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~ Eric Forman's Basement ~

I can't believe they only have two thousand kids going to their high school. Two thousand. That's it! What kind of small town suburbia hell did Dad drag me into? They're totally backwoods and I doubt incest has a geographical preference. Back home, the city had over ten thousand in a single school. This is underwhelming in such a way that my exceptions have been lowered and it's freaking me out. Damnit. I knew I should've completely ignored Dad's longing for small town feels and moved in with Nicky and his grandma. Well, Dad, you can have it. Then again, I didn't have the heart to tell Dad I didn't want to move. He looked so happy to come back to his hometown and who the hell am I to piss on his parade? Yeah he's overbearing and too much into my business but I guess that comes natural due to his profession. Dad has a natural initiative built into his makeup and it's probably why he and Red were best friends growing –

"Brie?"

Flinching on the Mustang's hood, I flatten my spine against the windshield and settle a hand over my heart. Instead of screaming – which I rarely do – I murmur a slew of curses and slide off the beauty until I'm leaning against the grill.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." Though Eric's words are regretful, that damn porky grin defies it.

"Whatever. What's so important you had to break my meditation?"

Cocky eyes trail my colorful Kiss tee and floral embellished bellbottoms. "Meditation? Wait, is this a flower child thing?" Theatrically, his fingers flare at me.

"It's a thinking thing. C'mon, man." I rotate my hand, beckoning him to spit it out. "What?"

He mutters, "you're definitely not Donna", thinking I didn't hear that and fits his hands into the pockets of flared jeans. "I'm inviting you to this party we're having. Kitty has this thing for feeding everyone she comes into contact with so just wander on over of you need a bite."

I thought I smelled barbecue.

Using my hands to prop myself while leaning back, I chew the inside of my lip – a horrible habit I really need to stop but somehow can't no matter how much strawberry balm and willpower I apply. "When?"

"Uh, right now. So if you want to stop by, you can. Use the kitchen entrance, we only use the front door for y'know, 'front door things'."

Eric, you don't have to always try to be sarcastic or put an emphasis on something to make it sound important. I hear you, dork.

"…right. I'll run it past RP. My bet's 'yeah' because its home cooking."

"...right." The lanky brunet looks beyond my garage, into the Pinciotti's backyard.

He's always had a thing for her, even when we're little and her folks moved into town. Man, it's so weird to think that my Dad sold his childhood home to Uncle Bob when he decided to move to New York. It's even weirder that he's back, with me, and we live in the house right behind that very home, the same house Donna grew up. Even more, it's kinda crazy since my Dad and Donna's dad are related, making the tall redhead my cousin. Fuck, man. Ugh now my brain hurts. Life's bizarre. You know, I'm actually a bit surprised he isn't going out with Donna, or at least haven't fucked, but then again, I haven't been in Wisconsin since I was six when naptime in school was acceptable. I don't know why the hell they stopped naptime in the curricular, which is stupid. I just might propose bringing it back at the next parent-teacher conference thing or a school district hearing. Back to Eric, it's not a fair assumption since I give others the benefit of the doubt but geez, he's a horny and scrawny little guy. Maybe she's afraid she'd break off his dick with the first hand-job and doesn't want to chance finding out she has an iron-jawed pussy, even though we both know she does.

In the few seconds I've been silent, Eric's made himself comfortable against the hood. "You ever drive the 'Stang?"

"RP's protective of her."

"So, no."

I skim buffed nails over gleaming opal paint, satisfied with the wax job I did hours ago. "Not yet. He said I could have her when I graduate but four years isn't that long. Man, I can't get over how small the school is. You have like two parking lots. That's it. Where do you have room to do anything?"

"Oh, there's plenty of room to do stuff. I'm sure if you catch Hyde on a good day, he'll show you some spots. And the parking lots are big, thank you."

He's defending school? Yeah, Eric's got a solid head on his shoulders but he's so...preppy and a total square. I'm not a complete burn out or rolling stone but next to him and his not girlfriend-girlfriend, I look like the Woodstock Queen. Well, the feather in my hair and chill-bohemian wardrobe doesn't help my argument much, but it's what I like and I don't care if anyone else does. Living in New York let me meet a lot of cool people and experience plenty of individualism and creativity; I'm cultured. I like what I like. The world would be oppressed, more than it is, if we all liked the same things. Screw you cooperate America and screw your socialism.

"Hyde?"

"Seriously? You sat across him at lunch." I must give him a dumbfound look because he gestures his tiny hands around his head. "Curly hair, aviators, Zeppelin shirt... Man, you must've been really out of it today, Brie."

"Ok. Imagine it's your first day in a new town, a new school around new people, around semi-familiar people that have all these stories of you that you can't remember while you're missing everyone you grew up with back home. Hearing memories you can't remember but everyone else does is like being blackout drunk and hearing secondhand how you buzzed off the hair of the cat." I grin jovially, "Man, I hated that furry bastard."

He chuckles at my description before realization hits him. Sorrow touches the pubescent lines of his face and unknown to himself, Eric awkwardly shifts around in place when he's upset. Like a pigeon. "I didn't think of it like that. You ok?"

Blinking wryly to the boy flanking my right, I shrug halfheartedly. "Homesick, but I'll be fine." Standing, I slowly pace the length of the garage and stare downward at red converse. "It's not like I can pack a suitcase, snag a bus and runaway. I have to protect RP, make sure Chelsea doesn't sink her hooks in him more than she has."

"She can't be that bad, Brie. Why don't you like her?" Eric's curiosity aligns my brown eyes with his blue.

Because I caught her nailing some asshole in my living room. That's why.

"She's a skankasourass." Matter-a-factly, my thumbs rest on lacy pockets.

He flinches at the brashness of my cool tone, staring sympathetically at his sneakers. "Geez. Tell me how you really feel."

Anger flowing like fire in my veins, I clench jeweled fingers hard enough for the bands to leave an impression on the neighboring digit, pinching the skin repeatedly. "I hate that broad! Her birth certificate is an apology note from the freaking condom factory!"

Confusion wriggles his brows. "Whoa. Did you just –"

"YEAH. I did!"

"Whoa. Ok," Gangly arms in a striped shirt raise a surrender. "All I did was do what my mom told me to. Note to self: Chelsea talk equals angry Brie. Got it."

Before I can snap back or apologize, Eric disperses through my backyard and impresses me with his strength by hopping the chain link fence separating me from the second half of the Pinciotti clan.

Time to ruse the adults and get them out of my hair. Especially Chelsea.

Slinking to an orange back door with a window doused in paisley linen for privacy, I enter the kitchen and smirk at the sight of Richard Pinciotti hunting for something to eat in the fridge. "Hey, Dad. Chelsea not up to cooking?"

Of course she's not. The bitch can boil water to save her life. Oh no, but she can cheat on "her man" and ride someone else's like a fuckin' jockey. Pathetic.

"Nah. She went to the salon, something about getting her nails done." He shuts the door flippantly and proceeds to load a glass with water from the tap.

Not for the first time, I sullenly pat myself on the back for finishing mine and Her chores after school before Dad finished his shift.

"What's up, Brie?"

Awesome. So that's more of our money this bitch is flushing down the toilet. She can do her own, it's not like she doesn't have time to whatever the hell she wants. Clearly. I do mine and I think they look pretty good, if I do say so myself.

"Eric stopped by. Said Red and Kitty were having a barbecue and invited us."

"And by 'Red and Kitty', we mean Kitty." Still armed in his navy blues, he combs a hand through trimmed but unruly dark strands before habitually rubs thick sideburns, one of his classic stress signs.

I nod positively and jut my thumb toward the back door. "Yeah, right now."

The polka dot glass is set down on a counter top; he bares forward on the counter top for a moment, relief and excitement blossoming his squared features. "Now?"

"That's what I said, man."

"Thank god. Real food. Give me a minute to change and we'll head over. Nothing kills a party like a cop."

Yeah, don't I know it. Dad's caught me a couple times back in New York doing things I should never have been doing with people I should've never been doing them with. Sure they were wrong and unethical for a cop's daughter, but I'm not just labeled as a "cop's kid". Nicky called me a free spirit. Dad's put so many limitations, curfews, and boundaries on me when I first got busted and it only made me want to break out of the cage faster at any cost. I don't know why I get like that, why I make circumstances worse when I'm facing the danger of life, but I do. Maybe it's the panic attacks. I don't know. Either way, we have a system now and somehow in one of my drunken episodes, I've convinced him to no longer confine me. I honestly have no memory of that conversation but he took my emotional, slurred ass seriously. I like to think that it pained him to see me a mess and being his only child, his little girl, he just let me have my way hoping I'd be happier. So far, I've mellowed out. He says it's a "trust" thing. Whatever, man. As far as I'm concerned, I'm free as a bird.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

Who the hell is that and what do they waaant? Sometimes I wish I had a button to just poof people away from me, especially the stupid ones.

Peeling the back the door, I step aside so Donna can slip in the foyer leading to the unused basement adjacent to the checker-floored kitchen. "We're coming. He's changing out of uniform, into his 'civvies'."

Civilian clothes. Man, it's ridiculous how much cop talk I know. Having Red and Uncle Bob around RP will definitely give me some breathing room from hearing day in and day out anything and everything about what did happen or what didn't happen at the station. For sure.

"Good," She leans toward me, whispering, "Ok, so I know he's a cop and all but um, does RP by chance have any beer?"

"He doesn't drink."

Her face falls a bit.

"But I do." On our way to the basement freezer tucked below the stairwell I tell her, "You say a word to anyone about my stash and I'll stick you in the freezer, and don't think I won't because we share DNA. Cool?"

She laughs for a solid moment in disbelief but stops abruptly as I remain stoic. "Y-yeah. Crystal." She clears her throat, nodding apprehensively. As I dig through crushed ice and fish a handful of cans out one by one before piling them in a fleece blanket and into a tote bag to keep them cold and hidden, the redhead breaks the silence after I pause my task to listen for RP walking above us until silence encompasses us. "You're not good with people, are you?"

I relieve a numb hand by shaking free any ice clinging to dry, freezing skin, then trying to warm up by nuzzling both hands together; I'm quick to reply, "It's not that I don't like them. Trusting people isn't my strong suit. It's nothing personal, Donna, so don't turn blue if I seem distant or disinterested. Few things get me hot and bothered."

"Duly noted."

Shit. She and Eric even talk the same. How are they not together by now?

Handing her the fifth one – that being all I'll willing give her – I inform her that she owes me.

"So, how was your first day of high school?"

I form a look equal parts overwhelmed and annoyed.

"Figures. You know, Brie," Donna's sentimental tone gathers my line of sight, "If you need someone to talk too, I'm right next door. Don't worry, you'll fit in." Following her outside to the mouth of the garage, she slings the tote over a shoulder.

"Why would I want to fit in?"

Especially here in this dinky little town?

"Well, you want to be liked, don't you? Everyone wants to be liked by someone."

Interesting theory, Donna. Points for effort.

"Nah. I don't need anyone to like me because I like me, man. If you don't then buzz off or I'll buzz my foot up your ass."

Strangely, a smile pinches the corners of her mouth, adding an extra shot of kindness to splash within her pale marbles.

I square a skeptical brow and tuck my palms in the pockets of my bell bottoms. "What?"

"Nothing." She titters a laugh, waving me off and giggles to herself as the distance spreads between she and I. "I'll see you in a few."

Just as she vanishes from view, the backdoor shuts, exposing Dad heading my way as I spin around to face his burly silhouette. "Finally. You ready to go or what?" His thick arm nudges into me, jostling me enough to sharpen my reflexes. He barks a laughter somewhere behind me, his heavy steps on the pavement slapping farther and farther away.

Excuse me?

"Hey, I was waiting on you!" Once I jog up to meet the my ogre of a parent, I allow his heavy arm flannelled in plaid to grace my shoulder but as soon as we bound the green hedge splitting Uncle Bob's and Red's driveways after cutting through a yard, I wriggle him off and mingle around the bodies of Price Mart coworkers, Kitty's fellow housewives and nurses chicks, and toss him a half-assed wave hopping downstairs. Feeling a sudden tug on my shoulder in the kitchen hall, I internally sigh at the sight of a petite, middle-aged blonde by the name of Kitty Foreman.

"There you are, sweetie! It's so great to have everyone together again." Giggling happily, she drifts blue over my stature – the Forman's are known for their blue eyes – and reaches up to maternally cup my angular face and straighten my shirt collar to her liking – out of habit I assume. "My goodness, you look so much like her." A cute, cackled whine of equal parts sadness and stupefaction escapes her throat.

Thanks for reminding me.

Retracting her touch, she swipes a platter of snacks off the counter and – of course she hands them to me – stretches to accommodate the height difference between us so she can properly squeeze my arm for…moral support, I guess? "Do me a favor and take these to the gang in the basement, Gabriella."

A robust chuckle angles my neck toward the den, knowing Dad's enjoying his reunion among the faces he grew up with.

"He'll be fine, sweetie. We'll take good care of RP. Just go have fun, watch some PBS and eat your snacks. Oh, and here! Have some punch!"

Nodding slowly at her bouncy blonde curls rattling in its typical fashion I don't even want to try to figure out however long it takes to do, I nod. "Sure thing. Thanks, Kitty."

She smiles encouragingly, releasing another round of giggles as she prances to the den with a second pitcher laced with vodka – if my nose is correct – where the tiny nurse greets my giver-of-life, her quirky personality no doubt taking him back in time.

At least I know where Eric gets his sense of humor from because Red sure as hell doesn't have one. Well, unless there's a foot and an ass involved, then that makes him smile. Usually.

At the top of the landing, I close the door and decent the L shaped stairwell.

"There she is! You're past curfew, young lady."

Paying Eric a flat look with underlying mirth, I set the jalapeno poppers and fruit punch pitcher on a pinwheel table in front of the old as shit sofa and plop on the cushion nearest to Hyde – the curly haired guy who I apparently sat with at lunch…now that I think about it, he was sleeping with his head down. Discovering my beers on the freezer, I ask Kelso to chuck me one since he's practically on his knees before the booze altar with all the ogling he's doing and easily catch it.

"Hot Poppers! Rad!" Kelso shovels at least three in his pie hole like an animal.

Gross, man. Shut your mouth.

"Kelso, eat it, don't wear it. You look like a geriatric rediscovering straws after his fifth stroke, man."

In the middle of tipping back her can, Donna chokes from swallowing wrong, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and snickers once she's no longer drowning on shitty beer.

"Kelso man, y'might want some ice for that wicked burn." Hyde recommends, snorting at the open-mouth offense Kelso casts my direction.

Quite proud of myself, I crack mine open after tapping the top.

"What're you doin' that for?"

"Like I trust you to not shake a beer." Swallowing crisp alcohol, I glare at Kelso.

"I wouldn't put it past you either, man." Hyde sets his drained drink aside. "But you always find a way to hurt yourself and that's a guaranteed laugh."

The sofa shifts oddly and not a second later, something bony as hell slams into my back; hissing, not painfully but annoyed that he almost made me spill my drink, I twist myself enough to shove his face away from me until I'm satisfied the fanboy's no longer invading my space while Donna warns him of my right hook. Eric lounges smugly on the opposite end of the sofa examining a Darth Vader bouncy ball he used to play with himself earlier, ignoring the daggers I glare at him, cheerily asking like the little shit he is, "So, got everything unpacked?"

"Forty-six boxes in seven days. What do you think?"

Someone shoot me. I can't do small talk, all it is bullshit. I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I'm a direct person. Give me the meat and potatoes of the situation, the cock and balls, whatever; I don't need all the drama bullshit some people thrive on. It's takes up too much valuable time that could be used for something thrilling.

Glimpsing to the foreign kid I share Gym and English Lit with in the corner who has yet to say a word since I came down here, I catch him gaze dead on to give him a "what do you want?" look. After a solid minute of eye contact, I break to scoff and smirk at what a sore thumb he is despite my best efforts. "What, Fez?"

"I was just wondering if I may touch your long, silky hair." Dreamily and creepily, whispers to himself, "So silky."

Here we go. The guy couldn't stop watch me jog laps in gym. I have to say, when someone stares at me, it annoys the holy hell out of me. You want to look at something? Get a damn mirror, creep.

"You got hair. Touch your own."

The kid's accent slightly muddles his words, making it hard to understand him most of the time; he has a talent for making everything sounding like one word. "Yes, but it is not to my tight, nimble waist."

"Yeah, that's sooo not happening." My grip on aluminum tightens, enforcing confidence in my plan to snatch the rubber ball from Eric who's deadpanned look echoes one Red Foreman; a return him a devious mien, executing my goal to throw the ball hard enough to ricochet of the far wall.

Unfortunately for Kelso, it knocks him flat on his ass.

The group titters their praise and howl laughter when the victim of Vader's wrath unsteadily rises with the unblemished ball in one hand, of which is plucked by a shit-faced Eric, and a black eye on that "gorgeous" face of his.

Jackie's loverboy gasps, "OW!"

"I swear, I didn't plan that, but it couldn't have happened any better." I admit; popping up to glide beyond Hyde and grapple a bag of okra from the deep freezer, I pretend to throw the bag at Kelso who flinches and covers his face, making me bust up again. "C'mon, man. Underhand."

That's right: I can be nice. Can. It's a choice.

Donna draws my attention. "I don't remember your hair being long when we're little. I've heard of people weaving hair into their scalp is popular in the city…?"

You got to be kidding me. Shit, these people don't know me at all.

To prove the point of being natural, I push my beer in Hyde's hand and stand behind him to swirl my head and rattle platinum locks. "Can extensions do that? C'mon," I point at Fez, finger waving him over. "This is a onetime only special."

Okra slapped on half his face, Kelso cheers way too excitedly and pumps a fist to the ceiling, "We got a head-banger in the gang! All right!"

Fez lights up and immediately gingers his fingers to massage my scalp, after he beckons me to sit on the cushioned stool beside Hyde's chair.

Whoa. OK, I take it back. He's surprisingly really good at this.

"You have the shiny, silky, soft hair, Gabriella."

Ok, I'm not sure what he called me but "Ga-pre-ela" isn't my name. This typically wouldn't make me laugh out loud, only people getting hurt is funny enough to laugh at, or a smoke session, but Fez's misstep would've earned no more than a closed-lip smile. That accent makes everything funnier and maybe the booze is kicking in. I'm not a lightweight by any means, but I haven't touched a beer in months simply because of spending lots of time with loved ones I left behind and packing for the inevitable. I haven't had time to wind down or kick back and have a cold one. I haven't had a full breath of air in six months since Dad first got the offer and began considering it from a Point Place's Captain, a childhood buddy, who happened to be in the city at the right place at the right time. Time seems to be my enemy these days.

Feeling a particular zing of pleasure brought on by relaxation and glee rub through my temples born from the simultaneous skill of nail and caress, I hum involuntarily. Softly.

"Is she…? No way. …right?" Almost appalled, Eric turns to evaluate us, landing on my half-lidded eyes as a focused Fez stands behind me happily divulged in the task at hand.

"Hmm? What was that?" I chuckle reluctantly, sighing heavily, and feel him gather the thick body of my hair at the base of my neck. "One more minute, Fez."

I wonder if he knows how to braid.

Ears pricked, I hear Donna snigger and the familiar friction of aluminum grazing cement.

"Gabriella."

There he goes again.

"Ga-bri-ella." I try to help a guy out by breaking it down.

"That is what I said. Ga-pre-eela."

The redhead nods negative. "That is so not what you said."

Copying his motion by grabbing the bundles at the base of my neck to ward his touch, I squat his hand when he tries to graze the turquoise feather woven into a small collection of strands behind my left ear. "The special's over, man."

Man, I haven't felt that chill without a blaze in...I don't even know when. Definitely before Dad told me about the job offer, before I told Nicky I was moving across the country. Fucking rad. Now I miss Nicky again.

Carding a hand through pale blonde after hopping over Hyde's crossed feet on the pinwheel table, as Fez takes the stool, to sit on Eric since Kelso took my sofa seat so I can distract these unearthed feelings, I get up right when he stops trying to push me off or wiggle his bony ass beneath me, only when he's totally submissive and has thrown in the towel. Downing the remains of my beer, I set it on the side table between Hyde's chair and the couch and eyeball the phone.

Maybe I should – no. What are you doing, Gabriella? C'mon, man. You think he'll answer after you left him hanging? He was your best friend and you totally dropped him like nothing. ... What's wrong with me? Am I so unable to feel that I just don't give a fuck?

Gilligan's Island drowns my thoughts, gravitating me to glimpse at the clock hanging ominously above the bunny-eared TV.

It's already been an hour. That's enough time to hang. I need to unearth and organize my clothes by color anyway.

A gaffing Kelso stops chewing on one of the few poppers left, swinging such shiny, feathery hair toward the basement door where I'm spotted leaving. "Hey, where you goin'?"

Peeling open the door, I send Eric a neutral look recalling our past conversation. "Got stuff to do. I'll see you later."

"'Kay. See you tomorrow, Gabriella." Donna waves.

For what he may think passes as bedroom eyes, a strained-faced Fez takes a couple suave steps my direction until he's standing like a foot away. "Yes, yes. Come by any time, beautiful."

"Uh-huh." I cock my neck and say to no one in particular, "Thanks for the beer."

Your welcome, Brie!

Door shut, I climb the cement stairwell and peter to a driveway similar in length and width to my own.

I don't know if I'll ever call Point Place home, if I'll ever get over New York. Guess time will tell. Should I call Nicky? Man, I love that long haired hunk. Then again, I don't need him hating me more than he does and I don't think I can take the rejection. This blows. Whatever. Hopefully looking at my favorite picture of him will do the trick.

Hearing the sliding door open and close, I raise mascaraed lashes to Red carrying a plate full of raw patties to a scalding charcoal grill.

I haven't really spoken to the guy since last week when he came over with Eric and Donna to move boxes out of the moving trunk into the three bedroom I now reside in. He helped Dad and Uncle Bob put my bed and bookcases together; he lifted my vanity dresser and chest of drawers up the stairs. He may not seem like it, but he's sweet in his own way. Like Dad.

"Hey, Red."

He barely pays me a glance, reverting to swapping raw meat for seared protein. "Hi."

Man, and I think I sound disinterested.

"I'd ask if you're enjoying yourself, but we both know how people are."

He huffs, "A bunch of dumbasses."

"Yeah. Do you need an extra hand before I head back? It's not like I got anything else to do."

I inch back a bit when he fully faces me to scales my honesty with a scrutinizing eye, inspecting me like I'm a bug he should squish, metal spatula firm in his grip ready to swat.

"What do you want?"

What a crab ass.

"Nothing. I uh, appreciate you helping out Dad and I. I know you're obligated to do it because of your history and all, but I know you didn't want too. So thanks. If you don't need anything, I'm going to head home." Hands tucked and hair flying behind my shoulders as a September breeze floats by, I walk backwards to the garage giving him plenty of time to speak up while holding Red's unreadable gaze. My body flinches a little when I bump into the Vista Cruiser.

That would've been cool, to walk away all smooth and shit. But that stupid car got in my freaking way. Why is it always my shit getting fucked with?

"I have Eric for crap like that. God knows he needs the heavy lifting."

I nod in agreement.

He is scrawny.

Returning to tend red meat, Red clears his throat, "I'll have Kitty make a plate to send home with RP."

Something tells me he doesn't say things remotely nice like this often or do thoughtful gestures period. No wonder he sounds so awkward.

Leaving him in solitude, I venture through the garage and hop Donna's fence before entering my yard.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, yes I know, "2 THAT '70s FICS?! Why"? Well, because I want it that way - that's why. If you're familiar with my 1st T7S Fic with Phoenix, then you'll come 2 realize as these SEPERATE fics continue that Brie and Phoenix are completely different women, totally polar opposites on the bitchy rebel vs innocent cinnamon roll spectrum. Brie was created 1st & is my favorite right now because I love her attitude, as she is the closest 2 a "villain" bad girl type I've ever written. As for the disclaimer, duh I don't own That '70s Show, only the original crap you don't recognize is mine. Face Claims will be posted below, as always. Feel free 2 PM if you're interested in Beta-ing any future content concerning the fics currently posted :D CC during R&R is uber appreciated!

LADIES:

Christina Applegate ('90s style) - Gabriella "Brie" Pinciotti

Claudia Schiffer ('90s style) - Chelsea

GENTLEMEN:

John Travolta ('90s style) - Richard "RP" Pinciotti