Work Text:
It was almost time for Shane to be done with his solo investigation, nearing 2 a.m. Ryan was absentmindedly answering filler questions Lizzie was firing off.
“Okay,” Lizzie started. “Say tonight we get real, undeniable proof of ghosts. I’m talking about the mother of all FBAs, caught clear as day on camera.”
“I’m listening,” Ryan said.
“But the kicker is: it’s recorded on Shane’s handheld, pointed at the mirror. He’s sitting on the toilet—stall door open, underwear around his ankles—mid-shit. What do you do?”
Ryan winced. “Is there any way we can crop him from the footage?”
“No. The ghost is standing between Shane and the mirror. You can see the ghost’s outline clearly, but it’s transparent enough that you can also see Shane and all his bits.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked over as the door opened and Shane stepped in. A sly grin tugged at Ryan’s mouth. “Well, I hope I never see Shane naked.”
Shane stumbled a little midstep. “I was just talking about showing my peen!”
“What?” Ryan let out an incredulous little laugh.
Shane shrugged as best he could, hooked up to the solo-session camera rig. “Well, I was in the bathroom, as you told me to, and I had to pee.”
“Did you?” Ryan asked.
Shane gave a little shake of his head. “I was like, ‘I could pee in here—maybe that would attract the Lady in White,’ but then I don’t know what this is picking up.” He gestured to the GoPro pointed directly at his face. “So I didn’t wanna—I didn’t wanna even, you know—flirt with showing peen on—” He gestured again to the camera setup.
“Well,” Ryan smirked. “We don’t have a macro lens on any of those.”
“You rat bastard!”
Ryan laughed as they started to switch equipment, getting him ready for his solo.
Twenty minutes later, he came back out a little winded, and buzzing on adrenaline from all his shouting on stage.
“Call it?” Lizzie asked, glancing at the time—2:34 a.m.
“Yeah, let’s wrap it up,” Ryan said.
Shane patted the bench beside him. “Take a seat. Quick post-game.”
Ryan sat, and they wrapped up the episode.
By the time they got back to the hotel and hauled all their gear inside, the sky was transitioning from the inky black of deep night to the dark blue of early morning. They shuffled into their room, the familiar routine taking over: unlace boots, plug in chargers, rinse water bottles. Ryan always took the first shower because he was quicker, and Shane liked to take his time and unwind under the hot water.
White noise from the shower filled the room, steam curling under the bathroom door. The chargers blinked to life along the wall like a little runway. Ryan dropped onto the edge of the bed and let his shoulders sag, thumb drifting across his phone in lazy scrolls. The blue glow softened the dark, and the familiar cadence of travel settled in his bones: quiet, tired, safe. Somewhere behind the door, the shower spray shifted pitch and cut off.
Shane wrapped his blue bathrobe tighter, the fuzzy fabric clinging to the damp skin of his body, and stepped into the sleeping area—his feet silent on the carpet. Ryan always joked that the robe made him look like the live-action version of the Professor, but Shane insisted on bringing it whenever they traveled—a small comfort from home.
Fresh from the shower, he was pink-cheeked, his expression soft. The hot water had done its job, smoothing the tension from his face and body.
Ryan, still on the edge of the bed in worn sleep pants riding low on his hips, mindlessly scrolled his Instagram feed. He looked up with a tired smile when he felt Shane step beside him. He set his phone aside and hooked his fingers into the belt of Shane’s robe, letting out a small moue of dissatisfaction when Shane rested his hands over Ryan’s, effectively stilling him.
“I thought you didn’t want to see me naked,” Shane said, voice soft but devoid of any inflection.
Ryan let out a little huff. “You know I didn’t really mean that.”
Shane made a quiet “hmm” and moved both their hands away from his belt.
“It was a joke,” Ryan said, frowning up at his boyfriend.
Shane let go of Ryan’s hands and gripped his hair, tugging his head back gently but firmly. “A joke is something everyone finds funny.”
A whine escaped Ryan. “Dude,” he said breathlessly, “you have to know I love your body.” He set his now-free hands on Shane’s hips and nosed open his robe—just enough to rest his lips on the taller man’s lightly fuzzy belly, taking a moment to breathe him in.
Shane loosened his hold and ran his fingers through Ryan’s hair. Ryan was letting it grow out; it was still in the wavy stage, not quite long enough to curl.
“I swear, there are days at work when I can’t focus on anything because I’m so distracted by how sexy you are.”
At Shane’s disbelieving huff, he continued, “I’m serious. Like last week—you wore that white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows. I couldn’t stop staring at your forearms. And you weren’t wearing an undershirt, so sometimes when you were sitting down and leaned forward, it would gap between the buttons and I’d catch glimpses of your chest. I felt like some perv staring at a girl’s cleavage, but I seriously couldn’t stop.”
Ryan pulled back and brought Shane’s hands to his lips, brushing them with a light kiss. “And don’t even get me started on your hands. I could stare at them all day. There’s been many times when we’re filming Mystery Files and you’re just absently running your hands up and down the pointer, and I’m thinking about all the things your hands have—and will—do to me. Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m usually sitting down. But also, how just one of these big hands,” he kissed them again, “resting on my shoulder or neck is enough to calm my anxiety better than a weighted blanket ever could.”
Ryan brought his hands back to the robe’s belt, and this time Shane didn’t stop him when he tugged the knot loose, letting the folds of soft fabric fall open.
“I love your belly. How soft it is against my lips. How it’s the perfect place for me to rest my head after a long day. How it’s strong enough to be the core that supports your ridiculously long body.” Ryan snaked his hands around Shane’s waist, settling on the still-warm skin of his back.
He placed a gentle kiss on Shane’s belly before letting his hands slide down, coming to rest on the back of his thighs. “And I fucking love your thighs. Jesus.” He tugged until Shane got the picture and straddled Ryan’s lap. “Your goddamn runner’s thighs drive me insane. It’s not like you could just be happy with long, sexy legs—no, you had to go and have thighs I want to sink my teeth into. When you wrap them around my waist, I go fucking insane.”
Ryan let out a shuddering breath; both of them were having a hard time keeping steady. “And when you’re behind me, draped across my whole damn body, in me—filling me to the brim—and I reach back to hold on to one of your perfect fucking thighs—”
The push wasn’t really unexpected. Shane let his robe slip to the floor and pressed Ryan down to the mattress—knees bracketing his hips, chest pressed to chest—and kissed him, lips conveying all the emotion bubbling inside that his Midwestern upbringing wouldn’t let out in words.
Ryan’s hands slid up, anchoring at Shane’s waist. Shane pulled back, his fingers tracing the line of Ryan’s jaw.
“Okay?” Ryan breathed.
“Yeah,” Shane said, the word warm against his lips. “Okay.”