The blessing. - a love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Y/Nâs reaction to the Michael biopic and seeing Jaafar in costume for the first time.
Authors notes: guys, I never thought I would do a post Michael fic. But here we are. My heart hurts and everyone needs to leave me alone. Enjoy.
Slight trigger warning; post Michael, grief and sadness.
The call came on a rainy afternoon.
Y/N almost didnât answer it.
Sheâd learned over the years that unknown numbers usually brought one of two things, people wanting something from her⌠or people wanting something from him.
And after all this time, nearly two decades later, anything connected to Michael still had the power to crack her heart open without warning.
She sat in the kitchen for a long moment watching the phone buzz against the marble countertop while thunder rolled softly outside.
Then she answered quietly.
The voice on the other end was careful, respectful and very nervous.
And immediately she knew.
Everyone knew it was happening. The internet had been talking about it for months, casting announcements, studio rumors. Endless headlines dissecting every detail of Michaelâs life again like the world still owned pieces of him.
Y/N had avoided all of it.
Couldnât sit through actors reenacting memories sheâd actually lived.
Couldnât survive hearing someone imitate his laugh.
The way he said her name.
The producers spoke gently, explaining that they wanted her blessing, her support and her thoughts.
And then they mentioned Jaafar.
That made her chest ache instantly.
She still remembered him as a little boy running through family gatherings with bright eyes, an even brighter smile and impossible energy, always looking at Michael like he hung the moon.
Now he was going to become him.
âI love Jaafar very much, heâs a very sweet boyâ she said softly.
The room had gone dim around her from the storm outside, rain streaked against the windows while she stared absently at the family photographs lining the far counter.
Michael holding Prince and Paris as toddlers.
Michael asleep on the couch with Blanket curled against his chest.
Michael laughing so hard during some blurry Christmas morning that the photograph itself looked alive.
Her throat tightened dangerously.
âHeâll make his uncle proudâ she whispered.
The producers seemed relieved. Grateful.
Then came the harder question.
For consulting, interviews, personal insights and archival memories.
Across the kitchen, one photograph caught her eye.
It had always been her favorite.
Michael standing in the doorway of their bedroom sometime in the late 90s, grinning at her while wearing those ridiculous gold tour pants just to make her laugh. The image was slightly blurry because sheâd been laughing too hard to hold the camera steady.
For one devastating second, the memory became so vivid she could hear him.
âBaby, admit it I can wear the ever loving gold shit out of these pants.â
The grief hit her so suddenly she had to press a hand against the counter.
She couldnât hand strangers the private pieces of him sheâd spent her entire life protecting.
The world had already consumed so much of Michael while he was alive. She wouldnât survive watching them do it again after death.
When she finally spoke, her voice trembled.
âI canât be part of it.â
There was immediate understanding on the other end. Gentle reassurance. No pressure.
But once she started speaking honestly, she found she couldnât stop.
âItâsâŚâ Her breath shook softly. âItâs too painful.â
Then quieter, âI spent my whole life watching people take pieces of him. Everybody wanted something. His talent. His image. His time. His softness.â Her voice cracked. âBut to me heâs just my husband.â
âHeâs the father of my babiesâ she whispered. âHe was the man who danced with me in the kitchen at two in the morning. The man who couldnât cook pancakes without burning them. The man who cried when our children were born.â
Tears slid down her cheeks silently now.
âAnd I know this film matters. I know people loved him, love him. I know they want to honor him.â She swallowed hard. âBut I cannot sit in a room and explain him like he was a character, I hope you can respect that?â
The rain outside grew heavier.
For a moment nobody spoke.
Then the producer said softly, âWe understand.â
And Y/N believed they truly did.
âBut my childrenâŚâ she said carefully. âThatâs their father too. If they want to be involved, thatâs their choice. Iâll support whatever brings them peace.â
Then finally, âAnd tell JaafarâŚâ Her voice nearly failed her entirely. âTell him itâs ok and to call me.â
A few weeks later, Jaafar came to see her himself.
Y/N opened the door before he could knock twice and immediately saw it in his eyes the pressure, the fear, the desperate need to do this right.
And suddenly she wasnât looking at an actor preparing for a role anymore.
She was looking at a Jackson boy carrying impossible weight on his shoulders.
The second Jaafar hugged her, he broke.
âIâm scaredâ he admitted quietly against her shoulder.
Y/N held him tighter instantly.
âWhat if I donât do him justice?â
Because it sounded exactly like Michael.
That same gentleness. That same fear of disappointing people.
She pulled back just enough to cup Jaafarâs face in both hands, tears already shining in her eyes.
âListen to meâ she said softly. âNobody could ever be him. Not really. Your uncle wasâŚâ She laughed through tears. âMagic. He was magic.â
Jaafarâs eyes reddened immediately.
âBut he would be so proud of you for trying.â
The words barely left her mouth before she started crying properly.
The kind she usually hid carefully from everyone.
Because suddenly she could see Michael so clearly sitting cross-legged on the floor writing music, cradling babies against his chest, kissing her forehead absentmindedly while passing through rooms.
All these years later and still gone.
Jaafar held her while she cried.
And somewhere in the middle of it, Y/N whispered the truth she almost never said out loud anymore.
âI miss him every day.â
The room fell silent after that.
Because there really wasnât anything else to say.
The set was quieter than Y/N expected.
Not silent, film sets never were but muted somehow. Respectful.
Like everyone understood they were handling something fragile.
Golf carts hummed in the distance. Crew members adjusted lighting rigs overhead. Racks of carefully recreated costumes lined the hallways. Everywhere she looked there were pieces of the past stitched back together with impossible care.
And it made her chest ache.
The producer guiding her through the soundstage kept speaking softly, almost reverently.
âEveryoneâs very honored you came today, Mrs Jackson.â
The title still startled her sometimes.
Not because it felt wrong.
Because it still felt so right.
She gave him a small smile and nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag.
Beside her, Prince walked quietly with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.
Y/N glanced at him instinctively.
Heâd inherited it from his father that habit of retreating inward when emotions became too large to hold comfortably.
âYou okay, baby?â she asked gently.
Prince nodded immediately.
She could tell from the way his jaw flexed.
From the way his eyes avoided certain props as they passed.
A fedora sitting on a chair.
A crystal glove beneath protective casing.
Black loafers beside a costume rack.
Tiny things that felt enormous.
Crew members started noticing them as they moved deeper into the set.
Whispers spread carefully down corridors.
âMrs Jackson is here.â
âWow Prince managed to bring his mom.â
Nobody shoved cameras in their faces.
And somehow that kindness almost made it worse.
Because it reminded Y/N how loved Michael still was.
How present he still felt.
A production assistant stopped near a closed soundstage door.
âTheyâre resetting lights right nowâ she explained softly. âJaafarâs inside.â
At the name, Prince shifted beside her.
Y/N reached for his hand automatically the same way she used to when he was little.
The assistant gave them a sympathetic smile before quietly opening the door.
The stage lights glowed soft against an elaborate recreated set Y/N recognized instantly from another lifetime.
A familiar silhouette stood near center stage with his back turned while crew adjusted cameras around him.
Even the way he held still between movements.
For one horrifying second, Y/Nâs heart genuinely believed.
The thought hit so fast and so violently that her breath caught in her throat.
Beside her, Prince stopped walking completely.
The room blurred around Y/N as Jaafar turned slightly during conversation with the director.
Enough to punch straight through years of carefully controlled grief.
Prince made a small sound beside her.
His eyes were locked on Jaafar with this shattered expression she recognized instantly the same look heâd had as a child waking from nightmares after losing his father.
Prince suddenly covered his mouth with his hand and turned away sharply.
And Y/Nâs heart cracked clean open.
Because he looked exactly like Michael when he cried.
She followed him quickly as he walked blindly toward a quieter hallway just outside the soundstage.
The second they were alone, Prince broke.
He bent forward with both hands braced against his knees, trying so hard to stay composed while tears hit him all at once.
âIâI thought I would be okayâ he choked out quietly.
Y/N was at his side instantly.
She pulled him into her arms without hesitation and Prince folded against her like he had when he was small, shoulders shaking as years of grief came rushing back unexpectedly.
âHe looks so much like himâ Prince whispered hoarsely. âFrom far away I justâŚâ
His voice broke completely.
âI knowâ Y/N whispered, tears already streaming down her own face. âI know.â
She held the back of his head carefully, stroking his head while he cried against her shoulder.
And suddenly they werenât adults anymore.
They were just two people missing the same man.
âIâm not readyâ Prince admitted quietly. âI thought I was but Iâm not.â
Because grief dosenât leave.
It simply learned how to sit quietly until something brought it roaring back to life.
Inside the soundstage, someone must have noticed the commotion because voices lowered.
Then footsteps approached carefully.
Y/N looked up through tears just as Jaafar appeared hesitantly in the hallway.
Up close it was somehow even harder.
The gentleness in his eyes.
But unlike the illusion from far away, standing here she could see Jaafar clearly now; too nervous, emotional and heartbroken that heâd caused pain.
The poor boy looked devastated.
âIâm so sorryâ he said immediately, voice cracking. âI didnât mean toââ
âNo,â Prince said quickly, wiping at his face. âNo, no, itâs not you, manâ
Jaafar still looked wrecked.
Y/N saw it instantly the fear that heâd done something wrong. Dishonored Michael somehow.
So despite her own tears, she reached for him too.
The second Jaafar stepped forward, Y/N cupped his face gently the same way she had years earlier.
And for a moment she just looked at him.
The unbearable weight he was trying to carry for all of them.
Then she smiled through tears.
âHe wouldâve loved this, honeyâ she whispered.
Jaafarâs eyes filled instantly.
âOh sweetheartâ Y/N breathed brokenly. âHe already does.â
Jaafar started crying too.
And suddenly all three of them were standing there in the hallway holding onto each other while the massive movie set buzzed quietly in the background.
Three people connected by the same absence.
After a long moment, Prince finally laughed weakly through tears.
âDad would hate us crying this much.â
A watery laugh escaped Y/N immediately because it was true.
Michael had always panicked when the people he loved cried.
âOh, heâd be such a mess right nowâ she agreed softly.
Trying to imitate him despite the lump in her throat, âPlease donât cry, girlâŚâ
Prince laughed harder, covering his eyes.
And for one brief aching second, it almost felt like Michael was there with them too.
Authors note: brb, just going to drown my sorrows with ice cream and tequila.
