Work Text:
The gym in the FBI bullpen’s basement was a utilitarian space of mirrored walls, rubber mats, and the faint, ever-present smell of sweat and disinfectant. At six in the morning, it was deserted, the only sound was the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of the building’s HVAC system.
Bex pushed through the double doors, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She wore a tight black tank top and a pair of grey shorts. Her long hair was pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Shane followed, dressed in a plain grey t-shirt and loose shorts, his own bag in hand.
“An hour early,” Bex said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty room.
“Best way to clear the head before the paperwork tsunami hits.”
“You just want to show off how you can take a suspect twice your size,” Shane replied, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he dropped his bag by a weight bench.
Bex turned, a challenge sparking in her eyes.
“I guarantee I can.”
Shane’s smirk widened. He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The defined muscles of his chest and abdomen gleamed under the harsh lights, a map of old scars and new power.
“Take me, Henderson. Let’s put that confidence to a test.”
She turned around slowly, her gaze locking with his.
“Bet.”
They moved to the open mat area, pulling on boxing gloves. The snick of Velcro was loud in the quiet. They touched gloves in a brief, professional salute, and then the play was over.
Bex moved first, a quick, testing jab. Shane blocked it easily, circling her. She was light on her feet, bouncing, her eyes calculating. He threw a slow, telegraphed hook, letting her slip under it. She came back with a swift one-two combination that smacked against his guarding forearms.
“Not playing, are you?” he grunted, a genuine note of surprise in his voice.
“Were we ever?” she shot back, her breath already coming faster.
He pushed forward, forcing her to backpedal. She was good—better than he’d given her credit for in a straight fight. She used her smaller size to her advantage, ducking and weaving. Then, she saw an opening. As he shifted his weight, she darted in, a sharp right cross snapping past his guard and connecting with his cheekbone.
Thwack.
Shane’s head snapped to the side. He took a step back, blinking. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face. He touched his gloved hand to his stinging cheek.
“Oh-ho-ho? Is that right? So we’re not playin’?”
Bex scoffed, jumping back, her guard up.
“Told you.”
Shane’s grin turned devilish. He straightened up. Then, deliberately, he began to pull at the Velcro strap of his right glove with his teeth. He spit it out, then the left. The heavy gloves hit the mat with two dull thuds.
Bex’s confident expression faltered. A nervous giggle escaped her.
“Woah, woah, hold on—eheh—rules, Florence. Gloves on.”
Shane shook out his hands, his bare knuckles looking very large, very capable.
“The suspect isn’t going to be wearing gloves, Bex.” His voice dropped, a low, teasing rumble.
“And neither are you.”
“I’ll have a gun,” she retorted, her own gloves feeling suddenly clumsy.
“But we don’t have guns right now, do we?” He spread his arms wide, an open invitation. His blue eyes were alight with playful menace.
“C’mon! I’m waiting!”
Fine. Bex thought, a spark of irritation cutting through her nerves. If he wanted it raw, he’d get it. She charged, not with a punch, but aiming to get inside his reach. She ducked under the arm that shot out to grab her, her body coiling to sweep his legs out from under him.
She never made contact.
One moment she was low to the ground, the next the world tilted. Strong hands clamped around her waist, fingers digging in just above her hips, and she was hauled bodily off the mat. Shane lifted her as if she weighed nothing, holding her squirming form aloft, her feet kicking at empty air.
Bex gasped.
“Shane! Hey—!” She wiggled, her legs scissoring. “Put me down!”
He laughed, a deep, warm sound that vibrated through her.
“Aaaand, you’re dead.” He cackled, adjusting his grip as she struggled.
“Or kidnapped. Hopefully not kidnapped or dead… not like the Ron Sims case. You scared the hell outta m—”
“SHANEEEE!” she shrieked, pounding her gloved fists against his rock-solid biceps. It was like hitting a tree.
He snapped back to the present, his gaze focusing on her flushed, furious face.
“Hmm,” he mused, pretending to consider.
“I don’t think I’m satisfied yet, Henderson.”
Bex kicked and squirmed with genuine, frantic energy, like a cat caught in a bath. Shane staggered a half-step, laughing harder, his abs contracting with the effort of holding her.
“Whoa, easy, tiger!”
He shifted his grip, and before she could react, he ducked his shoulder and hauled her up and over it in a classic fireman’s carry. The world inverted. She was staring at the back of his knees, the muscles in his calves flexing as he adjusted to her weight.
“SHANE FLORENCE!” she whined, her protests muffled against his back. Her fists drummed a futile tattoo on his shoulder blades.
“This is cheating!”
Shane was wheezing with laughter now, walking them steadily toward the lockers.
“Sorry to put out your fire, hon.” He smirked.
“I swear—” She smacked his back hard in retaliation.
“Ow! Mean!” he cried, laughing. He bounced her and a yelp followed by a furious wriggle erupted.
“Okay, okay!” he relented, still chuckling. He carefully lowered her, letting her slide down his body until her feet found the cool rubber floor.
She stood there, glaring up at him, her chest heaving. Her ponytail was askew, her face was flushed, and her eyes blazed with indignation. She looked, he thought with a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection, like a ball of five-foot-five kitten anger. It made him want to kiss the heck out of her.
So he did.
He snatched her waist again, pulling her flush against his sweat-slicked chest before she could protest. He didn’t go for her lips first. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, planting a series of rough, stubbled kisses along her jaw, her cheek, her temple. Bex’s frustrated squeak melted into a squeal of ticklish surprise, her body going pliant against his.
“This,” he growled dramatically between kisses, “is why—” kiss “—I worry—” kiss “—when we split up on the field.” He finally captured her lips, the kiss deep and lingering, tasting of salt and shared exertion.
Bex sighed into it, her gloved hands coming up to frame his face. When they broke apart, she was breathless.
“Hey, I worry about you too. But this is work. This is what we’re good at, right? We’re a team.”
Shane smiled softly, the intensity fading into something warmer. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
“Yeah. A team.” The seriousness evaporated as quickly as it came.
“C’mon. Help me do an arm workout before we hit the showers.”
Bex's eyebrow arched.
“Help you? How?”
Shane’s smile returned, edged with that familiar devilishness. He pulled his bar gloves on, the Velcro loud in the quiet gym. Bex watched, puzzled. No weights?
Her question was answered a second later. Shane bent his knees, wrapped his arms around her thighs, and lifted her clean off the ground again, holding her horizontally against his chest like a barbell.
“Shane!” she yelped, smacking his shoulder. “Not funny, you narc!”
He just grinned, his biceps bulging as he began to slowly curl her upward, bringing her torso toward his face before lowering her back down.
“What?” he grunted, the strain evident but controlled.
“I just wanted to go light today.”
Bex groaned, going limp in his arms as he started a set. Up. Down. Up. Down. Her world became the rhythmic motion, the flex of his muscles under her, the scent of his sweat.
“You… are… impossible…” she muttered with each ascent.
“You love it,” he breathed out, finishing the set with a final, smooth lift. He held her for a second, his eyes holding hers, before gently setting her back on her feet. He was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat coating his chest. He leaned in and kissed her sweaty cheek.