A/N:
This story is my first fanfiction ever so bear with my amateur-ness. Go easy on me if you review please. But, I must admit, I am not in this alone. Fenroar Greyfront helped me with the basis for this fic, so some credit goes to her.
Be forewarned that this fic is rated for sexual content the later chapters, so, heed that warning right there. That thing I just said about the sex – yeah, it's true, so no flames once we get there. There's also just a little OOC-ness going on, but not a whole lot. Other than that, I have nothing else to say, so, here it is.
Disclaimer: Nothing from Hannah Montana belongs to me, but god I wish I owned Miley Cyrus.
Too Long
December 4, 2019
Oliver shivered as the burning sensation slithered down his throat. He gulped, and grunted, beginning to feel slightly lightheaded. Smiling, he took in his surroundings. There were young couples, men smoking and playing billiards. The dim light provided a mellow feel, though the classic rock music emitting from the stereo quirked the atmosphere. He sniffed, and cleared his throat, blinking once, as he took down another shot of alcohol. Behind him, people entered and left the bar, stepping out into the cool winter night.
Sighing, he made a motion to the bartender to give him another shot, and he obliged with a shake of his head. Being tipsy, Oliver did not notice much around him, other than the fact that he felt happy. Of course, if he'd really been happy, he wouldn't have been sitting in a bar downing alcohol during a beautiful winter's night. He had the choice to be at home, curling up next to someone he loved by the fireside, watching a movie and downing hot cocoa instead of vodka. But, he'd chosen the latter, because he had nowhere to go.
"Kid, what are you doing here?" the tall, but rather plump, bartender asked, scratching his neck.
Oliver let out a small laugh.
"I'm no kid," he replied with a snort, as he sipped on another shot glass, no longer downing them. The sensation burned his mouth and his throat, but he kept on.
"Don't you work at the hospital down the street? You're a medical student, ain't ya?" the man asked, now scratching his chin.
Watching the man scratch his face made Oliver itchy. In turn, he began to scratch his head, somewhat missing the feel of the thick curtain of hair he had when he was a teenager.
"Yep. I'm a resident," he let out. If it had been another time, he wouldn't have said a thing to a stranger, but he'd been on the border of drunk, so he'd begun to babble. "Ya know, I'm actually from Malibu. I dunno why the hell I moved out here to the east. I mean, I miss the sun, and the beach. I miss my friends, and my high school, and I really miss my family," he let out sort of laughing.
"You shouldn't be here, kid," the bartender said, finally setting his hands down on the counter. He began to wipe over it with a wet rag. "You're a doctor for cryin' out loud. There ain't a reason you should be out here drinkin' away. And, lemme ask ya this. Why the hell did you move to New York? You lived in Malibu for cryin' out loud," the man repeated, now scratching his eyebrow with an index finger.
Oliver began to pat down his short hair. He'd decided to get a clean cut the day he moved to New York.
"God… I don't know. I guess because New York is a great city. I like how everything's real packed together and close knit. It's great. I love it. I love it all," he smiled, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't been so sure why he'd moved out in the first place. Everything was a little blurry to him now that he couldn't think straight. He'd wanted adventure, and he wanted to travel and spontaneously run into interesting and exciting things, when in the end he became a doctor – something no one expected him to become back in Malibu. Come to think of it, no one but his family did know that he was a doctor. It had been eight years since he'd seen his high school friends – including his two best friends. He'd already almost forgot their names. Who were they…? Millie or Lela, or something.
"Right. It is a great city, but, you can't make the best of it if you're sittin' in a bar all night, pal. Besides, we're closin' up early today, so get your ass offa my stool, and go home," the bartender hooted. The music shut off, and so had the television. The men that'd been playing billiards remained there, finishing up their drinks.
"Alright. Thanks for that," Oliver said, standing, only to find himself completely unbalanced.
"You got a ride home? I'll call in a cab," the man offered kindly, but the younger shook his head with a smile.
"No, thanks. I'll just walk. I'll see you tomorrow," he nodded, putting his coat on, checking the clock.
"Hah, no ya won't," the bartender said. "Have a good night kid."
"Mmm, 'night," he said, opening the door.
The cold rushed in and hit his face, managing to sober him up a little. He stuffed his hands into his pocket and began to walk. Glad his mother had bought him a down jacket the day he left home, he started to walk against the cold wind. The snow on the streets was still a pure white, since it had been snowing when he'd entered the bar.
It had been eleven o'clock, and he didn't have work the next day. Maybe he'd walk around and look for spontaneous adventure in the dead of night, guided only by the streetlights, and the blinking signs New York City had to offer. Surprisingly, there had been many people out, walking the streets. Many were couples, holding hands, probably on their way to a nice warm couch, by fireside, watching a movie until they fell asleep on each other's shoulders.
Then there were the singles who had shopping bags all resting on their arms, walking home to a family who had yet to discover what they'd been given for Christmas.
He continued on, looking up at the tall buildings and billboard signs that towered over him. There was an advertisement for Macy's, and a huge sign with Hannah Montana's face on it – but he was too drunk to register the fact.
Then there were the happy people. They lessened as he walked on, and the slightly comforting feeling of having others around was gone.
And it was then Oliver realized that he was alone – quite literally too.
There was no one in New York City that meant much to him but his new found co-workers – his friends. He was still learning about them, getting emotionally attached to them. He'd become attached to them, no doubt, but he was beginning to miss the old Christmas' back in Malibu, where his best friends always had dinner with him, and they were just there, and there was the great feeling of warmth in the environment. His past few Christmases were spent eating a bowl of macaroni, watching a Christmas movie on TV, or studying. And then there were the little packages he received from his family, and only his family. The only thing he received were phone calls from mom and dad, and the pairs of gloves and stethoscopes that came in wrapped packages addressed to Oliver Oken.
The wind began to dry his eyes as he walked, and he figured that he should just go home. There was nothing more comfortable than a forty-two inch plasma screen TV, a flickering fireplace, a bowl of popcorn, and a pair of camouflage onesies.
He closed his eyes for a moment, but never stopped walking.
Sure, maybe in the big, luxurious condo he'd clawed his way to buying, he'd be safe and comfortable. But he'd never be warm. He'd never truly experience the warmth that could only come from another. It would always be cold and lonely, and there was nothing he could do about the feeling every time it met him in this month of December. He almost cried, and tears did streak down his face, but he was sure it was the wind.
"Sorry!" he heard out of no where. It had just occurred to him that he'd bumped into someone. It took a while to register the sound of falling of shopping bags onto the floor, and the feel of someone else's body colliding against his.
He opened his eyes to meet a woman stooping to the ground, gathering all her belongings.
"Oh, sorry," he said, kneeling to help her. "It's my fault – I was walking with my eyes closed," he laughed.
"Haha, it's okay. You know, I know a person who used to do that," the woman said. She'd been wearing a long, black, wool coat, and a pink and white striped scarf, with a matching hat. Her dark brown hair was illuminated by the shining of the large Christmas tree at Rockefeller Square he'd just come across, and something about her was so familiar, even if he hadn't yet seen her face.
He shook his head, and helped her gather her bags. Standing up, she followed, and he finally got to see her face.
Nothing about it had been familiar at first.
Just her voice.
And then, he met her bright blue eyes, and her pearly white smile, the undeniable beauty radiating from her. It was something that hadn't disappeared over the years, just something that matured.
And even though he was thinking about the words 'over the years' he still had yet to figure out who this beautiful woman before him was.
The light blinked, and her face was illuminated more.
He gave her a smile, and extended a warm hand out to her gloved one.
She opened her mouth to speak.
"Hi, I'm –"
"Miley?!" he all but screamed, almost jumping at the sudden jolt of remembrance. In that one second he turned back from the man he'd become to the fourteen year old boy with long, shaggy hair and a collection of Sports Illustrated (Swimsuit Edition) magazines. His voice went from deep and raspy to a high, squeaky, and adolescent voice, and his eyes sparked with the youth and energy they'd so been lacking for the past eight years.
The woman across from him became wide eyed. At first, she had been a little scared – probably at the fact that he'd screamed some random girl's name from out of no where. Then her face twisted into one of realization, relief, surprise, and excitement.
"Yeah… yeah, I'm Miley," she said, her voice choking back some excitement.
A little disappointed, Oliver frowned that boyish old frown he'd once had. Well, it would've been harder for anyone to have recognized him. He was a tall man, with little stubble, and a deep, soft and raspy voice. Something in his eyes had changed, and you could tell he was now wiser. It might've made it easier for someone to recognize him if he still had his long hair, but that had disappeared, and he had a clean cut.
Still, in a split second, this brunette girl named Miley smiled a knowing smile, and she seemed to remember everything.
"Oliver?! Oliver Oken?" she asked back, her hand now gripping his in an iron shake. The old country girl she'd been years back somewhat showed through, as a giddy smile came to her face.
"Yes! Yeah! Yes… that's me," he said nodding, his man-voice coming back, though the childish excitement was still evident.
"Wow…" she whispered, pulling him into a hug.
His arms surrounded her, and suddenly, he had this feeling. It was a feeling he hadn't had in what seemed like forever.
He felt warm.
"It's been…" she started.
"Too long," he finished, pulling back, to see her smiling, excited face.
They spent a few minutes just staring at each other, holding onto each others arms, still reeling from the excitement.
"Um… why don't you come back to my place? Maybe we can catch up a little, you know?" she said, and her accent was still very much there, something Oliver discovered he missed more than he knew.
"S – sure," he said, and that spontaneous adventure he'd been hoping for had begun that night when he ran into Miley Stewart. Something within him came to life, and he was alive, and his world was no longer dull, but filled with color.
Seeing Miley was like seeing everything he once knew again, and that was just what he needed.
And so, he hooked arms with her, and she led him off to her car.
As Miley drove Oliver off to god only knows where, he could only look ahead at the blinking New York lights, wondering how the hell he got from downing alcohol in a lonely old bar to sitting next to Miley Stewart, in her car, on the way to her place at eleven thirty at night.