Possibly the longest communal shower scene in the history of fanfics. Some more smooching and a whole lot of bottled up sentiments.

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Stifled Emotions

" Disproportionate rage or anger, overreaction to minor provocation, and cynicism are embodiments of suppressed emotion. "

Stephen R. Covey

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Miles is a big old devoted, dyed-in-the-wool fan of repressed emotions. Always has been. Honestly. Jam it all up, apply a bit of pressure and put a big whopping cork in it. Who the hell wants to see it all hang out?

Gross is what it is.

Keep your funky business bottled up and the world will be the better for it - this is Miles staunch motto. That and: "money is king". He totally prescribes to that one. And unless you are a freaking hotshot psychoanalyst and can combine those two maxims, just shut the fuck up and make like all is fine and dandy.

This is why, the current on-goings back at the house, are positively giving him an allergy. He swears, the appearance of angry red itchy spots down his chest is a direct result of the whiny, snivelling Doc's delusional hallucinations. Oh, and of the two scientists' exhausting nit-picking plotting and conspiring.

But worst of all: LaFleur's pathetic, monumentally p-a-t-he-t-i-c kvetching and moaning. The fucking epically tediousness of it.

It's: Juliet this, Juliet that. Love of my life- bada-bada-badah. It makes the veins at his temples stand out like grotesque overstretched leeches. The aversion towards all the icky overly sentimental goop - enough to give him a brain embolism.

In order to get a moment of peace in his own home, he had brokered a deal (an ingenious deal, if he might say so himself!) with Jules. The gist of this pact was to have the blubbering redneck bumpkin bumped off. And since this could not literally be arranged (though Jack seemed eager enough to oblige) then at least he could be bumped as far as to his and Jules home. And it was decided, through long bickering, exhausting deliberations on all sides, that Jules would shack up with the guys from now on. Jin was curiously enthusiastic about this arrangement and put his legendary Shiatsu massage skills on the negotiating table as a bargaining tool to further the cause to Miles' advantage.

Anyhow, it truly was a stroke of pure genius! Turning a living hell situation into a pure bliss, three men and a babe situation. Well, it might have been if only it weren't for the other two uninvited houseguests. The homicidal janitor-slash-quack and the betrayed husband who seemingly didn't have the slightest inkling as to how undesirable their mere existence was. You got to love her though – Jules -fucking queen supreme of hang-ups and inhibition. Love her! Goddamn hot empress of stifled emotions and stiff upper lips in exchange for that mewling, whining and griping monstrosity of dude.

See! Everybody wins.

In any case, Miles was extremely, exceptionally satisfied with himself and his brilliant arrangement. Besides Juliet is an excellent cook and truthfully, things hadn't been the same since Hugo and his (some would say; notorious) garlic mayonnaise had departed.

Now if he could only find a place to ditch Jackass too - all would be sunny happy days at villa de Miles. Oh, and fruity Dan and Papa-san too for that matter. Jin could go too for all that he cares. As of late, he has seemed far too perky at Miles' misfortunes. If only…

That would leave Miles, grand master of smothered, quelched sentiments with the calm, unruffled deadpan ice princess of cool.

Perfetto.

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Now, things hadn't exactly work out like that. And it isn't something he'd like to dwell over. In fact, he's starting to think that there is a possibility of the existence of a higher being.

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He had arrived to the island with the late evening ferry, and frankly only had her on his mind. It was like chasing after a skittish fucking annoying unicorn. Elusive, mythical and impossible – and if you speak of her – people will invariably think that you are ready for the loony bin. Not that he would – speak of her. Never.

The whole getting laid in the near future-plot is a swiftly dwindling prospect. Hell, who is he kidding – of no hope at all –impossibly bleak, doomed, crushed, null and void. He had even considered going back to the ditzy Cindy, to try to ignore the whole yuck-feeling and all. But somehow, even the most concentrated focus on Cindy's plus-points; the tittering, giggly blondness, her bountiful assets and her, ehem, easiness, did not appeal.

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He had gotten to the Hydra Station late and gone looking for her immediately. Not able to wait till the morning. The sight awaiting him in the stark shower cubicle had almost had him confessing to a newfound belief in divinity. What fantastic, fabulous deity would have him wandering about, randomly checking for her and then serve her on a silver platter like the glorious fodder of his wet dreams? All glistening naked wet skin, surprisingly sweet-smelling and fragrant.

He had almost keeled over at the sight of her too. He doesn't know from where he got it but he had managed to bring out his smoothest, coolest and most aloof Miles. He could hardly believe it himself. Shit. Some serious seducer-player shit he'd been able to pull out of his sleeve. Fucking impressive too, considering his severe lack of practice. It hardy took Casanova to get into Cindy's pants. He doesn't even know how the hell he got the courage. And it had led to some truly astonishing results. Her lithe body and the crazy softness of her girlish breasts pressed up against him.

Unnerving to say the least. Had to pretend to be someone else, all that put-on stud-muffin bravado taking a serious toll on him. And he finds that he can't keep it up. He runs out of it. Suddenly, all at once and without any warning what so ever.

You are so fucked. – So fucked.

No. No. No. This is not happening . No way - Jose! He's not having it. Any of it.

He panics as he realizes why he recognizes this. Louise Wilson, 4th grader, cute and popular little minx. Fucking heartbreaking crush. She wouldn't have anything to do with him – of course. He was a weirdo already back then. Called him a freaky dork and run back to her little evil militia of cool girls. Ponytail swinging tauntingly.

His nerves in smithereens, all flipping wiped out of smoothness. There is only so much he can do – and only for so long. The flirting he can do, the teasing and the mocking, trying to get her to flip out. That he can deal with. But this. No. No hell no.

He likes simplicity. Sex is sex and shouldn't be anything else. He doesn't do complicated. And Kate is complicated with big fucking ginourmous C with sprinkles on top. She is the freakin' K2 of complicated. He should have known better.

Royally fucked.

It was the kiss that ruined it all. It dislodged something within. As he planted a teasingly chaste little kiss. Right smack there in the sublime depression at the periphery of her mouth, something shook loose. Unglued him. He dared intrude on the fine succulent watermelon pink of her lips, so sure that she would turn away, cuff him across the face or kick his arse. Instead she had met him, parted lips and everything. Sweeter than a chocolate éclair, a bitter edgy taste of something else, something darker. Knocking him to hell's end. Intense, fervent and oddly innocent. And like that, he felt himself slipping, loosing his footing. Her, here, propelling him into orbit like some stupid Haley's comet that only comes around once in a blue moon.

Now he is standing here, panting like a big dumb Labrador, trying to get his ballast back in place. The taste of her, on his lips.

Shit. What the hell was that!?

" Something like that?" he whispered. His pulse, like a Sex Pistol percussion solo. Heck, even his hands trembling. Her sweet breath on him, like some industrial strength antidote to a cool, he feels jittery and weak-legged.

" No. No it wasn't." Seeming unexplainably pissed. "No. It was nothing like that!" Knotting her brows together and wrinkling up her ludicrously hard skinned nose.

Fucking beautiful fucked-up girl.

The swelling down south that is what would be expected. He is a simple guy. An uncomplicated bastard. And that's exactly the way he likes it. But this, his frigging chest swelling like a fucking cupcake on steroids. Wild-assed flock of geese flapping up a racket in his stomach. The chain gang of hyperactive frogs doing a square dance in his throat. No. Not having it.

Crap. LaFleur is gonna' split in the middle goading him about this. He was spot on for once - the big dense dimwit! He's got it bad.

Merda.

Who the hell wants to go anywhere near where Sawyer has been diddling and fiddling around with his scary-ass seduction-conman repertoire. Miles rarely feels inadequate. In fact, his self-confidence is as solid as it can be considering he is a bit of a freak. He doesn't usually have any problems pulling babes with his sly humour and bad boy act. He's not specifically concerned about her history with the doc either.

He imagines that the pinnacle of Jack's sensuality might involve lighting a fucking aromatic candle – tops. No funky tantric moves or modus operandi a' la Kamasutra.

But Sawyer. Come on! Sawyer, LaFleur with those idiotic pit-like dimples in his cheeks, like a little naughty toy-boy chipmunk. Chicks dig that stuff! That Fabio-esque sun streaked long hair and all that boy band bronzed skin and relentlessly flaunted six-pack. Not that he notices stuff like that normally, but man it is hard not to when it is constantly being stuffed down your throat! Enough to make any straight -aced normal guy loose his dinner.

He doesn't know what kind of funky love Kate is used to but it frigging freaks him out. He wishes Hugo had been able to keep his big trap closed about all the sexy ways Kate and Sawyer been getting it on. Man, not something you want to think about, sandy beach sex and bear cages and what not.

But he is here. And she did kiss him back. He is certain of this. Though she obviously isn't very happy about it now, a pissy little look about her as if he smelled like manure. It's enough to make him let of her hands, still idiotically clasped in his.

She eyes him as if he were road-kill. A mega-large useless putrid road kill that she has accidentally hit, a big fat lard ass of road-kill that she now has to drag off the driving lane. Equal measures of antagonism and disgust and somehow it doesn't surprise him at all. He is still reeling from, absolutely flabbergasted by the stunts that she let him pull. Considering her brutal reputation and violent tendencies, it is remarkable in itself that he is still breathing and still in possession of all his limbs. He doesn't quite know what to make of it. This fire breathing dragoness in front of him. She did kiss him back through. Of this he's sure.

She glares at his uniform collar as if she is planning to draw blood from it. It makes him a tiny bit nervous. Upper lip slightly drawn in a sneer, revealing her somewhat large front teeth.

And then she stuns him. Supersonic lurch forward, grabbing him roughly by the lapels. Choleric - furiously yanking him in towards her. Her mouth, angry and afire. It's nothing like the sweet sensual softness of the first kiss. Nothing like it. This is like kissing Godzilla, only she is slightly hotter. Like an awkward frenzied teen petting jamboree. All grappling hands, colliding bones, teeth chipping, heads clanking, lips nipping action. Tumbling around, falling onto the cubicle walls like gravity has ceased to exist.

" Slow down…" he groans in an attempt to get out of there alive. Dude that girl has some pent up, repressed sexual frustration of her very own. Not that he should be complaining but man, it's turbulence at it's worst. More like a brawl between football hooligans than a make out session. They bounce off walls like rubber balls in an aggressive game of squash. And considering the slick, slippery wet floor, he isn't surprised at all when they both topple over in a big hysterical pile, limbs in a tangled disarray. Hers; cool and glossy and bare and his; boring Dharma khaki clad.

"Ouch!"

Her on top of him. Towel – not where it is supposed to be. Teeheeing giggle and she accidentally knocks her forehead forcefully against his teeth. She rubs her eyebrow looking slightly contrite. Suddenly embarrassed by her brazenness. His lip split anew, a droplet of blood oozing out of the freshly ripped wound. She wipes it away, gently with her thumb. And like that Godzilla is sent packing and he finds himself with a sweet, albeit seriously fucked-up, alarmingly naked girl in his lap. Her dark soaked curls brushing against his face. The smell of pine, standard Dharma issue shampoo, mixed with something else, something uniquely hers. Vanilla and motor-oil – yep, he swears there is still a hint of motor-oil about her. He feels the wetness from the floor under his butt, seeping in all they way through his underwear. But he doesn't care. He can't help it. He sticks his nose in. Right below her ear. Deep breath. Inhale. You may never get this chance again.

" So just a thought - why is it that you haven't bashed my brains in yet?" he mumbles in the protection of her wet hair.

She pulls back, peers at him under sopping wet auburn curls that hangs down like growths from an exotic tree, snaking down over her shoulders , down to her breasts like dark crawling roots. There is a flicker there of something. Of devil-may-care, warrior princess, of something wild and alive. It makes him choke.

" You know, I have absolutely no idea!" She laughs, a girlish snorting kind of laughter. A little pig-like laugh that has something stirring further down for some freaky-assed twisted reason. She is so totally unselfconscious. " But I just might yet…."

" Yeah, yeah. Hilarious," he sulks.

Like a dare, a challenge of sort to test her, he finds her mouth again. His lip smarts a bit at the contact, but then again, her lips, her tongue; delicious, candid and unafraid against his.

And he is falling. No. Plunging - like a huge boulder rolling off the edge of a ravine. The concept spreads like a catastrophic oil spill within. A true ecological disaster. Touching everything, staining everything. Thick and viscous gooey liquid swamping and inundating him. It will be hard to get rid of. Shit.

Her fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and he doesn't have to keep up his cool. Her chest heaving with every freaking laboured breath, little freckles splattered all over her buttermilk skin. His heart like a big soft meringue, inflating making it hard to think. Brittle and hypersensitive.

Is she fucking serious?! Him?

He lets his other hand wander, the cold naked smoothness of her back, like a marble statue of perfection. His fingers find the ridge of her backbone, stubborn fucking backbone. This girl has muscles, lean high strung muscles and as his fingers smoothes down her skin between her shoulder blades, he can feel them flaying under his hand, flexing, almost meeting his hand. And then , as he draws his fingers further down, to the little frail dip at the small of her back, he can feel her let go. The tips of his fingers, smoothing out the kinks. Relax. The hard tension released. He moves the towel to cover her up. Not because he's a gentleman or anything – are you kidding!? Not because it means something. But he wants it just like this. Exactly like this.

Her in his lap, sleek like a wet baby pup. Infuriatingly beautiful, the warmth of her against him. The irrational taste of roasted almonds and crème caramel. The ludicrous sweetness of a warm hand caressing his neck like she means it. The strange reality of her quick flickering heartbeat sensed through his uniform. The suffocating and seraphic closeness of her. Oh fuck it.

He wants it just like this. The absurdly far-flung notion of an insane infatuation that might, just might be reciprocal.

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The pansy tickety-tick of two person's hurried entrance into the men's area.

Oh hell! What now? WHAT NOW!?

This place is sure popular. People not got better things to do on this shithole island? Does everyone have to be here, in the fricking shower? More traffic than rush hour at the Grand Station.

He looks at her there right next to his face; she's rolling her eyes at the bizarreness of it all. Her long pale legs leisurely stretched out in front of her like she doesn't have a care in the world. He hugs her closer, wrapping both arms around her here on the floor – tight tacky little bear hug – wishing both intruders to hell. The male voices across on the opposite side, annoyingly chatty and obviously middle aged. Two showers are turned on, full blast. The conversation floats over the partition in a cloud of hot steamy air.

" If I have to eat another one of Barbara's meals I will just have to tazer myself to oblivion. Atrocious! And I thought the Brits were bad cooks but mercy of heaven… she had really outdone herself tonight."

Perhaps the scientists? They have similar mannerism, measured and highbrow, educated voices. The type of people that seriously rub Miles the wrong way.

" I do say," says the other man. " Hey Malcolm, can you believe what's going on, on the mainland?"

" I don't know really," answers the other one. "It seems like all hell has broken loose over there. I tell you Harry, we re better off here, in spite of the abysmal food situation."

" It is just unbelievable, that someone would try to shoot a child!"

"Stuart suspects one of the new recruits. He seems to have been in cahoots with the hostiles all the time. An infiltrator. Still it is highly disturbing."

" Phil said something over the radio, seems like it is one of the menial workers. They are thinking it was one of the cleaners or something of the type."

" Yes, figures that it would be some delinquent lowlife who has managed to enrol with the initiative."

Shit what are they on about? They continue, man they are a gossipy pair of sissy-putz.

" So did you hear of Pierre? Unfortunately really," says one of them with a tone of voice that suggests that it isn't unfortunate at all. Miles' ear peak up. What has the old doochbag been up to now?

" You mean the thing with Lara? Yes, Horace told me that he moved out. I guess it has to do with Lara's usual indiscretions. Remember that thing with Barb?"

Some very unmanly giggling comes from the other man in way of a reply. The glee unmistakably.

" Of course. Who could forget Lara's renowned taste in bed partners? Only she would hook up with such a miserable cold cod as Barbara. Haha, do you remember her fling with that janitor, Linus something?"

" Ah yes, brief as it was, but torrid story my friend – truly horrendous. Pierre is apparently pretty beat up about this latest one. Seems serious. He is talking a lot of nonsense and not really able to work. The Orchid labour has been put on hold."

" You don't say? Well, that serves him right after stealing the project from right under your nose Malcolm. I do say!"

" Well thank you Harry. How kind of you."

What the fuck?! Mom!? Great mother of god!

The stream of water stops abruptly, both of them, like they had synchronised their showers to perfection. They keep chatting, quipping about the food and Barbara's miserable failure to provide anything remotely eatable. Then the door locks shut behind their chirruping.

He feels like he could throw up. What the fuck - mom!? This is too much to take in. First this thing with Hugo, then Barbara and now Linus. Ben's father of all the disgusting creeps in the world. What the fuck?! – Shit. Shit. He is starting to feel if not compassion then at least something on the fringes of pity for his father. It is an astonishing discovery, that the old dog might not be a total swine after all and that his own mother might be, well…no , he isn't going to even think the word.

They are at an impasse. Neither of them willing or able to move. He shakes the thought of his mother, the Jezebel of the Dharma Initiative and tries to focus on her, here in his lap. His legs almost loosing their sensation from the weight of her, pissy, angry ants crawling up and down inside his feet.

There is just one thing that is nagging at the back of his mind. He's got to ask. Just have to.

" So what's the deal with you and Sawyer really?" He invests as much aloofness and indifference as he can muster into the question. And what is this? What do you want with this? He wants to ask her but he can't. It's just not something he does.

" Oh." She seems caught off guard. Surprised by the question. To his great dismay, it has her darting up; grappling to stand up, get away from him, wrapping the towel closely around her. She steadies herself with one hand on his head as if he were a mere sidetable.

She isn't going to answer. Crap. What does it mean? What the heck does it mean?!

" So - you with him? Or anyone else?" He has to know. He can't help it.

She a-hems. Turning her back on him, she grabs her clothes on the bench by the lockers in front of them. He clambers up, with a strong grip on the shower faucet. Fuck, his whole butt is sogging wet.

" No, no one in particular. I mean, there has been the odd drunken kiss but not with him. Sawyer and I are history. " She turns her back to him and starts pulling her clothes on. Quickly like she can't wait to buzz off. To get away from him.

At first the sheer relief of it is ridiculous – not Sawyer – not Sawyer! Yes! Then, the enemy you don't know is usually worse, so who the fuck has she been smooching up to? Bet it's Jin, the bastard. That offhanded comment regarding her violent nature and the sabotaging his date with his atrociously ugly tie. Jin . Going to kill that prick!

" So lots of fun stuff going on in Dharma land." He tries to chitchat. " So Kate -who did you have to kiss to get on Hugo's bad side?"

She turns her head just to give him her shut-the-fuck up look, hands on hips, chin lifted in a mind-your-own-fucking-business stance.

Here it comes.

" If you've got to know Miles, though I really don't see what it's got to do with you and you are an idiot for not having figured this out yourself seeing as how upset Hugo is, " she says, excruciating little pause for effect. "It was Mrs. Chang - Lara."

He had steeled himself for whatever she might say. But not this. Not this. He is aware of his mouth gapping silently, gasping, not able to form words. He is speechless, perhaps for the very first time in his whole miserable yapping life.

Kate doesn't get it. Doesn't get him. His reaction is mind blowing. What is his problem?

" You too…you….You …." he gapes at her while backing away pointing his index finger at her like she is Satan herself.

" You big slut!!"

He walks backwards shaking his head in disbelief, and the only thing she can imagine is that Hugo was right. Miles does have a thing for Lara Chang.

Wow, that girl sure gets around.

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