⌞The Distance 𐀪 Between 𐀪 Letters⌝
ᯓ Content: Michael x fem!humanitarian worker!reader, established relationship, fiancé!Michael, Lebanese Civil War setting (and Afghanistan and, very briefly, Ethiopia), situational angst, hurt/comfort, FLUFF!! FLUFFY ASH AND WILL ONLY GET FLUFFIER!!, separation, mutual devotion, protective Michael, war and displacement, mentions of death and injury, blood, emotional distress, flashbacks, eventual happy ending, NO MENTION OF Y/N
ᯓ Summary: You’re a humanitarian communications delegate for the International Committee of the Red Cross, working on the front lines of international conflicts. Michael follows you into war-torn campsites, bringing back memories of when you first met and reminding him exactly why he fell in love with you.
A/n: Hello again! I did my best researching the Dari dialogue, but if there are any issues, feel free to correct me. Also, this part will be as graphic as it gets for this story (mentions of blood, but no gorey details), if you cannot stomach it, again, DNI!!!
Tags: @memyselfandmikey @amazegumballz @mino99jksn @nimblejuggernauthorizon @iheartpizzamyheart @sssshahadddd @slavetotherhythmofluv @crystallineforestslayer
The back of the truck is a rustic arrangement of wooden planks, barely held together by nails—no seats, and certainly no comfort—just a bed full of aid workers, backpacks, medical crates, and enough canned food to last a few days if everyone rations carefully.
Every pothole launches everyone up and off their feet, just until gravity reminds them that it exists.
A volunteer who lands over a sack of flour lightens the mood with some harmless sarcasm, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a ride this nice.”
Another giggles, “Drives so smooth it feels like I’m flying.”
The entire truck erupts in chuckles despite the situation. Even you can't help but flash some teeth.
A smile tugs at Michael’s lips in response to your own.
He slips off his blanket and lays it beside his legs.
You hesitate, “No, love, it’s cold. Keep it on you.”
The corners of your mouth can’t help but raise at how adorable he looks.
“Besides, I’ll crush your legs.”
He brushes hair off your face.
“In fact, they'd be delighted.”
“They’ve done so much work already.”
You inch near him, slowly falling victim to his charm.
“They’ve seen worse days.”
You huff out amused air and surrender, placing your head on his slender legs and spreading the rest of yourself out on his jacket.
He immediately brushes loose strands of hair away from your face. At this point, the movement had become instinct.
The convoy continues south, passing by villages that resemble ghost towns.
Occasionally, you spot a lantern serving as the sole visible sign of life in the otherwise abandoned buildings.
The landscape consists mainly of empty dirt roads, distant rigid silhouettes of mountains, and unbroken trees.
You trace lazy circles around Michael’s hands that held you over your ribs.
“This reminds me of Afghanistan a little.”
He sways his hand once before resting back comfortably.
“Yeah—the way they always looked like they were seconds away from falling apart.”
“Do you remember how you kept apologizing after every bump?”
You shake your head into another breathy chuckle.
“I got so scared for you— thought you were going to fly out.”
“If it weren’t for you, I would’ve.”
You close your eyes to enjoy this moment as his hand runs itself through the front of your hair.
You scoff, “I just don’t get why you kept offering to carry those crates. They were heavy as hell.”
“I was trying to impress you. There must’ve been rocks in there or something.”
You open your eyes just enough to see his shadow over you.
“Mmhm. Wasn’t too good at it, come to think of it.”
“Oh, wow. I see how it is,” he acts offended.
You lazily raise an arm to catch his cheek.
“I still fell in love, didn’t I?”
He lets the words soak into a comfortable silence.
“You know, I’ve never been happier that someone didn’t recognize me.”
“Mm? I thought you were offended.”
“Yeah. You looked kinda confused— like you expected me to.”
“I wasn’t offended, though.”
“I was relieved. I was thinking maybe I’ll have a shot with this pretty lady’”.
“‘Pretty’, huh? With a dirty vest and messily covered hair?”
“You don’t ever believe me when I tell you these things— You were— are— genuinely the most beautiful woman I've ever laid my eyes on.”
You melt into satisfied hums.
“And you were even more dangerous with that heart of yours. Never seen one like it.”
His hand catches the middle of your sternum.
You draw a soft giggle and murmur, “Keep talking like that. I love when you do that.”
He gives a breathy laugh.
“Seriously, I would’ve laughed if someone told me you were going to marry me.”
“Of course I had to test my luck with trying to impress you.”
Another pause, just to behold what he could of you under the darkness.
“—And apparently, I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
And somewhere between the rhythm of the tires and the warmth of his hand resting against your hair, your mind wanders back five years— to another convoy, another country, and another morning— to the day everything quietly began.
Afghanistan was nothing as you’d expected. People always spoke of war as if it had broken down its people and erased most qualities of life— it didn’t.
Children still laughed in the streets, and large families gathered in tight homes to share a meal.
Their resilience shone through even rubble and threats.
The ICRC compound had turned one of its storage tents into a makeshift children’s space while families waited for aid distribution.
You sat cross-legged in the dirt with nearly twenty children gathered around you.
“Biya, biya (come, come).”
“Khoob bacheha (Okay, kids),” you smiled, holding up an old striped sock.
“Today we’re making puppets.”
“Gudi (puppets),” you repeated as you wiggled your striped sock.
The children giggled, with a couple of the girls concealing their smiles with little hands.
Within minutes, the tent was scattered with mismatched buttons, feathered yarn, and little hands that proudly waved sock puppets through the air.
You scribbled observations as the children assigned their puppets a name, a family, and even a job.
Instead of asking questions about their struggles specifically, you let the interview disappear into play.
You asked, “If your puppet could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it go?”
A range of squeaky voices spoke at once, and you wrote them all down.
“Be khona-ye bibi (grandmother’s house).”
You scribbled down the harmless things worth remembering— the names they gave their puppets, the jobs they invented for them, the arguments over whose buttons looked better.
You weren’t there to pry stories out of children who adults had already asked enough questions. If they wanted to tell you something, they would. You were satisfied hearing just about puppets.
You held up a particularly crooked puppet. “Khoob ast (is it good)?”
A little boy immediately shook his head, “Na.”
The other children erupted into laughter.
You held your heart. “Na?!”
He grinned without an ounce of remorse.
Outside, another truck arrived, prompting your exit that was chased by little groans and dramatic goodbyes.
A small humanitarian delegation had arrived to deliver donated supplies and visit a handful of relief projects. Michael was among them— not an ICRC worker by any means, just another set of willing hands wherever he was allowed.
Volunteers scrambled to unload boxes of medical supplies.
You attempted to collect two boxes that you noticed the others didn’t dare attempt to hold— but one box alone barely raised an inch.
A second pair of hands appeared beneath them, having the weight disappear in a blink.
You looked up to see a slim man with charming black curls dangling over his eyes.
“Here,” he flashed a polite smile.
“Thanks,” you smiled back and continued to drag the boxes to the tent.
You dropped the boxes and dusted the dirt off your hands.
“That was perfect timing, my back nearly gave out,” you laughed softly.
He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck with a faint grin.
“Ha. No, you definitely had it at first— I just wanted to make it easier on you.”
“You’re lying through your teeth, stranger.”
You cheesed at him once more before you inquired, “You a volunteer?”
“Something like that. I’m here with a relief delegation for a few days.”
“Is it alright if we put you to work, then?”
“I wasn’t expecting any less.”
Before you could thank him again, a little girl ran to you, crying. She latched onto your legs while you held her head and asked her what happened.
She threw her sock puppet and simply stuffed her little face into your leg with a string of snot webbing from her nose to your trousers.
“Freshta jaan, chi shod (Dear Freshta, what happened)?”
Her clumsy hand pulled the hair from her face before sinking into your leg once again.
Michael picked up the sock puppet and puts his hand through it.
“Hello!” His voice was pitched up in a goofy fashion.
The girl’s crying slowed as she rubbed her eyes at the scene.
You cracked a smile, holding a palm over your mouth to hide your amusement.
“Oh no,” the puppet gasped dramatically. “Where did my friend go?”
“Bebin (look),” you whispered, nudging her gently.
She side-eyed the puppet with a grin on its way.
“Injast (She’s here),” she held her smile with the back of her hand.
“Inja! Inja! (Here, here),” She giggled with her hands behind her back.
Within a few minutes, her tears were dry, and she was correcting the puppet every time it got something wrong.
With the children, he was good— really good. He was naturally patient, acting as though he genuinely enjoyed their company.
He looked over, somewhat confused.
“The kids— you make them very comfortable.”
He played modest, shrugging with a humble smile.
“I have a special place in my heart for children.”
“Don’t you?— You’re great with them.”
“Of course. I live for the kids.”
“Oh- I just mean— I’ve been watching.”
His mouth thinned to a fine line while he failed to conceal his embarrassment.
“I hope only professionally.”
You heard that line— but you didn’t acknowledge it.
A coordinator scurried past you urgently, shouting,” We need someone on handling blankets, please!”
“I'm on it!” You answered before turning back to Michael.
You locked eyes with him. “You coming?”
He wasn't going to miss the opportunity for the world.
Nodding, he said, “Lead the way.”
The rest of the afternoon blurred into work, as you interviewed families without making them feel interrogated, you kept children occupied while parents waited, and—your favorite part—you bantered with anyone you could; mothers with recipes waiting to be shared, grandfathers eagerly sharing history lessons, and children talking about the lunches they look forward to eating at school.
Michael remained beside you through it all, taking every opportunity to learn the work —and, admittedly, you.
By sunset, your heart had interested him far more than anything he’d come there to see.
You sat on the tailgate of the truck as you watched Misty clouds drift past the gradient indigo to golden dusk.
Michael joined you, offering one of the two waters in his hands.
He looked for any chance to get to know you better.
“Mmhm,” you twisted the cap open.
“I took this job because I like people.”
“Writing helps me remember them.”
He nodded in understanding.
“I make music to make people happy.”
A comfort tugged at the corner of your mouth
“Music? What kinda music?”
Entertained air passed through his teeth.
“Pop, some disco, some soul, blues— a little of everything.”
You nodded politely, pretending you understood him.
“That’s sweet. It’s always nice to work in your passion.”
His face finally broke the act.
“Maybe I should introduce myself?”
“I’m Michael Jackson,” he held a firm hand towards you.
You shook it and introduced yourself.
He waited for any indication of recognition— widened eyes, a gasp, anything— but there wasn’t.
“Sorry, my memory isn’t the best. Was I supposed to know you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“No, seriously, please. Now I’m curious.”
“I’m a musician. Kinda famous.”
“Oh,” you said apologetically.
“I’m sorry, I don’t really listen to music much.”
“Stop being sorry, I’m just confused.”
He rubbed his nose bridge.
“How do you pass the time?”
You said as if pitching an answer to a question uncertainly.
“My god,” he scoffs, “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“Well, I’ve never met anyone that lifts three crates all at once.”
“C’mon, that was nothing.”
His eyes can’t keep off of you as the shadows of the moonlight brought out your beautiful features.
“‘C’mon’, you’re just showing off, Michael.”
His stomach flipped when you said his name. It never rolled off anyone’s tongue so gracefully, so naturally.
He wasn’t sure why he became so infatuated with you so early on.
Could it be your heart that made enough space for the world?
Could it be your naturally radiant beauty with an aura so visible your face catches the attention of everyone in a room?
Or could it be the fact that you acknowledged him as a person, not THE Michael Jackson, king of pop, but just Michael?
The truck jerks before rolling to a complete stop.
You lift your head that lay on Michael’s lap to notice how peaceful he looks in his slumber.
Hell, he is at peace— he’d gone weeks losing sleep over the thought of being away from you while you’re in the eye of a storm.
You gently pat his shoulder.
You whisper into a peck on his forehead, “C’mon baby, we’re here.”
He hums into a stretch with arms flexing in the air.
“You won’t believe how good I slept.”
He holds your hand while you step out of the truck.
Around you, the operation is already unfolding—medical teams tending the wounded, relief supplies being unloaded, and names being recorded for separated families.
Somewhere beyond the camp, other ICRC teams are visiting detainees and carrying news between relatives who have no other way of reaching each other. You hardly notice anymore— after years of this work, everyone simply goes where they’re needed.
A blanket of ash covers buildings that folded over themselves. Stone homes bent at impossible angles with large glassless windows that give insight into whoever lived there.
The smell— concrete, burnt wood and plastic, with a metallic note underneath it all.
“We’ve received reports of survivors in the eastern block,” your supervisor points to a map with a pen.
“Medical team here,” she draws a circle.
“Water distribution,” another circle.
Then she looks at you, with a finger far below.
“I need documentation of the site here.”
You nod without a second thought.
Michael’s eyes bulge with a gulp.
“Interview anyone able to speak. Record names if possible. We need to know who’s still here.”
Michael adjusts the straps of his backpack.
You answer before he finishes.
He frowns, frustrated eyebrows pushing against each other to form a T.
“I know, Michael, but please. You can help by staying exactly where I know you are.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
You shush him with a quick kiss.
“I’ll be back before dinner.”
Your hands hold his cheeks as you search his eyes for understanding.
“Please be careful. Promise you will.”
He caresses, then holds a hand of yours on his face.
Then another peck goodbye— for good measures.
He watches as you vanish into the smoke, blinding the horizon with each step that seemed to create more debris.
Three hours snowball into four, then five.
The afternoon dissolved to evening, and evening to night.
Michael finished all busy work assigned to him hours ago—pitching the tent, stacking blankets, filling water containers—and he roamed like a headless chicken, expecting your return.
He must’ve asked the other volunteers, “Have you seen her?” at least twice each.
Only one ever came back with a response other than ‘no’, saying that you were still searching.
The word gave him a heartache every time his mind revisited the thought.
With every shadow, his face lit, only to droop back down after realizing it wasn’t you.
Everyone shared dinner in a single tent— but not Michael.
What if you get back and don’t find him?
What if you wanted to eat dinner with him?
Besides, the apprehension he had made it impossible to stomach anything.
Eventually— footsteps. Slow, uneven.
Your back curls like a burnt wick. Your pants tanned from dust and dirt, swallowing your entire lower half whole.
Your journal hangs loosely from your pocket.
His heart stops at the sight of you.
You face the tent disoriented, as if you’re confused how you even stumbled upon it.
“Michael,” you manage to mumble out.
He immediately stands to hold you gently from behind your shoulders, lifting a hand of yours to inspect.
“Do we still have those clean rags?”
You wipe dust out of your eye with the back of your wrist.
He tries to maintain composure through his tone, but his heart thumps out of his chest.
Your legs can barely hold your weight, loosening in the tent until Michael clasps you from falling to your knees.
“I can't—,” you shut your eyes forcefully, “— I can't get it off, Michael.”
He doesn't ask any questions— he doesn't ask whose blood it was, what happened, or even why you came so late.
He fetches a metal basin, pours water, and kneels in front of you.
“C’mere, my sweet angel.”
With his bare hands and his shirt as a cloth, he scrubs the shaking hands of your otherwise motionless body.
His touch is so impossibly gentle against your sensitive hand.
With every wring, the water turns pinker, and his touch grows softer.
He cleans beneath each fingernail, across every knuckle.
The blood had dried into the ridges of your palms and fingerprints.
You watch him through unfocused eyes.
“There was a boy under the rubble.”
“He—um— asked if I came for help.”
Your eyes glaze at the wall.
“He startled me, so I dropped my pencil.
“When he tried to pick it up for me—he- I just—”
Michael swallows and continues drawing circles on your palms.
Your breathing becomes uneven.
A silent tear landed quietly on your palm.
He sets the cloth aside and dries them with a new one.
Without saying a word, he leans towards your position on the floor and gathers you against his chest.
Your forehead presses into the hollow beneath his chin.
Only then did your body finally give in.
Exhausted sobs shake your core while he holds you as tightly as he dared.
One hand cradles behind your head and the other rests between your shoulder blades.
The most he can do is hold you and occasionally peck your forehead while you cry.
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