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Story Notes:

Here goes!

Disclaimer: If I owned Psych, I would not be writing fanfic. I would be writing scripts.

Author's Chapter Notes:

I pretty much change this every two months at this point.

            Henry Spencer had a fairly routine schedule. Wake up, get dressed, kiss wife on head. Brush teeth, grab breakfast, and go to police station. Sit at desk, entertain self until case presents or suspect comes in, deal with whatever work throws at him. Go home, eat dinner, either a) argue with wife or b) have pleasant night and conversations with wife. Read book, fall asleep in chair, be woken by wife, and go upstairs to sleep in bed. Wake up following morning and repeat.

            Sure, it could get a little bit boring, but for the most part, work varied itself enough to keep him ‘entertained', if that was the word you chose to use. Henry liked his schedule, and he did not like it being interrupted. When it had to be interrupted, he really preferred it only be in the evening, especially if it was one of the argument nights rather than a pleasant one. What Henry did not like was when someone interrupted him when he was on a case, or worse, when he was speaking to a suspect/witness/perpetrator/anything having to do with said case.

            In fact, there were only two things he hated more than being interrupted at work: psychics and private detectives.

            One of those regular days, just on schedule, Henry was in the witness room, speaking to a young woman who looked about thirty-one. He, of course, knew that she was thirty-nine, 5'6", 175 lbs, and so on and so forth. Hey, he wasn't a detective for no reason. She was his prime witness; if anyone knew who had committed this murder, it was her. Honestly, Henry couldn't have been much more excited than he was at this moment. He was about to solve it; she was on the edge on confession. Sure enough, she finally said, "Yes, officer, I know who it was. It was-" and then the door opened.

            "Spencer, could you come here for a moment?" The poor officer at the door would have died if looks could kill. In fact, some argued that from Spencer, they could, but that had yet to be proven.

            "I'm sort of in the middle of something, Leonard." Came the response through gritted teeth. Already, the woman was reconsidering; Henry could see it out of the corner of his eyes. If he didn't jump on this fast...

            "But sir, you really should come here. It's really, really important." Officer Leonard could only hope it was as important as it seemed.

            "If it's so important, why don't you just tell me right here so I can finish speaking with Ms. Laurie?" This was obviously an order, not a suggestion.

            "Sir, your wife is having your child. She sort of wants you at the hospital."

            Oh, conflict of conflicts. First child or confession?

            With a resigned growl, Henry stood up and walked over to Leonard, giving him a look that clearly threatened something terrible if he didn't get the confession, then walked to his truck .The weather out was unbearably nice, but he tried to keep in perspective that his new daughter, Sherri Lynn Spencer, was about to be born. Sure, she was interrupting him in the middle of something important (which, according to Leonard, his wife only ‘sort of' wanted him to be there for) but maybe she would be so perfect it would make up for that, there was no way of knowing.

            As he drove to the hospital, Henry thought about all of the different things having a daughter would mean. He would have to deal with teenage boys, and keep them away from his little girl. God knew what those kids would try with her. At some point, he'd have to give her away at her wedding, which would be awful. He could only hope he liked the man she married. Even if he liked the guy, Henry still planned on making it hell for him. If he wanted to marry little Sherri Lynn, he would have to try pretty damn hard.

            He would also have to deal with a few girly things. There would probably be a period where she bought all sorts of clothes and make-up that he wouldn't be allowing her to wear. Just letting her date was going to be hard enough, but skirts and pants would not be above the mid-calf, shirts would not be cut below the collarbone. That was being generous, as far as he was concerned. Thankfully, her mother could deal with all the, ahem, girl problems that would without a doubt take place.

            The more he drove, the more he sped, excitement was finally starting to creep in. When he arrived at the hospital, he parked (poorly) and hardly remembered to shut and lock the door before he was inside. A few nurses got an earful of just how ‘excited' he was when they seemed to take their sweet time locating Madeleine's room, confirming that Henry was her husband, and then seemed to take even sweeter time getting him to her room. When he finally got to her, his hand was clamped to hers as tightly as possible, and his face was completely calm. She was stressed enough for the both of them.

            After a decently long time, finally their child was born. Their beautiful, beautiful girl. The girl who, as Henry would find out very soon, was a boy.

            Madeleine was fast asleep, so Henry got to hold their son, Shawn Henry, first. He smiled, looking down and playing with one tiny hand. He wanted to be disappointed about not getting a daddy's girl, but he really wasn't. He had a son. A son who, though he looked quite skeptically at Henry now (or that was how it seemed) would grow up to be just like Henry. He would get good grades in school, and rarely get in trouble. After all, what kind of idiot policeman's son would get in trouble?

            They would play catch and go fishing, maybe even a little football in the fall if there was time. In the summer, they would build things together, and Shawn would always accept Henry's advice without question.

            Okay, maybe not without question. There would inevitably be some questioning. But the important thing was that he would come around eventually and say that Henry had been right all along.

            His first moments with Shawn were quiet, even pleasant, but soon the child started to whimper. And then he cried. This forced Henry to hand their son over to his now-conscious wife. She held Shawn, who smiled and giggled at her, with a look of fondness on her face, and Henry had to admit that he was little bit jealous. Not out loud, of course. Only in his head.

            The first few months were tough. Shawn never smiled at him, only at Madeleine. He seemed to enjoy throwing up when Henry was taking care of him, never Madeleine. Had Henry not known better, he probably would have thought that Shawn was doing all of this on purpose. Occasionally his temper got the better of him, but for the most part he was able to excuse the things that Shawn threw as the kid, well, being a kid. Finally, after three months, during a physical battle over whether Shawn was going to eat his food or not, Henry employed one of Madeleine's techniques, and made the most ridiculous face possible at his son. And there, with his eyes crossed, his tongue out, and one finger pushing his nose up into a typical 'pig nose', Shawn smiled. Laughed, even. He at least let the food get into his mouth.

            Sure, the food was soon spit back onto his shirt, but at least he got that one laugh. And, from then on, if he was feeding Shawn and Madeleine wasn't home, he would make that face. He never told her, of course.

            Henry also never told Shawn that he was supposed to be a girl. Little Sherri Lynn, with the boys chasing after her in pretty dresses and Mary Jane shoes that filled her closet before she came home. For the most part, Henry never really thought about the day of Shawn's birth. Only on the days that his son was being particular difficult, particularly maddening did he begin to think that if he could go back to any point in time, any time at all, he would go back to that one day. He would find himself in the station, grab himself by the shoulders, and say that the child being born at the absolute most inconvenient time possible was not a coincidence.

            It was a warning.
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