Reid

By October 1983, Paul McCartney had developed two favorite hobbies:

1. making music.

2. psychologically tormenting Michael Jackson for sport. In a friendly way, though.

The Say Say Say short film had already turned into complete chaos before filming even officially started.

Bob Giraldi wanted something cinematic.

Not just a music video.

A film.

So suddenly there were horse-drawn wagons, fake saloons, vaudeville routines, medicine-show scams, clown makeup, bar fights, tuxedos, fire gags, and enough costume changes to make the wardrobe department consider unionizing.

The entire set looked like somebody let theater kids run the Wild West.

And in the middle of all of it Michael Jackson was suffering.

Because Paul knew about the crush. Of course he did.

Michael had accidentally revealed it months earlier after making the catastrophic mistake of watching one of Y/N L/N’s films in the studio. And Paul happened to walk in during an emotional scene.

Michael sat cross-legged on the floor completely invested, chin propped against one hand, staring up at the television like the movie personally held his soul hostage.

Paul leaned against the doorway quietly watching for a second. Then:

“Oh, mate… you’ve got it absolutely catastrophic.”

Michael nearly launched off the couch.

“I—wha—what do you mean?”

“Michael,” Paul said gently, “you paused the film when she smiled.”

“That’s film appreciation.”

“You sighed.”

Michael looked deeply offended.

“I did not sigh.”

“You looked like a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankle for the first time.”

Michael threw a pillow at him immediately, his cheeks turning violently red.

Unfortunately after that, Paul noticed everything.

Every time Y/N appeared in a magazine.

Every time Michael casually brought her up for absolutely no reason.

One time during dinner Michael randomly blurted: “She has kind eyes.”

Nobody had even been talking about Y/N.

Jermaine nearly inhaled water laughing.

Paul, however, became significantly worse.

Because unlike normal people, Paul McCartney weaponized information recreationally.

So when Bob Giraldi mentioned needing another actress for the Say Say Say storyline, Paul smiled slowly like a man about to commit a felony.

“Oh,” he said casually. “I know someone.”

Which led directly to Michael sitting on the edge of the stage days later in full costume while Paul wandered over holding a cup of tea and the expression of satan himself.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Michael asked, immediately getting suspicious at Paul looking delighted.

“I called my dear friend, Y/N.”

Michael froze, brown eyes widening a bit.

“…Why.”

“She said yes.”

Silence.

“No.”

“She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“Absolutely not.” Michael stood up, his legs feeling jiggly. “PAUL.”

Bob Giraldi looked up instantly interested.

Paul continued like this was the funniest thing ever. “Oh, and she’s playing your love interest.”

Michael dragged both hands down his face.

“If I’m fast enough I think I can flee the country.”

Paul nodded thoughtfully. “Probably.”

The worst part? Y/N actually owed Paul a favor. A massive one.

A few months earlier she’d gotten stranded halfway through Europe after her passport vanished during a press tour.

Absolute disaster.

The embassy was useless.

Her manager was panicking.

And somehow Paul McCartney himself had called connections and fixed the entire situation within minutes.

“I owe you my firstborn child.” Y/N had cried dramatically down the phone.

Paul immediately replied: “Perfect. I’ll collect eventually.”

Apparently this was him collecting.

And unfortunately for Michael, Paul and Y/N were genuinely good friends.

They’d met backstage at an awards show earlier that year and bonded instantly because both of them were deeply unserious people pretending to function professionally.

Y/N once convinced Paul to sneak out of a Hollywood party through the kitchen because she ‘couldn’t mentally survive another producer explaining cocaine like he invented it.’ Paul laughed so hard he nearly fell down the staircase.

After that they became inseparable.

Linda adored her too. Mostly because Y/N treated fame like an elaborate joke.

One afternoon Linda found her sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter eating cereal straight from the box while wearing sunglasses indoors.

“Bad day?” Linda asked.

Y/N looked emotionally exhausted.

“A man with a ponytail tried explaining jazz to me for forty minutes. Again.” Linda nodded sympathetically. “If that happens one more time I’m banging my head against the wall.”

“Horrific.”

So naturally, the second Y/N agreed to the video, Paul planned specifically to make Michael’s life worse.

“By the way,” Paul added innocently. “she’s obsessed with you too.”

Michael froze on the spot. Again.

“…What.”

“Oh yes,” Paul continued casually. “Terribly embarrassing.”

Michael tried acting calm for maybe four seconds.

Then immediately: “I need you to tell me what she said exactly”

Paul burst out laughing.

Now, standing on the dusty California set waiting for her arrival, Michael looked one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.

He adjusted his suspenders.

Then his curls.

Then his sleeves.

Then the suspenders again.

La Toya, his sister, watched this happen with visible delight. “You know she’s just a person.”

Michael looked horrified.

“That’s not helpful at all.”

Then finally a car pulled onto set. And suddenly nothing else mattered.

Because there she was.

Stepping out into the sunlight wearing a vintage cream-colored dress, dark sunglasses, and hair pinned away from her face.

Michael forgot how breathing worked.

Which was unfortunate timing because Paul noticed immediately.

“Oh, this is gonna be brilliant.” He exclaimed clapping his hands excitedly.

Y/N spotted Paul first.

“Paul!”

She hurried toward him immediately, hugging him tight while Paul laughed.

“You made it!”

“Barely,” she replied dramatically. “I got stuck behind a chicken truck.”

“…Chickens?”

“There was an alarming amount of chickens.”

Then Paul casually turned her toward Michael.

“And here’s your prince.”

Y/N froze.

Because oh. Oh no.

Pictures genuinely didn’t work.

Nobody prepared her for Michael Jackson in real life.

The red shirt.

The suspenders.

The curls falling over his forehead.

That stupidly beautiful face.

And worst of all?

The eyes.

Warm and shy and devastating. All at once.

Michael noticed the exact second she lost composure.

And immediately—immediately—his confidence returned.

Tiny menace.

“Hi,” he said softly.

Y/N stared at him for a second too long.

Then accidentally blurted:

“Oh my God, you look like a real-life Disney prince.”

Complete silence. Brutal, tense silence.

Paul howled instantly.

La Toya cracked up, trying to keep her composure but failing miserably at it.

Michael blinked once.

Then slowly—very slowly—that smug little smile appeared.

“Oh?” he asked softly.

Y/N covered her mouth immediately. “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

Michael tilted his head pretending to think.

“No, no,” he nodded seriously. “Keep talking.”

Paul was wheezing now. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Y/N pointed accusingly at him. “This is your fault.”

“That’s true,” Paul agreed proudly.

Meanwhile Michael looked delighted.

Because suddenly she was the nervous one now.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

He stepped closer slightly.

“Which prince?”

Y/N stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Michael shrugged innocently.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

Paul pointed dramatically between them.

“Oh they’re flirting already.”

“We are not flirting,” Michael replied immediately. Then glanced slowly toward Y/N. “…Right?” The sass in his voice nearly killed her on the spot.

Because Michael had this thing where he acted shy until he realized somebody liked him back. Then suddenly he became playful. Teasing. Dangerously charming.

Like a cat discovering it could knock things off shelves purely for entertainment.

“What, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, the hell?” Y/N blurted out, her palms feeling very sweaty and cheeks already tinted red.

Filming became impossible afterward. Absolutely impossible.

Because now Michael kept messing with her constantly.

Every scene turned into psychological warfare.

During wardrobe fittings Y/N walked onto set and found Michael leaning against the saloon doorway beneath warm stage lights looking genuinely unfair.

Without missing a beat he asked:

“Do I still look like a prince today?”

Y/N nearly walked directly into a lighting rig.

Paul screamed laughing somewhere behind the cameras.

Later during choreography rehearsal Bob Giraldi tried explaining blocking while Michael kept glancing toward Y/N every six seconds.

Finally Bob snapped. “Michael.”

“What?”

“You missed the entire count.”

Michael pointed immediately toward Y/N.

“She distracted me.”

Y/N gasped dramatically.

“ME?”

“You’re staring.”

“I am NOT.”

“You absolutely are.”

Paul looked between them thoughtfully.

“This feels like supervising teenagers.”

Then came the saloon performance scenes.

Which only made everything worse because Michael looked ridiculous in that outfit.

Red sleeves rolled up slightly.

Suspenders hanging loose.

Hair framing his annoyingly beautiful face perfectly.

Smiling constantly while dancing beside Paul.

At one point Y/N sat beside the monitors watching playback while Michael performed.

And unfortunately Michael caught her staring again.

Not casual staring either. Full dreamy expression.

Michael smirked immediately.

Then proceeded to miss his cue because now he got distracted watching her watch him.

Bob Giraldi lowered his clipboard slowly.

“You two are very exhausting.”

Then came the actual filming together.

Which somehow made everything infinitely worse.

Because now Michael had to flirt with her on camera. And unfortunately for him, Y/N turned out to be devastatingly good at acting.

The saloon set buzzed with controlled chaos around them.

Extras in costumes filled tables pretending to drink.

Stage lights burned warm against the wooden walls.

Paul sat at the piano laughing with Bob Giraldi while makeup artists sprinted around trying to keep up with costume changes.

Meanwhile Michael stood near the bar pretending he was completely normal about any of this. He was not.

Because Y/N had changed costumes.

And somehow she looked even prettier now.

Vintage dress hugging her figure perfectly.

Soft curls pinned back loosely.

Lipstick slightly smudged from touch-ups.

And worst of all? She looked extra-confident now.

Bob clapped his hands loudly.

“Alright! We’re doing the saloon performance sequence. Michael, Paul—stick close to Y/N during the chorus. Make it playful. Flirty.”

Paul immediately pointed his thumb at Michael. “Oh, he won’t have trouble with that.”

Michael just glared at him.

Y/N laughed softly into her drink prop and Michael’s entire nervous system betrayed him instantly.

“On your marks, people!”

The music started blasting through the set.

Say, say, say what you want

And suddenly the room transformed.

Michael and Paul slipped effortlessly into performance mode, dancing through the saloon while extras clapped around them.

But every single time Michael passed Y/N she looked directly at him.

Not casually either. Like she was in on a secret.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Which became a massive problem during the second chorus. Bob wanted Y/N interacting more naturally with Michael during the performance.

“Touch him a little!” Bob yelled from behind the camera. “Tease him!”

Paul burst out into laughter. “Oh, this is just cruel.”

The music kept going.

Take, take, take what you need

But don't leave me with no direction

Y/N swayed toward Michael perfectly in rhythm, smiling sweetly while adjusting the front of his suspenders playfully.

Tiny gesture.

Barely anything.

Except Michael visibly malfunctioned. He missed half the next movement entirely.

Paul noticed that and started singing harder to avoid laughing directly into the microphone.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek trying not to smile too much.

Interesting. Very interesting.

Because Michael Jackson—the coolest man alive apparently—was getting shy.

Actually shy.

Then came the next setup: Bob wanted Michael pulling Y/N into the dancing crowd while singing.

Simple enough.

Except the first second cameras rolled, Y/N slipped fully into character.

And oh. Oh no.

Michael wasn’t prepared for all of that.

Because suddenly she wasn’t giggling awkwardly anymore. Now she looked warm. Confident. Playful. Movie-star charming.

She grabbed his hand smoothly as the chorus echoed around them.

All alone, I sit home by the phone

Waiting for you, baby

And Michael completely forgot there were cameras around.

Because Y/N kept smiling at him like that. Like he was genuinely the prettiest thing she’d ever seen. And that unfortunately made him blush. Hard.

Paul clocked it instantly. “Our boy is gone!,” he yelled over the music.

Michael shot him an offended look while still dancing. “I am NOT.”

“You’re blushing at the camera, though!”

Y/N burst out laughing at that, which only made Michael blushes get worse. Because now she looked delighted by how flustered he was.

“Closer! Closer together!” Bob yelled.

Y/N obeyed immediately, one hand sliding lightly up Michael’s chest as part of the choreography while she spun beneath his arm.

Michael felt his soul leaving his body. Gone. Nothing behind the eyes.

The man looked too stunned to speak.

Y/N noticed and the menace returned.

She leaned closer during the next chorus, smiling innocently at him.

“You okay there, prince charming?”

Michael nearly missed the beat entirely. He gulped and nodded lightly.

Paul grabbed onto a nearby table wheezing. “I haven’t been this entertained in so long!” He told no one in particular. “Oh, Linda is going to love this!”

Michael tried recovering. ‘Tried’ being the keyword.

Because then Y/N tilted her head slightly, still dancing with him beneath the saloon lights, and said:

“You know what? I’m done pretending.”

Michael blinked. “…Pretending what?”

Y/N pointed at him dramatically while still moving perfectly to the music.

“You are an actual Disney prince.” She stated.

Paul went completely silent from where he stood.

Michael just stared at her.

Y/N kept going confidently despite the fact her stomach was doing back flips.

“You have the hair, the eyes, the dramatic little outfits—”

“My outfits are not dramatic.”

“Oh please! You look like woodland creatures help you get dressed.”

Michael fully broke.

Actually broke.

He bent laughing helplessly mid-performance, one hand grabbing her waist to steady himself while the other covered his face.

Not cool laughter either. Real laughter. The kind that made his shoulders shake and tummy hurt.

The cameras kept rolling because Bob Giraldi was screaming: “KEEP FILMING KEEP FILMING—”

Y/N pointed at him triumphantly. “See?”

Michael shook his head trying unsuccessfully to recover.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Oh, and you love it.” She teased him. “A little bird told me you kept replaying the scenes in my latest movie where I smiled!”

Michael looked back at her then.

Still laughing.

Still pink-cheeked.

Still holding her waist loosely from the dance.

And very quietly—

“I did, actually.”

That shut her up immediately.

Paul watched the entire thing unfold with the expression of a man witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion.

Then slowly started backing away. “Nope,” he muttered. “I’m leaving before one of you starts writing poetry.”

“This is actually your fault!” Y/N yelled after him.

“Correct!” Paul shouted proudly while retreating toward the monitors.

By the time he reached Linda, she looked up curiously from her chair.

“Well?” she asked. “Are they lovers yet?”

Paul glanced back toward the dance floor where Michael and Y/N were still standing way too close together smiling like complete idiots while the music replayed around them.

Then sighed deeply.

“Worse,” he answered. “They’re idiots.”

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭

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