Chapter 1 - Week One

Author's note:

This story was written as part of the Riverdale Prompt-a-thon on Tumblr. We're encouraged to create something based on at least two of the weekly prompts. I decided to use each week's prompts to shape the direction of this story. While I know how I want it to end, how we get there is bit of a mystery.

Week One Prompts:

Location: Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe

Activity: Writing

Emotion: Exhilarated

Color: Red

Lyrics: This place was build for moving out

Jughead Jones had lost track of how long he'd been on the road. All he knew was that it was past midnight and he had left before the sun had risen. In the grander theme of things, he'd been on the road for over six months now, never staying longer than a week in any one location before moving on. At this point in his travels, he couldn't remember his impetus for leaving. He wasn't certain if he was running from something, running towards something, or simply running. All he knew for certain was that he was restless and needed a change. Whatever that change might be.

Holding back a yawn, Jughead fought to stave off the eventual losing battle with his burning eyes. The lines on the road weren't suppose to weave and dance in such a blurry fashion, were they? All right, all right, he would stop fighting it and take a break. But first, he needed a place to stop.

He had entered the 'Town With Pep!' five minutes ago. It was a curious sentiment. Who used the word 'pep' anymore? It felt like someone was trying to force a sentimental cheerfulness on the town. Pep! He rolled the word around in his brain and experimented saying it aloud (though sound was lost under the roar of his motorcycle). The 'p's popped and it couldn't be said without an exclamation point. It made him think of the carbonated bubbles in soda pop (more popping 'p's) and cheerleading squads. Things he usually had little use for in his life. He'd passed through the streets of cookie cutter homes in their Stepford perfection. There was a story here, but was it one he wanted to tell? That, he decided, would need to wait for daylight.

Despite his desperate need to get off the road (for his safety, if not his sanity), Jughead seriously doubted he was going to find anyplace still open. The town reminded him of the kind of place which closed its doors at 9 pm and didn't open them again until 9 am. Over the course of his travels, he'd passed through a myriad of small towns just like this one. Their carbon-copy sameness reminded him of Camazotz. Why would this Riverdale be any different? It would just be another town which blended together in memory into nothing more than a dull amalgam. The kind of places where he would never be welcome. He was the odd piece out. Always a little too weird. A brooding loner who never fit in. A lost sock in a town of matching sets.

Entering downtown proper, his bike roared down Main Street. By its appearance, Riverdale appeared to have gotten lost in a past decade. Though which one, he wasn't certain. There was an uncanny silence, an almost abandoned feel to the empty streets. He'd grown up in the city and spent the majority of his life surrounded by busy people always on the go, the nightly, orangeish glow of light pollution, and the constant hum of traffic. Here, only the quaint, old-fashioned street lights illuminated the streets while the shop windows remained haunted and dark. His shadow reflected off the dark glass. Only the Riverdale Register—the local paper, he assumed— remained lit from within this long past witching hour. He wondered what one little town had to report on in the middle of the night.

At last he passed a motel, only to be greeted by a flickering NO Vacancy sign. With a growl, he pushed on. Never mind that it was verging on one in the morning, this had to be the least welcoming town he'd passed through over the course of his travels. If it meant finding some caffeine and stretching his legs, he'd take an open 24-hour McDonalds or gas station as a rest stop.

He shook his head, he wasn't being fair. Just because the town was small didn't mean it didn't have anything of value. He just hadn't found it yet.

Before he could write off Riverdale as the least 'peppiest' town in existence, Jughead was greeted by the warm, red glow of 'Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe.' Though the parking lot was practically empty, the red lit sign with the promise of 'Open 24 Hrs' drew him like a moth to flames. As he parked his bike, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the deliberate misspelling of chocolate. No matter how much it offended his writerly sensibilities, he was desperate for a place to stop. Besides, he knew he was being pretentious.

Trading his motorcycle helmet for his beanie, Jughead entered the diner and felt as though he'd traveled back in time. From the jukebox in the corner to the red vinyl booths, the inside of 'Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe' was like a time capsule of a perfectly preserved diner. As he catalogued the diner's appearance as descriptive fodder for a future book, his foot caught on the corner of the doormat and he stumbled over feet too weary to take a proper step.

"Hey, are you okay?" The waitress looked up from her book, prepared to dash around the counter and help him if he was injured. Though she appeared about as exhausted as he was, her eyes were bright and curious. She had a friendly, albeit concerned smile and her black curls were pulled back in a neat ponytail. The name tag pinned to her white and yellow uniform informed him her name was Tabitha. Deliberately, Jughead ignored the book she was reading. It was one of his. He had always been a private person and hadn't wanted to lose that privacy. There were no pictures of him online, his bio gave the impression that he was as enigmatic as the stories he wrote, and he didn't make personal appearances. For him, the lure of recluse writer worked in his favor, and, for that, he was grateful. But, it also meant that he had to maintain a role of detached interest whenever his books were discussed in his presence. Tonight—this morning, whatever it was—he was too exhausted to maintain any of his usual facade. It was better to just ignore the book on the counter and hope the topic didn't come up so he didn't accidentally give away any of his preferred anonymity.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine. Just tripped over my own feet." Jughead yawned. Now that he stopped, his exhaustion finally caught up with him and crashed over him like a wave. He was about to fall asleep on his feet if he didn't get an immediate infusion of caffeine. "Do you have any coffee?"

"I'll start a new pot. Anything else I can get you?" Tabitha turned to the coffeemaker and began the process of heating up the water.

"What's good?" Jughead picked up one of the menus from the counter.

"The burgers are good. We've gotten a few awards for them." Tabitha shrugged modestly as she gestured at the framed articles lining the wall near the door. "Both the fries and onion rings are both quite popular and the choice usually only comes down to personal preference. And, if you're in the mood for something sweet, try a shake."

Jughead grinned. Maybe this town was more friendly than his first impressions had led him to believe. Still, he didn't think he'd be staying any longer than it took to catch up on his sleep. He doubted it had the answers he was searching for. His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts. Right, food first, then decisions about the next few days. "All right. I'll have a burger, fries—and onion rings—and a...hmm...a chocolate shake. Along with the coffee, of course."

"Coming right up." Tabitha tucked a napkin in the book as a bookmark. "Take a seat and I'll bring out your food as soon as it's done."

"Thanks." Jughead wandered across the diner and chose a booth by the window. Taking a seat, he pulled his laptop out of his bag and began the process of starting it up. He wanted to capture the quaint, homey diner in words while he waited for his food. It was the kind of place he could picture Marcus Malone—the PI protagonist of his decade long running series—having a meal or meeting a client. Depending on the quality of the burgers, maybe a shootout with the antagonists. Or…Jughead sighed as he stared at the blank page….maybe nothing at all.

The problem was, Jughead was tired of writing Malone. Miracles of miracles, he'd found a publisher for his pulp detective story during his freshman year of college. To everyone's surprise, the stories had taken off and became best selling novels which even after a decade hadn't lost their popularity. So, he kept writing them. The more he wrote, the more people wanted. And it was all they wanted from him. He was beginning to understand why Doyle had (temporarily) killed off Holmes. Jughead didn't hate Malone—yet—but he was exhausted. Malone needed some nebulous change in his life just as much as Jughead did. Hence the writing sabbatical and trip across the country. If he kept searching, maybe he would find what he was missing.

Betty Cooper pushed past the door of Pop's and headed directly for the counter. Tabitha stood behind the counter, resting with her elbows on the counter as she re-read one of the detective novels the two woman had bonded over when Tabitha moved to town in order to take over her family business. The series was a bit of Sam Spade with a touch of Thursday Next and a whole heap of original nuance. They were sharp and witty, and literary as heck, while keeping the voice of a pulp detective noir story.

Over the last decade new books had been published at a steady pace of once or twice a year, but there had been rumors that there would be no 'new' installments this year. Since nobody knew the identity of the author—the rather reclusive F. Jones—rumors about their 'disappearance' ran rampant across the fan communities. Everyone wanted to share their speculations about why the prolific author wasn't producing at their usual pace. Theories ran from a bad case of writer's block to the literal (rather than figurative) death of the author. Betty doubted they would ever learn the truth. Though, sometimes she would daydream about being the one to solve this mystery. There was more than a little truth to the fact that the mystery surrounding the author's identity was part of the series appeal to her. She loved mysteries and secretly wished she had the opportunity to investigate one instead of being stuck here in Riverdale with a life she didn't want. What better mystery could there be than discovering the identity of her favorite author? Though, her daydreams always ended there. She wasn't certain what she would do if she ever met them.

"Hi Betts." Tabitha looked up an smiled at her friend. "You want your usual?"

"Please." Betty rolled her neck, trying to work out the kinks in her tight neck and shoulders. "I swear if I don't get out of this town soon I will be responsible for a mass homicide and the Register will finally have something worth reporting on. Then again, there'd be no one left to do the reporting."

"I would miss you." Tabitha filled a mug with hot coffee, then set it in front of Betty. "Rough night at the paper?"

"You can say that again. If I have to spend another minute with my mother I will scream." Betty sipped the coffee. "It's fresh."

"You're not the only late night writer in here tonight..." Tabitha gestured over at Betty's usual booth by the windows. A man sat in the spot where Betty always sat when she came to finish editing articles before the morning edition. Well, he wasn't exactly sitting. He was slumped over and from this angle, he appeared to be resting his head on the table.

"Why are you letting him sleep in the middle of your diner?" Betty asked. There was more of a bite to her words than she meant to sling at her friend.

Tabitha shrugged. "He's not hurting anyone and he came in looking like he was near sleep walking. Apparently he's passing through and the motel is completely booked. I got that much out of him before he started typing. He found Pop's before hitting the Southside and any of the motels there. Besides, he's already ordered more than you do when you come to work the night a way." The last bit was said with a teasing lilt and a cheeky smile.

Playing along, Betty huffed. "Fine. I'll sit elsewhere."

"Or you could share..." Tabitha laughed. "I mean, I know you can't tell from here, but he is seriously good looking."

"Stop meddling, please," Betty collapsed onto one of the stools along the counter. She picked up Tabitha's book. The collection of short stories had come out earlier this year and Betty had been too busy with the paper to find time to pick up a copy. While she hadn't technically read this one yet, it was a collection of previously published stories, all of which she'd read in their various anthologies.

With a sigh, Betty dropped the book on the counter and gave Tabitha a weary smile. After a day like today, she needed a treat. Preferably one that her mother would disapprove. "Do you have any pie leftover from yesterday? Or, is it too early for cinnamon rolls?"

"No to having pie, and yes to being too early for the pastries. They're still rising. Sorry. Shake?"

Betty nodded. "Strawberry."

"Okay, I'll bring it right out. You get started with your editing and I'll make certain your coffee mug stays full." Tabitha topped off Betty's mug before turning her attention to the shake. With the exception of the stranger in her booth, this was part of her nightly routine.

"Thanks," Betty said softly. She slid off the stool and paced the length of the diner. From past experience, she knew she couldn't work at the counter—too many distractions.

Although there were more than enough empty booths in the diner, Betty found herself standing beside her booth. She looked down at the dozing occupant—Tabitha's other writer. Though how Tabitha knew he was a writer was as much of a mystery as the man's identity.

He very well could be a writer. Tabitha did say he'd been typing. An open laptop had been pushed to the center of the table, though the screen saver had darkened the screen keeping her from seeing if he'd been writing or playing computer games before the device had fallen asleep. His arms were crossed on the table and he had buried his face against his forearms. Inky black hair in need of trim was hidden under a grey beanie with an odd crown-like brim. Broad shoulders filled out the blue-grey plaid of his flannel while his back rose and fell with each even breath. A half filled mug of tepid coffee rested by his elbow and an empty plate beyond that. Sprawled on the bench beside him was a motorcycle helmet, leather jacket, and a messenger bag.

Before she could decide what to do, a warm, rich voice tinged with exhaustion spoke from the rumpled man in the booth. "I'm not sleeping."

"Excuse me?" Betty took a half a step back in surprise at the realization he had sensed her staring. She hissed as hot coffee sloshed over the brim of her mug and onto her hand with the sudden movement.

"Are you okay?" The stranger in her booth sat up at the sound of her hiss. His gaze scanned her for any obvious injury before settling on her face. Deep blue eyes met and held her green ones. There was something almost bashful in his apologetic expression. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"You're in my booth," she blurted before her brain could catch up with her mouth. Worrying at her lower lip, Betty wanted to melt into the floor. Under the all too concerned gaze of this drop dead sexy man, she was all too aware of the accumulated evidence of her exhaustive state. After spending the last twenty hours awake and most of it working, her formally neat-as-a-pin skirt and blouse ensemble were wrinkled and creased from a day of wear. Before leaving the office, she'd taken her hair out of the ponytail without bothering to brush out the evidence of the formally tight updo. Betty thought her heart might leap out of her chest at the expression he was giving her—like he was truly concerned about her well-being. Which, Betty chalked up to her own exhaustion playing tricks on her mind. The people closest to her couldn't care less about what she wanted or how she felt, especially if it inconvenienced them. Why would a stranger care?

He blinked with a languid confusion before the hint of a smile quirked at the corner of his lips. Moving with a relaxed grace, he reached for his laptop and began lowering the screen. "Oh, sorry about that. I'll go..."

"No. You can stay. I mean, it's just...um...this is the only booth with an outlet. Can I...?" Betty babbled, while she gestured at her own bag. Great, she was making a fool of herself in front of the first man who made her heart race in years. Which, in reality, probably wasn't saying all that much. Since graduating college, she'd barely left Riverdale unless it was for work, which severely limited her options. She'd known all the guys around her age in town since grade school and had long ago ruled out any of them as someone she might be interested in.

"Of course." He tugged his laptop closer to his edge of the table and gestured to the other side. "I'm Jughead."

"Wha—?" Betty took the seat opposite the stranger and massaged her temples. If her mother wouldn't kill her for not getting the article in on time, she was seriously tempted just to head home and go to bed.

"My name, it's Jughead." There was a twinkle in his tired blue eyes. It made her think her was more amused than annoyed by her reaction. She probably wasn't the first ones to splutter in surprise at his name.

Oh, that made more sense—sort of. Recalling her manners, Betty pasted on the Alice-approved smile and held out her hand. Her face felt plastic and brittle. "I'm Betty. Betty Cooper."

Jughead shook her hand. His grip was strong, but not crushing, and his hands were warm and calloused. A man who worked with his hands. Once again he studied her in a way that felt as though he were taking her apart and seeing beyond the image she presented to the world. A crease furrowed his brow and his mouth turned down into a pensive frown.

"What?" She asked, uncertain why she was concerned about what this man she knew for five minutes might be thinking. Again, she tugged at her lower lip with her teeth.

He hesitated. Giving his hands something to do, he picked up his coffee mug and sipped at the lukewarm beverage. She couldn't help but laugh at the look of utter betrayal he gave the coffee. "Promise you won't take this the wrong way?"

Crossing her arms, she huffed in indignation. That was never a good way to begin a conversation. "And how will I take this the wrong way?"

"It's your smile," he said tentatively. "When you introduced yourself. It was fake. But, just a minute ago when you laughed, or earlier when accused me of taking your booth. Those expressions were genuine. And, if I may be so bold, prettier. They reached your eyes. You don't need to pretend to like me, I won't take it personally. I mean, I realize it's probably weird to have some stranger tell you he'd rather you hate him than pretend to like him." His face turned a brilliant crimson as he dropped her gaze and began digging in his bag for something. "So, yeah, forget that. Sorry."

All Betty could do was wordlessly stare at the top of his beanie covered head. It had taken Tabitha months of knowing Betty before the other woman had been able to distinguish between the Alice smiles and the Betty smiles. Archie and Veronica, who had grown up with her, had long ago learned to recognize with relative ease the difference between her genuine and fake smiles. But, this was the first time a stranger had picked up on the fact.

Before she was forced to respond, Tabitha arrived with her strawberry shake and a warm up for both of them in the form of fresh coffee. "Anything else I can get you?" She asked the pair.

Jughead grinned up at Tabitha like she'd just offered him manna from heaven. Betty shifted in the booth and wondered what it would be like to have that expression turned on her. She was pretty certain she'd spontaneously combust.

"Could I get another of those excellent burgers? And another shake." He turned to Betty. His smile softened his face and his eyes carried the heat of flame. He brushed his fingers along the curl of hair sweeping across his forehead. She changed her mind, he didn't need a haircut. "Do you want anything? My treat. After all, I stole your booth."

"Oh, I'm good." Betty protested.

His gaze fell on her again, seeing past the scripted answers. "Did you have dinner?"

She shrugged unable to honestly answer the question. "I ate. Earlier. Might have been dinner. Or, maybe a late lunch."

"I can't imagine not knowing if my last meal was lunch or dinner. I eat all the time," he said with a self-effacing laugh. "While I'm not a stickler about this, it is nice to share a meal with a friend rather than eating alone all the time."

"Is that what we are—friends?" Betty raised a brow.

"We could be." His tone was serious. For the first time since they started talking, she thought she noticed something vulnerable peek through his self-assured exterior.

"Okay. Since you put it that way. I accept your offer." She turned to Tabitha. "I'll have a burger and fries."

"All right, I'll get those started." Tabitha gave Betty a knowing grin before heading back to the kitchen.

Betty groaned as she began to set up her laptop across from Jughead.

"I'm guessing you're working on something." Jughead took a sip of his coffee and was distracted for a moment by the rich, dark brew. "This is really good."

"Yeah. Tabitha likes to get quality coffee. It makes it a little more expensive, but completely worth it." She placed her notebook beside her laptop. "And, yes about work as well."

He leaned forward and rested his chin in his hands. His complete attention was focused entirely on her, like she was the only person in the world. Like she was important. "What kind of work keeps you busy at one-thirty in the morning?"

Betty made the mistake of meeting his eyes. The mesmerizing depths drew her in and she couldn't help but think he'd make a good reporter. "Final edits and layout for the paper."

"You work for the Register?"

"Yeah. How do you know?" She forced her gaze away from his and instead stared at her screen.

"I passed the office on my way through town. It was the only building with the lights still on. And I figured Riverdale wasn't a big enough town for more than one paper to be running all night long. You're obviously a regular here, so it would make sense for you to work or live nearby. Probably both." He started to type without looking at the keyboard.

"You're really observant." Betty wished her reporters had half his skills. Though, at the moment, she would settle for them knowing how to spell.

"It's something I picked up over the years." His grin was tight. Interesting. There was a story behind that he didn't want to share. "I suppose you want to get to work. Do you mind if I…" he gestured at his laptop.

"Go ahead. And, yeah, I should get this done. Then I can finally head home." She smiled at him gratefully as she settled into work. From the corner of her eye, she watched as he slipped on a pair of headphones, closed his eyes, and began to type.

It was an hour and a half later when Betty finally hit 'send' on her e-mail and looked up from her work. While she worked, she had demolished the entire plate of burger and fries without thinking about it and Tabitha had kept her mug full of hot coffee. Jughead still sat across from her. And while his eyes were now open, his focus was on the screen in front of him. He wrote like someone completely submerged in his work. There was that fevered pitch in his eyes, the one of a writer who had found their inspiration and needed to get the words on the page before the momentum disappeared and he was left with only the memory of what might have been. His passion for his work fueled a spark in her. She hadn't felt that way about anything in her life for a long time.

While she watched him work, the pace of his typing slowed. His face relaxed and he took a deep breath. He sat up straight and rolled his neck and shoulders. There was a pop of joints as he stretched.

"Hey," she said softly, not wanting to disrupt him if he was still in the middle of something important.

"Hey." Jughead pushed back his headphones and looped them around his neck. An inky curl escaped the confines of his hat and fell temptingly across his forehead. "You finished?"

"Yup. What about you?" She checked her e-mail making certain there wasn't any last minute crises she needed to take care of before she shutting down her computer. At this point, she could ignore any new crisis until she arrived at the office in the morning.

"Eh. I'm at as good of a stopping place as any, but I don't have anywhere else to go, so I'll probably just keep working." Jughead rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"You don't have anyplace to stay?" Betty vaguely recalled something Tabitha said about him passing through town.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged small circles at the juncture. "No. By the time I arrived in town, the local motel was already full for the night and I desperately needed to get off the road for a bit. Figured if I couldn't get the rest I needed, at least I could attempt to substitute it with caffeine."

"I don't think that's particularly healthy. Though, I suppose I'm not one to talk. I practically take my coffee intravenously." Betty finished the last of her coffee, feeling the edge of the slight buzz of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. "How long are you planning on staying in Riverdale?"

"Don't know. Until I met you—" A red flush heated Jughead's cheeks and she realized she wasn't the only one who felt a connection. "Um, that is, found this place, I hadn't intended on staying longer than the night. But, I think I might stick around for a few days—if I can find a place. I'll check with the local hotels after checkout time."

Betty hesitated. She'd only known Jughead for about an hour and a half and they'd spent most of that time writing, yet she felt a pang of loneliness at the thought of him leaving before she got the opportunity to know him better. While he was an enigma wrapped in a mystery, there was more to her fascination with him than the fact he was new to town. Not even her love of a good mystery was the driving factor here (though, if pressed, she might be willing to admit it played a small contributing factor). Was it so strange that she wanted to get to know this man who showed such concern for her and not what she could do for him?

It wasn't like she was kidding herself. She knew he was only passing through Riverdale. Even if he didn't leave with the morning light, he'd be gone and out of her life before long. He wouldn't want to stay and she couldn't leave. But...she didn't want to let this opportunity to pass her by without fighting for it.

Yes, she was lonely. Yes, she was restless. Yes, she was rudderless. And, yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was sweet. Yes, he was a distraction. She needed something to shake up her world. Maybe it was time...

"Betts?" Jughead's fingers brushed along her knuckles jolting her out of thoughts. His touch was a featherlight, barely there caress which sent an enthralling buzz across her skin and into her blood.

Well, she would go with her gut on this one.

Her mother would kill her. Veronica would lecture her about making foolhardy decisions when sleep-deprived. But, damnit, she was an adult and despite evidence to the contrary, she could make her own decisions. Even as she weighed all the reasons not to, Betty still found herself making the offer. "I have an spare bedroom at my apartment. You're free to use it as long as you're in town."

The smile which lit up Jughead's face assured Betty she'd made the right choice. An exhilarated thrill ran down her spine.

"Yeah, I'd like that," he said.

"All right." Betty offered him a genuine smile which he acknowledged with a grin of his own. "Let's go."