đŁČDoctors Ordersđ©șâ€
âą Content: Sick!michael x gf!reader, established relationship, sickfic, TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF!!!, caretaking, mild kissing, bad tour, NO USE OF Y/N
âą Summary: Michael is stubborn, insisting he can follow through with the concert despite being sick. You take it upon yourself to nurse him back to health. Unfortunately, your patient is clingy, stubborn, and much more interested in being pampered than following actual doctorâs orders.
‷ Requested by: @pmak2002 âčđč
The sports arena is unbearably warm on this nippy November evening.
Backstage, bodies and equipment occupy every creviceâ racks of clothing wheel through narrow halls, crew members duck beneath cables, and walkie talkies crackle over one another.
Beyond the walls, thousands of roars bleed together to form one uniform hum.
Youâve always enjoyed watching Michael just before he performs.
Thereâs something incredibly captivating about his transformation.
One moment, heâs gentle and clumsy, asking where he left something right in front of him and sneaking kisses when no oneâs around. But when the lights dim, something switches; his alter egoâ the formidable class act performer that leaves women and men spellbound.
Tonight, however, nothing has switched.
You find him in his dressing room in front of a mirror, half-dressed and unusually still. His curls rest perfectly along his hairline, buckles climb his pants, and his jacket hangs in a garment bag.
Yet he sits quietlyâ suspiciously quiet.
The smile comes immediately.
A hoarse rasp came through.
You stare at him for a moment.
Apparently, somewhere between last night and now, your boyfriend had aged into somebodyâs chain-smoking grandfather.
His voice sounds like it was dragged across concrete.
You stop between his knees.
âDonât lie to me. I know when youâre not feeling well.â
He strokes your hand in hopes you forget the subject.
You press the back of your other hand against his forehead.
âI know what youâre thinking.â
âYou sound like youâve been a chain smoker for forty years.â
âAnd somehow still clearer than anything youâve said all night.â
The attempt turns into a cough.
Your amusement disappears.
âI just need water, is all.â
He reaches for the glass beside him.
You look toward the door.
âWhereâs the doctor?â
Michael becomes suspiciously interested in his water, inspecting it like it might provide legal counsel.
âHe said my vocal cords are swollen.â
âYou didnât even let me finish.â
âBecause whatever you were going to say was gonna be stupid.â
He narrows his eyes, âI can sing.â
âYou canât even argue with me.â
âI can always argue with you.â
It comes out so pitifully scratchy that you have to look away to keep from laughing.
âThis is funny to you?â
You bite down your smile but your eyes give you away.
âIâmâ haâ no! Iâm admiring your optimism, baby.â
You brush a curl from his forehead.
âBaby, you know youââ
âTheyâre already out there, though.â
Any bit of humor in the air disappears.
You can hear the thundering fans through the walls.
Thousands of people who drove here, waited outside, and bought tickets months ago.
âSome of them came from other states.â
âI did last night. I can do tonight.â
His voice cracks on the last word.
Michael gives you one back.
The physician enters with someone from the tour.
Michael straightens his posture before either of them speak.
His hand reaches for yours.
The arena doesnât quiet immediately.
The crowd remains a distant roar behind the walls while backstage doesâ radios lowering, hurried footsteps slowing, the night dismantling itself around a show that never began.
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Los Angeles passes beyond the tinted windows in smears of headlights and neon streaks while the arena gradually disappears behind you. Michael sits tucked into the corner of the leather seat, defeated, with his forehead resting against the cold glass.
âYou came to watch me.â
âMe? There were thousands of people in that arena, Michael.â
âI know,â he sinks farther into his coat.
âBut I wanted you to see it.â
âIâve seen your shows.â
Your eyes soften at his disappointment.
âBesides, Iâve seen you rehearse it. Iâve seen you perform it. Iâve seen you do half of it in the bathroom with considerably less clothesââ
His head snaps toward you.
He tries not to laugh, producing some horrible wheezing noise instead.
âDonât do that,â you scold, already laughing yourself.
He rolls his eyes, but his hand crosses the seat and finds yours anyway.
You thread your fingers through his and let him continue to sulk.
âŠâàŒ»ââčâżâËáŻœ ĘËËđąÖŽà»ê„ Ë° đ„ ĘË â âč âàŒșââŠ
The hotel room is just as bright as a November evening will allow, and considerably warmer than the arena.
Michael barely steps foot through the door before you dismantle whatâs left of the showâ his jacket lands on a chair, his buckles follow, then jewelry.
His curls fall onto his forehead after you combed your fingers through them.
He sits on the edge of the bed with thumbs drawing circles on your hips while you wipe his makeup.
With every pass of the cloth, another trace of the stage disappearsâ liner, powder, whatever remained of the man a venue packed with people had been waiting to see.
âSo you can follow directions.â
Michael gives you the finger with a proud smile.
âAt least we know your fingers aren't affected.â
He raises his eyebrows with a proud smirk.
âBeing sick has made you very disrespectful, sir.â
You catch his face between your palms, feeling the heat still sitting beneath his skin.
You laugh and lean down to kiss him.
Your lips land on his cheek.
âThe hell? Did you just dodge me?â
âDonât wanna get you sick.â
It lands on his other cheek.
âOh? Is that how it is?â
One cheek, then the other.
Michael squirms away with shoulders shaking with a laugh heâs trying desperately not to let out.
âShh. Doctor said vocal rest.â
His raised eyebrows noted the audacity of your refusal to comply with his wishes.
The grin on his face wanted you to continue.
âŠâàŒ»ââčâżâËáŻœ ĘËËđąÖŽà»ê„ Ë° đ„ ĘË â âč âàŒșââŠ
Ten minutes later, the nightstand resembles a small pharmacyâ stacked bottles of medicine, tissues, water, a thermometer, and the tea youâre stirring honey into while Michael watches from under hotel blankets.
You pay him no mind and continue stirring.
âCome back now, please.â
His pillow flattens his curls, and his eyelids are swollen, heavy with exhaustion.
âCanât, baby. Making you something.â
âYou canât sweettalk your way out of being sick.â
âItâs not working?â
Your hands cradle the mug while you bring it over.
The second you sit down, both arms wrap around your waist, trapping your arms against your side.
âI need my arms, please.â
He groans and tightens his grip.
âHow am I supposed to take care of you?â
His face buries against your side.
You laugh and manage to free one arm.
He reluctantly obeys, taking a sip before immediately scrunching his nose.
âOh pleaseâ Itâs just tea and honey, drama queen.â
Michael points at you accusingly.
âYes, sure, whatever. Drink.â
âI'm not arguing with a damn finger.â
By the time he finishes enough to satisfy you, his eyes are practically shutting themselves between sips.
You wipe the corner of his mouth with your thumb and press your palm to his forehead.
His eyes close completely against your touch.
âYou really feel awful, huh?â
âWhy didnât you tell me sooner?â
âDidnât want you worrying.â
You brush a curl from his forehead.
âYou know youâre allowed to need me too, right?â
You tilt your head to admire how adorable he looks in his needy position.
âFeverâs made you quite the charmer.â
You reach for his medicine.
His mouth reluctantly opens.
âThere we go,â you whisper into a smile.
You reward his suffering with a kiss to his forehead before pulling the blankets higher around him.
Michael watches you rearrange his pillows and tuck the covers around his shoulders.
His eyes are slits that sink deep into a drunk smile.
His arms catch you before you can move again, pulling you beneath the blankets with him.
âYouâre doing too much.â
âIâm taking care of you.â
He settles his head against you.
You pretend to resist with a tickled laughter, but your fingers are already running through his hair.
Within minutes, the smart-ass comments end and his breathing slows against your chest.
Outside, Los Angeles still glows through the hotel curtains, completely unmoved by the concert that never happened.
Inside, Michael only burrows deeper against you, warm and heavy with sleep as his fingers loosely strum against your stomach.
Just before he drifts off, his hand lazily finds yours beneath the blanket.
The corners of your mouth dent into your warm flushed cheeks.
You kiss his warm forehead.
Your eyes shut deeper into your smile.
âYou hardly even let me.â
A lazy grin pulls at his mouth.
âStill liked it, though.â
Thousands of fans had hoped to see Michael Jackson, the musical genius and world-class performer.
You got the sleepy, clingy version curled against your chest instead. You wouldnât have traded him for anythingâ not even the show.
