Disclaimer: I don't own. Obviously.

Spoilers: Through 8x01, 8x02, "Bohemian Rhapsody/Somebody To Love"

Looks Can Kill

She had this way of looking at him. Like she knew. Which of course she didn't. No one did. No one saw through Zen. And Steven Hyde had perfected the art of Zen. Just because he had taught her a few things back in the day didn't mean she understood him now. If she had ever understood him, she never would have given him ultimatums, or left him like everyone else in his life, or slept with Kelso…almost slept with Kelso. Whatever.

He didn't care. He was past it, over it. He was Zen. But she had this way of looking at him…

Steven, the look said—and only one of her looks could say Steven in that exact tone, that mixture of annoyance and love and possessiveness he told himself daily he didn't miss, because her lips didn't call him Steven anymore, they called him Hyde, impersonal-indifferent-I'm-over-you-Hyde—but her look said Steven.

You're not happy, Steven. The look spoke to him, so exactly her inflection that he constantly had to stop himself from responding aloud to the mental accusation.

Oh yeah? he wanted to retaliate. I wasn't happy before; I didn't expect happiness, didn't want it. It was you. You had to come along and screw me up with your smile and your kisses and your soft skin and your damn looks, had to make me think I could be happy, and where'd it get me? Just more miserable in the end.

It was her fault, he was certain. It was her fault his Zen had deserted him, her fault he'd allowed himself to feel, to maybe believe a bit in that delusional conspiracy called love, it was her fault he had been in Vegas in the first place, her fault he'd gotten so drunk he'd lost every last ounce of sense and married a stripper.

So she could stop with the looks already. They weren't pitying looks—perish the thought that Jackie Burkhardt might actually feel sympathy for someone other than herself—but they weren't triumphant either. No, whenever he felt her eyes upon him, sending him silent messages he didn't want to hear, there was just simple truth staring back at him.

You're not happy, Steven.

So what if I'm not? I'm close enough, he wanted her to read back. Sam was great. She was gorgeous and…and…talented and…flexible. She actually listened when he talked and didn't feel the need to dominate the conversation herself. She didn't bore him to death with stupid gossip and talk about makeup and whatever other crap Jackie was always yammering on about.

And so what if he sometimes missed the sound of her voice, even if he never listened to a word she said? And who cared if, on occasion, he resented that Sam so docilely agreed with everything he said and did? And it certainly didn't mean anything that Sam's body didn't curl perfectly against his the way Jackie's had done. Jackie was tiny; she'd fit that way against anyone.

Although the idea of her wrapped in someone else's lap was still enough to make his fists clench with the urge to lash out. But that, too, meant nothing at all.

Because it was past, he was over it. He was Zen. But she had this way of looking at him…