AN: Sooooo this happened. It's not really serious, I guess? Don't think I'm being really serious here, is what I mean. Shawn gets super powers? That's it?! Haha I DON'T KNOW, MAN. I'm used to writing angst and Shawn and Henry being all 'whyyyy do we hate each otherr', 'no Shawn don't do dangerous things', 'oops, I did a dangerous thing', Shawn gets hurt, cue the angst. Anyway, I lifted this idea from my good friend and this might end up having multiple chapters? I had too much caffeine today.

It starts like most superhero stories do.

The insatiable hunger for donuts.

Shawn regularly goes to Krispy Kreme for a couple glazed ones and a large coffee easy on the sugar, heavy on the cream. He does it most Tuesdays and sometimes Fridays. And he won't apologize for that.

Anyways, he only became a superhero because one Friday night, he felt like going to get his donut-and-coffee combo. Not for any particular reason, reflecting back on it now. It could have been because it was especially sunny out that day or the SBPD hadn't dished out a case to him in a while or The Breakfast Club was on that night at ten and he wanted to be in a decent mood.

Whatever the case, Shawn rolls his Norton out around seven o'clock in the evening, determined to make the most out of the night, despite having done nothing of note in weeks. Like he had mentioned, the SBPD had been slow-going as of late and, not that he wanted citizens to be in mortal peril or anything, but, well, it was boring.

Overhead, the sky seems to darken, clouds scuttling away, most likely revealing a foreboding sense, a storm. It isn't safe to ride a motorcycle in the rain, Shawn knows this, but can't exactly quit now – he is already on his way. Besides, he'll probably make it home just fine. What could possibly go wrong?

Shawn gets his three glazed donuts ("Shawn, do you know how long donuts take to digest in your body?" Gus's words echo in Shawn's mind, "Three days! Three days each for every donut!") and coffee, deciding to just enjoy them at a stool near the window overlooking the parking lot. If the rain starts up, fine. He'll sit here and wait it out.

Just as he is licking some donut glaze off his thumb, he realizes that the sky is even darker, if possible. He only has a few drops of coffee left in his cup and he drains it quickly before pulling out his keys and giving a wave to the cashier, Benny.

This is when the bad stuff happens.

Unfortunately, Shawn had been too optimistic. The storm would not wait for him to get home first. He is only halfway to his apartment when the sky erupts with droplets of rain, starting in a light sprinkle.

Shawn is unsure how to handle this. If he had stayed within the safe confines of the Krispy Kreme, this would not have been an issue. However, now he is approaching a large bridge and there isn't a sign of safety for miles. If the rain keeps at a light sprinkle, he should be fine.

The rain does not stay at a light sprinkle. Within minutes, the rain picks up and comes down so heavily, Shawn swerves to the left and then the right, knowing he should absolutely get off of his bike, right now. Thunder begins to sound, as if the heavy rain wasn't enough. Lightning soon follows and Shawn curses under his breath.

Just as he approaches the bridge, he hears a loud roar and a squealing of brakes. Heart pounding in his chest, he makes a desperate brake to the right and watches in disbelief as a Jeep Cherokee zooms by, evidently not having noticed Shawn's figure in all the rain.

Shawn, gripping his handlebars, pants heavily.

The Jeep comes to a halt and a heavyset man wearing a sweatshirt steps out, hood up over his head. "Hey, buddy, you okay?" he asks.

Shawn pulls off his helmet to tell him yes, he is okay, just barely, when overhead, thunder roars so loudly it seems to surprise even the man opposite him. Shawn opens his mouth but the lightning soon follows and its destination is…

Shawn.

It all kind of goes hazy after that.

It doesn't really feel how he expected it to, like all of your bones turning to liquid, like pain erupting from the top of your scalp to the bottom of your toenails. It's surprising, almost tranquil. It's like going to sleep.

You know, if going to sleep meant getting struck by lightning.

His back arches upon contact before wrenching back in on itself and then, a last coherent thought, goddamn donuts.

While Shawn sinks down onto the pavement like a bag of bricks, the man opposite him steps back in shock and then rushes to dial 911. He skids over to the younger man and can't honestly believe it – there isn't a mark on him. His eyes are closed and his skin looks a little sallow, but other than that, he seems unscathed.

However astute the man's observations are, Shawn takes a turn for the worse once he reaches the hospital. The doctors swarm around the man, all searching for evidence of getting struck by lightning but there is just smooth, unblemished skin on his chest.

It's at that moment that Shawn goes into cardiac arrest. Monitors are beeping shrilly and doctors and nurses are frantically attempting to bring him back but it looks hopeless. Some hospital members are probably thinking, of course. If it looks good on the outside, it doesn't on the inside. It had been too good to be true – a man walking away from being struck by lightning.

"Call it."

"Time of death – 8:46PM."

"Damn it."

One of the doctors, an older man, steps away from the table and stares at the younger man before him, feeling guilty. Sometimes he feels absolutely discouraged when another person, even if there had been nothing he could have done to prevent it, dies. He looks at the young man before him, thinking, damn it. So many people think they have so much time but he has seen it countless ways: it can all get cut short.

The doctor is about to leave the room when he spots a small movement. He can't believe it.

The young man's finger moves again and then his hand twitches. Before the doctor can alert anyone else to this anomaly, the young man rises up from the table with something almost like a…yawn?

"Holy crap," he says to no one in particular. "Does anyone have any water? I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

Amazingly, Shawn is given a clean bill of health.

The doctors ran every test they could, checking his heart, his eyes, his ears, his lungs. They called for blood tests, they called for X-Rays, even MRIs. Nothing.

Shawn is cleared to go home although the doctors look hesitant to let him go. There isn't a stitch wrong with him but anyone at the hospital knows how conditions can sometimes turn on a dime.

Maybe it's the coffee he had earlier but Shawn feels almost…energized, which is odd. He sits on the bed he had been assigned to and wonders absently if he should call his father or Gus. They would want to know what had happened. At the same time though, nothing had happened. It wouldn't be worth it to upset them over nothing.

He shakes the doctor's hand, hops off the bed and makes his way to the parking lot. The man that had nearly run him over on the bridge had brought it over to the hospital and then gave him his card, telling him if he needed anything, anytime, to give him a call.

And then Shawn goes home in time to watch The Breakfast Club.

All in all, it was a good night.

Shawn wakes up the next morning feeling like he just knocked back three cans of Red Bull and a handful of caffeine pills. It's like his blood turned into pure espresso.

He walks into his kitchen and rubs his eyes blearily. This must be a side effect of getting struck by lightning, he decides. You walk around for a few days feeling edgy. That must be it.

The rest of his morning is…weird.

While he showers, he swears he hears his next door neighbor Ms. Malone drop and break a coffee mug in her kitchen. "Damn it," she whispers, "and I just mopped this floor."

Okay, Shawn has thin walls in his apartment, yes, but they aren't that thin. In order to hear that, he'd have to have no walls. Or better yet, be inside Ms. Malone's apartment.

Then he goes to make himself a pot of coffee and when he grips the handle of the pot, it snaps off and causes the whole thing to break, smashing onto the floor.

And yes, the coffee pot had been a garage sale buy and it was probably made in the 90's but would it have broken that easily? Shawn doesn't think his grip is all that powerful. Numbly, he wipes up the mess, sweeping away glass shards.

He vows to get something from a nearby Coffee Bean and then leaves his apartment, feeling more than a little weird.

While Shawn waits in line for his pineapple iced coffee – yes, they do make pineapple iced coffee – he sees a nearby flyer on the wall. Burton Guster: Spanish lessons? What the hell? He snatches it off the corkboard and the thick paper slices across his palm.

"Ow!" he hisses. Paper cut. He reaches for a nearby napkin but feels an odd tingling sensation across his hand. Struck by lightning side effect? Looking down in morbid fascination, he realizes that the thin gash on his palm is slowly knitting itself back together, piece by piece. The tingling feeling intensifies and he bends slightly inward, wincing.

Then, suddenly, it's gone. There is a slight spot of blood but the shallow cut is gone.

"Okay," Shawn says aloud to himself, "something is going on here."

"Pineapple iced coffee for Shawn?"

The next few moments are like a montage Shawn's only seen in movies.

After downing his coffee, he drives out to a certain beach that he knows won't be crowded at this hour. Mostly because it's a privately-owned one. Oops.

He walks across the sand for a long while until he comes to a practical wall of rocks that lead up to a parking area overlooking the beach itself. Some of the rocks are huge, some are miniscule. It appears as if someone made a path to be able to climb up top but Shawn instead stares curiously at the large, jagged boulders at the bottom. Perhaps it was a fluke, a random event that the coffee pot shattered beneath his grip. But maybe it wasn't. Shawn doesn't believe he can just go and try to lift a car but…what would be so wrong with trying this?

A large, gray-colored rock is his first attempt. He comes at it with two hands, pulling at the edges, attempting to bring it back towards him. It's a comical sight – a grown man pulling at an impossible-to-move rock, his body contorted in an awkward shape as he exhales breath after breath before falling onto his ass in disgust.

That's it. He's gone crazy. He must have. What did he think he was doing? That the lightning striking him had actually done something? No, the doctors were right. God, he's wasting time with this. Shawn feels himself growing uncharacteristically angry.

He goes out to kick the rock (stupidly) and closes his eyes in preparation for the pain because he'd decided to just kick a rock but there is…nothing.

Instead, the rock is a few feet away in the sand.

"No way," Shawn breathes. He reaches for another nearby rock and exhales a deep breath before lifting it up in both hands and tossing it aside. He lets out a whoop of surprise and takes a leap from one rock to the next. He can't believe what he is doing; each rock is higher than the one before it. His body shouldn't be able to make such high jumps.

He lets out a triumphant "Whoohoo!" before making the biggest jump he has yet, landing at the top of the pile of rocks. He stares down below him, at the waves crashing in at the shore, not sure exactly how to feel.

Then, suddenly, he hears the squeal of tires. At a distance no typical human should be able to see from, he sees a familiar SBPD vehicle. He can't help but stand, mesmerized at his newfound ability. He can even hear Juliet say, "Is that…Shawn?"

A few moments later, the car stops just a few feet away. Shawn looks around himself in bewilderment. How high had he jumped to get here?

"Shawn?"

"Ah, Juliet!" Shawn plasters a grin on his face. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Juliet's petite face wrinkles in confusion. "Shawn, you do know this is a private area, right?"

Shawn widens his hazel eyes as if Juliet has just dropped some very important information on him. "What?" he asks. "Really?"

Juliet smirks. She is not totally immune to him anymore. "Yes. It is. We got a call saying there was some strange man jumping around out here."

Shawn reddens. "Huh, well that's…that's odd. Wonder who that was."

Juliet is still smiling. "Yeah, well, anyway. Come on. We've got a case."

Gus is already at the scene of the crime, which, what.

Shawn must look confused because Gus shrugs and says simply, "I was in the area." Shawn has a strong suspicion that this must have to do with the 'Spanish lessons' flyer from earlier but he won't say anything. Yet.

The case is like any other that Shawn has stumbled upon. Person reasonably known in the neighborhood found dead in house, cause of death suspicious, Lassiter giving him shit for saying so, etc, etc.

Oh, right. The psychic thing.

"Agh!" Shawn grips his head as if he is in total agony. "The spirits! They are shouting at me, Jules!"

Juliet, she of the cornflower blue eyes and stunning naiveté, is immediately transfixed. Shawn loves that about her. She is his audience, every time.

"This woman"-Shawn points down to the mid-thirties, slim Hispanic woman laying supine on the floor-"did not die in the way in which you think!" Just as Shawn is about to spin out a few more loopy, psychic statements, the movements around him seem to still.

It is as if someone put everything on slow-mo, but even slower than that, if possible. Suddenly, in this slow-mo, Juliet is reaching up to tuck a flyaway hair behind her ear, Lassiter is taking his time to scowl fiercely and Gus, courtside, reaches for his cell phone.

Shawn, himself, however, feels…normal? What the hell. Confused, he peers around and a few other various SBPD officers are in slow-mo as well, assessing the crime scene area. Except…wait a minute. No, come on. This can't be happening.

Off in the distance, an overlooked area of the home perhaps, some small room most likely meant for crafts or sewing, a man is successfully getting away. He has already heaved himself up over a window ledge. A least suspect escape, fortunately for him, as all of the windows in the house are open. No one would pay any attention. The man – tall and reedy, pale with wide, glistening eyes – is legging it, sprinting away and Shawn can see him much farther than he suspects he should be able to.

Well, no one time like the present, right? No one else is evidently experiencing this extremely odd day. Shawn makes a break for the same exit as the suspicious man. Thankfully, he started back on his exercise regime (a thrice-weekly bike ride, a 45 minute run on the other four days) and scaling the window ledge is no big deal. The drop down is pretty unceremonious, considering how low to the ground the window is.

This is what happens: this man is running away from you and yet you barely have to jog to get to him. You simply move briskly to where he is, grab him by the shoulder and push him to the pavement. You feel an unexpected surge of strength as you do so, like the man on the ground is composed of nothing but air or light. It is exhilarating. It is terrifying.

Then there is an immense pressure in Shawn's temples and, blissfully, it dissipates. The slow-mo is gone. A barely conscious man is now at his feet.

Then, at the window, out of which Shawn vaulted moments ago, a voice shouts, "Shawn?"

Shawn takes a moment to shake himself out of his stupor before he waves easily, as if spotting a friend at a barbecue. "Hey, Juliet. I think I found something!"

The man on the ground gulps.