SUMMARY:
What was supposed to be one gap year after high school has stretched into several, but you’re finally getting closer to the financial goal you have for college tuition. What better way to push yourself over the finish line than being a surrogate in Los Angeles? But when the fertility agency sends Michael Jackson instead of a typical wealthy Beverly Hills couple to your door, you’re not entirely sure what to expect.
Spanning almost a year of quiet milestones, public scrutiny, and a hazy LA backdrop, this story follows a regular woman completely upended by the magnetic and elusive world of a celebrity father and his three kids. What starts as a hands-off arrangement slowly transforms into an intricate and painfully complicated entanglement. As you’re woven into the fabric of Michael’s life, the invisible boundaries between surrogate and client begin to dissolve.
pairing: mature era!michael x f!reader. 18+, MDNI. pregnancy/surrogacy (obviously), slow slow SLOWWW burn, oblivious reader AND oblivious MJ, pregnancy symptoms, long ass phone conversations (yk how mj was running up that phone bill), age gap (reader is mid twenties), mutual pining, timeline inaccuracies/discrepancies (please let’s just pretend bill is 15 years younger than he actually is bc we all know that man would not realistically be working for MJ in the 2000s), the trial never happened in this universe because EYEEE said so, MJs kids being a menace but also lowkey the best wingmen (wingchildren??) ever, graphic depictions of childbirth and labor, a bit of angst but it gets resolved, kissing, eventual smut, FLUFFFFF, and a happy ending because duh!
hellooooo to everyone new and welcome back to anyone that was here since this story was a wee little idea in my head!! thanks so much for all the love on the first chapter/part of EMNIICHY! if i liked your comment on the first part then you've been added to the taglist. also i suck at responding to comments pls don't take it personal :,) anyway, enjoy!
You had just finished weighing yourself, and you rub your eyes as your pen scratches in the notes section in the back of your What to Expect book, keeping track of your weight gain for the obstetrician as instructed.
Net negative. Again, you think to yourself, letting out a heavy sigh of disappointment. You’re sure Dr. Renner, your assigned OB, will be annoyed to hear this. You had only met with the man a couple of times, but there was something judgy in his demeanor that put you at unease in his office.
Your condition happened so out of the blue, especially considering how breezy your first three weeks of pregnancy were. It was around the end of the four week mark that things started to change. Your mother insisted on feeding you all your favorite foods, and you happily obliged, secretly excited at the opportunity to be babied by your mom for the next nine months. But things took a turn when you suddenly started throwing up everything you ate. All of your mom’s favorite recipes, your go-to take out spots, even small snacks; you couldn’t keep anything down. Your throat grew sore and painfully raspy from the constant stream of stomach acid coming up your mouth, the enamel on your teeth fighting not to wear away from the attacks. It got to the point where the only thing you could keep down was saltine crackers and plain water sipped very slowly through a straw; even that would make you nauseous sometimes, but at least the pitiful excuse for a “meal” would stay in your stomach long enough to become digested instead of ending up in your toilet bowl. You didn’t look pregnant, but you definitely felt pregnant.
You were at your absolute wits end, having spent the better half of the past two months in agony, and your OB wasn’t making it any better at your twelve week appointment.
Dr. Renner sighs heavily after looking at your ultrasound and measuring the baby. He takes another glance at your vitals chart before taking off his tiny glasses, squinting his wrinkled blue eyes into a hard glare.
“The nurse clocked you in at four pounds lighter than your baseline. Are you trying to starve this baby?" he accuses you, crossing his arms. You feel your whole body light up in equal parts shame and anger.
"Wha- of course not,” you reply swiftly, a bit shocked by the outrightness of his baseless accusation. “It's just, it's been extremely difficult for me to keep food down the past couple of months. I'm really not sure why. It seems to go beyond what I thought was normal morning sickness," you continue honestly. "One of my cousins had morning sickness when she had her first, but she was still able to eat, at least. And my mother never had it at all, so I’m kind of upset I got it this bad."
“…Right. And you are aware that weight gain is necessary, not optional, during a pregnancy?” he continues to interrogate, looking you up and down. “The priority is the developing fetus, not your figure.”
“Y-yes, of course,” you frown. Your tone doesn’t come out as sharp as you would like it to.
"Well, I suggest you make an effort and try harder to eat more, hm? It's imperative that this baby is healthy, especially when you have everything you need in place to make that happen," he warns slowly in a voice dripping with contempt.
“I am,” you reply defensively, surprised at the feeling of a lump growing in your throat. He ignores the shake in your voice as he writes in your chart. The pen scratches sharply, the sound echoing in the sterile room as he scribbles notes onto the thick paper. You watch with a blank stare, blinking your eyes rapidly to stop the tears threatening to form behind your eyes. Without looking up from his handwriting, he caps the pen with a final, dismissive snap and slaps the folder shut.
“Luckily for you, the baby is measuring normally despite your… antics. However, if this continues, we’ll have to put you on a high-calorie diet to make up for your deficits, likely with meal replacement shakes,” he says, folding his arms. “When I see you for the sixteen week appointment I want to see weight gain, not weight loss. Got it?”
There isn't enough energy left in your chest to argue, or to tell him that the shakes he’s threatening to feed you would probably just end up in the toilet bowl anyway. A simple nod is all you can manage, knowing that any attempt at speaking would cause your voice to shatter completely. You zone out for the remainder of the appointment, only free after he finally got up and left the examination room.
Clutching your bag like a shield, you force your legs to move, desperately holding onto what’s left of your composure as you flee the office. The elevator doors slide shut with a quiet hiss, isolating you in the mirrored box before your trembling finger presses the silver P button for the parking garage.
The urge to break down burns behind your eyes, but you hold it in, counting the seconds until you reach the safety of your car. Only after the heavy vehicle door clicks shut, and a frantic glance through the windows confirms the garage is empty, do you finally let the first tear slip down your face.
The first call comes unexpectedly, in the late afternoon, a few days after the OB appointment from hell. You had tried to eat a plain salad for lunch, testing the waters to see if your stomach would cooperate. Having saltine crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner was slowly but surely starting to drive you into a state of psychosis. But of course, it ended like you hoped it wouldn’t, but knew it would—arms bracing the toilet, and your throat burning in protest as the regurgitated lettuce got flushed down. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that you had thrown up since you dared to deviate from your safe foods, and you’re cruelly reminded of how painful the sensation of vomiting was. It didn’t help that your mom looked at you with pity every time you ate; it absolutely tore her up inside to know there was nothing she could do to fix whatever was going on with you.
So you laid on your side in bed, eyes fixed on your walls as you clutched your pillow tight and prayed for sleep that didn’t seem to be coming as the sun started drooping lower in the sky. The noise from the phone ringing caught you off guard, mostly because you had been sitting in silence for the past half hour. You don’t recognize the number on the tiny green screen, and in your condition you almost let it ring to voicemail, but you decide against it and pick it up anyway.
“Hello? I hope I have the right number… it’s me, Michael.”
You sit up straight so fast the room starts to spin a bit.
“Oh! Um, hello,” you croak out, cursing yourself for sounding so awkward. Truth be told, you weren’t expecting to see or hear from him again until after the baby was born.
“I hope it’s alright that I got your number; I know it isn’t the usual way of doing things. I asked the clinic,” he tells you. The slight hint of nervousness in his voice strangely puts you more at ease.
“I had to beg them, really; they thought it wasn't the best idea for you to have my number, but… I feel like I can trust you. I’m sorry that it took me this long to reach out, actually. I’m not bothering you, am I?” Something clatters with a soft, muffled thud on his end of the line—maybe he was taking off his shoes?
“No, of course not,” you shake your head, even though he can’t see you.
“Good, good. I’ve been meaning to ask you… how’s your eating? I heard your stomach was giving you trouble, and, uh... I just wanted to check in on you. How have you been feeling?”
The pulse in your neck starts to hammer away unnaturally fast as you chew your lip. You almost open your mouth to ask him how he even knew that, but then you remember you probably signed something somewhere that said he could be updated on your medical condition throughout the pregnancy. You take a quiet deep breath before you answer.
“Um, not so great,” you admit, toying with the gold tassel on your pillowcase. “It’s just– it’s been hard to keep food down and I’m not entirely sure why. Nothing has really helped so far.”
“What did the doctor say?” he asks anxiously.
"Um... well, he mostly just said it should get better. Eventually," you lie. Your stomach growls, and you pray he didn't hear it over the phone.
"That's it?" You can practically hear his frown over the phone.
"Um," is all you can manage to say. You can feel your throat tightening up and you absolutely hate yourself for it. You don't want to start bawling over the phone with Michael Jackson, for crying out loud.
"What is it? You can tell me," he encourages you, seemingly sensing your hesitance.
"I mean, it was nothing, really; kind of embarrassing. It was a throwaway comment, so I’m not sure why I’m so hung up on it," you tell him, trying to sound nonchalant. You laugh to stop your voice from breaking. "He just... kind of accused me of, like, trying to starve the baby. Which I would never, ever, ever in a million years try to do. And the baby’s doing great, actually! But I’m not,” you ramble with a tearful chuckle. “It's just– my body’s just working against me for some reason. And I thought it was normal morning sickness at first, but I can barely even keep water down, and I really am trying my best, I swear," you ramble all in one big breath.
It's silent for a few moments over the line, and you immediately worry if you've said way too much for what was supposed to be a casual check-in conversation.
You hear more soft rustling, a faint, distant stream of dialogue from what you assume is a TV turned down low, and a pause before he answers.
"We need to get you a new doctor," he says suddenly, after what seems like an eternity. "I know the office is probably closed right now, but I'll get on that first thing tomorrow."
You feel your stomach drop, causing you to nearly retch again at the sensation thanks to your current state.
"Wait, I… I didn't mean for anyone to get in trouble,” you say cautiously. “I think… I'm a bit more sensitive emotionally to things because of the hormones or whatever. I'm sure he didn't mean it that way."
"No one's in trouble," he reassures you. "It would just give me a bit of peace of mind to know you have a doctor who actually, y’know, listens to you. Dr. Renner came at the recommendation of the agency, but I’m gonna ask around. You'll have a new one by your next appointment."
"I... thank you, Mr. Jackson," you say shakily.
“You can call me Michael, it’s alright,” he corrects you gently. “I’ve had my fair share of mean doctors. No need for you to go through the same.” When he adds your name on to the end of his sentence, you feel your breath hitch, just a little.
“Right, Michael,” you reply, the name sounding strangely foreign and familiar at the same time on your tongue. “Thank you. Um, have a nice rest of your night.”
“You’re very welcome. Sleep well, alright?”
You don’t wait to see if he’ll hang up first, your trembling hands clattering the phone into its receiver before you plop back on your bed and hug a pillow to your chest.
What the hell was your life? Did that really just happen? Did you actually just have a phone conversation with Michael fucking Jackson in your bedroom? Or have you finally puked up so much that the lack of nutrition was getting to your brain and causing you to hallucinate the whole thing?
That question gets answered the very next day. Your reading time is interrupted abruptly by the doorbell ringing shrilly through the house at 1:00 p.m. sharp. The door opens to a delivery man wearing a slightly wrinkled cardboard brown uniform, cap pulled tight over his thinning hair. What really catches your eye is what he’s holding: a huge bouquet of white peonies and daisies that were so uniform and so perfect that they almost looked fake, sitting inside an ornate glass vase with a pale yellow ribbon tied in a bow around its middle. A sharp inhale in surprise escapes you, and your nose inadvertently takes in the light, sweet fragrance coming from the blooms. The delivery man’s voice is muffled behind the flowers when says your name to confirm he has the right place, and you step aside to give him the space to set them down inside.
“Just sign here,” he instructs, holding up the clipboard with mild disinterest. You scribble your signature before thanking him and shutting the door. You bend down to pick up the bouquet, wrapping both arms around it as you carry it to the dining table—it’s so large that it completely obstructs your view as you walk slowly to avoid bumping into anything. There’s an envelope nestled in the back, and your fingers brush past the silky petals as you pluck it out. Only your name is written on the envelope in curious handwriting that was a mix between print and cursive, albeit still legible. You open it to a thick piece of cream-colored cardstock with a note that reads:
I hope these flowers cheer you up and I hope you feel better. I promise to call more often and check in on you. Thank you for everything you are doing to give me the greatest gift possible.
You re-read the note a few times, slowly blinking in disbelief.
“He probably signs all his notes that way,” you shrug to yourself, trying to remain casual about the choice of sign-off.
Sill, you run your fingers cautiously over each letter of the words, careful not to smudge the ink. It’s the first time in weeks that a genuine smile takes over your face.
“And you said this has been happening since week 4?”
You nod, a bit unused to having a physician be so invested in your medical history. As promised, you have a new obstetrician for your appointment today a couple of weeks after your phone call with Michael. As apprehensive as you were, something about Dr. Gene subconsciously put you at ease. She had kind eyes, keeping them trained on you as you explained the agony you’ve been in for the past two months.
“Yeah… I just want it all to stop,” you say tiredly. You want to talk about how you had grown depressed, how your days revolved around food and nothing else, but you decide not to subject her to your sob story.
“I see,” she nods understandingly. “Well, based on everything you've told me here today, it seems like you may have Hyperemesis Gravidarum.”
The sound of the unfamiliar medical term ringing in your ears snaps you out of your self-pity and back to the reality of the situation.
“What’s that?” you ask, eyes widening in panic.
“Hyperemesis Gravidarum is essentially an extreme form of morning sickness. While regular morning sickness is caused by normal hormonal shifts and usually fades by the second trimester, HG is a severe, relentless wave of nausea and vomiting that causes dehydration and weight loss,” the doctor says gently, leaning forward on her stool to give you her full undivided attention. “It’s not a failure on your part.”
You blink, the word relentless echoing in your mind. It was the exact word you had used to describe your nightmarish life for the past two months.
“So... I’m not starving the baby?” your voice cracks, the raw shame that Dr. Renner had instilled in you leaking out before you could stop it.
“Absolutely not,” she reassures you. “Your body is doing everything it can, but it’s exhausted. The baby is acting like a bit of a parasite right now; he or she will take what they need from your bone marrow and fat stores. You are the one who is starving. Not your baby.”
“Oh wow, okay,” you say, breathing out a sigh of relief. “That’s reassuring to hear—not the ‘I’m starving’ bit, of course, but that the baby is okay.” You pause for a second, letting the full weight of everything she just said sink into your brain. “I’m not a doctor or anything, but I’m pretty sure I need my bone marrow, so. Is there any way to fix this so I can keep it?”
This earns a hearty laugh from Dr. Gene, her eyes crinkling as she appreciates your attempt to lighten the mood.
“Yes, I can tell you that you definitely want to keep your bone marrow,” she smiles.
“Luckily, the treatment is fairly straightforward. We’re going to put you on something called Zofran, which is an anti-nausea medication. It’s perfectly safe for you to take while pregnant, but we’ll start at the lowest dose necessary just to be on the side of caution,” she continues to explain. “Since you’re almost at that second trimester mark, I want you to take it for two weeks before we wean you off and see if your body can more easily digest food on its own after your hormones level out.”
You nod eagerly, unable to stop the tears forming in your eyes.
“Sorry,” you apologize, trying to brush them away. “These are happy tears, I swear. I’m just so excited that I might actually have a chance at feeling normal again.”
“Don’t apologize,” she instructs sympathetically, handing a box of tissues. “HG is not an easy condition to live with. I’m surprised you made it this far without any medical intervention. What did your last OB say?”
“Oh, well…” you sigh, wiping away at your lashes. “He was kind of a ‘mean old man’ type. He didn’t really believe me. I think he thought I wasn’t eating slash making myself throw up on purpose to like, stay skinny or something.”
“What?” Dr. Gene replies incredulously, looking up from the prescription she was writing you.
Dr. Gene shakes her head as she staples your prescription to your visit summary notes.
“That is so disappointing to hear. I mean, HG isn’t very common, but it can also be a very obvious condition to diagnose based on the severity and consistency of the symptoms,” she explains. “If he had just listened to you, you wouldn’t have had to suffer like this.”
You sit with that for a moment, quietly thinking.
“That’s true. But looking back, I… I could have advocated for myself more,” you admit. “I think I just thought that most pregnancies involve quite a bit of suffering. So I didn’t really speak up for myself because I thought it was somewhat normal.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. First-time mom, right? No way you’d have all the answers,” Dr. Gene says. “And with modern medicine, you definitely don’t have to suffer in silence. Not anymore.” She hands you your RX slip and your yellow visit summary page with a warm smile.
“Thank you so much, for everything,” you smile gratefully, standing up to gather your things.
“It’s my pleasure, truly,” Dr. Gene assures you, ushering you to the door. “I’ll see you in a couple weeks, okay? Take care!”
As you make your way back to the car to head to the pharmacy and get your medication, you ponder on one sentence that Dr. Gene had casually said during the appointment.
You were so caught up in her reassurance that you didn’t notice the use of the word mom until now. Surely your patient notes would have informed her of the fact that you are a surrogate?
“I’ll just tell her next appointment,” you tell yourself as you turn the key in your ignition. Technically, you aren’t a mother, right?
Ignoring the strange feeling in your chest at the wording of the doctor’s statement, you pull out of your parking spot and cruise down the busy city street.
“So? How do you feel?” your mom asks, watching you cautiously from the kitchen entrance.
You had taken the medication that night as instructed by the pharmacist and ate something simple—a plate of spaghetti that your mom had made you. You almost braced yourself in between every bite, fully expecting to throw up at the dinner table. But it never came. Even now as you sat cross-legged on your sofa, watching Charmed reruns, your stomach was quiet for the first time in months.
“It’s been hours and I feel normal… I can’t believe it,” you respond with a chuckle.
Your mom lets out a breathless laugh, her shoulders visibly dropping as she leans against the kitchen doorframe. For the past two months, she’d watched you wither away, and seeing a slight touch of life return to your skin has her on the verge of happy tears.
"Thank God," she whispers, walking over to squeeze your knee. "I'm going to head to bed, sweetie. Don't stay up too late."
You nod, turning your attention back to the screen as a commercial for Lowry's Seasoned Salt plays. For the next half hour, your eyes stay trained on the TV, growing heavier by the moment. It was the third head jerk after nearly falling asleep that finally made you get up off the couch and head to bed. The worn carpeting of the stairs dampened your footsteps as you made your way to your room. Your clothes come off and your robe is tied on as your brain moves on autopilot to start your night routine. You’re about to head into the bathroom to brush your teeth when the phone by your bedside rings, startling you into oblivion.
“I really need to adjust the volume of this damn ringer,” you mutter to yourself. You squint at the clock on your wall as you rush over to pick up the phone. 11:53 p.m., it read. Whoever was calling at this hour better have a damn good reason for interrupting your nightly wind-down. But when you see the caller ID, your throat goes dry all of a sudden, and you magically forget why you were annoyed in the first place.
JM flashed on the backlit green screen. You had reversed his initials when you added him to the address book, paranoid your mom might find out who he is, even though it wouldn’t be anywhere near realistic for her to guess that he was the client you were a surrogate for.
Your trembling fingers brush your cheeks as you lift the phone off the receiver and press it against your ear.
"Hey. Did I wake you up?" Michael’s voice is low, a soft, intimate rumble over the tiny speaker pressed up against your ear. You can hear the distant, muffled ambient noise of a TV playing in the background.
"No, I was actually just getting ready for bed," you reply, sitting down on the edge of your mattress. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's great. I just... I knew your twelve-week appointment was today," he says, a little sheepishly. I made sure to write it down myself so I wouldn’t forget. How did it go? Is the baby okay? Are you okay?"
A wave of surprise hits you. With his grueling schedule, you hadn't expected him to remember the exact date, let alone the time.
"The baby is perfect," you smile, your hand instinctively resting on your lower abdomen. "Measuring exactly where they should be. But, um... the new doctor, Dr. Gene—she’s really sweet. She actually gave me an answer about why I’ve been feeling so sick. I have something called Hyperemesis Gravidarum. It’s just a really severe form of morning sickness."
You can hear him suck in a half-breath on the other end of the line. The casual warmth in his voice remains, but there’s a tight, quiet focus that lies underneath his tone. "Severe? Are they putting you on medication?"
"Yeah, actually. A drug called Zofran." You trace a finger over the yellow visit summary sheet resting on your nightstand. "I just took my first dose a few hours ago, and it’s like magic. I actually ate something other than saltine crackers without throwing up."
Another beat of silence passes. You can hear him exhale slowly, a sharp breath through his nose. When he speaks again, his tone is carefully measured, laced with a subtle, protective anxiety that you can't quite decipher.
"Zofran. Yeah, I... I think I’ve heard of it. I'm not sure how strong it is, but just... be careful with it. Doctors like to hand out pills like candy, and your body can get used to them fast. If you start feeling strange, you tell me as soon as possible, okay?"
"I will," you say softly, a bit taken aback by the tinge of sadness in his voice. "The doctor said it's perfectly safe, for the baby and for me. I think she has me on the lowest dose, and it just blocks the signals that are making me nauseous. I should be able to stop taking it in a couple of weeks; it’s not long-term or anything."
"Okay, good," he says, the tension in his shoulders practically radiating through the phone line until he forces himself to relax. A soft, relieved chuckle breaks through his apprehension. "That’s wonderful to hear, really. What did you have? For dinner, I mean."
“Spaghetti,” you tell him. “My mom was watching me like a hawk as I ate, even though I tried to tell her that wasn’t necessary.”
“Can I confess something? I don’t really like spaghetti,” he admits.
“What?” you exclaim, dragging out the vowel of the word. “Who doesn’t like spaghetti?”
“Me. I don’t,” he says simply, although you can practically hear his smile on the other end. A laugh escapes out of you before you can stop it.
“You might be one of the first people in history to feel that way, Michael,” you giggle, his name gliding easily on your tongue when you were previously so afraid to even utter it. “They have to put you in some world record book for this.”
“You think so?” His tone is proud, secretly giddy at having made you laugh. He can’t remember the last time he had a phone conversation this easygoing with someone who wasn’t a family member of his—and honestly, even some of those were not pleasant.
“No, I know so,” you correct him teasingly. You sneak a quick glance at the clock and realize it’s already past midnight. “Do you usually stay up this late?”
“Most nights, yes,” he confesses sheepishly. “I’m a bit of an insomniac, but I don’t really mind. The world is so peaceful at night; no one’s asking anything of you. I know you probably think I’m strange, but… I’ve grown to enjoy it.”
“No, I don’t think you’re strange at all,” you reassure him quickly. “I’m the same way, actually. But ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve been knocked out before nine every night. Probably because I wasn’t eating enough and had no energy,” you laugh tiredly.
“Ah, speaking of,” he says suddenly, as if he just remembered something important. “I was wondering, you know, now that you’re feeling better and all, if my chef could maybe bring over some meals for you every week if that’s alright with you. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy; she can make you whatever you’re craving. Her name’s Kai; she’s real talented.”
You pause, stunned at the generous offer. "Oh, no, Michael—that’s really sweet, but you don't have to go through all that trouble. I don't want to be a burden; and besides, my mom loves to cook for me.”
“You could never be a burden,” he responds quickly. "Your mom is already working so hard, and so are you—you’re carrying my child. Let me do this for you, please. Just tell me what time you want the drop-off.”
A small sound comes out of your mouth as you get ready to protest, your instinctively considerate nature kicking in. But the man is practically begging, and you’re finding it really hard to say no to him for some reason.
“Well, since you’re insisting,” you finally relent. “Thank you, Michael. You’re doing a lot for me.”
“Not more than you’re doing for me,” he says softly. “It’s really getting late. You should get some rest, alright? We’ll talk soon. I hope you sleep well.”
“You too. Wait, actually—last thing, I swear. Thank you so much for the flowers, Michael. That was a really sweet surprise. They made my entire day,” you breathe out, thankful you remembered to bring it up. Truthfully, they had made your entire week, but you decided against admitting that.
“You liked ‘em? I wasn’t sure what your favorite kind was, but… I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”
“Daisies are actually one of my favorites,” you tell him, twirling your robe tie absentmindedly. “They’re beautiful.”
“They reminded me of sunshine,” he says pensively. He pauses for a moment. “And of you.”
“That’s… that’s very kind of you,” you reply, your robe suddenly feeling too hot against your skin. “Well, I hope you can get some sleep too, okay? Goodnight, Michael.”
He wishes you goodnight too, saying your name in a way that makes your pulse race in an uncomfortably familiar way. You nestle the phone back in the receiver hook and flop back onto your comforter, hands folded over your ribcage as your heart pounded in your ears with adrenaline.
“What the fuck?” you whisper aloud into the darkness of your room.
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