Sorry for leaving it so long if anyone is still reading this nonsense... I'm still waiting for these two to become a canon couple. The new season is turning out to be somewhat of a disappointment… Seriously. As delicious as nekkid Sawyer was in Recon, where is Miles' shirtless air-time? Just isn't fair. I might have to do some photo-shopping on this…

Hangover cure

"The only cure for a real hangover is death."

- Robert Benchley -

"Come on," she twitters and he wants to point at his chest.

Me?! You mean me?

The hottest hottie on the island, and for some unfathomable reason she seems to like him. Him.

It can't be. But it is. It is.

She's tugging and dragging him along by the sleeve of his overalls and he isn't complaining. No. His heart races crazily and he is so disoriented he doesn't even realize where she's taking him. He thinks that she will lead the way to some top-notch make-out spot and the disappointment is like a well-placed uppercut to his jaw. They are heading straight back into the Hydra refectory.

Immediate buzz kill.

Crap. Yeah, he knew it was too good to be true. She probably just wants to show off in front of LaFleur, show that she has someone too. The sinking feeling of being used as a mindless pawn in their little game.

They haven't been gone long but man- promiscuity is obviously the word. He saunters on behind Kate, trying to shield his eyes with the side of his hand from the onslaught of horribly inappropriate public displays of affection all around the room.

"Where the freaking hell are we going, " he hisses to her, trying desperately to protect the last shreds of his innocence.

Argh…

He just saw Sawyer doing something so abominably off limits - he fears he may never recover. If she wanted to get it on – this would be the textbook move to make sure it will never happen. Ever. He's thinking celibacy doesn't seem like such a bad option right now. Wonders how he'd look in black robes and a little white collar.

Pretty darn spiffy most likely.

"Just looking for something – come along…" she says with a foxy kind of voice that makes him want to runs screaming in the opposite direction. She has a strange simpleton kind of nonchalance about her. Weird as hell - considering that the guy she's been moping around for is currently engaging in some incongruously inappropriate activities right here. Right now. Yeah. Didn't figure Jules for the red lace kind of girl. Hmm.

Eew. Look away. L-o-o-k a-w-a-y.

To his great disbelief, Kate sails through the sordid surroundings like purity and virtue personified. Her head held high in aristocratic elegance as she cruises through the murky waters of obscenities. For all intents and purposes - oblivious of the debauchery around her. Incorruptible. It freaks him out, how she can be so cool about it. She is either legally blind or much drunker than he'd originally thought.

Or. And this is too horrible to think of. This is nothing to her. As if she has been on the receiving end of that specific display of ehem…uncommon expression of affection and it's nothing new to her.

Jules is surprisingly bendy though.

No. No man. Focus. Think of something else. Ice hockey…wonder if …no it isn't working. What the….?! Chicks like that? – Can't be legal. Seriously. That can't be frigging legal in any freakin' country!

Yeeks, he has got to get out of here.

And precisely when he fears his retina is about to tear itself off and up and just leg it, Kate pushes the swinging door to the kitchen open with her shoulder. Mercy. Tippy-toeing like an enormous five year old, as if she thinks it will make a difference in her bulky boots. Gracious like a stealthy little Heffalump - deluding herself that she is invisible. He lumbers on behind her wondering for the umpteenth time where the heck she's leading them. And what could possible be worth subjecting themselves to these visual assaults.

That in there. He is nauseous now and hell he isn't even all that prude, but there is something alarmingly unnerving about the thought of her and Jimbo - lover extraordinaire. That slick, sickening self confidence, and the thought that she has probably been privy of her own fair share of some similarly funky moves, love extreme league version. It's enough to want to hurl.

Not even the kitchen is safe from the onslaught of grotesque mating rituals tonight. As they round the corner of the little half partition they are unwitting witnesses to what happens if you merge Sesame street with chocolate sauce and whipped cream and something that looks suspiciously like a long lean, human sized wafer.

…Nah it can't be. Yep. Hell yep.

Yes. It is Barbara in an apron and nothing else. Phil is on the countertop, has cream up to his bushy eyebrows and the rest is too fricking blood-curling to articulate.

As he and Kate crouch down behind the cupboards and sneak silently along the floor he swears he will never again eat a piece of food prepared in this kitchen.

No whipped cream either come to think of it. Ever.

He tries to concentrate on the significantly more uplifting sight in front of him. Kate's grubby overall-covered patootie in the air. He locks his eyes on that vision, determined not to let the rest soil his mind tonight. He watches how her round little pert behind edges it's way in front of him, and he can't help thinking.

She likes me. She fucking likes me!

Kate suddenly stops by an open cabinet and he sort of bumps in to her rear with his forehead. So intent on studying it that he hadn't even noticed her slowing down. She swivels her head around, one finger over her lips. Unnecessarily, because there is no way in hell he'd ever want to draw the attention of those two epicurean circus freaks. He can't help shuddering.

The cream… ugh. If that's not enough to put you off dairy for life…

She reaches into the cupboard and draws something out. A large liqueur bottle with some radioactive Kermit-green stuff in it. She looks outrageously satisfied over the loot. Unzips the overalls just a bit and tucks the bottle inside.

Held in place by what?

He can only watch in stunned admiration as she carries out this magnificent feat. She zips up again and gestures to him to turn around again. Eyebrows wiggling eagerly. He shakes his head.

No, there is no way he's going out the same way as they came. He's already scarred for life. She might as well just castrate him for fricks sake. This damned place of Sodom and Gomorra. It must have a back door.

Please have a back door. Please.

It does and as they push it open together, still frog walking near the floor when they hear a loud gruff roar from the other side of the kitchen.

"Who's there!?"

And Barbara's soothing voice:

"Never mind that Phil, did I tell you we've got strawberries too baby."

They burst through the door, tumbling down the two steps to the ground. Kate with a slick, deft move that saves the bottle of rat poison she's just stolen.

"So we got the booze right here," she says smugly and pats her own bulging chest area. "Now all we need is to find a good spot."

"Wha..what?"

"Lets get drunk Miles. It's the only way, trust me," she says in an earnest way that instantly makes him not trust her. "We'll do the round here and you'll see you have nothing to worry about. What you just saw,… Sawyer – ah – that's just a load of smoke and mirrors. Nothing to it."

"Eh, round? You shouldn't bank on me doing something like 'that' though." he says with a shakier voice than he would have wished for, a thumb vaguely indicating the defiled Hydra canteen behind them. She disregards it completely. Just smiles that ludicrously wide toothed grin. "Just saying, I don't think the spine is supposed to be bent like that anyway. It can't be normal…"

"I think it's best we look at this as some kind of therapy….You know…" she says and flutters her eyelashes coquettishly. "To help with your, ehem, little problem."

His little problem! He is tempted to bring up her little 'issue' too but doesn't think it would be conducive to call her a nymphomaniac right now.

"Then you shouldn't have brought me to the canteen. Therapy - pah…it will take exorcism to clear that stuff away…" he mutters but it's mostly for show and because he's already imagining it. Her and him and…crap. This love stuff really does complicate things. Maybe if he told her? No? No.

Hugo can go and screw himself. He's not doing it. Not telling her. That would be the end of him, he knows it.

Her eyes are round and unfocused like she's already somewhere else.

"We could take the barracks first, or the cage or…oh,… You know, we also did,… you know… on the beach as we were sneaking away… We'll start off there.."

She's already hauling him off in the direction of the beach front.

"While you were running off?...That really true…?" Miles is somewhat sceptical.

"Yep. Totally."

That doesn't sound right.

He understands that LaFleur is some kind of hyper-sexed monstrosity of an uber mench but surely he wouldn't have had time to … while they were escaping. And hmm... Well it's sort of comforting that he would need that little time. Miles has always been a fervent fan of the quickie. It's good to know that she might not have high expectations in that regard at least. And Kate, well the chick is to die for though honestly she could need a good scrubbing right now and he just tries to imagine getting intimate with her after a few days in a bear cage. And well, it's a bit of a stretch…

But then again. Who the heck is he to argue.

"Eh, okay….lets go then." Before he looses his courage. His flimsy rinky-dink nerves quivering like a bunch of newborn baby-kittens.

She sidles up, close, sweat making the little hair around her face curl up tightly, little humid ringlets around her forehead. She holds on to his arm and leans in as they come bumbling forward like a clumsy three-legged creature.

"Well, there are a few more things we did," she whispers. The hair on his neck stands up in attention at this. Her hot grappa breath in is ear as she explains further.

Oh, big sweet Yezuzz, that's some scary stuff!

"Hell no! Uhu. No way!"

"But Sawyer did…." she pouts. Aw. Yeah, she's really got him now. Clinched tightly around the bollocks. What's a man to do? His heart has a hard time staying inside his blown up chest. The emotions just too alien, too outlandish to process.

"Uhu. Nope. NO. Not on Kate. Can't believe you asked me that!"

"But…" He sees a shift in her eyes and hopes that it means she's given up on that kinky shit.

Pfew – yep – crisis averted.

"Miles…."

She rubs his arm, pushing his sleeve upwards. Looks up at him with those Bambi eyes, and then leans her head on his shoulder. Ah. He could get used to this. He circles his arm around her waist, hugs her closer as they walk. The sound of the waves lapping at the beach already audible nearby.

"Yeah…?"

"I love…"

"What baby?" He stops in his tracks.

"Come closer…" And he is not late to obey. She twists to face him, her little naughty hands move down, groping his behind through the thick fabric. It's sort of his move, but hell, he isn't complaining. She can borrow it all that she wants.

"I love…." She sighs and he swears it's like someone turned the stars on the way they glitter and shine above them, the indigo blue of the sky, everything goes all techno-colour around them. He can't believe it. Oh. The thrill of anticipation is killing him.

Bloody freaking yay! It looks like she'll be the first to say it and then…he'll just say: 'me too'. Perfect! This is the perfect night. The perfect moment. And in his mind he tells her; I fucking love you! But in the real world - he waits. For her to say it first.

"I really,.. really… really..."

Aw, come on! Say it girl! She blinks and looks downwards, looking coy and cute and – freakin' gorgeous. She leans in and lets her lips slide up his cheek and whispers somewhere in the area of his temple.

" I really love your ass in these drabs."

Huh?

Insert wild giggling and snorting laughter and well - you get the picture. He's been had! He's been so had! She makes doe eyes at him and he sees where this is going.

"No. Hell no Kate! Not falling for that one! Still – not - doing - it!"

He pulls her into a tight hug. Some serious shit this. He inhales, shamelessly breathing her in. She is a sore looser if he's ever seen one. She gently shoves him away and starts stalking away towards the pier in a huff. And he can only tag along behind her, wanting to beat himself over his big soppy corkhead.

She must like him. Right? But what is it? She clearly has the hots for him but what is it leading to? Does she really, really like him or is it only… – and Christ! He is a chick. He's turning into a girl! A schmaltzy, mawkish schmuck. He glowers at her as she skips along like a particularly boisterous foal. A tipsy horny foal. Argh. This can't be happening.

But it is. It's on. If he plays his cards right and he'll have screwed her at the end of this night and maybe, maybe this lovey-dovey sentimental crap will have disappeared. He'll have gotten it out of his system. Maybe. He doesn't feel very certain about it.

"Come on, try to keep up!" she snaps somewhat impatiently. They make their way down to the beach. A little sandy stretch just west of the dock. And he can only watch her in awe as she kicks her boots off and tugs down the zipper of her filthy, filthy uniform – just so. She yanks out the bottle and hands it to him. Proudly, as if presenting him with their firstborn.

Man, this chick is a disaster zone. He looks like he's just been to a day spa compared to her. And it's odd. They have been through the exact same stuff since this morning. Mucking out the cages, crawling through the jungle, rolling around getting undressed on the forest floor (oh, no – that was just him). It's unhinging that she'd manage to get ten times more dirty than him. Though if anyone can handle the grunge look, it has to be her. She still looks like a freakin' dream even with the grime covering her from top to toe in a thick crust.

"It's Pisang Ambon," she says with a possessive smugness as if she'd invented the horrible syrupy stuff herself.

"Yeah? But is it safe?" he bitches, glaring at it as if it was Kryptonite. It definitely doesn't seem worth almost going blind for. He'd rather not have seen LaFleur and the gang getting their freaky on. The only redeeming feature of the gunk is that it looks poisonous enough to incinerate that image too. God willing.

"Well, it's nice and you know. Might help with the nerves a bit," she says, pushing the hair out of her face and struggling to pull off her filthy (filthy!) socks. Dear God, she's filthy!

"Yeah, I remember that working out really well for you on our first date."

But he has to admit that she's got a point. Maybe that's the answer!? Get so thoroughly smack-your-head-against-the-wall drunk that nothing really matters.

"Yeah, it didn't did it? But I mean, I was drinking on my own that time, and now it'll be together so… you know…"

He lets the thought sink in, and hell, it's almost romantic, emulating their very first (and only) failed date like this. Getting sloshed together. Well it's a step forward at least. Though LaFleur beating the mush out of him he can do without.

" Yeah okay, but only if you flash your boobs like that time too…"

She smiles, a rabbity grin that narrows her eyes to slits and nods slowly.

"Yeah, we'll see about that. Who knows, I might even be able to do better … You wanna' take a quick dip in the sea…"

Yes. Thank god. Yes. She could really do with a good scrubbing. And he's grateful for the delay of the inevitable. His test of virility. The unavoidable LaFleur comparison, by which all men must be measured.

"Sure, lead the way grubby chick!" he says as coolly as he can.

That she does, with her awkwardly sensual flair. The moon is almost full and dear lord of mercy, as if he needed any more corny romantic imagery in his inanely mushy head. But as he watches her in front of him it quickly goes from birds chirping to red hot blood pumping through his veins. She just bounces ahead, stripping as she runs, pieces of clothing flying through the air quicker than he can say 'modesty'. And hell, he can only follow. He can barely make out anything except her outline in this light, but then again, the lithe shape of her, is enough to make him want to blow his head off.

He just wants to tell her. Before this goes any further. He stumbles as he struggles with his overall, stubs his toes against a rock or something. And then he's in the tepid water. And she is there, sweeping through like an eel. And she isn't shy. He wonders if the Grappa is to blame or if this is him – driving her to this.

"Hey,.." he almost protests when her arms sneak around his neck, fingers tickling him at the nape and then her. Tepid water and her fluid skin hell…like a slippery mermaid against him. The moisture of her lips against his. Water, moisture everywhere and he's grateful for the darkness. She can't see how he blushes.

Tell her, tell her…

"Kate…" he wants to gush it all out. A great romantic gesture, a declaration of love. It's now or never. But… As if she can read his mind, she draws away.

"It's just sex Miles… so don't get soppy on me okay? We clear?"

"Yeah totally," he beams pathetically at her as he imagines flicking a veil away from her face, carrying her over the threshold. An idea so whimsically absurd, he might as well let it run wild – so he allows himself to picture half a dozen of little 'MilesandKates' too. Just for the hell of it. Aw.

But hey – wait a minute!

Those kids will look fricking weird!

Suddenly he can see them clearly, as clearly as if they were actually real standing there in the water around them. And it's a veritable horror movie, a nightmare. All with identical slanted eyes and frowning pointed eyebrows. Little clones with their little pouty sourpuss mouths, crazy freckles from top to little toes and wild curly Crusty the Clown hair on their little heads. Each with a superbly bad attitude and a penchant for violence to boot.

No.

At second thought, better keep those raging hormones in check.

"Alrighty then, sparkling clean. Let's get up," he says with a no nonsense kind of certainty. He hopes. Hell, he isn't ready for this.

"Aw, maybe you just need a drink," she says, sounding somewhat disappointed. But dear mother of god – had she had a glimpse of those clones she'd have sworn abstinence faster than you could say 'hail Mary' too. He takes her by the hand, all slippery skin against him and bundles her up on the beach again. They dry themselves off with their overalls, pulls them up half way as they balance with an impressive one-legged coordination, backs turned towards each other.

He spreads their t-shirts out the sand, and they slump down next to each other. Strangely awkward and shy now that they've already made out like frisky salmons in the water. He dares a flighty glance at her there beside him.

Well fuck me Freddie.

He can barely bear to look at her now, sitting there as if it was nothing - half unclad. Way better than sneaking a peak through a drunken girl's unzipped uniform.

She's looking cleaner. Definitely cleaner. The white of her skin reflecting the moonlight and her teeth about the only thing clearly visible in the dark. She reaches for the bottle, unscrews the cork with a 'humph' and passes it on to him. And he thinks, there is only one thing to do to get this on. He brings the bottle up by its neck and is surprised by the sweet banana smell the seeps out. He lifts slants it in a 110 degree angle, head backwards and glunks down as much as he dares.

"Not bad huh?" she says and takes it from him again.

"No not bad at all…"

Ahugh.

Is this death?

Ergh.

And if it isn't death.

He. Just. Wants. To Die.

Something is sticking to his left cheek and he gasps as he carefully pries open his eyes.

AAARGH!

The pain! The pain of the sunlight in his eyes. It's intolerable. And where the fuck is he?

This is sand.

What's under his face, his hands, his belly – sand. That can't be right but he doesn't dare open his eyes again to confirm it. And if it is, indeed sand. That must mean that the crunchy thing in his mouth is sand too.

ACK.

There wasn't any sand in his cot last night. Come to think of it, there wasn't any cot at all last night. Or at least not him in a cot and hell, his memory is grudgingly seeping back and he'd groan for feeling like a piece of beef jerky but he's afraid that it will only bring more sand into his mouth.

Hold on a second.

Where the hell are his clothes? Arms naked; check. Legs naked; check. Belly down in sand; definitely unclothed. Ass: hmm… hard to say. Something wet slung around him but he's definitely got sand in his groin. Just feels like he needs to throw up. Or like he might feel better if he did. He just can't open his eyes. Not just yet. He grapples with the sand, trying to stop the world from spinning so violently.

What happened?

He seems to remember something. Clipped images flashing by as if he were stuck in a Clockwork Orange brainwash sequence. Green atomic wastewater? Skinny-dipping. Frolicking like salmon? A kiss? Glossy skin. Sticky banana stuff?

Oh… and where the heck is she? The chick. The dream chick of all chicks that was here last night.

He must have said it. It must have slipped out after downing that bottle of banana poison. He can't remember. But somehow he knows. He must have said it.

EEK!!!

Kate.

I love you.

What the fuck has he done?!

He moans into the sand managing to shovel up another truckload of the stuff in his mouth. Beyond caring. It's a disaster. A catastrophe of magnificent proportions.

WHAT. HAS. HE. DONE?

So this is what it's like, she thinks as she wrestles with him there in the sand. The smell of him like warm gingerbread. Finally giving into the infatuation. It doesn't mean anything. It's nothing special – just a stupid crush. But that sardonic smile and that mouth, the catlike mouth with the funny lips. This is what happens when you give into it.

His lips taste of banana liqueur and a little bit of the porcini tortellini. But he is delicious. He tastes just like he ought to. The pain of Juliet and Sawyer replaced by something else, a feeling of relief. It's over and he's here now. Miles with the funny stubble around his mouth and chin scratching her in a way that is completely new.

And she is so drunk. She had to do something, otherwise they would never have been here on the ground getting sand in the most impossible places. She had to.

Arggh….

She feels the sun burning into her back and for a second she thinks she's in an oven.

"Hey Freckles! Looking good enough to eat!"

Him.

No that can't be right. She was with… yeah, another arrogant bastard last night. Or so it had seemed. She doesn't even have enough energy to lift her head up. She hadn't realized that their little stretch of sand was so close to the ferry docking last night. It's only now when their voices boom out, too damn loud, somewhere above her, and near enough to hurt.

"Ouch – whaddidya' have to do that for?! It's only a manner of speech… darling.."

"Oh for the love of God James… I can't deal wit this now." A woman's voice, that frosty edge that immediately identifies its owner as Juliet. " Hey Kate, you better get dressed if you're taking the sub. The ferry will be leaving soon"

Get dressed?

What? Where?

Ferry?

She can hear the clomping on the wooden deck of another pair of shoes, no wait, maybe two pairs.

"Hi guys, what's up?" Jin. Must be, with his stiff, perfect English attempting to sound hip. "What are you looking at?

"Those two down there. Hey Short Cake! You kids starting your own nudie camp down there?"

If she gave a rat's ass she'd have flipped him the birdie, but even that seems too much work right now. Just wants to die.

"Miiiles, yohoo… You okay honey?" Oh and that must be the little bosomy blondie that did the zigzag thing last night between the chairs, from Sawyer to Jin.

And if Miles is anywhere near her, he might be dead because there is no answer forthcoming.

Her mouth tastes distinctly like the bottom of a cat's litterbox. The amount of sand in it does everything to reinforce that impression. Come to think of it, she might very well be lying face down in a giant litterbox.

Agh.

She wants to die. Wants to die and though she is starting to realize that she is in fact lying head long in sand without a thread on, there is nothing, nothing she can do about it. Nothing that she wants to do about it either. She can't even manage to be mildly concerned about it. Nakedness definitely dwarfed by the overwhelming death wish.

She hears a heavier set of steps on the dock and then the cruel greeting of the straight and sober.

"Morning dudes! You ready to rock?"

"Morning sunshine! Where's the missus? Not coming?" Sawyer. She would have smiled if it were in her power. But as it is, she knows she'll only end up drooling in the sand. "And yeah, before you gotta' ask – yeah it's them drunk and nekkid."

"Lara is on her way. Just packing the baby stuff. Hmm… Dude, shouldn't we make sure they're alive or something?"

"Ah, they're alive, they've just exhausted themselves – the novelty of freckles and all that…." Sawyer exclaims flippantly and from the sound of it, this earns him another cuff across the head.

"Ouch! You better stop that Blondie or…"

"Or you're going to do what?"

"Ok break it up you two! Wait, man, I think I just saw her little finger moving…"

She knows she ought to try to pry her eyes open, if nothing else just to provide a sign of life but she fears her head will spontaneously implode if she does.

So hangover… We meet again. Her arch nemesis.

It isn't a new acquaintance – not at all. They're old pals, go way back together. But she is conscious enough to realize that this specific version is snap above the rest. The big Kahuna of hangovers. The patriarch of all morning afters.

And she knows she's missing something. Something important. And why does the taste of gingerbread dough come to mind?

She manages to wedge her head sideways; her hair across her face provides a merciful protection against the assault of the sun, visible through her closed eyelid in a red-hot delirium.

"Miles," she croaks like a dried up, desiccated frog. And she feels like one too.

"See – alive and kicking!" comes the triumphant voice of Sawyer.

"Gharbl…" comes his reply. And it instantly sobers her up a notch. Did they? Did they really… ? Had they?

Judging from her own state of undress, she has to conclude that the chances look pretty much in favour of that assumption

Shit.

"You think they're coming back to the mainland with us?"

"Whaddaya' think Einstein? Looks like they'd rather play Adam and Eve here for a while. And hell, I don't blame them – happen to have a few fond memories of this here place myself…ouch - no baby! Enough with the whopping!"

Even if she would have wanted to – there is not even a sliver of a chance of her standing up, getting dressed and getting on that ferry. She decides there and then that she might as well stay. And if there really is a maniac trying to blow them all to hell's end then fuck it. She isn't moving.

And something else, that floats around in there, flighty like a damn fruit fly, darting around undetected, she can't get a grip on it. Just when she thinks she's got it, it slips away again, like a greased up snake, slithering between her fingers.

"Gbhou..'kay?" Miles slurs like he's got his mouth shock-full of, well, sand. And she can only guess that he's inquiring with regards to her wellbeing.

"Not dead…" she wheezes hoarsely, sort of smug over her superior vocalization skills.

Clompety-clomp.

"What are you all looking at?... Is that?..." Lara Chang. And it occurs to Kate that Sawyer might not have been the only one to earn a whopping if she'd have known that the man lying bare-assed on the beach in complete stupor - was in fact her son. The painful process of stringing that thought together into a sentence gives her an agonizing, crippling migraine.

A sea of voices in a bored unison, as if this is getting old:

"Yes it is!"

And this is when she catches it, that renegade thought, they one that wouldn't let itself be captured. Suddenly it sticks like something unpleasant on a flypaper.

I love you.

God no. Who?! Who had said it? She or he?

No. NO. No. – Let it be him at least.

It was just supposed to be a crush. A little meaningless fun and no, no no no no no. What has she done? Did she really?.... It's entirely possible. She reverts to burying her face in the sand. She'll remain like this. Will never speak again.

Might as well die.

20 chapters down and Miles 'might' have finally gotten laid, just might have… He might also have said the ILY…ah, unless it was Kate who said it. Anyway, will leave them to deal with their hangover galore for now.

By the way, anyone else remotely curious as to who Miles girlfriend is, the one he's referring to in Recon? No? No? No, guess you all are normal, functioning people. I for one can't sleep for wondering. Is it Juliet – or Shannon – or Rose – or Ana Lucia or Naomi or… Damn, driving myself insane with this… will skulk off now to look for spoilers on the subject…