Disclaimer: Did anyone ever complete the hashtag killer game? I got about three weeks into it, and then sort of forgot to continue. Also, I don't own Psych.
"Looks like you got the last slice of pie, boys," the grandmotherly waitress says as the sets the plate in between them on the table.
"Oh, Delores. You lied to me. You promised a slice for the both of us. I, personally, am devastated." The father sighs down at the piece of cherry pie before him.
His son, who is no older than nine, nods in fierce agreement. "I don't like sharing with Dad. He has cooties from kissing Mom."
"You bet I do, son," he smiles. "You bet I do."
Delores just shakes her head. "I thought you were the psychic here, Mr. Spencer? Surely you must've seen this coming."
Shawn places two fingers against his temple and closes his eyes. "Mmm. No, no, I had no visions of trickery and deceit today. Hank?" He turns his attention to his son, ignoring the way Delores is rolling her eyes, "do you remember me mentioning to you anything about possible heartbreak and loneliness?"
Hank shrugs and picks up a fork. "Nope. But - dibs!"
"Hey, no fair!"
The waitress chooses this moment to leave, muttering to herself about psychics.
Shawn grins as she leaves and picks up his own fork. "How about a contest to see who gets the pie?"
Hank, who had been slowly sliding the plate closer to him, stops and looks up at his father, doubtful. "A contest? What kind of contest?"
There's a slightly bigger grin that spreads across Shawn's face as he pulls the plate back to the center of the table. "How many hats."
Hank narrows his eyes at his father but nods. "Fine. I go first?"
"If you think you can handle it."
He snorts and closes his eyes. "You're going down, sucker. And I won't be sharing my pie!"
"Okay, okay!" Shawn holds up his hands in surrender before realizing his son has his eyes closed. "So. How many hats?"
"Not counting the guy at the counter with his hat in his pocket?" Hank hums. "Three. There's a cowboy in the back, a Phillies ball cap in the corner, and, um, is it a camo hat by the door?"
He chuckles and pushes the plate towards his son. Hank smiles at him, all teeth, before picking up his fork and diving in.
Shawn bows his head. "The student has surpassed the master. Let no man say that Henry Ewan Spencer can't remember how many hats are in the room!"
Hank smiles again, this time with a mouth full of cherries. "You're still not getting a bite," he says after he swallows.
"Darn." Shawn purses his lips and presses his finger to his temple again. "I did not see this coming."
The door to the diner opens with a little jingle as an older man in an old SBPD hat walks in and approaches their table.
"I didn't see this coming either," Shawn mumbles to himself, but still scoots over so there's room on the bench next to him.
"Shawn, Hank," Henry greets as he takes a place next to his son. "I see you already ate without me."
"Yes, well, that happens, Dad, when we didn't expect or invite you." Shawn takes a loud sip of his iced tea, the contents of the glass near empty. He raises it when Delores glares at him from across the room.
Henry shrugs and picks up a fork, taking a bite of Hank's pie.
"Hey!" Hank exclaims. "I had to count hats for that!"
"Oh," Henry smiles, the fork almost to his lips. He turns a meaningful eye to his son who can only shrug. "You know, your dad and I used to do the same thing when he was your age."
A/N: Written for the prompt traditions for a contest on livejournal, not that I ever got around to submitting anything. 618 words.