Shawn/Lassiter, Gus/Juliet. Shawn unsubtly plays matchmaker.

"Have you ever noticed that Gus stands from his cock?"

This uttered into the white and unsuspecting shell of Juliet O'Hara's ear, at 6:00 in the morning before the station's coffee had even been brewed. The ways in which Juliet could react to this unpleasant greeting were numerous, but all warred with each other in her head. She settled on disapproving incredulity.

"What?"

"Well," Shawn Spencer swung his body from behind her chair into one conveniently positioned by Juliet, "I feel it is my duty to point out the best and brightest men to my fag hag."

"Shawn," Juliet rose to pour herself some of the aforementioned coffee, " I'm not your fag hag. And since when is talking about…genitals…in any way appropriate for a police station?"

"Jules," said Shawn with infinite patience, "lovely, sad, single Jules. I have to explain to you the basics of having a psychic as a matchmaker. It's unbelievably awesome. Whatever pair I create has to stay together because I operate on stronger forces than personality quizzes…and awkward chitchat…parlor games?"

At this point, Shawn grabbed her and sat her down in her chair. Wide-eyed, she watched him with caution. He smiled.

"Five…four…three…two…"

"Shawn!"

Juliet turned around to see an irate Burton Guster marching towards him. He stopped in front of her to argue with his partner.

"Why did the chief just tell me we haven't been hired when you told me we have been hired. Sounds like someone's lying again."

"Come on, Gus, you should know by now I work in mysterious ways. It's for your own good."

"'For my own good,' Shawn? Wait a second," he waved a long finger knowingly at the fake psychic, "Oh my god. I've heard this before. I'm going to end up in the hospital again, aren't I?"

"No, no…well, maybe…depends on the level of hidden kink I always knew existed under that unsweetened baking chocolate exterior…"

While they were bantering, Juliet found herself unable to stop staring at Gus—most notably, the way he stood. Shawn was right. It was as if his posture, from his knees to his shoulders, seemed controlled and centered by an area near his pelvis…no, that assumed it was his hips, and it wasn't. It was, as Shawn said, his cock. He stood from it, and now that she noticed it a blush grew over her cheeks. A blush followed by a resolution, followed then by the sort of decisive action expected from a detective.

She stood up and grabbed a confused Gus's hand. She turned to Shawn.

"I will totally be your fag hag."

So saying, she led the confused Burton Guster out of the station. Shawn smiled almost paternally as he felt a presence behind him. He turned to see the unusually soft face of Carlton Lassiter.

"I take it she's going on break," he said, smirking. Shawn turned around, smirking and running his tongue along the inside of his teeth.

"You know you're next, right?"

Lassiter reached onto his desk, picking up a notebook and a pen. He began writing, simultaneously asking, "Yeah? For what?"

"The pairing up. The birds and the bees, Lassie, every dog must have his day," Shawn moved his body ever-so-slightly closer to Lassiter's, wondering if the older man would pick up on the body language.

"That would be his bitch, Shawn. And,"

Here, he slid a note into Shawn's hand. By glancing at the backward writing of the pen through the piece of legal notebook paper, Shawn gathered it read, "Fifteen minutes. Break room." Carlton snapped to reclaim his attention.

"You're not the only one with plans. Or mysterious ways."

Shawn, at first honestly surprised, allowed the honest smile he had tucked away to blossom onto his face. He clicked his heels (he had been looking for the occasion to do so for years) and high-fived Buzz on his way to fetch a few pre-sex smoothies.