A/N: Here we go... My first Hannah Montana fic. This chapter is actually a rewrite, as I lost the original, and I don't like it nearly as much as I did my first one. But here's to trying a fic that I actually don't have preconceived pairings for. Reviews/suggestions are always appreciated.

Upon waking, there were two things in life that Miley Stewart was certain of. First off, she was going to be dead. And second, it was going to be her father who would be doing the killing.

She didn't have to open her eyes to realize that she wasn't in her bed. The sheets were too scratchy, the mattress had odd lumps, and she was missing the extra weight on her head that was her Hannah Montana wig. Oh, God, Miley thought, clenching her eyes shut as if refusing to open them would make the entire scenario less real. She had been at a birthday party for… Carrie Underwood. That was right.

What had happened? Maybe that strawberry daqiri wasn't as virgin as I thought, Miley thought, still keeping her eyes firmly shut. Daddy is going to kill me…

It was time to open her eyes and accept what had gone on. Miley heaved a sigh before lifting a hand to her eyes. It was slow to respond, and a sharp pain jabbed in her arm as if someone had stuck a needle in it.

She meant to let out an "Owww!" or something slightly more colorful, but all that came out of her mouth was a dull moan. Hell. What happened to me? Come on Miley, open your eyes. Time to wake up and deal with it all. When she did, her eyes were slow to open. And as soon as she opened them, she wished that she hadn't.

The room around her was definitely not hers, nor was it a guest bedroom at Carrie Underwood's condo. It was a hospital room if she'd ever seen one. Posters of Hannah Montana on the walls and a set of blue and yellow pinstriped curtains on the window couldn't disguise that fact. Nor could the flowers on the table beside the bed, which she could only see out of the corner of her eye. They were sunflowers. It's December, Miley thought, frowning as best she could. Who's got sunflowers in December?

Her head ached. Her throat was dry. Worst of all, Bobby Ray wasn't at her bedside. I'm at the hospital, in the hospital, the popstar thought, rather surprising herself with how easy it was to think it all out. Why isn't Dad here? I mean, whatever happened must've been yesterday. Maybe I fell down some stairs and broke my arm or something. Maybe I hit my head. That'd explain all the weirdness. But where's Dad?

The odd train of thoughts rumbling through her mind stopped, abruptly, when a pretty (albeit slightly chubby) nurse entered the room, surprise written across ever feature. "Miss Stewart," she managed to breathe. "Um… Hold… Um, hold on for just a second, I'll be… I'll be right back."

Great, Miley groaned. Weren't nurses supposed to be more helpful than this? On Grey's Anatomy they always explained things to the patient when they woke up. And here she had her own personal nurse, and the woman wasn't doing anything. Maybe it was her first day. She did look kind of young for being a nurse.

By the time that she had decided that, the door flew open to reveal a handsome young man in dark blue scrubs. He was staring at her incredulously, mouth hanging open as if to catch a fly. "Miles…"

He was too familiar for words. Or, well, too familiar for more than one word. "Olly?"

Twenty-something Oliver Oken was staring at her in the doorway of her hospital room with a stupefied look on his face. In a doctor's outfit. Oliver Oken.

"No," Miley whispered, her voice hoarse. Tears were filling up her eyes as she struggled to raise a hand up to her face and brush them away. "No, Oliver, what… What's happening? Where's my daddy?"

Oliver was at her side in a moment, sitting down on the side of the bed gingerly and taking her hand in his own. "Miles, it's okay. It's okay, I promise… You're here, and everything's going to fine."

She was crying.

Correction: she was sobbing.

Miley let the shudders pass through her frame as Oliver gently lifted her shoulders, resting her head on his chest. His arms went around her shoulders, letting her press her face into his shirt. He was warm, and Miley realized absurdly, he smelled good. Here she was, bawling into Oliver Oken's shirt, and she was thinking that he picked out good cologne.

"How long?" she managed through continual shudders and sniffles. Her crying was far from over, but she had the feeling that it wouldn't end until she knew exactly how many years of her life she had lost.

She could feel his deep breath before his answer arrived. "Twelve years," Oliver replied, more than a little sadly. "Twenty-six, and your birthday's not for another several months. In case you were wondering."

"Who brought the posters and the curtains and the flowers?" It was a stupid question, really. Her face was still in his shirt, her snot was surely running onto what were supposed to be vaguely sterile scrubs, and she was asking about who had hung curtains in her hospital room.

"Lily, your father, and me. In that order."

She could only be grateful that he didn't try to reassure her. He was answering her questions, no matter how odd they were. And he wasn't asking her if she was okay. As if she'd be able to answer that question.

She was twenty-six years old, and she didn't know what she'd grown up to look like. She had missed everything that her friends had experienced. Oliver was a doctor at a hospital, and she was still in the frame of mind that it didn't get much hotter than Orlando Bloom. He was probably over by now.

"I want a mirror."

Oliver hesitated at that, drawing back to look down at her. "No," he replied, firmly. "Not yet. Your doctor has to come in and see you. I'm surprised he's not here yet."

She frowned. "You're not my doctor?" Hell, wrong question. You were supposed to ask why you weren't allowed to have a mirror. Ask the right one first next time, genius.

"Huh," he replied. "Not even close. I'm a resident for surgery. Your doctor is Doctor—"

"Henderson."

It was a new voice, and Miley had to draw away from Oliver to see who it belonged to, something she didn't want to do. It was a comely, redheaded man who was at least thirty. "Hello," she managed.

"Hello," he responded, smiling to display a row of even, white teeth. "Mister Oken, I'm afraid that you've got to leave. You have your own patients to attend to, and we'd like you to finish today's rounds before tomorrow's are supposed to start." There was only the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice, and it was well-natured at the least.

Miley didn't resist as Oliver gently removed his arms from around her shoulders and helped her lay back down. "I'll be back, Miles. Soon as I finish my rounds."

She gave him a smile that said she believed him, and Oliver seemed pleased enough with that. Not that she wasn't still crying—Miley could feel the tears still slipping down her cheeks in a steady stream. But she hardly imagined that people woke up from comas and were completely sane.

Oh my God. I was in a coma. For eleven years. Oh my God. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

"It's nice to have you with us again, Miley," Doctor Henderson continued, scribbling fiercely on a clipboard that he produced from behind his back. "We'd been expecting you to wake up for some time now, but we weren't sure when. Tell me, are you experiencing any sort of pain?"

She attempted a nod, which was revealed to be a mistake when a wave of nausea swept through her. "Yeah," Miley answered faintly. "Headache. And I feel like I'm gonna hurl."

Doctor Henderson gave her a wry smile. "Fair enough," he replied, scribbling it down. "That's normal for you having just woken up, really. Are you hungry or thirsty? We'll be feeding you through an IV for the next few days, but I'm sure I could rustle up something if you'd like me to. Doesn't even have to be cafeteria food. I think Oliver would be happy to run somewhere and get you something. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's sitting outside the door listening to the conversation."

There was a loud spluttering from outside the room, and Miley grinned in spite of herself. "That's Ollie for you."

"Indeed," the doctor replied. "So, do you want anything?"

"French fries." She had no idea why, but it just sounded delicious. "With lots of salt and lots of ketchup. From McDonald's. And a soda. Hell, just get me one of those meals with the ten chicken nuggets."

The doctor chuckled, shaking his head. "That's what I get for asking. Normally I get requests for jello, pudding, and soup, which is fine. Nuggets and fries aren't exactly standard, but we'll see if you're not up for them in a few days. Sound good?"

"Mmm," Miley replied. It was as good as she was going to get. At least Oliver was outside the door. It meant she wouldn't be alone while some strange, handsome doctor was asking her how she was feeling while her entire life was being turned upsidown.