I'm sorry this took a while. I was trying to get it out last week, but then I flew three provinces away to see my favourite band, and it didn't quite get done. BUT my eye is better, and things should get back to normal now with a weekly schedule.

Coming up: confrontations of varying kinds. For those of you who hate Chuck, this should make you happy.

Song: A Tendency to Start Fires - Bush (perfectly angry Jughead tune)
Disclaimer: I enjoy a rebellious, sneaky Juggie, but I don't own him or Riverdale.


Eight: A Tendency To Start Fires

"Strange zoo, strange blaze
Douse my head in flames
Coming through got to get some
Happiness is a bad son..."
A Tendency to Start Fires - Bush

Everything can be reduced to sloppy science in Riverdale. Faulty equations are scribbled in haste in the blood of the ones who made the mistake of being born on the literal wrong side of the tracks.

I started this project as my own version of In Cold Blood, but blood seems to find me more than I can trace it to its source. Heat, too, finds me. I wake up in a sweat, palm swiping at my feverish forehead, wishing I could remember what had me so terrified. The flames lick my feet as I walk the streets of this town torn in two. Never has any creature been so faithful.

Science tells us that Jason Blossom lived for a week after he parted ways with Cheryl near Sweetwater River. It tells us how his body decayed, bloated and surfaced for all to see. Equations quantify combustion and calculate the precise time it takes a vehicle to burn to a hollowed husk (forty-seven minutes, give or take an unknown quantity of accelerant).

How long did it take for the baffled, beleaguered sheriff of Riverdale to equate a troubled home life and a childhood misstep with a tendency to start fires? Thirteen hours and seven minutes. I'm honestly surprised it took that long.

Jughead's alarm blared beside him, but its piercing chimes were unnecessary. He'd been lying awake for several hours, replaying the night before on a torturous loop. His conversation with Betty, and the way he'd once again suppressed the urge to call out Clayton and plead with her to consider alternatives. The discovery of the car, tucked away just as Polly had described, loaded with drugs she had certainly not mentioned. The decision to snap photos of the contents. The choice to leave the evidence, uncovered and unguarded, and run for Pop's. The wave of nausea that had overtaken them as they returned to the farm with Keller, where smoke plumed above the trees in a sickly cloud of fumes.

Someone followed us.

It made no sense, even as he mulled it for the thirtieth time. The search for the car had been a last-minute decision in an empty house, discussed briefly before execution. They'd traveled on foot, through deserted areas and nary a cracking of a twig to tip them off. How had they not noticed?

A soft knock on his door startled him. "Jug? You getting up?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm up."

"Alright. If you can be ready in half an hour, I can give you a lift to school," FP offered.

Weary and wound up, the prospect of not walking thirty minutes to school pulled him from the warmth of his tangled sheets. "Thanks, dad. I'll get moving."

He showered quickly, scrubbing away sweat and the stench of smoke from his skin. The water tinted grey, reminding him of childhood art classes and the swampy water they'd plunged paintbrushes into, rinsing away little more than the worst globs of red and blue. He thought of Betty, of how she'd held herself tightly as she watched the firefighters extinguish Jason's getaway car and with it, her hopes of justice for Polly. The photos he'd hurriedly snapped in the darkness were the outline of a story, but the meat had been torn from the proverbial bones and carried away by an unknown scavenger. Fingerprints. DNA—the chances of either surviving were slim to none.

I should have stayed with the car.

He'd told Betty the same thing, standing in a canopy of maple trees illuminated by cop car cherries. Sheriff Keller had wrapped her in an itchy emergency blanket for warmth. She wore it like a cape. Even in defeat, she was his superhero. He was just the sidekick who'd failed her.

She'd dismissed his claim to blame, reminding him that she could have called a tip into Keller instead of playing detective. He knew better. This was too personal and Polly's heart was too fragile to poke fingers into, digging for secret truths.

He turned off the water, hurriedly running a towel over his body. Was Betty okay? Had she told Polly of the heroin hidden in the young lovers' getaway car? Staring at his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror, Jughead shook his head slightly. No, Polly had lost so much already. Losing her image of Jason could be a breaking point.

Teeth brushed roughly, hair combed sloppily into place beneath his beanie, he dressed in his favourite grey 'S' t-shirt and a dark plaid button down that passed the sniff test. Snatching up his backpack, he headed out to the kitchen. By the grace of Alcoholics Anonymous, his father had been kind enough to brew him a coffee and leave a piece of buttered toast on a plate.

"Truck needs oil," FP announced. "I'll be outside."

Jughead nodded, caught off-guard by the gesture. A sip of the coffee told him it already had sugar in it – the single teaspoon he preferred. The aching in his chest grew when he noticed the light dusting of cinnamon on his toast. It was a quirky thing his mother had done for him as a small child, a treat she made to cheer him up on sick days.

He chewed slowly, the warm spiciness reminding him to check on her and JB soon.


The fire was major news in the student lounge, although the significance of the torched car had been withheld from the media. Or rather, Alice and Hal had selectively applied their journalistic standards to protect their daughters from scrutiny.

Settled on the two central sofas—Archie, Kevin and Veronica on one, Betty and Jughead on the other—Betty quietly filled in their friends on Polly's revelations and the contents of the car.

"My parents won't let me explain how we knew to look for the car." Betty's eyes flickered with anger as she spoke. "They don't want the police talking to Polly, or knowing of the shameful reason for her stay at the Sisters."

"Oh please, is this 1917?" Veronica scoffed.

Betty grimaced. "They're also worried that because she knew where the car was, that the police will think she burned it."

"But she was with your mother," Jughead countered. "She couldn't have done it."

"That's the thing, Jug. After her appointment, Polly took off. It's why my parents weren't home when Keller dropped me off. They found her wandering the cemetery at eleven last night."

Kevin's eyes widened. "Which means she could be seen as the murderer, covering her tracks."

"So who did burn the car?" Archie mused aloud. "Clearly, it wasn't Polly. She was in the hospital when Jason died."

Jughead massaged his temples, willing away a headache. "Keller thinks someone was following us."

"Oh my god!" Veronica was visibly disturbed by this theory, her gaze immediately focusing on Betty. "Maybe you two need to back off this story. Or we should all just move. I'll rent a truck."

"Guys, I can't help but worry that whoever did this will come after Polly." Betty bit her lower lip hard, her shoulders slumping. "What if he tries to hurt her because she knows something that can catch him?"

In hindsight, he would blame sleep deprivation and a nightmare about a faceless killer slashing Betty's throat as he watched helplessly. The urge to protect her, to comfort her, outweighed his usual social paralysis. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hand squeezing her arm.

"We won't let that happen," he vowed.

Her hand reached to cover his, squeezing softly in reply. With that squeeze, the dominoes fell. Archie's eyebrow raised, an unspoken question Jughead didn't know how to answer. Veronica tilted her head slightly, narrowing her gaze at Betty. And an uninvited guest decided to crash their meeting of the minds.

"What the hell is this?" Chuck Clayton growled.

Jughead was generally quick, but Clayton was furious, and with that adrenaline came lightning reflexes. The football star's hand grabbed Jughead's wrist, twisting his arm away from Betty at a painful angle. Betty immediately rose to her feet, tears welling up in her eyes and it was that sin—not the excruciating pain in his already damaged shoulder—that Jughead silently vowed vengeance for.

"Chuck, stop it!" Betty pleaded.

Archie was on his feet now, his pale skin flushing crimson. "Clayton, let him go."

The distraction was enough for Jughead to spin himself enough to alleviate the pressure on his arm. Drawing a deep breath, he forced a smile of reassurance for Betty's sake.

Don't puke, don't puke, don't puke…

"How many times have I gotta tell you to stay out of my business?" Clayton snarled.

"I don't answer to you, asshole. I answer to her."

He saw Clayton's fist draw back, waited for it to make contact, but it never came. Instead, Jughead stumbled free, puzzled until he realized Archie had cold-cocked his teammate. And with that, the lounge had become a captive audience.

"I said, let him go." Archie flexed his fingers and edged closer to Clayton. "I've had enough of you, Chuck. Of the way you bully the other players because you think being the coach's son makes you hot shit. Tired of how you treat Betty."

Betty placed a hand on the redhead's shoulder. "Archie, please, it's fine—"

"No, it's not!" Archie snapped.

"It's far from fine." Something in Chuck's tone shifted, his words heavy with unknown meaning. "You'll find that out fast, Andrews."

"Bring it."

Jughead was torn between a desire to tackle Clayton (and likely earn an ass-kicking) and an equal drive to throw Betty into his dad's truck and get her far away from Riverdale. The only thing restraining him was a refusal to stoop to Clayton's level. How could he ever claim to be the better man if he allowed rage to rule?

Of course, Clayton found a way to fan the flames of fury within him.

"You owe me an apology, Betty," he growled at the shuddering blonde.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jughead snapped. "On what planet does Betty owe you an apology, you pathetic piece of shit?"

Clayton lunged forward, but Jughead was ready. Drunk with power was not very different from drunk on whiskey. Both made you presumptive and blind to a sudden shift, from Jughead's experience. A quick twist of his frame and his fist found Clayton's liver. The jock crumpled to his knees with a howl.

"If you ever raise a hand to Betty, or anyone I care about, this will be a pleasant memory in comparison," Jughead hissed in his ear.

"You're dead, Jones…"

"Sure. I'm bored now." Glancing at the stunned faces of his friends, Jughead grabbed his backpack. "I'm going to work on my story. Betty?"

Come with me. Can't you see how dangerous he is?

His heart shattered as she shook her head slowly. "I… Jug…"

Her green eyes glistening with tears, she remained tethered to the side of a monster. And he, the one who'd give his life to keep her from a moment's pain, was left alone.

"Whatever."

He pushed his way past Cheryl and Reggie, past the gaggle of freshmen clogging the doorway, desperate for a glimpse of the show. He pushed his way through the halls of the school, weaving through the crowd to the sanctuary of the Blue and Gold office. Furious tears threatened to break free, but he willed them away, hardened his heart as he'd done when his mother had taken him to Ohio.

This never would have happened if he'd stayed in Riverdale. Archie's rejection of Betty wouldn't have been so devastating, because she would have still had a lifelong friend to count on. He would have made sure she never felt alone in her sadness, even if it shattered his soul to know that she might never know how much he loved her.

Goddamn it, he was in love with her. He couldn't deny it anymore. He loved Betty Cooper with every fibre of his being. And he could live with her never wanting more than friendship. He treasured that bond more than any hope for romance. But seeing her choose to stand by Chuck Clayton? No way. He was done being patient, done being respectful of her choices. If it walked like an abuser and quacked like an abuser, it was an abuser and he would call it like he saw it. She needed to hear it.

Pushing open the door of the Blue and Gold office, Jughead inhaled sharply. Standing next to their Jason Blossom "murder board" were Principal Weatherbee and Sheriff Keller. The former turned his attention immediately to Jughead, while Keller continued to stare at the board—likely all too aware of how much it resembled the board in his home office.

Fuck.

"Um, hi," he managed, setting his bag down on his desk.

Weatherbee and Keller remained silent, the latter finally taking notice of him. That headache he'd been nursing all morning was reaching its peak. His vision streaked with reds and blues, a tell-tale warning of a migraine to come.

"What's going on?" Jughead prodded gently.

Glancing once more at the board, Sheriff Keller sighed. "I'm going to need you to come down to the station with me."

It was what remained unsaid, the words hidden between the lines of a carefully rehearsed statement, that struck fear in his heart. Because the S on his shirt stood for many things in Riverdale. Southside. Serpent. Sunnyside Park. And all of those words were symbols of a sin: poverty.

Guilty by association, once again.

They spared him the handcuffs, but the perp walk was obvious. Some stared, while others questioned Keller's actions. Reggie Mantle snapped a photo, jostling an unimpressed Valerie Brown. As they rounded the corner for the main entrance, Archie came into view.

"Call my dad!" he called out.

Archie nodded, rushing into the front office, where a startled Betty glanced away from Chuck's huddled form and gasped.

Damn it. She was the last person he'd wanted to see him like this.

Settling into the back of the cop car, the door shut behind him like the lid of a coffin and left him gasping the thin air.


They abandoned him in the interview room for seventy-four minutes. No water, no food, but thankfully, no shackles. Riverdale was too wholesome for that. The town with pep scarcely admitted it had a body count.

Jughead's mind raced with stories of false convictions, of scapegoats and innocent teens left to suffer behind bars because they were the wrong race or social class. He thought of Chuck, wondering if he was going to press charges for that shot to the liver. He wondered what, exactly, he was brought down here for in the first place.

He thought of Betty, of the panicked pale visage staring at him through the windows of the front office. He pushed it away, remembering the moments they'd spent lying in her bed, trading case notes even as exhaustion tugged the blonde away to dreams of cotton-candy pink and fresh baked cookies.

He clung to that image of her, serene and safe, as Sheriff Keller finally entered the room, a case file in hand. A file with his name on it. And suddenly, there was clarity—and rage.

"Forensics came back on the car," Keller began, settling into the chair opposite him. "Despite the fire, they were able to pull a pair of prints off the trunk. Yours and Betty's, which was, of course, no surprise."

Because we told you we opened the trunk, Jughead thought bitterly.

"But what did surprise me," Keller continued, opening the file, "was this. Your prints are on file from an incident six years ago, when you spent some time at the Riverdale Juvenile Delinquent Centre."

And there it was: the first time he'd been punished for being the child of the wrong parents, complete with a photo. Ten year-old Jughead Jones stared up at him—a school photo—seemingly unaware of the horrors to come.

Keller spun the file around, flipping through the pages. "For, um… attempting to burn down Riverdale Elementary School."

Oh, for fuck's sake! "I was playing with matches." Like many kids do. "And that's a pretty tenuous connection, for a sheriff."

The dots were connecting, but Jughead refused to believe it. Surely Keller wasn't suggesting…

"Principal Weatherbee also allowed me to have a look at your school records," Keller continued, pulling another file from within his juvie case. "You have a long and rough history, Mister Jones. Bullied a lot."

"Yeah. My name is Jughead."

"By the football team in particular. Even had a run in with Chuck Clayton since your return to town. I can only assume that bullying included Jason Blossom. So, how about this: you tell me your whereabouts on the weekend of July 11th."

"This is crazy. You think I…?"

The Sheriff's steely eyes reminded him of that time years ago, when they'd torn him from his home for being a dumb kid, for making a mistake. Because Southside kids weren't allowed to make mistakes. Not without consequences.

"Jughead, a kid like you, raised on the wrong side of the tracks by a deadbeat dad, and bullied by kids like Jason Blossom? I mean, who wouldn't want to lash out at that?"

Everything in his rational brain said to keep his mouth shut, remain polite, wait for his father. But this was absurd. Riverdale was a small town. There was absolutely no way Keller didn't know that his mother had packed him up after the last day of school—in June—and taken him to Ohio.

"I know you're under a lot of pressure from the Blossoms, so I'll cut you some slack for having a more ridiculous theory than that kid who hides under the bleachers with a joint and claims Jason was abducted by aliens. I was in Toledo, Ohio, helping my grandparents tear down their shed."

"And the fire?" Keller prodded.

He glared across the table, meeting the sheriff's gaze. "I'm not talking to you anymore. I want a lawyer."

Reluctantly, Keller closed his files and left the room. A click of the door told him he was locked inside, and it was at that moment Jughead broke. It was six years ago, and once again, he was in trouble with the law.

All because of Betty Cooper.

I'm late to school. Again. Miss Curtis is going to have a fit.

It's all I can think of as I run towards the school, until I spot her in the side yard, almost hidden by the elm trees. Betty. She's hunched over something, her pink backpack beside her. I tilt my head, trying to see what's caught her attention. Probably another lost kitten. But what is she doing out here? Betty's never late for class.

Of course, her dad isn't a drunk like mine.

I make my way over to her, wanting to make sure she's alright. Cheryl Blossom has been pretty mean to her lately. She even ran out of gym class crying last week. Maybe Cheryl said something before school?

"Hey, Betty! Whatcha rescuing this week?"

She jumps up quickly, her ponytail swinging wildly as she spins around. Her hands are tucked behind her back.

"Jughead! I didn't see you. Wh-what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Come on, hand it over."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies adamantly.

I laugh, tugging gently on her arm. "You're an amateur. It's so obvious. Show me!"

Reluctantly, she stretches out her left palm and uncurls it, revealing a box of matches. The kind my mom uses to light the barbeque, long and sturdy. It's half-full. Glancing down, I now notice the carefully assembled pile of twigs and leaves.

"Um, Betty? Why do you have matches?"

"Because my mother would hate it." Betty's chin juts out defiantly as she sniffles quietly. "And I hate her, Jug. I do. I hate her."

Betty's mom isn't the worst person in the world, but her rules and expectations are ridiculous. I remember the time Betty got grounded for not cleaning a mixing bowl immediately after baking a cake. I mean, she was eight and she baked a cake! It was delicious. I ate half of it.

"Rebel, rebel, your face is a mess," I sing softly, earning a half-smile. "Whatever, we're already late. Sit down, tell me what happened."

She kneels down on her discarded jacket, careful not to dirty her perfectly pressed beige skirt. "It's stupid. I'm being a brat."

"You're ten. We're all brats," I counter, sitting against a sturdy tree trunk. "You never complain, Betty. It's your turn."

So Betty explains how her mother wouldn't let her try out for the school dance team a few weeks ago. She says the uniforms are too revealing, and that Betty should focus on "studious extracurriculars" or something like that. I don't understand Mrs Cooper at all. Why doesn't she want Betty to have any fun?

Last night, she'd asked to join Girl Scouts. She wanted to sell cookies and learn survival skills. Josie McCoy had recently joined and it was all she talked about. But her mom had told her no again, saying that camping was too dirty and dangerous.

Um, yeah. It's camping, not a fancy hotel.

"I don't know, Juggie. I was sitting there in the kitchen, eating breakfast and thinking about how mad I was at her, and then the phone rang… I saw the matches and decided she couldn't control everything." She bows her head. "I'm stupid."

"No, you're not. She is. Like being on the dance team is going to stop you from getting good grades. You get them without trying now."

"Hey! I work really hard."

I roll my eyes. "Betty, you never ask questions. You never have to stay after class. Half your homework is done before the end of the day. You're smart, deal with it."

She blushes, shaking her head. "I'm just saying that I study too. I don't know everything."

"Yet."

She throws a handful of her twig pile at me, laughing as they become stuck in my hair. I retaliate with a handful of my own, scurrying behind a tree for cover. We are definitely late for class now, but I can't say I care. I'll take detention. Gets me away from my dad.

"Darn it, now my fire won't start!" Betty complains, pulling a twig from her ponytail.

"You're also ten minutes late for class."

She's still upset, hugging the matches to her chest like the box is her favourite doll. I shake the rest of the twigs from my hair and nudge her shoulder.

"C'mon, Betts. You weren't really going to set a fire… Were you?"

"I just wanted to do something she'd hate…"

I think about this for a moment, the two of us standing beneath a maple tree, swaying slightly in the breeze. What would her mother hate? How could I make Betty smile? A rustling nearby draws my attention and with it, a plan forms.

"You have a copy of The Register?"

Betty tilts her head. "Of course I do. Why?"

"Your mother says a lot of stupid things. Let's burn some of them."

The paper is there—her mom makes her read it daily to understand local politics and world issues—and rolled up in my hand. Betty draws a match from the box, strikes it against the side. Not hard enough. Frustrated, she tries another, but she's hesitating and wasting the matches one by one.

"I can't do anything right!" she wails and drops the box, her fists curling tightly at her sides.

I pick them up for her, shaking the box like a maraca. "No, you just need to study. Didn't you just tell me that?"

She folds her arms over her chest and glares. "You're not allowed to use my words against me."

"You want to burn this thing or what?"

A slow nod of her head later, I'm striking a match. It ignites on the first try, to Betty's annoyance. I gesture to the paper and she urges me on. I light the paper, waving the match out. Betty claps as her mother's articles are destroyed. She has (sort of) done something her mom would hate. A half-smile curls her lips.

I'm distracted for a moment, but the heat won't be ignored. It burns quickly in my hand. Too quickly. And I have nowhere to drop it safely.

"Be careful!"

"Trying to!" I snap, glancing around quickly.

The nearby garbage can is metal and I try to extinguish it on the side, but it edges closer to my fingers. I have no choice: I toss it inside, watching schoolyard trash ignite. This is bad. Very bad.

Naturally, this is when Principal Carpenter shows up. And everything goes straight to hell.

Jughead leans forward, folding his arms on the table and resting his head. Eyes closed, he remembers it all: how the Principal had claimed he was a Southside troublemaker, trying to kill them all; how Betty had insisted it was her idea, but was ignored; that awful day they'd dropped him at Riverdale Juvie. They'd sentenced him to three weeks, but released him ten days early, after a beating from a thirteen year-old who didn't approve of Jughead taking the last cherry Jell-O.

Juvie was where he'd learned a liver shot, thanks to his bunkmate. That had paid off a few times now.

No one had ever believed him when he insisted the matches weren't his. Betty was a good girl, a friend trying to cover for him. She would never do something so dangerous. But Jughead Jones? Son of FP Jones? Of course he would get into trouble. He would definitely endanger other students.

A clicking of a lock and he sat up straight, waiting to be arrested for a crime he hadn't committed. Instead of the sheriff, or even a lawyer, a familiar face stood in the doorway.

"They told me I could come in for five minutes, after I pointed out that you're not under arrest," Betty explained softly. "Can I sit?"

He nodded slowly, wary and confused by her presence. Hadn't she stayed with Chuck, even after his little arm wrenching move? Why was she here now?

Her black and white checked coat was disheveled and buttoned incorrectly. A strand of hair had slipped free of her ponytail, grazing her left cheek. Her lower lip revealed a tiny scab, perhaps from biting it roughly. Her hands folded in front of her on the table as she sat. Their conversation began silently, exchanged in glances and shaking heads.

I'm sorry, she began.

He blew that off, wanting more than her steady stream of apologies. He wanted loyalty.

Those shimmering green irises were daggers in his heart. I'm worried about you.

I'm worried about me, too. But I worry about you more, Betty.

A stalemate.

"I didn't do it, Betty. Jason. You have to believe me."

"Of course!" Her hands reached out, covering his and squeezing tightly. "You weren't even in town. And I know who you are."

"Well, those Paradise Lost kids went to death row because they wore black and listened to Metallica," he countered, imagining prison and deciding it would be juvie to the power of five hundred. "I don't want to become a scapegoat."

"I'm not going to let that happen," Betty assured him. "The evidence against you is circumstantial at best, ridiculous at worst. We're going to get you out of here."

That's pretty close to what you said last time. But Mama and Papa Cooper put a stop to that.

"Is my dad here?"

"He's on his way. Archie is here, and Fred's out there. Your dad called him." She hesitated, holding her breath. "Juggie, about this morning—"

"Not interested." He pulled his hands away, leaning back in his chair.

"Chuck won't come after you again. He promised me."

"Oh, Chuck promised, did he? And Chuck never lies?" Her silence infuriated him. "So Chuck never tells you one thing, then claims another later? He never calls you names, or tells you that you're stupid? Never makes you apologize for something that isn't wrong?"

"Jug, you don't understand!"

"And I don't want to. I don't ever want to understand how a man can treat a woman so poorly. Because I never would, and I never will." Shoving back from the table, he stared out the window. "I want you to go now."

She rose slowly, her skin ashen. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. Just like before."

"This town is broken. It's Riverdale's fault that I'm here, not yours."

He watched her turn away, watched the centre of his world slip out the door with her shoulders slumped and her arms wrapped tightly around her frame. As the door began to swing shut, a taut thread snapped within him, and with that pain, came need.

"Betty, wait!"

She spun around, and immediately she saw him. She'd always seen him, had forever known him. As she rushed back to embrace him, Jughead knew that no one would ever know his darkness like her. No one else would ever have the strength to pull him back into the light.

He clung to her desperately, a body hanging off the side of a cliff by bloodied fingers. Her strawberry-vanilla scent was sweet relief, a promise of mercy for an unwanted child of a broken home.

"You've always been worth doing time for," he murmured hoarsely.

"You've always been worth fighting for," she whispered back. "I won't give up on you, Jughead."

They remained in that frantic embrace, each seeking silent comfort, until Sheriff Keller ordered her to leave—for the third time.