Chapter Text
My Girl
Kelso's growing up in Chicago, away from the blight and plight in Point Place. Will he find a home with Brooke and Betsy, or will he continue to fall back into his old ways? K/B. Kind of fluffy.
*****
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." -David Bowie
Chapter 1: Changes
Sunday, January 6, 1980
3:00 pm
The sun is shining, but Michael Kelso won't be fooled again.
Because winter in Chicago? It's windy, and it's cold. Wicked cold, as he shivers in his boots.
He stomps through the dirty, brown snow. Snow is usually white in Wisconsin, but in Chicago, snow is usually as brown as his questionable crew cut.
But the crew cut does show off his cheekbones, and it kind of makes him look like a soldier. And girls like soldiers, right?
Because soldiers are tough. Tough as nails, as winter hardly fazes them. As the wind blows on his back, his navy puffer jacket barely cushioning him from the cold, he enters what looks like a haunted hotel.
"This place is really old. It probably has lots of ghosts."
Brooke smiles, like she's in a museum, looking at a piece of art. "It has a certain charm to it."
"Like cobwebs and ghosts?"
He doesn't need to buzz in; Brooke has recently given him a shiny new apartment key. As a Christmas present, with a brand new wallet to boot. It's dark grey, slim and sleek, and most importantly? It doesn't distract from his natural bulge.
It took awhile for her to trust him with the keys to the castle, because he had to prove her wrong, as she once frankly stated;
"You're going to use my apartment for house parties, or as a crash pad."
He may be stupid, but he's not that stupid. He's not going to let his bachelor life mingle with his life as a father, unless he finds somebody to be serious with.
But deep down, that somebody is behind door number three. On floor two.
He only needs to hike up one flight of stairs, so he avoids the elevator. Usually, unless he's feeling really lazy.
Or ideally, if there's a hot chick to hit on, but that's never happened. Except for Brooke, there are no other hot chicks in her apartment complex; just a few old ladies, a couple of families, and this guy who's really intimidating and kind of looks like the Fonz.
He removes his keys from his jean pocket, but Brooke does the honor, as the door suddenly swings open.
She's quick to make a declaration, like a referee at a Packers game. "You're taking another test today, Michael."
Eyes widen in horror, and he's quick to whine. "But I'm not good at tests."
Ignoring his complaint, she continues. "Tonight, I'm going to let you watch Betsy again. By yourself."
Usually, that honor goes to Carolyn. He has late mornings and early afternoons wide open, but he usually sleeps in. He works from Monday to Saturday, from four to midnight. At the Playboy mansion, lavish evening parties are the name of the game. As a security guard, he has to serve and protect the premises, all of the guests, and the bunnies, even if shady, seedy business sometimes occurs behind its intimidating brick and limestone walls.
He's supposed to protect the world against the dark side; that's what, ideally, he was trained to do. But no matter what, whether he's policing the streets or protecting a massive mansion, darkness is never far away.
It's scary, even with a gun. Or, as some would say, the fact that he, Michael Kelso, is trusted with a gun is the scariest thing since an iconic Alfred Hitchcock film.
But if he's trusted with a gun, he should be trusted with a baby.
He repeats that fact over and over, and Brooke is never amused.
"You're not bringing a gun in here, are you?"
"No! Not both at the same time, Brooke. Duh."
This time, Brooke is particularly relentless. Like a mother cub protecting her young. "Do you have any contraband? Firecrackers, weed, a taser, a gun?"
He removes his keys and wallet, as he demonstrates that his jean pockets are empty. Because they've been turned inside out. "They're empty."
"Back pockets? Coat pocket? Under your coat? In your shoes?"
"Damn, Brooke. You don't trust me, do you?"
"At this point, it's protocol."
"But I've proven myself..." As Brooke refuses to relent, he moans and groans. "Fine."
Removing his coat, he turns it upside down, shaking it like a wet dog drying itself off. Then he removes his shoes, which he would've done anyway, because Brooke doesn't like tracking mud into her pristine apartment.
But it's not all sterile like a hospital, like he's been to plenty of times, but it's warm and welcoming. Like someone really lives here, with lots of personal touches. Paintings, plants, and family photos are perfectly scattered around.
It isn't cluttered though, like a decorating tornado came through. Her family thinks he's like a tornado that's come in and destroyed everything, but he's desperate to prove them wrong. So, so wrong.
So, he keeps up on his best behavior. Even if her family isn't around, because she might tell them everything. He wants to be the best guy he can possibly be, even if it's really, really hard.
"Thank you, Michael." She's dressed to the nines, with somewhere to go. She checks her glittery watch, with little time to waste. "I...I have to go."
She's as hot as a hot summer day, more than usual, so he's at least smart enough to ask the obvious.
"Why are you all dressed up?"
"Um..." Clearly uncomfortable, she struggles to maintain eye contact. "I'm going on a date tonight."
That's when jealousy rears its ugly, ugly head. But he still loves her, so it's only fair. "You're going on a date?"
Fiddling with her hair and slinging her beige purse over her shoulder, she's obviously nervous, but doesn't mince words.
"We're not together, are we?"
A loud "uh" emerges from his massive mouth, because he's been expertly burned. Brooke is smart, and usually burns him with a stern tone. Like she's telling him to be quiet in a library.
But he can't be quiet, as he pleads his case. Kind of. "But...but...I really like you."
"Your recent track record begs to differ," She states, "Not to mention, your questionable occupation speaks wonders. You don't want to settle down..."
She keeps talking, but his mind is wandering. His hands shuffle in his pockets, where his keys jingle all the way, and it's not even Christmas time anymore. Yeah, his keys may distract from his natural bulge, but he's not carrying a bag. Because pocketbooks, purses, whatever they're called? Those are for girls, and he's not a girl. He's a boy; hell, he's almost a man.
As a childish grin emerges on his lips, he imagines. Living here in this nice apartment, with Brooke and Betsy. Teaching Betsy the ways of life. The baby burns, how to walk. Talk. God, he wishes she could stay little forever...
"Why are you smiling?" Brooke asks, confused.
He never thinks that far into the future, and it's kind of hazy. "I'm thinking."
"About what?"
Settling down with you. "Us, and stuff."
"I thought there was no us, after...I don't know, you slept with a bunch of girls in Point Place. Namely, Hyde's sister."
He can't help it, as the childish grin foolishly returns. His conquests are numerous, especially in Point Place. He's the hottest guy around, so why hold back? He's no slouch in Chicago, either. Especially at the Playboy mansion, where his conquests are so numerous, he could become the king of a country of smoking hot bunnies.
As Brooke frowns, Kelso's triumphant grin fades, slowly becoming sheepish. "Yeah, there's a reason that there's a sign that says, 'welcome to Point Place. Don't date Kelso.'"
Her frown doesn't fade. "It should add, don't sleep with Michael Kelso."
"What, you regret our daughter?" Ever the drama king, he abruptly and erratically sweeps Betsy up off the floor, who was just anxiously yanking at her mother's cream floral dress, right at her feet. "Look at this cute little face. Do you regret this cute little face?"
As Betsy still desperately reaches out for her mother, fussing all the way, Brooke takes the squirming child from his grasp. As she immediately soothes their child, he feels useless. Like he's just a sperm donor, and that's it.
"No, I don't. But most of the time? You've only been around on Sundays," She states, matter of factly, like she's scolding a child, "And you've been sleeping with any girl who has a pulse."
"For your information, I only sleep with hot girls." Yeah, he's some hot stuff, isn't he? Even as he can't manage to erase Brooke's scowl. "Like you, at that Molly Hatchet concert. Yeah, especially you."
He hopes that will turn her frown upside down. Because all girls like to hear they're hot, right?
But his hypnosis is proven wrong, because Brooke seems really annoyed. "And? Am I just another conquest? Another girl to add to the list of girls you've done it with?"
Moving from her body to her mind, he hopes to make her feel better. "Well, you're different. You're really smart, and a lot of the girls I do it with? They're dumb."
She sighs. "So are you."
He's slightly offended, but for once, he's quick on his feet. As he compliments her quick wit. "That was a nice burn."
"Have a nice evening, Michael." Like a mother dealing with a wild, unpredictable child, she's quick to point out the obvious. In case of emergencies. "In case you forget, the fire extinguisher's under the sink."
Now, he's gobsmacked. Why is she still going on that date, when she clearly loves him? And he clearly loves her, more than any woman he's ever done it with.
"Wait, are you still going out with that guy?"
"Yes!"
Therefore, he plays the same trick. The same act. Using an upset Betsy to his advantage, as her mother walks away into the sunshine without a care in the world, he swoops their daughter up into the madness. Once again.
"Look at this face! And this face! We're both really, really sad!"
Brooke barely turns around to look at him, but gives Betsy a motherly, concerned glance, and a couple of words of simple reassurance. Towards their daughter, and not him. Instead, a pointed glare is sent in his direction.
"Damn Brooke, come on!"
And as his future walks away from him, he and Betsy are left to sulk.