Okay, this is story seven(!) in the Jughead-gets-kidnapped-and-stuff series, and probably a bad idea, but if there's one thing I cannot resist, it's a bad idea... especially one involving a fanfic burning a hole in my brain.
So hello! I'm back! I missed you! And oh man, what cliffhangers! (at least in my head)
Fair warning to anyone stumbling across this story first in the whole series: it honestly does not stand alone, though if you try it on its own and want to disagree with me on that point, feel free. :)
I don't know what my updating schedule will look like, so that is my MASSIVE caveat this time around. I've loved being dependable, but this is the tradeoff at this point in my life: between unpredictably updated fanfic or no fanfic... and I hope you end up feeling like it's worth it, or just opt out until it's all over and you can binge read it. Whatever you prefer.
I love feedback with all of my heart, though, and with unpredictable posting schedules, it feeds me even more than it might otherwise. So thanks in advance for any and all notes. :)
And... Enjoy!
-Button
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Prologue
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Jughead stumbled backward off of the wooden step as Brand shoved his backpack into his arms.
"Go; get out of here. You wanted to grow up, right? Be careful what you wish for." Brand's forehead creased and he shot a glance back over his shoulder to where FP was standing.
Jughead's stomach was churning, and he was almost relieved to see how upset his dad looked - though he knew it wouldn't change anything.
He was on his own now. He had to leave.
Hefting the large backpack onto his shoulders, Jughead was overwhelmed by memories of being homeless.
It was strangely comforting. He'd done this before; he could do it again.
"Don't get yourself killed," Brand added roughly.
His words brought Jughead back to reality: this was like nothing like that he'd ever done before.
And when Jughead locked eyes with FP, he really wished he hadn't.
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Chapter One
Three days after the events in Pay The Piper
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"Thanks for coming in, Jughead." SAC Wilson nodded toward the chair across from her in the office. "I know you're taking a few days to relax with your father and Davies, so I won't make this long."
Jughead shrugged; he was intensely curious about this meeting, and being on 24/7 'celebration' time with Brand and FP had been fun for the duration of their trip to Niagara Falls.
After that, it had gotten old with alarming speed.
Relief and euphoria had swiftly devolved into arguments about whether Brand and Jughead should continue training now that everything had changed; that, in turn, had led to a lot of tension that made every activity a competition, as if that would prove who was right about training.
Every activity.
Jughead was fairly certain that Brand could win the 'to train or not to train' argument if he made the case that it would cause their current bizarre dynamic to go away, but both adults were ignoring the fact that it was insane to compete over who could scrub a pot more effectively.
Which was literally what Jughead had left them doing when he headed to the field office for this meeting.
"Don't worry about it," Jughead said with a smile. "We're all on vacation for four more days, so I've got time."
He waited expectantly to hear what this meeting was about.
"So. I read the reports from everyone in Toronto," Wilson began, "and I think I've gotten a clear picture of your role in what took place. I'm sure you're already hearing this a lot at home, but I wanted to take the time to say it myself: we could not have accomplished what we did without you. You underwent significant personal risks and took initiative at key moments. I am extremely impressed."
Jughead willed his jaw not to drop. This was definitely not what he was hearing at home.
FP had installed a security system within hours of their arrival home, and seriously considered putting actual bars over Jughead's bedroom window. He seemed to hover in the background all of the time, making absolutely certain that nothing happened without his knowing about it.
Brand had begun a debriefing regimen for Jughead that involved reviewing footage, reports, and recollections as if this were an extended post-game-day session where every step, misstep, and strategy needed to be analyzed and wrung dry of any and all potential insight.
Basically, FP was freaked that Jughead had been put through so much in secret over the past eight months, right under his nose.
Brand was freaked that Jughead had been yanked forcibly away from his protection and thrust into a situation where the teen had needed to take the lead.
FP wanted to know and be prepared for everything.
Brand wanted Jughead to know and be prepared for everything.
Both were impossible tasks, and neither adult seemed to agree with SAC Wilson that Jughead had made a pretty good showing for himself in Toronto.
"You were in no way representing the FBI, and your actions will remain classified - which means that nobody you work alongside will be privy to details -, but I wanted to let you know that the FBI's silence on the topic does not mean a lack of notice or appreciation."
"Oh. Wow. Uh, thank you." Jughead ducked his head, suddenly worried that she'd somehow gotten the wrong impression of what he'd actually done. "It was mostly Brand; his training bailed me out. He risked his life too. And my Dad, and the Serpents. And Clark saved our butts."
"Should I save some time and just praise the person who invented Krav Maga?" Wilson asked gently, with a small smile. "Or perhaps you're trying to suggest that I congratulate myself for sending Davies to Toronto, or for being the SAC presiding over Clark's internship?"
Jughead blinked.
"Take the credit when it's offered, Jughead. Nobody works in a vacuum, and don't worry - everyone is getting their share of it." Wilson's smile grew as she continued. "I'm also in a position to offer you two weeks of paid time off. You've earned it, and we don't need interns while we're shuffling everything around at the RA. With Clark training in Virginia, Davies in limbo, and everyone else working through the investigation paperwork-,"
Oh yeah. Agent Russell and the safe deposit box. Jughead suppressed a cringe, but he figured it was unnecessary: surely the SAC knew all about his connection to that.
There was a whole lot that was classified, but very few secrets in this room.
It was almost a relief, as exposed as that made Jughead feel.
"-I think it's a good time for you to take a breather." Wilson grimaced sympathetically as she went on: "My hope is that we can have things wrapped up with the investigation before you come back, so that you can be entirely separated from it. What do you think?"
"Do I... have a choice?" Jughead kept his tone neutral, but he felt a bit dour as he spoke. He was pretty sure there was no choice being offered here.
"I wouldn't ask if you didn't have one," SAC Wilson sounded like she was chiding him.
Maybe he'd insulted her. Oops.
"Oh. Sorry." Jughead wasn't sure what he wanted, though. "If I did come in, what would I be doing?"
"Making coffee. Photocopying. I'm not sure what else you could do; the investigation is taking everything over for the time being, and it's work that you won't be able to help with."
"I'll take the paid time off, then." Jughead didn't really want to test Agent Williams' newfound affection for him.
And hey, he'd have time to do some writing. Finally.
"You could spend some time supporting your friends," Wilson offered. "I know we've kept you busy for a lot of the fall."
Jughead was taken by surprise; his mind began racing. How did SAC Wilson know about Betty's parents divorcing? Or maybe she meant Max, and his debriefing. Or maybe she somehow knew that things were complicated with the Serpents, especially with Sweet Pea dating Alice. Or-
"I heard your best friend's working on a new album."
Or maybe that.
"Ye-eah. He wants me to attend some events and stuff, but right now he's-," Jughead cut himself off before uttering the word 'grounded.' He was trying to be a professional here.
"On hiatus. I heard." Wilson laughed lightly. "I have a daughter who's only a few years older than you, and she's finding Archie and the band fascinating; she keeps me updated. Well, however you use the time off, I hope you enjoy it."
Sometimes it was really hard to picture SAC Wilson being a mom. Other times it was hard to picture her being anything else. Jughead's eyes fell to a frame on her desk that was turned so that he couldn't see the photo.
Jughead left the meeting a few minutes later. He wasn't sure how he felt about the whole thing.
But maybe it was time that he decided how he wanted to feel about all of it.
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Three days after that meeting
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There was a jostling sound in the hallway outside of the office, and then a snort of squelched laughter followed by at least two sets of shushing that only made the suppressed laughter worse.
At least they were on time.
Paul Laurent should probably be grateful that they had not rescheduled yet again. Or perhaps just grateful that they continued to work with him, all things considered, since this set of clients had opened up veritable floodgates to a steady stream of new clientele.
Because only through an accident of scheduling and availability were the most high-profile clients in the region now the poster children - poster adults, that is - for referrals to his practice.
All Paul had needed to do was scramble to get certifications in trauma counseling and a host of related specialties in order to keep up with these clients and others who'd since been referred to him by the FBI - all of whom had increasingly unusual needs arise in their sessions.
Someday his memoir was going to be required reading in at least three disciplines.
Today was slated to be a red-letter day for their sessions, too.
"Hey Paul, do we get certificates? Or, I don't know, how about trophies?" Jughead entered the office first, exuberant and clearly the source of the stifled laughter that Laurent had overheard.
"Trophies for what?" An unfamiliar voice demanded. A tall, lean, and almost obnoxiously toned man appeared in the doorway next. "Making it to therapy on time? Or do you want a participation trophy, kid? Wouldn't a therapy merit badge make a lot more sense? Your dad can spring for one."
Paul stood, eagerly extending a hand to the newcomer. He hoped this would be the first of many sessions with the celebrated undercover agent.
What a coup that would be.
"I'm Paul Laurent. You must be Special Agent Davies. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Just Brand." The man was incomparably gracious as he accepted the proffered hand. His grip was firm and his handshake powerful - and his seemingly casual shirt rippled in a way that only expensive fabrics do. "And the pleasure is all mine. You have single-handedly made sharing a house with these two possible."
Paul felt a too-eager smile crossing his face, and he quickly channeled his pleasure into a very professional tone. "Well, these two do all of the real work. I only facilitate-,"
"Hi Paul." FP interrupted with a faint tone of sarcasm as he stalked over to the plush chair in the corner of the roomy office. He favored that chair, keeping himself at as great a distance as possible from the therapist, though typically when he came in with Jughead they sat together on the sofa. "You can ignore those two."
Interesting.
Dynamics would clearly be in flux now that they'd added the third member of the household to the family therapy session.
"Hello, FP," Paul responded in a strictly measured tone. The gang member needed a firm hand keeping him on the straight and narrow. With clients like this - ones with a dangerous past, and a habit of violence - a particular demeanor was called for.
"I like this guy already." Special Agent Davies - Brand - spoke warmly as he took a seat on the sofa, clearly noticing Laurent's professionalism and understanding it completely. "But seriously, what's with the trophy talk, Jones?"
Laurent found that he did not mind starting there in the session. He often let the clients direct the discussion, so long as it was productive.
"Because today's our last day." Jughead spoke impatiently, as if this was a well known fact to all present.
Paul had to school his expression to hide his shock and dismay.
After all, it was quite possible that his most important clients would seek out a more experienced counselor, in a more concierge-like practice. He'd hoped that they'd be loyal, though, given their progress - and that he'd likewise continue to benefit from that loyalty. Not to mention from the experience he was gaining by working with them.
Neither of the other two men made any attempt to hide their shock.
"What?" Brand's laughter boomed heartily. It was a contagious mirth, and Paul found himself liking the man even more as the special agent defused the tense moment with ease and a deft touch that was no doubt a product of his many and storied experiences as an FBI agent. "Are you on crack?"
Oh. Uh. Brand might have some... grit. Some rough edges mixed in. Some character, one might even say. Laurent supposed that he could not fault the man for that.
"Brandon." FP cast a brief, nervous look at Laurent, as if the therapist were incapable of understanding what humor was. Which was par for the course with FP; he was far too invested in how he was perceived in their sessions to make optimal personal progress. "Cut it out. And Jug, what in the name of Sam Hill gave you the impression that we were ending sessions with Paul?"
Jughead was returning all of the surprised looks with an incredulous one of his own. "Uh, hello? Everything's fine now. We're home; we're safe. Things are great."
Paul watched FP absorbing this information as though he had no earthly idea what his son was thinking and experiencing on a daily basis - which was Paul's leading theory about the man, and one he sometimes even hoped was true, if only so that Jughead would be spared some measure of FP's influence - and then FP spoke up.
Unfortunately, that did not leave time for Brand to weigh in with what would undoubtedly have been a more helpful contribution.
"Define 'great.'" FP's expression was skeptical - and troubled. "Are you referring to Betty's parents divorcing, or the fact that she visited me and mentioned your being very - ahem - 'affectionate' since we got back from Toronto and the fact that you insist that is in no way code for pressuring your girlfriend?"
Brand's eyebrows quirked up as if this was news to him, and Jughead sighed and flung his arms dramatically.
"I cannot believe that you're bringing that up here. It's not code, Dad, for the billionth time. And you're the one who recommended she talk to you about my, uh, medical appointments in Toronto since I can't tell her anything classified; I didn't know she thought that was a… symptom or whatever. A 'behavioral change.' For the record, if Betty ever did come to you about our sex life - which does not exist, and don't pretend you didn't just have a heart attack because I saw your face -" Jughead shook his head, "-you would know. Because I'd drop dead on the spot from embarrassment."
Jughead gave FP a stern look for emphasis, and then turned to Davies and Paul to explain in a dry tone: "The wolf pack is just kind of... physical about expressing stuff, and Betty and I are figuring out what that means for our relationship. She wanted another perspective on, like, PDA and near-death experiences. So sue me for not wanting her to talk to Brand, who would probably start, I don't know, brainstorming names for future god-grandchildren."
Davies shrugged and nodded agreeably, as if to indicate that he did not disagree with Jughead's assessment.
Then Special Agent Davies turned to Paul to speak sotto voce: "You don't happen to have any popcorn, do you? Because that would be fantastic right about now."
Jughead and FP Jones turned identical affronted glares on Davies, and FP reached over to swat at the FBI agent - who wisely slid out of range of the older man's violence.
"Regardless of the details on that one," FP responded to his son's defense, his eyes still narrowed, "I'm still unclear on what's 'great.' Maybe you're referring to Archie and his band navigating issues with their new fame? Max's never-ending drama, and my refusal to let you get sucked into that vortex? Alice's incessant navel gazing and invented problems? All the upheaval at the RA? Or your godfather's contingent position with the FBI and the stress we're all under because of that? Or maybe the new training you two didn't bother sharing with me until I walked in on Brand choking the life out of-,"
"It was a trust exercise! Nobody was choking anyone." It was Davies' turn to look affronted. "Although now I'm wondering why Jones came to me out of the blue, wanting to practice tamping down reflexes with me. Did you take a swing at the warrior queen because she startled you or something, killer? Because if you did, I may actually choke the life out of-,"
"No! This is all... prophylactic!"
Both adults gave Jughead a suspicious glare over his word choice.
"Wow, you are both insane. I will have sex one day, and you two will not be involved, so maybe we need to do some trust exercises to tamp down your reflexes." Jughead smirked. Then he looked more serious: "But yeah. I do worry that I might hurt Betty accidentally. I've come close with both of you, and you outweigh me - and you know what you're doing more than Betty does."
"Why have I not been told all of this?" FP looked less reassured than frustrated by this new information. "And can we maybe revisit your definition of 'great' now?"
Well. The fact that his cluelessness had been so completely exposed in a family therapy session probably should trouble FP, Paul reflected. That was possibly even a good sign for his understanding of their purpose and goals in therapy. Progress, in some measure.
Laurent would throw FP a bone as a reward, hopefully reinforcing this good behavior.
"Before we get into definitions and semantics," Paul redirected the conversation smoothly, "why don't we take a step back and listen to what FP's goals are for today's session? Was there anything that you wanted to address in particular while we're all here?"
FP blinked, clearly disagreeing with Paul's decision to redirect them at that moment.
The gang member sometimes had trouble appreciating it when Laurent gave him support.
A few long seconds passed, during which FP's expression went through a series of variations on 'deeply frustrated' and Jughead visibly shrank back into the couch cushions next to Brand, who patted his shoulder reassuringly and smiled broadly, as if he were amused.
Special Agent Davies was completely relaxed, and Paul was impressed that the man could sense how well this therapy session was about to go.
"As it happens," FP eventually spoke, slowly and meaningfully, while shooting Brand a warning look as if FP disagreed with the optimism indicated by the agent's smile, "I do have something I'd like to discuss. With a third party present."
There was a long pause, no doubt for overly dramatic emphasis, before FP finished his thought: "I want the training to end."
Laurent frowned; he wasn't entirely sure what FP was referring to.
He paused, scanning his own unhelpful notes on various other subjects, hoping to buy himself time to figure out what FP meant.
And in precisely that moment, he lost control of the session:
"Dad, no! You always say that I'm not allowed to leverage therapy to get what I want. We voted and you lost; it was two against one!" Jughead was no longer disappearing into the sofa's cushions.
"That is not how it works, boy. Not in my house!" FP raised his voice.
Paul had never heard him raise his voice before.
It was, in a word, terrifying.
"FP, seriously. We discussed this. A lot," Davies interjected. "The training is what saved us from-,"
"Saved us from a threat that no longer exists. Not like it once did." FP's voice had become completely alien to Paul: he'd never heard the gang member sound so commanding. His tone brooked no further disagreement.
All of a sudden it was really easy to picture him shooting people in dark alleys.
Thankfully, Special Agent Davies was anything but cowed: "He's practically an adult. You need to let Jones make his own decisions at some point, and it might as well be-,"
"When he's had at least a couple of weeks to recover from being dragged into your 'line of work,' and makes up his own mind about what he wants?" FP became even more fierce, which Laurent would not have believed possible without bearing witness to it. "I don't want to suggest that you're fabricating pretexts in order to keep your position in the wolf pack-,"
Laurent would need to inquire about that phrase; he scribbled a note on his pad.
"-but when you push for this kind of agenda, you leave me wondering why you feel the need."
It could have been a reasonable statement... had it not come out with all the force and implied violence of a death threat.
Once again, however, Davies was undeterred.
"It's like therapy," Brand responded with the most reasonable explanation that Laurent could imagine, even shooting the therapist a wink as he spoke. "You don't quit once you're doing well. You keep up your skills. Prophylactically."
Jughead frowned petulantly when Brand grinned over at him to underscore his word choice.
Paul decided that it was time he stepped in. "I have to agree-,"
"You have no idea what we're talking about, so you might want to butt out right now." FP's eyes blazed dangerously as he turned on Laurent.
Jughead might not be pressed back in his seat any longer, but Paul felt his own position moving in that direction.
"Huh. What are we paying him for if he's supposed to 'butt out'? You literally just brought it up so that he could 'butt in,' did you not?" Davies was on a roll; Laurent nodded in complete agreement.
"Stop playing games, Brandon." FP shook his head. "I want it done. Not in our household - my household -, and not until Jughead is over eighteen and living on his own. It's time to make a clean break from training. Jughead needs time off to get some objectivity. We'll revisit this whole thing then. Only then."
"But Dad, I don't want to be out of practice, in case-,"
"In case what?" FP's dangerous glare focused on his son now, who cowered for just a moment before he straightened up defiantly and responded to the glare with one of his own.
Aha. It was just as Laurent had suspected: their relationship was fraught, and obviously based on a tangled web of threats and fear.
Finally, after months of prodding - of just knowing this had to be the case -, at long last Paul was seeing the true nature of FP's relationship with his son.
Strangely, Davies did not appear equally concerned with FP's big reveal. Instead, he was regarding the teenager curiously.
"Yeah, Jones, in case of what? I'm just talking about getting good exercise and maintaining basic skills. What are you worried might happen? Is your father right that there's more going on? Do we actually need to take a break?"
Davies and FP exchanged worried glances before returning their focus to the fidgeting teenager.
"No-o," Jughead managed. He seemed at a loss, though.
Then Laurent spotted something: Jones' therapy notebook was on the sofa, tucked under his leg so that it was barely visible.
"Jughead, have you been journaling your thoughts and ideas for our discussions?" Paul asked gently. "Should we take a break from debating the merits of this, uh, 'training' schedule? Perhaps it's time that we heard your goals for today's session."
It had taken a long time to break himself of calling the teen 'Jonas,' and Paul was proud of himself for almost never slipping up these days.
"Um-," Jughead's expression changed in an instant; he looked downright embarrassed.
"You brought a diary to therapy? Well, go on then. Spit it out already," Davies encouraged his young ward firmly.
Well, it was essentially an order, but Laurent knew that Davies' training far exceeded his own, so he had to assume that the agent was engaging in a therapeutic strategy that Paul had not yet learned about. He'd have to do some Googling later.
"It's a list. Of things I want us to do." Jughead suddenly had his game face on once more as he stared down his godfather defiantly.
Laurent - and the other two men, he noticed - relaxed. It seemed as though they all recognized Jughead's change in demeanor and knew that it signaled that they would get the full story.
"Now that we're a normal family," Jughead added.
When Davies snorted in what was no doubt a therapeutic and encouraging manner, and FP's jaw dropped in a crushing display of his lack of support for his son, Jughead merely lowered his chin and continued his explanation.
"I just think that we should send out holiday cards this year. And make a social media page in Dad's name that we share. We can keep it private, but that way we can keep up with friends." Davies gave another encouraging snort that appeared to work: it galvanized Jughead still further.
"And I think we should start having friends over more often - all three of us, not with one or two of us leaving the house whenever there's company. And I think that Brand should come for family time every other Sunday."
"No way, kid. Not Sundays. Those are for you and your dad." Brand wisely reinforced the arrangements that had worked out so well in recent months. "We can add some wolf pack time, sure, but not on Sundays."
"Do we have time for that?" FP's habitual undercutting was to be expected, but Laurent was still disappointed in him. "When are we supposed to fit that in?"
Jughead shrugged. "I know. That's how I came up with every other Sunday. O-or, if we graduated from therapy, we could-,"
"Get trophies? And become the Brady Bunch?" Davies' words could have been aggressive, but this time his tone was soft and he was patting Jughead's shoulder again. "That's actually a nice thought. And, to be fair, there are crazier people out there. Just this week I heard that-,"
"Oh come on, don't start with some ridiculous story-," FP objected.
"Hang on, FP. I'd really like to hear this." Paul took the opportunity to give Brand some much-needed support in the family dynamic.
Surely his story would be an apt parable that would give them all some perspective and insight going forward.
"Thank you, Paul." Brand's appreciative grin was worth its weight in gold as he turned it on Laurent. "So, one of those guys we rounded up in Toronto? He's a real nasty piece of work; he ties people up in that way we discussed," Brand gave Jughead a meaningful look, "you know, to torture them. Thinks it's real fun. Kind of explains his issues, right, and probably a whole lot of Max's. We got that news this week at the RA, and it makes me feel like we got spared a whole lot of mess. Gratitude, Paul. Am I right?"
Paul blinked at Special Agent Davies in bewilderment. There didn't seem to be an appropriate response to anything that Brand had just said.
Gratitude was a pretty safe answer, though, and a good policy in general.
Laurent eventually settled on nodding, resolving to sort out the rest of Davies' story later on.
Only Jughead was suddenly shifting very uncomfortably, and had dropped his eyes to the floor.
In fact, the teen looked a whole lot like he had in their early sessions, back when his trauma had been overwhelming to even think about, let alone discuss.
And then - naturally - before Laurent could step in and direct them, FP derailed the session yet again.
"Was that some kind of a threat? Right in front of me?" FP's expression was somewhere between incredulous and murderous. "This is exactly the kind of thing that I'm talking about when I say there will be no more training. You refer to things that I'm not privy to, and ohhhh Jughead sits up straight for you all right. And, let me guess, that way even when nobody at the RA will give you the time of day, you still get to feel like you're a big man-,"
"FP, you've got the wrong end of the stick. That wasn't a threat, I swear. Hang on." Davies was staring at Jughead like something was very wrong, as he held up a hand to stop FP's tirade. "Give me a break, and please give me some credit. Something else is going on here."
As Brand took a deep breath, Laurent shot FP a firm look to underscore Davies' words.
"Jones? Max was the one he tied up and tortured, wasn't he?" Brand asked.
Jones did not reply.
Well. That shut FP up.
And Laurent, for that matter, at least for a few moments. He recovered swiftly, though: "Let me just, uh, clear the rest of my afternoon."
FP moved from his chair to the sofa, and the two men angled their bodies so that they seemed to be protectively shielding Jughead.
Jughead's expression was falling, and he seemed to be trying desperately to scowl angrily in order to ward off any other emotions. "It wasn't that big a deal-,"
"Oh, is that so? You want to tell tortured POWs that? Are you gonna tell Max that? Huh?" Brandon's tone grew harsh and he scooted toward Jughead so that his scant remaining inches of height on the growing teen were as obvious as possible. "Because if you want to work with survivors, Jones, you're going to have to start with yourself. You cannot be in denial about what you've been through. Because right now you're coming perilously close to brushing off the severity of what other people have experienced. You think that sort of attitude is liable to help anyone? Do you?"
Jughead's expression twisted miserably.
"That's enough!" FP thundered, slapping the palm of his left hand onto the top of Laurent's coffee table for emphasis.
Jughead jerked away, clearly startled, and Laurent's notes spilled all over the floor. Even Davies leaned away from FP.
"Don't you ever go after Jughead for wanting to help people." FP stuck a finger into Brandon's face. Then he turned to Jughead. "And you need to get it together. Before the end of this week, I want you to write a list of things you haven't shared with us or with Paul - and you need to make a plan for sharing every item on it. It's one or the other, but you cannot tell neither of us."
"Isn't that a double negati-,"
"So help me, Davies, if you keep pushing me-," FP's tone was dangerous enough to stop Brand mid-sentence with the half-spoken threat. "I know that you know what I mean, Jughead. You have to share everything, either at home or here in therapy. You can choose who to tell and how to tell it, but I want there to be someone who's looped in on everything that you're dealing with."
Jughead managed a nod, but Laurent found himself scanning the room for his box of tissues. It looked as though the teen was going to need them in the very near future.
"Hey." Brand spoke more quietly than FP, but his tone held an eerily similar immutable authority.
Laurent wondered if he could learn how to do that.
"I think you've got two options here, killer." Davies held out his hands as if he were holding the two possibilities in them. "Either we're a normal family, and Paul here clears his schedule-," Brand waited for the teen to respond, and Jughead nodded once to acknowledge that option - albeit without lifting his eyes, "-or we do things as a wolf pack, and pick up a few gallons of ice cream... and get you out of here for the rest of this conversation."
"If you decide to go the wolf pack route, that doesn't mean we can't send out Christmas cards," FP added, his voice low as well. "We'll talk about the rest of your list later, okay?"
Laurent really needed to find out what they meant by the term 'wolf pack.'
"What's it gonna be?" Brand jogged the teen's shoulder affectionately.
"The wolf pack," Jughead mumbled reluctantly, but then he looked up at Brand and seemed more sure of himself when he continued: "We should get Dad peanut butter cups, too. They help keep him calm."
"You bet." Brand managed a dark chuckle and swatted playfully at FP's shoulder as the three stood up together.
And, just like that, Laurent was watching the two adults sweep Jughead out the door with barely a wave in his direction before they were gone.
And he was left to wonder if a graduation trophy might not be called for after all.
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"Get inside." FP seized Jughead by the shoulder and hustled him into the house.
It was only when Jughead nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to obey that FP realized he'd made it sound like there was an active shooter. Again.
Which was at least a slight overreaction.
They'd just pulled into the driveway with the two gallons of ice cream that Brandon had deemed 'sufficient' for whatever horrific conversation they were about to have.
And now this.
FP slammed the front door shut behind his son, ignoring Jughead's perplexed and fearful expression. There would be time to deal with that later. "Brandon?"
"What's got you spooked, old man?" Davies was staring at him like he was off his rocker.
Well, maybe he was.
And you know what, that might be better than the alternative: that what FP thought he was seeing was, in fact, reality.
"Why is my ex sending you packages?"
When Brandon's face lit up, the worst was confirmed.
"It came?" Davies elbowed past FP toward the box with the telltale handwriting spelling out his name, and scooped the small stack of mail off of it. "Don't feel left out, FP - there's something for you here, too. Only if I didn't know better, I'd say that it kind of looks like…"
Brandon was holding up a white, altogether too-fancy envelope when they both realized what it was.
FP snatched the envelope away from him and fumbled with the flap for a few moments before he simply tore the whole thing in half; keeping it pretty was not a priority. Seeing what on God's green earth Gladys was sending to him was.
Once again, unfortunately, it was exactly what it looked like.
"Well. This is... premature." FP wasn't sure what his facial expression was doing, but Brandon actually looked slightly nervous now, so it couldn't be good.
"What is?"
"Gladys has never had a whole lot of respect for the law, but bigamy seems a bit extreme, even for her." FP's voice was flat.
"Oh. Uh." Now Brandon definitely looked nervous. "I meant to tell you. Some official-looking stuff addressed to you might have ended up in my mail pile when we got back to town, but I swear I didn't know that's what it was."
"Huh. I see. Give it to me later. When Jug's not around." FP felt dazed, and he really didn't want any details right now. Especially not creative excuses regarding why he was just hearing about the existence of divorce papers... from Brandon Davies of all people. "But that doesn't explain why she sent you a package. And is that-,"
Davies looked down at the small stack of mail resting on top of the box, and he seemed as surprised as FP to see another, identical white envelope. This one was addressed to him.
"I think it might be." Brandon shrugged, but his eyes had widened and FP was glad to see that he looked at least mildly disturbed.
They regarded the wedding invitations in silence for a few long moments.
"So. Do you want to tell the kid or shall I?" Brandon finally spoke.
"Are you serious?" FP waved the torn invitation in a frustrated gesture of disbelief, feeling like it was almost symbolic when half of it fell to the ground. "Obviously I'm going to be the one to tell him that his mother-,"
"I mean... do you want me to be the one to tell him we're not quitting therapy just yet?" Brandon's expression was wry, but he seemed to be genuinely sympathetic.
FP appreciated that. And the attempt at levity, if only because it gave him an excuse to lean heavily into the contact when he knocked his shoulder against Brandon's while turning to retrieve the ice cream from the car.
He hefted the grocery bags, and reflected that two gallons of ice cream suddenly seemed a lot less like overkill and more like a sound investment.
"Hey, there's a note here." Brandon was picking up the half of FP's wedding invitation that had fallen and skimming it swiftly. "Oh. Wow. So, you know the woman who didn't so much as pick up a phone this past year to see if Jones was still alive?"
That was not a promising lead-in.
"She wants him to be in her wedding." Brandon raised his eyebrows. "Stay classy, Mrs. FP."
On second thought, maybe two gallons wasn't enough.
"I'm gonna need you to make breakfast," FP said heavily. The timing wasn't great, but it was what it was.
There was a long silence.
"You lucky dog," Brandon said finally.
"This gonna be a problem?" FP knew he'd been understood. He also knew why Brandon was jealous.
"Of course not." Davies' perpetual smirk was firmly in place. "I'm stuck sitting on my hands at the RA. The kid is benched, so I don't even have him around to educate with all my spare time. I might be as envious as a man could be, but I'm also getting to do something. Finally."
"You get to make breakfast," FP repeated, just to be sure he was understanding the younger man and Davies wasn't announcing some plan to go off half cocked.
"They serve who only stand and wait," Brandon shot back. "And making breakfast - covering for you with the kid - is a sight more than that. Pardon the pun."
The man was utterly incomprehensible.
And suspiciously compliant. Nothing was ever that simple with Davies.
But then again, ever since he'd been brought home from Toronto by Mary Andrews - instead of potentially serving years or decades in prison -, things had been different with the younger man.
FP was willing to extend the benefit of the doubt and see how far it got them.
"You'll actually be earning that fat FBI paycheck, huh?" Brandon shook his head. "Well. Good for you."
Neither of them had any inkling of how short-lived that sentiment was fated to be.
00000
So, I never understood parallax novels. They seemed like the "b roll" of the good novel (not in terms of quality - I don't have one in mind - just in terms of the concept), and at worst like a money grab. Welp, now I've perhaps taken a little too long trying to figure out how to pace my writing/posting within a new and busier schedule, and I definitely have thought so much about plot, subplot, other subplot, other other subplot, that I can see how a parallax novel might be cutting room floor stuff (to stick with a film analogy).
Which is my way of saying, fair warning: I have WAY too much on my mind for this plot, per usual, and no idea how it's all going to crash together.
But I hope you're along for the ride... one more time. :) Also, Laurent finally got some POV! I can't tell you how much fun that was (though I guess I just tried). :-D
Wishing you well, and looking forward to hearing any and all comments and feedback!
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