hi!!! i absolutely adore ur writing! i was wondering if i could request an mj fic (any era) where the reader gets hurt in some way while michael is away on tour and he finds out about whatever happened to the reader (maybe car accident or something that the tabloids are reporting) and cannot reach the reader and is all worried and that. kinda just like an angsty worried and protective michael with a happy ending. thanks so much for taking the time to read this request, even if you don’t end up writing it :). i really love ur writing and can’t wait to read more. thanks again! :))
synopsis — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : when michael learns you’ve been hospitalized after a serious car accident while he’s overseas on tour, he races home desperate to see you. with fear, uncertainty, and miles between you, all he can do is hope he isn’t too late.
themes — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : hurt/comfort, hospital reunion, fear of loss, happy ending
wanna see more? here’s my masterlist! ݁ ˖Ი𐑼ֶָ֢
request = open 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯
the encore had barely ended when michael was already scanning the backstage corridor for the nearest phone. the roar of the crowd still there, but he barely noticed it. michael was thinking only of home, of you, of the call he always made after a show.one of the dancers caught up beside him and slapped a hand lightly against his shoulder.
michael gave a tired smile. “you say that every night.”
“’cause every night you outdo yourself.” he shook his head, but his attention was already drifting away. “wish she could’ve seen it.”
“you’ll be home before you know it.”
michael slipped into his dressing room and closed the door behind him. flowers lined one wall, gifts from fans sat stacked on a table, and costume jackets hung from a rack. michael dropped onto the couch with a tired sigh and reached for the phone. his fingers had just started dialing your number when someone knocked.
three quick taps that sounded impatient.
he frowned toward the door. “come in.”
normally, michael would have expected him to step inside already talking about tomorrow’s schedule or security. instead, bill just stood there in the doorway, holding a folded newspaper in one hand. his face had gone pale. something in the room shifted the moment michael saw him.
michael lowered the phone at once. “what is it?”
bill didn’t answer right away. he crossed the room and placed the newspaper on the coffee table between them.
“i don’t know how accurate it is.”
michael’s eyes dropped to the front page. then the room seemed to fall away around him.
michael jackson’s longtime girlfriend hospitalized after devastating car crash!
for a second, the words refused to make sense. his mind tried and failed to arrange them into something less terrible. his throat locked, and a cold rush swept through his chest and down his arms. his fingers went numb around the phone.
he read the headline again and again.
his eyes raced down the article.
late this afternoon, multiple injuries, transported by ambulance, sources say condition unknown, hospital officials declined to comment, witnesses described the scene as catastrophic, friends reportedly gathered at the hospital. the words on the page seemed to jump and his mouth went dry so fast it hurt to swallow.
he grabbed the paper with both hands, the pages crinkling under his grip. there had to be another line, another page, a correction. something. anything that would stop the panic from climbing higher, faster, choking him from the inside. instead, every paragraph seemed to undo the one before it.
one claimed you were stable, another said you were fighting for your life, one insisted you’d spoken to paramedics, another quoted an unnamed witness who believed you’d been unconscious the entire time.
none of it fit together, and none of it answered the only question that mattered.
“where did this come from?”
his voice sounded strange to him, thin and scraped raw, like it had been dragged over gravel.
“a british tabloid,” bill said carefully. “security brought it up a few minutes ago.”
“it’s wrong.” michael shook his head at once, the motion sharp and desperate. “it has to be.”
bill didn’t say anything. that silence landed heavier than the article itself. his hands were already moving before he had finished thinking. he snatched the phone back up and dialed your apartment.
he tried again, faster this time, then your office, then hayvenhurst, his fingers slipping on the buttons as if they no longer belonged to him. each ring stretched longer than the last. each voicemail, each dead line, each unanswered call made the room feel smaller.
“try the hospital.” bill said quietly.
michael nodded, though his breathing had already gone shallow. he called the number listed in the article, then another, then the operator when he couldn’t get through. his voice broke on the first question.
“please. i just need to know if she’s there.”
click and then the line went dead.
he stared at the receiver for a long moment before lowering it slowly. the room had gone so quiet. he looked back at the newspaper lying open across the coffee table.
the picture wasn’t even of you, it was your car. or what was left of it.
glass scattered across wet pavement. the front end crushed inward. one headlight hanging at an angle. flashing ambulance lights frozen in the photograph like a warning that had arrived too late. his chest tightened so violently it felt as if the air had been punched out of him.
all he could picture was you inside it.
alone, hurt, calling for him.
while he stood on a stage six thousand miles away beneath bright lights and applause that suddenly seemed to belong to another life.
for the first time in years, michael jackson sat frozen with the receiver still in his hand, listening to the dead hum of the line while the newspaper lay open on the table. the photograph of the wreck kept flashing behind his eyes. the crushed metal, the shattered glass, and all he could think was that somewhere inside that ruin was the only person he wanted to reach, and he could not even tell if you were alive to hear him. he had never felt so helpless.
he didn’t remember standing. one moment he was staring at the newspaper, the next, he was pacing the dressing room in sharp, restless cuts, one hand knotted in his curls, the other crushing the receiver until the plastic creaked in his grip.
the words came out ragged.
“call every hospital in los angeles if you have to.”
bill nodded at once, already reaching for another phone. within minutes the room was alive with motion and noise. security was calling hospitals, management was trying your friends, someone was reaching for the police department. everyone was moving, talking, promising.
he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t make his mouth form anything useful, and every awful possibility was already shouting in his head.
he stopped long enough to look at the newspaper again, but he wished he hadn’t. the photograph turned his stomach. he remembered handing you those car keys months earlier, laughing when you’d laughed about finally replacing your old one. now there was only wreckage and broken light and the sickening shape of something that had once been yours.
his grip tightened until his fingers ached.
“we found the hospital.” michael’s head snapped up. bill had one hand over the receiver.
“they won’t tell us anything.”
“give me the phone.” bill hesitated.
he crossed the room in three quick strides and took the receiver before anyone could stop him.
“please.” the word came out thin, stripped bare by fear.
“my name is michael jackson.”
the woman on the other end stayed polite, which somehow made it worse.
“i’m sorry, sir. i can’t confirm or deny whether a patient is here.”
“please.” he shut his eyes. his throat burned.
“i… i just finished a show.” the sentence broke apart in his mouth, useless and trembling.
“i just need to know if she’s alive.”
there was silence on the line. for one impossible second, he thought she might tell him, but instead “i’m very sorry.” escaped her lips.
the dial tone returned, flat and merciless.
michael slowly lowered the receiver. the room seemed to tilt around him, the floor sliding beneath his feet. bill caught his arm before his knees could fold.
he didn’t argue. he sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, both hands covering his face. his thoughts would not slow down. what if you’d been asking for him? what if you’d woken up scared and alone and kept calling his name? what if you’d been in pain and he hadn’t been there to hear it? what if you hadn’t woken up at all?
he pressed harder against his eyes until stars burst behind the lids. michael tried not to think of negatively, but the images kept coming anyway.
the dressing room door opened again. this time it was frank. he looked from bill to michael, and whatever he saw changed his face at once.
bill quietly handed him the newspaper.
frank read the headline and his mouth tightened.
“…jesus.” michael looked up.
bill exchanged a glance with frank.
“the plane isn’t ready until tomorrow.”
“then i’ll take another one.”
“there isn’t another one.”
“the weather’s grounded everything.”
the word hit harder than he expected.
grounded. he couldn’t even get on a plane. he was trapped, thousands of miles away while you were somewhere in a hospital bed and he had no way to reach you. the helplessness of it turned his stomach.
he let out a breath that shook all the way through him.
his voice was barely there.
bill crouched in front of him.
bill didn’t answer because he didn’t know. no one did.
hours passed without meaning.
the dressing room emptied. every few minutes he dialed your apartment again. your answering machine, your office, your friends. nothing. each unanswered ring scraped away another layer of patience, another layer of hope, until all that was left was raw, trembling dread.
as dawn began creeping through the hotel windows, exhaustion settled into his bones, but sleep never came. he sat with the newspaper folded beside him, unable to look at it and unable to throw it away, as if letting it go would make the whole thing real in a way he couldn’t survive.
every head in the room turned, and bill answered first.
michael was already on his feet rushing over.
bill listened for several long seconds. his expression shifted. not panic, not relief, something caught between the two, as if he was afraid to hope too quickly and afraid not to hope at all.
“it’s one of the nurses.” michael crossed the room immediately that he nearly knocked the chair over.
bill handed him the phone without another word. his pulse hammered so hard he could barely hear the line. his hand was shaking so badly the receiver felt slick and warm against his palm.
another pause. then the words he’d been waiting to hear all night.
his knees nearly gave out. he grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, fingers whitening against the wood.
the word kept striking through him, over and over, until it hurt. the nurse continued gently.
he closed his eyes, tears spilling before he could stop them.
stable. alive. breathing. somewhere, impossibly, you were still here.
the air rushed back into his lungs all at once, sharp and almost painful after the suffocating hours before.
his voice came out barely above a whisper.
his chest tightened again, but this time it was different—not the blind terror from before, something softer, aching, but bearable in the way a wound is bearable only because it has not yet been touched.
the nurse explained that you’d suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, several cracked ribs, and countless cuts and bruises. you’d undergone surgery overnight, and the medication was keeping you asleep. they expected a full recovery, but you wouldn’t be going home for several days. michael listened to every word without interrupting.
every injury made something in him pull tighter. every bruise felt like a blow he should have taken instead. but every sentence ended the same way.
you were going to be okay.
when the call ended, he stayed where he was, the receiver still pressed to his ear as if he could keep your voice there by refusing to let go.the room around him came back in pieces.
michael looked at him through tear-filled eyes. the smallest, unsteady smile touched his mouth, fragile as glass.
the words broke something open in him and let the air back in. for the first time in nearly twelve hours, the fear loosened its grip enough for him to stand, and beneath the tears and exhaustion there was only one thought left, fierce and certain: he was going home to her.
the flight home felt endless. michael had never hated time the way he did now. every minute the plane stayed in the air felt like punishment, like the universe had decided to stretch the distance between you and him. his knee bounced hard, and he kept staring at the seatback in front of him, then out the window, then at the tiny screen showing the flight path crawling across the map. none of it helped. he tried to read the same paragraph over and over until the words blurred. he tried to close his eyes, but all he saw was flashing lights, twisted metal, the headline he’d read with shaking hands in the airport lounge. even music couldn’t drown out the thought pounding in his skull.
you were in a hospital bed.
the nurse’s voice from the phone call kept replaying in his head, soft and careful and far too calm for the words she was saying.
he repeated it until it stopped sounding real. every so often he pulled the small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, the one with the hospital’s address written on it. he checked it like it might vanish if he didn’t. the numbers were still there, the hospital was still there, and you were still there. it was the only thing keeping him together before the plane even landed.
the second the wheels hit the runway in los angeles, he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.
security tried to keep photographers back as he hurried through the airport, head down, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. his throat felt raw, as if he’d been swallowing panic for hours.
questions followed him everywhere.
“have you spoken to her?”
if he opened his mouth, he was afraid something broken would come out instead. the drive to the hospital passed in a blur of traffic lights and familiar streets that suddenly looked wrong. los angeles had never felt so large.
he kept looking out the window, but he wasn’t really seeing anything. billboards, palm trees, storefronts—all of it smeared together into one long stretch of distance. the car’s air conditioning blew cold against his face, but his skin still felt hot.
when the car finally pulled beneath the emergency entrance, he was out before it had fully stopped.
the smell of antiseptic hit him the moment the sliding doors opened, bright white lights, quiet voices.
everything felt painfully ordinary, as though the worst night of his life had happened inside a place that hadn’t stopped moving for a second.
he gave your name at the front desk and the receptionist recognized him immediately, but to her credit, she didn’t say anything about it. no startled gasp. no pitying look. just a gentle smile that made his chest ache even more.
he thanked her so quickly the words nearly ran together.
his reflection stared back at him in the mirrored doors. he looked wrecked. his eyes were bloodshot and hollow. there was a shadow of stubble along his jaw. his shirt was wrinkled from hours of sitting still and failing to do it gracefully. he barely recognized himself.
for a second, he looked like someone who had been dragged through grief and left standing anyway.
he stopped outside the door.
for the first time since reading the newspaper, he was afraid to go inside. before this, he had only had fragments—a headline, a phone call, a voice telling him you were alive. now there would be proof. now there would be the sight of you, and he didn’t know if that would save him or destroy him. he rested one hand against the doorframe and took a slow breath.
then he pushed the door open.
you were asleep. the room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor beside your bed. a cast covered your wrist. small white bandages crossed your forehead. bruises colored the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of the hospital gown. one of your hands rested limp against the blanket, fingers slightly curled.
you looked smaller somehow, fragile.
like the world had taken something from you and left behind only the outline. his breath caught so sharply it hurt.
the newspaper had prepared him for the worst. seeing you alive somehow hurt even more, because now he could see everything you’d been through. every bruise. every bandage. every inch of pain he hadn’t been there to stop.
he crossed the room carefully and lowered himself into the chair beside you. his fingers hovered over yours for a second before gently slipping around your uninjured hand.
his shoulders finally loosened, just enough for the tears to come. they slipped down his face without warning, silent and steady. he bowed his head over your hand, pressing it gently against his forehead like he was trying to apologize to your skin for every mile that had separated him from you.
the words were barely audible.
his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
“they told me you were alive…”
his voice broke on the last word.
“…but i don’t think i believed it until now.”
hours seemed to pass. the light in the room shifted slowly from pale morning to a softer afternoon glow. nurses came and went quietly, checking monitors and changing medications, speaking in low voices that made the room feel even more fragile. one offered him coffee. he thanked her, but never touched it. the cup sat untouched on the side table while he stayed exactly where he was, still holding your hand like letting go would make you vanish again.
late that afternoon, you stirred.
it was small at first—a shift beneath the blanket, a faint tightening around your mouth. then your eyebrows pulled together slightly before your eyes blinked open.
your voice came out rough and thin, like it had to fight its way past pain to reach him. he looked up so quickly the chair nearly tipped backward. a smile broke across his face before another wave of tears replaced it.
he laughed shakily, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand like he was embarrassed to be caught crying and unable to stop.
you frowned a little, still trying to focus.
he let out another breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob trying to disguise itself.
his voice cracked immediately.
you tried to squeeze his hand, but the movement made you wince. he noticed at once, every muscle in him going rigid.
he leaned forward, panic flashing across his face.
his eyes searched every bruise, every bandage, every inch of your face as though making sure you were still there. you watched him quietly, your expression softening even through the pain.
“how long have you been here?”
he smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
there was a long silence, full of everything neither of you knew how to say yet. then you noticed the clothes he was wearing.
“you came straight from the airport.”
his thumb moved in slow circles over your skin, the motion more for him than for you.
“…they said the crash was bad.”
his jaw tightened so suddenly it looked painful.
“the papers said you were…”
he couldn’t finish. the fear of it still sat too close to the surface, sharp and ugly and impossible to touch directly.
you reached over with your free hand as far as your ribs would allow. your fingertips brushed his wrist.
every bit of composure he’d managed to hold onto since leaving europe disappeared at once. he bent forward carefully until his forehead rested against the edge of the mattress beside your hand. his shoulders shook with quiet sobs.
you’d never seen him cry like this, not after award shows, not after difficult rehearsals, not after losing sleep for weeks and pretending he was fine anyway.
this was fear finally finding somewhere to go.
you gently ran your fingers through his curls, slowly, carefully, like he might shatter if you moved too fast.
he shook his head, still pressed against the bed.
your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe.
his eyes were red and swollen, his lashes damp. there was something raw in his face you had never seen before, stripped bare by terror and exhaustion.
he laughed softly through his tears, but the sound was wrecked.
“your apartment. your office. every hospital. i couldn’t get anybody to tell me anything.”
“i have never been so scared in my life.”
you squeezed his hand again. this time he squeezed back immediately. a nurse stepped into the room, smiling when she saw you awake.
“looks like someone’s feeling better.”
you managed a small smile.
she checked your chart before looking at michael, then at the way he was still holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.
“she’s going to be just fine.”
he nodded, unable to speak.
the nurse quietly excused herself, and after she left, michael looked back at you, his expression still tight with emotion.
“i don’t care what anybody says.”
his voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath it now, something steadier than panic and just as strong.
“i’m not leaving again until you’re home.”
you knew how much those words cost.
concerts had been scheduled for months. thousands of people were waiting. contracts. promoters. television appearances. people who would call this irresponsible, dramatic, impossible. for years, the tour had been his whole world. now he looked at you like nothing else existed. like the rest of the world could burn down and he’d still choose this room if it meant you were breathing in it.
a few days later, he helped you through the front door of your house.
one arm stayed carefully around your waist while the other carried the overnight bag the nurses had insisted you take. he moved at your pace, slow and patient, checking your face every few steps.
you laughed softly, though it came out tired.
“you’ve asked me that five times.”
he smiled sheepishly, but there was still worry in his eyes.
you laughed again, a little more this time.
he unlocked the door and followed you inside. everything looked exactly the way you’d left it. your favorite blanket still draped across the couch. a half-finished book on the coffee table. a mug still sitting beside the sink.
but it hadn’t forgotten you.
michael stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it in like he was afraid to breathe too hard and break the spell. then he pulled the folded newspaper from his jacket pocket.
the same one that had made the world stop. he looked at it once, jaw tight, then carried it into the kitchen and dropped it into the trash.
the sound was small and final.
when he came back, you were watching him.
“i’m done letting them tell me what happened to you.” he said softly.
“from now on, i only want the truth from the person who lived it.”
you smiled, tired but real.
he leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there like he was learning the shape of home all over again.
outside, the city kept moving. reporters would keep waiting. phones would keep ringing. the tour would start again, eventually. the world would ask for pieces of him. but in the quiet of your house, none of that could reach you. tonight, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of your hand in his. for the first time in days, home was no longer something he had to find. home was the sound of you breathing beside him.
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