I DO NOT own "That 70s Show" and its' characters. All rights go to Casey Werner.
(And all quotes belong to THEIR rightful owners, as listed. They're most or all by Taylor Swift.)
Story recap: Jackie and Fez are still together, living in an apartment: Michael is working as a cop in Chicago. The rest of the gang is still in Point Place. It's about four months into the 80s.
"I miss screaming and crying and kissing in the rain
It's 2AM and I'm cursing your name
You're so in love that you act insane.
And that's the way I loved you."
-Taylor Swift, "The Way I loved You."
"And if you ask me if I love him, I'd lie."
-Taylor Swift
"Um, Fez," Jackie Burkhart called out. She slipped her guitar under her bed, put on a fake, cute, smile, and waited for her boyfriend to come.
Fez arrived, wearing tight pants and a Led Zeppelin Tee-shirt, obviously borrowed from Hyde. Jackie crossed her legs, using everything in her to act like her usually quirky cheerleader self, even though something inside felt wrong. For one, emotionally. She didn't know what it was, but everything in her life felt tangled up inside her, clumping together and leaving a big gap in her stomach, like she was missing something...or someone. Second, she felt physically wrong, since her stomach had cramps.
"Hey...can you get me some medicine? Red label? 3rd cabinet."
He was gone in two seconds.
She rested her head, counting her heartbeats. She tugged the fabric on her soft orange shirt, trying to cover herself, for whatever reason. She was eighteen in two weeks, and getting sick was not an option.
At least, if she could avoid it.
Fez arrived, juggling orange juice, medicine, and a thermometer. He's so sweet, Jackie thought, but it wasn't fufilling. She was starting to question why she was even with Fez, (deep, deep down, so deep she didn't even know it yet.)
"Sweetie, feel better," Fez said in his thick accent as he dropped the stuff on Jackie's table. I don't even like orange juice, she thought. Is this why you're feeling bad about Fez? Because he doesn't know what flavor juice you prefer?
Jackie sighed, knowing that was stupid, but knowing it must represent something, as it was tugging on the wrong emotions, letting them knot together, creating a draft of naseaou in her head.
Just say thank you. "Thanks, Fez," she said, that place inside her wrong again. "I love you," she choked out, surprised at how utterly alone she felt, in this small apartment. He planted a kiss on her cheek before dissapearing, probably to go hang out with Eric and Hyde and Kelso.
Jackie reached under her bed and clutched her guitar, smoothing her thumb over the carving that said "Jackie + Kelso" in a little heart, in Kelso's slanted handwriting. Something only Kelso knew about Jackie: she played the guitar, the only component in her personality besides appearance (and weddings, if they count). One thing Jackie knew about Kelso, that no one else knew: he played guitar. Like, good guitar. It took all his focus, but even with his normally airhead self, he was pretty amazing. He wrote songs, too, and sang: same with her.
That's how they officially met, after all.
Sure, they knew each other when they were little, and they adorably played doctor together, but they met again in guitar lessons. They both secretly took them before school, not wanting their friends to find out. After some tuesday's lesson during Jackie's freshman year, someone bumped into her.
She spun around, armed with a bitchy putdown. (Just in case, of course.)
She saw Michael Kelso, school heartthrob, (also school airhead.) She lowered her gaze, trying not to stare at his amazingly proportioned face, though it was tempting.
Michael looked concerned. "Oh, sorry, um, I wasn't looking where I was going," He stopped talking before something stupid came out. Then, he offered his hand, a sort of corny but sweet gesture. "Hi, I'm Michael."
"Jackie."
"Wait...didn't we...hang out, when we were little?"
"Yeah, we played doctor."
"Oh yeah, that was the first time I got to second base."
She laughed naturally, something that surprised her. She looked at her expensive, polished shoes and then back up to his eyes. "Yep, you were a pretty good doctor."
"Yeah," he said, then all a sudden: "Can I call you? Or something?"
"Sure," she said, cooly, but deep down a little nervously. She quickly found a blue pen and a yellow pad of paper: wrote down her number, and ripped off the sheet.
"Here," she handed it to him.
A smile spread on his face. "Thanks," he said, waving, and walking off.
He was her first kiss, first love, first boyfriend, and first time.
Stop thinking about Michael. He's a coward, a liar, a cheater, and...and...
A boy you loved.
Really, really, loved.
Past tense.
She remembered the good times: how when they were alone, he could honestly pull himself together; how he could be sweet, even when his low IQ got the better of him.
But he ran away, just because you wanted to get married...
Then again...
It was stupid of her to ask to get married. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She gave him that much. But still, he shouldn't of ran off... and cheated on her...with a cheap, dumb blonde bitch...
Actually, he'd cheated with three cheap dumb blonde bitches.
Funny.
Stop. Right. Now. Stop thinking about him. It's unhealthy...
Life is unhealthy, stupid.
Pounding her head on the edge of the bed, she strummed her guitar; not caring whether it would ruin her sleek red manicure. The chips were like her heart; dropping on the floor, rapidly falling out of their place, hiding somehere unknown.
I love Fez...Fez...
Was it just her, or did the rain start to pour? She opened the shades, swelling up inside at the dark rain running down the glass exterior of her window. It was depressing; it kept sliding down, without purpose, sad and no-ending, just repeatedly, tap-tap-tap, matching her steady heartbeats. She took her medicine, gulping it down, trying to ignore the nasty taste of the orange juice. She wondered what Fez was doing: probably smoking weed in the circle. Where the guys would discuss their relationship problems, basically a version of male gossip.
Oh God...
She wondered if she should call Donna, but Donna was waa-ay too happy. She was in college, dating Eric again, had her own place, and was (possibly!) getting her own channel on the radio. She was happy with her blonde hair, ugly lumberjack clothes, and love life.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
She considered driving to the basement, or hub, or anywhere the gang would go until she found them. Or maybe just go by herself; buy an icecream, the next issue of Cosmopolitan, and try to fit the pieces together about Fez.
tap-tap-tap-tap
But no, it wouldn't work out. Anyway, she'd probably get a call from Fez any minute, proclaiming he was too high and needed a ride. It was stupid of him to do drugs while she was sick. She could consider the possibility that he'd put her needs before, and that he wasn't smoking a big bag, but honestly, she knew he was.
She curled up on the bed, bringing her blankets to her shoulder blade. She stripped down to shorts and then turned on the color TV, feeling a little sharp pain in heart.
I love Fez, Fez...
And all she had to do was convince herself.