Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

Author's Note 1: My part in a T7S fanfic and 'ship exchange with the very talented Marla's Lost. Her writing has magic in it. I'm always thoroughly entertained (and mesmerized) by the fictional worlds she creates, and her work inspired this challenge.

Author's Note 2: Zennies, beware. There be dragons (but one of them is friendly...)

CHAPTER ONE
EIGHT YEARS LATER

Jackie rang the doorbell of Eric's Bay View home. The dulcet chime was pleasing, but her breath remained shaky nonetheless. One could prepare only so much for the unknown. Leaving a familiar habitat, no matter how noxious, took courage. That was what Eric had told her. People got used to pain as if it were an old shoe, something as injurious as it was comfortable.

She rang the doorbell again. Eric was taking his time opening the door. Maybe he'd gotten lost on the way to the foyer. Technically, this house belonged to his aunt Paula. It was as quaint as its café-laden neighborhood, with white siding, a cozy patio, and what looked to be a sizable garage. The window boxes were filled with colorful pansies, no doubt planted by Mrs. Forman. The flowers were an annual plant that died when the temperature got too cold. Fortunately, Milwaukee had enough warmth in May to keep them alive.

Jackie focused on the pansies, on their purple and yellow petals. Patience was never her greatest virtue. When she wanted something, she usually grabbed it. Slamming herself into Eric's front door, however, wouldn't get her inside the house faster. Her body was built like a one of Mrs. Formans' pansies, not a bulldozer. She was perfectly shaped and naturally beautiful, and charming her way into places was more effective than forcing it.

A scuffle drew her attention back to the door. The sound, along with muffled shouts, came through the cherry wood. Some thudding footsteps followed, and Eric finally appeared. He opened the door casually, but he seemed out of breath. A pink balloon was floating at his chest, attached by a ribbon to his arm. "Welcome!" he said, voice cracking. "Come in."

"Thanks." She tried to get a good look at him—she hadn't seen him in years—but he moved aside as she entered the house. Clusters of pink and purple balloons crowded the living room. A giant banner had been strung up, and inscribed across it were the words, "Welcome, Milwaukee's Most Accurate Meteorologist!"

She clutched her handbag at the sight and glanced at Eric, but his appearance was as jolting as the decorations. During their phone calls, she imagined his voice coming from the spindly-bodied and boy-faced Eric she'd left behind at the funeral. The Eric beside her now was not him. His face had matured into a man's, with hard edges and an underlayer of emotional mileage. His body had thickened up with muscle, too, like someone who labored regularly, like chopping wood or hauling sandbags.

She allowed her eyes only a few seconds of scrutiny. Her nerve endings were reacting to him, as if her body had absorbed a truckload of Pop Rocks. She'd anticipated some discomfort but not this particular kind. The effort to process such feelings required more strength than she had. Her reserves were tapped out, and she plastered her gaze to the banner. "I didn't expect a party."

"It was Aunt Paula's idea," he said, and the pink balloon attached to him bobbed. Evidently, he hadn't outgrown gesturing with his arms.. The balloon's ribbon was wound around his sleeve, and he disentangled himself from it. "She thinks you're—"

"Oh, I just can't stand it!" Paula said. She sprang from a persimmon-colored couch, rushed forward, and grasped Jackie's hands. "Welcome to my home! I can't believe you're in my home! Jackie Burkhart!"

Jackie flinched. She was used to being fawned over in certain arenas, but she never believed a Forman—well, a Sigurdson—would be the one fawning. Paula's bright outfit and makeup matched the exuberance of her welcome. Her grip on Jackie was tight, too, but it loosened once Jackie smiled graciously at her.

"Hello, Jackie." The greeting came from a much softer voice. Mrs. Forman had remained on the couch, but her warmth reached Jackie across the room.

Paula, though, didn't seem to feel it. She glared back at Mrs. Forman as if the woman had called Jackie a whore. "'Hello'? That's all you've got to say?" Paula said. "Kitty, she just won the Chicago/Midwestern Emmy for Outstanding Meteorologist—"

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Forman said and went up to Paula. "Would you come into the kitchen with me for a moment, Paula?"

"But—!" Paula sputtered as Mrs. Forman dragged her into a hallway. "But—!"

Jackie stared after them, but Eric's laughter broke her focus. "Sorry about that," he said. "My aunt's a big fan."

"Of course she is." She fluffed her hair. "A lot of people are, as they should be."

He nodded. "You're hot stuff—"

She arched an eyebrow. Eric Forman had no business calling her that.

"On TV," he said quickly. "On TV. You're the only weather girl my aunt trusts. She wouldn't shut up about your coverage of the blizzard last year."

"That's because I'm much more than a weather girl, Forman. Unless the six years I spent studying atmospheric science was just..." she mimed taking a pull off a joint, "an hallucination."

He looked down at his shoes and cleared his throat. Awkward silences used to be commonplace during their phone conversations. They'd mostly outgrown them after years of talking to each other, but her attitude must've jarred him.

"Where's the bathroom?" she said. An easy question to answer, and something that returned his gaze to her.

"Down the hall where my mom yanked Paula. Door's on the right."

"Is there one where I can avoid being mauled?"

"Oh, uh ... yeah." He pointed to the carpeted, spiral staircase behind the couch. "Second door upstairs. Can't miss it."

She squeezed his hand in thanks and disappeared up the stairs.

He was right. The bathroom was hard to miss. Its pink tiles were a style choice she might've appreciated, if not for the particular shade. Cerise was too bold for a bathroom, but the décor didn't matter. All she needed was privacy.

She locked the door and clenched the floral, porcelain sink. Her whole body was shaking, probably had been since she'd arrived in Bay View. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her own reflection usually calmed her down, but distress was etched into her face. Eight years of it.

She turned on the sink's faucet and cupped water to her lips. She dried her trembling hands thoroughly afterward. Paula's on-trend—and very tacky—pink leopard-print towels should've been outlawed. The '80s had not been kind to fashion or style. Even the toilet seat was hot-pink. Jackie sat down on it anyway, hoping the neon wouldn't soak into her expensive, classy Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.

A rumpled, folded letter was in her front pocket. The paper was patched up with tape, and she pulled it out carefully. She'd read the letter so often that the words were branded on her brain, but she still read it occasionally. Like yesterday. Like now.

She scanned the letter until she got to the part relevant for today.

"Go to Forman if you need anything W.B. can't give. Forman's good at listening—and at convincing his ma to help his friends. And his ma's good at convincing Red to help her.

"Don't think too hard about it, doll. They'll care about you 'cause I do. Trust me: you can trust them, even Forman. He'll fight for you when you can't fight for yourself. But he's gotta know you need it."

"I've been trying," she said. "I'll keep trying." Her fingertips traced over the letter's inked words. She kissed its creased and battered paper and, with a swallowed breath, returned the letter to her pocket.

Eric was in the midst of swatting balloons when his mom returned to the living room. She had a tray of cookies in her hands, and she was alone. "Honey," she said, "don't bother the balloons."

"But they're so puffed-up and haughty," he said, but he also did as she asked. "Where's Paula?"

"Oh, I convinced her to bake Jackie some of her Paula's Surprise cupcakes."

His shoulders stiffened. "You told Paula to bake?"

"It should buy us at least an hour. Jackie seemed overwhelmed by the attention Paula was giving her." His mom went to the couch and placed the tray of cookies on the coffee table. "Speaking of Jackie, where is she?"

"Bathroom."

"We shouldn't have told Paula Jackie was coming over."

"If we'd done that and Paula found out, Paula would never have forgiven us."

His mom pursed her lips. "You're right," she said, and he tried to snatch a cookie off the tray. He couldn't decide which to take, though. She'd made an assortment of them, and his indecisiveness allowed her to brush his hand aside. "Eric, those are for Jackie."

"You didn't bake any peanut butter chocolate chip—"

Her eyes widened. "Of course not! I wouldn't do that to her."

"Good."

She sat on the couch. Her fingers darted to her blouse collar and agitated the ribbons at her neckline. "It's kind of a big event that Jackie finally..."

"Yeah."

"Maybe you should take down that banner—and hide the balloons."

"On it." He dashed to the living room's smallest closet. He removed the step ladder and placed it against the wall. "Can't believe Paula Scotch-taped her ceiling for this."

He climbed the ladder and pulled the banner's right-edge from the ceiling. He ripped off the tape, too, while the banner drooped like a dead flower toward the floor. Its left side was still attached to the ceiling, but he didn't feel like dragging the ladder across the room. His body was taught with nerves, having anticipated Jackie's visit, so he yanked on the banner until its left side came free.

"Paula really went all out," he said and jumped off the ladder. "Out there."

"Well, your aunt tends to get overly-enthusiastic about things," his mom said. "Remember when she was dating that baseball player?"

"Eddie Mathews!" He picked up the banner and crumpled it to his chest. Then he began gathering balloons. "Can't believe she went out with him. He's a National Baseball Hall-of-Famer!"

"Hall-of-Famer—whoopie. You know what deserves to be in the Hall of Fame? My stuffing recipe. But no. Famous Halls are reserved for baseball players like that Eddie Mathews. Your aunt went on and on about his FBIs—"

"RBIs..." He shoved the balloons with the banner into the room's biggest closet. It had space enough for three bicycles and then some.

"Yes, all that stuff." She waved her hand dismissively. "On and on she went about his batting average. Anyway..." she glanced at the antique, Art Deco clock on the wall, "Jackie's taking an awfully long time in that bathroom. Maybe you should check on her."

"Ohhh, no." He shook his head. "Nope, n'uh-uh, not happening. Burkhart would not appreciate being barged in on."

"You're probably right." She grabbed a cookie from the tray and bit into it. "Poor Fez's eyelashes still haven't grown back."

"How did you know that? We haven't seen Fez since the wedding." He sat next to her on the couch and pointed to the cookie tray. She nodded her assent, and he chose a sugar-encrusted gingersnap. "It's been three years."

"His annual Christmas letter. You really shouldn't have skimmed it. He gave us a lot of interesting information."

"It was twenty-five pages long!"

"And they flew by with my glass of Cabernet." She finished up her cookie and brushed crumbs off her skirt. "Honey, I've been wondering..."

"Yes?"

"Why do you call Jackie 'Burkhart'? You always do that on the phone."

He shrugged. "It's our thing."

Footsteps trod lightly on the spiral staircase. Jackie was back. She seemed to notice the removal of Paula's decorations because a deep breath left her. "There aren't going to be any more surprises, are there?"

"Aunt Paula's safely stashed away in the kitchen," Eric said. "Baking."

She raised both her eyebrows, clearly understanding what he meant. He'd shared more than one of Paula's kitchen exploits in the last few years, eliciting a few laughs from Jackie on the phone. But she wasn't laughing now. She approached the couch silently and sat down on his mom's other side.

He stood up. "Do you want me to leave? I can go upstairs—"

"Stay," Jackie said.

He backed up against the wall, keeping the couch in view. He liked that she'd given him the okay to stick around, but he would've done whatever she asked.

"How are you, Mrs. Forman?" she said with her gaze on his mom's eyes. The question seemed simple, but he knew better. It represented several, far more elaborate ones, unspoken but implied: how are you after eight years without him? Do you still miss him? How badly? Does it ever debilitate you, even after almost a decade?

Jackie had asked these underlying questions to Eric over the phone, not looking for answers but an answer: was his mom in a safe enough emotional space for Jackie to talk to her?

The answer had been yes, and Jackie's visit was scheduled. He still had trouble believing he was physically in her presence. This was the first time he'd seen her since his father's funeral—in person. He watched her on TV every morning when she reported the weather. She had an incredible on-camera charisma. Her sense of humor and compassion shone through all her meteorologist-speak, whether discussing the summer UV index or how low-pressure systems affected snowfall in winter.

He liked to absorb her image in the mornings and apply it to their phone conversations in the evenings. She always ended their talks with, "Another boring conversation, Forman." But that fact never kept her from taking his calls or phoning him up herself.

They'd spoken plenty in the last eight years, but the amount had tripled during the last six months. He and his mom had moved to Milwaukee then, to live with Aunt Paula. He'd offered to meet Jackie for coffee more than once, even before the move, or to see her on her terms. But they'd never managed to get together. Until today.

"I'm doing well," his mom said to Jackie. "There are times I really feel him, as if he's still alive." She placed a hand over her heart, and a tiny smile rose on Jackie's lips, the first Eric had seen since she arrived. "And I know I'll see him again. It's just not time yet. I still have things to do."

"Are you..." Jackie's smile faded, and she glanced down, as if she were unsure to voice her next question. "Are you angry?"

"At whom?" his mother said.

"At Mr. Forman ... at Steven."

His mom sighed, and his own body sagged against the wall. The events of eight years ago shot through his mind in quick succession, tearing open the wounds. But as his mom spoke, they closed up again.

"I was, for a while," she said, "but eventually my understanding of the circumstances left me with mostly sadness … and, to be completely honest with you, Jackie, I still do get sad. Especially in quieter times when I'm alone, but that's one reason I moved in with my sister. It's rarely ever quiet with her around."

Jackie fell silent, and his mom rubbed her arm tenderly. "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay," his mom said, prompting Jackie to speak. She bravely asked what she needed to. His mom answered honestly, and Eric hoped neither of them noticed his grin. It kept emerging on his face because of the pride he felt. Jackie and his mom were delving deeply into their pain, and they both surfaced from it appearing weary but lighter.

Jackie embraced his mom afterward and thanked her. They both wiped the tears from their wet eyes; then Jackie met Eric at his spot against the wall. Her hand surrounded his fingers, gathering them together like a bundle of twigs.

He straightened up, saying only, "Hi." He must have sounded like a dope, but he was unsure how to react.

"I'm ready," she said.

His pulse tightened. "Ready-ready?"

"Yeah."

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "I'll be with you every step of the way."

Jackie waited with Mrs. Forman on the couch while Eric went upstairs to "gather a few things". Unfortunately, during that time, his aunt Paula emerged from the kitchen. She was carrying her freshly baked cupcakes—if one could call them baked—on a tray. They smelled burnt, and chocolate frosting ran over them like melted flesh.

Jackie's breathing staggered. Both the sight and stink were unbearable. She rose from the couch and inched away as subtly as she could, which mean not subtly at all.

"Oh, come on," Paula said. "They don't look that bad! Try one!"

"No, thank you," Jackie said roughly. She didn't mean to be impolite, but all her willpower was devoted to keeping her inside the house. She'd already moved across the living room. "I-I don't eat cupcakes."

Paula didn't get the hint. She cornered Jackie in the foyer. "You don't know how much it would mean to me if you enjoyed something I made. You always brighten my day with your forecasts. I'd like to return the favor—"

"Then back off," Eric said. He rushed up behind Paula and gently but swiftly guided her toward the living room. "Remember when we had that little discussion about boundaries? You can't cupcake-assault my friends. No means no."

"I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted—"

"Mom?" he said and gestured to Paula.

Mrs. Forman jumped to her feet and swiped a cupcake off Paula's plate. She bit into the chocolate frosting. Her eyes squinted, and her mouth puckered, but she swallowed down her bite. "Mm ...that's a surprise, all right. Why don't you take me through exactly how you achieved it? So I can learn something..."

She ushered Paula and her burnt cupcakes into the hallway—with a goodbye wave in Jackie's direction—and Jackie breathed again once they were gone.

Eric met her at the front door. "Sorry again," he said. He had on a backpack and was carrying a paper shopping bag.

"It's fine. Let's go."

She led the charge outside to the breezy spring air. She stepped off the patio and went to the driveway where her car, a cherry-red '87 Acura Integra, awaited her. She'd bought it in celebration of her Emmy, an indulgence well-earned.

Eric whistled behind her. "Nice wheels."

"I know." She smiled proudly then sunk herself deep into his arms. Her body had stopped shaking a while ago, but her innards were jelly. She needed an anchor, something to ground her in the present. Paula's cupcake surprise had done her no good.

"Yeah..." He placed the shopping bag on the ground before embracing her. "I smelled them, too."

"Eight years, and the memory can still affect me like that." Tears crept to the corner of her eyes, but she didn't let them loose. "I'm usually okay around burning food, but I wasn't prepared for it. Not today."

His hands remained a stabilizing force on her back, not rubbing, not patting. Just supporting. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes. My shrink told me this kind of thing is normal. Healing comes in layers. The cupcakes were just too much with everything else."

"I hope—" His voice hitched. "I hope this doesn't put you off to visiting the house again. I'll make sure Paula isn't around next time."

She nodded against his shoulder before letting him go. She tried to peek inside his shopping bag, but he picked it up before she could. "What's in there?" she said.

"You'll see at the appropriate time."

"And the backpack?"

"Just my stuff, like my keys and miscellaneous items. It's easier that way."

She smirked. "Tacky, too."

"I carry a briefcase to work. Does that help my image?"

Her smirk became a chuckle, and she took out her car keys. "Not really, but cruising in my badass ride will do wonders for it." She dangled the keys in front of his face, like she wanted him to drive, then yanked them away. His brain had a delayed reaction, though, and his fingers snatched at the air dumbly.

"Damn!" he said as she led him to her car. She'd burned him but didn't declare it. She hadn't declared her burns in eight years, and he didn't expect she ever would again.