Hello! I'm alive!
Just endlessly busy and stressed with work and the world. My anxiety/depression is always worse this time of year so I'm even slower than normal, but I'm alive and writing!
So here's another chapter because apparently, I can't write a normal word count for my life. Anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read this story even though I update it very sporadically.
I started writing this at the end of Season 3 and now I feel the entire show run is going to end before I finish one story. XD Oh well.
Ktylnrose, thank you so much for finding this story and for leaving all the wonderful notes and thoughts! I am amazed that I'm still getting new readers, even this late into the game. Glad to have you along for the ride!
AvidMovieFan16, thank you for being a faithful reader! I hope you continue to enjoy it!
LukeSkywalker2567, Vegas is great when he makes an appearance, isn't he? And thanks for the kind words and thank you for reading!
Boris Yeltsin, thank you so much for being a faithful reader! I hope you enjoy this one.
ButtonMashr, thanks for the compliments on writing the small details! Those are some of the best things to write along with the connective tissues and fun twists and turns! And compliments on writing certain characters. They all have such interesting internal worlds and perspectives, but there are definitely some that I find more fun to write than others. Breather chapters are fun but so are... whatever the opposite of breathers are!
On to the chapter!
Chapter 23 - Sins of the Father
"It's pointless. It's never going to work."
"It will work!"
"It's dead and it's going to stay dead."
"Don't say that. Come on, just try it one more time. Please."
"Fine." Archie swallowed and took a deep breath, then firmly turned the key in the ignition. He waited in anticipation as the engine sputtered and whirred, trying to rumble to life, but the jalopy ultimately whimpered out, returning to a standstill. He groaned, tossing his hands and his head upwards to stare at the garage ceiling.
"Okay," Betty sighed in resignation, pushing away from the car's hood, wiping some grease off of her hands with a rag. "Pass me the torque wrench?"
Archie huffed as he got out of the driver's seat and walked around the car. "I think we should call it for the day. It's getting dark and I still need to clean up before I head over to the center." He leaned against the hood and looked over at Betty.
Betty deposited the rag into the open bed of the jalopy, giving Archie a small smirk. "If we can't get it to run again, maybe we can at least build a convertible roof or something for it. Make it a fort and pretend we're kids again."
He snickered, crossing his arms over his chest, the grease on his hands smearing across his already-soiled shirt. Betty chuckled too, gathering up the remaining tools and taking them over to the workbench.
Archie came up beside her, picking up the wrenches and pliers, and placing them in their spots on the shelf. "Don't you have therapy tonight, too? How's that been going?"
Betty gave him a small nod as she wiped down her tools, folding them into her zip-up pouch. "It's nice to have a space to talk things through, with someone who actually knows how to handle those things. There's no judgment with Dr. Glass."
"That's good," Archie responded, wiping his hands on his shirt. He hoped that she didn't feel as though there was judgment between them or her other friends when she confided in them. "Is it more than just talking? Is there like, homework?"
Betty creased her brow. "I wouldn't call it homework, more like accountability. Making sure I'm applying the tools I learn so it doesn't end up as just talk. There's only so much we can do within the sessions." She looked over at him curiously. "Why do you ask?"
"I picked up a brochure about different options back when we had to meet with the FBI counselor." Archie hung up a pair of wire cutters, his arm brushing up against the picture of him and Fred that was tucked into the corner of the shelf framing. "I've been thinking about it lately."
Betty looked between the photograph and Archie and asked in a gentle voice. "'It' as in therapy, or your dad?"
A small tension began to take hold in Archie's chest. Metal clanged together as he fumbled with a few of the tools in his hand.
"Hey."
He looked over at Betty's remark, realizing that with how soft she said it, he must have given away more with that silence than if he had spoken. She was gripping a torque wrench in one hand, peering up at him with empathy.
Archie sucked his teeth and nodded, taking it from her and hanging it on the shelf. "I know. Trust that we're doing our best." He stepped back to lean against the car. "I just don't want to feel like I'm stuck in one place with my dad. And right now it feels that way."
He saw a shadow fall slightly across Betty's face, but she just shook her head and came beside him, both of them now leaning up against the car. "Then counseling might be a worthwhile thing for you to try out. Think of it like another tool you can add to your kit."
Archie thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Is this helping you?" He pointed around the garage, then stared back up at the picture of his dad. "Because I know it helps me."
"Yeah." She nodded and smiled without looking at him. "It is."
Archie nodded, feeling some of the tightness in his chest loosen. But not completely, as he noticed that Betty was staring at the picture now too, her hands shaking ever so slightly, the way they had been the whole time while working on the car.
"No… no… no."
Jughead flipped slowly through the pages of printed-out passports and headshots, leaning an elbow drowsily on the desk. He skimmed with bored eyes over the scanned images of fake names and photos. "No… no." He dropped the stack of papers back on the desk. "Why am I doing this again? It feels pointless. And why are these all printed out? Haven't you ever heard of going digital?"
"Have you heard of redundancy?" Charles raised his eyebrows and grinned cheekily at Jughead as he swung a box of files around the FBI office. "And," he continued as he stacked the boxes, "we're doing this because we have Edgar, Evelyn, and a few others in custody, but we're still looking for any other stragglers that may have information or may still be connected to the crimes of The Farm. They were in town for a year, as were you, and I wasn't. So you can help look for anyone familiar."
"You really should be asking Betty," Jughead snorted through a yawn. "She saw everyone at The Farm more regularly than I did. I only knew a few of them."
"We did," Charles said matter-of-factly, dropping a box down onto the adjacent desk. "During her debrief we went through all the pictures and mugshots we had for witness ID for anyone involved with the organ harvesting and abduction. And we're sure that there's a whole other laundry list of crimes that cult is guilty of, and we want to make sure we have as accurate a picture of that as possible before the list of charges gets finalized and released." He blew a quick puff out his nose and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Hopefully it includes forgery because we found a lot of fake passports."
"Tell me about it," Jughead replied flippantly as he laid a cluster of pages across the tabletop.
Charles stopped, pushing the files he had been organizing back into their box, and walked over. He pulled up a chair and sat down as Jughead crossed his arms. "Look, I know this probably isn't what you were expecting when your dad and I asked you to help."
"Nope." Jughead's eyes flashed as he angled his head toward Charles.
"And I get that, but the dirty work, being on the ground-," Charles cocked his head around the room, "sometimes that means going through boxes of analog files and looking at things that are only dead ends. But all of this-," he passed a hand overtop the spread of papers, "it helps build out a case. It helps the lawyers, it helps the FBI, and it helps Betty and everyone else wronged by Edgar."
"I know," Jughead said with a hint of exasperation as he leaned back in his chair, propping a foot up on top of one of the desk legs. "It's just that…"
"It feels like it's not doing anything to help?" Charles speculated, filling in where Jughead trailed off.
Jughead answered with another sardonic glare. He shoved his hands in his pockets, balling them tight to his sides, his eyes dark and downturned.
Charles leaned back as well, his arm resting on the table, a probing expression on his face. "Let me guess, you still feel like you're not doing anything to help Betty?"
Jughead rolled his head back toward Charles. "Do I have that bad of a poker face?"
"No." Charles bobbed his head. "You're just not always super subtle."
"So I've been told." Jughead snorted again, but this time smirked. He dropped his foot and sighed. "She barely talks to me about any of it. And I know that some days will be better than others, but I feel like she's just pushing me away more and more."
Charles laced his fingers together, leaning forward. "She could be thinking that she's protecting you by sparing you all the details," he said with a faint, sad glimmer in his eyes. "It may just be hard for her to say those things to someone so close to her."
"But we've talked about all kinds of things before!" Jughead pulled his hands out of his pockets, throwing them in the air. He quickly retracted them though, feeling as though that might have been too intense a reaction. "I just want her to feel better, you know?"
Charles nodded. "I do, I understand." He leaned back in his seat. "Has anyone told you that just being there for her is actually helping, even if it doesn't feel like much?"
"Yes, and if one more person tells me that I'm going to kick them in the mouth."
Charles placed a hand on the table and rose from the chair, his tongue in his cheek in a contained laugh. "Alright, I think I've exhausted all my brotherly advice for the night." He started to collect his coat and threw Jughead his. "How about we come back to this at another time? I've noticed that whenever I stop looking for something, that's when I tend to find it."
Jughead got to his feet, pulling his jacket on. "Well, looks like you found one more nugget of advice to squeeze in."
"Ok-ay." Charles strode through the door, rounding the corner into the hallway. Jughead followed, a gratified smile on his face from the joke. "Text Betty, and see if she wants to meet us for dinner since FP and Alice are both out for the night. We can pick her up from Dr. Glass'. Keep showing her you're there for her, okay?"
Jughead nodded, the tension dropping from his shoulders. He pulled out his phone, flipping open the messaging app. "Yeah, okay."
FP cleared his throat as he smoothed a hand repeatedly over the name tag adhered to his shirt, feeling a bit belittled by the colorful sticker.
"Red, do we have to wear these?" He asked with a hint of frustration, walking away from the check-in table to follow the adolescent through the community center. "Don't you have like a volunteer badge or something?"
Archie shook his head as they continued walking, balancing a box of donuts in his arms. "Not yet, but maybe you can invest in some once you're running the place." He smiled enthusiastically up at FP.
"Woah, slow your roll, kid." FP grinned as the two of them rounded the corner into the office. He snatched a donut out of the box as Archie set it down. "Let me get through this volunteer shift first before we start making plans."
Archie nodded, and FP patted him on the shoulder before heading over to mingle with the rest of the volunteers that were gathered around the metal chairs set up around the small office. He recognized a few faces, from families around the Southside he had come into contact with one way or another over his life. Some were like him – children who had grown up in rocky circumstances now turned parents trying to do better for their own kids.
"Alright, everyone," Archie began, his voice rising to draw the attention of the crowd. "I know that most of you already know the drill and have your spots to get to, but we've got a few new faces tonight and I just wanted to give them all a warm welcome."
Archie initiated a round of applause, giving a quick glance and smile toward FP. The other volunteers joined in and he looked around, putting his hands together as well.
"It's been great to see just how much we've grown after only being open for such a short time, and I'm excited to see what we can all do together as it continues to grow. So, I just wanted to say a quick 'thank you,' to everyone and enjoy the donuts!"
Soft chatter spread through the group of adults as they began to shuffle their way over to the donut box or back out into the hall. FP throw some small obligatory waves around the room and headed back over toward Archie. "What were you thinking for me tonight, Red? Anything in particular you need?"
"The responsibilities aren't entirely structured out but some people bring their own skills and jobs to their roles here." Archie turned over his shoulder and pointed out into the crowd. "Steve leads some tutoring services, Emily does craft nights, and Mad-, Monroe does some recreational classes for the kids." He walked into the main hall and FP followed. "Most importantly though, everyone just makes sure they are available to the families to offer a helping hand and a connection."
Even as they were walking, FP could see that a few of the volunteers were already out on the main floor with the families that were there, playing games or reading books, or even just sitting and talking with them in one of the many furnished corners.
Having a place that exuded this kind of hope and community after being surrounded by what felt like endless bad news and tragedy was surely good for Archie, and it was even better that it was under the banner of such a respectable name.
FP sent a quick glance over to the framed picture of Fred hanging outside of the office, a weight building in his chest. Here he was trying to make good on a promise and take care of his friend's kid, meanwhile, that kid was already taking care of half of the neighborhood. For a moment, FP wondered if he was even needed in that equation, but then he remembered that Archie was still just a kid himself.
"…and I was thinking that you could stick with me for most of the night." Archie had continued talking as FP's thoughts had wandered. "That way you can get a taste of everything we do and you can start meeting and interacting with some people."
"Sounds good." FP put his hands on his hips, that sinking feeling replaced by pride as he looked at Archie, then around at the slowly filling center. "Where do we start?"
"Archie!"
The excited voice was accompanied by the front doors banging together. A small boy came bounding around the corner and stopped just in front of the redhead.
"I think right here." Archie grinned. "Hey TJ, I want you to meet another guy that goes by two letters." He chuckled as he pointed toward FP's nametag. "He's the one I've been telling you about, the one who became the sheriff."
FP sucked in a quiet breath. He hadn't known that Archie was telling his story to the youth of Riverdale. And he was rather curious as to how the teen was spinning that tale because TJ was presently staring up at him as though he were looking at Superman. He gave the boy a swift wave, which sent a frenzied smile across his face. FP threw his glance toward Archie, but he was wearing just as big of a smile.
The optimists in this town.
"While I'm glad to see you, T, you're not usually here on Thursdays." Archie crossed his arms. "It's your dad's night. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah!" He exclaimed, the enthusiasm still in his eyes. "I actually got him to-,"
"TJ! I told you not to run ahead!" A man in a flannel coat and work boots, sporting the same floppy brown hair as the kid turned the corner, carrying a small winter jacket. "It's icy outside."
Out of the corner of his eye, FP noticed Archie straightening out his back. While at first he took it as the teen attempting to appear older and more professional to the parent, a closer look at both his stance and facial expression told him something else:
He was probably seeing himself and his dad in TJ and his father.
"Hi, Mr. Logan," Archie expressed, composure in his voice. "It's good to finally meet you." He held a hand out.
Mr. Logan pulled his glove off and returned the handshake. "You can call me Nick. I've been meaning to get down here and finally see the place TJ spends all of his time. I'm guessing you must be Archie. I've heard a lot about you."
"Yes, sir." Archie smiled, nodding his head. "Archie Andrews. I co-own this community center."
"Andrews." Mr. Logan drew out the name as though remembering something he hadn't thought of in a long time. "Your dad was Fred Andrews. He got me a few gigs back in the day." Archie nodded again. "He was a good man."
FP watched Mr. Logan's face grow hollow, his eyes muting as they fell under the shadow of his hair. That look was one that crossed the faces of far too many people around him these days, one FP knew meant that TJ's dad was familiar with loss.
Archie too looked as though he was getting lost in memory while TJ passed a nervous gaze between the two of them. FP cleared his throat, hoping to step in before they got too lost. "Mr. Logan, would you like a tour of the place? I bet TJ here would love to sho-,"
"No."
The reaction was like lightning as soon as Nick noticed FP. The life had returned to his face, though now it was stiff and guarded.
"Oh! I didn't introduce you." Archie jumped back into the conversation, oblivious to the shift in tone. "Mr. Logan, this is FP Jo-,"
"I know who he is." The older Logan's voice was low. "What the hell is the leader of the Serpents doing here?"
"He's a volunteer," Archie said defensively, still trying to keep his tenor courteous, but FP held up a hand to stop him before he could say anything else.
"I'm not with the Serpents anymore," FP responded calmly. He figured there might be a few people that would recognize him. "I haven't been for a while, but I understand what the Serpents have historically represented in this town and-,"
"What they have represented? What they still represent!" Nick shouted. He had pulled his son closer and was standing behind him, both hands locked squarely on his shoulders. "Chaos, destruction. Not to mention death."
FP bobbed his head, his tongue rolling into the side of his mouth. "I know how much tension we've caused over the years, but I'm doing my best now to pick up those pieces. To help actually make this community better and right those wrongs."
"And you have to do that around all of our kids?" Nick's eyes were burning into FP at this point.
"Dad, what are you doing? FP is the sheriff!" TJ looked up at his father in alarm.
"Was the sheriff. He couldn't keep control of that either." Mr. Logan's retort was hostile.
"What does that mean?" Now Archie was getting apprehensive as a few families turned in the direction of the angry voice.
"What it means is that that gang of his decided to run wild in the Southside last year and no one did anything to stop them. All the looting and riots that happened last spring were his fault!" Nick's face was growing red.
"Riot Night was not the Serpents' fault!" Archie's voice was elevated now. "That was Hiram Lodge's fault and he's in jail. The Serpents were trying to leave the Southside, I was with them!"
Mr. Logan's eyes flashed at Archie. "You're one of them?" His grip on TJ tightened, the boy's panicked eyes flying between the three men.
"No, but I have friends that are. And one of them almost died that night!"
FP silently thanked Archie for not mentioning how that friend had been his son.
Nick's eyes softened a bit toward Archie, but then he swallowed and stepped closer to FP. When he spoke, his voice cracked. "Well someone else did die that night."
The space between the men grew quiet and only now did FP recognize the biting smell of alcohol on Nick's breath. Archie turned down to TJ, whose own face was now at the floor.
"Come on, TJ-," Mr. Logan began pulling his son by his arm toward the door. "We're going. I don't need my son around a bunch of Serpent sympathizers."
"Dad, no," TJ protested, pulling at his father's grip.
"Thomas James Logan, we are leaving now." The declaration echoed through the gym.
Archie started after them, but they had reached the front door too quickly. He stood in the middle of the hallway staring after the door, then hastily gave FP a flustered look.
"Mr. Jones, I'm sorry. I didn't know that was going to happen. Let me talk to him, he'll come around-,"
FP just put a hand up. "I appreciate the passion, but let him go. He's already made up his mind." His voice was flat as he reached down to pull off his name tag.
"Some names aren't as revered in this town as others."
Kevin yawned, wondering for the third time on his walk over to the library why Cheryl and Toni had asked to meet him there, and so early. On a school day. Where they had their own library.
He yawned again. He had learned to stop asking questions with Cheryl a long time ago and just roll with things.
He paused, scrunching his forehead.
Maybe 'just rolling with things,' wasn't the best approach as that had gotten him into a few precarious situations, including joining a cult.
He'd make a mental note to start asking more questions once he was fully awake.
Kevin trotted through the front doors of the library, the little beeper dinging above him. He roved his eyes around the open room, spotting Cheryl at the edge of one of the bookshelves in the corner. She cocked her head, then disappeared behind it.
He rolled his eyes at the theatrics but followed. Cheryl was heading down the rows of bookshelves toward the very back of the library where the private study alcoves were. She eventually stopped just in front of one of the cubicles and turned around. Toni popped out from an adjourning bay and stood silently beside her girlfriend. Both of them had their arms crossed, and their faces looked like they were etched out of nervous stone.
"So, what's with the clandestine act?" Kevin stopped in front of them, his hands dropping into his pockets. "And did it have to be so early?"
Cheryl and Toni glanced at each other, the anxiety remaining unmoved on their faces. His lighthearted smile wavered.
"Kevin-," Toni stepped forward, her intonation akin to that of a person attempting to get their pet to swallow a pill. "Someone came back to Riverdale on Thanksgiving and they don't exactly want everyone to know. But we thought we should tell you."
"What? Are you talking about Josie?" Kevin was still lost. "Yeah, she's staying at my house. I already know."
Now Cheryl looked lost. "Wait, Josie's back? And she hasn't come to see me yet? Rude."
"She's only back for a few days to touch base with Ms. Andrews and her mom about the news circuits in New York." Kevin pushed the strap of his bag further up his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. "If you're not talking about Josie, then who?"
Cheryl and Toni went back to glancing at each other, then they stepped aside, revealing that the study cubicle they had been standing in front of contained a person. And that person, dressed in a dark jacket and baseball cap, slowly rose from the desk.
"Hey."
Kevin's eyes widened, and then he promptly bolted away from Fangs.
He ducked out of sight behind one of the bookshelves, his heart pounding. Kevin was entirely certain he was awake now, awake and possibly afraid too - he couldn't quite pinpoint what the trembling and sweating were about.
Kevin hugged his bag, feeling both his heart and his lungs beat against the canvas. It wasn't fair how fast and sudden feelings he thought were dead and gone could come rushing back.
He peered at the exit, then over his shoulder. He leaned his head back against the shelf, glancing back at the door. Then he took a deep breath, dropped his bag against his side, and turned the corner to the far end of the library.
Kevin strode past Cheryl and Toni and straight toward Fangs. "Hi," he said assertively. "I have some questions."
"Come on, come on," Hiram urged through gritted teeth, listening to the agonizing ringing coming through the phone. The hum pulsed against his ear as he leaned impatiently against the cold wall, a hand on top of the bulky box. The call gave one more ring before the sound of the line disconnecting filled his ears.
"Damnit!" He slammed the receiver back into its holder, the action negating the intent of whispering an expletive.
"Aw, what's wrong, Lodge?" Donnie sauntered forward from his place in line. "Is daddy still getting the silent treatment?"
Hiram turned away and walked over toward one of the open tables in the common area, trying to ignore the brute's comment.
"Ah, I see." Donnie's grating voice had followed him over. "Like father, like daughter."
A twinge ran down Hiram's neck but he tried to ignore it.
Donnie dropped his hands down on top of the table, throwing his face into Hiram's. "Tell me - does she bruise as easily as you, too?"
The mangled screech of metal against concrete filled the room as Hiram became a blur, jumping out of his seat and ramming into Donnie's chest. It sent the hulking man stumbling backward, but not down. The other inmates in the room were now hooting and hollering, getting out of the phone line and applauding the commotion around them.
"Oh, yeah." Donnie grinned darkly, pushing his straggly hair away from his face, his voice lowering to a hiss. "There's the man I know. I knew he was still slithering around in there."
The crowd whooped as Donnie raised his fists, his shoulders flexing as he strode leisurely around the space that had cleared around the two men.
"Don't you ever speak about my daughter like that! Ever!" Hiram surged forward, aiming at the smug smile on Donnie's face.
"Hey! Break it up, gentlemen!" Tom came rushing into the circle, placing his outstretched arms in between the men. "Break it up, do you really want to try this again?"
"Ah, what's the matter, Keller? I just wanted to see if Lodge here still wanted to play with his old pals. Because we sure still want to play with him." Donnie chimed, giving a small wave as Tom led Hiram away.
"Shut it, Hatcher, I'll deal with you later," he grumbled as he pulled Hiram away from the other guys and into a quiet corner. He mumbled to himself, then turned irate eyes to Hiram. "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that that swine insulted by dignity and my daughter and I can't stand for that," Hiram snapped, rolling the sleeves up on his jumpsuit, sending a threatening glance around the room. When he turned back, he noticed that Tom was staring in concern at his face. Hiram quickly looked at the floor, swallowing down his sense of pride, his hand going to cover up the bruises.
"Hiram, listen," Tom whispered, pushing in a bit closer. "I don't condone at all what you did, but I won't stand by if those guys are beating up on you now. You know how nasty Hatcher and his crew are. I can help but I need to know if they're bullying y-,"
"No one is bullying me." Hiram's head flew upward before Tom could finish his statement. "I'm fine. I just caught a weight while loading a barbell the other day." He watched through his own irate eyes as Tom raised an eyebrow. "As for Hatcher, I'm handling it."
"Alright." Tom deflated, holding up his hands in a quick surrender, though Hiram knew the man wasn't fully convinced as he was still passing a skeptical look in Donnie's direction. "Be careful. Just because this building has your name on it, doesn't make it yours."
He began to walk away but Hiram swung around and grabbed his arm.
"Tom." He felt his hardened face begin to give way, and this time he leaned in to whisper. "How is Veronica?"
Tom only stared at him for a moment, a small twitch on the edge of his mouth. Then he let out a short sigh. "She's good. But as I said, just because you share a name doesn't make something yours."
With that, Tom shook out of Hiram's grip and weaved his way over to the far end of the common area. Hiram followed him with his eyes, only then realizing that Donnie was still nearby, a grin that could only be described as hungry on his face.
The text cursor blinked rhythmically, a metronome against the bright Word document glowing on the laptop screen. Its flicker pulsed underneath the tinge of the dated fluorescent lights that hung over the Blue & Gold office, throwing the dusty cabinets and drawers into a slightly yellow hue in contrast to their normally faded brown and red veneer.
The clock ticked in time with the flashing line, the blinking pounding into Betty's eyes as she stared at the blank page. Her nails tapped against the metallic machine while her other hand held her chin, supporting a head weighed down by a sea of thoughts.
The holiday break had passed quickly – too quickly – and soon reality had caught up with her. While her pile of make-up work was steadily decreasing, new responsibilities were quickly stacking up as she continued to make more promises in the hope of settling back into things. Like helping Veronica with the winter formal, or starting the school newspaper, which had fallen quiet in her absence, back up at the principal's (and Jughead's) behest.
All were things she typically welcomed and even looked forward to regularly, and all were things she had kept tucked away in her mind to keep her going on one of the many long nights alone.
But they were also all things she knew she used as distractions.
"I can see something is bothering you. What's on your mind?"
Betty turned her head up, away from where she had been picking at a loose string on the couch. She hadn't said much during the session, and she knew that he knew her too well at this point to understand that she was just holding off on saying what she really wanted to.
She let go of the string and straightened up, letting out an annoyed breath. "Everything was going so well last week. It felt like I was actually getting somewhere, but-," she bit her lip, feeling her stomach falling. "I feel like I'm going backward. The holiday, it… I think it jarred something."
Dr. Glass crossed his legs, laying his hands in his lap. "That's completely normal. Holidays, significant dates… those things bring up more memories and feelings than usual." He squinted, cocking his head. "And I know you already know that. I also know that you're still only a few weeks in from returning home. Is there something more you're thinking about?"
Betty pushed her back into the couch, sliding her hands into the big pocket of her hoodie. "My dad."
The counselor pushed his glasses back up his nose and delicately nodded.
"The pain he's caused, it never truly went away but…" Betty shook her head, trying to find the right words. "It's not fair! I was getting better. I was starting to work through everything and Edgar put me right back in the middle of it all and now it's worse. I had to relive all those stupid nights where everything went wrong." She could feel her face and throat getting hot as her voice compulsorily rose. "And now I'm back with my friends and family and things should be happy but I'm still reliving everything."
She leaned forward, collapsing her arms in her lap. "And the worst part right now is that something Edgar said to me is true. He said that memories are more potent than the experience and that we tend to lock them up. And now between getting thrown into a coffin in the park and seeing a stupid one-eyed turkey I made for my dad, he's all I can think about."
Dr. Glass remained still, staring curiously forward at her. Betty knew that he always tried to ask the right questions, doing what he could to pull apart the puzzles she often left him with.
"I know that there's a lot to unpack from your abduction and a lot that we haven't talked about with your dad yet, but is there something specific that you keep thinking about with him? Or is it… everything?" The counselor finally asked, juggling his hands in front of him on the last word.
A chill ran down Betty's back despite the heat pumping through the office. "It's a bit of everything for sure, but I think because of Thanksgiving I started to think about all the things that feel tainted now, by knowing what my dad has done. There's a bitterness there. And I'm not talking about the ones of him as the Black Hood, but all the memories I have of my dad… as my dad." Betty sucked her teeth for a moment, then looked directly at Dr. Glass. "Things that used to be so innocent. He went and killed those too."
She knew that therapists were meant to listen to and help work through the often complex and cluttered issues clients brought to them, but just once Betty wished Dr. Glass hadn't perfected his sympathizing face. She knew he meant well and had probably heard many stories in his time, but sometimes it just felt like pity.
"Memories are messy, just like healing is messy," he said, "and I know you have a polarizing relationship with those right now." Dr. Glass took a beat and then leaned forward. "But are you trying to remember those tainted memories or forget them?"
Betty sucked in a breath, her head turning before resolutely nodding. "Edgar, my dad… they don't get to take everything from me."
"Okay." Dr. Glass slowly bobbed his head. "Let's work on taking them back."
The bell rang and the cursor came back into Betty's vision.
Stifled banter met her ears and Betty turned her head behind her, watching out the window as students flooded into the parking lot. Her gaze lingered for a moment on an empty spot that sat beneath a large tree, then her eyes moved to the wall beside the window, to the black wicker basket that held the Blue & Gold's mail.
"Need a ride?"
Betty turned around. Jughead had appeared in the doorway, looking eagerly in her direction.
"Oh, uh," she stammered, stretching her arms out across the desk. "I actually think I'm going to stay late today. I'm trying to work on an assignment."
Jughead walked behind Betty, peering at her computer screen as he draped his arms around her neck. "Blue & Gold? Are you writing an article?"
"No." Betty shook her head. "I mean yes, but not right this moment. I'm working on something else. A… creative piece."
"Oh." Jughead's inflection grew more enthusiastic. "You need someone to read it over?"
"Maybe. Not sure if it'll end up being a 'for public eyes' type of piece."
Jughead's arms moved away from her shoulders and he swung around to face her. "Oh." His fingers tapped against the desk. "And I'm guessing you'd rather be alone to write?"
She nodded. His voice had subdued a bit and his face read as though he wanted to play twenty questions with her. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a frustrated crease forming over his eyebrow. When he opened his mouth again, all he said was, "Okay. Well, if you need me to pick you up later, just let me know."
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, then walked out of the room, stopping in the doorway briefly to say bye before disappearing around the corner.
Betty stared after, watching as the crowd in the hallway thinned out until eventually, it grew silent. She looked back at the blank page on her laptop, the cursor feeling like a taunt. After a few blank minutes, she sucked in a deep breath and shut it. She stuffed the computer in her backpack and then wandered out into the deserted halls.
She walked leisurely, walking past the filled display cases and decorated walls until she reached the backstage doors to the auditorium. She angled her head at them, something stirring in her as she stared. Pushing on them, the doors opened with a high-pitched creak. The work lights were on but only partially cut through the dim theater.
Betty walked onto the polished wooden stage, her footsteps reverberating through the quiet space. Her insides felt tangled, twisting together while she was left holding one end of the string, trying to pull apart what felt like an endless knot. Words usually worked to untangle the mess, to make sense of the chaotic threads that wove their way through her mind, but right now it felt like nothing would budge.
She reached the edge of the stage and slowly sat down, crossing her legs, her hands twisting together in her lap. She gazed down into the shadowy chasm of the orchestra pit, her mind hoping for some clarity within the darkness.
"Betty?"
The floor squeaked behind her and she turned, finding Archie standing upstage with his guitar case slung over his back. He stepped forward, his eyebrows crinkling. "Sorry, I didn't think anyone was in here."
"It's okay," Betty responded, spinning herself fully around. She glanced at his guitar case. "When did you start playing again?"
Archie shrugged the case off his back, placing it down on the floor before leaning against the piano that was on stage. "The beginning of the school year. Picking up my guitar again made the hole I felt after my dad died a bit smaller." He crossed his arms, passing his gaze around the darkened auditorium, the haze of the lights reflecting in his eyes. "I come here to play sometimes, it's quieter than the music room. It reminds me of playing the variety show." He turned back toward Betty. "It makes me feel closer to him."
Archie swallowed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he dropped his arms, his hands moving into his pockets. "There's not usually anyone else in here at this time. Did you just need some space?" He asked gently.
Betty placed her hands against the stage floor, the wood cool beneath her touch. "I'm trying to figure out… what I'm trying to figure out."
Archie gave her a puzzled look and she cleared her throat, her fingers slightly digging into the wood. "Dr. Glass and I have been talking about memories and how I may need to confront the ones I feel have been tainted." She leaned backward, stretching her legs out. "I thought I could write everything out, but I wound up here instead."
"So you're sitting in the dark because of therapy homework?" Archie lifted an eyebrow, though he also had a small smirk on his face.
She didn't answer but instead turned her head back out toward the seating area. "The dark didn't used to be scary, you know. It was an invitation here. The theatre, the stage – it was another world that you could get lost in for a few hours. But now the other worlds have gone dark ever since my dad killed Midge here."
Archie straightened up off of the piano, the smirk falling from his face. He walked forward and slowly sat down across from Betty, meeting her at eye level. "I never thought about how different some people's memories of the same place could be. "
Betty just shrugged her shoulders.
"Well," Archie breathed in, "I can help you try to figure things out. If you don't mind some company. I think we've all had our fill of being alone."
He gave her a smile. She sent one back, noticing that his eyes had grown a bit sad too. She realized that if he had been coming here to play, he was probably feeling knotted up too. Maybe he was right – neither of them needed to be alone for that.
"Do you play old songs when you come here or have you been writing?" Betty found herself asking.
Archie pushed his hands into the floor, straightening out his back. "I've been working on a few new songs." A gleam fell across his face and Betty couldn't help but smile again at that. "Nothing that's ready yet but yeah, I've been writing again."
She felt a twinge in her side and instinctively threw a hand over it. Archie's smile dropped and he leaned forward. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah." She gently rubbed the area. "It just throbs sometimes. It's almost healed though. Once I get the stitches out it'll just be a scar."
Archie looked a bit uneasy as he hugged one of his knees. "I still get a burning feeling every now and then, where the claws were." He gently brushed a hand over his chest. "Even as scars, they can still hurt."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" Betty asked with a bit of cynicism.
"No-," Archie moved his hand away from his chest and back over his knee. "But it's the truth. And sometimes we need that over a platitude, right?"
Betty raised her eyebrows and gave a hearty nod as she leaned back. She'd gotten a barrage of sometimes empty platitudes after coming home, from the nurses down to students she'd never spoken to in her life. It was nice to hear thoughtful sentiments but after a while, everything felt so watered down and patronizing.
"Is that why you write songs?" She asked, the question coming to her as she watched Archie stare down at the floor. "To confront the truth?"
"It's more like I'm able to talk to the feelings I don't know what to do with. I find truth in the music, I guess."
Betty nodded. "Have you written about your dad?"
He sucked in a short breath. "I've been trying to, but nothing feels good enough for him yet."
Betty lowered her head, her eyes now going to the floor.
"But I have written about my time in prison. I had a lot of time to just sit and think when I was hiding from Hiram."
When she turned her head back up she noticed Archie's had dropped. "I have one song called "29 Roses" about all the watermark lines in my cell and the knots in the wood panels of the cabin I stayed in before coming back." He traced his finger along the floor. "I counted them to pass the time. They eventually started to look like flowers."
He looked up and Betty noticed that Archie's face was heavy, his features carved out with a deep awareness she hadn't much seen before. "What… what did you do to pass the time?"
Betty straightened up, her hands shuffling into her lap. She could feel her face begin to grow hot.
"It's okay, you don't have to answer," he said quietly.
She could see the patience on Archie's face. The same patience that had been there when she had stumbled her way through replacing the fuel injector of his jalopy's engine the other night - something she could usually do in her sleep. And it was the same patience that had been on his face each time he had visited the hospital after she had come back, when she hadn't done much more than lay silently in her bed listening to the vitals monitor beeping beside her.
"No, Arch. It's okay. I did say that I came here to confront something, maybe this is how I do it."
Maybe talking was the untangling she was looking for.
Her eyes drifted back out toward the shadows of the seats. "And maybe it's more than just the memories of my dad bringing me here. I mean, this is where we all saw Edgar for the first time."
Archie swung his head out toward the dark depths as well, a shocked expression on his face, as though he was just making that realization. "I wish that had been the only time we had seen him," he replied bleakly, his hands twisting together.
"You're telling me," she scoffed, swinging her legs out over the edge of the stage. If only a standing ovation would have been where her interactions with had Edgar ended.
Archie shuffled next to Betty, letting his legs dangle above the orchestra pit as well. "You keep repeating the word 'confront," he began hesitantly, his tongue behind his teeth as he paused momentarily. "Is that what Edgar made you do? Confront… memories?"
A physical knot tightened in her stomach and she lifted her eyes to meet his. The gold haze of the work lights reflected in them, his worry virtually glowing.
But the patience was still there.
She audibly sighed. "Yeah. That's why he took me back to Riverdale. He called them 'memory trips,' which I guess is morbidly appropriate considering I was drugged up on the way to and from them." She didn't mean for the answer to sound like a macabre joke, but it did and she saw anger seep into Archie's eyes.
"Veronica told us about Thornhill," he responded, a hint of guilt mixed in with the anger.
"Yeah, that was the first one." Betty nodded darkly. "That's when I found out Penelope was involved. And just how planned out it all was."
Archie's hands balled into his lap, his actions mirroring Betty's. He almost looked more nervous than she did. His eyes were flicking between the dark ground below their dangling feet and her face, and she slowly realized that he had put together his own personal puzzle.
"Jughead's dad found a hole in Pickens Park after Halloween," he cautiously said, his voice almost a whisper. "Your badge was there. And some blood-," he continued to rub his hands together. "Betty, did he bury you alive?"
Despite his shaking voice, he asked the question as though it had been waiting on his tongue for ages. Her stomach tensed up and she placed her hands back on the floor, wanting to feel the ground beneath her touch.
"I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I don't know what happened to the coffin that was there, but I don't think I'll ever be able to forget how it felt." Her hand drifted up to her chest, rubbing just beneath her neck. "I tried to get away, Arch." She suddenly found her voice breaking, the pain in her stomach rising to her chest. "I almost did, I almost got to the bridge but he caught up and wanted me to feel what I had done to you. But then he got mad and…"
She felt a shiver run down her back and suddenly a flurry of apologies came tumbling out of her mouth. "Arch, I'm sorry. I can't believe I shut you in that box. In the dark, in the cold – the dirt coming down through…" She was trying really hard to hold back her tears. She didn't want those today. "I left you down there, you could have died!"
A heavy silence hung between them as they both stared down into the shadows below them. Betty pulled her legs back up into a crisscross position to try to stop the trembling that had begun down her body.
Then Archie was wrapping his arms around Betty in a tight hug.
"You didn't do anything to me that night," he confided, strong assurance in his tone. "I knew you weren't going to hurt me and I could get out. Please don't blame yourself." He swung himself fully back up onto the stage, pulling his arms away from her. "I'm so sorry you had to experience this. When you buried me, you were just trying to protect us from a guy with a gun to your head. But Edgar? God, he was just an abuser with too many resources and a shovel."
"And now I jump at those too," she replied weakly.
She watched Archie's cheeks depress, but he was quiet for a moment. "And then afterwards he made you sit alone for days?"
Betty nodded.
Archie jumped to his feet and offered a hand down to Betty. "Then I don't think sitting by yourself in another dark room now is the way to go." He flapped his hand. "And I don't think 'confront' is the word your therapist used. That's Edgar's way. Come on, let's walk home."
Betty looked at it for a moment, then grasped it, pulling herself to her feet. She took one last glance out into the seats, then grabbed her backpack as Archie grabbed his guitar. "What about working on your songs?"
"It's okay, my music isn't going anywhere." He heaved the case onto his back. "And neither am I. We don't need any more lonely rooms in our lives."
Betty slowed her walk, but Archie continued ahead of her. When he noticed, he turned around. "Betty?"
She slipped a hand into her pocket and looked at him. "52. There were 52 knots in the wood paneling in the cabin."
His eyes softened, and he gave her a knowing nod. Then the two of them walked out of the auditorium, leaving the quiet and the dark of the space behind.
Veronica bounced up to the counter at Pop's, ringing the little bell beside the cash register.
"Someone will be with you in a moment, Veronica," Pop called from the other end of the diner. "We're a bit short-staffed tonight." He straightened up from where he had been leaning over a table. "Unless you want to put the uniform on. I could always use you again."
She smiled politely at him. "I'll think about it, Pop. Maybe once all the other plates stop spinning, I can carry some again."
Pop lobbed the rag over his shoulder and nodded, pointing a supportive finger at her before moving on to the next table.
Veronica grinned, tracing her nails along the edge of the counter. She glanced down the line of stools at the front and frowned when she noticed one occupant in particular.
Kevin was sitting with his shoulders hunched, his eyes unblinking, and turned down toward the counter, an untouched plate of fries in front of him. He looked like the Thinking Man statue sitting down for dinner.
Veronica pushed herself away from the counter and made her way down the row, plopping into the seat beside him. "Kevin? You doing okay over here?"
He remained motionless.
Veronica cocked her head and waved a careful hand under his face. "Earth to Kev?"
His hand gradually moved away from his temple, coming to rest on the countertop below. "Can you keep a secret?"
Kevin's voice was muted and tense and he still wasn't looking at Veronica.
"You know I can," she answered ardently, but with an undertone of soft assurance in case her face showed more curiosity than it did care.
He placed his feet flat on the floor and relaxed his shoulders, crossing his arms in the process. "Fangs is back."
Veronica's eyes widened and she immediately pushed Kevin's plate of fries away as she drew closer to the boy. "What?" Her whisper resembled a hiss. "He just strolled back into town?"
"The FBI apparently released him and a bunch of others a few days ago. He just showed up to the Serpents' Thanksgiving." Kevin rubbed his hands on the back of his neck. "I talked to him this morning but he didn't say much; just that he's sorry and wants back into our lives."
"Do you believe him?" she asked quickly, her brain on high alert. She didn't mean for that to be her first reaction, but tensions were still running high with the upcoming trial and a variety of other unknowns with Edgar and The Farm, and she couldn't help but wonder at the timing.
Kevin visibly drew in a breath, his eyes betraying that his mind was flipping through the same thoughts. "I don't know. I mean, I know how hard it was for me to break out of it, but-," he slowly shook his head. "I truly don't know."
The bell above the door chimed behind them, both of them sitting motionlessly now.
"Does Betty know?" Veronica eventually asked.
Kevin shook his head. "No. Just Cheryl and Toni, Sweet Pea, myself, and a few other Serpents. I think it should stay that way for now."
Veronica shot him a grim look. She didn't like keeping secrets at this point, and not ones that could potentially hurt her friend. They were still keeping one about the tape and that one felt hard enough to hold onto. Adding another just didn't seem like the way to go.
But then she had another question.
"Polly wasn't among the others that came back, was she?"
Kevin looked sheepishly over at Veronica and shook his head.
The diner bell rang again and Veronica took a deep breath.
Maybe that one was worth keeping for the time being.
The fog hung heavy over the empty streets of Riverdale, the lights of the cruiser barely cutting through the haze. FP gave a sharp yawn, the orange glow of the dashboard filling his vision as he drove around the cold roads.
The night had been slow despite the constant chatter coming across the radio, and there didn't seem to be a soul out, not even another car from what he could see. Though he couldn't see far, as the fog around him seemed to be frozen, a dense creature of its own rather than a mist. He felt as though he were trying to drive through a storm cloud.
He hoped that it wasn't like this across the whole town, or getting home after this shift finally ended would be a nightmare. It was already late enough as it is and the weather wasn't doing his also foggy mind any favors.
He really hated the graveyard shift.
A sharp screeching suddenly emanated from the police scanner, causing FP to slam on the brakes. He looked over at the dashboard, watching as the lights flickered. He smacked the radio but the crackling continued, the voices broken and distorted within.
"Come on," FP grumbled, continuing to hit the device. He turned the dial, watching the little indicator arrow run back and forth along the screen. He gave it one more smack and to his relief, the piercing hiss died down.
Then a cackling voice came over the radio, a malignant and raspy laugh that flooded into the car.
"You're too late."
FP froze, staring at the transistor sitting on his dash. His tired mind must be playing tricks on him. The message had been crackly, but he could have sworn it sounded like-,
Before FP could react, something slammed into the driver's side window.
And for the second time that night, he froze.
It was Betty.
"Help!" Her dirty hands banged against the glass, blood running down the ropes that tied them together.
The look in her petrified eyes hung in FP's own immobilized vision until he finally shook himself out of the trance and began clawing at his seatbelt and door handle. "Hang on!"
As he pushed on the door, a pair of hands emerged out of the fog, yanking Betty back into its shadowy depths, a scream echoing from her lips.
"No!" FP crashed through the door and out into the open air of the night, running forward through the thick fog. He pulled his service weapon out of its holster, holding it out in front of him as he sprinted into the night.
"Betty! Betty, can you hear me?" He yelled as he spun around in the dark. There was some faint light coming from the moon above but he could still barely even see a few feet in front of him.
FP felt like he was already turned around but continued running, the icy breath of the mist on his neck. He couldn't come this close to finding Betty just to lose her again.
The gravel underneath FP's feet gave way to grass and soon he found himself in an open field. The fog lessened, a wind stirring through the gray haze until it suddenly gave way to a clearing. FP swung his head around, his breath catching at the grisly scene before him.
Edgar was dragging a muddied and bloody Betty toward a large hole in the middle of the field, a wooden coffin laying open at the bottom. Betty was attempting to not look at the man, her head darting around wildly until she landed on FP, pleading with wide eyes what she couldn't say through a gagged mouth.
"No!" FP lunged forward, sprinting as fast as he could. He watched in anguish as Edgar threw Betty into the coffin and she disappeared from his sight. His frustration only mounted as he tried to move faster, but his legs felt as though they were moving through molasses. When he finally reached the pit, he pushed right past Edgar and crouched over the top.
His face twisted up in confusion.
It was empty.
His hands grabbed the dirt at the edge of the hole, his eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The same cold laugh from before sounded behind him, malice floating through the dark night, and before he knew it, a cold weight was sending him tumbling down into the hole.
FP braced himself for the hard landing, but when he finally did reach a solid surface, the rough of wooden planks was not what met him. He laid still for a moment, trying to catch his breath, realizing that while doing so he could see his breath.
His eyes met a harsh light above him while a mechanic whir filled his ears. He placed a hand against the surface he had landed on, feeling concrete underneath his fingertips as he slowly rose into a sitting position. There was a small stream of water dripping from a pipe in one of the corners of the basement room he was in, and FP followed its path with his eyes to a long, white freezer pushed up against the wall.
He rose to his feet, his hands shaking as he delicately crept closer to the freezer. There was an ache in his stomach as he shuffled his hand on top of the lid, like a force pulling him closer. The mechanical hum thumped loudly in his ears and, with a deep breath and an unwilling hand, he opened it.
A white, frosty coil of vapor churned out of the freezer, blasting FP in a glacial wind. When it cleared, he forced his eyes down, then immediately bowed his head into the lid.
"No…" he breathed out, the ache in his stomach growing.
At the bottom of the freezer, surrounded by particles of ice that stuck fast to the sides of the frozen casket, was Betty, her gray and clammy hands folded over an unmoving chest, her open eyes wide below a gaping wound in her forehead.
"I told you you'd be too late. Again."
FP forced his head up, turning toward the rogue voice. A man was walking out of the doorway next to them, his head down, a distressed Serpents jacket on his back, a shining gun cradled in his hands.
"Old age is making you soft, FP," the man whistled. "You wouldn't have batted an eye at a dead body before."
The man tapped the gun against his palm. "You even dropped a few yourself, haven't you?"
The man finally raised his head and the breath stuck in FP's throat.
He was staring at himself.
The other FP ran a hand through his hair, swinging the gun carelessly around in his other. His eyes were sunken and hollow as he ran his tongue over jagged teeth. FP could smell the stench of whisky on his breath as he opened his mouth for another taunt. "The King has lost his crown. Don't you know that the higher they are, the harder they fall?"
He laughed, raising the gun directly at FP, and fired.
"Ah!"
The shout escaped FP's lips as he jerked upward, his eyes flying open in the dark. His heart pounded as his hand accidentally collided with the small lamp next to him. He blinked, staring dazedly around the room. The small white light of the desk lamp illuminated the basement of the Cooper household, documents and photographs spread out in front of him.
FP exhaled, falling back against his chair, and ran a hand over his face until he felt his pulse return to normal.
He had fallen asleep reading Betty's case file, that was all. He let out another breath and stared over at the clock on the wall, the ticking hands telling him it was after two am.
He began to gather up all the documents, shoving them back into their brown filing folder, and clicked off the lamp before heading upstairs. FP reached the top landing and stood in the hallway for a moment, staring drowsily over at the Christmas lights glittering on the tree in the living room, still trying to shake away the nagging anxiety that had followed him from his dream. He turned toward the wall, raising a hand to the light switch.
"Could you leave those on, please?"
A tired voice rang out from the dim living room. FP walked forward, finding Betty sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring wearily up at him. "I like watching them."
"Oh." FP pulled his hand away, moving fully into the living room. "I didn't realize anyone else was up."
Betty shrugged, resituating the blanket down around her legs. "Yeah, I've been getting that a lot lately."
FP noticed that she was focusing on the file he was holding, and he shuffled it closer to his side. He cleared his throat. "Couldn't sleep?"
She nodded, turning her head to the floor. "Nightmare."
FP frowned and sighed, pushing himself away from the wall. "Yeah, me too."
A small tic raised on the side of Betty's mouth. "I didn't know you got bad dreams."
"Oh, you'd be surprised," he answered lightheartedly, lowering into one of the chairs across from the couch. He placed the file on a cushion next to him. "I'm not bulletproof."
Ah, that probably wasn't the best word choice at the moment, but Betty didn't seem to take his slip of the tongue the same way as he did, though a contemplative look did cross her face.
She raised the mug that was in her hand and gestured back toward the kitchen. "I made tea if you'd like some."
"Thanks." FP gave her a small smile. He'd make a mental note to check how low her supply was tomorrow and see if they needed to grab more soon.
He nestled back into the chair, stealing a glance at the lights twinkling in and out on the Christmas tree and fireplace mantle. He could see why this would be such a calming space for Betty; it was in far contrast to the harsh lights that he had seen in his dream, to the ones that she had to face in reality.
A chill resurfaced and he turned back toward Betty. "Do you want to talk about it? Your nightmare?"
Fatigue flooded into Betty's eyes, dulling the reflection of the Christmas lights that gleamed there. She lowered her mug into her lap, a finger tapping against the ceramic cup.
"I was in the cabin while a storm was raging outside. I could hear it - the wind howling, the rain blowing, and then eventually all the walls actually blew down. But I couldn't move, I still couldn't get out."
Her eyes moved back to the floor as her hand grasped the mug a bit tighter.
"Then all of a sudden there was a giant light and people were surrounding the cabin. Just standing there with dead eyes, pointing at me. At one point I looked down and I was sitting in the dirt with blood on my hands, but I couldn't make a sound. I couldn't run. Edgar and my dad were there, in the middle, just staring, smiling."
She pulled her eyes up from the floor. "I couldn't fall back asleep after that but I didn't want to wake Jughead, so I just came down here."
FP gave her a sad look, throwing his tongue into his cheek. "I'm sorry."
Betty just nodded and huddled further into her blanket, staring back at the Christmas tree.
FP swallowed and wrung his hands. He couldn't help but notice how similar their dreams felt and, despite her sitting across from him very much alive and well, he kept seeing that bloodied and scared kid in his head, the one he couldn't save.
And that wasn't even remotely a fair image, for either of them.
"FP?"
Betty's shy question made him perk up. She rarely used his first name; the only other times he had heard her do it were over the summer when she couldn't maintain her wall any longer and called out for her dad in the middle of the night, 'FP' being what came out.
She was twisting the blanket in her hand, her eyes marred with the distant look that had become far too comfortable taking up residence there.
"How do you stop listening to all the voices in your head?"
FP laid his arm on the edge of the chair, letting out a silent exhale. "And you want my opinion on that?"
Her eyes took on a sharper appearance as she stared back at him. "You tell it like it is. You're not the type of person that typically sugarcoats. And out of everyone, you're the one who looks at me the least like I'm made of glass."
Her eyes grew even sharper at that last statement.
"Besides, you know what's in there." Betty gestured her head toward the file sitting next to him, "So I don't have to sugarcoat for you, either."
FP swung his eyes to the file briefly before staring at the young teen for another moment. He hadn't necessarily considered that Betty's difficulty talking about her ordeal with her friends wasn't always because of shame or embarrassment (though he knew she carried a great deal of both) but rather from trying to figure out what to say and how in order to shield them. Or just how to say anything at all.
Glass was certainly not the material he would use to describe Betty. Brass seemed more suitable.
The colored lights glinted in and out of FP's peripheral vision before he finally responded. "If I'm being honest," he said, crossing his arms. "I don't know if I can give you the answer that you're looking for." He flexed his fingers, lowering his head. "You'll run up against all sorts of people in your life who will build images and expectations of you in their head, ones that they'll hold onto long after you've tried to shed them."
He looked Betty directly in the eye. "People see what they want to see. It's not up to us to prove 'em wrong, it's up to us to try our best at being better, to just be us."
Betty leaned her elbow up against the arm of the couch. She placed her mug there, her fingernails tapping against it. "But how do you know which voice is the real you and not just one everyone wants you to be?"
FP's mind flashed to the sunken-eyed, Serpent version of himself, the burn of that hot, rancid breath still on his neck.
"I don't know, kid." FP sighed, rubbing his hands along his neck. "Because sometimes our own voice is the biggest critic."
He hoped she didn't ask if that got easier with age because he was living that answer tonight. They locked eyes and he realized she didn't need to, as both of their faces held the same tired knowing, the two of them sharing through the dark the same bitter truth.
But just because that was one truth didn't mean there wasn't another.
"You know, you're right in saying that I have read everything in this file," he said quickly, moving his hand toward the thick stack of papers and photos. "And let me first say that you did a hell of a job keeping yourself alive." He pointed an impressed finger at Betty, who gave him the slightest smile. "And secondly, I know what he got you to believe, and let me tell ya' you were right to let him know that his voice wouldn't win. You stood up to that bastard. That was all you. You found your own voice and used it and you'll do it again. Maybe the trick is to just trust ourselves and when that fails we'll just have to trust the good ones around us."
The sentiment came out swiftly and, despite how tired he was, FP could feel an energy coursing through him as he spoke. It reminded him of the electricity he used to feel standing in the middle of the bar, towering on a table, delivering a rallying cry through thick and raucous air.
But that image made him pause because he knew someone else got high on that feeling, flaunting their charisma in front of others, building blind followers, and finding sometimes nasty ways to defend their territory.
"You're not him."
FP jerked his head, throwing a surprised look at Betty.
"You're not Edgar." Betty leaned forward and placed her mug down on the coffee table. "I know there are plenty of things I don't understand, but I do know that things you did as a Serpent came from survival, for you and the Southside. It was damage control, not vengeance."
Damn, they were really reading each other's minds tonight.
FP sighed and rubbed his hands together. "I've done similar things to what-," a lump unexpectedly caught in his throat as he flapped another hand at the file. "Betty, I held Chic hostage when we thought he had you. You know what happened with Jason, and you don't want to know the stories behind half the scars I got." He shook his head. "I know I'm the reason some people in this town can't sleep at night."
Betty stared blankly back at him, her blinking slow and steady. When she opened her mouth, her voice was quiet. "I'm pretty sure I am too."
Silence descended over the room. FP scrunched his eyebrows together, his jaw locking as he crinkled his mouth to the side. After everything the teen had been through, after watching her carry herself through days where the world must have felt so heavy over the summer, and nights where she sat awake calling out for parents that weren't there, FP had so much respect for Betty. Not that she should have to at her young age, but she held the hard things well, balancing the comfortable parts of reality with the uncomfortable. Even if things ever went south with her and Jughead, or if things happened to go south with him and her mom, he didn't think he could ever not see Betty as a daughter-in-law.
So it killed him seeing her look so defeated.
And it looked like her hold might be slipping at the moment, because her eyes started to widen and the edge of her mouth began to curl.
"So you might have done some bad things, we all do! But that doesn't mean you also weren't doing things you needed to survive, too," FP said with a discerning eyebrow raise as he lifted off the couch.
He could help her hold it for the night.
FP walked over to the kitchen and grabbed the tea kettle, pouring himself a small cup of tea. "Maybe we all just need to stop obsessing over what other people think, and remember that we're the ones that know how the real stories go."
She looked at him quizzically, her hand wrapping back around her warm drink. "And get back to writing our own stories instead of other people doing it for us?"
FP directed a 'bingo' expression at her from behind a large swig of tea. "I am saying this as someone who also has bad dreams about the voices in their head, but sometimes we just need to tell them to shut the hell up."
Betty cracked a smile, which in turn made FP smile. They both sipped their drinks for a moment before she spoke up:
"You know, you're pretty good at this advice thing." She swung her legs around, tucking them under herself. "If no one's ever told you that before."
FP let out a gruff snort, his mouth bending. "Maybe, but all my practice came from dealing with kids that weren't my own children. At least not when it counted, anyway."
"But it counts now," Betty refuted, her tone growing stronger. "You're doing good with Jug and JB. And don't think I didn't notice Charles call you 'dad' at Thanksgiving."
FP let out another snort as he felt his face begin to grow red. "Even after I told him not to." He shook his head. When he glanced across from him, a sly grin had spread across Betty's face. "What?"
"You know, maybe you're not out of being a gang leader just yet," she teased. "You've just got a new gang now. How'd you manage that while I was gone? All three of them? They're a handful."
A chortle escaped FP's lips. "Handful is an understatement," he chuckled, his eyebrows arching. "You're never allowed to go missing again."
"I don't plan on it," she muttered through a large yawn. FP noticed that her eyes were starting to droop and he figured the tea was kicking in. That or she finally heard what she needed to.
He stood, setting his mug down on the coffee table and picking up the file. "You ready to try going back to bed?"
Betty nodded and pushed the blanket away. FP walked behind her to the stairs but before they could walk up, she spun around and gave him a hug.
"What was that for?" he asked, a bit surprised.
"For being there." She looked up at him in appreciation despite her fatigue. "And not just tonight. You did all you could as the sheriff to find me. Edgar wasn't just set on torturing me. Please don't worry about not finding me sooner. You weren't late, you were right on time."
With that, she turned and hobbled up the stairs.
FP stood shocked at the bottom of the steps for a moment, her words catching him off guard. He swallowed down a lump in his throat, then slowly began the climb. As he took each step, he thought about how when he said that letting the good ones remind us who we are was something he had just said on a whim. He hadn't necessarily believed it himself, but now he couldn't help but think that it wasn't just blowing smoke after all.
Jughead peered down at his phone as he and Charles rounded the corner into the FBI office, coffees and pastries in tow. Want to stay in and watch a movie tonight? The weather is practically begging for it. he typed out, trying not to dwell on the unanswered messages he had already sent Betty that day.
When he had left the house, she had been sitting in bed still staring at that document, and still keeping it to herself. He knew something was bothering her more than usual, especially after hearing her come back to bed late last night.
After such a promising Thanksgiving, Jughead thought that things would have started to turn a corner, but he should have known something else would have been dislodged. He just wished he knew exactly what.
They say patience is a virtue but he always leaned more toward vice.
Charles slammed a few of the file boxes down on the desk, and Jughead sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
"You know, this whole 'working on the weekends' thing isn't all it's cracked up to be," he remarked as he dropped the take-out bag on one of the desks. Jughead pulled the box of passports and copies closer. "Not like a bunch of my weekends haven't already been eaten up by personal investigations, but-," he cocked his head, pulling the lid off the box in front of him.
"Well, that's what you get when there's an active investigation and giant trial full speeding ahead," Charles rebuffed, rolling his sleeves up as he grabbed another box, yawning in the process. "But that's what the coffee's for. Helping us stay awake at three in the afternoon on a blistery Saturday."
Jughead wrinkled his mouth, a slight shiver running through him as he thought about how much snow they were already getting this early into winter. Maybe he'd consider heading somewhere warm for college because the cold was starting to get old.
"Okay. Ready to dig back in?" Charles brought Jughead's attention back to the papers spread out in front of him. "Maybe we'll find something today."
"Um, I think I already did," Jughead said, his brow slanting as he reached down and pulled at one of the prints of copied passports. He thought he had gone through all of them, but apparently not. "This one doesn't have a picture with it. Look." He pulled it away from the rest and handed it to Charles.
The FBI agent squinted, roving his eyes carefully over the picture. "Canadian passport. 20 years old. Tessa Chase. Huh." He was starting to look a little on edge as he carried the paper over to the computer, pulling up the digital records. He typed in the name and waited for the search to buffer, but frowned when the search returned nothing.
"And we don't have it logged either." He handed the page back to Jughead and crossed his arms. "See? Not a waste of time. The digging through analog files or the digital redundancy. Nice work." He bumped Jughead on the arm.
"What do you think? One of Evelyn's aliases?"
"Could be." Charles' tone sounded like he didn't quite believe that. "But with it having no picture, it makes me think it could be for a minor."
Jughead's eyes widened. "I know he recruited in schools a lot. Do you think he could have been hurting another girl?"
Charles shook his head, but his eyes betrayed his true thoughts. "I don't know, but I'm going to call Kane."
Jughead nodded, turning around toward the abandoned pastries. "I'll call Betty. This feels like something she should know."
He pulled out his phone and hit his speed dial. It rang but ended up going to voicemail. He frowned, staring at his screen. A familiar cavity began to gnaw at his stomach and he wanted to shake it off, but for some reason, despite all he was trying to learn, this time it felt warranted.
Archie walked around the office of the community center, clearing stray plates and napkins from their various places around the room, stuffing them into a trash bag as he went. He swept a few crumbs off of the table, his hand brushing against the stack of name tag sheets.
He stopped, looking briefly out through the picture window into the main area. Some people were missing in that crowd that he had hoped would be there, but after the exchange only a few days earlier, he understood them keeping their distance.
The trash bag crinkled as Archie let it slip to the floor. He reached for the name tag sheets strewn around the table, pushing them together and tapping them against the surface to straighten them out.
"Hey, don't put those away yet!"
Archie turned around, and to his surprise saw FP trotting in through the office door. "Sorry I'm late."
"Late? I figured you weren't coming back." A smile spread across Archie's face. "Not after-,"
FP put a hand up. "Little altercations like that were everyday occurrences in the Serpents. If I gave up then, a lot of people wouldn't be alive today. If I give up now, a lot of kids might not have a safe place this side of town."
Archie narrowed his eyes. He had seen FP look rather crushed after Nick's comments, but now he looked light, refilled with a renewed determination. "What changed your mind?" he asked as FP took a name tag from him.
"I realized I'm not done helping kids yet," the older man answered as he filled out the tag. "Or the parents." He threw the marker down and slapped the name tag doggedly on his chest. "They could use a little help too."
FP saluted him and then walked out into the main room. Archie watched him for a moment through the window before his eyes drifted to the picture of Fred that hung on the wall. He ambled over to the desk and pulled open the drawer as he sat down in the swivel chair. His eyes flickered as he stared at the crumpled pamphlet that was tucked at the top of the drawer.
He was somewhere between a kid and an adult, but he might need a little help too.
Archie's thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing.
"Hey, Jug," he said, bringing the phone to his ear. His face fell as he slowly rose from the chair. "Slow down. No, I haven't talked to her but I'm sure she's…" He bit his lip as he continued to listen. "Just because she's not answering doesn't mean-,"
He held his breath as Jughead's voice grew more rattled. "Okay, hold on. I'll meet you at the house. I'm on my way." Archie's heart began to pound as he slid his phone back into his pocket. He ripped his coat off the rack and, with a quick look back at the people roving around the gym, sped out of the building.
Jughead pushed open the front door to the house. "Betty?" he called expectantly into the dark space.
Silence answered him.
He bound up the stairs and made his way into the bedroom, slowly creaking open the door. It was dark there too, and the cavity came back to Jughead's stomach when he noticed Betty's phone laying on her desk. He picked it up cautiously, the screen glowing to life. She had several missed calls and texts from him and Archie, as well as a few texts from her mom.
"Jug?" He heard a distant voice exclaim from downstairs, the sound of the door opening accompanying it. Jughead gripped Betty's phone as he headed back down the stairs, finding a pensive Archie and Veronica standing in the foyer.
"She's not here," he said gruffly, holding the phone up for his friends to see. He was trying to stave off the sense of déjà vu that was creeping its way into his mind. And by the look on Veronica's face, she was too.
"Besides her phone being here, what makes you think she's in trouble?" Archie asked, not sounding as panicked as Jughead would have expected.
"She's been upset the last few days. I can tell that something's wrong but she won't talk to me!" he balked, throwing his arms out. "And I just found this weird thing with Charles and…" he scoffed, his hands going to his hips. "I don't know, maybe it just set me off."
Archie crossed his arms. "Um. Betty did tell me something yesterday."
Both Jughead and Veronica swung their heads toward him. "What?"
Archie raised his arms in defense. "It felt kind of private, I didn't know if she wanted me to tell you guys. But, uh, the stuff your dad found in Pickens Park after Halloween, Jug? It… it was a recreation of the night Betty and I found Svenson at Christmas two years ago. Except I wasn't the one in the coffin this time."
Jughead felt his legs grow weak, and he honestly thought his knees might have buckled if he hadn't been holding onto the banister. As soon as that flush feeling came though, it went, replaced by the familiar touch of fury instead.
"Oh my god…" Veronica muttered, her eyes closing. "One of our theories was right."
The friends had spent a few of their free periods trying to put together a picture from the few pieces Betty had given them, especially after she had told Veronica about Thornhill. He usually loved being right, but not today.
"There's also something else," Veronica continued warily, opening her eyes. She stepped closer to Jughead. "Now, you didn't get this information from me," she said, folding her arms. "But a few of the members of the Farm that the FBI were interviewing were released and are back in town."
Jughead didn't think his eyes could get any wider. "What? I was just with Charles and he never mentioned that!"
"Honestly he might not have known." Veronica shook her head. "But they've been back for a few days now."
Jughead closed his eyes and inhaled a heavy breath. "Do you think they would mess with Betty?"
"Guys!" Archie's staunch call drew them out of their speculating. While the two of them had been talking, Archie had made his way further into the living room and was standing over the coffee table, flipping through what looked like a stack of pictures. "I think I know where she is."
Veronica and Jughead looked at each other, then crept over to the living room. There were scrapbooks and photographs spread out over the coffee table, photos of Betty's childhood from a few years ago going all the way back to baby pictures. Jughead also only now noticed that a few dying embers were sizzling in the grate of the fireplace, sitting on top of blackened pieces of wood, something he had completely missed when immediately racing up the stairs.
He moved his eyes down the table until he saw Betty's laptop sitting open at the end of the couch. He warily spun it towards him, and when he saw the full Word document glowing back at him, he deflated, his whole demeanor growing softer.
No one was messing with her.
Jughead looked over at Archie and Veronica through understanding eyes, the former meeting his gaze with the same knowing. Archie placed the photo he had been holding back down onto the pile, the smiling face of Betty and Hal staring up from where it landed.
"She went to confront her dad."
Snow silently swirled around the three friends as they stood pensively outside of the black gates to the cemetery, the only thing that separated them from the graves within. With careful footsteps, they slowly made their way through them and up the white hill, hiking by still headstones, serene under the falling sun, its flushed light bouncing off of the snowy grounds.
Jughead passed his gaze over them, trying to imagine what stories lie buried in this field, from tongues that no longer spoke and eyes that could no longer see. He wondered what conversations were cut off too soon and what secrets were taken to the grave, which lives left fulfilled and which let their dreams die with them. The deep-set words etched into the hard stones around them stood out against the vivid white of the snow, carving out a message of both hope and ache as they walked toward where, with any luck, their wandering friend would be.
For a place with no voices, it spoke volumes.
And what most people saw as scary he saw as sacred; he knew that the dead weren't haunted, people were.
As they reached the summit of the hill, the view of the valley spread out below them. Through a veil of the dying light, beneath the wavering branches of a bare tree sat Betty, a spot of color in the sea of white.
The friends looked at each other, taking caution to keep their steps as quiet as possible as they neared the foot of the hill. If Betty was cold, she didn't show it. Jughead noticed she was becoming more and more unbothered by the cold. They were careful not to intrude, as they could hear her speaking to the grimy headstone she sat in front of, and Jughead could see that she was holding a paper version of the letter he had seen on her computer.
"…how could you treat me like a human one moment only to turn around and stalk me the next?" Her hoarse and fraught voice carried toward them on a breeze, swirling along with the still-falling snow. Jughead could tell by the grate in her tone that she had been out here for a while, her words cracking and rough.
Jughead, Archie, and Veronica stopped a few feet behind Betty, trying to keep a respectful distance, but, like a siren's song at sea, altogether drawn in by the lonely and longing voice before them.
"I remember when you first noticed that I was curious about how our car worked, and you humored that curiosity," she said, a lightness to the words. "You taught me from a young age how to fix things and I thought you always would but instead you decided to leave things broken."
The paper crinkled in her grasp as she sniffled, wiping at her nose. "What happened to the father that taught me to ride my bike and took me to baseball games? The one that stopped the tears, not caused them." Betty's voice broke again, desperation seeping back in. "Was he actually real or was he just a mask?"
Despite her back being turned to him, Jughead could see by the reflection of the golden light sinking on the horizon, that a small stream of tears was running down her cheek. "I trusted you. You were the parent, you were supposed to protect me and I trusted you to do that! I shouldn't be haunted by my own father."
Betty leaned forward, brushing some of the remaining dead leaves and dirty snow away from the headstone, the name 'Hal Cooper' growing more visible on the gray rock. There were cracks in the stone, along with a scrawl of black graffiti on the front. Some of it looked like it had scrubbed away, only for the person trying to clean it to realize it was fairly permanent. And top of the stone, laying in an indent in the snow was a torque wrench.
"I don't know if there's an afterlife or if there's anywhere to go after death, so I don't know if you can hear this," Betty sputtered, rocking back into a sitting position. "But I want you to know that even before you died, I lost you." She sniveled again. "For sixteen years you were my dad and then you became a man I didn't know. You used my friends as target practice, you tried to get me to lie and kill for you-," she paused and began to shake her head rather forcefully. "But the hardest thing about all of it is that I still love you."
A guttural hiccup cut through the quiet as she turned her head down to the snow. Jughead did the same, a chill outside of the cold air on his skin. He could see Archie and Veronica lean into each other.
"Do you realize how many times I've woken up in the middle of the night calling your name only to have everything you've done come rushing back to me like a flood?" Betty continued through a thick falter. "Yet… you used to tuck me into bed after bad dreams when I was a kid. You took everything from me, Dad. My friends, my childhood, my memories…" she sucked in a trembling breath. "But for some reason I still miss you."
Betty grew quiet and the whole cemetery held its breath, the quiet returning to the snow-covered night.
"But for better or for worse, you're a part of my story. And we don't get to skip over the bad parts of those." She wrung her hands together. "But that doesn't mean you get to be in the rest of it. I write my own story and while I may still have the memories of you, I can make new ones – new worlds - that will make sure you stay buried."
The tree branches rattled above her, a strong wind blowing around the grave.
Jughead knew that even though he was a writer – they both were – Betty could tap into an emotional depth that he couldn't. She could go places he didn't know how to get to. At first, he thought it may have been because he hadn't grown up with a put-together family as she had. But now he knew that wasn't it. And then he thought maybe it was because he'd never watched someone die or faced his own death, but then both of those things had happened, and still: no new emotional awareness.
So even now he wondered what it was.
He had seen the side of Betty that was so full of joy, eyes lighting up at the smallest of things to others, yet the biggest of things to her heart. And he had seen her be so lost in thought, so focused, that she could just sit and stare at nothing for hours. And now he watched as she so fearlessly cried and poured out her vulnerable heart to a graffitied headstone in a snow-covered cemetery.
He watched, seeing that depth, that knowing, that something – flow so beautifully yet so heartbreakingly out of her because he knew he would never quite understand. Her wounds ached differently than his and she could sit with them so much longer than he could.
He writes to understand. Maybe she writes because she already understands.
Betty closed her eyes and rocked, letting the paper drop, sinking her uncovered hands into the snow. Jughead crept forward and sank down. He reached forward and cupped her wet and freezing hands in his gentle and gloved grasp.
She looked over, tears running down her red face. They stared at each other for a moment, then she sobbed, burying her face into his chest. Jughead repositioned himself, sitting fully down in the snow next to her.
He looked over his shoulder and nodded softly at Archie and Veronica, who were still hesitantly standing a few feet away. They nodded back and turned, their footsteps crunching as they slowly walked down the row of gravestones.
Archie found his words in poetry and song, and Veronica-, well Veronica didn't much need paper and pen. Her words were her own voice, her tongue her canvas. Jughead needed the page before he could speak his prose and Archie the verse, but Veronica used dialogue as her diary.
They all had their own way with words, and their words had their own way with them.
Jughead turned back, resting his head on Betty's as she wept, as she continued to release those feelings from the place only she knew.
Maybe it was because she knew how to tear down walls around hearts instead of building them up.
Maybe it was because she knew how to forgive.
Maybe it was because she knew how to make others feel things even when they never experienced them themselves.
Whatever it was, Jughead wouldn't in this moment try to find the answer, or even try to understand it, he would take a cue from Betty and simply just try to sit with it.
He turned his head and caught a glimpse of Archie and Veronica in the distance. They were in front of a different headstone, Archie sitting silently and Veronica kneeling beside him.
Seems they were all taking a cue.
Jughead hugged Betty a little tighter as the wind blew around them.
If there was one thing he could feel, could make sense of as he watched those he cared for most weep in the quiet wake of the falling snow, it was that those in the cemetery were not there just to grieve over lost parents, but to grieve for lost innocence.
For childhood was one thing that, when lost, you just couldn't get back.
Jughead could feel the hot sting at his eyes as his own tears threatened to break through. He swallowed and let them run, not trying to hold back anymore.
Because it was long past due that they all mourned for that.
A/N:
And there we go! Another chapter of giant proportions!
We've still got some twists and turns to go, and some secrets to share, but we're definitely ramping up and, as Charles said, full speed ahead-ing toward the trial and final confrontation with Edgar!
As always, I love getting and reading your reviews! I will say that I come back to them every now and then when I'm stuck and need some inspiration to write! So if you enjoyed and if you feel so inclined, please let me know how you felt and leave a review! I love knowing what details stuck out to you all.
And again, with crunch time at work and the holidays coming up, I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out, but I've got a pretty clear map for the rest of the story!
Happy holidays and a happy new year if I don't reappear until after!
