He Knows My Name
Chapter 2
Synopsis: Working backstage at The Michael Jackson Company LLC was supposed to be simple: keep your head down, do your job, and go home. But when strange coincidences begin piling up, you're left wondering if they're really coincidences at all—or if one of the most famous men in the world has quietly been watching you all along.
Tags: Stalking, watching, no porn (yet), anon reader, mysterious Michael, Invincible era, mature Michael, young-ish reader, slow burn, creepy Michael and freakier reader.
Note: This is my first Michael fic. I write fanfic on AO3, but it's lowkey abandoned. This is ongoing, and I do work, so hang in there with me. I have a trailer edit to go along with this fic, so let me know if you want to see that. There will be a happy ending depending on whether you think it is happy, and there WILL be smut later on >:)
wc: 1.3k
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Your job isn't important in the long run. Or at least it doesn't feel like it. You work for The Michael Jackson Company LLC., helping behind the scenes, filing paperwork, helping with costumes and props, running errands, and making sure rehearsals stay on schedule- the things the famous pop singer Michael Jackson wouldn't notice. You work tirelessly and endlessly. Not quite making minimum wage, but feeling like you are. The amount of work you do goes unnoticed in such a large company. Not that you aren't grateful for this position; you really are. But the days move fast and quickly. Work, home, sleep, repeat. Just another face in the crowd of production, an already oversaturated field.
As Michael Jackson's new album Invincible is in the works to be released, work picks up. Back and forth picking up costumes, paperwork, and things needed for important people. You've seen Mr. Jackson only once or twice in passing. He certainly doesn't know your name or even knows that you work under his company. The first time you saw him, it was passing in the hallway of the company building, somewhere he rarely is. You pass him in the long, bland hallway; he smiles politely at everyone, including you. His eyes pass over you once before moving on. You think nothing of it. Obviously, your nerves are off the wall; he is still Michael Jackson after all. But that small interaction went on, and so did your day. The second interaction was behind the stage. You had just entered the arena building to help work on the set. As you went to pull your I.D badge out, security waved you through without checking it. Confused, you walked through the metal detectors. Someone in security says, "Mr. Jackson requested another assistant." Which is weird because the last time you checked your schedule, he already had twenty assistants that day. He couldn't have requested you specifically. Michael never spoke to you that day. He was on stage for hours rehearsing, voice echoing through the building as he prepared his vocals. You look up during rehearsal while managing some plugs and extensions, feeling like someone is watching you. Your back burns with notice. Across the hundreds of people walking, their own lives busy with work, across the room on stage, he's looking. You don't want to look. You don't want to make things weird. You don't want to assume everything is about you. But the moment you look up and your eyes meet, he looks away at inhuman speeds. He's probably looking past me, at someone important. But the more you work, every time you come into work while he is there, you notice that you've never once initiated eye contact with him. Every single time, it feels like he's already looking before you happen to glance up. And every time he looks away. As time passes, you feel like it isn't a coincidence anymore. Maybe you're crazy; it's all in your head. There are thousands of employees under his company. Why does it feel like he's just looking at you?
It's the small things. You're convinced it's confirmation bias until it keeps happening. You change departments for a week. Somehow, he starts rehearsing in that building instead. You start intentionally standing in different places during rehearsals just to prove you're imagining it, making things up. Somehow, his eyes still find you. None of his security or close assistants watch you. They go on helping Michael, ignoring you as every other member of staff does. You don't tell anyone, of course. Not your mom, not your friends. Especially not your coworkers. It would make you look like every other crazed fan. “Michael Jackson looked at me! He's in love with me!” But you're not in love with him. He's a very handsome man, even at the age of 42. But you're not convinced he's in love with you. You're hoping he noticed your work and is impressed. But that couldn't be the case; he only sees you during his rehearsal. Any time in the office, he is never there. Brought up in meetings, on the phone with one of your many bosses, but never physically there.
There are moments when you feel like you're actually going crazy. Losing your shit with some crazy conspiracy theory that you have in your head. The rain doesn't start until the last hour of your shift. By the time you clock out, it's 11:34, and the rain is coming down in sheets, bouncing off the dark parking lot. You sigh, patting your bag anyway, hoping an umbrella had somehow found its way inside when you rushed to get ready for work that morning. Nothing. How convenient. It's only a short walk to your car, so you pull your jacket over your head and step under the awning, debating whether it's worth waiting for the rain to stop. A voice beside you makes you jump.
"Miss."
You turn. One of the security guards is standing a few feet away. You've seen him before—always somewhere behind Michael, you've never spoken to him the entire time you've had this job. He holds out a large black umbrella.
"For you."
You blink. "Oh—no, it's okay." You smile politely, waving a hand. "I'll be fine." You're far too shy and polite to accept anything. A kind protest, if you will.
But he doesn't lower it. "Mr. Jackson insisted."
Your smile falters. "...I'm sorry?" You think you misheard him. Michael? As in Michael Jackson?
The guard only gives a small nod, as though that is supposed to explain everything. You glance over his shoulder instinctively as if this is some prank. Three black SUVs are already pulling away from the curb. You squint through tinted windows; you can't see inside.
"I think you've got the wrong person," you say, half laughing, tucking a hair behind your ear, a nervous habit.
His response is a deadpan stare. "I don't." The reply is calm. Certain. He places the umbrella in your hand before you can protest again. "Have a good evening."
Then he's gone. No explanation. No conversation.
Within seconds, he's climbing into the last SUV, the door shuts, and they disappear into the rain. You stand there under the awning for another moment, the unopened umbrella feeling strange in your hand. Maybe they had extras. Maybe someone told him an employee forgot theirs. Maybe he did this for everyone. You look around the parking lot. Everyone else is sprinting through the rain. Huh.
By the time you reach your car, your shoes are soaked anyway. You toss your bag onto the passenger seat and fold the umbrella closed. For a moment, you just sit there. The windshield blurs beneath the rain. The sound calming.
"Mr. Jackson insisted."
The words replay in your head. It doesn't make any sense. He doesn't know you. You've never spoken to him. You're one of hundreds of employees who disappear into the background every day. There is no reason he should have noticed you. You shake your head and laugh quietly to yourself. It was a nice gesture, nothing more.
You start the engine. As your headlights sweep across the lot, they catch the line of three black SUVs waiting at the exit. One by one, they pull onto the road. The last SUV pauses just for a second. The rear passenger window was lowered almost all the way down, not enough for anyone else to notice at this time of night, not enough for you to clearly see inside, but enough. You catch the outline of a pale hand resting against the edge of the window. An outline of a man. Then the window glides shut, the last SUV driving off into the night. No one seems to have noticed.
You drive home trying to convince yourself that it was just another normal day at work. A kind gesture from the boss. Key word is try. You don't believe yourself.
