"Hey uh, you're that new kid that just moved in, right?"

Shawn watched said new neighbor in amusement, almost giggling when squinted brown eyes had to take a while to register what they're taking in.

"Yes," the new kid drawled. "And… why are you sitting on top of my fence?"

"Correction! It's actually our fence since it separates both our houses. "My name's Shawn. What's yours?"

Shawn dangled his head upside-down from his cat-like perch, watching with a smile as his soon-to-be new friend slowly closes his book (textbook for the semester after! We're going to be in the same class together!) and put it down. He stood up and approached Shawn carefully like he was a wild animal that should be treated with caution.

Eventually though the kid, with his dark hair, eyes and milk chocolate-colored skin, stuck his hand up towards Shawn like a grown up would. Shawn simply stared at the hand for a moment before tentatively wrapping his fingers around it like how his father would to other adults (strangers) at times.

"Burton Guster."

Shawn grinned a grin that was practically predatory, or close enough. To Burton Guster however, it looked completely harmless, if playful. "I'm gonna call you Gus, alright? Now, wanna be friends?"

They shook on it.

XXX

Shawn juggled a large, fresh-looking pineapple in one hand while the other wrestled with his jacket pocket. He grinned and held his prize up triumphantly – an insistently ringing phone.

"Shawn Spencer speaking, psychic detective and consultant to the Santa Barbara police department; how may I See for you today?" he said unabashedly, pinning his phone to his ear with the help of his shoulder. In his now free hand he picked up another pineapple, this one smaller but looking significantly brighter, and started to weigh the two up against each other.

"Really Shawn?" Juliet snorted, her own phone held in a similar position as she used both hands to sift through paperwork. "Modesty's still a specialty of yours, I see."

"Ah what can I say? It's a part of my charm."

In the end, Shawn shrugged a one-shouldered shrug to himself and dumped both pineapples into his shopping cart.

"So, why're you calling? Chief Vick's the one who has me on speed dial and all so… Not a case, is it?"

"No case," Julliette confirmed, "but I thought… you know, maybe, you'd like to have lunch together sometime? With Gus and Lassie – I mean Lassiter – too, if you want. I mean, what am I thinking of course you want them with us, I mean, um –"

"That sounds awesome Jules," Shawn said faintly, a grimace having worked its way across his face. Their breakup, which was five weeks ago now, had no shouting in it, no violence or anger or tears. It was simply the both of them, admitting that they should maybe see other people before making anything too serious, and then walking their own ways like grown-ups. Doesn't mean it's not still a tender spot though. "I'll check up with Gus and then maybe, lunch tomorrow? At one? Anywhere you want."

"Yeah, one o'clock sounds great. How about the café near HQ?

"Will do ma'am. And, uh, Jules?"

"Yeah?"

Shawn smiled softly. Even though they were still a bit awkward around each other, they were still friends. Good friends. And that was a lot more than he could have ever hoped for.

"Thank you."

There was a pause, and when Juliet answer this time, Shawn could practically hear the smile in her voice. "See you soon, Shawn."

He hung up.

"Police or soldier?"

"Whoah!" Shawn jumped back, almost toppling over his cart in the process. In front of him, short and dark-haired, dressed in jeans and an 'I-heart-NY' T-shirt, was a man he swear hadn't been there a second ago.

"Oh I'm sorry!" the man stuttered, looking concerned and a tad bit sheepish. Shawn looked him over. "I didn't mean to surprise you. I just have that effect on people sometimes. My friends always tell me – uh, um, sorry, I'm blabbering, aren't I?"

"No it's fine," Shawn rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the goose bumps that had risen there. There was something wrong with this dude. "Welcome to America, by the way."

There was a distinct lack of any kind of surprise on the other's face, only amusement and a faint trail of frustration and disappointment. The latter were all well hidden, but still were there. "It's the accent isn't it?" he sighed, hanging his head and looking thoroughly upset. "I can never do a good American."

"Nah, your accent's pretty good," Shawn offered. "If it makes you feel any better, it wasn't your voice that gave you away," he tried an Irish accent at the end. Shawn messed it up badly, of course, but it sort of didn't matter, as the man was laughing anyways. He stuck his hand up for a shake, then lowered his voice. "Shawn Spencer, psychic. How's your boyfriend?"

This time, surprise was definitely there. His doe eyes widened almost to comical proportions, and contrasted sharply against his beet-red face. "Jim… How did you – Wait, psychic?" Somewhere between you and wait, understanding dawned on his face that made something inside Shawn dare to hope for a bit, before the understanding was drowned out by incredulity and disappointment. And the hope was gone. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am sir, that I can assure you," Shawn absently pushed his cart out of the way and made an exaggerated bow. Straightening up, he put his middle and index fingers to his temple, making what he was now ready to dub his 'vision' face. "Or else, how could I possibly know that you're here not as a tourist, but on work, you have a certain liking, nay – fascination towards fairytales, particularly the truly Grimm ones and that you like… apples?"

The man – Jim straightened up to fully face him. Now, his face was set and serious. Shawn thought he might've seen his eyes flash dangerously for a moment and made him have to fight to keep any falters out of his expression. "The same way I know that your girlfriend – but not you – work for the SBPD. You're right handed, good with a gun but doesn't have one. You grew up with a cop too, likely a parent who wanted you to follow in their footsteps. And –" Jim inhaled and gave an exaggerated 'disgusted' face. "Pineapples. Really?"

"Hey, if you're a fan of delicious flavor…" Shawn muttered, looking away. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. This guy – was he like him? Could he know his secret then?

Jim opened his mouth as if to speak, but then stopped and stared at him. Like, really look at him, at him. His big brown irises flickered, from analyzing Shawn's shoes to the tips of his hair. It felt weird, slightly intruding, but Shawn didn't really mind. To do so would be hypocritical of him.

So instead of just standing there awkwardly and wait for the next move (because what they were doing was an exchange, alright), Shawn decided to return the favor.

Hickey on the left side of his neck, but too large and possessive and dominant to be a woman's. Impeccable hands, cleanly kept and cut nails, but slight tremor… and the fingers keep twitching, towards the belt area. Perfect posture, though slight hunch. Slight tan line at the wrists. Stress lines and crow's feet around hyper-observant eyes (just like his own), which were narrowed in concentration (just like his own, again.) Depressions on his inner forearm where the letters of a slightly raised title had imprinted themselves due to pressure (German, 'Grimm'). Sneakers, but paired with dress socks that aren't worn, aren't frayed, aren't stretched and still looked quite unused.

And again with his eyes. Dark, very dark. Black, under the right lighting, and exactly like a black hole. Shawn could barely ignore the feeling like those eyes were looking right into his soul, tearing his entire being apart bit by bit and exposing all of the ugly secrets underneath. Invading. Creepy. Amazing. Dangerous. Interesting.

Then they were moving again, and Shawn's eyes were forced to look back at equally bright, if a bit darker, ones.

"Could you, um… You want to have a coffee sometime?"

"How about now?"

"Well, we both still have the shopping to do first."

"Right. And your boyfriend?"

Jim waves the notion off. "I'm not going to hook up with you, especially so soon after your break up. Besides, Sebby isn't really my boyfriend."

"Friends with benefits then?"

"Are you going to finish your shopping or not?"

Soon the afternoon crowd found the two men sitting on the edge of a small but expensive café, sipping their own respective drinks (Jim's almost entirely black and Shawn's laden with sugar and cream milk and whipped cream and caramel and chocolate sprinkles) and talking. Just talking.

Oh, if only.

"You haven't answered my question you know," Jim said, flipping a white phone out and staring at it for a few seconds before starting to type something in. His other hand stirred his hot cup of coffee absentmindedly. They were sitting in a booth beside the windows. In the tinted glass, Shawn caught the reflections of the screen. A hyphen and two letters. Signature. –SM. Must be that Sebby guy Jim was talking about, although why anyone would sign off their texts he has no idea. A glance at Jim's face confirmed the texter's identity.

"What question?" Shawn said instead, sipping from his iced cup.

"My first," Jim was a lot more relaxed now than he had been at the store, though that might just be Shawn's natural charm (quote on quote) showing through. "Police or soldier?"

"You know the answer to that question."

"Not police, yeah, I know that," Jim once again took another tentative sip at his steaming coffee. "But you don't seem like a soldier either."

"Nope, not soldier, no," Shawn leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. "No scars, see?" He spread his arms wide, and grinned. "You said I wasn't working for the police –"

"I did, and I fairly certain you're not."

" – well, I'm not. I work with the police. There's a difference. I'm a…" Shawn leaned in close, and gestured for Jim to do the same (which was promptly ignored), as if the next words were some unspoken secret that were exclusive to the two of them only. Jim fought the urge to snort in amusement, "…consultant detective. Got it all by myself. I invented the job."

Jim was quiet after that. Real quiet. "Shawn?" he finally said. Neither of them questioned when and why Jim had started calling his first name.

"Yeaah?" the straw never moved from its place between Shawn's lips. The little chiming bell above the door rang.

"The woman that just walked in, blonde, tall, red blouse," Jim said in quick succession, face carefully blank and without looking up once. "State her love life, family, job, and anything else. Go."

Shawn hesitated. Practicing with his dad was one thing. Taking orders from a complete stranger was another.

But this was a stranger. One who doesn't know him at all, and would be gone from the country, from his life, in a couple of days, if the text he had last sent to 'Sebby' gave any indication. Nobody would know. It would be fun.

Shawn sighed and pulled out the chewed-up straw from between his teeth. He looked up and ran his eyes methodically down said woman.

"Thirty-two, loyally married, with two young children waiting back home. She's a nurse, part-time because of the younger child, who is still a baby. Slightly stressed because of the older boy, who's currently sick. With a flu. Doesn't trust nannies or housecleaning services. Overworked, underpaid, but happy." Boring was left unsaid.

"What is she doing here?"

"Lunch break. The clinic she works in is just down the street, what'd you think?"

"I think," Shawn dragged his eyes back towards his companion and swore he felt all color drain from his own face. Jim was smiling. But not only smiling, oh no. His shy, kind smile he had ever since their meeting was gone, replaced by a too-big, cold grin that stretched across his face without any regards for any other parts of his face. Shawn had stared down cold-blooded murderers, serial killers, thieves, rapists, smugglers, members of the mafia, members of the international mafia, the worst of the worst, criminals practically designed for the job - with a smile and a reference from a corny action movie without so much as a flinch, but he would be lying (and quite badly too) if he had said that a shiver of apprehension and, dare he say it, fear, had not rushed down his back.

Shawn ignored the part of his brain that was screaming at him to call Gus, his dad, Jules, Lassie, the chief, anyone before this madman – "Jimmy," he said, filing the visible flinch the man had towards the nickname for later use. "Who are you, really? I've already introduced myself, now it's your turn."

Jim suddenly looked weird – very out of place indeed, in his short-sleeved T-shirt and with a soft maroon cardigan – okay, now Shawn knows that he's been spending too much time with Gus if he's using words like soft maroon cardigan – wrapped around his waist. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing – and Shawn had just witnessed the moment when the fleece slipped off for a bit, jut for a bit, exposing sharp, black hole-like eyes and glistening fangs. And the wolf knows – he knows that Shawn had seen.

"Now Shawn, if you want an introduction, I want my entrance to your memory," a cold finger suddenly poked the side of his head, and Shawn's nostrils flared, whole body tensing. He didn't say a word of protest, "to be a good one," Jim finished with a smirk. He suddenly stood up, sliding gracefully out of the booth. "Come with me."

"Why should I?" Shawn said to Jim's already turned back. "You know I work for the police. I have the chief on speed dial. I can call her now and tell them your description." Jim stopped in his tracks, but Shawn had a feeling – a little psychic hunch – that that damned smile was still there. "And if you try to do anything, there will be witnesses, and if not, cameras. And don't think there aren't more that aren't in plain sight already."

Jim's initial irritation of his defiance leaked out of his stance. His head starts bobbing up and down, his shoulders were shaking, and it took a while for Shawn to realize that the other man was laughing. A deep, dark chuckle that nobody else around them seemed to be able to hear. Jim was nodding too, as if confirming something that he just realized should've been obvious and thus found exceptionally amusing.

"Never would've dreamt of it," he said mockingly, but sounding openly playful if anyone were to listen in. "And also, Shawn," he turned one hundred and eight degrees on his heels, pivoting on the balls of his feet. "Because I know you," he said. "And you're just like me. You can't resist a little bit of fun, now could you?"

And he walked away, out the door and into the streets. In a couple of seconds, Shawn knew, he would be gone in the downtown rush, and if not, then lost in the complex system of alleyways twisting and turning all throughout the town.

A couple of seconds later Shawn would realize that even though he didn't remember Jim carrying anything on the way out (and this was bad, really bad because Shawn remembers everything and not remembering something is just preposterous and out of the question and just really, really, really, really bad) except for his phone in one jean pocket and an access key card to, presumably, the hotel room, in another, there were only the bags with his groceries in it. Even Jim's ceramic coffee cup, which definitely still belonged to the shop, was gone. Even though he already had a look when he had first walked through the café doors, Shawn took another glance at the corners of the room, just to make sure.

Yep, the cameras were all pointed away, only now starting to resume their slow sweep of the room. Shawn wondered if anyone will notice the momentary lack of camera motion. Probably not.

It was like the guy was never there in the first place.

With a pout and the beginnings of a sulk already forming on the tip of his tongue, he slumped back into his side of the booth, grabbing his cup as if it had done him personal wrong.

And another couple of seconds later, wherein Shawn had been sulking about mysterious Irish guys waltzing in and stealing his curiosity so easily, he would notice that there was one evidence of his former companion's leave. A napkin. A used one, stained and crumpled and tossed into a corner between the napkin stand and the table number, but a napkin.

After a long-suffering sigh (and an internal debate between all thirty-seven halves of his conscience), Shawn reluctantly reached over and took the piece of tissue caged between his fingers and palm, then gingerly straightened it out on the table.

Message. A phone number on the top, then the words 'Call me maybe' followed by a winky emoticon and a coffee-colored kiss imprint.

It was signed for SS, from JM. SS… must be me.

Despite himself, Shawn stuffed the napkin which was maybe not used in the original way he had thought of before, into his jacket pocket, and finished the rest of his iced caffeinated beverage with a thoughtful smile on his face.

Honestly, he thought. Some fun around here is seriously overdue.