let this happen but you don't know what, exactly, is happening anymore. You feel disoriented and suddenly, exhausted.

Nearby, the police officers and S.W.A.T. team burst through the doors, armed and shouting orders. Most are sprinting to the people on the floor and, unbelievably, you think you spot Lassiter.

Shawn's eyes are closed and his body stiff. You want to shout, to race over to him and shake him awake but suddenly, closing your eyes isn't such a bad idea.

You look over at your son, grief clouding your vision further. You close your eyes, your breath slowing and chest stilling.

If you're going, kid, I'm going with you.