Miles regrets the words half a second after they leave his mouth -- hell, probably half a second before, if they'd even entered his wine-addled brain and he's not sure they actually did -- and Juliet pauses with her glass halfway to her lips (they're practically stained purple and her cheeks are blushing red; it happens every time, she'd moaned earlier, I look like a tomato) and stares him down.
Uh oh.
She doesn't say a thing, just sips delicately at the rest of her drink, watches him over the rim of her wineglass.
Why in in the flying blue fuck is he telling her this again? Oh right, because he makes stupid decisions when he's drunk, and they've got three empty bottles of Dharma-brand chardonnay proving just that point. So he shrugs, takes another gulp of wine and fights through the buzz that's pressing against his temples, figures it can't get any worse, even if they've only been with the hippie scientists for a month and if they're stuck in time for however long (Dan's apparently going for a mumbly weirdo world record and has barely strung a sentence together since they arrived) this could get all kinds of awkward --
"Listen, I know when a chick digs me."
Whatever. Let her call his bluff. He likes her -- that's the thing; he likes that she doesn't take any shit and she looks just as hot as she does badass with a rifle under her arm and the way tucks her hair behind her ear and even that smirk -- and what's the worst that could happen? She'll laugh and they'll open another bottle of wine and if he's lucky it'll get lost in the hangover tomorrow.
The corners of Juliet's lips lift, just barely, into a smile, and she leans forward, lets her glass clink down against the coffeetable.
"You're right."
Miles already has a smartass brush-off ready to go, and he almost stumbles into anyway before what she says filters through the haze; he stutters out an um, freezes up again, finally manages to squint at her with a I am? that sounds way more shocked than he likes.
He has to say it doesn't even compare to a few seconds later, when she rises from the couch and stumbles to the front of his chair, leans down and plants one on him. She tastes like wine, and it's sloppy as hell, but it's pretty much the best damn thing that's happened to him ... well, almost ever, so he's not going to complain. Instead, Miles kisses her back, doesn't say a word when Juliet murmurs don't let it go to your head before she pulls back and reaches for another bottle, grins at him with corkscrew in hand.
He grins too, and yep, he thinks, totally digs me.
Lost, Miles/Juliet, confessions, PG
Miles regrets the words half a second after they leave his mouth -- hell, probably half a second before, if they'd even entered his wine-addled brain and he's not sure they actually did -- and Juliet pauses with her glass halfway to her lips (they're practically stained purple and her cheeks are blushing red; it happens every time, she'd moaned earlier, I look like a tomato) and stares him down.
Uh oh.
She doesn't say a thing, just sips delicately at the rest of her drink, watches him over the rim of her wineglass.
Why in in the flying blue fuck is he telling her this again? Oh right, because he makes stupid decisions when he's drunk, and they've got three empty bottles of Dharma-brand chardonnay proving just that point. So he shrugs, takes another gulp of wine and fights through the buzz that's pressing against his temples, figures it can't get any worse, even if they've only been with the hippie scientists for a month and if they're stuck in time for however long (Dan's apparently going for a mumbly weirdo world record and has barely strung a sentence together since they arrived) this could get all kinds of awkward --
"Listen, I know when a chick digs me."
Whatever. Let her call his bluff. He likes her -- that's the thing; he likes that she doesn't take any shit and she looks just as hot as she does badass with a rifle under her arm and the way tucks her hair behind her ear and even that smirk -- and what's the worst that could happen? She'll laugh and they'll open another bottle of wine and if he's lucky it'll get lost in the hangover tomorrow.
The corners of Juliet's lips lift, just barely, into a smile, and she leans forward, lets her glass clink down against the coffeetable.
"You're right."
Miles already has a smartass brush-off ready to go, and he almost stumbles into anyway before what she says filters through the haze; he stutters out an um, freezes up again, finally manages to squint at her with a I am? that sounds way more shocked than he likes.
He has to say it doesn't even compare to a few seconds later, when she rises from the couch and stumbles to the front of his chair, leans down and plants one on him. She tastes like wine, and it's sloppy as hell, but it's pretty much the best damn thing that's happened to him ... well, almost ever, so he's not going to complain. Instead, Miles kisses her back, doesn't say a word when Juliet murmurs don't let it go to your head before she pulls back and reaches for another bottle, grins at him with corkscrew in hand.
He grins too, and yep, he thinks, totally digs me.