Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs"Spark," "Point of No Return," "Interplanetary Dust," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 24
EXOTHERMIC REACTION

September 29, 1994

Foster City, California

Jackie's House
...

Jackie dumped her shoebox full of Degenerate Matter miscellany on her bed. It consisted mostly of articles from magazines, but her photocopy of the band's newsletter was buried within them. Betsy had given that copy to her—Betsy, who had no idea who O. MacNeil actually was. Jackie hadn't told her. She'd hung up the phone with an apology. Then she went searching.

A magazine clipping was stuck to the newsletter. She peeled it off, flipped to Ro Skirving's interview with O. MacNeil, and O. MacNeil's answers spoke with Steven's voice inside her head:

Ro: Your lyrics hurt.

MacNeil: You like them that way.

Ro: Bet they'd hurt more if I knew the story behind them.

MacNeil: Maybe they'd hurt me less if you knew. But since when do you care about stories? Emotions are all that matter to you.

Jackie stared at the words until they became meaningless. She could've been wrong. Just because O. MacNeil was an anagram for El Camino didn't mean he and Steven were the same person.

She put down the newsletter and dashed to her sound system. Degenerate Matter's albums were in her five-disc CD changer, and she pressed the Disc 3 button. The CD of WIMPs and MACHOs hissed inside as it spun, but she skipped to the last track and fast-forwarded ten minutes past it.

The hidden track "Spark" began. O. MacNeil's soft, melodic voice sang over the the strum of an acoustic guitar—"Spent years trying to reignite myself..."—and Jackie pushed her fist against her mouth. That was him. The voice belonged to Steven.

She sank to the carpet and shivered as his voice grew more powerful. The music that had opened her up was his. The compassion she'd been yearning for … his. She drew her knees to her chest and held onto them. Her body was quaking with an emotion she tried to name. Betrayal was close but not quite right.

Steven owed her explanations for their past but not his present. O. MacNeil was an identity he clearly wanted, or maybe needed, to keep secret. He'd gone through experiences as terrible as hers, if his lyrics were any indication. And his patience toward her, his kindness, was the same she found in his songs.

"How did I find you among the debris?" he sang through her speakers. "With blood smearing my eyes, broken hands, diseased heart?"

"Oh, God," she whispered into her knees, and her skull vibrated with an icy buzz. He had the letter she'd written to O. MacNeil. Steven promised he wouldn't read it, but she'd written her truths to him without knowing. She'd revealed herself … to him.

From his position in the sidestage bunker, Hyde had a narrow window of sight. Degenerate Matter was visible onstage. So were the fans closest to the stage, pushing against the metal safety barriers. The rest of Fort Lauderdale stadium was unseeable, but the sound of ten thousand people reached his ears. They were singing along to "Keystone," ten thousand voices recounting the tale of how Hyde almost killed Kelso.

He doubted he'd get used to it, having his mistakes and rage and selfishness sung at him en masse. But the crowd's combined voice made the one inside his head only louder.

"You stole her life away," Ro sang, "so I took yours as compensation." Her voice was a bit hoarse from the tour. She couldn't hit the high notes as well as she usually did, but her throatiness gave the song a raw quality.

She knew half the story behind the song, had fucked it out of him. Jackie, though, believed a mugger was responsible for Kelso's wrecked face, for his life falling apart. If she learned Hyde had beaten him into a blood stain, had chosen his rage at him over his love for her—

The evolution of their friendship had to stop where it was, for the safety of almost everyone he cared about. Ro was right to tear up Jackie's letter.

"Hyde, man—" Scotty was nudging Hyde with his elbow—"go!"

The band had ended "Keystone," and Ro was gesturing for water. Hyde rushed onstage with a bottle of it then darted back to the bunker.

"She's gonna kick your ass for that later," Scotty said.

"Probably." But her version of an ass-kicking usually involved a lot of pleasure to go with the pain.

October 8, 1994

Oshkosh, Wisconsin

Eric and Donna's House
...

Izzy's play area in Forman and Donna's living room was covered in toys. Dolls littered the jigsaw carpet. A Blinkhorn kitchen set stood in the corner, but as messy as the place was, Hyde found it relaxing. No better way to wind down after a tour than spending time with family. He'd tried to convince Ro to join him, but she refused.

Being trapped all weekend with a kid was her version of a horror movie. For him, it was the opposite. His horror movie played inside his skull. Hanging out with Forman, Donna, and Izzy shut it off. Same as hanging out with his sister, her husband, and their two boys did.

He had family all over the place, blood-related or otherwise. Nephews, a niece, and a kid he loved like a daughter. They were all important to him, but Ro wasn't interested in any family but their own, two-person unit.

"And … go!" Forman shouted, and the four of them started a round of Hungry, Hungry Hippos. Like Forman and Donna, Hyde barely hit his plastic hippo as Izzy slapped hers furiously. Raindrops tapped against the windows, echoing the game. White marbles disappeared into each player's moat, and with one final slap, Izzy's hippo swallowed the last marble.

"Guess who won!" Donna said.

"I have to count." Izzy removed marbles from her moat.

"Pumpkin," Forman said, standing, "I'm going to use the bathroom while you—."

She tugged on his pant leg. "Wait, Daddy." He sat back down as she finished counting. "Eighteen! How many do you have?"

"Six," Forman said.

"Nine," Donna said.

"Five," Hyde said.

Forman traced numbers in the air with his finger, like he was doing calculations. "We're missing two marbles."

"You're missin' a lot more than that," Hyde said, and Izzy laughed.

"Maybe they got sucked into the vacuum." Donna gestured to the toys on the carpet. "It's hard to keep track of everything around here."

Forman stood again. "Blinkhorn sells marbles. I'm sure there's a few white ones in its packs."

He stepped over dolls and action figures to the first clear patch of floor, but Izzy said, "Daddy!" like an order for him to return.

"I'm just going to the bathroom, Izzy. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Izzy watched as he went upstairs. Her separation anxiety went through phases, but it seemed to be high today. Forman and Donna often put their own needs on hold for her, like taking a piss, but Izzy's sense of safety was worth it. Hyde would do the same for his own kid without hesitation.

"How's about we play again?" he said.

"Okay!"

Izzy dumped her marbles on the center of the game board. Hyde and Donna did, too, including Forman's marbles, and Izzy said, "And … go!" copying Forman's catchphrase.

Hyde and Donna hit their hippos like before, without attempting to win. At four-years-old, Izzy was at the age where losing against grownups upset her. It wasn't a tantrum for the kid. She genuinely grew sad when she lost.

Hyde's hippo swallowed the last marble this time, but Izzy's moat clearly had the most. She counted, and Hyde said to Donna, "You nervous about the interview comin' out?"

"Very, but I'm excited, too. My career's been stalled too long—of course, Mrs. Forman says I should use the time off to have another baby." Donna tucked a lock of Izzy's hair behind her ear. "One is wonderful. Two would be..."

"Not for you."

"Yeah. But I hear Laurie and Tim are trying, so Mrs. Forman's grandbaby lust should be satisfied soon."

"They put opening a second bakery aside?" he said.

"I think so. For now, at least," Donna said, and the doorbell rang. "Must be John returning the leaf blower."

She moved to stand, but Izzy said, "Mama!"

"Hyde ... could you?"

Hyde went to the front door. He looked through the peephole, and his breath stalled. Standing on the porch was Jackie, wet from rain. He hadn't expected to see her again, or planned on it, but he opened the door.

"Steven?" she said, appearing more curious than surprised. Her grip on her suitcase handle was loose, and her eyes flicked over his body and face.

"Jackie?" Donna joined him by the door, with Izzy clinging to her side. "What are you doing here?"

"Donna, I'm so sorry! I thought you said Steven was coming on the fifteenth."

"No, I said the eighth. You were supposed to come on the fifteenth."

Jackie cupped her damp forehead. "I must've mixed up the dates."

"This is familiar," Hyde said and stepped away from the door.

Donna stepped back from the door, too, with Izzy. "Well, since you're here, maybe get out of the rain?"

Jackie rolled her wet suitcase inside the house. Her carry-on bag was slung over her shoulder, and she shut the door behind herself. "Hi, cutie," she said to Izzy, who waved at her shyly. Then Jackie apologized to Donna again. "Let me make a few phone calls. I'll find a hotel room, or—"

"No," Hyde said as Forman's footsteps thudded down the stairs. "I can—"

"What the h—" Forman said behind him. "Hi, Jackie?"

Donna shrugged a shoulder. "She mixed up the dates."

"Mm-hmm." Forman faked a grin, the most obviously false smile he might've ever accomplished. "Terrific. Yeah, that's—that's great."

"Hyde's already set up in the basement," Donna said to Jackie. "He arrived last night."

Jackie hung her wet coat in the coat closet nearby. "I'll take one of the sofas."

"It's not a pull-out," Forman said.

"I've slept on worse."

Donna sighed. "All right."

"Not all right," Forman said. "I wasn't prepared for this."

Izzy giggled, as she usually did when Forman acted twitchy, but Donna cast him a warning look.

"Me and Jackie'll be fine," Hyde said, but he wasn't sure that was true. Going to a hotel would be the safer move, but he needed to know why Jackie was here—really here—and he repeated, "We'll be fine," when Forman glanced at him.

Donna picked up Izzy and held her close. "Isn't this cool? Both your aunt and uncle are spending the weekend with us!"

"Yeah!" Izzy said and whispered in Donna's ear.

"Why don't you ask her?" Donna said.

"Jackie," Izzy said, barely audible, " did you get me a present?"

A genuine smile brightened Jackie's face, unlike the forgery darkening Forman's. "I did! Give me a few minutes to get settled, and it's all yours."

Izzy laid her head on Donna's chest. "Okay."

"Donna, I don't want to track dirt on your floor." Jackie removed her shoes. "Could I put my suitcase on a towel?"

"Smart thinking. Eric'll get it," Donna said, and Forman ran upstairs. "Do you want something to eat or drink? Lunch isn't for another hour."

"Just some orange juice, please."

Donna brought Izzy into the kitchen, leaving Hyde and Jackie alone. He said nothing but grabbed a plastic apple from Izzy's kitchen set. He passed it from hand to hand then stopped. He'd done the same to a candle at Brooke's, and Jackie had called him out on it. Fiddling with palm-sized inanimate objects was, apparently, a tell of his.

He put the plastic apple back on the toy stovetop. His discomfort had to be obvious, but she mirrored his silence as Forman returned. A towel, a pile of sheets, and a pillow were in Forman's arms. He dropped the bedding on the sofa farthest from Izzy's play area and laid the towel on the hardwood floor.

Jackie gripped her suitcase by its leather-and-fabric handle. She hefted it above the jigsaw carpet, but Hyde said, "I can do that."

She let go of the suitcase, and he carried it to the towel. She began making a bed on the sofa, and Forman pointed toward the fireplace. "We can push it back there," he said, "to give you some space."

"Thanks," she said, and Forman and Hyde pushed the sofa to the wall. Then she continued transforming it into a suitable bed.

"Good thing you're short," Donna said. She'd come back from the kitchen with Izzy and a glass of orange juice. Jackie accepted the glass and sat on the bed-sofa.

Her calm demeanor struck Hyde as strange, but her hand trembled slightly as she drank. If she'd orchestrated this "mix-up," then she'd wanted to see him. Maybe to learn the fate of her letter. But that was an extreme course of action, especially since she could've just called.

From her carry-on bag, Jackie gave her present to Izzy: a Lion King sticker book. "This is the best day ever!" Izzy said, and she climbed beside Jackie on the sofa.

"I have to make lunch now, pumpkin," Donna said, but Izzy didn't look up from the sticker book. Jackie was helping her place Lion King characters on Lion King backgrounds.

"Uncle Hyde and I are going to help her," Forman said. "If you need us, just call for us."

"Okay," Izzy said.

In the kitchen, Hyde anticipated Izzy's shout, but it didn't come. Like Jackie, her change of behavior was mystifying.

"I think seeing you and Jackie together—at the same time, I mean—makes her feel safer," Donna said and placed a pan on the stove.

Hyde leaned against the counter. Jackie might've felt safer with him, too. Otherwise, she wouldn't have shown up today. The possibility lit his insides, no matter what she was after. Despite that he'd sworn to stay away from her.

"Izzy's too excited about her present to care that we're in the kitchen," Forman said. "That's all that's going on," and he changed topics. He talked about the toy convention he and Kelso went to recently, shared that Kelso had switched departments at Blinkhorn from toy designing to programming. "He's a lot happier there."

"Good for him." Hyde shoved a stick of gum into his mouth. Smoking this weekend was going to be tough. He'd probably develop TMJ from all the gum he'd have to chew. "You'll have to call him, make sure he won't swing by since Jackie's here."

An orange sauce was simmering on the stove, and Donna added turkey cutlets to it. "He's in Chicago with Brooke and Betsy. Columbus Day's on Monday, and Betsy doesn't have school. So Kelso took Friday and Monday off for a longer visit."

"Hope the kid's okay with that."

"He's her dad," Forman said. "Of course she's okay."

"Yeah … I'm gonna give her a call."

Forman grasped his arm before he could leave. "Let them work it out. Their relationship won't heal if you keep interfering."

"If Betsy's upset, she'll call you," Donna said.

"Problem is," Hyde said, "she doesn't know I'm where I am."

Forman released his arm. "She'll be fine."

"It's not like she's alone with Kelso." Donna added seasoning to the chicken cutlets. "Brooke's there."

"And he's sober," Forman said. "He has been for a long time."

"I know." Hyde gave into their advice, ignoring his gut feeling to call. Kelso wasn't the Kelso he'd smashed into a hundred pieces in 1979—and Hyde wasn't Betsy's dad, as much as he wished it were different.

The rain let up after lunch, and Izzy asked to go outside. In Hyde's ideal scenario, Jackie would go with them. Izzy would run into a friend of hers. They'd jump in puddles with Jackie while Forman and Donna talked with the friend's parents—so Hyde could smoke a few dozen cigarettes and have time enough to shower afterward.

Forman and Donna prepared Izzy by the front door. They put on her galoshes and jacket, but Jackie said from her bed-sofa, "You three go ahead. I'd like to rest a little."

"You'll be okay?" Donna said but gazed at Hyde. She was asking if he and Jackie would be okay together alone, and he put a fresh piece of gum into his mouth.

"Go. Have fun!" Jackie said, waving at them.

Donna and Izzy left first, and Forman said, "The house better be in one piece when we get back," before leaving.

"Oh, it will be," Jackie said Then, once the front door clicked shut, she said, "Steven?"

His plan had been to sneak outside, through the house's back door. It led from the basement to the backyard, but he stayed in the living room. "Yeah?"

She laid the pillow Forman had brought her on her lap. Her fingers clutched it, white-knuckled, and she bowed her head until her blond hair hid her face. "Sing something."

His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced them open. "You know I can't sing."

"Indulge me." Her voice was throaty, and she bent further over the pillow. She was frightened, having some kind of anxiety attack. Maybe she hadn't orchestrated this mix-up, after all.

"Jackie, I can leave, man. If me being here is too much—"

"No!" She raised her head, and her curtain of hair split for a moment. Her body had become a frown, composed of smaller frowns—the seal of her closed eyelids, the curve of her lips—but her head drooped back down, adding to the effect. "The letter."

"I didn't read it," he said, "like I promised."

"Then you also broke a promise, "El Camino," she said, and his stomach plummeted to the Earth's white-hot core.

Jackie sat up on the sofa, expecting to hear denials or confusion. But the light in Steven's eyes had gone out, snuffed like a candle flame.

"Never mind," she said and reached for her purse by her feet. She'd taken no Valium for this confrontation, wanting the full adrenaline of her anxiety to back her up. But whatever fear she felt, it must've been trivial compared to his. She had no right to expose him. He'd rebuilt his life just as she'd rebuilt hers, and if keeping O. MacNeil's identity a secret was his keystone, she couldn't demolish it.

Her hands fumbled opening the Valium bottle. They were shaking. "Damn it, open!" she said and the cap came off. "I'm sorry," she said more quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Quit apologizing," he said. "I'll sing somethin' for you."

She closed a two-milligram Valium in her fist. "What?"

"In the basement. Forman's acoustic is down there."

"The basement? I can't." Her wrists burned as a memory masqueraded as fantasy. She envisioned him binding her with rope, acting like someone else. Someone he wasn't. "Bring it up here."

"This is non-negotiable. You want to know me, I'll share it. But only with you."

"Wait, wait." Breathing had become hard, like an anvil was sitting on her chest. She pressed her hand against her racing heart, afraid she was dying. But she'd been through this before. It was just panic, not a heart attack. "Donna and Eric," she managed to say, after sticking the Valium under tongue. "Donna and Eric don't...?"

"Not this."

Her eyes shut as her terror escaped: "You won't kill me?" The question sounded insane. Steven hadn't transformed into a monster over the last fifteen years. He wasn't a psychopath like Dale Fischer, but she couldn't help being afraid.

A heavy breath answered her first. Then: "I'll bring the guitar up here."

Steven's footsteps creaked on the hardwood floor then vanished. She had a chance to flee, but her eyes remained shut as images invaded her mind: him returning with a sharp pocket knife. Holding her down. Forcing himself inside her.

Footsteps creaked again, and she opened her eyes, expecting to see Dale in front of her. But Steven was walking across the living room, carrying an acoustic guitar.

She swallowed, and her mouth tasted bitter, like the Valium. She'd probably taken it too late for it to do much good. But she was in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, not Oceanside, California. She was with Steven, not Dale, and he had a guitar, not a knife. He'd put her comfort over his by bringing the guitar upstairs.

That last thought abated the pressure in her chest, and she inhaled deeply. Doing an inventory of the present was a tool her therapist taught her, and it had helped.

Steven sat on the other sofa, many feet away, beneath a pair of casement windows. He strummed the guitar strings with a red pick, but a discordant sound rang out. "Man, Forman never tunes this thing. Give me a minute." He picked up the phone from the coffee table, and his shoulder hugged the receiver to his ear.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"Dial tone is an F—the key of F."

He tuned the guitar, and though the process was no symphony, her breathing grew even easier. He hadn't admitted he was O. MacNeil, but first chords of "Spark" confirmed who he was: a man who'd cut off his own arm to save her eyelash.

"Steven, we can do this in the basement."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Cool."

They went to the kitchen together, but she stayed behind him. The child safety gate to the stairs was open, and she followed him to the basement. It resembled a small apartment with a bed and bathroom. Pictures of Donna and Eric's family lined the dresser, three and four generations' worth. Souvenirs from trips filled the bookshelves, and Izzy's framed drawings covered the walls.

The basement represented a life Jackie would never have. What she'd collected over the years were wounds, rusting, rotting. The best she could hope for was avoiding total collapse.

Steven sat on the bed and played the opening chords of "Spark" again. She chose an armchair a distance from the bed, but she angled it so she had a clear view of him.

"Could you sing 'Point of No Return'?" she said.

He stopped his strumming. "That one? Why?"

"I need to hear it."

"That one?"

"Yes. You're credited with the lyrics."

"Doesn't mean I can play the music. Or sing it right."

Jackie laughed silently. He'd all but confessed he was O. MacNeil, and it caused her a small fit of joy. "I saw you play the guitar you gave Betsy," she said. "You're skilled enough."

His thumb rubbed against the guitar pick. "The jig really is up, huh?"

She stiffened. Maybe he thought she was holding him hostage. Blackmailing him to sing, or else she'd reveal his secret to the world. "You're safe with me," she said, but that wasn't accurate. She couldn't guarantee anyone's safety around her—emotionally, at least. "What I mean is, I won't shoot off my big fat mouth."

"Should've known you'd have figured this out ... and your mouth ain't big or fat. It's in perfect proportion to your face." He adjusted his grip on the fretboard and placed the pick on the bed. He cleared his throat, and his fingers plucked the main riff of "Point of No Return".

Very softly, and with his eyes closed, he sang the first verse: "Arms and legs can't move under the weight of you. Why'd I come? Body out of my control, taken over by friction and your Four Roses."

The muscles in his biceps flexed as his playing became less delicate. He transitioned into the chorus, and his body swayed slightly with the music.

"Entered my room with booze and trust," he sang, voice growing stronger. "Touched not with love but unnatural lust. Swallowed me whole with both pairs of lips. Sucked out my joy; turned it into shit."

He transitioned back to the main riff, and he hummed along wordlessly. His voice blended with the guitar sadly, soulfully, before he started the second verse. "The night lasted forever, and what came after was worse..."

Jackie held her hands against her stomach, as if her viscera were threatening to fall out. Emotion rose on Steven's face in a way she'd never witnessed. The more he sang, the more he became the song; and by the time he reached the last chorus, his voice was as powerful, melodic, and pained as she'd ever heard it.

He played the coda, and an ache settled into her throat . He was singing the song's unintelligible ending. On the album, Ro mumbled the words. Even live in concert, she barely enunciated them, but he sang them to Jackie clearly, or perhaps he was singing them to himself: "I came from you, but you didn't stay—'cause you saw no point in returning. I came for you, but now I'm gone. See no point in returning. Crawled out from the event horizon and found my place in everything."

Her eyes stung when the music stopped. Unshed tears were stuck in her lashes. "What happened to you?" she said. "What happened to you that you could write that song?"

"Ask me again someday." He put the guitar aside on the bed. "Is Kelso why can you relate to it?"

She shook her head. It was the only answer she could give, even though she desperately wanted him to know. But he'd left her before, and he might leave her again if she told him about Dale.

"Jackie—Jackie, look at me, all right?"

She was crying into her hands, unable to contain her grief. His song had opened her up. O. MacNeil ... the first person she'd trusted outside of therapy ... was gone. Just like Steven. Just like her dad. Gone.

"'You gave me a home when all I had was dust,'" she sobbed, quoting one of his songs. She tried to shut up but couldn't. "'Your gravity grounded me when I was used to drifting...'"

"If I gave you the truth, would I be giving you up?" he sang without the guitar. "Because honesty could make you give up." His voice was soothing and full of compassion, just like his lyrics. She'd curled into a ball on the armchair and wiped her eyes on her knees. He hadn't read her letter, but she'd showed him more of herself today than she ever intended. If he didn't understand—

"You won't lose me," he said quietly, "unless you want me to get lost."

"Who am I to you?"

He scratched the back of his neck, but the light had rekindled in his eyes. "Someone I can't stop loving."