Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Riverdale. I see this as a kind of companion to last night's episode.
The sound of footsteps at the door and the jingle-jangle of keys made Archie jump up on high-alert. His hands held his baseball bat like he was ready to score a grand slam. He cautiously walked toward the front door, his breath the only thing he could hear besides that jingle-jangle: hard panting. He couldn't tell if he was full of nervous energy, or had no energy at all.
He peeked through the curtain, expecting to see that startling hood and the eyes he couldn't get out of his head. But, for all his caution, he'd pulled the trigger too soon. He could see Vegas whining at his front door. His paws made the footsteps and his collar with the little nametag trembled under his neck. Hence the jingle-jangle.
Archie set the baseball down and let Vegas inside. He'd escaped through the doggie door that the back door had and the front door did not. Vegas, unaware of how close his owner had been to bashing his brains out, greeted Archie wholeheartedly with an affectionate slobbery kiss and accepted a half-hearted pet before bouncing away toward the kitchen to see if there was anything left in his food dish.
Archie locked the door and stumbled away. These late-night vigils were the hardest thing he'd ever done. He couldn't keep doing them, but he couldn't stop doing them. Not until the shooter was arrested.
He walked through the barely lit hall of the foyer into the kitchen. The front and back doors were always locked. He didn't keep any lights on, inside or out. Sure, a little light might help him identify the hooded man if he ever came around, but the lights stayed off for two reasons. They stayed off to give off the feeling of normalcy: no one else in the neighborhood went to sleep with their porch lights on. And then, Archie didn't dare keep any of the kitchen lights on. He feared waking up his dad; his dad needed sleep. He needed to heal. He needed to get better. And he didn't want to attack his dad like he almost attacked Vegas. (Maybe a third reason: the hooded man wouldn't come back to a brightly lit house.)
Maybe I am too paranoid, Archie thought grimly to himself as he entered the kitchen. Moonlight fell through the windows, offering a sparse light to walk by. Archie leaned against the counter, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with the heels of his hands. He hadn't slept properly since the day Dad was shot. How could he start now? How could he sleep when every time he closed his eyes, the eyes of the shooter haunted him? How could he live with himself? How could he fall asleep, pretend everything was normal, when that man could come breaking in at any time?
Archie hated himself for being such a coward at the diner, for letting the hooded man get away. If there was a second confrontation, Archie wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. He'd protect his dad, and get his vengeance on this hooded man who now ruled their lives: ruled their lives with fear. They couldn't live like normal people because of it.
Maybe Jughead was right. There was a darkness slowly creeping into Riverdale, overshadowing everything.
Archie couldn't remember the last time he slept.
He leaned against the counter wearily. Vegas whined from his doggie bed, almost like he was asking Archie why wasn't he in bed. "I can't, Vegas," Archie said wearily. "I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't."
It was a matter of can't but also won't. Archie Andrews had an innate stubbornness that he didn't acknowledge but knew was there anyway.
Maybe it was nervous energy pushing him around, keeping him from sitting in the hall with his baseball bat at the ready. He wanted to do something, keep his hands and his mind busy. A glance at the clock proved his guess that it was past one. What could he do for the next five hours to keep himself busy?
That hooded man's eyes were forever in Archie's mind. Every time he closed his eyes, boom, there they were. Archie was no artist, but he knew those eyes. He hurriedly found some printer paper and pencils from his disheveled desk (he'd barely been in his room for days, never mind gave it a good cleaning) and leaning down over the kitchen counter, his hands trembling, he used the moonlight as light to draw by. His hands, shaking, flew across the page. He drew the hooded man—the dark texture of his clothed head, the fine pressed line of his mouth, and then his eyes. Those eyes that looked at Archie and said, "What I've done I had no regrets doing. And you have no power. I can do what I want to those you love and there is nothing you can do to stop me."
Archie scribbled down fine lines, filling in the hood. Every time he glanced up he saw those eyes—saw them staring boldly back at him from a glowing white page, saw them in his mind back at Pop's, making him feel utterly powerless, utterly defenseless, helpless and cowardly—there was so much he could've done but didn't do—so much he was trying to do now that seemed no help at all—he scribbled faster, the grey pencil lines shading away into almost charcoal coloring—his pencil, jerking back and forth, was a blur—sweat gathered on his forehead—those eyes, those eyes, he saw them every time he fell asleep—this man was haunting him, taking every living moment away from him, trying to take them away from those he loved—he was out there, out there still, just roaming around free—he couldn't, he couldn't—!
Archie's pencil tip snapped off and his pencil ripped through the paper. Through the hooded man's face was a big jagged crack. A haunting eye glowed on each piece of ripped paper.
Archie stood back, wiping at his eyes, feeling out of breath. He felt like he'd just run the 400 yards at school. He felt none of the victory, though. He felt like he had lead in his legs and his heart wouldn't stop pounding; his body begged him to go to sleep, but his mind, both wiser and more desperate, wouldn't let him. He'd only feel powerless if he slept. If he was awake, he had power.
A little more languidly, he gulped down a breath, pulled out another piece of paper, and tried again. This time, though his hands still trembled, he finished a Wanted sign. He filled out the big block letters and set aside the picture holding those eyes that he could forever see in his head. He looked, exhausted, at Vegas. He was not a faithful watchdog. Who needed to when Archie prowled around the house every night? Vegas was fast asleep.
Archie took his seat in the hall, the baseball bat at his side. He clutched the Wanted sign in his hand. In the morning, before school, he'd take it to the copier and have stacks made. He would redouble his efforts. Because if he had the thought that if there was one more thing he could've done, any little old thing, and didn't, to help find this hooded man, he would never forgive himself.
So sat there Archie Andrews, sixteen-years-old, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, holding a Wanted poster with eyes that haunted him even in sleep. He looked like a battle-weary guardian angel, much too young and haunted for the job. He eyed the baseball bat and then the door. He gulped, and waited.
Maybe the pencil tip wasn't the only thing that had snapped. Maybe his sanity had snapped, too.
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