A/N: A little late to the party here, but this is for anyone who needed more Alexander Skarsgard in Legend of Tarzan. (Maybe it's just me…?)

Uncovering

John sat hunched over his small desk, choking in his grey suit. It wasn't because it was warm—scorching winter fire or sweltering summer humidity, London never really felt hot in John's opinion. It was the clothes. The constant wool and leather and cotton and…god knows what else. Even after seven years, he wasn't used to their suffocating totality. Clothes made it hard to get a read on people. They were everywhere, on every surface, on everyone. On Jane.

Clothes or no clothes, he knew Jane was angry with him. When John forbid her to come to Africa, he hadn't meant to keep her from her home—their home, really. Rather, he was acting the way he knew he was supposed to. To protect her, to do the Right Thing. The English thing. For Crown and Country. And that meant keeping the current Greystokes safe so they could make little Greystokes so they could live grey little lives and keep grey little gardens. He sighed. The minute he obeyed one person's code, he broke another's.

He tapped a callused fingertip on the windowpane.

This wasn't his way. He just wasn't sure what his way was.

He went to find Jane. He knew where she'd be—whenever she needed space, she'd tuck herself into the crook of her favorite tree. An enormous, expansive thing shrouded in mist that creaked impressively when the wind howled through it. A bit of wildness here in England. John stopped for a moment before approaching, drinking her in before she noticed. White gown billowing against grey trunk. Soft curls around an angry jawline. He knew what his current countrymen called women like Jane—defiant, disobedient. At their most generous, "unconventional." John disagreed. She was beautiful, free.

He remembered.

The first touch of her hand that set his blood on fire. How he had streaked back through the green overgrowth like lightning, scorched by her presence. How he had climbed, limbs aching with exertion, lungs screaming for air, until he finally breached the tree line. The way he had stared in wonder at the sky, letting the thrill run through him as he allowed himself to entertain an idea he had scarcely dreamed possible.

A mate for him.

The thought opened a cascade of memories, each interlinked and more wild than the last. His body on hers, and she on his. The heavy, steaming sweat of the jungle mingling with their own.

The images came thick and fast.

His favorite: pushing down into her as she lay open beneath him, eyes blazing.

No, no—his favorite: watching her hand slide over his manhood—so much better than his, softer than his, gentler than his—her breath hot on his neck while he gasped.

Then again maybe it was when Jane crept over him in the night, pinning him down like a lithe jungle cat and riding him. Or when she sucked his fingers into her mouth, moaning while he stroked her.

Or perhaps his very favorite was taking her from behind, clutching her back against him as he called out his song, feral and unrestrained. In that moment, John was an animal in an animal display, inviting the gazes of all—glorious, triumphant, proud. The first time he had taken her like this, he had worried briefly that it might not be the Right Way. But Jane had raised herself beneath him, stretching up until her back was flush with his chest. When she laid her head back against him, her neck long and tall, exposed and vulnerable but proud, he knew. It wasn't all going to be give. She could be like him, too.

A bead of sweat ran down his temple despite the chill.

Yes. That was his favorite.

She loved his wildness, he knew, but she also loved him in English. He thought of the words and phrases she'd taught him, like cock and suck. He knew they were explicit to her, naughty, embarrassing maybe, but he also felt her thrill to them. Loved to hear her whispered "Yes," in answer to his drawn out, "Fuuuuck." It was a new language. And John was good with languages. He loved to see it change her. The way her shocked face would turn to passion, to something fiercer. Something like anger, and then like love.

John ached with longing. For her. For her in Africa. For him in her in Africa. There John saw everything, heard everything, knew everything. Not just the jungle, but Jane: felt her shyness before she would begin to pull away, heard her pulse speed and hiccup just before she broke for him so he knew—didn't guess—knew when to hold back and when to push forward. Saw the desire in her eyes when they locked with his from afar. He missed the jungle and the ease with which her eyes found him there. Here, coated in layer after layer, he wasn't sure of himself. Wasn't sure of her. Not in the same way.

If he could just reach her, taste her, pull him to her again. Not here in a canopied bed, not in a starched shirt or a velvet dressing gown. There. At home.

She was watching him as he approached, legs clasped to her chest. John easily pulled himself into the tree and sat across from her on the limb. While she followed him with her eyes, there was no spark, no familiarity, no Jane there. Just sadness.

It stung him.

He had known he was wrong before he sought her out, but now he was sick with it. Words always came second for John; his hands spoke for him. He offered his palm in supplication, forgiveness, love. Thankfully, Jane took it as the gesture it was meant, with both hands.

"Promise me you'll stay with the Kuba the whole time…" John whispered. Her face broke into a wide smile.

And just like that, joy.

His want was so strong, so reflexive that his arm moved seemingly on its own, and suddenly Jane was in his lap. John rocked against her, heavy, desperate, ecstatic. It was still fabric on fabric, but he could smell her, feel the way she bent to him. He ran his hands into her hair and pulled, heart racing when he heard her familiar gasp.

He leaned forward, pressing her into the trunk. She responded, her hands scratching at his arms, clawing up the back of his neck. John pressed her tighter, hauling her back onto him right where he needed.

Jane let out a sharp gasp, and not out of pleasure.

John's eyes snapped open. He instantly saw the problem. Her intricate lace gown had snagged on a jagged piece of tree bark, causing her to jerk painfully backward against the tree.

It was unclear who laughed first, but it didn't matter. Instantly their passion dissolved in a fit of giggles. Damn clothes. Damn them to hell.

After the laughter subsided, he disentangled her with a firm tug, leaving a three-inch rip in the material. Jane looked over the tear with an appraising eye.

"I never cared for this dress anyway," she winked, eyes full of mirth. John ran a finger over her exposed skin, letting out a relieved sigh he hadn't known he was holding.

It was alright, he thought, as they climbed down from the tree, happy yet unsatisfied. They would go home together and uncover themselves.

In Africa they would remember everything.