Checking on You.
A/N: First MJ story! I have a new obsession now, so I’m finally writing again lol. Everything in this story is purely fictional, so please don’t take anything too seriously.
Most of my stories focus more on emotions—fluff, angst, and all that good stuff. This story is still ongoing, so this is only Part 1/? Also wrote this on wattpad : D (Checking on you - vixento)
Era: This part of the story was during the early 1980’s. During his “Thriller” era.
Summary: You were one of Michael Jackson’s doctors. From the very first meeting, you left an impression that made you impossible to forget. He was the kind of person who always went after what he wanted (in his own way).
Enjoy!
A documentary crew had been following Michael Jackson for a feature about his life, and that day was supposed to be ordinary — just another routine hospital check-up, nothing more.
It also happened to be your first day replacing his previous physician, Dr. Brooks.
Before Michael Jackson and the film crew arrived, one of his managers came ahead to brief you. He carefully explained how the visit would go while nurses passed by outside your office.
“Just act natural,” he told you. “Pretend the cameras aren’t even there.”
You nodded along to every instruction, silently repeating his words in your head and hoping you’d remember everything once they arrived.
After the conversation ended, you returned to your office and waited quietly, the faint hum of hospital activity surrounding you as anticipation slowly settled in.
Most days, you only caught glimpses of him in the hospital halls — quick passing moments where you’d look up just in time to see him walking by, surrounded by security, staff, and people eager for his attention. Of course, you had wanted to say hello before. Anyone would have. But you were working, and you wanted to stay professional.
A sudden knock on your office door pulled you from your thoughts.
You straightened yourself in your chair and looked up just as the door opened. First came the manager you had spoken to earlier, then a cameraman stepping carefully into the room, and finally, Michael.
For a second, the room felt strangely smaller.
You quickly stood from your seat as Michael approached, offering his hand with a soft smile. You returned the smile and shook his hand, trying not to look as nervous as you actually felt.
The two of you sat across from each other while the crew settled around the room, cameras already rolling. You briefly discussed his check-up, keeping your tone steady and professional at first.
But the longer you spoke, the more aware you became of the cameras instead of your own words. Your focus kept slipping — not because of him, but because of the constant feeling of being watched.
How does he do this? you thought to yourself.
You had never liked too much attention. Being constantly observed by strangers made you uncomfortable enough already, and yet for him, this was normal. Cameras in his face. People analyzing every movement. Even a simple doctor’s appointment becoming something public.
“I’m sorry… are they bothering you?” he asked softly.
You looked up at him, slightly caught off guard.
“No, it’s okay,” you replied with a hesitant smile.
But it wasn’t okay.
And judging by the look on his face, he knew that too.
It clearly bothered him that every hospital visit became another public event — another moment documented, observed, and discussed by strangers behind cameras. Even something as simple as a check-up couldn’t just belong to him anymore.
“Okay…” Michael said quietly, studying your expression. “Then is there a problem?”
Your eyes instinctively shifted toward the camera, then toward the manager standing by the door.
“I’m not really allowed to say this on camera,” you said, your tone steady but more serious now. “This is patient information. As a doctor, I’m required to keep it private.”
Michael glanced at you before looking toward his manager, confusion slowly appearing on his face.
“Dr. Brooks usually just… talks through everything on camera,” the manager explained, sounding slightly defensive.
“We’ve never really had an issue before.”
“I’m not Dr. Brooks,” you replied simply. “And I’m not comfortable discussing a patient’s medical details with cameras in the room.”
The manager paused. “We’re not trying to—”
“I understand,” you interrupted gently but firmly. “But I still need you to step outside.”
A brief silence followed.
Michael looked between the two of you before lowering his eyes to his hands, quiet.
“It’s just for transparency,” the manager added carefully. “That’s all.”
“And I respect that,” you replied. “But this is a medical consultation, not a press briefing.”
Another silence settled over the room, heavier this time.
Finally, you added, “You can wait right outside. Nothing changes except the cameras.”
The cameraman slowly lowered his lens, hesitating.
Michael’s manager let out a quiet breath, clearly weighing the situation. After a moment, he finally gave a reluctant nod and motioned toward the door.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s give them a minute.”
Michael stayed silent, his eyes lowered as the crew slowly began filing out of the room. The tension only truly faded once the door clicked shut behind them.
The sudden quiet felt almost unreal.
“I’m sorry about that,” you said after a moment, setting your pen down. “It just… started bothering me the longer we talked.”
You looked up at Michael and noticed the small smile slowly forming on his face, like something inside him had finally loosened. Then came a soft laugh, quiet and almost relieved.
“I really needed that,” he admitted.
“You don’t do that often?” you asked.
“Do what?” he said, glancing up at you.
“Tell people what you want… or don’t want,” you explained gently. “Set boundaries.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, the smile fading into something more thoughtful.
“Honestly?” he said after a short pause. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
A quiet breath escaped him, almost like a laugh without any humor behind it.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Usually things are already decided before I even say anything.”
You frowned slightly. “By who?”
He hesitated before answering.
“Everyone,” he said simply. Then, quieter, “Managers, production, security… people around me.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get a say.”
He gave a small shrug.
“I’m used to it,” he replied. “And if I start saying ‘no’ too much, everything slows down… or turns into a problem.”
Silence settled over the room again.
There was something strangely sad about how casually he said it.
Before you could respond, he looked back up at you, shifting the conversation away almost instinctively.
“So…” he said softly, a faint smile returning. “How are my results, doctor?”
You discussed his results as he listened quietly, his attention steady on you rather than the papers or the movement outside the room.
Your eyes briefly drifted toward the small window on the door. The camera was still there — still recording. The lens was pointed in, catching everything from a distance.
You didn’t acknowledge it anymore.
It didn’t feel worth the distraction.
“…and so far, that’s all I could find in your data,” you said, gently setting the papers back into order on your desk.
“When would be my next session?” he asked.
You checked your calendar, scanning the dates quickly.
“Anytime after next week,” you replied with a small, reassuring smile.
He nodded, but his eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary.
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” you said, standing up and extending your hand.
He stood as well and shook it, his grip warm and steady.
“Just call me Michael,” he said softly, not letting go immediately.
Your gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands, then back up at him.
“I think that would be unprofessional, don’t you think?” you replied, lightly, a hint of a smile breaking through your face.
That earned a soft smile from him.
“Not when it’s just the two of us,” he said.
Before you could respond, the door opened abruptly. The manager stepped in with the crew behind her.
“Michael, you have ten minutes until the next segment,” he said briskly.
You gently pulled your hand back. Michael glanced at the door, then back at you.
“Well… I guess I’ll see you next week then, Ms. [name],” he said with a small smile.
You nodded, matching it as best you could.
“I’ll see you then… Michael.”
He smiled a little wider before turning toward the door and leaving. Once it closed behind him, you immediately sank back into my chair.
For a moment, your mind didn’t fully process what had just happened.
‧₊ ♪˚⊹ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ‧₊ ♪˚⊹
After that day, you went back to work like normal — patients, paperwork, overtime, the usual rhythm of the hospital. But something in your head didn’t quite settle back into place.
It was true what people said. Michael Jackson had a presence that stayed with you in a way you couldn’t easily explain.
Every time you got home, you’d find yourself turning on the television or glancing at the newspaper just to see if he was mentioned. You weren’t a die-hard fan — not like the ones who followed every detail of his life. You liked his music, of course, appreciated his work, but you had your own life too. You were a doctor, after all. There wasn’t time to get caught up in celebrity headlines.
Still… you couldn’t deny it. There was something about him that lingered in your thoughts longer than it should have.
Maybe it was because, in a way, you were both constantly busy with lives that weren’t really your own anymore — just in different ways.
The following days fell back into routine at the hospital. You mostly stayed in my office buried in paperwork, signing forms under the dim glow of your desk lamp as the hours stretched late into the night.
That was when the knock came. You glanced at the clock.
12:35 a.m.
You stood and walked slowly toward the door, opening it carefully.
A figure stood outside in a long trench coat, hat pulled low, sunglasses covering most of his face. For a second, you simply studied him.
The smile gave it away before anything else.
It was Michael.
“Hi,” he said softly. “Is it okay if I come in?” His eyes searched your face for an answer.
Your attention snapped fully to him.
“Yes, of course,” you replied immediately, stepping aside and opening the door wider.
He slipped inside, and you closed it behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, he relaxed slightly, beginning to remove his “disguise” — the hat, the sunglasses, the coat.
“…Mr. Jackson, I wasn’t expecting you today… or tonight,” you said, still trying to understand what was happening.
He let out a quiet, almost tired laugh.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I wasn’t expecting myself to be here either. And yet… here I am.”
He finished taking off his coat, folding it loosely over his arm.
You sat back down slowly, still processing his sudden appearance in your office at nearly 1 a.m.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?” you asked, keeping your tone steady. “Is there any problem? Are you—”
“I’m okay, I’m fine,” he said quickly, almost reassuring you before you could even finish your sentence. “I just wanted to come see you and—”
The sudden ring of your desk telephone cut through the room.
You both paused.
Your hand moved automatically, reaching for the receiver on your table. The sound felt unusually loud in the quiet office, especially at this hour.
You picked it up.
“Dr. [name] speaking,” you answered softly.
“Good evening, Dr. [name]. This is one of Mr. Jackson’s managers,” came the voice on the other end.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to call this late at night but Is Mr. Jackson with you?”
Your eyes lifted to Michael. He was already looking at you, nodding quickly and almost frantically, silently telling you no.
“…Um,” you hesitated for half a second, then decided, “no.”
There was a short pause on the line.
“Are you sure he’s not there with you?” the manager asked again, slower this time, as if he didn’t fully believe the answer.
“I think I’d know if he was in my office,” you said, keeping your tone steady.
Another pause.
“Right… okay,” he replied, though his voice still carried doubt.
You leaned back slightly in your chair. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask… why would he be here at this hour?”
Michael’s eyes stayed on you, not looking away for a second.
“He’s been insisting he needed to see you,” he admitted. “It’s… been a bit concerning. He’s not in his room, and security couldn’t immediately locate him. He mentioned your office.”
You glanced at him again, more slowly this time.
“Mm-hm,” you said carefully. “I see.”
There was a small pause before he continued.
“Look, Dr. [name], if he is there, we’re not trying to interfere, but we do need to know. It’s late, and he should be resting.”
Your grip tightened slightly on the phone. “Understood.”
“And just to be clear,” the manager added, his tone more direct now, “he really is not supposed to be moving around the hospital without someone with him.”
“I understand,” you repeated calmly. “If anything comes up, I will inform you.”
“Thank you,” he said after a beat. “And Dr. [name]?”
“Yes?”
There was a slight hesitation before he spoke again, softer this time. “Please make sure he goes back to rest if he does show up there.”
You glanced at Michael one more time. “I will.”
“Goodnight, doctor.”
“Goodnight.”
You ended the call and set the phone down slowly.
When you looked back at Michael, he was no longer looking at you. Instead, his gaze had drifted toward the window, as if suddenly fascinated by the city lights outside.
“You’ve got a lovely view of the city here, doctor,” he said, smiling faintly — a little too casually, like someone trying to steer the conversation away.
You didn’t respond to that. Though you tried holding back a smile.
“Would you care to tell me what’s bothering you, Mr. Jackson?” you asked instead, your tone steady. “That made you rush here at midnight?”
His smile faded slightly. He shifted in his seat, suddenly more interested in the edge of your desk than your face.
“Well…” he began, then hesitated. “It’s my arm.”
He lightly touched it as if confirming it existed.
You raised a brow. “Your arm.”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “It hurts.”
“Mm-hm,” you replied, unimpressed, leaning back slightly in your chair.
He finally looked at you for a second — just a second — before looking down again at your desk.
You studied him in silence.
This was a man who had escaped security, slipped out in disguise, crossed through a hospital at midnight, and somehow ended up in your office…
…because of arm pain.
And yet he sat there patiently, like this explanation made perfect sense.
You exhaled softly through your nose, trying to decide whether to be concerned, confused, or both.
“Well… it’s not surprising, given your busy schedule. From your performance after performance,” you said, trying to keep your tone strictly professional.
A small smile began forming on his face.
“You’ve watched my performances?” He asked, suddenly more alert, a hint of excitement breaking through the exhaustion.
“Well, it’s not like you’re not all over the news, Mr. Jacks—”
“Michael,” he interrupted gently. “I thought I asked you to call me Michael when it’s just the two of us.”
His voice wasn’t demanding — just soft.
You paused for a moment, then nodded.
“Right… Michael,” you corrected yourself. “Well, I suggest you take some rest and try not to move around too much. Can you do that for me?”
He smiled again, a little more relaxed now. “I’ll try to.”
“Good,” you said, already shifting back into doctor mode as you stood. “Then I guess that would be all, Mr. Michael?”
You moved toward professionalism again, stepping out from behind your desk.
He followed your movement, standing as well.
“Right,” he said simply.
He walked toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle.
For a moment, he didn’t open it. Instead, he turned back to face you.
“Do you do home visits?” Michael asked.
“If it’s needed, then yes, I do home visits,” you answered without even having a second to think about.
You watched him carefully as he continued smiling, like he had already decided something in his mind.
“Good,” he said simply.
He opened the door, stepped out of your office, then paused and turned back once more.
“I’ll be in touch then,” he added softly, before finally disappearing down the hallway.
You stayed still for a moment after the door closed.
Then you quietly returned to your desk.
A few seconds later, noise from outside pulled your attention. Curiosity got the better of you, and you moved to the window.
Below, the hospital entrance was crowded — paparazzi gathered near the doors, fans waiting behind barriers, cameras flashing intermittently in the night air. A car was already parked at the curb.
And then you saw him.
Michael emerged, moving quickly but calmly through the crowd. He still managed to wave and smile at the fans calling out to him, even in the chaos.He slipped into the car, and for a moment, you watched as the door closed and the vehicle idled.
Then it pulled away into the city streets.
You exhaled slowly, still looking out the window.
“House visits, seriously?” you murmured to yourself.
You couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh.