Shawn was hot.

Sweat was dripping down his back and it was making him ticklish. He tried to wrap his arm around to his back to wipe it, but something heavy had pinned it to the ground; the rough, scratchy ground.

He was stunned for a minute, had forgotten what had just happened. But the feel of the sand on his skin quickly reminded him of the reason why he was now lying on the ground, clouds of disturbed sand swirling around him and making it difficult to see.

His name was being called loudly, as well as the name of the actress now wrapped firmly in his grasp. She was coughing and hugging his arms as tightly as she could, which cut off his circulation and made their uncomfortable position in the sand even more uncomfortable. Yet his head swam and if he opened his mouth to speak, the breeze would blow small amounts of sand into his mouth and make him gag and cough.

Cast and crew, extras and Gus were beginning to crowd around them now, and even from his position on the ground, Shawn could see onlookers behind the ropes, as well as news cameras, flashing pictures and gawking at him and the actress. They whispered in ears, talked excitedly amongst one another, pointing at the killer prop that had fallen not even a minute ago and was now in pieces around them.

All Shawn could think about was how he was going to be on the front page of so many different newspapers tomorrow morning.

People were on their knees, touching him, touching Eliza, trying to move them. But neither of them seemed to be able to process what was going on. The actress would only tighten her hold around Shawn’s arms and vigorously shake her head No.

Shawn’s mind began to catch up and he realized he would never get his arms back in one piece if he didn’t try to calm the leading lady down. When the sand started to die down, he bent his head over Eliza’s ear and brushed his lips against it to whisper, "Are you alright, Eliza?"

Eliza stilled, besides a small shudder that Shawn could feel run up her back. Perfect, he thought.

She slowly nodded her head, and with it began to loosen her hold on Shawn’s arms, which sent a tingling sensation upwards to his shoulders. The girl had quite a grip.

Shawn saw Gus standing next to Samantha, who was holding back the PA who had been whispering to Eliza earlier (which Shawn remembered had calmed the actress down). He nodded towards his friend, who let his shoulders drop in relief, and cautiously brought one of his arms up to brush a few curls away from Eliza’s ear. He continued whispering to her as he tried to guide them both into a sitting position.

"I’m just going to lift you a little, okay? Does anything hurt?" he asked calmly, finally upright.

Eliza slowly turned, her eyes sparkling, and shook her head. "Not really," she whispered with a smile on her face. Shawn smiled back.

"You saved my life," she said, her tone raising.

Shawn saw the PA finally break from the producer’s grasp and run over, dropping to his knees as he pushed Shawn out of the way.

"Eliza! Miss Carlisle! Oh God, are you alright?!" he whined, terror clearly written on his face. He was taller than Shawn, a muscular build with dark brown hair. His brown eyes darted back and forth over the actress, checking her for injury.

Gus and Samantha came over to help Shawn to his feet, the producer mumbling something about "cost" and "my boss".

"I’m fine, Syd," Eliza said irritably, swatting his hand away when he tried to help her stand. She pushed herself up and swished her hair, dozens of camera flashes going off at once, then turned back to Shawn with a huge, dazzlingly white smile plastered on her face.

Syd the PA turned as well, his eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms across his chest. "Did he hurt you, Miss Carlisle?" he asked darkly, pushing the microphone on his headset up and away from his mouth. Eliza just continued to grin and shake her head.

"No," she said loudly. Brushing past the crew and others who were trying to gauge the damage to them and the set, Eliza wrapped her arm around Shawn’s (which made him flinch, since the tingling had finally just died down) and said loudly for all the news crews to hear, "This man is a hero!"

And the lights flashed more than ever.

Shawn always welcomed free publicity, and having his picture taken by so many news crews and internet bloggers was definitely free publicity (even if they didn’t know his name…yet), but as the cameras kept flashing he couldn’t help but cringe a little. Now he would be associated with this movie forever, and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

While Eliza went off to face the cameras (continually gesturing towards Shawn, smiling, waving and generally creeping him out), Gus pulled Shawn to the side and asked, "Are you alright?"

There was genuine concern there, which didn’t surprise Shawn in the least. Gus was his best friend, but the brotherly affection wasn’t a one-sided thing, and despite the fact that Shawn knew it was there and was never put off by it, he sometimes forgot that Gus worried about him as much as Shawn himself worried about Gus.

"I’m good, buddy," Shawn said with a smile.

Gus nodded towards his arm with a sideways glance. "You’re bleeding," he said, resisting the urge to gag.

Shawn picked his arm up and glanced at the long scrape going down to his elbow. "No big deal," he said and wiped his arm on his jeans. He hissed as the scrape stung viciously in response.

Gus gave him a look. "You’re an idiot." Grabbing his other arm, his friend shook his head. "What happened, Shawn? You just took off and five seconds later that pillar crashed right over you."

Shawn realized how insane he must have looked, running across the set and throwing Eliza to the ground just as one of the massive props fell over.

"The rope was snapping," he said with a shrug. "I couldn’t let it crush her."

Gus shook his head again. "But I don’t understand, either these people don’t know how to do their jobs, or…" He stopped and Shawn saw his shoulders sag.

"You! PA five, over here!"

Shawn and Gus stopped their conversation when they heard Samantha’s voice calling out. She was standing with Gabe, the director, and Les, the set decorator, who Shawn remembered being introduced to by Samantha.

Drew went bounding over to Samantha, his hair flopping with every step he took.

"Yes ma’am!" Drew said quickly, hard lines set around his eyes.

"Get me someone," Samantha said, her voice on edge.

Drew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Get you…someone," he repeated, unsure.

"Yes! Get me someone! Someone to clean up this mess!" Samantha snapped, and Drew jumped, head already nodding vigorously. He pulled his microphone down and ran, his clipboard flailing wildly in the air.

Shawn and Gus exchanged "Whoa" looks, but Shawn held up his hand to stall Gus from saying anything as he continued to listen to the conversation she was now having.

"…the second thing to fall and break, only this time it could have killed people!" Samantha said harshly, trying to keep her voice from getting too loud.

"Ma’am, I don’t know what happened, honestly. The grips were…" the set decorator tried to explain, but Samantha cut him off.

"Les, we apparently have incompetent grips. We can’t afford another setback like this, it’s getting ridiculous. Another accident? I don’t expect things to go perfectly, but this is just…this is a liability." Samantha tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

These weren’t just accidents, that much Shawn was sure of. Sandbags which held down props didn’t just get up and walk away, and he knew the rope had been cut by the way it looked right before it snapped.

Shawn knew what he had to do.

With a grin, he winked at Gus, who immediately started to brew with that angry, don’t-wink-at-me-Shawn-I-told-you-never-to-wink-at-me face. Then he abruptly closed his eyes and began staggering diagonally, right towards the cameras.

"OH GOD!" he cried, gaining attention from the news crews and others scattered around the set, cast and crew alike. "OH GOD, I—WUH—GUH—!"

His hands clutched around his throat and he continued to make choking noises of a particularly dramatic nature until Gus hissed fiercely, "Shawn!"

Shawn turned and Gus continued whispering harshly. "What are you doing?!"

Shawn shot him a look, clearly pretending to be distressed, his hands still waving around his throat. He gurgled. Gus just scowled.

His expression intensifying in an attempt to convey that Gus should play along, Shawn waved a little more vigorously. Gus glared and crossed his arms.

Gus took in a sharp breath. "You wouldn’t!" he hissed. Shawn just gave him his best "try me" look. Gus’ scowl intensified ten-fold but he stalked out to Shawn’s side, his expression smoothing over as he turned to face the cameras.

The crowd was watching intently now, a few people calling out, "What’s wrong with him?", "Is he having a seizure?" and "Who is this guy?"

Gus tilted his head. "It appears that my partner has been struck dumb," he said, before adding a low, "Not to mention stupid." Shawn kicked him in the ankle and Gus hissed, smacking him in return.

They engaged in a quick, fierce smack-battle before Shawn stepped out of range, gesturing violently. Gus jabbed a finger at him and then turned back to the cameras, face clearing again. "So he will have to convey the spirit’s message through me."

Turning his gaze on Shawn, he waited.

Shawn flashed him a surreptitious wink (which he knew would make Gus mad) and bent suddenly at the waist, his body an exaggerated curve of effort as he pulled at an invisible object on the ground. The way Shawn strained his body made it clear whatever he was pulling—whatever he was pretending to pull—was heavy.

Gus frowned. "Something is heavy—" and in a mutter added, "like his ego." Shawn’s glare made Gus roll his eyes as he got back into the swing of "interpreting."

"Something has been moved!" he exclaimed. Shawn let go of his imagined burden to jump up and down ecstatically, pointing in affirmation at Gus.

Suddenly one of the reporters shouted out, "The pillar?"

Shawn shot a "Really? You’re going with ‘the pillar’?" look at the reporter, who blushed as all eyes turned to look at him.

"Well it did," he mumbled.

"Not the pillar, was it a piece of equipment?" someone else called out.

"It had to be something over there, maybe another prop?" another guessed.

Gus stood staring open-mouthed at the crowd when Shawn glanced at him, hoping to get a more reasonable answer out of his cohort. He hissed, trying to get Gus’ attention, but Gus just continued staring as people continued to call out guesses, looking totally dumbfounded.

Shawn narrowed his eyes and sighed dramatically, turning back to the crowd. He raised one finger.

"Ooh, ooh!" a woman exclaimed. "One word!"

Shawn grinned widely, nodded enthusiastically, and raised two fingers.

"Two syllables!" came a few more excited voices.

He closed his hand into a fist, only to extend his forefinger up again.

"First syllable!" two extras exclaimed in tandem.

Gus shook his head, disbelieving. "This is unbelievable," he muttered.

Shawn held out his hands, tossing a pretend bulk into the air and whacking it with his fist.

"Volleyball!" someone yelled.

"Sports!" another called.

Shawn shook his head wildly and the crowd went down a different track.

"Uh, beach volleyball," one of the camera guys from Shawn’s favorite news station said.

With a nod, Shawn made "gimme" hands, egging the crowd on.

"Beach?"

Shawn motioned for them to keep going, and it was Samantha who yelled out, "Sand?!"

Shawn pointed at her and nodded vigorously.

The producer smiled brightly, receiving a pat on the back from the set designer and a few muttered "good job"s from the people around her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn could see Gus was fuming, but he continued his game, his audience growing by the minute as people continued to crowd around behind the ropes restricting the area of the beach they were filming on.

He held up two more fingers and the crowd yelled, "Second syllable!"

Shawn reached down and picked up an imaginary load, throwing it over his shoulder.

"Sack!"

"A pack!"

"Schoolbag?!"

Shawn was straining his neck and flapping his hand in circles, urging the crowd to continue, until someone finally said, "Bag!"

Shawn began to clap, jump and point, and Eliza cried, "Sandbag! You’re talking about the sandbags!"

Most of the crowd was cheering, and a few people gasped when Shawn let himself "faint" bonelessly (and with some grace) onto the sandy ground. For a moment, he lay there, completely immobile. Gus stood his ground, looking deliberately in the other direction, his jaw clenching as the crowd began murmuring worriedly amongst themselves. Finally, his eyes started to flutter open and he raised himself slowly, as if in a daze.

"Gus?" he said weakly, looking around at the crowd that was gawking at him. The cameras drew closer and everyone grew silent.

Turning his head just out of the line of sight for the cameras, Gus rolled his eyes some more but put on his game face. Shawn knew Gus wasn’t stupid enough to miss this opportunity.

"Shawn? Are you all right?" he asked, crouching next to Shawn.

"I don’t know, Gus," Shawn said, putting a hand delicately to his head. "I feel weak."

Gus’ eyes narrowed. This was important for their business, but Hammy McHam over here was milking it beyond dry. "I’m sure you’ll be just fine," he said, pulling him roughly to his feet. The duo exchanged glares.

"Gus, what happened?" Shawn asked, voice deliberately wilty. He leaned heavily on Gus’ shoulder. Gus pushed him off.

"You were having a vision," he said coldly with his arms folded across his chest. The crowd around them started murmuring again, the soft scritch of pens scribbling across notepads mingling with their voices and the click, click, click of cameras going off.

Shawn looked around again, then took in a sharp breath. He could see out of the corner of his vision Eliza, who was holding clasped hands in front of her face, looking stunned, along with the intently listening reporters and bystanders. A tiny smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

Now to swoop in for the kill.

"Gus, I see it!" he exclaimed, pinching his eyes together like he was in pain. "I see it! Someone’s moving me, but I need to be here! I need to—HELP! I’M BEING KIDNAPPED!"

Shawn jerked to the side a few times as though unseen forces were yanking at his belt, the cameras and crowd’s eyes following him closely.

"Wait!" Shawn said, snapping his head up. "Wait," he cried, "now I’m being torn in half—NO, I’m being cut in half! I’M BEING SAWED IN HALF!" He screamed hysterically, drawing gasps from the crowd and then fell to the floor, hugging his stomach, shocked whispers all around him now. He began to squirm, whimpering and whining, playing the crowd for a few more minutes. He could practically feel Gus’ gaze boring into his kidneys. Finally, he stretched out, motionless.

The beach fell deathly still.

A minute later, Shawn pushed himself into a standing position. He took in deep, shuddering breaths as if he had just run a marathon and walked slowly to Samantha.

"Samantha," he said slowly, chest still heaving. Her eyes were huge when she nodded, leaning forward slightly.

He repeated her name, because that was what you did when pronouncing something dramatically, "Samantha, this wasn’t an accident."

More surprised gasps from the crowd.

The producer shook her head. "I don’t understand—" she began.

Shawn held up his hand. "The sandbags weighing down the pillar were moved," he said, pointing to the shattered prop piece. "And the rope holding the prop back was cut." He paused, turning to look directly at the cameras. "Someone is sabotaging your movie set."

The set erupted.

"What are you talking about?"

"What do you mean sabotage?"

"Maybe they were paid off!"

"I bet it’s real aliens trying to make sure nobody knows what really happened to ancient Rome!" It took all of Shawn’s self-restraint not to clap his palm to his forehead when his ears caught that comment.

"Shawn," Samantha said, eyes diligently searching his face, "how do you know this?"

Shawn stepped forward, taking the producer’s hand in his. Gus huffed behind him.

"I’m a psychic, Samantha. I feel things. These feelings inside me…sometimes it’s more than a feeling. When I hear that old song they used to play," Shawn said thoughtfully. "I begin dreaming—OW!" He turned his head, hissing—more spitting, really—at Gus, "What was that for?" Gus hissed something back at him through his teeth, which Samantha presumed Shawn understood, because he spat something right back—also incomprehensible. After a good thirty seconds of spitting like cats at one another, Shawn wheeled back around, snapping out, "The point is, the spirits came to me, spoke to me, they told me there’s something shady going on around here.

Samantha earned Gus' eternal respect by looking skeptical. Shawn wouldn't admit, but she earned his, too. "Psychic," she repeated, dead-pan. Shawn nodded earnestly, turning up the trust-me eyes full-blast. Samantha’s own eyes narrowed, and then turned to the crowd of reporters, of extras, of Eliza, staring at Shawn as if he were her own personal savior – which he kind of was, admittedly – and something seemed to click in her head. She leaned forward, closer and closer until Gus was tempted to lean back and drag Shawn with him. Just as Samantha was skating the edge of 'creepy', she hissed, "You have proof that you're psychics?" 

Gus started shaking his head vigorously, hands making a frantic kill gesture even as Shawn let out a strange half-chuckle half-snort. "Just me," Shawn said, self-important. "Gus is my – assistant. I couldn't get anything done without him. But yes, I have proof. I'm the Santa Barbra Police Department psychic, and I also own a psychic detective agency." Gus elbowed Shawn sharply, and without faltering Shawn amended, "Co-own. I co-own a psychic detective agency." 

The skeptical look in Samantha's eyes didn't fade. She warned, voice very low, "I will be checking into those credentials. But in the meantime –" she raised her voice and turned around to face the eagerly waiting crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen! There have been some serious allegations about what's going on with the set. I want to assure you all that we're keeping the situation under control, and to help with that, we've just hired Santa Barbra's own psychic investigator, Shawn –" She paused rather obviously, stuck for his last name, which he leaned forward and hissed into her ear. "Shawn Spencer!"

The crowd burst into cheers, reporters included, and Shawn mugged for the cameras as the bulbs flashed like an amateur fireworks show.

Gus sighed. He wasn't exactly exasperated. This was just Shawn being Shawn. Before he could fade quietly into the background, however, Shawn had dragged him forward. "And this is Crabapple Winston Churchill, the other half of this psychic investigative duo!" Shawn said, draping his arm over Gus shoulder and beaming proudly.

Gus resisted the urge to cover his face with his palm.

As the crowd surged around them, Shawn muttered in Gus' ear, "Do you think I still have a chance with Samantha? She didn't look too impressed with the psychic thing, even though she hired us."

Shawn couldn't see it, but Gus was definitely shooting him a dirty look. "Get your arm off of me," Gus said, and shrugged it off. Yet another camera flashed at that exact moment, capturing forever the smugly delighted expression on Shawn's face as he beamed to his adoring public, and the disgruntled scowl firmly affixed to Gus' face as he glared at his incorrigible partner.

~*~

Lassiter stared hard at the looming brick building that stood in front of him. The words etched across the front read Santa Barbara Police Department, but suddenly he wasn’t quite sure of that anymore. Santa Barbara Nut House was more fitting after everything that had happened to him today.

He groaned and shook his head, wondering vaguely which deity he had pissed off enough to punish him with this case he and his partner had been put on. Why hadn’t he listened to his mother back in college and just gone on to pursue a career as a scum-sucking, ambulance-chasing lawyer?

He shuddered. God, he was having a bad day if law looked more attractive.

With a deep breath, Lassiter shook his shoulders, steeling his nerves as he prepared to head back inside; back to the madness. As much as he wanted to run as far away as humanly possible—as much as he would like to walk away and forget he'd ever decided to wear a badge—he had to remember why he did this job in the first place.

To rid the world of scum, to see wrong-doers put behind bars, justice, equality. He did his job for the people.

Even if they made a damned sequel.

He rolled his eyes and slowly climbed the steps again, pushed onward only by the knowledge that there was a suspect in interrogation waiting to be cracked. And if there was one thing Lassiter enjoyed about his job, it was making suspects crack.

As he walked back into the precinct, he noticed a group of officers huddled around a TV behind the front desk. He paused for a moment to look, assuming there must have been a disaster of some kind, but from across the room it just looked like they were watching some kind of prancing moron.

His interest in whatever it waned about half a second later, that was, until the officers started shouting at the screen.

"It's sand! I'm telling you, it's sand!" a female officer with dark curly hair said, hand flung out toward the television screen.

"No! Didn't you see him point at his ear? It sounds like sand! Band...? land? candy? You know, the game?" one of the men protested.

She gave him a look, a hand fisted on her hip. "Why would he be talking about Candyland on the beach?"

"He didn't point at his ear!" another man said, exasperated.

"Yes, he did!" the other retorted. Lassiter rolled his eyes. Moron should know better than to argue with a woman like that.

"You're an idiot," she said, shaking her head so that the long black curls knotted at the back of her head bobbed.

Even Buzz McNab, normally one of the most dedicated, if not the sharpest cop on the force, had been sucked in.

"He didn't point at his ear," he agreed, nodding along with the inane banter. "But, look! I think he just tapped his toe! Is that a clue? Or is there just sand in his sandals?" he wondered, squinting at the TV.

"It's not a clue!" the man beside him snapped.

"McNab!" Lassiter bellowed as he stormed up to the flailing group of officers, since his was the first name he could immediately call to mind in his current state. "What the hell is going on over here?"

Buzz's grin immediately vanished as he straightened up, his eyes growing wide in awe-struck terror the way they usually did when the head detective approached. At least something was responding normally today. "Uh...Sir...we were just..."

"You were just what?" Lassiter demanded, glancing up at the screen, for the first time actually close enough to see it clearly. "Slacking on the— Oh, hell no," he groaned as he realized just who the prancing moron was.

Spencer.

"Who in their right mind would put that idiot on TV?" he snapped just as the crowd on the television started cheering.

Buzz blinked, his shoulders hunching slightly as though to make himself a smaller target. "Well, the news crews down at the movie set on the beach, I guess, Sir," he said cautiously.

Lassiter pinned him with a venomous glare. "And can you explain why you idiots were yelling at a television set, McNab?"

Buzz nodded enthusiastically, pointing to the TV. "Shawn's been struck dumb by a spirit!"

Lassiter snorted. "The spirits can’t be blamed for that."

Continuing as though he hadn’t heard the detective (which was probable—all that good humor seemed to affect his and O’Hara’s ears), Buzz said, "He’s trying to convey their message via charades."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. Of course he was.

He was opening his mouth to tell McNab to shut the damned television off and get back to work when he spotted the Chief, coming at them from across the station lobby.

"Detective Lassiter," she called. Apparently Buzz took this as his cue and quickly shut off the TV before slipping away into the halls.

Lassiter scowled and joined Karen in the lobby, following as she headed in the direction of her office. "Yes, Chief?" he asked shortly. He half expected a lecture, or at least a withering glare, for abandoning the interrogation earlier, but was surprised when none came. In fact, she was smiling at him.

"Nice work in there," she said and he stared at her. The ghost of a smile wasn’t nearly shark-like enough to be the forerunner of a tongue-lashing.

He blanked. "Excuse me?"

"The interrogation," she clarified, but the smile had slipped a little.

He frowned at her. Clearly he had missed something. He’d only been in one interrogation so far today, and it had not been ‘nice work’ on his part.

"The Sanchez interrogation?" she supplied, twisting her head slightly as she folded her arms, an expression of suspicion working onto her face.

The frown increased exponentially and he stopped short of entering her office. "Excuse me?" he repeated.

"Nice work," she repeated with a chary nod. "He cracked."

Without over fifteen years of training, Lassiter's jaw would've dropped open. "What do you mean he cracked?"

The chief let out a huff, a slight smirk on her face. "I mean, he's going to help us," Vick told him, moving behind her desk and sitting. Lassiter finally moved inside, still baffled by this turn of events.

How could Sanchez have cracked? He hadn't even gotten upper-case mad yet!

"Help us what?" he demanded, crowding closer than was typically advised. She looked up from the work on her desk impatiently.

"I mean, O'Hara is going undercover as his girlfriend and he's going to wear a wire. We're going to catch these dealers, Detective." She eyeballed him and he took an automatic step backward, opening his mouth to say something, to protest that this was all horribly, horribly wrong, but he couldn’t figure out how to form the words.

Where could he start?

The Chief wasn't listening to him, anyway. She just nodded again, going back to her paperwork. A moment later, when he was still standing there, gawking, she looked up at him and cleared her throat, eyes straying suggestively to the door.

Lassiter exited, closing the door behind him and stood there wondering where, exactly, his life had gotten so far off-track.

"Are you okay?" a voice to his left asked, wrenching him out of his moment of self-loathing.

He turned around, glaring at his junior partner. "What the hell happened in there?" he demanded. "Sanchez cracked?"

"He didn't crack," Juliet told him. She was using her patient, you’re-acting-like-an-idiot-Carlton voice. "He just decided to help us. It's called bonding, Carlton."

"What happened to fear?" he said incredulously.

"Fear doesn't always work." She shrugged off-handedly. "Sometimes, you have to bond."

Lassiter groaned as she walked away, rolling his eyes and for the millionth time in the last hour thinking to himself that maybe it wasn’t too late...

Just maybe, there was still time to become a scum-sucking, ambulance-chasing lawyer after all.

~*~

How the newspapers had managed to get the story of Eliza Carlisle's close escape and the role Shawn had in the whole debacle the very next day was a mystery of modern print Gus had no care to contemplate. He also had no care to contemplate the rather large photograph of Shawn, arm half-slung across Gus' shoulders and half-falling off due to Gus shoving it away. Shawn was figured prominently in the photograph, smirking widely, whereas only half of Gus himself had made it into the frame. That just figured.

How the photograph and the accompanying article had made it to front page news was something Gus could only attribute to it being a slow news week. "Will you put that away?" he snapped, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

The open newspaper rustled, spread wide and held up by tanned hands, pages obscuring the obnoxious face of his best friend. Shawn's disembodied voice said, "Gus, this is awesome! There's an advertisement for pineapple trees! Let's go get some. We could start our own orchard."

"Shawn," Gus snapped. "We're here. If you hadn't noticed, the car stopped moving. Put the newspaper away and get out." Before Shawn could say it, Gus preempted with a, "And that's a no on the pineapple orchard, Shawn."

Shawn rolled his eyes and grumbled, but did fold the newspaper back into a manageable size. He didn't leave it behind him as he exited the car, but rather carried it, waving it around. Gus sighed, locked up his car and pocketed his keys.

It didn't take long for Shawn to unfold the newspaper again, re-reading with delight the article that was all about him. Shawn's ego had never been more inflated, Gus thought sourly, ire ratcheting up a few degrees as Shawn began to read the article out loud.

"There was excitement on the set of Santa Barbra's newest movie yesterday as the life of star Eliza Carlisle was imperiled by what is suspected to have been an attempt on her life. Luckily for the starlet, psychic detective Shawn Spencer was on scene to rescue her. The young, devastatingly handsome psychic –"

"It does not say that," Gus protested.

"It does!" Shawn said, and waved the newspaper around. "Well, maybe I'm paraphrasing a little –"

Gus rolled his eyes and grabbed the paper out of Shawn's grasp. Scanning the newsprint quickly, following Shawn's footsteps as a matter of course, Gus frowned. While the words 'devastatingly handsome' weren't exactly used, Shawn seemed to be reading correctly between the lines for once, which would only serve to make him even more insufferable.

"Guuuuus," Shawn whined, reaching for the paper. "Don't be a non-rhyming delineated poem, give me that back!"

But once begun, Gus couldn't leave an article unread: his eyes scanned further. Incredulous, he said, "When did you have the time to give an interview?" Without waiting for an answer, he added, "And why am I being called Crabapple Winston Churchill? Shawn, if we make it into the papers, you’re supposed to give them my real name!"

Shawn shrugged and smirked, one gesture growing out of the other. "I told them you preferred 'Chill'."

Scowling, Gus threw the newspaper at him, then looked around. His blind following of Shawn hadn't led them to extras' holding – had led them instead to what Gus could swear were the makeup trailers reserved solely for those who had actual speaking parts. "Shawn," Gus said, "Where are we?"

Shawn grinned. Despite the fact that he always seemed irrepressibly gleeful, the times Shawn actually smiled were few and far between – typically instead he smirked, or pouted, contorted his face comically. "Oh, did I forget to mention?" He pulled open the nearest trailer's door. "I got upgraded. To featured extra." He bounced into the trailer, jaunty, while Gus stood gaping outside. A pause of five seconds elapsed before Shawn's head poked out the doorframe, Shawn frowning quizzically. "What are you waiting for? Get in here."

Gus pointed at himself, dumbstruck, and Shawn nodded again.

"You got upgraded too. Duh."

Gus grinned widely and bounded up into the trailer as well. The day was looking up.

Apparently as featured extras, Shawn and Gus would potentially have close up shots of their faces and other parts, which necessitated a great deal more make up time. Shawn took the foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and blush in stride, citing past experience during his stint on Explosion Gingantesca de Romance, the soap opera case from months ago. Gus bore the application of eyeliner with ill grace, flinching every time the pencil came near to his eye until his makeup artist huffed impatience and clamped his face still, tiny hand like a vise.

Where it started to go way overboard was when the makeup artists broke out the Vaseline. "Oh, I saw this on Project Runway," Gus said, pleased to finally recognize something. "We have to smear some of that on our teeth, right? To make sure our lips don't stick to our teeth when we smile."

The makeup artists traded amused looks. "Well, yes, that's one use," Shawn's makeup artist said, nodding. "Actually, take a dollop and do that." She held the jar out to Shawn first, who made a face but did as directed, and then to Gus, who dubiously took a fingerful of Vaseline. It was as he was rubbing the Vaseline onto his teeth that he felt his belt unbuckled, his slacks pulled down, and Vaseline-coated hands getting up close and personal with his thighs.

Gus yelped, attempted to leap backward, and was tripped by his pants. He landed on his butt with a thud. His makeup artist huffed impatiently. "Honestly," she said. "We haven't even gotten to the olive oil yet."

Gus hadn't known his voice could hit quite the high register it managed when he squeaked, "Olive oil?"

Shawn had taken the Vaseline rub-down better than Gus, rolling his eyes at Gus while his makeup artist efficiently coated his thighs and calves with Vaseline. "We're going to be on camera more than the other extras, Gus, and it’s an actiony picture," he said. He really had no right to look or sound so knowledgeable when the extent of his experience with show business had been a few weeks on the set of a telenovela and a romantic comedy in the late nineties. "That means we have to be extra-glisteny. Glistening? Glistened?"

"Any way you change the ending to 'glisten' will still not make that sentence grammatically correct," Gus hissed, gathering his dignity to stand and allow his makeup artist to further molest him. Both makeup artists looked entirely too amused, especially as they motioned for Shawn and Gus to remove their shirts.

This, too, Shawn had apparently expected as he wore a wife beater beneath his shirt: it was his habit to never be completely shirtless. This was fine as the makeup artists focused primarily on their shoulders, necks, and arms. Shawn turned to say something to Gus halfway through the process, and Gus yelped, "You keep your eyes to your side of the trailer, Shawn." He could hear it when Shawn rolled his eyes.

But overall the experience wasn't as mortifying as Gus was making it out to be. Their makeup artists were efficient, movements brisk and hands professionally impersonal. Gus didn't feel so much a guy as a statue, less a person and more an object; yet it was still somewhat embarrassing when Samantha poked her head into the makeup trailer.

She smiled widely when she saw Shawn and Gus, and entered without regard to the discomfort her presence might cause them. She was probably used to being around half-naked people every day, all day. "Your story checked out with the Chief of Police," she said, addressing Shawn. "And I checked into your track record – very impressive."

Shawn gave as much of a bow as he could with his makeup artist holding his torso immobile. "We do our best to interpret the spirits," he said, faux-modestly.

Samantha said, wryly, "Not that I completely buy that – but, well, what I said yesterday still stands. You're hired until everything that's been happening on set has been resolved."

Shawn grinned at Gus. "How’s that for productive, buddy? Two jobs at the same time."

Gus just glared.

~*~

"Dude, let’s go by the station on the way home," Shawn said, goggling at the large gash arcing across his forehead in the mirror on his visor.

Gus made a face, which only served to make the gaping wound on his cheek more fearsome. "I’m not going to the station so you can flirt with Juliet."

Shawn turned his head to look at Gus, revealing a streak of matted and congealing blood six inches wide on the right side of his face. "I plan on discussing our case with the Chief, for your information."

A skeptical noise gurgled somewhere in the back of Gus’ throat. "Fine, but we’re talking to the Chief and then we’re getting out of there. I’m tired, Shawn."

"Of course," Shawn said, and he was the picture of innocence.

~*~

"Oh my gosh!" Juliet exclaimed when they strolled into the bullpen. "Shawn! What happened to you guys?" she demanded, reaching up to gently turn his face so she could get a better look at the blood on the side of his face.

His features contorted into a pained grimace. "Well, Jules—"

"It’s make-up," Gus said, cutting him off with a no-nonsense glare.

Juliet’s eyes widened. "Make-up?" Her fingers tentatively brushed the blood on Shawn’s cheek, and when she found it slightly hard to the touch, she drew her arm back and punched him in the arm. "Shawn Spencer!"

"Ow! Hey, Jules!" he protested, voice rising into a whiny register.

"You scared me half to death! Don’t ever do something like that again!" she said, with a look akin to betrayal.

Shawn pouted, his shoulders slumping slightly under her gaze. He lifted his arm, displaying the long scrape going from his wrist up past his elbow. "This one is real!" he told her.

She rolled her eyes. "Please, Shawn. Do you really think I’m going to take your word over Gus’?" She poked the wound with a finger and Shawn hissed sharply, pulling his arm back against his chest.

Blood beaded on the red, half-scabbed over flesh and Juliet’s eyes grew two sizes, her hands jumping to cover her mouth. "Oh my gosh! Shawn!"

He pouted at her. "I was going to tell you that Gus and I were wounded in a great battle—" Juliet started to look unimpressed again and he plowed on, "—scene down at the set of It Came From Space to Conquer Rome."

Juliet rolled her eyes. "Now I know you’re lying. Where did you really get it, Shawn? Rollerblading to your girlfriend’s house to act as her guinea pig?"

Shawn took offense to that. "No, Jules. Gus and I are featured extras." He peered over the edge of his arm at the scrape, his bottom lip jutting out as he delicately prodded at the welling blood. He grimaced.

Gus nodded, eyebrows raised as though to say, I know it’s hard to believe. "It’s true."

Eyeing them both suspiciously, she nodded to the scrape on Shawn’s arm. "How did you get that?"

A smug, self-satisfied smirk wormed it’s way onto Shawn’s face. "I saved a woman’s life."

Gus rolled his eyes.

"You know I don’t like to brag, but…I’m a hero," he continued with a little shrug that was probably meant to look modest. It didn’t.

"Shawn," Gus said, in an attempt to at least stifle the flow of faux modesty, if not stop it altogether.

"And what exactly makes you a hero?" Juliet asked with a healthy dose of skepticism.

"Well—"

"Oh my gosh, Shawn! What you did earlier was amazing! You totally saved Miss Carlisle’s life today!" Buzz exclaimed as he came up beside them. He put a warm hand on Shawn’s shoulder, a blinding grin of admiration on his face.

Shawn’s smirk grew, much to Gus’ exasperation and the fake psychic shot a quick glance at Juliet. "I was just doing what any good psychic would do. I had a feeling."

Gus shook his head and muttered, "Whatever, Shawn."

"You’re just jealous because you didn’t save her," Shawn said.

"I’m not jealous," Gus said, a frown starting to emerge.

"You’re so jealous," Shawn disagreed, leaning in close to his face. "This is your jealous face. It’s in the eyes, Gus." He pointed with two fingers, their faces separated by mere inches.

Gus’ eyes narrowed. "I swear to God, Shawn, I will lick you."

Shawn scoffed. "You won’t lick—" Gus’ tongue flicked out, swiping up his cheek. Shawn immediately freaked out, jerking back out of Gus’ personal space, hands flying up to scrub at his face. "YOU LICKED ME!"

Looking unrepentant, Gus swiped a hand over his mouth. "I told you I would. I’m a man of my word."

"Dude, that’s nasty." Shawn continued scrubbing at his face, then rubbing his hand vigorously against the leg of his jeans. "You could have gingivitis."

Juliet threw her hands up, exasperation plain on her face. "You two are utterly ridiculous. Talk to me if you decide to stop acting like children."

"I do not have gingivitis, Shawn!" Gus snapped.

"Herpes?" Shawn suggested.

Shaking her head, Juliet headed back to her desk.

"SHAWN!"

~*~

"Alright Shawn, I’ll give you props. Catering has really good food."

Shawn barely looked up from his savory mouthful of Fettuccine Alfredo at lunch the next day and nodded, he was a little too preoccupied with the delicious food to answer. He watched as Gus nonchalantly piled hot food onto his plate. Apparently signing his name to a piece of paper and being given a couple of lines was all it took to relax his friend’s fear of the non-existent catering security Nazis.

"So I’ve been thinking about this case," Gus rambled as he mounded the food unbelievably high. "There’s too many people on this set Shawn, just about anyone would have a motive to kill her."

"Yeah, cause besides herself, I’m not sure there’s a single person on this set who actually likes her." Shawn snagged an ice water from the fridge at the end of the tables. "This is like that American Duos thing all over again. Too bad there isn’t another mute Latino around, that would be too easy."

"I’m pretty sure that guy wasn’t mute," Gus replied, snagging a beverage of his own.

"There’s just too many people, almost anyone could have tampered with that light, or that pillar, it’s not like they set up an association of pillar guards to keep them from getting tampered with," Shawn said, waving the bottle and flinging droplets of condensation every which direction.

"No, but they have a second, second assistant director. They almost might as well have a pillar guard," Gus pointed out, popping a green grape into his mouth.

Shawn paused, seeming to contemplate this. "You know, I’ve always wondered what a second, second assistant director did. How is it possible to be second, second?" Gus, busy murmuring sweet nothings to the tower of food on his plate, paid him no mind and finally, he shook his head, snapping out of it. "Dude, you’re right, the director!"

"What?" Gus said, glancing up.

Shawn started to bounce, excitement creeping into his voice. "He was nearby both times. When the light fell he was over in his little movie village—"

"Video Village," Gus corrected automatically. There was no irritation in his voice, however. The food was making him complacent.

"Yeah, there." Shawn waved off the correction, foraging on as a theory began to formulate. "And then he was there again, right after he finished screaming about Eliza and how much of an obnoxious Diva she was."

Gus head tipped to the side in consideration. "Samantha did say he threatened to quit because of her."

"Exactly," Shawn said, and his gaze focused somewhere in the distance as his mind whirred with the possibilities.

Gus shoveled a heaping spoonful of food into his mouth and chewed contemplatively for a moment. "I don’t think that guy has it in him to kill someone. He’s an artist Shawn, not a killer. "

"A killer of art maybe," Shawn muttered, gathering up a few strands of fettuccini.

"He was nominated for his work on It’s All Greek on Pluto," Gus said, as though that meant he must be an artist.

Shawn tried to stifle a laugh. "Nominated to be shot?"

"You just don’t know talent when you see it," Gus muttered, and turned back to his food.

Shawn stepped back, shocked. "I do too! I know everything there is to know about talent."

"Oh yeah, lemme see," Gus said, tipping his head back, his mouth full of chicken. He waited.

Pushing his head forward as though he hadn’t heard properly, Shawn said, "I’m sorry, what?"

"Your lines Shawn, lemme see how you’re going to deliver them. Or did you not do any character work in preparation?" Already Gus was starting to get that Mhm. That’s exactly what I thought. look.

"Dude, we have like…three lines," Shawn said, shaking his head.

"That’s what I thought."

Yep. There it was.

Gus turned and walked away from him and Shawn threw his plate in to the trash, jogging to catch up with his friend. Gus halted when Shawn caught up to him, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Shawn couldn’t think of anything to do to stop Gus other than to repeat the line one more time with another point of emphasis. "Madam! There is danger lurking ahead!" A couple of catering people gave him a weird look at the shout, but all that mattered to him was that he got Gus to stop before the rant snowballed out of control.

"I’m pretty sure that’s not even the line."

"Don’t be a steam-less steamer Gus, that’s totally the line." He noticed Drew making his way to the catering table and flagged the PA down. "I’ll prove it to you."

"What’s going on guys?" Drew asked, flashing a smile. Shawn marveled that the PA who before wouldn’t have given them the time of day was now treating them like old buddies.

"You have any of those…little miniature script thingies?" he asked, waggling his fingers.

"Sides? Yeah." Drew whipped a stack of stapled half sheets of paper out of his back pocket and handed one to Shawn. Shawn started flipping through the packet until he came to the scene they had gotten lines in.

"See, the line clearly states…" He paused as he saw the words ascribed to Personal bodyguard number one.

"’Madam, run! We will stay behind and protect you’," Gus read over his shoulder. Then his eyebrows rose. "Dude, you’re going to die."

"So are you…" Shawn muttered sullenly.

"Man, what the heck," Drew interrupted, stepping away from the duo. "SYD! Get back down to the corner, you’re supposed to be blocking pedestrian traffic from wandering in to the scene!"

Shawn turned just in time to see Syd scamper off down the hill towards the set.

"Stupid jerk. Thinks he has special privileges because he’s seeing Eliza," Drew grumbled, his face a little miniature storm cloud.

"You mean they’re an item?" Shawn was startled by his friend’s curiosity, usually Gus was the one ridiculing Shawn for knowing the latest scoop on hot celebrity gossip like Brangelina. He was leering at Drew like he’d just mentioned that Jennifer Aniston was going to be making an appearance on the set.

"He goes on and on about how they’re an item. If you ask him they might as well be married." Drew popped open a soda can and took a long sip. "I swear he’s only here for her. He may claim to be the best PA we have, but seriously, he’s PA number twelve…I’m number five."

They started to move towards the make up trailer and the golf cart waiting outside. "I would much rather be number five, that’s way better." Shawn grinned. Drew’s pride in his job was very evident, which made ego stroking a cinch. "I bet you’re the best PA on the whole crew."

Drew’s hands fluttered around wildly. "I am, I show up an hour early, and I leave an hour after all the other PAs do. I’m not messing around here." They paused outside the makeup door and Drew checked his watch. He reached up and knocked on the hot metal door of the trailer. "Vern? You ready to go dude?"

The door swung open and a freshly beautified Eliza leaned out. Her eyes locked on Shawn’s and she lit up. "Shaaaaaaawn!"

Her squeal rendered Shawn temporarily deaf in one ear as she threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He had no choice but hold on to her until she finally released him from her grasp if he wanted to continue breathing. "Eliza." He coughed, rubbing his neck where she had been squeezing.

Vern stepped down from the trailer a portable make-up bag in hand. "We leaving Drew?"

"Not without Shawn," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sticking her nose in the air.

Drew stared at her. "They need you on set."

"Well maybe they should have sent a vehicle large enough to accommodate myself, Shawn and…Mr. Backwater Creek." Eliza waived a hand towards Gus, obviously ready to hold her position.

"That’s Burton Guster," Drew said, his expression clearly reading, He can’t be that important if you don’t know his name. Shawn and Gus exchanged a look, both surprised (and a little flattered on Gus’ part) that the PA actually knew Gus’ real name.

"Miss Carlisle, I was sent to get you down to set pronto," he said, impatience starting to leak through. "Gabe needs to talk to you about your next scene and Vern needs to touch up Richard’s make up while you talk. We’re already behind schedule, so—" Shawn wondered why they didn’t keep Vern on set permanently to touch up the lead actor’s make up, since just the day before the man had walked on set sporting a very defined milk moustache that would have made for an excellent Got Milk? commercial, assuming that the Romans drank milk.

"I’d rather walk with Shawn," Eliza said, stroking his shoulder.

The statement snapped Shawn out of an imagined scene that involved the Roman coliseum and giant attacking bottles of milk with Richard fronting the attack, 300 style.

"You’d rather what?" Drew said, sounding incredulous. The expressions that flitted across his face were a mixture of outrage, horror, and outright terror. Shawn could practically see the man’s career flashing before his eyes.

He started to say something when his face suddenly made a subtle transition as if he was listening to the voices in his head. It took Shawn a minute to realize that the PA was still wearing his headset somewhere under his mop of hair and he was likely listening to the vigorous chatter on the radio. With second nature movements Drew simultaneously pulled the speaker back towards his mouth as he pressed the button on his walkie-talkie to activate it. "This is Drew, we have not left basecamp." The man stared off into nothing, the group around him seemingly forgotten as the voices in his ear jabbered away instructions. "Copy that, we’re flying in."

Shawn watched fascinated as the man beneath the hair suddenly transformed into a driven individual. Clearly, he had a job and he was going to do it.

"Eliza, you can walk then. I assume your guardian angel won’t get you lost," he said with a nasty look in Shawn’s direction.

Shawn feigned offense with the dramatic movement of his hand to his chest. "I never get lost."

Gus snorted. "Right, what about that time when you got us lost in your grandpa’s backyard for three days?"

"Dude, I wasn’t lost. We were transported to a mystical world, you don’t just go back to grandma’s at the end of a day when you’re in Endoria."

"You do when your grandma has fresh apple pie!" Gus retorted.

"And miss out on fighting the great ewokarriors? Where’s your sense of adventure?" Shawn exclaimed.

"Just don’t get lost," Drew shouted back as he ran back to the makeup trailer. "Gertie, hair emergency!"

"Shawn, the ewoks were the good guys!" Gus argued, hands jammed on his hips.

"No way Gus. Ewokaariors are cannibals! They can’t possibly be the good guys," Shawn protested, shaking his head. He jerked as one of Eliza’s hands ventured a little to close to his butt for comfort.

Drew came bursting out of the makeup trailer then, Gertie hot on his heels as he plowed between Shawn and Gus toward the cart. "Vern, change of plans, they’re sending Richard and a couple of the extras up here," he shouted to the make-up artist sitting patiently in the cart. "He did more damage than can be fixed on set."

Vern clambered out of it, with barely enough time to snatch his kit out of the seat as Drew and Gertie leapt into the cart. Within seconds the pair was rocketing off towards the set as fast as the cart would carry them.

"We should get going, Shawn," Eliza purred at him, tugging him forward. "Wouldn’t want Gabe bursting a vein or anything."

Stifling a sigh, Shawn allowed himself to be led forward. He frowned as he noticed the little golf cart still going full-speed as it reached center stage. It blew past Gabe, who started shouting after it, waving a sheaf of papers in his hand furiously.

But as the vehicle zoomed closer and closer to a large white wall, which he quickly realized wasn’t a wall at all, but the five ton grip truck, Shawn started to get that sinking feeling he’d gotten just before the pillar had toppled over. Only this time, he was too far away to stop the imminent disaster. Several grips moved about at the rear of the vehicle, unloading carts of equipment with the automated lift gate at the back of the truck, oblivious to the speeding golf cart. He pulled forward in Eliza’s grasp anyway, hearing her gasp as she finally caught on and Gus muttered, "Oh my god."

Gertie’s scream echoed around the set like a gunshot and Shawn flinched as it disappeared amongst the horrific BANG and screech of rending metal as the golf cart slammed into the grip truck. The two occupants were thrown from the little car, hitting the side of the grip truck with two sickening thuds and then crumpling to the ground in a heap.

"Oh my god!" Eliza shrieked, suddenly going weak against him. "That was supposed to be me!"