Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

Author's Note: Trigger warning for the first half of this chapter (Hyde's POV).

CHAPTER 52
MAGNETAR

April 4, 1995

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

The Barnetts' House
…

Hyde had forgotten how to blink. His eyes were growing dry, staring at the magazine spread out on his dad's dining room table. Come On Magazine had done a number on his life story, twisting it worse than teenage gossips ever could. Thanks to facts gleaned from corrupted perspectives, he'd been spray-painted as a parent-abusing hell-raiser. A demon-child who'd scared off his mom and stepdad, both of whom had rightfully abandoned him out of self-preservation.

And that was only the beginning.

"I have to call Jackie," he said. He and Ro had gone to Milwaukee for business, but getting through the exec meetings wouldn't be possible. Not today. Not when his life had shoved his friends and family in front of the firing squad.

"You need to deal with how you're feeling," Ro said. She was pacing the brightly-lit dining room, circling the table like a shark. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

He heard her, but his mind set aside her words. He was using all his resources to process what he'd just read, what she refused to read. According to the article, he'd gone from kid-Satan to drug-addicted teenager. A strung-out loser who had no loyalty to his friends, even after "the sweet, overly-naive Eric Forman" took Hyde into his home."

The article claimed Hyde's abuse had pushed Forman's sister into the porn industry, driven Forman's mom to alcoholism, and caused Forman's dad to have a heart attack. That bit was followed by how Hyde had tried to steal Forman's then-girlfriend, now-wife.

"This is apparently a pattern of his," the article said, "going after girls and women who are already in relationships with his friends."

Hyde allegedly "chased Jackie Burkhart aggressively, a girl involved with one of Hyde's oldest friends." Kelso was unnamed, but Hyde's relationship with Jackie was detailed and misrepresented for everyone to read. He hadn't understood the article's focus on her until he got to the sidebar about Jackie's connection to Anders Eliassen, president of A&R at Red Slate Records. That was why he had to call her, to warn her.

Ro stopped pacing close to where he sat. Her hand pressed down on the magazine, and she tried to yank it from him. "Give that to me," she said. "Now."

"You don't have to witness this." He slapped his own hand on the magazine, keeping it on the table.

"And you don't have to do this. That's not you in that article."

"I don't give a fuck what this piece of shit says about me." Come On had exposed the secrets of his friends and family. That was what he cared about. "Just let me go over this crap my own way, all right?"

Ro let go of the magazine, but she stood too close to him. His body hummed with undetonated energy. The pressure was reaching critical mass, and he needed space to defuse the bomb.

"Ro—" he gestured for her to move away—"it ain't personal."

She said nothing but resumed pacing. Her Doc Martens thudded on the carpeted floor, and her leather arm cuffs scraped against her jeans. But he continued to pore over the article, from how he'd manipulated his way into Degenerate Matter by "stealing the band's front woman" from Lee to his on-going alcoholism. He hadn't touched booze in over ten years, but facts were irrelevant when money was to be made.

He had to call Jackie, call Mrs. Forman and Laurie. Red might have another heart attack if he learned of Laurie's porn-star past. That part of the article couldn't have been in the draft Donna read. Otherwise, she and Forman would've mentioned it at Ro's birthday party.

His fingers dug into the magazine page, which ripped and crumpled in his closing fist. He'd done what he could to protect the people he loved, but it was never enough—especially when they had to be protected from him. That kind of thinking had hounded him to alcohol over and over again. It was threatening to do the same now.

He shut his eyes and repeated one of Ryōkan's poems to himself like a mantra. The thud of Ro's boots vanished from his awareness, and behind his eyes the words of Come On's article shrank, tinier than ants. He was floating upward in his mind, past the ceiling and into the blue sky. The Earth's atmosphere let him go, and the cosmos grabbed hold.

His terror was like the vacuum of space, curved by the gravity of guilt. But innumerable stars burned brightly in the darkness, and he sensed the same light inside himself. It was a small flame, one he thought he'd smothered long ago, but it had never gone out. No matter the choices he'd made or the choices others had made for him, he knew this now: it had never gone out.

It might have dimmed after blazing too hot, but he had a choice—would always have the choice—to use his flame to light the world or burn it down.

He absorbed that truth into his being, and it snuffed the impulse to drink. His awareness descended slowly to his body, but the pressure inside him seemed to grow stronger, not weaker. Pain bit into his thigh, and his eyes snapped open. For a more than a few heartbeats, his mom's hands were on him, cold and irremovable.

The bomb inside him exploded. Shrapnel lodged into his nerves, and he became numb below the waist. He couldn't feel his legs or anything in between.

"Ro!" he shouted ... or thought he'd shouted. He was too disoriented to be sure. He scanned the dining room for her, from the sideboard to the potted plants, but she'd become invisible.

His heart pounded violently as he gasped for breath. He was trapped inside a vacuum, and his hands shot beneath the table. They landed on top of someone's head. Short hair, not long. Ears studded with cartilage earrings. A sharp jawline. Ro.

Feeling returned between his thighs, and the intensity of it had him clawing at Ro's hair. "Stop," he said. His tugs at her scalp weren't effective, but his rage was shaking him apart. He had to contain it, not let the shrapnel cut her. He withdrew his hands from her head and repeated, "Stop!"

Her nails dug into his calves, but her mouth eased off him. "You chose to do this the hard way, love," she said, unseeable from where he sat. Her hands glided to his hips and shoved him, chair and all, half-a-foot from the table. Her jeans were already off, and she sank onto his lap, with her back against his chest. He was inside her but didn't move.

"The house is empty," she said. "No one will hear you. Although if you're loud enough, maybe they will."

She wanted him out of control, to unleash his hell into her. He'd done it before, become like an animal to regain pieces of his humanity. The rougher he was, the more turned on she got. It was her kink, one he couldn't deny had helped him. But acting on his fury with another living being, whether he had permission or not, had begun to take more than it gave.

"Not gonna do this." He grasped her waist and lifted her off him. She whipped around, face flushed, and he focused on the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. "You got me hard without askin'."

"Since when do I have to ask?"

He stood up. His underwear was still on; she'd never pushed it down, and he tucked himself back inside the placket. "One way or the other," he said, "you've always got to ask." His memory flashed back to New York City, after Degenerate Matter's performance on Saturday Night Live. Ro had screwed him without permission then, too. She was so fast, and he was so afraid of losing her, that he became paralyzed by the experience. Overwhelmed into silence by the history her ... her ... his temple pulsed, and his eyes burned with unshed tears as the word rape rose in his consciousness.

She'd raped him. Unintentionally, but it was rape nonetheless. "You see what kind of place I'm in. Fuckin' ask if that's what I need. Hell, try asking what I need."

"What do you need?" she said, voice flat. She was pissed now or hurt, but his own emotions were on the brink of war. He yanked on his jeans and zipped his fly. His hard-on pressed against his stomach, but it was already growing soft. "What do you need, Hyde?" she repeated, this time with some feeling.

"You, Spark. I'm not rejecting you. Just what you were doin'."

"What. Do. You Need?" She was speaking through gritted teeth, and her fingers gripped the back of a dining chair. "Just tell me so I can do it."

His copy of Come On Magazine was still open to the exposé. He snatched it from the table and held it out to her. "Read the article."

"What for?"

"To understand where I'm comin' from." He shook the magazine once, urging her to take it. "Read it. Then ask me what parts they got wrong."

She smacked the magazine from his hands. It fell near the potted plants. "Those are stories—"

"It's my life, Ro!" He scooped up the magazine from the floor. "While everyone out there is readin' some fucked-up version of it, you refuse to hear about the real thing."

"Your life is in the here and now. I said goodbye to history classes once I graduated high school."

He rolled up the magazine and clenched it in his fist. "My history's bleeding into the 'here and now'. Help me stop it."

She plucked a rumpled cigarette from her jeans pocket. "Go see a fucking shrink."

"A shrink..." His arms were trembling with unreleased energy. He imagined grabbing one of the dining chairs and smashing it against the table. "Stow the cig," he said and headed for the archway leading from the room. He was far too close to acting on his thoughts. "If you can't fuckin' respect me, at least fuckin' respect my dad."

"Wait—" She rushed in front of him, and her hand landed softly on his shoulder. "Wait. I'll read it."

He sagged against the archway as if she'd plunged a railroad spike through his stomach. His rage leaked through the resulting hole, draining from him. Silently, he passed her the magazine. The varnished paper rustled in her hand, and her boots clomped away from him. He could've followed, but he stayed where he was and stared into the hallway. Into nothing.

Minutes that felt like years later, she reappeared at his side. Her warm fingers laced with his limp ones, an unusual act of tenderness. "You don't have to tell me which parts aren't true," she said. "I already know."

He turned enough to look at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I didn't have to read the article. I said it wasn't you in there, and I was right."

His fingers sparked to life. They clamped down on her hand and brought it his chest. "I needed you to read it so you could walk this damn road with me. I'll do it alone if I have to..." but he wanted her at his side.

She jabbed at his chest with their joined hands. "You're better off walking my road, love. You shouldn't have read that article in the first place. Because now those useless, false words are inscribed on your soul." She raised their joined hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles, another rare, comforting move. "And the people you're worried about? They can take care of themselves."

He blew out a heavy breath. Her last statement stabbed his guts with hot knives, but maybe she was right. Maybe the people he loved were better off looking after themselves.

Jackie was sick of the ringing. Her phone had been shrieking at her since six a.m. Journalists and so-called journalists wanted a statement about Come On Magazine's exposé about Steven, but she hadn't read it yet. Patricia's first task this morning was to help her unplug every phone in the house. The second was to go out and buy a copy of Come On.

Jackie read the article during breakfast, and the kitchen discorporated around her. The egg-white omelet on her plate was a concept she no longer understood. All that existed were the vile words in that magazine. Steven had been mischaracterized in the most horrific, violating of ways. Truths weren't revealed but perverted, and she hoped to God he'd sue Come On into the grave.

He wasn't the only one who had grounds to sue, though. The article libeled the Formans, too. All of them.

Grief ripped through her chest. Her dad could've taken care of the magazine handily, or he would've known who could. But he was dead. His colleagues had abandoned his memory and all ties to his family, including her.

She continued reading the article, but a sense of déjà vu struck her at the part about herself. It resembled Michael's version of their history, but his name wasn't mentioned. Not once. That was incredibly strange—unless the magazine had gotten to him, offering a sizable payout and a promise to keep him anonymous. Or maybe he'd blabbed his sorrows to an ex-lover, and she was the one who'd sold her soul.

Her theories multiplied, but all thinking stopped when she spotted a sidebar listing "Quick Facts" about her life. She shivered, growing colder with every beat of her heart. The magazine had printed a copy of her revised birth certificate, with her middle name Shayna and Pam Burkhart listed as her mother.

"It's not your responsibility, kitten," she imagined her dad saying."Your mother made her own choices, and she'll live and die by them."

Her memory of him was right. The Blonde Brigade, especially Ann-Marie, would use this information destructively. But Anders might not be able to forgive the lie, that his wife wasn't Jackie's sister but her mom.

The kitchen reincorporated, starting with the antique wall clock. She had an hour before her therapy appointment. So many present-day issues had arisen since her last session that working through her past might have to be put on hold.

Her omelet was cold and went into the trash. She took an extra-long shower afterward, but the drain was slightly clogged. Water filled the tub halfway up her calves and emptied slowly once she was done. Bubbles from her shampoo formed whorls in the water, soapy galaxies, and the drain sucked them in like a black hole.

She knelt in the tub and blocked the final whorl from the drain. The soapy galaxy deformed against her palm, tiny bubbles popping one-by-one.

Sarah Tremonti's office in San Mateo was both professional and inviting, like the woman herself. Books about healing from sexual trauma, working through anxiety, and others she'd lent Jackie filled bookcases in the waiting room. Inside the actual office, impressionistic paintings of nature by Sarah's sister decorated the walls. A soft rug covered the floor, and sometimes Jackie removed her shoes. Today, they stayed on.

She barely remembered the drive here. She'd fought a panic attack and clearly won the battle; otherwise, she would've crashed into a tree. But the war wasn't over. Sitting on Sarah's faux-leather sofa, Jackie was barely intelligible. Not just from crying but from cursing. If she remained friends with Steven, the tabloids could target her more deeply and discover what her dad worked so hard to keep from the public eye. What Jackie was supposed to continue processing during this session.

And with the proof of her maternity printed for all to see, Jackie's leverage against her mom was gone.

"Jackie, breathe," Sarah urged. "Four, four, eight." She was seated across from Jackie, in a faux-leather armchair that matched the sofa. "You don't have to speak to anyone you don't want to. Including your mother."

Jackie inhaled through her nose for a count of four, held the breath for another count of four, and exhaled the breath through her mouth for a count of eight. She did this three times but sat on the edge of the sofa. Sarah used two white noise machines in the waiting room, so Jackie could be as loud as she needed. But she transferred her emotions to her tissues, tearing them to shreds.

"What I do never results in anything good," she said, tasting tears at the back of her throat. "Pander to the Blonde Brigade, and Ann-Marie, June, Deborah, and Brie take advantage of me. Tell them to fuck off, and they laugh like I'm a goddamned comedienne. They thought my anger was funny! I'd never been pissed enough before—or, maybe, brave enough—to express it to them directly."

"There! That's the most important part," Sarah said warmly. She was older than Jackie by fifteen years, but her naturally smooth skin had the barest of lines, blessed by genetics and moisturizer. More importantly, the kindness in her face was matched by that in her heart. "You took a risk, just as you did here with me last time."

"What's the point of taking risks if they don't change anything?"

Sarah wrote in her small notebook then looked back up at Jackie. "Although your friends' amusement felt disrespectful," she said, "perhaps their laughter was a sign of respect and inclusiveness. You told me they often insult each other while remaining friends."

"That's true..."

"Unconsciously, you taught them they could treat you badly. You're not responsible for their behavior, but bullies pick their victims carefully. You gave into their demands, rarely fought back, but now you're reeducating them. You're showing that you're not someone who accepts being mistreated or, quite frankly, abused."

Jackie's grip loosened on her latest clump of tissues. She really was reeducating the people around her. "And if they don't like the lessons, they can go fuck themselves."

Sarah laughed like the Blonde Brigade had, but within her laughter was the obvious lilt of camaraderie.

"Is it normal," Jackie said, "for men to think about women other than the ones they're having sex with? I mean while they're having sex."

Sarah pulled a lock of brown hair from her glasses' left temple. The change of subject seemed to puzzle her, but she said, "A little fantasy is normal in lovemaking, but if a man or woman habitually fantasizes about people other than their partner, they likely have an underlying, pathological problem with intimacy. What brought this up, Jackie?"

"A dumb conversation with idiots." Her tears had finally dried up, though she didn't know for how long. "But I've begun exploring jewelry-making again …. and myself." She gazed down at the floral-patterned rug as blood rose in her neck. "I didn't tell you this last time, but I had a positive experience masturbating. Several, in fact."

She scooted off the sofa to the floor. Saying what she'd just said out loud, even to her therapist, was embarrassing. She sat cross-legged and hunched over, imagining an impenetrable bubble surrounding her. But if she couldn't tell Sarah the truth, she couldn't tell anyone. "I've fallen in love."

"Oh, Jackie..." Sarah's smile was audible in her voice. "I'm very happy about this—happy for you. Does this explain your willingness to work through what Dale Fischer did to you? "

"In a sense, but you shouldn't be happy." Jackie traced an infinity sign on the rug with her finger. "I'm in love with someone I can't have."

"Why can't you have him?"

"He's engaged to someone else."

"Have you been sexually intimate with him?"

"No!" Her throat hurt, and her eyes stung, but she willed herself not to cry again. "Only in my mind. This is one-sided "

"I see."

"I hate when you say that."

"Jackie, falling for someone who's unavailable is another way of avoiding intimacy."

Jackie sat up straight and pressed her back into the sofa. "But that's exactly it! He and I, we're very intimate. Emotionally. He's opened me back up to myself."

"You're talking about Steven, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you probably won't like my next question," Sarah said, "but please try to consider it. Are you sure this is love, or are you obsessed?"

Jackie's breath caught in her throat. The question was valid, and with stiff legs, she sat on the sofa properly. "I don't know."

"How often do you call him?"

"He's very busy. Usually, he has to call me."

"Do you ever think about breaking up his relationship with his fiancée, of seducing him?"

"God, no!" Her half-moon Chanel purse was beside her, and she unzipped it. Rezipped it. Unzipped it. "I'd never do that. If anything, I'm thinking about ending our friendship, to protect him from how I'm feeling."

Sarah nodded and wrote in her notebook. "It sounds like you've developed genuine love for him again. You must also trust him a great deal, especially in light of your history together."

"And the best and worst part of it is—" Jackie said, voice trembling, "just knowing that I can fall in love again has made me happy. That emotional, mental, and sexual attraction. The intimate connection. It makes me want to go outside my comfort zone, to try different things."

"I understand the good part, but what's bad about it?"

"Because!" she shouted and slapped the sofa cushions with both hands. "Courage shouldn't be based on feelings for a man! But I always do that. As a child it was my dad. As a teenager, it was my boyfriends. As an adult—" she turned her hands palm-side up in supplication—"I can't do this anymore."

"Consider the possibility that it's different this time," Sarah said. "Maybe you've opened up all at once, like certain flowers do. Maybe falling in love and taking risks are part of the same package. You're finally letting go of what's been holding you back, stepping out of the prison created by your trauma."

Jackie couldn't deny the argument. It made sense. "Okay … but what do I do about him? How do I let him go, too?"

"Has being his friend, and his friend only, become painful for you?"

"It's starting to." Jackie pressed her palms into her wet eyes. "He was a stranger to me. It's taken me almost a year to get to know him again, who he is now. And I still don't know everything. Or why he left, but he's done so much for me, Sarah." Her nose was running. She wiped it with a tissue and cleared her phlegmy throat. "So damn much."

"Hmm. … Could you be mistaking a deep gratitude for love?"

The question struck Jackie dumb. She couldn't tell the difference between the two.

"Steven has certainly contributed to your new sense of freedom," Sarah said, "but you're the one doing the work to claim it. You need to take credit for that, to own it. Until you can, don't be so hasty to label your feelings for him."

"Can't I feel both? Love and gratitude?"

"Of course, but what I'm saying is try to concentrate on yourself for a while. Put your energy into what you enjoy without him. You need time for the smoke to clear—so that you can be clear on what you actually feel. If it's love, then we'll work through solutions together."

Solutions. The word lingered in Jackie's thoughts long after her session ended. Her relationship with Steven wasn't an equation that could be balanced. She had to subtract herself from his life before her presence in it divided him further.