Disclaimer: I don't own.

Warning: Language, a little adult theme thing going on (brief)

Author's Note: Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing! I'm going to get everyone a personal response - I've always felt bad that I haven't taken the time to do that, so I'm going to start. :) So, I hope you'll trust me. This story is going to be a bit raw, eventually, hence the M rating. But have faith. Jackie has faith, so you should too. :) I'm posting this a bit early since I've got a head start on the next chapter. But don't expect that until Friday or Saturday. Please review! :)

What He Is

What he is...

Is stupid.

Steven Hyde had never appreciated school. Learning was best done on the streets, by experience instead of reading lifeless words on pages that could be burned, torn, destroyed. And so, due to the fact that he was a non-conformist, freedom-loving man, he learned only what he chose to.

Usually.

Certain women, well, one woman, forced him to learn things he never wanted to. Good and bad. After her, he tried to forget it all. He'd thought Sam would distract him, teach him other stuff that would make it all disappear. He was wrong about Sam in a lot of ways. And those damn things Jackie taught him stayed. He tried to do the opposite. Usually failed.

He had to admit that she was a hell of a teacher.

So now, in what he apparently trying to make his third real relationship with a woman, he found himself applying the Jackie lessons, though always questioning why.

The biker brawl was cool. Rough, loud, violent. Perfect. Hyde enjoyed it. Cheered on one dude, then the other. Heckled one, then the other. Changed sides at will. It didn't matter to anyone. He liked that. Joni did, too. He liked that even more. Hanging out with a chick who liked violence was just plain cool.

And then some dude started hitting on her. An old friend of hers, she explained casually. Another Kelso, he figured. An ex who couldn't let go.

Jackie taught him to be jealous. Jackie taught him how to react. She loved it when he was jealous and violent. He'd decided most chicks liked that kind of thing. Protection. A hint of possessiveness. Whatever. She'd beat it into his brain, and he couldn't react any other way anymore. That's what he told himself.

So he punched the guy. The guy fought back, and he'd ended up with a black eye. He didn't care. The other guy looked a hell of a lot worse. And fighting didn't suck. At all. Good stress relief, beating the hell out of someone.

What did suck was that Joni, after giving him one of those scowls that made him wonder what he was doing with her, stepped on his glasses. Smashed them to pieces. And laughed, right before screaming at him that she could take care of herself, blah, blah, blah. Stalked off. An hour later, he saw her getting into a car with the asshole.

Not that surprising, really.

On the way home, he figured it was over. No big deal. She was just a chick, and as such, not worth getting upset over. He could find another one, a hotter one, with hardly any effort at all. And he would. Just as soon as he got a new pair of glasses. Stupid overreacting bitch.

Jackie's fault. She'd made him stupid, and even though he'd gotten rid of her, she was still making him stupid.

What he is...

Is pissed off.

Hyde trudged down the outside stairs to the Forman basement and shook his head. Good damn thing he'd moved back down there. Another good damn thing that he no longer had a curfew and his comings and goings were more or less ignored by Red and Kitty. It was three a.m. So when he noticed the basement light still on, he rolled his eyes. Probably Forman and Donna doing disgusting things to one another. And Fez hiding in the shower, watching. Gay or not, he was still a perverted voyeur.

Just inside the door, he stopped. Jackie lay curled up on the couch, his jacket wrapped arouund her upper half. He grimaced and tightened his hands into fists. And yet, the catch in his chest didn't go away. Neither did the one in his throat. Neither did the thought that she looked incredibly beautiful.

Pissed him off. He made sure to take heavy steps. Turned on the television just a little louder than necessary. Sighed hard when he sat down in his chair.

And frowned as she stirred. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. He focused on the television.

"Steven! What happened to your eye?"

He shrugged. "Got in a fight." She gasped, and he looked at her. She'd paled, and her left hand covered her mouth. Something deep down overruled his initial idea to twist the situation into a burn, and he sighed. Damn it. "If it makes you feel better, the other guy looks a hell of a lot worse."

She sighed, then smiled. Her hand fell to her lap where she clutched his jacket. "Of course he does. I mean, you're the best at beating guys up."

He grinned. She was always so proud of him when he beat some loser up, especially one who was hitting on her or looking at her weird, or just at all. And he'd always liked it.

Another thing that pissed him off. Another thing that made him stupid. He killed the grin. "Go get me a beer." He figured it would make her go away. Jackie Burkhart was bossy. She didn't enjoy the tables being turned on her. He'd learned that well.

Her turn to kill a smile, and she glared at him. "What? Why should I?"

He raised an eyebrow and glanced at his jacket. "'Cause I let you borrow my jacket." Satisfaction replaced anger as she stood and headed towards the door. But then she tugged open the shower curtain.

When she handed him the beer, he wasn't sure what to do. This wasn't what he'd expected. He took it. His best idea. Only idea, really.

He stared at the t.v. Some show was on, but what it was, he had no clue. He was hyper-aware of her eyes on him, but he wasn't going to give in to her. He'd done enough of that in the past, enough for his entire lifetime. No more.

"Steven, can I ask you something?"

He held his eyes closed for a moment. Didn't say anything. And of course she took that as a "yes".

"Did you really think of me as just a hooker like Joni said?"

She wanted reassurance. She wanted words. Just like always. And reassuring words were always impossible for him. He cleared his throat and kept staring at the set instead of looking at her. No giving in. "Nah," he said. "More like a high-class call girl."

"You're a LIAR, Steven!" She shook her head. "Damn it, I knew you were going to say something stupid like that."

He looked at her. She stood there, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and he had to swallow back the idiotic heat building inside. God damned lust. And it fueled the anger that was there all the time when he looked at her or thought of her or was near her. He took a deep breath. "Then why did you ask me the question?"

She sank down on the couch and stared at his jacket. "Because after you gave me the jacket, I thought...I just..." Her eyes closed. "I thought maybe you...." Her head shot up and her eyes formed a nasty glare. "I thought maybe you weren't such a first-class ass anymore." Her lips twisted into a sneer that was more sexy than disdainful. "I gave you far too much credit."

He rolled his eyes. "Look, Jackie, I'm too tired to have this conversation. Too old, for that matter. So just forget about it." He turned his attention back to the television and tried to mentally will his irritating ex to leave before he did something he regretted.

"No one likes her, you know."

The lust was gone, luckily. All it took was that snotty tone of voice of hers. And as tired as he was, bone-crushingly so, anger built quickly and his hand tightened on his beer can. He took a long drink just to stop himself from saying anything at all.

"She's a bitch."

He almost laughed. "So are you."

"But I'm a good bitch, Steven."

Her slight smile made him return it. "A good bitch?"

She tossed her hair. Flirtatiously, of course. He shifted on his chair. Damned second head. Damn it.

"A high class bitch," she said, her smile widening.

Her entire face brightened, her eyes started that shiny glow thing that always kept him looking at her. Then she cocked her head to the right, pretended she had an itch on her neck that she scratched with her fingertips, skiming them over her bare collarbone and making him remember – lust for – the taste of that incredible skin.

So much for anger.

His eye lids felt heavy, his throat dry. His legs spread slightly. That spot...that one spot that made her moan his name so intensely it echoed inside of his body...that spot that made her do things to him with such passion...her body...her insanely hot body...the way her legs wrapped around him...the way she took him inside so deep...Jackie...the way she clenched around him with such need....

"Steven!"

That was not the way she used to moan his name.

He grimaced and curled his hands into fists yet again. "Damn it, Jackie, what?" He glared at her, but this time she didn't return fire with fire. She stared at him softly.

"I was saying that Joni treats you horribly."

"So?" He arched an eyebrow. "Why do you care?"

She flushed and looked down. Mumbled something he thought he could make out, but mayge he was just drunk because it sounded like she's said she thought she still loved him. She couldn't have said that.

She couldn't still love him. She couldn't even think she still loved him.

Then her head shot up and defiance colored her cheeks instead of embarassment. "I don't. My point is that your girlfriend doesn't care about you. And it should bother you."

He clenched his jaw. "Get out of here, Jackie."

How many times had he heard, been shown, that someone didn't care about him? His mother. Father. Friends.

Jackie.

She just stared at him with those eyes, and it made him hot. Angry hot. He swallowed again, and it tasted of rage. "I said get out."

"Steven..."

He'd heard it before, that sweet voice, that allegedly caring one she used when she wanted to get to him. The one that sounded like vocal silk. Love, she used to say. It was love.

Like hell it was love. Like hell it hade ever been love.

The rage burned bitter fire in his throat, and his entire body began shaking.

He stood up, his heart pounding, every inch of him sparking with the need to destroy. His beer fell out of his hand. Didn't matter. His eyes blurred. He couldn't breathe.

The table in front of Jackie was light and he pushed it over as hard as he could.

"Get the hell out of here, Jackie!"

When he woke up hours later, sweating and sick as a dog, his head resting on the toilet seat, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. He had a vague suspicion that it had been a bad, bad night.