five hundred miles | michael jackson x fem!reader
Content Notes: maybe ooc michael, rising star actress reader, historically accurate as possible, pepsi accident, reader is slightly younger than mj by a few years not mentioned though, intertextuality, and tons of outside references sorry, reader POV, no use of Y/N, warning: some joe jackson.
Author Notes: This is my first ever fanfic on here! I hope you enjoy. Hoping to start a series out of this to keep up writing. I have treasured MJ my whole life and this fanfic is of course to honor him in the most respectful way possible (I know he enjoyed reading stuff written about him). Please don't be afraid to share your thoughts and I hope this is actually read!
Nothing had clenched and twisted your heart like this. You remember how eerie the phone call from Marlon had been. His voice wasn't frantic or shaky, rather it was mellow, almost tranquil with an inkling of urgency. He hadn’t beseeched you to wreck your plans and walk five hundred miles for Michael. Instead, he called to delegate the news of Michael’s accident. Although, you wished he had been more urgent–more assertive–something to beguile you. To force you away to —pull you—away from that life altering (unusually benign) audition waiting room. Intertwined with his ragged tone of voice, you could only interpret that he hadn't wanted to call you in the first place. You came to understand on the drive over to the hospital that it could only be indebted to the malignant presence that was him and his brothers’ father. The very same malignant presence who most certainly watched Marlon make the phone call to some enigma he was unaware of on the other line.
You clutched the Peter Pan plush in your left hand, the other gripping the cross that decorated your collarbone. You weren't religious, rather you were conceived and raised by two heretics, an absolute dichotomy of the metal you held between two sweaty fingers. The Lord had not proved to be your shepherd as of late, rather you felt like a lamb struck by fatality.
As your driver pulled into the hospital driveway you thanked him curtly, forsaking the courteous good girl manners you had adopted so many years ago. You almost stumbled out of the black cadillac, the overbearing urge to see him–to hold him– to comfort him negated your mobility. You checked in and found the Jackson family waiting, scattered throughout the lobby like a chess board– its pieces personified with their angst and strife. Joe was absent. You internally sighed in relief. At once, LaToya rose from her chair, made her way to embrace you and then passed you to the other Jacksons, each of them dutifully wrapping their arms around you.
“How is he?” You asked. You scolded yourself for asking that. You already knew the answer.
“He’s in quite some pain, the doctors say he’s awfully lucky we caught the flames at the rate we did,” Jackie responded. He refused to look anywhere but at the ground. “Mother’s in there with him, Joseph is…Joseph is somewhere and he's been on the phone with management since we brought Michael here.” You nodded with wide eyes at Jackie’s response. Inside the room and draped on a hospital cot was his own baby boy, his unspoken vows of protecting him bent and broken.
Marlon grasped your shoulder from behind and handed you a cup of orange juice. “I never told him I called you, but I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
You nodded once more and accepted the lame excuse for a glass of childlike comfort. “Of course.”
You tucked the Peter Pan plush under your arm and headed into Michael’s room. Hospitals never scared you. You had been spared a life of desertion in liminal waiting rooms and the scenes of uncanny gleam of the hospital floors. Pushing softly on the door and knocking on the wall lightly, you behooved both Mother and Michael’s attention. Mother attempted to rise from her chair but a faint shake of your head urged her to stay seated. You made your way over, embarrassingly avoided Micahel’s gaze as his eyes followed your strides towards his mother. You gripped her bicep gently, and greeted her kindly with a faint but deliberate, “Hello, Mother. Good to see you again.” To which earned a small upturn of her saccharine mouth.
You pulled up a chair to Michael’s bedside and finally addressed him. You mustered all the courage you possibly could summon, given the wretched circumstances. Your hands immediately found his left one resting above the hospital linen.
“Hi darling,” for a woman so young you sounded so maternal. A hollow huff of relief echoed after your words and the tension that had been percolating in your shoulders gave way.
“Hey Hollywood,” he smiled gently. But you could perceive how much pain he was in from those two words. If he wasn’t hospitalized, you might have scolded him for using that utterly revolting nickname he coined you two years ago.
Mother let out a small laugh.
“Marlon called me,” you kept your tone low and comforting, but allowed it to rise up an octave to make space for a light jab, “He said something about the King of Pop needing me so badly.”
He smiled at that. The bandages on the side of his face proved to be a poor hindrance on dimming his light. “That schmuck. What a dimwit.” He rolled his eyes in embarrassment but a crooked grin broke out on his face.
“Don’t insult Marlon, he's the comedic backbone of this family!” you feigned offense. “I happen to think I am the comedic genius, thank you very much.”
“If I remember correctly you named yourself the skinniest Jackson, my friend,” you jested. As an only child, you always were tickled by his silly attempts at roasting his brothers. Shifting in your torturous seat, you presented him with the cup of orange juice you’d placed on the night stand before greeting Mother.
He let out a little hiss as he propped himself up to accept it and then groaned in faux agony. “Oh don’t you bring that up, I’m already suffering, Hollywood, please don’t kick me while I'm down.”
Your friendship with him was so innately intimate, that you knew he was referring to Carol Burnett. The woman he deemed so irritating that you enjoyed teasing him about her every now and again. Mother chuckled and told Michael to be kind and knock that off, while simultaneously excusing herself to use the restroom.
“I’ll be back honey.” She directed her attention to you. “And please keep this schmuck company sweetheart.”
You giggled, saluted her, and let out a small, “Of course Mother.” You returned your attention back to Michael and tightened your grip on his hand.
“How are you feeling?” You asked.
He took a small sip of his drink, “Sleepy. The medicine they have me on to combat the pain…it’s quite draining.”
“I’m sorry Michael. I’m so sorry,” you started to apologize. “I wish I was in town when the accident happened, you even invited me to come hang on set–”
Michael cut you off. “Please don’t start. I don’t want you to apologize. I hate that you’re even here in the first place, you had been talking about this audition for months.”
That’s right. You knew each other’s schedules so personally, so tenderly, that he knew today you were heading to meet with a huge critically acclaimed director about a big offer.
Tears brimmed in your eyes unexpectedly at his thoughtfulness, given the state he was in. “Oh, nonsense Mikey. David Lynch can wait.” You avoided his gaze, you knew how he hated when you cried. Michael swore that as his friend, your heart would only ever be full with joy and laughter, a promise akin to the lyrics of the songs he and brothers would sing early in their careers.
“Sure, Mr. Lynch can wait, but what about the five year plan we’ve been discussing? Your goals and your dreams?” He grinned. “That mustn't wait now! Not for me!”
You shook your head in disbelief at his attempt to make light of the situation. The five year plan you two had been conjuring up together, one that involved you both achieving greatness applicable to your respective careers. He wanted Thriller to be the sophomore album of all time, a sum of songs to grow into indelible earworms for generations. And you, the Hollywood starlet on the path of delivering performances of a lifetime, set to have cabinets full of academy awards.
“Don’t start with me Michael, please,” you sobered up and dropped the “Mikey” formalities. “You know how worried sick I was? I felt like a damn dog waiting to be put down when I heard of the accident. And your beautiful head catching on fire, no less!” You withdrew your hand from his and buried your face in your palms.
“Please don’t curse, sugar,” Michael peeped out, to which earned an annoyed groan from you.
“Jesus Christ! And Marlon was so cryptic on that phone call! I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt since I'm sure it was to avoid grabbing Joseph's unnecessary attention…but still! The most negative, horrible thoughts crept into my mind, Michael,” your rant came out a bit muffled and you hoped your palms blocked out how helpless you sounded. You picked your head up and stared at him.
His big brown eyes, so reminiscent of an innocent fawn, stared back at you wide with worry.
What if the sparks had touched those eyes? What if the heat and combustion took away those precious windows of the soul you adored so much?
He reached for your arm. “I am alive and I am on track to be well. Once the doctors give me the green light then I get right back on that stage and I do what I’m best at. Like nothing happened.”
You felt your eyebrows knit upward in apprehension. How come he was comforting you when he was the unlucky one in the gurney? He was always good at this. After all, what outcome had you wanted from this interaction anyway? For him to apologize for being at the wrong place and wrong time?
“I-I’m sorry darling,” you fumbled for an apology. “I guess I just hoped you would acknowledge that you almost…perished.” You felt that last word catch in your throat, like somebody had lodged a baseball in there.
Michael nodded and subconsciously stroked your forearm. “I know and I am sorry for the circumstances and all, but please you have to at least look on the bright side with me. Speaking of the stage, Joseph has…persuaded me to join my brothers and do a national tour with them. He’s calling it a victory tour. And I was going to ask if you had wanted to attend. Just a few nights. Nothing crazy I promise.”
You felt a prickle of energy span through your chest. In his time of being Michael’s closest friend (outside of Bubbles and Louie), he hadn’t performed his own solo concerts, just a show from time to time since Off the Wall and Thriller had been topping charts across the globe. You regretfully were absent during the groundbreaking “Billie Jean” performance due to a demanding press for Return of the Jedi. He debuted the moonwalk and you had missed it for a feature film you starred in, where you gallivanted across moons.
“Of course,” you said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’d never forgive myself if I missed two hours of the Jackson brothers grinding against the air and their thrusting hip movements.” Your sarcasm earned a huff of amusement from him.
“You know,” he sounded as if he was plotting, “I would forgive you if you missed the hip action for a Lynch or even a Spielberg feature film, sugar.” He loved the banter you two bred. He said you never backed down when it came to engaging in dialogue with him. You challenged him, you provoked his playful energy. He was forever indebted to you for inspiring the provocative “vegetable” lyric on Wanna Be Startin’ Something.
You rolled your eyes at him once more and flicked the hand that mapped small circles on your forearm. “Oh goodness, you relentless silly man. I will be there and that is final!”
He laughed at you and released your arm, letting it rest in your lap. “Would you mind finding Mother or maybe even Janet to go fetch me some food?”
You nodded instantaneously and patted his shoulder as you stood up. Gesticulating to the hospital nightstand, you added, “Oh I got this little Peter Pan for you. Found this little guy at a department store on the way over here. I almost had to tussle the toddler reaching for it, but I told his mother it was for Michael Jackson to which she quickly obliged and let me go.”
He laughed at your diatribe, swiped the plush off the table, and cradled it to his chest. “Thank you. I’ll treasure him forever.”
You let your warm smile reach your eyes and left the room in search of any cooperative Jackson to head to the cafeteria. Marlon and Tito napped in their chairs, LaToya and Jackie spoke to the nurses near the desk, and the others were nowhere to be found. Leaving you to run to the cafeteria.
To your dismay, your journey was intercepted. By none other than Joseph Jackson.
“Well, if it isn't Little Miss Play Pretend. How are you girl?” His voice was rather irritating in comparison to his children's angelic laments.
“Doing well Mr. Jackson. I am very happy your son is recovering. I was so–” He was often apt to cut others off.
“Girl, I bet you are. Hoping my son can feel better to make you some phone calls and arrange some auditions for you?” His Lucifer-esque smile shook you, despite your Pagan-like upbringing.
“Excuse me?” You questioned rather politely. Joseph never allowed you into the Hayvenhurst home. Security was regretful when they turned you away, but strict orders were strict orders.
Upon Michael’s request, Bill or sometimes even the brothers snuck you in. All of the trouble and rousing just to see your best friend, whom you sometimes went weeks or months without seeing due to the conflicting schedules.
“Your ears are young child, you heard me,” Joseph looked at you as if you were the scum on his shoes. Just another leech, aiming to suck out the life of his son he loved financially and commercially. “This hospital here ain’t no stage, I got no script on me. And I’m going to give it to you plain and simple. Stay away from my son. You’re nothing but a Lucasfilm distraction, with a fake net worth to your name. He doesn’t need your jabbering and your poking.”
Only five minutes ago, you were safely tucked away with your dear friend, and now you were backed into a corner by his mogulistic father. You weren't angry nor frightened of him, as you knew Joseph was only words and discourse when it came to you. The feeling clouding your thoughts and muddying your mind was pity. You pitied the old man who was so blind that he failed to recognize the situation at hand. He had almost lost his son from an unorchestrated accident and directed his attention at censoring his son’s relationships.
You were grateful for your snappy outgoing friend (Carrie Fisher) as she had subliminally prepared you for scathing situations such as these. A bitter remark festered in your mouth and almost took flight, if it weren’t for Bill to place a hand on your shoulder. The lifeboat had arrived and threw a rope at its drowning survivor.
“Good to see you kiddo,” Bill said softly, a jarring contrast, gutting the thick visceral conversation. “Joe.”
Joseph’s mouth curled up in a sardonic sneer. But before you let him add anything else you made your way to walk past him.
But not before concluding ruefully, “You’re fortunate this is the burn unit Mr. Jackson. You are a cancer.”
