I

It was hot. If Jughead Jones had had a chip of ice to suck, his breath would have turned to steam. Too hot for a horse to gallop. Too hot for a man to run. That was one of the reasons he was allowed to escort Elizabeth Cooper down to the river. The other was Kevin Keller, the sheriff's son. He'd been close with Elizabeth all their lives, but that wasn't what got the Coopers' trust. They were an old family in the town and treated everybody that way, looking not at the individual, but the whole family line. Sheriff Keller was a worthy man, and so Kevin was too, in a diminished way because of his greener age. Still, it was good enough to appoint him their overseer on that early evening. Barely.

"Betty," Jughead said, offering his arm to help her down to the retreated edge of the river. The sun was sucking up Sweetwater faster than his own father with a bottle. She was placing a gloved hand on Jughead's sleeve when Kevin commented: "I heard that."

Being old friends, Betty didn't take Kevin's remark seriously, letting it burn off into the burnished blue sky. She did, however, turn her head and offer him a smile. Really, she knew Kevin was happy to be included on the outing and only holding up the laws of propriety with no more than a toothpick's effort.

"If you're policing manners now too, I might have to start tucking my shirt in all the way around." Jughead smirked in Betty's direction and she dipped her head with a smile. He selfishly hoped he'd forced her to think about that boundary his shirttail would cross stuffed under his waistband.

Kevin bristled. He knew comparisons to his father and the man's line of work were inevitable, but he wouldn't be put on the outside. His answer to Jughead was sharp and cost him a little more sweat soaking into the back of his cotton shirt.

"If I were you, I'd begin by taking that hat off sometimes. It's bad manners and I don't know how some of the people you work for stand it."

"Oh, come on, Kevin. Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?" He raised a hand, giving the wide, dusty brim a flick that tilted it back on his head, exposing a damply hanging strand of coal black hair. Betty's hand shot out to reposition the hat and Jughead smiled benignly at Kevin through the hole her reaching arm made.

Jughead wasn't rubbing elbows with the upper echelons of their cozy little town anyway. Not as equals, at least. Not in a way that would make them care about what he wore or how he wore it. He was the layer of dirt under their nails that stopped worse dirt from getting in. He was the ugly landscape or flinty family portrait their wives sent out from the city to adorn their cigar stained walls. Useful, in a way, but far from desirable. The thought that his job was essentially to climb right down these men's throats and drag up the words they couldn't find with their brains often made Jughead laugh so hard he thought he might become physically sick.

Jughead's trade was transcription, if the man could turn a phrase on his own. Invention, if he couldn't. Mostly, Jughead's task was to polish an idea until it shone like the great golden tips of the pyramids, using a balance of his words and his client's. He could make a high-rank, low-class general sound like he'd just shipped over from Oxford University, or a knock-kneed youth who knows nought in this world besides how to brush and saddle a horse sound like he studied poetry at the feet of Wordsworth in the shadow of Tintern Abbey. Jughead valued his words―his words and his brain―above all else. Those were the things that had won him the notice of Elizabeth Cooper.

She finished with his hat and drew back her hand. Jughead could see it was pale through the white lace of her glove. He wanted to take those immaculate gloves and press his face into them until he could feel her skin beneath. He wouldn't think about taking them off. The thought alone felt forbidden in the presence of Kevin Keller, who always saw more than he said. Jughead could tell because he was just the same. He would save daydreams of Betty's glovelessness for later, along with the image of her in a particular white dress she owned that nearly showed her shoulders. Likely, her parents had an idea that the dress gave her the hue of a virginal bride of the Church―but their heads weren't so high in the heavenly clouds that they thought Betty ought to wear the thing down to the river with two young men.

"You know I haven't, Mr. Jones. I believe I'll see a pig fly the length of the Sweetwater before I live to see that." The satisfaction of insulting Jughead had sunk in for Kevin and he allowed himself to smile. It would be noble of Jughead to let their conversation end there, ceding the point to Kevin. Unfortunately, Jughead spent no more time thinking of nobility than it took to scratch the word out in a letter for a man who was not likely possessed of the trait.

"Mr. Jones, am I?" Jughead raised an eyebrow at Kevin. The look was threatening and Kevin's eyes widened. As a clear afterthought, Jughead added a smile.

Kevin's attempt at re-establishing manners had touched on a sore spot. Just as the Coopers viewed Kevin as a junior Sheriff Keller, thus did they view Jughead as a junior F.P. Jones. The fact that his Christian name marked him as third in the line―literally F.P. Jones Jr.―was an eternal, unshakeable stone in Jughead's boot. Everybody in Riverdale knew who F.P. was, even if they didn't trip all over themselves to admit it. And they knew what he did, even if they weren't exactly involved and couldn't exactly prove it. Not that they'd try to. You don't confront a man who deals so much with bounty hunters and bandits that he becomes one himself. Particularly when this person is also unignorably loyal and honourable, in his own way, causing him to never back down from a fight. This last characteristic was earned in the army in F.P.'s younger days.

Those days had been very different and there were still plenty living in the town who'd watched them limp to a close when F.P.'s wife left him for his drinking habit and lopsided loyalty. She took their small daughter with her. The son she left behind, as everyone else would have if Jughead hadn't been sharp―sharp enough to make himself useful, and then sharp in his mind. He took the keen eyes and to-the-ground ear inherited from his father and applied them to a schoolbook and slate instead.

Now, at the few social gatherings he attended, Jughead introduced himself as 'Forsythe Pendleton Eye Eye Eye.' The laughs were less than they would be if a young man who looked like he did introduced himself as 'the third.' Initials only was less obtrusive, but his old man had stolen even that route from him. One of the things Jughead was thankful for was the longstanding nickname he had amongst his nearest acquaintances.

"Isn't that what the sign will say on your door when you get the money to set up your services professionally?" Betty smiled at him sweetly. In her eyes was the green of the grass that in the rest of the town had burnt yellow as straw. She turned her face to her friend. "And you needn't hide behind me, Kevin. I am not your chaperone, you are mine."

Kevin blushed and Jughead struggled not to laugh. Betty's rebuke had fixed him better than anything Jughead could have said and to add to the man's humiliation now would not be decent.

"If my ability to fulfill my duties as a chaperone fails to meet your standards, Miss Cooper, perhaps you might look elsewhere for help on your next stroll to the river." Kevin looked annoyed and as though he was struggling to withstand the urge to stalk off, though his reputation wouldn't allow him to.

"Please don't leave, Kevin. Really, who on earth could replace you?" Betty stepped towards him and so necessarily away from Jughead. Jughead stuffed his hands into his coat pockets in frustration, then withdrew them, not eager to be chastised for poor manners another time. He knew there were no feelings of the shoulder-admiring sort between Kevin and Betty, but the jealousy was stubbornly ignorant. He also forced himself to recognize her words as a placation only, not affection.

"Oh, I can think of someone who'd be only too happy to enlist." Kevin tilted his head, seeming to casually examine the growth of weeds sprouting in a spot normally underwater. The temperature was continuing to climb and Kevin was growing restless and prickly.

Jughead felt as though the punishing sun above had singled him out for firewood and set him aflame. Kevin wielded the words he didn't say as sharply as the words he did. There was no doubt his reference was to Archibald Andrews. Archibald―or 'Archie' to Jughead in his younger days―was to Jughead so loathsome a person that he'd rather run him over with a horse than lend him one, even if Archie had two broken legs and no way to get home. Betty glanced at him and Jughead consciously relaxed his face. She could see straight through him anytime she liked; he lacked either the skill or the will (or both) to hide his mind from hers.

"Well, if the subject ever comes up between the two of you, please impress upon him that this is a war he cannot win," Jughead said steadily. Kevin had been speaking the words to Betty, but all three knew they were spoken to get under Jughead's skin.

"War is something I do not care for in the slightest." Betty spoke lightly, holding her chin high. Jughead would have loved to see her fair hair gleaming in the sun, but it was covered for shade and modesty.

"I'd be interested to hear your philosophy." Jughead smiled at her, but Betty's eyes were wary. He knew she was trying to place his comment as sincere or mocking. Her views didn't carry much weight at home, with two opinionated, impulsive parents. "Because I am myself a pacifist," he added. Betty gave him a small forgiving smile.

"As every man is until he's backed into a corner," Kevin chimed in. Jughead glared at him, but the other man was still smug after using Archie's name as an idle threat. Kevin strolled a few meters away, swinging his feet to lift rocks from their cool earthy concaves.

"A thing that is not at all easy nor wise to test," Betty said firmly. Kevin shrugged and turned away from them, content in his purposeless wandering.

"You speak with conviction," Jughead said softly to Betty, stepping close to her. Her eyes were bright, ready to receive a compliment for her ideals or to defend them against an argument. He gave her neither. "But has anyone ever backed you into a corner?"

She flushed immediately and Jughead backed away before Kevin could look over and take in their intimate tableau. Jughead was startled to see Betty reach after him and press a palm against his chest. It was indiscreet, but Kevin had obviously tired of playing nursery maid, his gaze turned out towards the river and his mind turned in.

Betty retracted her hand far sooner than Jughead would have liked. He felt a piece of his heart peel away with it.

"I have never yet been in such a position, but I would prefer greatly to fight rather than be fought over." She spoke loudly enough for Kevin to hear, as was her intention. Putting on a show of slight hostility when passing time with Jughead was advantageous for her acquaintance with Kevin. He cared for her like a sister, but had lately been trying to dig in the heels of that influence by directing her toward the idea of Archie. Archie was a perfectly good man and a hard worker―as dependable as the carpentry he did with his father. Their shop and the home they had over it had been Betty's view her whole life. Even when Archie had attempted to initiate a casual flirtation with her, she had not been seriously bothered. What alarmed her was the imaginary fear of the young man constructing his house right over to hers. The thought made her feel trapped and smothered. With Jughead Jones, even the hottest day of the year so far could not smother her. She stood out in it with him for as long as she was able.

Jughead was looking at her with great interest now. The longer she spoke to him, the more he found she was absolutely unlike anyone else in Riverdale.

"So you would fight?" he asked with a smile. His hat shaded his face, allowing his eyes to appear unsquintingly vast and inky. Betty struggled not to drown in them. Sometimes it was even more possible to drown on a dry day than a damp one.

"If it was right to do so, as in the tales of Arthur and Launcelot."

Jughead nodded.

"True, they fought in many campaigns. An interesting example though, since their most frequently alluded to war was with each other."

Kevin emerged from his daze and called over to them.

"Betty, I should be walking you home!"

"I heard that!" Jughead shouted to him. Kevin waved a dismissive hand, irritated. He could call her Betty all he liked and no one would find it out of place in the dear friendship they shared. Their friendship was so valuable to him, in fact, that he instigated verbal scuffles with Jughead just to give the man a chance. Kevin knew that Betty's interest in him would only be made obvious if it was pushed to revelation by stark opposition, which Kevin was willing to provide. He did cheer for Archie just as sincerely, however. Archie was gentle with animals, especially his dog, yet also had an outer strength that was easy to admire. Kevin did so in the form of cutting his eyes to the side whenever he had reason to walk past the Andrews place and Archie was out front sawing or hammering something with his shirt hanging open. It was well known that Kevin had a good, tasteful eye and he could always use the excuse of admiring the artful way Archie was planing a table or chiseling scrolling into a lady's writing desk.

Jughead started to move from his position between Betty and Kevin as the latter began a slow amble back in their direction. Once again, however, Betty surprised him by touching him gently, this time on the wrist.

"I should add," she said hurriedly, "that if, in a situation out of my control, I were cast in the role of the fought for rather than the fighter… you're the one I would hope might carry my token." Her eyes rose to Jughead's nervously. She felt his affection for her even without his presence, but her upbringing would not allow her to overlook the boldness of her actions. The place Jughead Jones filled in their town was not as clear to Betty as her own. Somewhere in their interactions, she craved that clarity. She should stop herself from being so forward with him when there had been no definite sign that she wasn't just a partner in banter to him.

Her heart pounded when Jughead finessed a curl down from under her hat, his fingertips sliding briefly across her forehead.

"Naturally," he whispered. "You'd make a very fine Guinevere."

Betty bit her lip to control the size of her sudden smile as Kevin appeared at her side, lifting her arm into position under his. He looked curiously back and forth between Betty and Jughead, noting her eager smile and the unusual sincerity in Jughead's eyes.

"Well, Mr. Jones," he presented his hand and Jughead shook it. It was much easier to be friends at parting. Kevin's eyebrows rose as he scanned the riverbank's desolation. He looked back at Jughead, offering a game smile. "Try not to get swept away."

Jughead nodded and kept his eyes on them as they mounted the hill. Before they disappeared over the other side, Betty looked back at him. Driven to move by forces greater than his mind, Jughead placed a hand over his heart, in exactly the position hers had rested earlier.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Keller, that I already have," he mumbled to himself.


Cheryl Blossom hung her arms, bare almost to her shoulders, heavily over the second story railing of her brothel. Her red hair was long, making the back of her neck sweat, but she wouldn't pull it up. She watched Elizabeth Cooper and Kevin Keller weave between buildings and back onto the main stretch of road, coming from the direction of Sweetwater River. With the girl's shining blonde hair, covered today, she would make an excellent addition to Cheryl's collection of vixens, but it was absolutely out of the question. Even an alliance would be too filthy for Elizabeth's fastidiously clean hands. If Cheryl offered her a position working as one of her ladies, Elizabeth would likely drop down dead. Cheryl smirked to herself, holding her mouth carefully so its red paint wouldn't be smudged in the sticky heat. Giving Betty Cooper a heart attack would just about be worth it to break the connection between her and Archie Andrews.

Betty caught a flash of red, darker than the dipping sun, and glanced over her shoulder as she and Kevin turned a corner. Cheryl Blossom's hair was hanging loose, flicking behind her as she strode back into the shade of her house's upper storey. If the girl herself were as loose as her hair, Betty could simply ignore her. Instead, she was fascinated by this creature of mysterious past and presumably doomed future.

No one knew what had gone through Cheryl's mind after her brother's death the year before, but they all knew she had gone through the ice. When she came back up, she was not the same. Betty mentally shook herself for imagining the girl's ordeal as a kind of reverse-baptism, but it was true that Cheryl's path had taken an unsavoury turn after that. She withdrew into herself for a time, then came back to madam the ladies of the house at the far end of town from Betty's own, taking over after Geraldine Grundy left them. Now that was a woman who had always made Betty's skin crawl. It was certainly not Betty's place to protect Archie Andrews, but Geraldine had made her want to whenever Betty had been outside conversing with Archie and Geraldine had passed by, giving him a disgusting, lustful look.

Betty shivered and patted Kevin's arm when he looked at her, alarmed. It was too hot a day to attribute the chill to anything other than a thought passing through her own mind.

"I'm worried about my strawberry plants. The sun must have been withering them horribly today."

Kevin did not look convinced, but he didn't press Betty and she was free to return to her thoughts.

Without a doubt, she would rather see Cheryl up there, ruling the place like a queen on her throne, but it still didn't make sense. Betty had an inquiring mind and a hunger for the truth that diverged from her parents'. They were ready to form answers first and gather reasons second; Betty's mind was more open, and this was a mystery she couldn't abandon. Cheryl's parents had more money than God, but even Cheryl becoming madam couldn't change their opinion of her―she was already their disappointment. Not like Jason. Charming and handsome. He wouldn't have won much respect in the troop that trained nearby, but he had his daddy's syrup business to save him from the life of a solider. He had it, then he let it slip through his fingers, leaving a sickly ooze you wouldn't want to lick clean. An ooze that attracts and attaches all manner of grime until no man can clean it from him.

Cheryl moved through the house, restless. She hated to see Betty Cooper walking the streets with her head held high, free, while Cheryl locked herself in this house like an invalid or a prisoner. Really, they were both prisoners and though Cheryl had selected this life on her own, she would always lay some blame with the Coopers. When they were younger, she hadn't minded the girls, especially Polly. Cheryl had even imagined sometimes that Polly was her elder sister, so beautiful and kind. No one would have pegged Polly Cooper as the one who would turn Jason's sweet, sweet life rotten. No one might ever have even known.

Cheryl flung open a bedroom door, impatiently shooing out the three half-dressed women reclining on the bed. At least there hadn't been a paying customer in the room, though Cheryl was so hot and irritable she wouldn't have cared about her entrance's effect on the business until later. She walked to the side window and found bright, pastel Betty and her dapper looking chaperone, following them with her eyes.

Cheryl and Jason's family was powerful, more than the Coopers, though the latter were the self-appointed seekers of truth in the town. They interrogated the congregation until those folks had no secrets from God―nor from any of their eagerly listening neighbours warming the rest of the pews. Cheryl hadn't heard this directly of course, no longer daring to darken the door of God's house, but she remembered from her younger days of being a less marginalized member of the community. There were also the secrets that passed across pillows, up skirts, and through walls in the house she ran like an empire. They could shame her out of the town's heart, but they forgot that the town came crawling right to her, knees to the floorboards, money held up in a sweaty hand, pleading for satisfaction. The money kept her lips painted a deep, expensive red, but the secrets shaped those lips into a knowing smirk.

Betty flicked her head slightly in discomfort, sure that she was feeling Cheryl's eyes on her like a wild animal. A predator. They hadn't been so very different before, but Betty had seen how ambition could either make a girl learn to tame and saddle the horse of her fate or ride it over a cliff. Everything about the Blossom family was so public, while her family was as private as a confession. After the transgression between Jason and Polly, her parents had thought the right thing to do was ship their daughter away to live in seclusion someplace with women of their faith. In Betty's opinion, this choosing seemingly religious sanctuary was far from Christian, motivated by her parents' own selfishness and shame. Betty could never feel shame for Polly, but she might never get her back. Jason's family would certainly never get him back and though Betty knew where he had gone, his absence felt just as confusing to her as Polly's.

What Jason did wouldn't get a man hung. Hell, with his family, it wouldn't even have gotten him a shotgun bride―though Betty had no reason to believe the man would have been anything but thrilled to wed her sister. Riverdale had as clean a record for crime as any town Betty knew of, if not cleaner. After Jason's death, most carried on as though some problem had been solved that needn't be thought of again. The odd person found it not quite right but wouldn't say more in mixed company―mixed usually meaning Mr. and Mrs. Blossom were present somewhere. Betty, however, found it positively suspicious. Her theory was that somehow, sometime, that charming young Blossom boy had crossed his father. Polly was just convenient. It was his father who he wronged and it was his father who would have his revenge. And since the Blossoms didn't do things small or private, Jason didn't get the belt or the back of his father's hand. He got the noose.

Kevin watched Betty's expression change from distracted to disquiet to distraught. The girl liked to think and when she did, she thought so deeply it was like maneuvering a sleepwalker around carts and up onto shaded shop porches. They'd both been teased some when they were children for the way Kevin appeared to lead Betty about. Now that they were older, Kevin saw it as somewhat of a service he was doing to Betty. Since the trouble with Polly, the girls' parents were awfully watchful of their younger child. Being seen to be led around town made her look a little more submissive, even if her thoughts couldn't be corralled into the pen of their family norms.

"Betty, it certainly is hot today. Do you think you might need to sit down?" Kevin halted their progress in the shade of a building. Betty eyed the plain wooden bench positioned nearby and frowned.

"Kevin, honestly, we've almost reached my house. You can't imagine I'm really that frail." The heat was bothering her though and she fanned her face with her hand, heating up just standing still.

"I didn't mean to sit there." He gestured at the bench and narrowed his eyes. Betty was getting hot and frustrated.

"Then where did you…"

Kevin pulled her around firmly by the arm as if they were dancing. He nodded towards the other side of the street. Betty's eyes grew round as they landed on the shirtless torso of Archie Andrews, sanding the back of a chair. Quickly, she lowered her eyes, then her whole head, staring at the hem of her dress. Kevin smiled at her trying too hard not to look before stepping partway in front of her, silently offering the opportunity for her to stare over his shoulder at Archie's sweaty physique. Betty did raise her head, but only as high as Kevin's chest, where she proceeded to bore holes with her manically fixated eyes.

"Oh, Betty, try not to look so intense. People will think I've just proposed." Unsettled by her mute focus, Kevin nervously smoothed the planes of his suit. He'd made Betty smile though, and she looked up to meet his eyes.

"And you'd prefer our engagement to remain between the two of us?"

"No, I'd prefer people not think I'd done it at all, given the expression you were wearing."

"Well, then kindly stop trying to shove me into the arms of Archie Andrews."

"I wasn't trying to shove you into his arms, just into his chair."

"How clever of you, Kevin."

"The words or the matchmaking?"

"Evidently the matchmaking was quite poor indeed seeing as I'm still standing here with you, and actually, the words weren't especially pleasing either."

Kevin put his hand to his heart and Betty couldn't hold his eye for a moment. She was reminded too transportingly of the gesture Jughead had made as he stood on the bank of the Sweetwater.

"A very cutting remark, Elizabeth. Sometimes you seem perfectly suited to Jughead Jones after all."

Betty jumped.

"Don't say anything so bold! Jughead is just―"

"Charming, in an antagonistic way? Bright? Determined?" Betty looked at him stubbornly, but Kevin left her no opening in which to insert her false denial. "He's mysterious and I know that intrigues you. My dear, you spend so much time lately digging down into that man's personality that I thought I'd offer you a little time to appreciate the surface. Specifically, that glistening masculine surface across the way."

Betty pursed her lips to contain her smile and looked up and away from Kevin. His perseverance in the idea of a Cooper-Andrews union was nothing but foolish. Betty liked Archie fine, but she'd known him since childhood. There was nothing more to learn, nothing more to see…. She peered cautiously around Kevin and watched Archie raise an arm to swipe the sweat from his brow. Kevin moved to stand beside her but Betty barely noticed. Honestly, it was indecent. She knew enough to think so and she knew her parents would feel the same if they thought that Betty was in any way taking a serious interest in their neighbour's son. Betty had never felt compelled to take advantage of their adjacent windows, but seeing Archie like this made her not want to draw her parents' attention to the location of their bedrooms. She didn't want a heavy curtain hung, just in case she was ever… curious.

"You know, Betty, I think we've made good time on our walk after all. Should we cross and say hello?"

Betty looked into Kevin's eyes, horrified, but he laughed.

"I'm sorry. Let's get you home in time for supper."

Kevin guided her out into the street, cutting a diagonal path to the home that stood between the whitewashed church and the carpentry shop. As they neared, Betty saw Archie glance up, down again, then jerk his entire head up like a skittish young horse. Kevin nodded and smiled politely―likely he would stop to talk with Archie on his way back―while Betty floundered, accidentally looking everywhere but into Archie's eyes. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly oppressed by the heat of the day, which seemed to be concentrating in her cheeks.

Archie nodded to Betty, not even noticing Kevin's greeting until it was too late to return it. She was looking unusually lovely, like a wildflower opened by the sun rather than a cut garden bloom on a starched tablecloth. It must have been the exertion of working out of doors in the heat that caused his heart to leap into his throat, making him want to rush to her and hold her publicly in his arms. It seemed that his bare skin was doing a lot of his work for him, judging by the redness of Betty's face and her dancing eyes. As she passed into her family's home, Archie smiled to himself. This was one advantage he had over Jughead Jones: a writer's trade gave him no cause to go without a shirt anyplace the woman of his interest might see him.


Jughead Jones fanned himself with his hat, coughing when a whoosh of dust flew down his throat, before jamming it back onto his compressed black hair as he passed into the edge of town. The sun, which had seemed to hold position so long at the top of the sky, was finally sliding down the wall of the horizon. That put the last rays level with his eyes in a way that couldn't be blocked by his hat's brim, but Jughead took the glare gladly, the very purity of the light making him feel scorched and alive. He allowed his retinas to burn like a cooked egg before casting his gaze down to the deep shadow before him. It was long and dark and stretched, like syrup over snow. Jughead felt a trickle of sweat scamper down his spine.

He jumped, once, trying to shake off his shadow like a fly. His holstered gun gave his hip a slap when he landed. Jughead realized he'd better not attempt any more ambitious maneuvers so long as he had the thing fastened to his belt, unless he developed a desire to shoot himself in the foot. For a minute or so, Jughead's mind slugged lazily through that thought. He imagined watching a congealed mess of blood pool out around his boot whilst he felt nothing at all. Morbid as hell, he figured. This was exactly why he'd always thought guns shouldn't find their way into the hands of kids too young to understand what they could do. Jughead understood violence well enough, himself, but would've preferred not to have to walk around armed. It was the fault of the morons in this town (the majority of his patrons) who thought having a gun meant more than having a college diploma. Jughead would kill for a chance to get a college diploma. He smirked to himself at the catch-22 he'd nearly stumbled into.

He tracked into the main road, taking a small pleasure in the way the dying light made the bottles of drunks on porches and hanging out of windows sparkle like diamonds. Jughead slouched past the White Worm, his smile sinking with his shoulders. Even if he couldn't see his father, he knew the man was in there someplace on the far side of sober.

"You going to a funeral, boy?"

Jughead slowed slightly, turning his head. He took in the jumble of limbs of two aging drunks wrapped around the posts and bannisters of the establishment. He couldn't make out their faces, but in any light most of his father's pals looked the same to him. Utter embarrassments, but still more kin to F.P. II than his own son. Jughead looked down at his all-black attire. He'd worn this sort of thing as long as he could remember. The man's joke was past stale.

"I'm working." He'd have liked to show the man a little more cheek―having his father's blood in his veins was a decent manner of protection―but drunks have a mind of their own, or rather, whatever they've been drinking does.

"Didn't know the undertaker had the funds to hire a hand." The two compatriots laughed sloppily together. Jughead was surprised at the improvement in the man's sense of humour. Of course, it could have been the other one who'd spoken before. He was almost tempted to shake the old bastard's hand, if he hadn't the fear of God for whatever diseases he might contract. Legs weren't the only thing spreading at Thornhill, Cheryl Blossom's whorehouse. Jughead considered whether the thorn-like poke an infected man received trying to sit in a saddle after a visit to Cheryl's was the reason for the house's name.

"There's always death," Jughead said soberly. "I'll let the undertaker know about the demise of your sense of humour and he can pay Fred Andrews a visit, start measuring for a coffin."

Jughead slipped around the corner, grinning, as a bottle came streaking into the street at the spot he had been standing. He heard it shatter in the dirt. Better remember not to walk back that way in the morning. The drunks would almost definitely have forgotten his insult, but the shards of glass wouldn't disappear until they'd been ground back into the dust of the road by the passage of time and wagons.

Jughead walked comfortably in the shade of the buildings, passing the mercantile, the bank, and the barber's before the edifices turned residential. He raised his eyes, waiting for the instant when the peak of the church steeple would appear, rising above less holy rooves. Betty wouldn't be inside it, but it always struck him as a special landmark, a kind of personal monument to her, and he hadn't been able to help learning the precise moment it would come into view. He slackened his pace as he approached the building proper, deciding to cut back onto the main stretch so it didn't look as though he were fixing to vandalize it.

He'd been too wrapped up in thoughts of Betty to take an earlier alleyway and ended up rejoining the main road right at the Andrews' corner. Jughead grimaced, praying atheistically that both man and son would be indoors eating their supper. The reverberant thud of a hammer strike was the tone of Jughead's disappointment. He smoothed his featured and let them hardened in the setting sun.

"Archie," he said loudly, nodding to his formerly close companion. Archie's head shot up and Jughead felt unsettled by the boy's grip on the hammer. Definitely better to announce himself than attempt to sneak by. The Andrews' home was probably safer than the bank.

"Jughead." Archie almost started to smile, then looked pained. It hadn't been so long ago that this greeting would have been a friendly one, accompanied by teasing and Jughead offering to lend a hand to help Archie finish up whatever he'd been working on that day. Archie felt his stomach sour. It was Jughead's fault that their friendship had been spoiled. He should have known better than to move in on the girl Archie felt had been practically set aside for him since childhood. Archie's tender consideration had been at Betty's disposal for years, but when Jughead's angry adolescence decided to resolve itself into a charismatic slickness almost overnight, he hadn't seen it coming.

Before he could determine whether throwing the hammer in his hand at Jughead as hard as he could might beat Jughead's reaction time with the gun he'd started carrying, Archie's father stepped outside.

"Jughead," he said, echoing his son. Fred could feel the anger sizzling in the air like the heat over the Sweetwater. He'd have liked to intervene in the boy's life, take away the things that were making him so hostile, only Fred realized one of the big causes of that was his own son. The shift had been so sudden that Fred struggled not to openly mourn the loss of Jughead's previously smiling face and ever-present black hat at their supper table. He knew the tiff had more than a little to do with the girl who was becoming a woman next door and longed to smack his son upside the head for it. It was the boy's own damn fault he'd waited so long―or taken so long―to find his feelings for her.

Getting in early was always better than trying to catch up. In Fred's relationship with his estranged wife, Mary, he'd experienced both. His own family was hard enough to navigate and attempt to control without worrying about the Coopers as well. That made him feel a little disloyal to Archie and disgusted with himself since he knew his neighbours didn't approve of his child as a match for their own. He considered the desperate grasp they tried to maintain on their daughters absolutely insane, having always parented clear in the other direction himself. He might feel like giving his son a boot in the ass every once in a while (though he never did―he and Mary had always raised their son with a gentle hand), but it was better than having a child rebel so hard against your rules that she ends up in some kind of convent while you watch her intended swing behind the jailhouse.

"Would you care to share our dinner with us, Jughead?" Fred couldn't resist asking and felt a little hurt in his heart when Jughead shot him a genuine smile before shaking his head. Fred could extend the offer, but he and Jughead both knew that Archie might knock the boy to the ground before he could cross their threshold.

"That's kind of you and I appreciate it, Mr. Andrews, but I have some work to do." Jughead dug the toe of his boot into the dirt, longing to kick off and run. Run from this situation, this town, this moment.

Fred nodded and turned back inside, so Jughead started to walk again.

"I saw Betty today," Archie blurted out after him. Jughead ground his teeth and turned back, smiling tightly.

"Well, she is your neighbour, Arch. Glad to hear you haven't gone blind."

"She saw me too," Archie replied, ignoring Jughead's comment. A self-satisfied smile crept onto his face. He bent slowly and lifted his shirt from the workbench where he'd left it hanging around noon. It was an old thing, currently reeking of dried sweat, but Archie shook it out carefully, just to emphasize its presence to Jughead.

Jughead knew exactly what the sonofabitch meant and felt a distracting ire rise in him. He narrowed his eyes, thinking all manner of spiteful things about how Archie should go sign Cheryl's roster if he was so keen on showing skin. Jughead never felt bad about his own looks, but he wasn't some kind of ignoramus who could ignore his rival's advantage. What swinging a hammer and stroking a saw didn't demand in brains they gained in muscle. Taking the job out under the sun added a bronzed varnish to the skin that could have come out of one of Archie's lacquering cans. Fucking sonofa Jesus hell-bastard fucking bitch. Suddenly, Jughead's emotions stepped to one side and his mind cleared.

"Oh, that must have been on her way home from Sweetwater River, where we spent the afternoon together. Ask Betty her opinion on King Arthur's chances the next time you see her. I know she'll understand what I mean."

Jughead smirked at Archie and hurried away while trying not to seem as though he were actually running. The haste of his escape was embarrassing, but a thrown hammer wouldn't smash in the street like a bottle from a drunk's wavering aim. No, if Archie wished it, a thrown hammer would smash Jughead's skull.

Archie breathed deeply, pushing his anger away with his mind. His stare tracked Jughead as the man's dark figure blended with his shadow, then blurred into the landscape as the sun rolled low. Archie wouldn't allow himself to get too worked up over Jughead's parting comment. If they'd seen each other at the river, it was almost certainly not on purpose. Anybody might be drawn to the town's watery boundary on so hot a day. He'd seen Kevin with Betty and the way they had been leaning into one another suggested they'd been walking together for some time. No doubt he'd been at the river as her companion, and with Kevin there, Jughead couldn't have done or said anything too forward. And it wouldn't have been a long interaction. Betty had taste. Betty had eyes, eyes that could easily identify Archie as the superior specimen between the two men. Sometimes, Archie believed that she was all eyes; her green stare was captivating and left him smoking when she was gone, like the green wood he weeded out of his father's lumber supply would smoke when burned. Betty's eyes filled Archie's days, but the thought of Betty's hands filled his nights.


Jughead's home wasn't so wonderful that he wouldn't consider leaving it if he had a better place to go, but it was alright. It was in a kind of wasteland: beyond the place where most other houses were situated, but before the wide farmland began, soft goldish-green. This in-between plot was enough of a sanctuary for Jughead. It wasn't like the Blossom's monstrosity back in the woods, but Jughead didn't need to suck profits from the natural world that surrounded him―one good tree that provided a little shade would suffice.

Inside, he fished his notebook out from underneath his mattress. In a life of few possessions, these bound pages were his own personal hoard of gold. He knew other people suspected him of having a secret project, a personal recording that no one else could get their nose into. Some folks were just sharp enough to figure a life transcribing dull letters of business might not fully satisfy a mind as seeking as Jughead's. It had been the truth when he'd told Fred Andrews and the esteemed patrons of the White Worm that he was working that evening. A man had a right to record his own thoughts every once in a while.

Jughead stood, flapping the notebook against his leg for a minute. He let his vision fuzz the world in front of him as he turned his mind back like a clock in reverse. He faced the window, but missed the sunset, his eyes already trained on his memories. It took very few minutes for the room to become powerfully, endlessly black, which was when Jughead blinked rapidly, unsure if he had fallen asleep still on his feet. He tossed the book onto his bed then removed his jacket and slid the straps of his suspenders from his shoulders. Some nights, the feeling was like freedom, as though without being caged by the thin straps Jughead would just float away into the night. This evening, he was too heavy. The sun had melted him down into a new state, spreading him into a butter-like clump on the earth. The dirtiest butter he'd ever seen. He laid down carefully on the bed. In a few minutes, Jughead would need to rise and wash himself so as not to disturb the cleanliness and order of his home. He was sure he'd be laughed at for his care (if anyone had known), but he didn't have a wife and couldn't spare the money to get a woman in to clean the place. He laid still, thinking, with his finger between the pages until thinking became dreaming and his finger slipped out.


To be continued...