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When Michael wakes up, he is alone in a bright room. He blinks against the harsh light, his eyes struggling to adjust as the sound of beeping and whirring fills his ears. His body feels heavy and sore in ways he's never experienced before. His ribs and chest ache.
When his vision finally adjust enough to the lights, he realizes he's in a sterile hospital room, and the beeping is coming from the heart monitor beside his bed. An IV drip is attached to the back of his hand, pumping a clear liquid into his veins. The room smells like antiseptic, his mouth tastes bitter, and his head is throbbing with a headache—the kind that usually follows a heavy night before. The fabric of the nightshirt he's wearing is soft, unfamiliar against his skin. He tries to piece together how he ended up here, but his mind is a blank slate. He attempts to sit up, but his body refuses to budge. His limbs feel like lead, and when he tries to push through the discomfort, black dots swarm his vision, forcing him back onto the pillows with a groan of regret.
Getting up proves to be a bigger challenge than he imagined, so he settles for craning his neck to the side, searching for where his IV’d arm rests. He tries to wiggle his fingers and then his feet. Everything seems to work just fine, and he's glad for that. Feeling a little more adventurous—as if he has anything else to do—he slowly raises his arm, careful of the IV lines, and checks out the printed letters on the bracelet.
Michael Guerin.
So that's his name, he thinks. Michael. It feels strange to have to read his own name from a wristband, but worse yet is the realization that he can’t remember anything before waking up sends a wave of panic through him, but before it can fully take hold, the door to the room opens, and a man walks in carrying a white foam cup.
The man is stunning, with soft-looking brown eyes that radiate warmth, tanned skin and smile that could light up the darkest room. Michael’s heart skips a beat at the sight. And what a sight, his mind whispers, noting the uniform the man is wearing.
“You’re finally awake,” the man says, his voice smooth and rich, like honey with a touch of something raw beneath it. There’s exhaustion in his eyes, but also immense relief. Michael doesn’t recognize the voice, but something deep inside him longs to. As the man moves closer, the happiness in his gaze is palpable. “How are you feeling?”
Michael’s head is pounding, but that seems insignificant compared to the overwhelming attraction he feels toward this stranger. He’s completely transfixed. He can’t remember ever seeing anyone so beautiful in his entire life, and Michael has no idea what this man is doing in his room.
“I think I know you,” Michael blurts out before he can stop himself. The words seem to hang in the air, and he instantly regrets them when he sees the man’s expression falter. The softness in his eyes hardens slightly, and Michael wishes he could take the words back—this man should never have to look anything but happy.
The man, whom Michael decides to nickname ‘Handsome’ until he learns his real name, bites his lower lip, drawing Michael’s attention to the movement. An almost primal urge to soothe the bite with a kiss wells up inside him.
“Michael,” Handsome says, and the way his name rolls off the man’s tongue is almost sinful. There’s worry laced with tenderness in his tone, and Michael decides then and there that he wants to hear his name from this man's lips for the rest of his life. “Do you remember why you’re here?” Handsome asks, his steps measured as he approaches the bed.
Up close, the man is even more breathtaking. The golden glow of his sun-kissed skin contrasts beautifully with the deep pink of his lips, and Michael feels like he’s staring at a living, breathing Adonis. For a moment, he wonders if this is all a dream.
“No,” Michael replies, the word slipping out before he can form a more coherent sentence. Handsome waits patiently, his eyes searching Michael’s face for any sign of recognition. When nothing else comes, the man chuckles softly, amused by something Michael can’t quite grasp.
“You’re still the same, though,” Handsome says, a spark of mirth in his eyes. The tension in Michael eases slightly at the familiar tone. “I’ll call for someone.”
“Why?” Michael frowns, not wanting anyone else around. He’s perfectly content with tall, dark, and handsome. The man’s hands reach for his, squeezing them lightly. His hands are warm and soft.
“Because it looks like you’re experiencing some kind of amnesia.” While that explains why he can’t remember anything, the concern in Handsome’s voice is clear, even as he tries to keep the mood light.
Handsome presses the red button above Michael’s bed, and a beeping noise sounds down the corridor. HHe then settles into the chair beside the bed, and it’s only then that Michael notices the blanket draped over it.
“Did you sleep here?” Michael screws up his face, trying to remember, but everything is a hazy mess. Hurt. Confusion. Pain. It's briefly blinding—the sudden stabbing through his head as he tries to think past it, trying to remember what happened. It steals Michael's breath, catching inward on a whimper. The movement feels like an ice-pick through his skull, and for a moment, he can't breathe. The noise prompts Handsome to reach out, his free hand massaging Michael’s temple with a tenderness that borders on reverence.
Michael moans softly as the pain ebbs away under Handsome’s touch, and the man snorts, clearly amused by the reaction. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy hanging this over your head for the rest of your life,” he teases, lips curling into a smirk before taking a sip from his cup. “And yes, to answer your question, I did sleep here.”
“Why?” Michael asks. The man puts the cup on the small table beside him, the one with a book and two cellphones on it. He wipes at Michael’s cheek with his thumb, and Michael instinctively leans into the touch, closing his eyes to enjoy the feeling. Michael swallows thickly, a lump forming in his throat. He has to remember this man—the one who looks so warmly at him and is so gentle. The man whose touch makes him feel safe.
Before Handsome can answer, the door opens, and a man in a white jacket walks inside. “So, Sleeping Beauty finally decided to wake up?” he quips, not really expecting an answer. “How are you feeling, Guerin?” The doctor’s familiarity with his name suggests they know each other, though Michael can’t place him.
Handsome sighs. “It’s as you expected—he doesn’t remember anything.”
The doctor’s confident demeanor falters slightly. “Ah… well,” he begins, his tone a bit more cautious now, “'like I said, it’ll probably wear off in a few hours. A couple of days at most. Don’t worry.” He turns to Michael with a reassuring smile. “You’re here because you were found on the floor of your… er… lab.” His eyes flicker to Handsome for confirmation. “As far as we can tell, some kind of energy blasted you against the wall. You broke a few ribs and suffered a head contusion. That’s why you can’t remember anything; your brain is still healing from the impact.” Michael finds himself liking this guy—he’s straight to the point. “But you got here in time, so there shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”
“I found you before the worst happened,” Handsome adds quietly, his voice laced with relief.
“You found me?” Michael echoes, bewildered, and the man nods.“Can I at least get the name of my savior? I can’t keep calling you tall, dark, and handsome—at least not out loud.” The man flushes, and the doctor’s grin is wide enough to split his face.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” the doctor says, introducing himself with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m Kyle, and I’m absolutely here for whatever this is,” he gestures between Michael and Handsome.
“Go away, Valenti,” Handsome says, pushing Kyle gently, though the affection in his voice is unmistakable.
“I’ll go, not because you’re telling me to, but because I have rounds to make.” Kyle replies, fiddling with Michael’s IV. “This is for the pain. We’re keeping the drip slow because it’s strong stuff. No need to keep you completely out of it.” He winks. “See you nerds later.”
Kyle heads for the door but pauses, his head popping back in with a grin. “Update me on everything later, please.”
“Go away, Valenti,” Handsome repeats, exasperation tinged with fondness.
“Rude,” Kyle sing-songs as the door clicks shut.
“Just so you know,” Handsome states, “you hate him.” Michael laughs at that, feeling like there's a story behind it.
“Do I?” Michael’s curiosity deepens. “I want to ask why, but I don’t know if I’d get an answer, seeing as you still haven’t told me your name.”
“My name is Alex. Alex Manes.” The name feels right, and Michael lets it roll around in his mind. It suits him. Handsome—no, Alex—looks at him with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Anything?”
“Sadly, no,” Michael says gruffly, the frustration evident in his voice. He desperately wants to remember this man.
“As for your other question…” Alex’s eyes soften with affection as he reaches for Michael’s foot beneath the hospital blanket, giving it a light squeeze and holding on. “I slept here because we made vows to each other, and I’m pretty sure there was an ‘in sickness’ clause thrown in there somewhere.”
Michael’s eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face as the implications sink in. “You’re—” His laugh is bright and full of disbelief. “You,” Michael rises from his position in bed, motioning to Alex with an unnecessarily grand gesture, but he can’t help himself, “are married to me?”
Alex chuckles, his brown eyes sparkling. “Yes. Is that a bad thing?” His gaze turns intense, and Michael feels his heart melt a little more.
Michael almost drowns in his husband’s beauty. “A bad thing?” He gasps melodramatically. “Jeez, no! I’m just shocked that I’m married to the most God-like person I’ve ever seen. Did I bribe you?” Alex snorts, still holding Michael’s foot, though his cheeks take on a pinkish hue. His other hand tenderly tucks a stray lock of Michael’s hair behind his ear.
“No bribery needed,” Alex murmurs, his voice soft and sincere. Michael chose a good one.
“So you’re mine?” Michael feels as if he's sounding like a broken record here, but he has to be sure. He's way too enchanted by Alex to risk this being a dream or some cruel joke. Or... that they're only married by some fluke.
“Yes. And you are mine.” Alex looks delighted in saying that, like being able to say the words is the single most important accomplishment of his life. Like Michael means the world to him.
Alex leans closer, cupping Michael’s face in his hands. They are still warm, and now Michael notices they’re a little calloused. Alex's thumbs sweep under his eyes along the line of his cheekbones, and Michael feels deep in his soul that this contact is important to them. He's enamored with that idea of having something that's special. That's theirs. Alex leans in, his whole face softening in a way that almost sends Michael into cardiac arrest. The monitor beside the bed beeps erraticaly, and whatever moment they might have been having is lost immediately.
Whoa there, cowboy,” Alex whispers, so close that Michael can feel Alex's breath on his face. “No need to call all the floor nurses back into the room.” Michael smiles at his husband's playful words, but his heart is still beating at full force. Alex closes in and nudges Michael's nose with his in a small Eskimo kiss. A swarm of butterflies starts fluttering in Michael's stomach. He settles his own hands on Alex’s arms and lets his eyes close. They are quiet for a while, just listening to the soft sound of each other's breathing.
Alex’s unshaven cheek brushes against his own, and it feels soft, intimate. Domestic. Michael exhales and breathes in the scent of Alex’s hair, taking a moment to admire how their bodies fit together. Michael’s mind is reeling.
Michael thinks, dragging himself away from how wonderfully Alex fits against him, that this has to be hard on Alex too. He wonders how hard it's been finding his husband unconscious and then sitting for hours in a hospital chair, watching and waiting for Michael to wake up. Hoping he would. It's with a surge of guilt that he wonders how he ever managed to forget about someone as amazing as Alex? How much of a bitch fate had to be to put him in this position of forgetting them? He doesn't think it should be possible, since Alex has really only given him an Eskimo kiss and Michael's absolute putty in his hands.
Too soon, Alex pulls away, and Michael misses the warmth of his breath. He's a little annoyed at himself for failing to steal a kiss; Alex is his husband, after all, and Michael is in the hospital. He definitely deserves some kisses for that.
Alex's hand reaches for his foot once more, thumb digging into the arch in a way Michael didn't know would feel so good, and it makes his toes curl. Michael sighs, realizing now that they'll have to go back to playing twenty questions, and that any chance of kissing is temporarily off the table. That’s cool, Michael thinks. He can wait for the perfect moment to reach for his husband’s luscious pink lips. He wonders what they taste like.
“Now, tell me,” he rests back on the bed, crossing his arms cheekily, “why don’t I like Doctor Smarty Pants? He seemed okay to me.” He shrugs.
Alex grins. “This is gonna be good. I’ll remind you that you said that the next time you’re complaining that he’s over for dinner.” He lets go of Michael’s foot.
“Nooo,” Michael whines. “That was good.”
“Yeah,” Alex chuckles, “I know you like it when I do that.” His voice is fond, and not for the first time, Michael wants to be able to remember everything about them—their first kiss, the first time they made love, who proposed… their wedding. He wants to remember all the times Alex probably did this in bed.
Alex’s hand goes back to his foot, and Michael sighs contentedly. “You still have to answer me. What’s up with the doc?”
“I used to date him in high school,” Alex replies calmly, and Michael feels his eyes widen in surprise.
“You’re right; I hate him.” His mouth curls into a pout. He knows that whatever race he might have been in with the doctor, he has clearly won, but he still doesn’t like the thought of his husband ever belonging to anyone else but him. “I think I feel better, and we should leave.” He knows he is being childish, but he doesn’t care.
Alex snorts. “Same possessive fool.” Alex leans in again, probably out of a well-honed instinct to kiss the pout off Michael's lips, but this time Michael's ready. He leans up and catches Alex's lower lip between his teeth, biting gently and stealing a proper kiss when Alex gasps in surprise.
His happiness at finally getting a kiss is fleeting, though, because Alex pulls back, grumbling his name in warning. “Michael…”
“What? Can't a dying man kiss his husband?” He doesn't regret what he just did—not in the slightest. Alex tastes like sweet lemonade with a tinge of the coffee he was drinking earlier. His only regret is that he didn't get more.
“You’re not meant to be getting… excited.” Alex’s emphasis on the last word makes Michael wiggle his eyebrows.
“Excited, huh?”
“God, you are such a man-child.” Affection is written all over Alex’s face.
“And you love me for it.”
“Yeah,” Alex murmurs, gazing into Michael's eyes. Michael feels like he might get lost in them. “I do.”
Alex blinks, breaking the intense stare and looking almost embarrassed at having let himself get carried away. “Still can’t remember anything?” Michael shakes his head no. “Is the pain better?”
Oh yeah, Michael thinks. He'd had a splitting headache before. It strikes him that after Alex told him they were married, the pain sort of disappeared. He supposes that pain is irrelevant after the world-changing bombshell drops that the most beautiful person he’s ever seen married him willingly and loves him.
Michael is high on feelings.
A buzzing sound on the bedside table draws Alex’s attention. He reaches for the phone and swipes his thumb over the screen. Michael watches his expression shift into something indecipherable.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asks Alex, a little worried.
“There’s nothing wrong per se…” His voice drags on a little. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with loads of information,” he's carefully choosing his words, and Michael doesn't like it. “But in a few seconds, this room's going to be invaded by a sticky-fingered, pink tutu-clad hurricane.”
He lost Michael there. What is that supposed to mean?
“What?” he asks, confused.
Alex takes a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand searches for Michael’s, and he can see the wedding band on Alex’s finger. “We have a daughter.” Michael stares at Alex, feeling like something in his brain just blacked out, speechless with yet another mind-blowing snippet of a life he’s forgotten. “She’s four, and she’s… she’s going through a very intense ballerina phase.” Alex smiles softly. “Her favorite everything is pink, and she calls you Papa.”
Michael realizes he's forgotten to blink—the slight burning in his eyes reminding him to, and he does. Once. Twice. The mental gymnastics involved to try and process the way he’s feeling are monumental; his heart’s trying to bust out of his chest. He hadn't been expecting to be hit with more information, let alone a child, but he's not horrified by the prospect. He realizes that Alex has given him everything, and he's just starting to fully understand how frightening this experience must have been for Alex—how lucky he is to have Alex in his life.
He still has no idea what landed him in this hospital, but he swears to himself that he will never give Alex another reason to worry like this.
He raises their joined hands to his lips and presses a soft, gentle kiss there, looking up at Alex, his eyes shining with devotion. “I’m dying to meet her.”
Alex smiles brightly at that. He looks at the ground before raising his gaze again to Michael, and that is the most endearing thing Michael has ever seen in his life. He is a goner.
“Her name’s Malia. I explained to her that you had an accident and told her you might have a hard time remembering things once you get home,” Alex shakes his head. “But considering she is almost here, Auntie Is couldn’t control her need to see you.” Michael wonders who Auntie Is is—does one of them have siblings?
“Is she really that eager to see me?” he asks, in wonderment that just outside there's a tiny human kicking up a fuss to see him.
“Yeah, she adores you, Michael,” Alex tells him, and Michael suddenly feels reassured.
If she’s anything like Alex, Michael's pretty positive she’s already got him wrapped around her sticky little fingers.
The door bursts open, and just as Alex predicted, a flash of pink tulle crashes through the room, screeching "Papa!" at the top of her lungs. The shrillness of the shriek, though not unwelcome, makes Michael's ears sting a little.
“Malia!” Alex chastises her. “What did we tell you? This is a hospital where poorly people are resting. You need to be quiet.” He catches her hands before she can climb her way up the bed.
She turns to look at Alex. “Sorry, Daddy.” Her little voice is apologetic, making grabby hands at him. Alex sighs and hoists her up in his arms.
“Where is your aunt?” he asks her, and Michael can see the tip of her lips turning into a grin.
“In the parking lot.” Michael laughs at her answer, catching the little girl’s attention again, and she beams at him.
“Don’t encourage her, Michael. She's only like this because you're her partner in crime.” Alex attempts to send Michael a stern look, but he can feel the affectionate and amused undertone.
“Papa and I are partners in crime!” she repeats gleefully. Michael's having another one of those moments where his brain's refusing to cooperate with him, overwhelmed by what's happening in front of him. She's his daughter. His and Alex's daughter.
She looks exactly like Alex, with the exception of her wild curly hair and green-and-golden eyes. She probably got them from their surrogate—he assumes that's what they did. He already knows he's a sucker for her cherubic face and huge, expressive eyes.
“Papa,” she leans her body dangerously away from Alex’s, but he has a firm grip on her. He gets the feeling she’s more than a handful and very unlike Alex, personality-wise. That makes him grin even more. “I missed you.”
He looks at her, and he knows he loves her—he can feel it from that same place deep inside himself that told him he knew Alex. “I missed you too, Princess.”
Alex's eyes snap from Malia to Michael, and he watches his husband look shocked, dumbfounded, and then very, very relieved. Malia wiggles impatiently, leaning towards Michael still, and Michael realizes that he probably uses that nickname for her all the time. He chooses to take that as a good sign that his memories are already coming back faster than anticipated.
Take that, Kyle.
“Okay, Malia, I'm gonna put you on the bed with Papa, but you have to be really careful, okay?” Alex has Malia's attention again; she’s looking at him with huge eyes and nodding, her mouth pressed together in concentration. Michael thinks it's adorable. “Papa's got some tubes in to help him get better, and they're easy to break. So you gotta be a good girl and sit nicely, okay?”
Malia nods enthusiastically, and Michael wonders if she's even capable of sitting still. He watches Alex say “good” and glance back at him before Michael scoots over a little, creating some space for Alex to place her down beside him. It's all so domestic that Michael once again is utterly lost for words.
“Papa,” Malia starts slowly, plucking at the edge of his hospital gown, “Daddy said you forgot some things.” Her bright eyes are fully focused on him. “But you didn’t forget me, did you?”
“Of course not,” Michael tells her, not hesitating for a second. He carefully combs her unruly curls with his fingers. “I could never forget you, Princess.”
She smiles, appeased that Papa did not forget her, and curls herself over him, her tiny head on his chest with a dramatic, contented sigh Michael's sure she picked up from somewhere else. He looks up and meets Alex's gaze, and can see his own fondness reflected on Alex's face.
“I texted Is to tell her Malia's here with us so she can stop worrying,” Alex says with a smile. “She'll be by in a bit to pick her up.”
Michael huffs, amused. “She's a handful, huh?” Michael can feel her breathing slowing and evening out, and when he glances down, her blinks are getting heavier.
“She's obviously been using the stubbornness she got from you,” Alex murmurs, his tone teasing as he brushes his fingers through her hair, “to stay awake to see you. It's way past her bedtime. I'm surprised Is didn't end up carrying her in.”
Michael has to ask. “And, uh, who's Is?”
“Shi—Damn, I forgot.” Alex makes his way around to the other side of the bed. “Isobel's your sister.”
“I have a sister?”
“And a brother, Max,” Alex breathes out slowly. “I’ve got brothers too, but I'm not close with mine. Not like you are with Max and Isobel.” He gives Michael a look. “We can talk about them later, when little ears aren’t around.”
“Okay.” Michael understands.
“Is was our surrogate—that’s why Malia's hair and eyes are like yours.” Alex speaks again after a silence falls between them, and Michael feels surprised all over again.
“I don't even know what I look like,” his laugh is a little broken. “I didn’t even make the connection.”
“Hey,” Alex says sharply to get Michael's attention. It works. “Don’t beat yourself up. You're gonna remember everything in time, Michael. Kyle wouldn’t have lied to us. He’s kind of an expert on matters concerning our family.”
Michael can feel his expression shifting into something quizzical, and he knows Alex can see the "What does that mean?" on his face because Alex is shaking his head and speaking before Michael can.
“Later,” Alex tells him, gentle but firm. “You need to get some rest. You've had a lot of information thrown at you already.”
“Only if you lay here with us.”
Alex glances around the room, and Michael can tell he's trying to work out if this is a good idea or a terrible one.
“Please,” Michael begs. “It would be nice to have you both here to help me remember.” He knows he's playing the pity card, but honestly, nothing sounds better to Michael right now than being curled up in a little hospital bed, surrounded by the two people he knows are the center of his world.
“Fine.” Alex smiles and carefully lays down on the bed as Michael shifts onto his side to better share the space, Malia still in his arms. Michael feels Alex's arm slip around his waist, cuddling them both.
“Alex?” Michael asks quietly.
“Mm?” Alex sounds sleepy, like Malia, and Michael feels a rush of fondness, which makes him smile.
“Thank you. For everything,” his voice trembles slightly, and he takes a breath to control himself. He isn't sure it works. “For loving me and giving me a family.”
Alex buries his face against Michael’s back, smiling. “You’re welcome, Guerin.” Michael feels the warm press of a kiss against the back of his neck. “Now go back to sleep.” Michael closes his eyes, and before sleep can take him, he prays to whomever might be listening: Please let me remember everything when I wake up. Please let this be real.