Req: Hi, I'm new—srry if did this wrong.
This is for 70s Micheal but closer to off the wall era (he has the notebook full of lyrics n stuff)
Can you do a selectively mute!reader (fem or gn I don't mind) with like a communication notebook. Where they bump into each other on their own personal late night walks, they take each other notebooks and go home afterwards. Realizing it's not their own they try to find one another to return it.
(Apologies if this request is lowkey ahh, and explained poorly; it popped in my head but I didn't know how to finish it moreover, I understand *completely* if this is ignored)
The November air in Encino carried a particular kind of cold that only existed after midnight. Not sharp enough to bite, but enough to settle into sleeves and beneath fingernails. The streets were mostly quiet at this hour, the occasional passing car humming softly with the radio playing quietly within. Porch lights glowed gold against trimmed lawns. Somewhere in the distance a dog would bark occasionally.
You liked walking when the world finally stopped demanding things from you.
During the day, people expected responses too quickly. Teachers, cashiers, strangers, even family sometimes. They waited for words to come out of your mouth with impatient eyes, not understanding that speech sat inside your throat like a locked door.
Tonight was one of the quiet nights.
Your notebook rested safely beneath your arm as you walked. The cover was worn at the edges from constant use, stuffed with folded papers, grocery receipts used as temporary notes, little sketches in the margins. It was your bridge to people, the main way you communicated. You carried it everywhere.
The neighborhood was peaceful enough that you almost missed the figure walking toward you from the opposite side of the sidewalk.
Tall. Slim. Hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat. He walked with his head tilted down slightly. You recognised him instantly anyway. Everyone did.
Still, seeing Michael Jackson in person felt strangely unreal. Not because of the fame exactly, but because he looked so ordinary standing beneath a streetlamp. Younger than magazines made him seen. Tired, maybe thoughtful.
He looked up at the sound of your footsteps.
For a second, both of you startled slightly at finding another person wandering the neighbourhood around midnight.
Then his expression softened.
“Sorry,” he said automatically, stepping aside to give you more room on the sidewalk. You nodded in return.
Usually, that would’ve been the end of it. A polite moment between strangers, nothing more. But as you moved past him, your notebook slipped from beneath your arm, you panicked at the papers threatening to spill onto the pavement.
Before you could crouch down, he bent quickly to grab it first. “I got it,” he said in a soft voice.
His fingers brushed the cover before he paused. Written across the front in faded ink were dozens of little reminders, or phrases.
DON’T FORGET: milk, library book
Alongside those were conversations scribbled between pages, responses written instead of spoken out loud. Michael looked up carefully. Realisation crossed his features almost immediately. Not pity. Just understanding.
“Guess we both carry our lives around,” he joked lightly, holding up the black notebook he had also been carrying. You smiled faintly.
His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than expected, as if waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, his expression never shifted into discomfort the way most people’s did. He simply adjusted naturally.
“You out walking too?” he asked.
You nodded, before flipping open your notebook and reaching into your pocket for a pen. Clicking the pen, you scribbled for a few seconds before angling the book towards him.
His face brightened immediately. “Yeah? Me neither.” He exhaled through a grin and rubbed the back of his neck. “My head gets noisy at night.”
Something about the honesty in his tone made your shoulders loosen slightly. He looked down at the notebook once again, he was clearly a little curious. “You write instead of talk?”
You hesitated only briefly before nodding.
“Okay.” His response came easily. No awkward pause. No pity. Just understanding. “That’s cool.”
Cool. Not strange. Not difficult. Cool. Most strangers when they realised your way of communication was through a notebook was always somewhat spiteful, rude, or ignorant, even if not on purpose. You blushed, you weren’t used to how relieving a single word could feel.
Michael glanced around the empty street before fidgeting with his hands absentmindedly “I usually walk around this area when I’m trying to clear my head. Everybody at my house is asleep by now anyway.” He grinned crookedly. “Well… mostly.”
Michael looked at your messy handwriting before nodding, “yeah.” He pointed vaguely behind him. “Not too far.”
He looked like he wanted to ask more questions but was trying not to overwhelm you with them. You appreciated that. Most people either avoided speaking to you entirely or overcompensated until interactions became exhausting.
With Michael silence felt normal, comfortable. You ended up walking together for nearly an hour. Mostly he talked. About music. Especially about how he’d been writing constantly lately. About melodies waking him up in the middle of the night. About wanting his next album to sound different, more grown, more honest, something that felt a little like freedom.
His hands moved animatedly whenever he got excited, eyes lighting up under the warm glow of streetlamps.
“I got this whole notebook full of ideas,” he said at one point, patting it under his arm. You remembered it as the same one he had shown you earlier. “Lyrics, song titles, random thoughts, some of it is probably terrible.” He laughed softly looking down. “Actually probably most of it is.”
You shook your head frantically, before scribbling:
He smiled at that. Not the polished public smile people watched on television, not the one he was taught to do for the photos either. Something smaller, more real.
By the time two of you circled back toward the intersection where you’d met.
“I should probably head home,” Michael admitted reluctantly. “My Mom’s probably wondering where I am.”
You nodded. For a brief moment neither of you moved. Neither of you wanted this night to end. “Maybe I’ll see you around again?”
You looked down to hide your smile as you wrote one final thing before handing it over.
He laughed quietly at that. “Goodnight.”
You waved once before turning away. And neither of you realised the mistake until hours later.
You discovered it first. The notebook sitting on your bedside table wasn’t yours. At first, confusion barely registered through your tired thoughts. You rubbed your eyes taking a closer look. The cover looked similar enough, same dark leather, same elastic band wrapped around the middle. It looked more neat.
You opened it, pages of hurried handwriting that was most definitely not yours. You frowned tilting your head. The only thing that started back of you was lyrics rather than phrases and previous conversations.
Crossed out verses, song concepts, tiny musical notes drawn into the margins.
Your eyes widened immediately, a small gasp leaving your lips. Not your notebooks. Most definitely not your notebook.
Meanwhile, across the town in Hayvenhurst, Michael was being hit with the same realisation. He’d opened the notebook expecting unfinished lyrics all over the place, instead found your much neater than his handwriting.
Phrases, questions, small observations written in thoughtful detail out of boredom.
Michael stared at the writing. His eyes traced over your gentle writing. He even thought that your handwriting was quite pretty. Then he smiled to himself.
“Well,” he murmured, shutting the notebook carefully as his hand lingered on the cover, “guess I gotta find her now.”
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