Untitled…

The chill of fall was beginning.

The plants in your backyard—after months of neglect, were starting to wilt from lack of watering and change of climate. You dig the small gardening fork into the soil, uprooting the weeds. You never were much of a green thumb, but somehow you manage to grow a few things from time to time though they don't stay alive for too long; like the sad looking tomato plant that leaned around its cage, looking a little yellow on the leaves barely bearing fruit but still tall.

The cool wind rustles the drying leaves on the trees, you hear the birds come and go to pick up twigs for their nest and the small squirrels collecting whatever they can forage in the almost barren space.

A heavy crunch on the ground sounds behind you and with speed, your hand flings the sharp tool towards the intruder. It whizzes accurately past the side of their face by a few inches and impales the tree behind them.

"Is that how you greet all of your neighbors?" your old Commanding Officer looks back at the tool deeply buried in the bark. Captain O'Hare, dressed in a gray suit that fit his tall build, badge hanging around his neck, holding a thick envelope.

"My neighbors know not to come over." Dusting off the dirt off your pants and tossing your gloves aside, you gesture to what he was holding with a small nod.

"I've got something for you." He knows when to quickly get to the point with you, knowing he wasn't here just for a friendly visit. Taking a thick folder out of the envelope, he hands you a stack of highly classified papers. This must be really important if he had to personally travel from DC to Seattle just to present a case to you.

Opening the folder, your eyebrow raises at the client's bio sheet at the very top of the stack, but reserve your comments for later to scan through the rest of the files.

Photocopies of letters, spanning for months all type-written and never signed with a name. As dates go by, the messages get shorter but more aggressive and threatening. The latest one, only says one line:

The simple black text was plain and in the middle of a creased paper, the folds were different on this one—deeper, like someone had pressed their fingers over the folds hundreds of times to the point of it almost ripping. You sat at one of your garden chairs, spreading a few more letters on the dusty table.

"We don't have much to go on since he's leaving to go on tour, but I need you to run point on his security. My team and I will handle the letters." O'Hare sits opposite you, the chair creaking as he leans back.

"I've tried the celebrity thing, Cap. Didn't you ask the other guys? I'm sure Greg would appreciate the paycheck," you suggest, eyes still studying each paper. Knowing how high class this case was, you know the pay would be larger than all of your past ones.

"Sure, Greg was interested but this guy wants the best," he angled.

"There's no such thing," you say, shutting down his attempt at persuading you. Leaning back to stop yourself from indulging your brain even more to dig into this case.

"To me there is. Sergeant, we're talking about the world's biggest celebrity right now. There's people not even born yet that know his name."

"Just tell me you'll check the situation out," he pleads one last time before rising from his chair.

"Fine. Fine." Waving your hands and walking towards the tree where your gardening tool still sat, you pull it out with ease and turn back to your friend.

"I'm doing this as a favor, Cap. You know I'll always collect," you say pointing the tool at him as a playful warning.

O'Hare chuckles and nods before opening the envelope again and passing another small piece of paper to you. It was a plane ticket to LA that was dated today.

"Good, pack your bags. You have a flight in a few hours."

"Motherfu—"

"Call me when you land, Sarge!" he was already on his way out, closing the small gate on your fence.

This hadn't been the ideal set up for you to get back on the field. Your last client was two years ago. A freshly turned 30 private security agent looking after some billionaire who needed security from a gang. There wasn't a big stand off but they did manage to get one on you. A bullet went through your hip and lodged itself in your vertebrae, just a hairline away from damaging your spinal cord.

Recovery took way too long, your hands only stopped shaking a few months ago when you held your gun again. The doctors said it was mostly psychological, something you can't easily train out of your physical system.

Protecting Michael fucking Jackson? Shaky hands were the least of your worries.

A hastily packed suitcase and around 3 hours in the air later, you were in Los Angeles by the afternoon, getting stared down by some scrubby entertainment executive that kept blowing cigar smoke in your general direction for the last ten minutes.

He introduced himself as Frank DiLeo, shaking your hand and muttering to his assistant to get him a drink. The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound coming from the faint burning sizzle of whole, aged tobacco.

"So you're Captain O'Hare's best guy, huh?" Puff.

"Apparently so," you shrug, keeping your back straight while the uncomfortable ache hums just below the small of your back. Sitting too long was never good for you since the incident.

Another puff of smoke.

You're already imagining 13 ways to wire this guy's jaw shut—he’ll be eating soup for years and be smoking his cigars from his ass. By the size of his 4XL polo, he looks like he needs it anyway.

His assistant comes back and sets his whiskey beside him before immediately turning around to stand a few feet behind Frank. Thanks. Didn't want a drink anyway, bud.

"These letters... had been coming to his mail for some time. Never with an address. No names, signatures, a lock of hair, nothin'. We've tried with a private investigator before, but we couldn't risk it being leaked to the press."

"Captain O'Hare's team is very discreet. I'm sure the FBI knows how to handle these types of things," you reassure.

"I heard you handled Prince before. I called him and he practically hung up by the mention of your name, sweetheart. Doesn't sound too promising to me," his hands clasp on top the table and leans in, raising an eyebrow.

Cursing internally, you resist the urge to roll your eyes being reminded of one of your most difficult clients.

"I guess he just didn't approve of my methods."

He chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. He sizes you up slowly, his eyes grimy with the usual stare from men that lacked any etiquette.

"Tell me that's not all you brought here," he asks motioning to your clothes. Looking down at yourself confused as to why your choice of a plain white button down and tailored black suit would be anywhere outside of professional.

"What? My suit? I always wear suits on the job."

"Not this one. He can't know what you're here for. I need you to go undercover. This is a big deal to get this tour on the road, Miss Y/N. Michael can’t get spooked by this whole thing," he shakes his head, finishing the last of his drink which his assistant quickly takes back to the bar to replenish.

"Undercover? I think you've been misinformed with my line of work, Mr. DiLeo," you laugh and stand from your seat. Fixing the lapels of your jacket, you went to gather your belongings and head for the door butFrank's assistant—who you learned was named Lenny, had blocked you going for your bag, even avoiding to spill the drink in his hand. A stern glare sets on your eyes and fear flashes through his.

"Three thousand a week."

"What?" you snap your head back to the stout man.

"I'll pay you three thousand a week. Just help us get through this thing with all of our heads screwed on," he offers, putting out his cigar.

"C'mon, Sergeant. I need you." He looks slightly uncomfortable, like the act of pleading was so foreign to him. He must really be desperate.

"Undercover as what?" you ask, crossing your arms and raising your brow at him.

 "I don't dance or sing," you added.

"You wouldn't need to, I promise. Let's get you to wardrobe." he downs his drink in one gulp and starts walking.

Lenny picks your bag for you and escorts you to the waiting car in front. You arrive at a studio lot, loud music blaring behind tall doors. Getting herded into a small room filled with racks of clothes, a woman greets you by shoving a black dress in your hands and a pair of heels.

Changing into a skin-tight dress and heels too high for your liking, you step out and get rushed again through another door only to be met with the man himself. Standing tall, dressed in a white shirt under an open long sleeve flannel and fitted black slacks, Frank waves you over.

"Mike! Meet your new girl, Y/F/N Y/L/N," he introduces you. Michael, looks to you with uncertainty and then looks back at Frank clearly confused.

"Pardon?"

"I picked her specifically for the show. She's an amazing model," Frank lies effortlessly to his talent. Michael looks over you through his lashes and turns back to his manager.

"But didn't we already have Tatiana?"

"She can't come to the overseas dates." Frank plainly states. Putting an arm around your shoulder, Frank pushes you towards the singer, heels almost getting caught on each other.

"Don't worry your head about it, kid. It'll be fine! Give her a little practice run."

Oh, you were about to kill this stumpy, lousy excuse for a man.

Michael, still not saying a word to you, pulls Frank to the side and you’re left taking in the large stage set up and lights. Watching the crew fix and form what was about to be the biggest act the world has yet to see, and your temporary office for the coming months. Shifting your weight from one side to the other, trying to stay upright in your shoes, you feel a hand softly graze your shoulder.

"Hi... uh, Mr. Jackson," you greet and try putting on your best customer service smile. God. How the fuck does someone talk to The King of Pop? This is so awkward.

"Michael, please. Not 'Mr. Jackson'," Michael politely corrects you with a light laugh, grimacing at the formal name leaving his lips.

"Right. Of course, Michael," you fold your hands in front of you, a bit unsure how to posture yourself when his big brown eyes look toward you, almost calculating.

"You’re doing the song with me, right? I need to see how you move onstage." He doesn’t dillydally with any formalities and goes straight to work does he?

"Y-yes. I'm—okay. Yeah, let's go," you stutter and he looks back at you quizzically, leading you to the stage. The nerves of suddenly being put on the spot hinders your brain connecting to your mouth. 

You had an easy task, the choreographer tells you to strut across the stage as Michael ends the second chorus and you let him and the dancers follow you around to the other side before taking an exit. It was simple enough, your focus was to just play off of Michael’s movements before moving to your next cue.

Twelve consecutive practice runs, strained feet and four new identical black dresses added to your wardrobe later, you were placed in a hotel room angrily dialing the phone.

"I should've shoved you off that boat when I had a chance," you seethe through the phone once the line connected.

"How's the stage, Sarge?" O'Hare chuckles at the other end. You scoff and start pacing barefoot in your room, wincing at the ache in your calves from the heels you had been in for hours.

"A model? How—I can't do this case and be posing as some pop star's arm candy!" Feeling the headache starting to form from exhaustion from practice and keeping up appearances, you flop your back down on the single hotel bed.

"You can make it work, Y/N. It's only for three months overseas then you're back here. We’ll probably get the guy by then," he assures.

“He barely acknowledges my existence, Cap. How am I supposed to keep an eye on him?” you groan, flinging your arm over your stinging eyes that had been exposed to blaring stage lights all night.

- 

Japan, September 1987

Arriving a couple of days early ahead of the first show in Japan, you settle in your hotel room arranging your bags neatly in a corner. Having to bear through almost 12 hours cramped in an airplane, the humming pain on your lower back had been bothering you for hours before landing. Stretching to find some relief, an idea pops into your head. Assuming most of the staff would be jet lagged and probably settling down in their rooms, you try to dial the front desk to find out if you can get a massage before Frank bothers you for updates from Captain O’Hare.

Your call downstairs never connects as the phone seems to not be working. Rolling your head back at the small inconvenience, with no choice you decide to make the trip down to the front desk to find help to fix your phone and hope the hotel has its own spa.

Applying the stored knowledge of Japanese you could still remember, the staff happily helps you with your booking and sends a maintenance person with you to your room.

“What’s your name?” you ask, in Japanese trying to fill the quietness in the elevator. The middle-aged man, who was just a few inches shorter than you, looked at you with wide eyes amazed by hearing his own language from a foreigner.

“You speak Japanese! My name is Hiroshi,” he bows his head a bit, smiling.

“I’m Y/N,” you introduce yourself. He nods and repeats it back to you slowly, smiling as he asks how you had learned to speak his native language.

The elevators open on your floor and you continue your conversation with Hiroshi or Hiro as he suggested be called, when you notice a group of people have gathered down your hallway next to your room. You recognize some of the band members and a few dancers were there deep in conversation. 

“Hey, Y/N! We’re going to an amusement park. Wanna join?” Darryl calls out as he sees you walk by. The door next to your room opens and Michael walks out, placing his sunglasses on. Hiro greets him with a deep bow, waiting for him to walk by. The singer murmurs a quiet ‘hello’ with a small bow of his head as well.

“I’ll fix the phone, Miss,” Hiro bows again to you.

“Thank you, Hiro. This is my room,” you motion to your door and he lets himself in with his own master key.

“You speak Japanese?” Michael asks, seeing you interact with Hiro without a struggle. The whole group’s attention suddenly falls to you hearing his question.

“A bit. Yeah,” you laugh in slight awkwardness.

“Rad! You’re definitely coming with us now. You could help translate!” Don the bassist chimes. His arm heavily drops around your shoulder making you slightly wince, pulling you into the group. Michael sees your discomfort but keeps to himself as everyone tries to hurry to the elevators. He had noticed your movements to be a little stiff since coming off the plane but he had assumed it was just soreness from the long flight.

You helped the others communicate with the staff and got pulled in different directions trying to translate for them. The night flies by with numerous coaster rides and unhealthy amounts of snacks and soda. All evening while you were trying to mask as another person enjoying the park, your eyes couldn't help but to track Michael and take note of the surroundings, ensuring there wasn’t any danger nearby. Thankfully he had enough security around him, an open space like an amusement park had enough tall buildings, windows and dark corners for any opportunistic attacker to take advantage of. 

You wanted to talk to Bill to limit public appearances in crowded places like this but couldn’t have the heart to stop the fun when you saw Michael actually be relaxed and laugh rather than his focused and serious demeanor during his rehearsals. Somehow at the end of the night, you ended up with a toy stuffed orca as a prize for winning a game of ring toss, and a watergun someone had won in a different game. 

Exhausted but nonetheless enjoyed the experience, all of you were quiet and cramped in the hotel elevator dropping off your new co-workers at their own floors one by one.

“Good night, Y/N. Night, boss,” the last person greets as they get off on a different floor. Feeling the jetlag and the small hum of ache on your lower back again, you roll your shoulders back and stretch your head from side to side to ease some of the tension. Unaware, Michael was looking at you behind his dark glasses, slightly feeling bad you had gotten roped into their trip without warning and used as an impromptu translator.

“I’m real sorry if they were being too much,” Michael’s soft voice fills the quiet elevator.

“No. I don’t mind at all, Michael. Really, it's fine,” you try to comfort. He simply smiles and nods, motioning for you to exit the elevator first. Silently walking side by side you think about how enduring the next couple of months wouldn’t be so bad despite the challenge of keeping your secret while doing your real job during the tour.

Early in the morning, a knock comes from your door. Bill stands on the other side with a small box in his hands.

“Hey, Y/N. Frank told me to give you this. You’ll be able to talk to me on a private channel. I always got my radio on me,” he informs you, passing the box and taps the small communication device strapped to his hip. 

“Bill, I’ve been meaning to—” the door next to yours opens, Michael peaks his head from the door.

“Hey, Bill. We good to go?” he asks, closing his door behind him before he notices you standing next to his guard. 

“Oh, good morning, Y/N.” Your hand holding the small box moves to hide it behind you at the sound of your name. Smiling and greeting him back, you hold off asking Bill for a private conversation to discuss Michael’s security. 

“Ready to go, Joker. Just bumped into Miss Y/N, checking in,” he lies, trying to make the scene as a casual conversation.

“Y/N would you like to come with us? I could really use your skills.”

“Skills?”

“Joker wants to go to the shops before they open,” Bill answers for him.

“You don’t have to. You must still be tired from last night,” Michael tries to retract his offer, remembering how tired you looked last night when the two of you parted ways into your own rooms.

“I’d love to help. Let me just get my bag,” you say, closing your door. Placing your earpiece in and taking a small bag with you that had your tactical knife and gun, you head back out the door. 

A small crowd was already forming outside the small mall Michael wanted to visit, Michael opened the window and waved to the fans causing an uproar and people chasing the car until they couldn’t keep up. Safely inside the empty mall, the staff were all lined up to greet Michael into their stores. You’ve handled high class clients before but not one of them was treated like this in public. People silently stared and gawked like they were seeing royalty, failing to function normally or freezing as he walked by and smiled at them.

“How did you learn Japanese?” Michael asks, scanning through a bookshelf in a book store both of you entered in. The store clerk deeply bows, his eyes wide and lets a small breath out when Michael is finally a few steps away.

“Oh, I lived here for two years.” Keeping your distance an arm's length away from him, making it look like you were scanning shelves but were actually checking if the aisles were empty. What you answered wasn’t a total lie, you were stationed here in the early years when you were still serving as an officer overseeing a platoon. 

“That’s amazing! Was it fun?” That was such an interesting question, something you’ve never been asked before, not that there were any people in your life that wanted to pry into your personal life. Was it fun? Instructing some lieutenants, yelling commands, and training hardheadedness out of their systems could be seen as fun. Sure.

“Sure,” you simply reply, not indulging in more information than needed. 

Bags in all of his personnel’s hands, even a few bodyguards, the two of you sit a bit cramped in the van as most of his purchases take up the space. 

“As a small thank you for today,” Michael plucks a bag from the pile and hands it to you. You take the item out of the bag and find a beautiful knit sweater. It was surprisingly just your size. 

“No, Michael. I really couldn’t accept this,” you instantly say, placing the garment back in the bag. 

“Please, I insist.” He shakes his head and pushes the bag in your hands towards you. You really shouldn’t take gifts from your clients, not that it happened too often but it still felt a bit odd.

“I saw it on the display and thought it really suited you,” he says, which made your ears heat up—another new feeling that Michael had brought out of you.

“You always shop this much?” you joke. Both of you eye the dozens of bags varying in sizes surrounding the floor and seats.

“Sometimes... Yeah.” A bit embarrassed he ducks his head and laughs. Michael was thankful you were so accommodating to accompany him. Your quiet but observant attitude was something he rarely experienced with people that hover around him. Most people ask too many personal questions or constantly just flood him with compliments in attempts to stay in his good graces. But not you. You gave him space, let him walk freely without having to be pressured to keep his attention on you and make conversation.

He took you everywhere since then, unofficially making you his translator on this trip which made your job sticking to his side a lot more easier. He never missed giving you something each time as well. ‘As a thank you’ he says since he felt bad giving you another job aside from what you were hired for.

The night before the first show loud tapping noises woke you up. Sitting up from the bed, you grab the tactical knife from under your pillow. Listening intently, the taps became stomps and then you heard a few grunts. It was no doubt coming from the room next to yours. Michael.

Making your way out the door, you unsheath your knife and hold it close behind you. You knock at Michael’s door trying to call his name. No answer. The room had fallen silent. Gripping the knife tighter, you raise your fist to knock again but the door slowly opens and Micahel’s big round eyes are surprised to see you. Sweat coming from his forehead and shirt slightly damp, he was wearing pajama pants and his black loafers.

“Sorry did I wake you?” he asks a little sheepishly, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

“Are you okay? What—I thought there was someone else in your room.” Quickly sheathing your knife to your waistband out of his view, you peek around his shoulder making sure he wasn’t in any danger in his room. He softly chuckles and shakes his head.

“No. I’m sorry I couldn’t sleep so I just started to practice.” Michael leaves the door open to let you in, he disappears into the bathroom to wash his face. 

“At 3 AM Mike?” you ask, eyeing the floorboard that covered the open space between the bed and a large TV. He leans against the wall, scratches the back of his neck and apologizes again looking down on his feet.

“Don’t apologize. You must be excited for tomorrow, huh?” Leaning against the wall opposite him, you smirk as the color of his cheeks deepens.

“Yeah, something like that. I just couldn’t sleep, m’worried I might mess up tomorrow,” he chuckles. The weight of finally getting the solo tour he had wanted for years had his mind going a mile a minute at every possibility of the show being a success or a failure.

“You’re amazing on that stage, Michael. Everyone will love what you created for this tour,” you say in comfort and honesty. Slipping off his shoes and placing them neatly by the foot of his bed he sits on the edge and looks up to you.

“D’ya wanna stay? Maybe we can watch a movie?” The question catches you off guard. Everything in you screams to say no but the vulnerable look in his brown eyes was louder than your instinct to deny the invitation.

“Okay,” you answer before he could even take it back. His smile was bright as ever as he set up his newly purchased VHS player. Feeling a bit wary of how inviting he was to his private space, you wonder if he was like this with most of his employees or if he was just looking for an excuse to take his mind off of things for tomorrow. 

His king sized bed was spacious enough for the two of you to stay on opposite ends. You think about how all of this goes against the ethics of your job, model or private security. You swear this is the only time you allow yourself to break one rule. The TV hums to life as the movie ‘The King and I’ starts.

Somewhere around the time King Mongkut was scolding Mrs. Anna for dancing with Sir Edward before dinner, you felt a light weight fall on your shoulder. Michael’s curls fall over your shoulder as his forehead touches the crook of your neck—you feel the temperature of the room rise higher. His breathing was soft and even, his long dark lashes grazing the tops of his high cheeks. Stock still and unsure on what to do, you let him lean on you letting the pop star rest for his big day tomorrow.

Shooting up awake, you had only let your eyes rest for a moment while watching the movie but somehow sunlight was already bright and high shining from the window. The bed was empty, and you cursed yourself for letting another rule be broken in such a short time. 

Brushing your hair off your face, you quietly make it out of Michael’s room almost as if any sudden movement would cause sirens to blare. Closing the door quietly behind you, you fish your own room keys from your pocket and suddenly hear someone clear their throat behind you.

Frank, short and slightly menacing, had his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at you curiously.

“Morning, Frank,” you greet, finally unlocking your door and quickly slipping inside.

Fuck. Did he see you come out of his room?

You avoided Michael for most of the day, trying to keep distance but close enough to still watch over him from the sidelines. You two don’t even make eye contact at final rehearsals, finishing your segment with a full wall of his professionalism between you. You end up next to him at the group huddle and prayer, holding his hand as he gives his final words of encouragement before letting someone cite a prayer. The huddle ends with a long rising yell to let off the nerves as the show starts. You feel him squeeze your hand once, looking over to him he offers you a small smile and lets you go. Smiling back and nodding, you head to the stage side and take your spot to watch the show and keep an eye on the audience.

The concert started without a problem. The audience screamed at the top of their lungs once the lights started to flash, the stage stayed lit for over an hour and a half, the band played with energy to the max. The show was almost over and your cue was finally called to walk the stage.

As rehearsed, you walk to the beat and let Michael do his routine, playing off his moves he walks you off to the side with his hand on your waist, giving it a squeeze before letting you go. The staff cheers you on, and you quickly make your way to change your clothes to get ready to leave once the final song ends.

The next shows all went on in the same manner. Rehearsals, the show, and straight back to the hotel. Michael had set up a routine at the hotel too, each time around midnight he would knock softly at your door and ask if you wanted to watch a movie. Sometimes he'd let the movie play in the background while the two of you would just talk. You had to tell him a few half truths about yourself when he asked about your life but he got to know you nonetheless. 

You tried to ask him a few things about himself but  learned that Michael had a way of twisting the conversation back to focus on you. It was an honest talent that it even tested your own subtle interrogation tactics, but perhaps you had just let your guard down at the slightest to not pry harder. 

Each time like the last, he’d fall asleep in the middle of the movie leaning on your shoulder. You don’t let yourself stay the night like the first time, careful to keep that unspoken boundary between you and your client sacred. You let yourself be friendly with him, but letting yourself sleep next to him–even if it was accidental, felt too personal. 

On the night before the Osaka concert, loud knocking came at your door. Michael looked worried as he clutched a local newspaper in his hands. He points to the front page, a redacted picture of a baby was blown wide next to a photo of a crime scene.

“Please translate this for me. What does it say?” 

You read out the news report about a kidnapping to him, keeping your voice steady as you relay the information. He makes a soft intake of breath when he hears the boy had passed, tears formed in his deep brown eyes. Putting the newspaper down, you place your arm around him and he falls into your shoulder, devastated and sobbing over a five-year-old boy he had never met but felt so deeply about his brutal passing.

Australia, November 1987

The arrival to Sydney was a nightmare. The whole crew got rushed out of the plane and down to baggage claims. Rows of policemen lined the walls, but no one seemed to know where we were all headed. 

One of the local police finally approaches Bill and tells the group that you all had to pass through the crowd of fans that practically blocked all entrances and exits. Bill gives you a glance, you shake your head no. Too risky, too cramped. You hear the loud chants of ‘Michael!’ from outside. 

You try to take account of everyone in the group. All of the dancers, band members and backup singers were there and you seem to be missing only one person. Frank. 

While everyone stood around waiting to be led out to the cars, you stood next to Bill. 

“Where the hell is Frank?” you ask, keeping your voice low. Eyes still scanning the room. 

“I don't know. He was the first one out the plane.” 

Michael hears you sigh in frustration. 

“You okay?” he asks softly, leaning closer. Moving from Bill's side to yours. 

“Yeah. Uhm, I'm just a little worried about going out there…” Lie. Lie about something. Anything. 

“I'm a little claustrophobic is all,” you duck your head, feigning embarrassment. Michael seems to buy into your fib and places a reassuring hand on your back, lightly rubbing it. You try your best not to freeze at the affectionate gesture, the act of being consoled by your client was definitely a foreign feeling. 

“Don't worry. Just stay close to me, okay?” he comforts, still rubbing your back. 

“The sweater looks very nice on you by the way,” Michael compliments. Looking down at your sweater, you had finally worn his first gift to you while in Japan. He gives you a small smile, a gesture to comfort you but offhandedly makes your heart rate spike. You need to focus. Breaking away from his stare, you murmur a ‘thank you’. 

Bill gathers the group, telling everyone to stay close and within the human barricade the police had assembled to move with you to get to the cars waiting at the entrance. Michael stands in front of you, the close proximity allowing his cologne to hit your senses as more people try to huddle together to the doors. 

It should be your job to stand in front of him to lead him out the doors safely but the roles reverse on you instead, making him be your protector to save you from your so-called phobia. 

Everything had gone sideways as the doors opened and the immediate crush of the crowd disassembled the formation. Yelling from fans, security and the media all meshed together in one incoherent roar. 

You can barely make out what was in front of you as more people push into other bodies to get closer to Michael. Your feet can barely shuffle in a straight line. A strong shove makes you lose your footing and you fall to the ground on your knees. 

“Y/N!” 

You hear your name get called out over the noise, but being on the ground has placed you in a vulnerable position. 

A heavy foot stomps on your right hand, you were almost sure it had broken a bone. Someone's knee hits your right side hard, you breathe through your nose trying to compartmentalize the pain. Bracing your injured hand to your chest, you try to stand up but the waves of people keep you down. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” Michael's voice was suddenly in your ear, he was on the floor crouching by your side putting his arm over you. 

“Michael? What are you doing?” 

Too stunned to move, he helped you up and held you close, letting the security push a path out for him and you both entered the car. Bill closes the door behind him and the car finally pulls away to head to the hotel. 

The throb in your hand pulls your attention away from the swarm of people banging on the windows chasing after the car. Your knuckles were a bit scratched up and slightly bleeding. 

“We'll have someone check you out at the hotel, Miss,” Bill says, giving you his handkerchief to press over the cuts. 

“I'll be okay. No need, Bill. Thank you.” 

“Are you sure? It looked like you got shoved pretty hard. Does your back hurt?” The genuine concern in Michael's voice almost makes you burst. It could have been him in your position and you could barely do anything to protect him. 

Wrapping the cloth over your hand and knotting it over your palm, you squeeze your fist tight to keep your anger at bay. 

Walking straight into the hotel, you abandon your bags at the lobby, feet dead set to take you where you know Frank will be. Ignoring the hostess at the door you walk straight to the bar where the stocky old man was sitting enjoying his drink and cigar. 

“What the fuck, Frank!” you yell seeing as no one else was around to hear your tirade. He doesn't give much of a reaction and just continues to take a swig of his drink. 

“He could've gotten hurt! Where the hell were you?” you try to keep your voice level. 

“Its your job to not let him get hurt,” he simply states taking a long puff of his cigar. 

“Or have you forgotten your duties, Sergeant?” The question bubbles your anger again. Slamming your already injured fist on the bartop. 

“Fuck y—”

“Sergeant?” 

Michael was standing behind you, holding what looked like a small red pouch of a first aid kit. 

“He called you Sergeant. Why did Frank call you Sergeant, Y/N?” he asks again, walking closer fiddling with the item in his hand. You glare at Frank who suddenly had the nerve to keep quiet this very moment. He puts his hands up, shrugging. Letting you come up with a lie. Sighing, there was no escaping it now. 

“I'm not a model, Michael,” you finally confess.

A knot forms between his brows. 

“I was hired as private security to keep you safe while on tour,” you explain further but not delving into deeper detail. 

“I don't understand. I have enough security as it is. What aren't you telling me?”

“Frank.” you turn back to his manager. He gulps down the last of his drink with a wince. 

“Look, kid. W-we were just concerned, y'know? It's your first solo tour and all. Things could get crazy and—”

“Frank!” you yell this time, making Michael flinch. 

“We got word that someone's trying to put harm on you, Mike. I hired Y/N to be your bodyguard but had her go undercover so you didn't have to know,”

“So you’d been lying to me,” he doesn't say it as a question but more of a realization, eyes looking coldly at you. 

“No—well yes, in a way. I had to,” you fumble a response, unable to choose between the whole truth or something more digestible. He looks at you in disbelief, shaking his head. 

“I'm not some fragile thing that needs to be handled with safety gloves, Y/N. You could have told me. One of you could've,” he points to you and Frank. Guilt starts to flood your stomach, his disappointment hitting you harder than you would have thought.

“This is unbelievable,” he sets the first aid kit on a bar stool and leaves the room. Helpless in how to fix the situation, you pick up the pouch without giving another glance at Frank who just went back to smoking.

Bill was waiting for you at the lobby next to your bags to hand you your room key. 

“You got a connecting room to his,” he informs you, placing the key in your hand. You nod and thank him. Picking up your bag, the elevator ride to your floor was quiet and lonely.

Entering your room, you toss your bag on the bed along with the first aid kit. You sigh and try to rub away the headache forming at your temples. The door that you share with Michael silently taunts you. Feeling like there's no time like the present to right a wrong you knock at the door. 

“Michael? It's me. Look, I know you might not want to talk but—” the sound of the door’s knob being hastily unlocked cuts you off and the door swings open with a big gust. Michael was pale faced, looking at you panicked. 

“What's wrong? What is it?” 

He hands you a familiar piece of paper, folded and creased with a type-written message in the middle of the page. 

“T-There's more of them,” he stutters quietly, opening the door wider to let you view the rest of his room. It was taped to the wall. The windows. The closet. The bathroom mirror. 

Leaving the other pieces untouched, you lead Michael back into your room and sit him down on your bed. 

“Who's doing this? Why? What do they want from me?” His voice was small and shaky with a distant look in his eyes. His body folds into itself, making him look smaller and frail. Leaning his elbows on his knees, his hands cover his face muffling his shallow breathing. 

“Hey, it's okay. I won't let anyone hurt you, Michael. Do you hear me?” you try to soothe him but the usual signs of a panic attack were showing in his stiff shoulders and heavy breaths. 

You call out his name but it sounds so distant and muffled in his ears, like he was underwater. His chest rises and falls quicker but he barely feels the air enter his lungs at all. His hands clench and unclench over his thighs, feeling the tips of his fingers starting to go numb. 

“Hey, look at me. Follow my breathing,” you try to get him to meet your eyes and demonstrate a deep breathing exercise but he just can't focus. His eyes tear up in fear, unable to will his body to mimic you. 

Taking his hands, you place one cupping your neck so he can feel your pulse, the other on your side above your waist to let him feel your ribs rising and falling with each deep breath.

You cradle his face, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he finally joins your rhythm. 

With breaths even and normal, his hand falls to its usual place around your waist and gives it a soft squeeze. He pulls you against him and lets his eyes close, resting his forehead on yours feeling his heart slow down at last. 

Michael's thumb caresses your cheek in slow strokes trying to ground his consciousness back into his body. Your hands fall to his shoulders, letting your own pads rubbing slow circles over them. 

“Y/N…”

“Hmm?” you pull away slightly and he looks at you beneath his lashes. Your hands start to pull away from him but his hand on your face tilts it towards him and lets his lips fall onto yours.

The shock in your system as you feel the press of his lips leaves you frozen.