A/N: Thanks for the kind reviews! Here's chapter two. I promise the action starts after this chapter!

"So you're saying you felt his presence," Lassiter snaps his gum right in Shawn's face. Quite unprofessional for a man of his candor, but Shawn will let it slide because today has been a really fucking weird day already.

"Yep," Shawn says, head nodding frantically. "It was like…I could feel it…everywhere." He lets his voice take on a different inflection, mostly for show, for Juliet, who will of course eat it up.

"Uh huh," Lassiter has his notepad out but he's probably doodling his name in cursive like he always does when he thinks Shawn is feeding him bullshit. Shawn can't blame him.

"Well, Thomas did confess on the spot," Juliet acquiesces. Thomas is the name of the man that Shawn ran after. She smiles conspiratorially at Shawn. She has gotten braver since she started working for the SBPD. Lassiter will scowl at her and she won't even falter now.

Shawn absentmindedly itches a spot on his arm. "So, can I go and get some lunch or do I need to stay for anything?"

Juliet looks confused. "Shawn, you just caught the murderer three minutes ago."

Shawn shrugs.

Gus, who has been doing nothing but standing in the corner drinking a latte for ten minutes, walks over and checks his watch. "Speaking of lunch, I actually need to go."

Juliet waves him on. "Go ahead."

Shawn doesn't say anything to his friend as he leaves and Juliet notices this but doesn't say anything. Everything is fine but Shawn just wants to freak Gus out and make him think that there's something wrong before he demands to know what the hell the Spanish lessons flyer is about. Then Gus will be so relieved that nothing actually is wrong that he'll tell him.

God, he's good.

Lassiter and Juliet talk amongst themselves for a moment while Shawn lingers around the dead woman's house, feeling eerie. Not because there's a dead body nearby. Well, somewhat. But mostly because he might have a mental problem. Or a physical one. Or both.

Shawn has come to this conclusion because the only logical explanation he can come up with for his body being able to do these impossible things is: he has super powers.

Saying it in his head alone makes him nervous. Normal people don't think of outrageous things like this. Then again, normal people probably also don't pretend to be psychic to the police and then make a career out of it.

Nonetheless, Shawn shakes himself out of it. What he needs to focus on is that he caught the murderer way earlier in advance than he usually does. This will require some explaining.

The whole questioning thing is meant to happen downtown, in the prescient, but Thomas is just babbling away, cuffed, on the floor, not too far away from the dead body. He is even crying and all of this is unfamiliar territory. Shawn doesn't meet murderers that cry. He meets murderers that try to kill him. Where is the action, the adventure?

At that moment, everything slows down. Again. Shawn is having a long day.

Thomas, though handcuffed, evidently still has some movement of his extremities, because, mesmerized, Shawn watches as his slow-mo vision reveals a knife sliding nearly all the way out of the back of his jean pocket.

Though this maneuver will probably not do any significant damage, due to the fact that his movements are extremely restricted because of the handcuffs, Shawn isn't just going to stand there.

"Hey!" Shawn shouts, for lack of a better exclamation. He lunges forward and pulls the knife by the hilt out of Thomas's palm. He pivots and faces Juliet and Lassiter while two nearby SBPD officers restrain Thomas.

For once, Shawn has nothing to say.

Juliet praises Shawn for about five minutes before she and Lassiter have real, actual shit to go take care of. Shawn is let go because, Lassiter had snarled, "I doubt there are any more acts of heroism Spencer can make in a day."

Shawn wants to agree with him but it's too early to tell.

He doesn't opt to go to Gus's work to pester him (it's not in accordance with his previous plan) but instead goes back to the Krispy Kreme, the main culprit in this whole incident.

Shawn opts for a coffee and not any donuts. It may be laughable, but he has a little apprehension toward donuts right now. They have kind of fucked up his whole life today.

He drinks it outside, looking menacingly at the building before him. Stupid glazed donuts. So rich, filling and moist…no. He needs to get out of here.

Without really giving much attention to it, Shawn ends up at the spot on the bridge where he was the previous day. Before he can give it much thought, he pulls the Norton to the side of the road and hops off, eyes searching the stretch of road ahead of him. The memories of yesterday are as vivid as they were in the moment – perhaps this is the curse of his memory.

Almost as if a holographic image of the previous night falls in front of him, Shawn's eyes follow the path his Norton had made down the bridge. The urgent, winding movements and the roaring noise of the Jeep Cherokee sliding past him. Shawn can feel his heart palpitating again, the frantic rhythm unlike anything he has experienced, akin to the feeling of a plane going into turbulence; the drop-down coupled with the fleeting terror that everything might just give out.

Again, the holographic-like images: the man stepping out of the Jeep, Shawn stumbling to keep himself upright, weary and disoriented. About to tell the man opposite him that he is fine, basically, nothing is broken or irreparably damaged.

Then the lightning.

Shawn closes his eyes to shield himself from the memory but he can see it anyway. Despite it being the afternoon, despite there being no chance of a storm or even a light drizzle, he throws himself backwards, in a Hail Mary type fashion, a last-ditch attempt to get away from the threatening event.

He doesn't get struck by lightning (again) and he doesn't pass out thinking about donuts. This is not a dream. These are not the scrambled, stilted ramblings he sometimes takes record of on the back of a cereal box when he's bored in the Psych office. This is not a story he has crafted for his own amusement.

With trepidation, Shawn takes two steps forward, his sneakers barely making contact with the pavement. There is no charred area, no spot with a discernable mark to indicate that anything disastrous occurred the previous day. However, Shawn feels an affinity with it just the same, like an internal GPS is saying, 'right here! Right here!'

One eye opened, one eye closed, Shawn steps onto the spot. Immediately upon contact, his body starts to tingle, like every limb has fallen asleep and is communicating with him to move, now, move and he can't, he just can't. The feeling starts all the way from his toenails, it is coursing through his body like it's in his blood and his organs and every instrument that helps him function is humming.

Then, inexplicably, it all stops. Shawn opens his one eye warily, expecting some kind of cataclysmic event but there is nothing. He lifts one sneaker, stepping off the spot. Nothing. He lifts the other sneaker.

And then – holy shit.

If Shawn thought earlier was a weird collision of slow-mo events, this is ten times worse. From tens of miles away, Shawn can see civilization: cars puttering out of driveways, children chasing each other in front lawns, random citizens stepping in and out of establishments. He can see it all. His vision has slowed everything down and sharpened. He can see with impeccable sight – he can glance at the numbers on mailboxes. He can discern what pastries are in the case at Starbucks.

And then with a blink, back to normality.

Blink again. Slow-mo.

Normality.

Slow-mo.

Laughing, Shawn changes his vantage point there and back again, feeling more in tune with his body than he ever has, like every cell is in his control. His laugh reverberates throughout the expanse of the bridge and he victoriously, exuberantly, raises his arms and yells, "Whoohoo!"

His father calls, because of course he does. There is no realistic way that Henry knows about the events currently comprising Shawn's life but he knows how to ruin a moment, that's for sure.

"Yeah, dad?" Shawn says upon answering his phone. He's still standing in the middle of the bridge, still feeling the remnants of the adrenaline from twenty seconds ago.

"Why do you have to answer the phone like that?" Henry demands, sounding irritable already.

"Like what?" Shawn asks, a smile still on his face despite who he is talking to. Not even Henry Spencer can bring him down today.

"Like you're not talking to your father, who raised you, gave you a roof to sleep under and food to eat, things of that nature."

"And what a pleasant stay I had," Shawn quips.

"You weren't living under the Taliban," Henry retorts, sounding wounded.

"You barely tolerated my presence!" Shawn begins walking back to his motorcycle. "You arrested me!"

Henry sighs, knowing the line he is always supposed to say after this one. "I was trying to teach you a lesson."

"Oh, you did," Shawn says, "just not the one you probably wanted to."

Suddenly there is a pocket of silence in which both men realize they have crossed the line. Both of them will dance around this topic until the end of time but they hardly ever face it head-on. The Spencer way is to avoid something and allude to it but never actually press on it.

Shawn clears his throat. "So…why are you calling?"

"There's a lot of Psych merchandise in my garage still," Henry finally says. "I mean, what is all of this? Psych flip-flops? Psych beach towels?"

"We have a target audience, dad, we live in Santa Barbara."

"Well, evidently not enough of your clients do live here because all of this stuff is clogging up my space. I want it out. Today."

Shawn smirks. It isn't realistic for him to be able to cart multiple boxes home on his motorcycle but he will amble over, make conversation with his father and then leave, most likely with Henry feeling like he got through to his son after all. It's the same old story but damn it if Shawn doesn't get a kick out of it anyway.

"Fine," Shawn says easily, "I'll be right there."

Henry fumbles, not used to getting his way so quickly. "Uh – good."

Shawn smirks. "Bye, dad." He clicks off and then slides his helmet over his head. There are two ways to get to his childhood home: he could go over the bridge or he could turn back around and take the long way. It's obvious why he would feel apprehensive of the damn thing; he nearly died here last night. This bridge just made him experience one of the weirdest feelings he has ever had, one of the most surreal experiences he can ever recall.

The motor runs for a few prolonged moments as he ponders what to do.

Eventually, he shakes his head and goes forward, over the bridge. There's a hell of a lot of things to be terrified of, Shawn reasons, but today, this isn't one of them.

Henry is out on the back porch when Shawn arrives, making what appear to be steaks.

"Do you ever eat anything different?" Shawn teases, walking up the steps and collapsing into a wicker chair.

Henry swivels around to face him. "If you were cooking, we'd be eating pizza pockets and chocolate milk."

"Rude," Shawn responds. Then he acquiesces, "But true."

Henry quickly turns to face the grill to conceal his smirk. "So," he begins, without preamble. "I heard about what you did today."

Shawn pauses, almost fearful. "What?"

"For the SBPD. Caught the murderer right at the scene, apparently. Lots of heroics, something about a knife?"

"How'd you figure that out already?" Shawn asks but already knows. Henry knows most of the police force. He probably has spies everywhere. At the thought, he shrinks down in his chair.

"I know Ramirez. He said you were acting real fidgety, too. I told you to stop drinking those Red Bulls."

"But dad, if I don't, how will I ever get my wings?"

Henry snorts.

"All I did was catch a guy," Shawn downplays his role, mostly to calm himself down. "Nothing that exciting happened."

Henry shrugs, movements insinuating, if you say so and turns back to the grill. "I know that the police aren't knocking on your door every day for your help," he begins, and Shawn starts to roll his eyes. "What do you even do? Do you have any hobbies?"

"Backgammon, mostly."

Henry glares at him.

"I keep busy," Shawn says, finally feeling defensive. "What's with all the questions?"

"Can't a father ask what his son has been up to?"

Shawn levels him with a look that says, not if your father is Henry Spencer.

The words 'I worry about you' will not pass Henry's lips, ever, so only silence follows Shawn's expression. Shawn isn't too sure that his father does worry about him. Maybe he knows in that small, private way, the one which doesn't require proclamations or physical gestures.

Shawn crosses one leg over the other. "How about if I reverse that question. What have you been up to?"

Henry shrugs impishly, looking for all the world like someone that's up to something. "Maybe I have a few things up on my sleeve."

Shawn grimaces. "I don't even want to know what that means." Thinking of his father canoodling with some random woman is enough to make his stomach churn but thinking of women makes him think of Juliet and then that makes him think of earlier. All of this is so goddamn confusing…

"Shawn?"

Shawn snaps his head upright in alarm. Oh, right. He's at his dad's. Everything is fine. Right now at least.

Henry looks almost concerned but he quickly hides it with his trademark scowl. "You have a headache or something?"

Shawn shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine." His eyes drift over to the grill. "So are those steaks done or what?"

Later on, after Shawn has successfully evaded taking the Psych merchandise out of his father's garage, he is about to lean off his motorcycle and go inside his apartment when he pauses, remembering something. He reaches into his hunter-green jacket pocket and produces the business card the man had given him last night.

Peter Bronson, M.D.

Shawn reaches for his phone and dials the number. "Yeah, hey, this is Shawn Spencer. Yeah, I'm the guy from the other night. Everything's fine, but…could we meet up? I have a few questions to ask you."