Title: Jungle Fever Spoilers: only the most general ones Rating: hard R Characters: young!Arvin/young!Jack Written for: my dear kangeiko Word Count: > 2,200 They have the best fucking track record in history.
	It's hot and humid and itchy everywhere, and of course, Jack doesn't even complain. Arvin hates that sometimes, or maybe envies it. The middle of fucking *nowhere*, and Arvin is annoyed beyond measure -- sure, they could leave empty-handed, patiently wait for extraction, but they have the best fucking track record in history so far; if Jack won't risk it, he sure won't, either. Yes, there's this edge of competitiveness that exists between them, even though they're part of the same team, but it's good because it gets results. To hell with it all, to hell with the contact; according to the maps they let them see, there's a village nearby where directions -- and the traitor, maybe -- can be found. Reactions have never been Arvin's strength, anyway, at least not when they weren't calculated. So, they have to find the hideout themselves--not like drug lords the calibre of José de la Paz  would be accommodated in a cave. If, half-way to the village, Jack stumbles, well, Arvin's hand is there, lightning-quick. Only, of course, it wasn't clumsiness -- the dead body of their contact is a booby-trap on the jungle floor. Behind it -- him -- they can see faint tracks in the undergrowth, and they follow them in the fading light. Night is falling; beyond the impenetrable green roof, the sun will disappear behind the horizon, not as quickly as a stone falls but as quickly as a balloon sinking to the ground. Around them, distinct sounds, rustling and chirping and creaking, but Arvin isn't stupid: jaguars are silent, move without a sound. And as they step forward, they find themselves on a small square, sprung up as sudden as any native settlement -- organic, seamlessly integrated; not marked by anything as blunt as city walls or welcome signs. Welcome they aren't, anyway. Arvin considers himself perceptive, but anyone would gather from the spears and short bows and -- globalisation, that glorious and dubious phenomenon -- guns pointed at them, ancient rifles and shiny new machine pistols. Great. In the middle of a some potential -- scratch that, actual -- conflict, but Jack's never to frazzled not to remember what he can do, and that is making an impression on people -- looking so goddamn calm, with that slight edge of boredom that always *gets* Arvin. But then, he himself can be cordial, oh yes, he can. His Spanish isn't perfect, and not half as effective as his smile, but it's decent enough, and with their combined efforts, they manage to get the villagers lower their weapons. Harder to find out more about de la Paz, though -- it's still a challenge, it takes them the whole night, one day of palavering, and another night of hunting; damn good thing he's got a killer aim -- or a killer's aim, as the case may be. But one of the guys clinging to the moniker of "warrior" is awed enough to tell him, finally, about that settlement in the forest, loco, periculoso. Arvin tries to coax him into coming along, showing the way, but neither his own attempts to sweet-talk nor Jack's attempts to persuade him are particularly successful; Jack's blade doesn't make a difference -- even without all of his fingers, the man would still be scared out of his wits, paralysed; he won't get close to de la Paz's hiding-hole, due to superstition more than fear of the drug lord's dogs, watchmen, and landmines. But the point is that -- well, that he *points* them to the place, right? If there are white-water rivers, a broken drawbridge, and still the damn mosquitoes, so be it.. They really have to rely on each other--and what else is new? Not a walk in the park, such a trek through the jungle. The leopard attack is a bit too much, really; in retrospect, Arvin *should* have seen it, but he didn't -- Jack was quicker with his weapon than he was, for once, but even the sharpest knife is a poor man's choice against a large predator. Arvin remembers screaming, he remembers Jack joining in, prone, on the ground -- but when the jaguar flees, Jack has no more than a deep scratch on his shoulder, as Arvin finds out in an instant. Jack's skin is clammy under his fingers, and for a moment, a sharp jolt of fear shoots through Arvin, sharper than the bayonet that youth in the village dug into his back to underline his threat. But Jack's eyes are hot, annoyed, and he pushes him back with determination -- not brusque, rather gently, for Jack, anyway -- but he does push him away and gets up, continues to fight their way through the rainforest. Finally, they reach a mountainside; the jungle, for some reason, doesn't follow its slope but seems to hesitate, retreat from the small stone fort nestled there -- around it, a wide area almost devoid of trees or undergrowth. No matter if natural or artificial, getting inside won't be easy. They *could* wait for nightfall, of course, but Arvin doesn't want to risk another attack And Jack's wincing, too, whenever he moves his shoulder. So, they decide to try sneaking in from the sides, and after many efforts, they do make it--reach the walls, rough yellow stone of the kind they've seen in river beds and rocks everywhere. There's this one window, you see; it'd be impossible to reach for one person, but with Arvin stepping on Jack's shoulders, and treading very, very carefully indeed, it might just work. Arvin wishes, irrationally so, that he didn't have to even touch Jack's shoulder, let alone let it bear his weight. Not like you could see anything -- anything , really -- in Jack's face, but Arvin's seen enough of his friend to know that he's in pain when, slowly, he is being lifted up. After a few agonising minutes, Arvin find himself being pulled up, too -- old mansions, it turns out, often yield old curtains that can double nicely as makeshift ropes. In the hallway, they both listen intently; it's a bloody miracle no one has patrolled this particular part of the building yet. But all is quiet. After the recon, they both realise that, to their great surprise and a somewhat smaller amount of pride, they haven't been discovered yet...and that this wing seems to be defunct, patrolled only once an hour by a bored-looking, swarthy man of about fifty, who never even checks the rooms. The second on their right has a nice, big bed, ancient oak that must have been dragged through thousands of miles of godforsaken wilderness before ending up here. Jack is still standing straight, but maybe his posture is a bit too straight, and the grey shadows under his eyes are definitely a bit too prominent. Jack would, of course, deny that they both tumble onto the dusty, age-old mattress on opposite sides of the bed, but Arvin has never been one for self-deception -- deception of others, ah, that's a different thing. Jack's beyond tired, he's exhausted, which is something Arvin realised all too clearly when he looks at Jack's shoulder again and when Jack only bats at his hands with a slight, tight frown of annoyance. The buttons on Jack's shirt are wet from the humidity of the jungle, but truth be told, Arvin doesn't know if that's the only reason he has such sudden trouble with getting that shirt off and taking a look at the wound. Jack just lies back there, blinks at him with this mildly bothered look -- if he really objected, he'd still be able to draw the knife he pilfered from that unfortunate youth in less than a second, though; Arvin is experienced enough not to delude himself with Jack. Finally, the shirt has come off -- and he really shouldn't be *quite* so out of breath. It's just a consequence of their hasty break-in, just a result of his worry for Jack. The gash in Jack's shoulder isn't deep, but of course, any wild animal's claws carry a myriad microbes, and Arvin can't have his friend suffer an infection. There's disinfectant in his bag; if Jack winces when he, with a strip of cloth torn from the bedspread, cleans the wound -- well, he can't help it, can he? Once the would is cleaned, Jack seems to relax--the fraction of an inch, anyway; the sharp tension in the broad line of his shoulders seems to dissipate, and Arvin finds he can't look away. It's nothing new, for God's sake, just Jack, his buddy, but in the light filtered through dirty windows, reflected on dust motes like tiny fireflies -- it's madness, really, but he finds his fingers are tracing the outline of the wound he's taken care of. Jack is watching him intently, not making a sound, but some of the tension has found its way back into his body. For once, Arvin feels tongue-tied, unable to speak; under his fingertips, Jack's skin has warmed, and not from fever, although there is a slightly feverish flicker in his dark eyes. He, too, opens his mouth, but whatever he is looking for in his, Arvin's face, he can't find it, can't respond. Jack Bristow isn't speechless, maybe, but it's no small feat to make him chose not to speak, either, and Arvin feels a spark of giddiness and amusement that makes his heart beat a bit quicker. It's -- wrong, an abomination, and there are others to consider, but Arvin doesn't want to stop even if he could (and should). Slowly, he drags his hand up, shoulder, clavicle, neck--and Jack shivers, here, just a little -- ear, along Jack's hairline. He's always, with passionless appreciation, thought Jack had nice hair, for a male, but now, gliding along, he is more fascinated the sheer film of perspiration along his hairline, of the sound of wet, hot skin on skin. There's the insane, sudden urge to follow the shape Jack's brows, and, curiously, Arvin lets his fingers slide down Jack's face, the side of his face; when his right thumb touches the corner of Jack's mouth, no one could have missed the way Jack's eyes flutter closed for just the fraction of a second.  Arvin is nothing if not a quick study when it comes to human weaknesses and strengths, and the sudden realisation that he has both of these laid out before him, in no one less than Jack Bristow, is utterly electrifying. More pressure, now; he revels in the feel of the crisp hair on Jack's chest under his fingers when he slides his hands downwards, slowly but surely, and even more so in Jacks short, half-swallowed gasp. This, it turns out, is quite amazing; hard to illicit a reaction from Jack at the best of times, but now, at the worst of times, he finds out that using the sharp line of his left fingernail to follow the trail south of Jack's navel makes the other man buck up a little, makes his eyes widen in a way Arvin likes, likes a lot. Slowly, he bends down; his movement one of a confidence born from years of practice and years of success -- but there's still a cold fist of fear lodged deep in his belly; hovering just over Jack, slowly sliding his leg over to straddle him fully is madness, it's insane, and Jack will hate him and he can't go on, not ever, not like this, but this is when a strong hand grips his left arm and, with one jerk, pulls him down-- and then Jack is kissing him, without pretence or hesitation, hot and hungry and a million times better than Arvin -- never ever would have -- dreamed of. Jack's grip will leave bruises, but Arvin doesn't mind, revels in the sensation of having gotten Jack to this point, Jack who's cool and controlled and calm and who talks of grad students of literature as if they could ever mean anything, anything that would even come close to with they have, what they share. And now, they really tumble down, kissing, touching; impatient -- this is almost sweeter than the feeling itself -- hands ripping off his own shirt, and Jack's fingertips burn fiery lines across his skin; really, it shouldn't be as hard to breathe as it is right now, it shouldn't, but Arvin can't help it, for once, he can't -- sense anything but Jack on his skin, fierce yet precise and having worked off the belt of his trousers before Arvin quite realises what his friend has done, and then, it's him who arches back, rolls to his side, because Jack is touching him. Touching. Him. And it's strange and rough; every callous on Jack's hand is, but it doesn't hurt that Jack starts fast --which is good, because he's been ready for a while, far beyond the state where he'd need a gentle, soft touch; fast-slow-fast but always strong, and Arvin, Arvin curls his hand around Jack's shoulder, draws him closer just as he is getting closer and closer -- and when Jack kisses him, again without care or finesse, the world shatters into a million colours.
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