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When he wakes up, his world consists of exactly two key facts.
One: He can’t actually remember who he is. It should, by all rights, be the alarming one. Not remembering who you are is panic inducing. It’s scary. It’s fucking terrifying. It’s pretty much the stuff of nightmares to some people.
Here’s the problem – that second true thing is taking up way more of his attention.
Thing two, in this case, happens to be the embodiment of a wet dream perched on the end of what looks like a crisp white-sheeted hospital bed, wearing a pair of reading glasses and flicking through a chart. Every once in a while, the wet dream licks his thumb to lift a page. He’s half-tilted into the bed, his legs dangling off, and the way he’s shifting means that there’s a damn good view of what he’s packing. Or maybe there’s just something in his pocket.
“...water,” he groans, not sure if he’s thirsty because the man hovering over him like a goddamn angel born of porn is doing it or if there’s an actual medical explanation.
“Look at you. Sleeping Beauty awakes.” Even his voice is great. Maybe he’s still dreaming. “Here,” he says, nudging a cup of water against his lips.
It parches the thirst, but the mature-maybe-porn-star is still there pulling all his focus. The reading glasses are definitely a look and there’s a real wise-old-mentor thing going for him. It’s definitely hot.
“Do you need anything else?”
He winces and decides that maybe it’s fine to admit his issue. “Yeah. Maybe tell me who the hell I am?”
The hot doctor laughs softly, his gaze sliding over to the monitor. His laugh trails off as he starts taking vitals, and his lips pull down and oh, okay, now he understands where all those frown lines came from. “Post-operative amnesia,” he says. “Not uncommon, but still not great. Let’s wait a couple minutes and then if nothing changes, I’ll order some tests. In the meantime, your name is Jack Abbot,” the hot-professor-doctor tells him.
Jack Abbot. It rings a bell, but the kind that’s muffled with cotton gauze two rooms away. He’s not sure he feels like a Jack Abbot, but apparently he just had surgery?
He’s about to ask for more details, but he doesn’t get the chance.
“Dr. Robby. Is he okay?”
Jesus fucking christ, what is this, a hospital for models? He’s pretty sure he’s never seen someone with skin that smooth or eyes that kind or the kind of deft, slim fingers that he’s already picturing wrapped around his wrist, his knee, his..
“Dr. Mohan here was the one you collapsed on,” the first one (Robby?) tells him. “Luckily, she’s got an in with surgical and managed to get you up here quicker than I’ve ever seen her move before. You never told us that your appendix never came out.”
“Is that a thing you tell your…?” he trails off, because yeah. He can barely remember who he is, and his brain is fuzzy. How the hell is he supposed to know how he knows these people? Is he a doctor? An unlucky patient? Is he dating one of them? Is he dating both of them? Can he seriously pull that kind of game?
He does the wise thing and decides he’s going to shut up and let them fill him in.
“That explains why my gut hurts like hell,” he gripes, shifting at the blankets as he feels a different ghost pain down his leg, but he doesn’t have time to ask why his right leg feels so weird.
No, because suddenly even more attractive people wander into the room, making Abbot start to wonder if he got his appendix taken out by a bunch of doctors in the middle of a fundraising calendar photoshoot.
“The old man awake?”
“What the fuck? Where am I?” he demands. He catches the badge of the newcomer – Garcia – who looks like a goddamn Greek goddess just walked into the room, and of course, on her heels is a blue-eyed male model with dark hair.
Has he always been bisexual? Is this a new thing?
“Is he always this confused when he wakes up?” Garcia asks with a smug grin, which makes Abbot wonder once again, is he sleeping with any of these people? He tries to catch a reaction, but a few of them are averting their eyes. Is it awkwardness? Trying to hide their laughter? Is he just comic relief with a missing organ?
So, yeah to the sleeping with them? No? Maybe yes in the past? His head’s starting to hurt as much as his organs, but there’s a reassuring squeeze of his palm from Dr. Mohan and Robby’s got a hand on his shoulder.
It’s nice but it definitely feels like it’s halfway between reassurance and keeping him trapped. There have been more people filtering into the room during all this, all of them stupidly attractive, all of them painfully concerned, and it’s nice, but Abbot’s not really in the mood for being the central attraction in the hot doctor hospital.
“Any minute now, it should be fading,” Robby says sagely. They’re all holding court around him like he’s going to bolt, which is a really big fucking insult. “I ordered a couple of tests, just in case.”
There’s a hum of agreement around the bed, which is really goddamn annoying. He feels like he’s on the damn operating table, only the anesthetic hasn’t kicked in.
“If you’re all gonna hover, how about you answer some questions. Do I know I’m bisexual?” Because if not, then this is a hell of an awakening to be happening right after he goes under to get his appendix out. “And which of you was inside me?”
Okay. Maybe it’s worth it to have a peanut gallery if only so he can make them all sputter and blush and stammer like that.
Well, all of them but one supremely cocky and hot individual. “I got to play with your insides and rearrange them. Definitely not my usual thing,” Garcia says.
He’s inching back away from the foggy unknown and towards remembering all these people, where he is, and exactly what happened. Honestly, it’s pretty sweet of them to come and visit, but…
“What the hell are you all doing away from work for so long?” he gripes.
“There he is,” Langdon mutters. “Have I mentioned how much I appreciate that you let me come off the night shift?”
“What can I say? Your penance was done,” Robby tells him, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off Abbot, squeezing his forearm. “Plus, I think Dr. Abbot was on the brink of murdering you if I’d let you stick around. I don’t think Gloria would have liked how that would have impacted our hospital ratings.”
“Hey, there’s still time to find out.” Abbot winces as he shifts in the bed, staring at the offending IV drips and wondering how soon is too soon to start yanking them out. “Nice work,” he praises in both Mohan and Garcia’s direction. “Time to surgical must have been…”
“About ten minutes,” Mohan admits with a half-shrug, like she’s about to deflect the credit.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard her shout so loud for a stretcher,” Robby confides quietly, proud as hell. “Getting back to the personal confession of yours.”
Abbot groans, pushing both palms into his face. “Stop,” he warns.
“No, really, let him keep going,” Garcia says smugly, which is unfortunate, because she did a damn good job with him and he shouldn’t want to yank out her appendix in retribution, and yet, one post-surgical amnesia episode later and here they are.
“You’re all monsters,” Abbot complains. “Leave me and my exhausted bisexual ass alone.”
“It’s only the ass?” Mohan quips.
Yeah. He’s gonna be rolling in appendixes by the time this is out. He drops his hands from his face and glares at all of them, which does the trick to send them scattering like scared little puppies hearing the first bolt in a thunderstorm. It’s good to know that he hasn’t lost his touch completely.
Unfortunately, his success rate isn’t perfect.
“You feeling okay?” Robby asks, because of course he’s not scared of Abbot. He pries him off the roof at least once a week. He’s not gonna back down because of a battle-tested glare. “You had me scared there,” he admits. “You, dropping on the ER floor? I think you almost made Shen experience actual panic.”
“That’d be the day,” Abbot snorts, grimacing as he adjusts. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’ll be back on the roof in no time.”
“That’s what you think. Gloria mandated you on two-week bed rest.”
Abbot glares, but still, nothing. “She can’t.”
“She did.”
“I’ll turn up anyway.”
“IV drip trailing behind you like a tail and all?”
“Motherfucker,” Abbot hisses, because he will, and Robby knows he will, which is why the amused cackling is annoying as shit. At least he finally decides to make his exit, strolling away on the high of getting the last laugh on Abbot.
Meanwhile, Abbot’s changed his mind – at least, somewhat.
Yeah, this place is still packed to the brim with people who are too damn attractive for their own good, but now that his memory’s back in place, he remembers why he’s not sleeping with any of them. They’re all goddamn assholes, even the nice ones who are funny and competent and hot all at the same time.
(The real trouble is that Abbot kind of likes that. He’s got a damn type, but no one needs to know about that. Some secrets can stay that way, even if his post-surgical idiocy nearly gave him away)
So it’s back to two key facts and a memory slotted in the right place.
One: Everyone around him is still too damn hot.
And most importantly? Two: At least he knows where he stands with them – right in the middle with a good goddamn view.