From: PBB Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000 08:44:01 -0500 Subject: NEW: LORD OF THE JUNGLE by Pebbles Source: xff TITLE: Lord of the Jungle AUTHOR: Pebbles RATING: PG-13 TYPE: Post-Tithonus, Comfortfic, UST, budding MSR SUMMARY: Sometimes even the strongest person must let got and let herself be pampered. ARCHIVE: Please. Gossamer, Spookies page, BFM; all others just ask. I'm easy. THANKS TO: Brandon, Robbie, Shannon - my usual heroes SPECIAL TO: Meredith, for reminding me that it's okay to take a break - long as you come back. 'NOTHER TO: Wendy. There's a line in there just for you, hon. OH, YEAH: They still belong to Chris. FEEDBACK: Please, to PebblesB@webmail.bellsouth.net; or I can forward it. We *are* rather close. WARNING: I was *seriously* drugged! LORD OF THE JUNGLE by Pebbles Mulder in a loincloth. Now that's a visual image that stuns. He stands alone, his hair long and ruffling in the breeze, his face dark with the stubble I find most rakish on him, and the only thing he's wearing is a scant foot or so of a hide of indeterminable origin. His chest is a glistening golden, his arms are bare, bulging biceps attesting to the hidden strength that lives within the tough frame of the man. And the wind is threatening to reveal to me what lies in wait behind the loincloth. ********************************* I wake with a start and immediately regret moving. I open my eyes and glance at the clock on the VCR, confirming what I knew already, that I've slept through my medication. No wonder I hurt like hell. It's been two weeks since Peyton Ritter shot me, five days since Mulder brought me home from New York. Nearly a week has passed since he planted himself firmly in my living room, declaring himself here for the duration of my recuperation and advising me to accept the fact without argument because he would not be dissuaded from his purpose. Mulder on a mission. There isn't much in this world more powerful than that. In truth, at the time, I was too weak to protest, content for once to allow him to take charge. I've noticed that in some strange way it seems to make him feel better, the few times I've allowed him to do that. Five days now he's been taking care of me. Pain notwithstanding, it has all been rather nice, actually. I've been spending the majority of my time ensconced in my bedroom or on the couch, propped on pillows, remote control in hand, watching old movies on cable. Mulder often joins me when he's not working, and together we've enjoyed many an hour of Harrison and Tierney, Tracy and Hepburn, Grant and Loren. And, oh yes, Weismuller and O'Sullivan. This morning I was watching an old Tarzan movie after Mulder left for work, and apparently dozed off after having lustful thoughts about Johnny Weismuller and his fine form. Obviously, Mulder's loincloth-clad figure was a byproduct of said thoughts. It *was* a rather fetching image. The vividness of the dreams I've been having has been surprising, and often a little frightening. It began in the hospital, when I was fed major pain medication through an IV pump. The price paid for pain relief was often horrific nightmares, images of Alfred Fellig and Washington Square Park with its spotted carpet of bright yellow flags poking up through the ground. Carefully I picked my way through a saffron sea, certain that I would die if I touched one of the shrouds. Hands were reaching for me as I walked, sometimes brushing the backs of my calves as I passed by, and up ahead lay new horrors. I woke gasping from that one, and calmed only when I saw Mulder sitting there, in the chair he had pulled from the corner of the room, his eyes tired yet alert, his hair mussed and adorable. I later learned that he had been there the entire time I was at NYU Medical Center, leaving my side only to shower in the small bathroom that adjoined the room, or to get coffee from the vestibule on the other side of the nurse's station. Then, as now, his presence soothed me, his proximity a welcome comfort, and I was grateful to have him there with me. I was too tired to talk, lacked the energy or coherence to express what I was feeling, and he seemed to understand this, and just looked at me in silent support. Often with us words are unnecessary. So much of what we are, of who we are, is shared in silence. I continued to have dreams of a stranger than normal nature even after I was downgraded to lesser narcotics. Sometimes I dream of run-of-the-mill everyday activities, greatly exaggerated in my dream world. Other times I dream of my partner, in a larger than life sort of way. Like that yummy image of Mulder in a loincloth. And a skimpy one at that. In the early days of our partnership, I instinctively shoved to the back of my mind the very basic sexuality of my attraction to my partner. Mulder is a fine-looking man. Though not classically handsome, he has an excellent physical foundation upon which to build. Add character to his own quirky blend of inherent good looks, toned to a sharp edge by his passion for the truth, his quest for the answers, and you have a force to be reckoned with. I've known for years that I am his and he is mine. That we don't speak the words is one of those things we share in silence. We planted our troth long ago, in so many, many ways over the years. But circumstances always seem to arise to prevent us from developing any of the finer points of betrothal. Circumstances that involve past lovers or present-day enemies. Sometimes both. Lately, it's been both. But now we've moved beyond that. Once again he is here for me, and I have to admit, being coddled isn't such a bad thing when you're forced to follow doctor's orders. They say that doctors are the world's worst patients, but with Mulder's patience I have endured the first week of an expected six-week medical leave. My forced restriction is helped along by the constant reminder of pain. The need for medication is something I accept reluctantly; my third day home I tried to go without, against my doctor's advice and Mulder's clucking, and soon found my belly on fire with unbearable agony. I haven't strayed since, but I am still grimly determined to be free of this chemical crutch as soon as possible. Mulder brings me cinnamon graham crackers and big glasses of cold milk to take my mind off the pain in my gut. My gut. I've been gutshot. The term itself is enough to inspire terror in anyone who has seen close up the effects of a 9-mm slug in a human body. When I dwell on it, I am horrified that it happened to me, even more horrified that I should have died but didn't, and I wonder: what if everything Alfred Fellig said to me in that darkroom was true, and now I'm looking forward to a fate that is, quite literally, worse than death? My dark thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock and I look up just in time to see Mulder's dark head appear around the frame of the door. His eyes ask the silent question; mine answer that I'm okay. As well as can be expected at this point in recovery. He comes in and closes the door behind him, and I see that he has his arms full of various and sundry paper and plastic bags. Something smells absolutely wonderful and I perk up immediately as I recognize the aroma of my favorite soup from the deli down the street, cream of baked potato, and, if I'm not mistaken, Mulder has brought fresh baked yeast rolls to go with it. "Hey, Sunshine," he calls softly as he approaches the couch and bends to deposit his load on the coffee table. I recognize bags from not only the deli, but also the bakery a few doors down from it, and the smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies mingles with that of the soup and bread. "Hey, yourself," I say, grimacing as I struggle to a sitting position and reach for the bottle of Percocet that waits on the table before me. I take out a pill and Mulder pulls a large to-go cup from one of the bags and hands it to me, watching silently while I wash the medication down with several large swallows of iced tea. He shrugs out of his coat and tosses it over the back of the nearest chair before pulling up a seat beside me and reaching for the bags. "Even invalids have to eat, Scully," he teases as he begins to pull containers from the mess on the table. He knows how it rankles me to be called that. While I accept the fact that I've got several weeks of healing to go, I still don't like to be reminded of it. I have quite enough of a reminder in the pain that still consumes a good third of my body. "Call me that again," I warn, reaching for one of the plastic spoons and accepting the bowl of soup he's extending, "and I'll hurt you like that beast woman." "Feh!" he scoffs, uncovering his own bowl of soup and sniffing appreciatively. I can't help but grin at the way he just tosses that word out. It's so very Mulder. I dip my spoon in the bowl and blow on the steaming soup for a minute before popping it into my mouth. My eyes close in ecstasy as I savor the succulent flavors of my favorite comfort food, and I lick my lips slowly and thoroughly to get every drop. "Do that again," I hear a deep voice mutter in my ear, "and I'll . . ." I snap my eyes open to see my reflection in his hazel ones, just inches away. "You'll what?" I challenge, in a voice that must belong to that other me, the one who keeps having drug-induced visions of sexy partners in loincloths. He grins at the sudden shift in our mood and ups the ante. "I'll eat you up," he growls, sounding every bit the Big Bad Wolf. "Hair, eyes, lips, teeth - everything." To my utter horror, I feel myself flushing, and drop my gaze, submitting for the moment to the onslaught of only recently reawakened hormones. Of course he notices. "Dear Diary," he murmurs. "Today my heart stood still when Agent Scully blushed at one of my come-ons." I jerk my head back up to take a bite out of him, but find the angry retort dying on my lips as I see the teasing look in his eyes. "I am not blushing," I tell him in a feeble attempt to defend myself. "It's just that this soup is so hot and I think there's more pepper in it than usual." "Right, Scully," he agrees, obviously trying to pacify me. "I'm sure that's it." But I swear he winks at me, just before returning to his own lunch, and for a few minutes we just eat in silence, enjoying the food and the companionship. "So what have you been watching this morning?" Mulder finally asks me as he swipes at the inside of his bowl with the last roll. Dammit, I'm blushing again and there's no way he won't notice. "Scully!" he purrs, delighted at my discomfiture. "You been watching the Spice channel again?" Damn him anyway for the flirt he is today! "You haven't had *that* much of an influence over me these last few days, Mulder," I inform him dryly, setting my bowl down and retrieving my drink. "Actually, I was watching old Tarzan movies." I gesture at the muted television, where yet another jungle flick is in progress. Must be a marathon, I muse, closing my lips over the straw and sucking in a huge mouthful of iced tea. Mulder's eyes brighten in recognition as he watches the screen. He finishes his lunch in silence and puts down his bowl, rubbing his hands together with glee. I brace myself for another round of hormonal torture. Of course, Mulder would know his Tarzan movies. He glances at me sideways. "They're doin' it, you know," he says in that dangerous voice, low and dripping with sexuality. There goes the tea, shooting out of my mouth, my nose, down the front of my robe, all over the place. I grab madly for a napkin and mop my face with it, finally glaring back up at him. Dammit, that one hurt! His face is sober as a judge but his eyes are dancing merrily. "Tarzan and Jane, I mean," he elaborates. "They're doin' it, up there in that tree house, and then they go skinny dipping in the lagoon, and the censors actually let them get away with full frontal nudity." He holds my eyes for a beat and I struggle not to laugh. I really do. It hurts to laugh and Mulder is building up to a real gut-buster. Which is exactly the type of thing I most certainly do not need. "Since when did you become such an expert on Tarzan, Mulder?" I finally manage to ask, straightfaced. He grins wolfishly. "Since one rainy Saturday afternoon, when I was home alone and first watched Tarzan and his mate take a swim. I was 11 years old, and that was my first look at a naked woman. You can imagine what the sight of Jane in the buff did to my prepubescent hormones." Probably something like what the sight of barely clad Weismuller did to mine, when I was ten and discovered the movies on my own. Maybe something like what the mental image of Mulder's fine ass barely covered by a loincloth does to me now. "I can imagine," I tell him, chalking up yet another 'first time' story for us. "I was ten." His smile widens and he continues to watch the television while stacking the bowls and gathering the trash from our meal. He pushes the whole mess into the largest paper bag and crushes it into a ball. I watch his long, dexterous fingers as they compress the paper, enjoying the sight of his hands at work. "So how you feeling, anyway, Scully?" he asks nonchalantly, not taking his eyes from the screen.. I smile to myself, appreciating his tactful inquiries. I'm working on learning not to 'I'm fine' him. "Better," I say. "Each day is a little better. I'll just be glad when I can give up the meds without paying for it in the end." He looks at me then, smiles that wonderful smile for me. "You'll get there," he assures me, reaching across the table to gently squeeze my hand where it rests on my vulnerable stomach. "Relax, Scully. Enjoy this down time as much as you can, because you know the shit that awaits you when you return. Wish I had a legitimate reason not to have to deal with Kersh." I can't help but feel sorry for him. It must be doubly hard for Mulder to work with the A.D. now that the whole Peyton Ritter mess has been swept under the carpet. Not for the first time, I wonder what lessons we're meant to learn from this endless period of punishment we're being forced to undergo. Not for the first time, I wonder what it's going to take to get us out of it. Mulder releases my hand, stands up, and takes the garbage into the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later to ease himself carefully down on the couch, my sock-clad feet ending up in his lap. I lie back on my pillows and close my eyes with a sigh, full and content, the pain in my stomach easing already, my head just the tiniest bit fuzzy. I damned near start to purr when Mulder begins to rub my feet. This isn't the first time Mulder has given me a foot massage. When he's really kissing up to me to get his way about something on a case, I have been known to take advantage of his talents. Those long fingers are strong and sure, and they move over my feet with a practiced hand. I open one lazy eye and find him watching me, his expression tender, his eyes amused. "What is it?" I ask. The corners of his mouth turn up just a bit and he cocks his head quizzically. "What's what?" "What is it you want, buster?" I say gruffly. "You always want something when you go for the big guns." He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that does my heart good to hear coming from him. "Big guns?" He gives my feet a squeeze, both big hands wrapping easily around them. "These are more like little toesies." I groan. "Jesus, Mulder, don't overdo it! It would be such a small matter to place a well aimed kick." "Ah, but I've got your toesies," he announces, giving them another good squeeze. "You're at my mercy now." I open both eyes and give it to him double barreled. "Relax, Scully," he coaxes, rubbing again at my arches, his thumbs digging hard. "I'm just doing my part to further your recovery." I force myself to lean back against the pillows, reminding myself that it's okay for him to do this to me, and for it to feel this good. And it's okay for me to enjoy it as much as I'm enjoying it now. "I'm really a selfish bastard, you know," he reminds me and I suppress a sigh as his thumbs move up to the ball of my left foot, his fingers working on the top. This man has the best hands in the business. "What makes you think you're a selfish bastard?" I ask sleepily, my eyes closing again as I relax into the pampering. "Because I'm really doing this to speed up your return to the office," he says, as his fingers move up to my toes, gently pulling on each one. "I'm bored shitless. And without you there to intimidate the A.D., he finds a new reason to chew my ass every hour on the hour." "That's what you get for being so charming," I mutter, the medication beginning to take hold, my body feeling like it's going to sink right through the cushions of the couch. Mulder falls silent. I can feel him watching me, but I'm too far gone already to muster the energy to catch him in the act. I must have dozed off, because I don't recall anything for a little while, and the next thing I know soft lips are brushing my cheek, a gentle hand is smoothing my hair. I open my eyes a crack to see my partner an inch away, his dear face so gentle, his eyes warm and loving. Why didn't I ever see it before? "Thanks for lunch, Mulder," I murmur, my words slurred, my whole body limp as a wet noodle. But in my stomach there is no pain. Nor is there in my heart. I feel safe and warm and infinitely loved, even though he doesn't say the words. Mulder's actions speak volumes, and when he allows them, his eyes say it all. "Sleep well, Scully," he whispers. "I'll be back after work." He gives my hair a final caress, lets his hand wander down to my cheek where he cups it gently for a moment before turning away to retrieve his coat from the chair. I watch sleepily as he makes his way to the front door and opens it, turning to look back at me one more time. Just before my eyes close I see his lips purse in a silent kiss, then shape into an "o" as he blows it my way. I catch the warm fuzzy with a secret smile, tuck it into my heart, and take it with me into my dreams. Perhaps this time I'll dream of the tree house. - END -