Chenford gets trapped in a sauna. This is their story. Post S4.
***
"Lucy — I cannot believe you forgot to —"
"Me?! I can't believe you let that guy just — You're so — Ugh, just ugh," Lucy huffs. How dare he try to pin this on her?
They glare at each other in a silent, angry standoff, neither willing to take ownership of their parts in the comedy of errors that had landed them here — stuck in a sauna just this side of uncomfortable for the foreseeable future.
"Well, I guess we better get comfortable and hope a cleaning crew comes by before tomorrow morning." And god, the aggravating sneer on his face, as if to say 'Are you happy now, Lucy?'
Lucy scowls. There's no way they can last until morning. She is already sweating in that very specific way — can feel individual droplets sliding down her skin.
But when it becomes clear that there really is no other option but to get comfortable, Lucy settles onto one of the sauna benches wondering just exactly how Tim had managed to get them into this mess.
***
Tim groans, dropping his face into his hands for only as long as it takes him to realize it's too goddamn hot to restrict the flow of oxygen to his lungs in any way, shape, or form. He lets his head fall back against the wall, turning his eyes up toward the ceiling.
She is the absolute last person he wants to be with right now. And it's been like this for weeks — as if summer in LA isn't misery enough. Ever since that goddamn kiss that turned out to be completely unnecessary.
Their bickering is at an all-time high — Lucy poking and prodding and pushing his buttons every chance she gets.
And he cannot, for the life of him, figure out why.
She has to feel it, too, right? She can't be immune or entirely oblivious to the almost tangible tension that has electrified the air around them ever since that goddamn kiss. Making it near impossible to get back to normal and do their jobs. Which is obviously exactly what they have to do.
And yet, she is hellbent on making it that much harder for things to go back to even resembling what they were between them. Before.
Sassing him at every turn.
Looking at him with those goddamn f*ck me eyes.
Tossing her hair in his direction on their walk to the garage after shift just to make sure he hasn't forgotten how goddamn good she smells after an entire day at her side.
Her goddamn fingers. Lingering. Always lingering. Where they have no business lingering. On his hand. On his forearm. On his elbow. She even had the audacity to full-on grab his bicep the other day to stop him from leaving roll call before a final announcement. On his knee. On his goddamn thigh when she leaned across him at lunch exactly two Tuesdays ago to steal exactly one French fry.
And that's just the half of it — the things that maybe could be explained away as Tim reading too much into them. But then there are the other things that he knows she is doing for no other reason than to taunt and provoke him.
First, there was her mentioning an upcoming wedding and casually asking his opinion on a dress — he hadn't even looked as he'd dismissed her, because what did he care what she wore to some random wedding? But a glimpse of a sky-high slit and plunging neckline on the screen of her phone had him suddenly feeling very opinionated as he pictured what something like that might look like on her...
Then, there was the day she'd brought along one of those dumb magazines with a quiz called What's Your Sex Personality? And suggested they take it together in the shop. His choking and coughing and tight-lipped answers in response to each question (and each of her very explicit answers) earned him a grade of borderline celibate. She, of course, turned out to be a sexual goddess.
She'd arched an unimpressed eyebrow with a very judgmental sounding, "Hmm..." before putting the magazine away. He focused on not driving them into a goddamn wall.
The next week she'd shown up with another one about preferred foreplay techniques and sexual positions. That one had gone straight out the window.
And then yesterday, she'd flat-out insisted on stopping for a popsicle after lunch. A goddamn popsicle. What goddamn human over the age of nine even does that?
Why she would do this — why she would go out of her way to intentionally make both of their lives harder than they already are is entirely beyond him. He truly cannot fathom what is going on in that pretty, infuriating little head of hers.
They haven't even been in this sweaty hellhole for thirty minutes when Lucy groans a guttural sound of frustration and discomfort and whininess he's not sure he's ever heard from her. And he can never, ever hear that sound again — that's for goddamn sure.
"It's so hottt in here," she moans, writhing in discomfort as she shifts on the bench she's sprawled on across from him. And yeah, he's going to need her to just stop making any sounds at all. And to stop moving like that. Goddamn. What is wrong with this woman?
"I'm getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off," she complains miserably as she sits up.
What the actual hell did she just say? Are there toxic fumes in this box of misery?
She lifts her fingers to the top of her uniform shirt and begins to undo the buttons.
"What are you doing?!" he snaps, and it sounds much more like an accusation than it does a question. Maybe even a tad bit hysterical.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" she snaps back, fingers not missing a beat until she has to get to her feet and remove her duty belt to pull the rest of her shirt out of her pants.
"What — You can't — We're on duty," he sputters insistently, if not a little incoherently.
"Are you really being serious right now? We are stuck in a billion-degree sauna in the billion-degree LA summer in a billion layers of clothing. Get a grip, Tim."
He works his jaw in agitation as she begins to unstrap her vest. And he is really going to need her to stop. Immediately.
And it doesn't even matter that he's not even seeing things he hasn't seen before — Lucy in her vest or undershirt. It's the way she's doing it all Lucy-like and... and... truly, what the hell is wrong with her?
She tosses her vest on top of where she's set her uniform shirt next to her belt, and when she begins to tug her undershirt up from where it's still tucked into her pants, he's had more than enough.
"Lucy," he barks in warning.
"Oh my god, Tim. Why are you being such a weirdo?
"What's the big deal? You'd see more of me at the pool or the beach."
"We don't go to the beach or the pool together, Chen," he grits out through clenched teeth.
She rolls her eyes. "Tim — we've worked together for literal years; you know insanely personal, embarrassing things about me."
Yeah, like an excruciatingly specific list of all of the places she's ever had sex thanks to that goddamn quiz.
Her eyes meet his, and he doesn't blink, intent on holding his ground. He cannot let this go any further. Absolutely cannot.
"Tell me the truth, Tim. Why is seeing me in a little less clothing than normal so uncomfortable for you?"
"I'm not uncomfortable," he grouses. What the hell kind of question is that? How can it possibly be getting even hotter?
"I think it's pretty obvious that you are," she returns, lips curving into an expression of mock concern — is this woman actually heckling him?
He narrows his eyes, pursing his lips in challenge. "Right... Okay. Then, I guess you wouldn't be uncomfortable at all if I were to just start taking all of my clothes off right here with no warning?"
Lucy fakes an exaggerated yawn. "Do whatever you want, Tim. It's just skin. Just a human body. We all have one."
"Uh huh." He slowly begins to undo the buttons of his uniform shirt.
***
Shit. Shit. Never in a million years had she thought that uptight, high-strung Tim Bradford would actually take her up on that invitation.
She lies back on the bench, trying to play it casual and keep her gaze on the ceiling. But he's right there. And she has eyes.
Good lord. He is already down to the same level of undress she is — left in his white undershirt and uniform pants.
He reaches down to untuck his undershirt, and there is absolutely no reason he needs to pull the shirt up so high on his stomach.
How could she have forgotten about his abs? So. Many. Abs.
And yeah, apparently, her attempt to appear nonchalant and unbothered is utterly failing.
"How you doing over there, Chen?" he jeers. What is wrong with this man?
She sits up, ready to tell him just exactly how she's doing when he pulls the shirt over his head in one swift motion. Her mouth hangs open in shock.
"It's just skin, Tim," he imitates in an offensively high-pitched and squeaky voice. The audacity of this man.
His arrogant smile falters when she angrily pushes herself to her feet, reaching down to undo the button of her uniform pants. She arches her eyebrows and purses her lips as if to say, 'What now, Timothy? What now?'
And she's not entirely sure what happens next, but suddenly it's like they are in some crazy-ass game of chicken, but for stripping. Strip chicken? Is that even a thing?
They each race to remove their remaining articles of clothing. One shoe. And then the other. One sock. And then the other. And suddenly they are both sans pants.
When Lucy reaches down to pull her undershirt up over her head, it's Tim's jaw that is hanging wide open.
And then they stop — staring at each other, apparently at an impasse. Covered in sweat and quite literally panting as they devour each other's bodies with their eyes.
"That's not fair," Tim finally grunts amidst a labored exhale. "You have more pieces of clothing."
And though Lucy's not entirely sure what the rules of this f*cked up little game they are playing actually are, she is absolutely certain she is going to win.
"I have more parts," she challenges.
His lips curve into a roguish smirk as his eyes settle on the swells of her breasts where they are exposed just above the cups of her lacy black bra. "That you most certainly do, Lucy."
And it's practically a snarl. This is not the same awkward and prudish and standoffish man she's been poking for weeks. This man is looking at her like a predator would his prey.
Electrifying tingles course through her entire body in a tantalizing wave until they settle [quite rudely] right between her legs.
And when... when did he get so much closer to her?
It's so damn hot in here.
Is she hallucinating? Is he delirious?
And somehow -- she's not entirely sure how -- her back hits the wall as he closes the remaining distance between them.
He places his hand on the wall next to her head and leans heavily into it as he gazes hungrily down at her.
"Go on, Lucy," he taunts. "I'll give you a chance to catch up. Unless you want to forfeit, that is?"
She would never.
But also — what the hell is happening? How on earth had she gotten herself into this? She'd been hot. And he'd been so annoying. She had just wanted to get a little rise out of him.
Now it seems she's getting a whole lot more.
She swallows, eyes meeting his as if to ask if he's really sure he wants her to do this.
He doesn't budge an inch, just offers her a cocky, infuriatingly satisfied smirk and arches an eyebrow as if to remind her she knows exactly how to get out of this.
HA! She would never. Does he not realize she has approximately no quit in her? Not a single ounce. But... maybe she should... just this once?
Nah — there's no way in hell straight-laced, stick-up-his-ass Tim Bradford is going to let her take this any further. But also... when did he get so damn dangerous?
She juts her chin out, fixes her lips into a defiant pout, and locks her eyes on his, making sure he knows she is game for whatever he wants to throw at her.
She reaches back behind her to unhook her bra, but her fingers are slick from the sweat and — yeah, okay, maybe her hands are a little shaky. It's making it impossible for her to undo the clasps. She really, really hadn't thought it would go this far.
She keeps waiting for him to suddenly cry, 'Uncle' but, nope, he hasn't even bothered to blink.
"Need a hand?" he offers wickedly.
She glares harder than she has ever glared in her life. "I've got it. Thanks," she manages through clenched teeth.
She gets one hook loose and then the next and she's on the last one when —
"Maybe this isn't the best idea," she admits, all of her bravado and haughtiness and competitiveness draining out of her all at once. This is getting a little too real.
And god he looks so goddamn smug and victorious. He is the worst.
"Why not, Lucy?"
She wonders if any face has ever been as smug as his stupid smug face. His eyes dance with laughter and the glee of his victory.
She swallows, taking a breath and then meeting his eyes, "Because you're looking at me like you want to eat me, Tim, and I think I'd like to make it out of here alive."
His lips twitch, and for a second Lucy wonders if he is going to burst into laughter. But he settles again for his trademark smirk.
He uses a finger to tip her chin up a little further — the perfect angle for his mouth to meet hers.
Lucy sucks in a breath, pressing her eyes closed. Is he really going to —
He slides his finger lazily along her jaw, and then down her neck. Along her shoulder and then back to trace down the strap of her bra.
He pauses, leaning down to breathe into her ear, "Tell me the truth, Lucy. Isn't that exactly what you want me to do?"
What are words? What are thoughts? These are no longer things that exist. Because what is wrong with this man and his smug stupid face?
His finger teasingly continues its voyage along the edge of her bra. Over the soft curves of her breasts.
Is there even actual oxygen in here? Is it possible they're actually dead?
She moans, and he groans, and then suddenly he's not touching her at all, but instead burying his head into the crook of his arm.
And this time his groan sounds painful.
"Why are you doing this, Lucy?" he pleads.
He pulls back and meets her gaze and where there was heat, now there's just misery.
"You know we can't — I don't want to take advantage of this — of you."
Lucy slides a hand up his abdomen and then over his chest. If he's going to go and ruin it all, then she's certainly not going to miss her one chance to cop a feel. Fair is fair, is it not?
She tilts her head back an almost comical amount before she tries to reason with him — making her most earnest plea. "What if I want you to take advantage of me?"
His eyes widen, and then darken as he licks his lips. Apparently, those were the magic words. Or he's completely lost his goddamn mind in this heat. Either or... who cares?
Lucy slides her hands the rest of the way up his chest and then around his neck. And then their hot sweaty bodies are pressed together in a way that might actually be hotter than this f*cking sauna.
"Tell me the truth, Tim," she begs with a gasp.
And when he finally crushes his lips against hers, it's the most honest goddamn thing he's ever said.
***
Hope you enjoyed! Votes and comments are always appreciated ❤️🙏🏽
— Lana