A/N: This story takes place a little after "Black Dog" in S5. No real spoilers.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to its respectful owner.

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Hyde never once wondered why Jackie had so many toys.

He knows most of the names of her dolls (because, of course they all have names, Steven, God) and which doll is her favorite (a China doll with perfect black hair, big green eyes, alabaster skin and a purple silk dress that she calls Angeline) and which doll she hates (the blonde collector's Barbie from her maternal grandmother) and why all of them are kept in pristine condition.

He knows why she bathes them, brushes their perfect locks, smoothes out satin, silk and cotton dresses and talks to them like they understand her.

If Jackie had been anyone else like Laurie or Donna, he would have teased her mercilessly. Hell, he probably would have purposefully defaced them – drawn moustaches or nipples or pubic hair and laughed for hours – or launched into a tirade about how dolls are just the government's way of corrupting women into believing they should feel shitty because they don't have hourglass figures.

But Jackie was Jackie, the petite brunette with wide mismatched eyes, the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, the naïve cheerleader, the popular girl, Queen Bee and probably the love of his life (not that he'll admit it, God, no), so instead he watches silently as she shows him the dolls. He doesn't just watch. He listens. He knows how important they are to her.

A shitty childhood filled with memories of a drunk or high mother, an absent father, screaming that lasted well into the night made Hyde a jaded cynic. There was nothing to muffle the drunken slurs and he heard them clearly through the paper-thin walls.

For Jackie, her parents showered her with gifts after every fight. Kisses and hollow promises (Mommy won't be gone for more than a week, sweetheart) masked infidelities and indiscretions. She had layers of silk duvets and Egyptian cotton sheets to protect her. Pink and purple pillows with lace covers cushion her from the crushing disappointment. Jewelry and make up to compensate for her father missing another opportunity to take pictures for a school dance.

Pam Burkhart gave her daughter dolls and Jackie lines them up and talks to them they way a young girl would talk to her mother. She tells her dolls more than she tells her human friends and maybe it breaks Hyde's heart a little when he sees Cindy (the wooden doll with painted features, blue eyes and a purple silk dress) all rumpled from being hugged and the black smudges under her eyes and on her pillow from crying.

She lines up her dolls and asks them how she should paint her nails, and Hyde likes it when she paints them shiny red because it makes her sexy. She asks them what color shirt to wear, what scented lotion to use and how she should style her hair, and Hyde knows that the dolls are a poor substitute for the mother's love she hasn't had since she was about ten.

For some reason, Hyde can't really blame her when she sneaks in that first night wearing flannel pajamas, hair smelling clean and of vanilla with Angeline cradled in her arms. She holds the doll close, like it's her baby and he welcomes her into his bed with open arms and a grunt of, was the doll really necessary?

She whacks him on the arm and tells him, of course she needs Angeline because she just gave the doll a bath and she can smell the doll's hair when his stinky room gets to be too much.

When Jackie comes over for the fourth time, she doesn't have a doll. When he asks her why, she shrugs and says, I guess I just don't need them anymore. Then she touches his hand. I've got you.

And, for a few moments, Hyde will pretend that he's enough for Jackie.

end.