AN: Any recognisable dialogue belongs exclusively to the Netflix Original T.V Show; Riverdale
Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice
Forsythia Jones; Jellybean to her family, JB to her friends. To him, she's always been something else. Riverdale AU (Aged-up Jellybean)
Chapter I - Candy
"Our story is about a town, a small town, and the people who live in the town. From a distance, it presents itself like so many other small towns all over the world; safe, decent… innocent. Get closer though, and you start seeing the shadows underneath. The name of our town, is Riverdale."
She wakes to the sound of retching. It's familiar, in way that makes her eyes sting and her heart ache; the reason Juggy is gone, the reason Gladys had left, the sound… of a broken man.
Jellybean stumbles blindly into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on as she passes, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard above the sink, and a teaspoon from the draw. Coffee is made on autopilot, and she leaves one on the counter; it won't be drunk, but she makes it anyway, even if every night when she returns home, she pours it down the drain. She dresses quickly, intermittedly downing sips of her scalding coffee, and is out the door of the trailer before the first can is cracked and the last dregs of whiskey are sucked from last night's bottle.
Sunnyside Trailer Park is primarily Southside Serpent territory, but she knows some of the residents kicking back on the other side of the park with empty paper straws hanging from their mouths have no affiliation with the family she was born into, nor would they; Serpents have no time for drug-addicted wannabe Ghoulies. Jellybean swings her leg over the old Honda Cb550 that's now more hers than Jughead's, pausing in reaching for the helmet hanging from the handlebars when she feels eyes upon her. JB looks up slowly, her fingers tangling in her hair as she pulls it to one side, and sees him, a few trailers down, lounging against the wooden railing outside his home, smirk on his lips and cigarette in hand. She's seen him around before but knows him only by the leather jacket he dons and the motorcycle he rides. He's handsome; broad shouldered and dark haired and she suspects, but can't be certain, that his eyes are darker still. But it's the tattoo on the side of his neck that she keeps coming back to; he bares it proudly, wears it with the gravitas of a prince crowned, and his smirk widens farther when JB realises she's staring, and she ducks her head, her cheeks aflame.
She pulls the helmet on with practiced ease, the crown Jughead scratched into before the worst still as prevalent as ever and revs the engine, tearing out of the trailer park at a breakneck speed.
Riverdale High School is just as it was before the fateful events of the fourth of July weekend; crisp, clean, flawless. JB has always felt uneasy here, all too uncomfortably aware of the thinly veiled distain she's viewed with and often wishes Gladys hadn't been so set on getting she and Jughead out of the Southside. The hallways are empty, and JB knows immediately she's late; withstanding Mr Weatherbee's glare with a raised chin as she slips, quietly, through the side entrance of the gymnasium. Cheryl Blossom, the picture of grief, stands behind the lectern, speaking with the confidence only a twin could have. Jellybean rolls her eyes; Cheryl has always had a flair for the dramatics; and finds a seat in the back row, her eyes casting across to Jughead, as he sits with his ever-present laptop cradled in his lap.
Her eyes remain on him. Living at the Drive-In hasn't been kind to him; he's thinner than she remembers, with dark bruises under his eyes and clothes that she's certain haven't been washed with anything stronger than a bar of soap. Jellybean is not surprised when he looks up and offers her a soft smile; god how she misses him, how it used to be, before Dad started drinking and Gladys left.
The gym empties, and they're left alone. The bell rings, and again, she's late.
Jughead tucks his laptop under his arm, and wanders over, smiling that same sardonic smile he inherited from their Dad. He drops down beside her, and they sit, in silence, neither able to speak the words that need to be said.
He breaks first. "I've missed you Beanie."
Jellybean almost cries. "Juggy... come home."
Jughead stiffens, and Jellybean knows he won't come back, not until something, someone, changes. "Beanie, you know I can't."
"Forget about Dad for a goddamn minute." Jellybean snaps, angry at his blinkered view. "You didn't just leave him when you left." Jughead looks stricken, and she's almost glad; she hasn't seen him in months and she wants, no needs, him to get out of his head and understand. "Why Juggy? Why didn't you tell me you were going to leave? I would have come with you."
"I-"
"I woke up and you were gone…" Jellybean cuts him off before he can offer an excuse. "It was Mum leaving all over again."
"Jellybean… I'm sorry." He whispers, and she knows, he genuinely is. "But I'm not coming back."
Jellybean nods once, and stands, blinking tears from her eyes and swallowing through the lump in her throat. "I'll see you in class Jughead."
There's still a few people lingering in the corridors as she leaves the gymnasium; footballers in their Varsity jackets, a few of Cheryl Blossom's River Vixens, Betty Cooper, Kevin Keller and a girl she doesn't recognise. Suddenly she's incredibly interested in the obnoxious posters advertising the back to school formal donning the walls. JB is nothing short of relived when Betty simply offers a friendly smile as she passes. She hasn't truly spoken with Betty in months, their childhood friendship dwindling into a casual acquaintanceship through no fault of either of them. JB imagines Alice Cooper would finally be happy without the bad influences of the Jones' twins around her precious second-born.
School is… easy.
She's not challenged by the content and learns new concepts quickly, often finding herself fighting boredom, her classmates seeming to lag behind. She is first from her seat when the final bell rings, eager to leave the Northside as nothing more than a reflection in her side mirrors, and dumps her textbooks in her locker, exchanging them for her motorcycle helmet.
Aside from the warning from Principal Weatherbee against further truancy, class was thankfully uneventful.
"I didn't know you still rode."
JB looks up, and remembers suddenly, that Archie Andrews has the locker to the left of hers. She shrugs, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder with her free hand. "We haven't had a proper conversation since we were thirteen Archie. How could you have known?"
He seems uncomfortable by the reminder, and JB wonders abstractly if his relationship with Jughead is just as awkward. "I guess we haven't." He rallies however, and taps the crown etched onto the front of the black helmet, a friendly smile on his lips. "What does Jughead think?"
She pulls the helmet out of his reach and slams her locker door shut, abruptly ending the stilted conversation. "Goodbye Andrews."
JB knows he hadn't meant to sprinkle salt in an open wound, in fact, she doubts he even knows the significance of the bike she rides. Sweet, oblivious Archie Andrews.
"JB!" He calls her name loudly, but she's already halfway to the exit and feels no shame in lifting her hood over her hair and blatantly ignoring his shout. Childhood friendship be damned.
The juxtaposition of the shining, new off the line Nissans Altima's, Ford F-150's and Toyota Corolla's against the vintage Chevrolet Impala in Cheryl Blossom's signature cherry-red, the classic Volkswagen Beetle's and the aged Dodge's, never fail to make Jellybean smile; it's Riverdale in a nutshell. Everything old and new, all at once. Their motorbike is exactly how she left it, entirely out of place amongst the assorted four-wheeled vehicles in the lot.
Jellybean slings her leg over the seat, eyeing the fuel gage speculatively as tension drains from her body like water from a leaky faucet, her boot resting loosely on the foot-peg. She's got just over three-quarters of a tank left; just enough to waste a few hours with a roundtrip to Greendale… and so she does. The sky is overcast, but the roads are dry, and she doesn't think she'll ever feel as at home as she does on the back of a motorcycle, anywhere else. Her ears are ringing when she finally rolls back into the Sunnyside Trailer Park hours later, just as the last of the sunlight fades into the night.
JB levers down the kickstand and lets the bike idle for a moment, stepping off and dropping her backpack in the grass. She stretches out, arms overhead and feels her spine pop magnificently and leans over, hands on the back of her ankles as she stretches out her hamstrings and calves. Footsteps behind her cause her to straighten and she reaches for the keys still in the ignition of their motorcycle, flicking them off and tucking them safely into her back pocket, tying her jacket tightly around her waist.
"Candy, right?"
She raises an eyebrow and leans back against the bike; after he caught her staring this morning, JB doesn't bother to hide her examination of him now. He's wearing his jacket now, dark-wash jeans that fit him like a glove and worn leather motorcycle boots with the laces wrapped twice around his ankles. She spies a leather cord tied around his right wrist and a large silver ring on his left hand; she notes curiously that it's not a snake, as expected, but a wolf. "Excuse me?" She questions.
"Your name." He says, eyeing her just as speculatively, and just as blatantly. JB wonders what he sees. "It's got something to do with candy?"
Jellybean smiles and sees the barest of grins reflected on his lips. "Yes, it does. And yours, Serpent?"
His grin stretches, and she gets a glimpse of perfect white teeth. He rubs the side of his neck, long fingers obscuring the tattoo she itches to trace. "Not what you'd expect."
"Do I have to guess?" Jellybean asks slyly, watching as he tucks his free hand in the pocket of his aged leather jacket.
There's mischief in his eyes when he answers. "Tell you what Candy, how 'bout a game?"
JB stands, stepping closer to the Serpent. He's taller than her; not overly so, but just enough that she must tilt her head ever so slightly back just to look him in the eye. His eyes are just as she suspected; almost pitch in colour, and infinite in depth. "And what would be the prize?"
"Winner's prerogative."
Jellybean grins widely. Winner's prerogative. She nods, eyes flitting across his face, regarding his strong cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass with something like fascination. "Rules?"
"Three guesses." He states, and for a moment his gaze shifts, appraising her lips quickly before meeting her eyes again. "Whoever guesses first wins."
JB inclines her head slightly. "Terms accepted. You have a clue for my name, what's mine for yours?"
He spreads his arms wide, stepping backwards and grinning boyishly. "Flowers, Candy. Your clue is flowers."
She watches him until he's gone, slinking into the shadows like he was born in them. Flowers? Jellybean has no idea where to begin, so she puts it from her mind and picks up her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder and bounding up the stairs to the trailer. Its unlocked, the rooms are dark, and the air is cold. She flips on a light, and the coffee sitting untouched on the kitchen bench is the first thing she sees. Any levity gained in her conversation with her Southside Serpent neighbour dissipates, and she dumps the fetid liquid down the sink harshly, the mug clattering loudly against the stainless steel.
Her mood plummets and her heart dips; she's alone, always, always bitterly alone. Abandoned by Gladys, abandoned by FP, abandoned… by Jughead.
She upends her backpack on the couch, and from beneath the beat-up coffee table, she pulls the portable record player Jughead brought her for their birthday the year before. It only just fits in her empty bag, and she carefully tucks her favourite vinyl record into the remaining space. Jellybean slips her arms through the straps and heads back outside, climbing up onto the wooden railing of the stairs with the ease of years of practice, easily leveraging herself onto the roof of the trailer that used to be home. Situated in the middle of the roof now, she shrugs out of her backpack and pulls her jacket on, setting the record player gingerly beside her. JB loads her favourite vinyl reverently and breathes a little easier when the familiar strains of Speak to Me kick off Pink Floyd's 1973 album.
JB lays back on the corrugated roof, her backpack folded and gathered beneath her head and stares up at the stars, wishing, not for the first time, that she were somewhere else entirely.
AN: And so it begins.
For Pete, who didn't know what I wrote, but encouraged me anyway. I love you buddy. Until we meet again.