Two notes: first, I think notifications glitched on the previous chapter, so I am here with a new chapter sans feedback on plot points. It is funny to realize how weird it feels not to get the check-in on what people are thinking about, and which plot points I should make sure to cover thoroughly! I hope I did alright...
Because the second thing is: ta-da! This is the end! :) Tempting as it is to go for thirty chapters (what a nice, even number...), we can be satisfied with a prime number. :-D
So, without further ado, the conclusion... without reviews to make me feel like I have a bead on what readers are thinking... so it might be good, or it might be something other than good...
But I really, really hope you enjoy! :)
-Button
00000
Jughead was exhausted. He'd woken up to more shouting, this time over consent and why Brand's name was in the system as his father instead of FP's.
Passing out again seemed preferable to reliving that argument for what felt like the billionth time.
However, there was the pressing question of consent for what, exactly, which roused Jughead fairly effectively.
"An ultrasound?"
"Of your thyroid. Dr. Wasserman is extremely thorough; you're lucky he's taken such an interest in your case." The man smiled almost worshipfully and Jughead was reminded of Clark talking about Brand.
"He just wants to get a diagnosis since he's shot his mouth off," FP grumbled, but he seemed to be annoyed instead of murderous.
That was a massive improvement.
So was talk of getting a diagnosis.
"Will the ultrasound tell him what's wrong? His tests came back normal last time." Jughead frowned, even though his breathing was coming easier. He wasn't sure if that was an actual improvement in his condition or if he'd been given something while he'd been under that was masking symptoms. At least he didn't feel like he was having a heart attack anymore. "Unless someone mixed up the blood draws, I guess."
Jughead wondered how long he'd been out; his wrists had been dressed and rebandaged.
"Oh, Wasserman checked all of that. Nothing was mixed up," FP said with an air of schadenfreude. "So we'll just see how this goes. How's his fever?"
"I'll check his temperature again. You had a fever, young man, but we're working to bring it down. And, to be clear, Dr. Wasserman only wants to rule some things out with this test." The man made a sympathetic face. "I know it's frustrating, but we have to do each step in order. It's for very good reasons, I promise you."
"Su-ure you do." Clark was smirking from where he sat in a chair across the room. "Insurance hoops to jump through, right?"
"Or maybe not charging patients more than we absolutely need to." The man's tone was mild, but the look he gave Clark was irritated. "Is that all right with everyone?"
"As long as we don't have to run a paternity test," FP groused, "then do your worst. He's awake. Do you consent, Jughead?"
"Yeah." Jughead nodded. "If we have to rule things out before we can get real answers, then let's get started."
It might be slow progress, but at least it would be progress.
Not that it would likely forestall the conversation that FP was going to want to have about where Jughead had been, and what had occurred.
00000
"So what did Tall Boy do then?" FP demanded.
"Uh…" Jughead had barely gotten through the basics of being taken from the trailer, since his father kept interrupting to rail against everyone involved. Especially Tall Boy. The long wait for test results seemed to be inspiring FP to be particularly thorough in his interrogation. "We got on his motorcycle."
"Did he have a helmet for you?" FP seemed aghast enough that Tall Boy must have quite the reputation for being dangerous on the road.
Jughead smirked at the idea that a helmet would have made things better, but immediately wished that he had not. His father was taking special care to identify every possible reason he might have for being angry with Tall Boy, and FP didn't need any more fuel for that fire.
He had more than enough already, and they hadn't even gotten to the really bad stuff.
And weirdly, FP had been incensed by Sweet Pea's claim that hiding Jughead was an act of loyalty to the Serpent King. Jughead himself had been the one to give that impression to Sweet Pea, so he wasn't sure what FP expected… but apparently not what had happened.
Which was maybe fair, since it had certainly caught Jughead flat-footed.
"I take it that's a no," FP supplied. "Did he speed?"
This time Clark snorted.
"He's planning the trial," Jughead said quietly, in a warning tone; they both needed to tread carefully if this was what he thought it was. "My dad's building a case, and he's planning to nail Tall Boy for every detail he can come up with."
"Damn straight," FP said fervently. "Serpent justice can be thorough, you know. If Tall Boy is in need of a whole lot of… repercussions… then the Serpents will know the reason for every last one of 'em."
Clark shut up.
"Go on, Jug. I'll fill you in about Brandon once I've heard everything."
That was the carrot his dad was holding out for him: an update on his godfather's condition. Or maybe it was a stick, since he was withholding that until he got what he wanted. Either way, Jughead was resigned as he related the remainder of the timeline as accurately as he could from memory.
When Jughead explained that he hadn't been fed by Tall Boy, FP and Clark had exchanged a meaning-laden look that had inspired another digression: according to the hospital, Jughead's weight had plummeted. Predictably, maybe, but that was also in spite of Fred's cooking and the efforts he'd made eating take-out with his mother and Richard.
Jughead could have taken that in stride, and maybe even been curious, but both FP and Clark looked spooked over whatever the number had been – so he did not ask any more about it. Sometimes it was better not to know the details.
Not that FP would know anything – anything at all – about that perspective.
"What do you mean, 'then you went to Fred's house'? What about your wrists, boy?" FP's expression was like a stormcloud gathering strength; apparently he thought this 'mistake' in the story suggested that Jughead was downplaying everything.
"Hang on. I'm getting to that. I didn't know it had happened until I was at Fred's, and I'm trying to tell things in order so I don't mix stuff up." It seemed like an argument that should win FP over.
"What? How is that possible?" Clark interjected, his expression so horrified that Jughead was abruptly certain that Clark had gotten a good look at his wrists when they had been cleaned and rewrapped.
"I don't know. Adrenaline? The wire was so sharp and then my wrists were so, uh, damaged… I guess I never quite registered that it had happened until I actually saw them." Jughead realized that a key detail must be missing for the two men. "They were tied behind my back."
Both FP and Clark nodded thoughtfully. Whew; at least that had satisfied them.
The door opened.
Saved by the bell, Jughead thought grimly, even as FP gave him a look that promised that the reprieve was only temporary.
Dr. Wasserman finally re-entered the room; he was staring at something on his iPad screen and frowning. He looked up and gave everyone a quick grin, though, before he spoke.
That seemed like a good sign.
"So I have some very strange results, but I think they might explain… well, it's possible that they explain everything," Dr. Wasserman began. He looked down at Jughead before declaring grandly: "I have a diagnosis for you, young man."
"Great. Finally." FP motioned impatiently. "Can he be treated?"
"If I'm right, which seems very likely based on these results, then yes. Only it's…" Dr. Wasserman stopped to consider his words.
"Wait. You're still not sure?" FP demanded.
"I would not put it that way." Dr. Wasserman continued speaking quickly, clearly sensing that FP was about to cut him off again. "All along I've thought the problem has been your thyroid; the symptoms are all there, plain as day. Some of the diagnostic symptoms have been intermittent, though, which threw the other specialists off; that is unusual. But now we can see some things on the ultrasound that might explain why. It looks like you're actively bleeding into your thyroid; there appears to be some scar tissue there as well."
That sounded… really bad. Jughead looked from the doctor to his father to Clark, but nothing gave him any clues about how bad it could be.
"So before I can be completely sure of this diagnosis – that there isn't something else going on as well –, I'd like to figure out how on earth you could have managed to not only injure your thyroid to this extent, but also reinjure it – repeatedly. This doesn't sound right for a patient with your history."
Jughead made a face; this conversation was about to get awkward. He could see Clark covering his face with his hands, either to hide his own grimace – or maybe even to cover a laugh. That was possible.
"Oh. You mean you don't have Jug's medical history?" FP asked flatly.
"Ah. No. I do have his history. But the scale of this is a bit difficult to convey. You see, a massive impact such as a particularly unlucky car crash might cause these symptoms. In fact, I think that's what we're seeing today, with his acute symptoms." Dr. Wasserman examined Jughead carefully. "Were you in a car wreck earlier today?"
FP's expression had gone stony. He slowly looked over at Jughead, clearly assuming (correctly, as it happened) that someone had hurt him. Very recently.
Jughead wasn't sure where to look, but he was pretty sure that looking at FP was the wrong move if he wanted this meeting to go smoothly. Besides, there was nothing anyone could do about him falling down a flight of stairs – and impacting hard – which had to be the culprit. He'd started having a panic attack immediately afterward.
Apparently he had not hit his sternum. Or not just his sternum.
"No-o." Jughead figured that answer was the only safe one.
"Well, something happened to essentially break open the scab on your damaged thyroid, if you understand what I mean."
It was obvious that nobody did. Nobody said anything, though.
"But what I really don't understand is how the original injury could have happened." Dr. Wasserman shrugged helplessly. "This is extremely rare, and it would take an immense amount of force to cause this sort of damage."
"Could someone – ahem – beating him repeatedly have caused this?" FP asked slowly, his tone dangerous.
Jughead felt the blood drain from his face. If FP blamed Brand – even if Brand just blamed himself – things were about to get very complicated very quickly.
"No! He never – I mean, nobody ever hit me in the thyroid. Or the throat. Or, uh, sternum." Jughead thought quickly. "I don't think so, anyway. It has to be from… something else. Maybe the drug dealers– or maybe when–,"
Jughead caught his father's expression and shut his mouth. Theorizing was obviously helping nothing. Even Clark was wide-eyed as he looked from Jughead to FP, visibly aghast at the turn the conversation was taking.
"You see, that's the thing; I don't believe any form of garden variety trauma could do this kind of damage. And there would have to be regular, repeated trauma if this was the source of your symptoms for months." Dr. Wasserman paused for both FP and Jughead to nod in confirmation that months was their timeframe; Jughead had been experiencing panic attacks and weight loss since the spring. "Typically I'd expect a much larger trauma in the patient's history and repeated injuries thereafter. Something along the lines of an IED explosion, followed by an extended period of time in combat."
Ah. Jughead saw a way out of all this. He seized the opportunity with everything he had in him.
"Oh! Yeah! I was in an explosion this summer." Jughead tried not to sound too excited. "I bet I was just, like, traumatized and having regular panic attacks until then, and honestly it only really got bad after Southside High blew up all over me."
"Southside High… what?"
"I was pretty close when it detonated. I mean, Dad and Clark were both fairly close, too, so that wasn't weird or anything," Jughead explained as reassuringly as he could manage before continuing. "And it makes sense. I was trying not to take painkillers for stuff – that was right after I was jumped at school, remember –, and when the building blew up, I didn't exactly land gracefully. That must have done it."
Dr. Wasserman's jaw dropped.
Hm. Maybe he did not have Jughead's full history after all.
FP's jaw clenched.
Clark just looked confused. "But wouldn't this diagnosis also explain everything that happened before you were jumped? Two different diagnoses seems unlikely to me. Maybe the explosion just made it worse, or re-injured it, like the doctor said. I mean, you were in pretty rough shape when I met you; that was weeks before-,"
Clark saw Jughead's frantic signaling far too late, but at least he shut up when he did notice.
Man. Sometimes an oblivious wingman was worse than having none at all.
"Regardless of who is to blame, can you treat it?" FP demanded.
"Yes. Surgically. We'll remove the portion that is scarred and bleeding, and we'll try and have you out of here in just a few days. With luck that should completely correct all of the symptoms you've been experiencing. Although I'd advise avoiding… anything… that could re-traumatize your thyroid."
Dr. Wasserman was looking from Jughead to FP with concern. Or maybe suspicion.
"Go get the paperwork started," FP ordered. Then he sighed. "And you can send in whoever needs to talk to Jug about whether he 'feels safe in the house' with me."
They'd gotten used to that being a necessary step in almost every medical visit, so Jughead knew what his dad meant.
The doctor, however, looked disturbed by FP's flippancy.
"And, uh, thank you," Jughead said. He could at least try to smooth things over a little. "We appreciate everyth-"
"Just go, Wasserman," FP interrupted. "The sooner we get started, the sooner he gets that surgery and can start getting better."
Jughead wanted to disappear.
Clark sounded like he was choking on a laugh.
The door closed behind the doctor slightly more firmly than it strictly speaking needed to.
And suddenly, without warning, Jughead was swallowed up in a tight embrace.
"Dad?" Jughead managed from where he was being crushed against his father's chest.
"You're going to be okay." FP took a long, shaky breath. "That good for nothing doctor found what's been going on with you. We finally have an answer."
Jughead was startled; apparently FP had been a whole lot more worried about Jughead's health than he'd ever let on.
Maybe even more worried than Jughead had been.
And then, as if FP's reaction was permission, Jughead felt hot tears of relief burning in his eyes.
He wasn't going to die. Not anytime soon, anyway.
When Clark leaned over and patted him on the shoulder, Jughead looked up from the continuing embrace and returned his friend's broad grin.
"You'll be able to beat me up again in no time," Clark said. He looked like he still wanted to laugh, maybe out of relief.
"I'll even try not to hit you in the thyroid," Jughead quipped. Clark laughed then, and maybe Jughead's words were his permission just as FP's hug had been Jughead's.
It was a reminder that FP might still blame Brand, though. Jughead took a deep breath to try and make his case once more.
"Jug, leave it alone." FP seemed to have read his mind. "You're going to be okay. Let me be glad about that. We can worry about Brandon later."
Fair enough.
Only… "Could I have the surgery at Riverdale General?" Jughead asked. "We could go there and then I could recover at the same hospital as Brand."
"If the docs think it's okay." FP rubbed Jughead's back. "I do think it's a good idea to get everyone under one roof."
Trigger tried to wedge his nose between the two Jones men.
"Except for Trig. He's going home," FP declared. Then he hesitated. "If it's not a crime scene."
Jughead froze. "Wait. What?"
So much for everything seeming like it might be getting better.
00000
"So then what happened?"
"Okay, so you remember what I told you about the boss from level eight, right?"
"I'm with you so far."
"Well, Jughead remembered it too. And so, I swear, the second he sees the-,"
"Archie," Agent Quinn interrupts, her voice far too sweet for it to be genuine. "Don't you have somewhere to be right now? Somewhere other than here, entertaining Special Agent Davies, I mean?"
"Nah; my dad hasn't been sleeping, and they finally prescribed him something. They said I should let him sleep for at least four hours." Archie shrugged. "I'm happy to stick around and entertain Brand until the four hours is up, and maybe longer if Dad needs more sleep. Besides, you've probably gotten more sleep than you need for a week, Brand."
Brand nodded agreeably, though he ran some quick math and wondered what Archie thought of his typical sleeping habits if he thought being under for less than twenty-four hours would mean he'd had a week's worth of sleep.
But nodding was the only safe response. There was no way Brand was taking any chances on losing the best buffer this side of the Mississippi River.
And Sarah knew it.
Not that they could have spoken freely, anyway, what with the lawsuit brigade trooping through periodically and the nurse sitting there watching everything through glazed-over eyes now that conversation had turned to a verbal walkthrough of some video game that none of the adults had ever played.
Still. Sarah had a knack for conveying a whole lot in a few words, so Brand didn't want to risk giving her any opening whatsoever.
He had to give her credit, though; Quinn had waited through seven and a half levels of excruciatingly detailed video game tales and explanations before she'd even hinted that Archie might want to go somewhere else. Sarah was nothing if not patient.
She was also frowning at a monitor again. Gre-eat.
Brand braced for another check and, sure enough, Sarah moved closer to his bed and began examining the leads attached to his head. The lawsuit brigade had run a few more tests and begun doing some monitoring that Brand was pretty sure was completely unnecessary.
Sarah was taking each one extremely seriously, though, and seemed to think she could interpret – or perhaps even troubleshoot – the technology.
"How do you feel?" Sarah asked. "Headache? Dizziness? Let me see your eyes."
Quinn grasped Brand's chin and stared deeply into his eyes. Well, she glared into his eyes, and then started up some sort of painful fiddling with the adhesive strip attached to the skin above Brand's left eyebrow.
Brand caught her hand with his own. "Enough. I have a headache, I am dizzy when I move, and my eyes are fine; both pupils are exactly as they should be. Just like the last four times you checked."
"They should be giving you something for the-,"
"I asked them not to. Pain is useful. I don't want to miss changes because I'm drugged," Brand said evenly, knowing that this argument was likely to stop her.
Because, dang it, Sarah Quinn really did always have his best interests at heart.
Brand frowned as he was forced to admit it to himself: he truly believed that if Sarah had been the one to hit him from behind – and she was the only person he could picture pulling that off of those who had been on the scene –, then she must have had her reasons. It was probably for some greater good, and it was no doubt based on analysis that Brand would agree with if he had all of the information that she did.
Dang it.
It sucked that he had to admit it, because his head really did hurt and he would have loved to blame someone wholeheartedly, but it was true. Brand trusted Sarah Quinn with his health. Maybe even with his life.
Although, Brand thought ruefully, if she decided that killing him was somehow necessary for the greater good, then she'd have a fight on her hands. But taking him out of a fight where several people had been armed, and ending up with the outcome that everyone had landed more or less on their feet? Brand could not argue with results.
His ego was bruised, sure, but it had been through worse.
The door to the hospital room opened, and Agent Williams strode in. "Get a room, you two."
"Chloe," Sarah said the name as if there were volumes of threat contained in it. She removed her hand from Brand's forehead, though.
"I thought you all might want an update: I found the intern. He's being transferred here from Greendale for surgery."
"You found him? Surgery?" Brand sat up all the way, which made him lightheaded; he shook his head slightly, and that made it worse. Maybe a mild painkiller would not be the worst thing in the world. He'd consider it later.
"Okay, you lie back down before I have to call a code," Williams directed, pointing at Brand. "I don't know which code, but probably one involving CPR if you don't take it real nice and easy."
Sarah was already pushing Brand's shoulder back. He complied, lying back against the raised bed that was basically in a recliner position anyway.
"You need to explain right now or I'm going to-,"
"Do not threaten me, Davies," Williams said mildly. "I have taken enough lip from FP Jones to last me a lifetime. The intern is fine, and the surgery is apparently going to fix his tapeworm problem."
Brand had to take a moment to parse that: apparently FP had given Williams an earful, and the surgery was meant to address Jones' weight loss. "You mean the kid has a diagnosis? All those doctors missed a tapeworm?"
"That was a figure of speech. Nobody has told me the details." Chloe spread her hands as if to demonstrate that they were empty. "Just that he's fine and, once he recovers from the surgery, he should be in better shape than we at the RA have seen him in. Which isn't exactly saying much."
Brand gave her a sharp look. "He's been in fighting shape."
"He has been extremely underweight, and the only fighting I ever saw was the aftermath of him getting his butt handed to him by highschoolers." Williams glared at Brand. "You need to get onboard with this surgery or I will personally recommend that he be placed in a different room for recovery."
"Wait, he's coming here? When?" Brand almost leaned forward again, but Sarah's grip on his shoulder tightened in warning and he remembered to stay still. "And I'm completely onboard with the surgery; don't give me that. I'm just saying he wasn't in terrible shape before."
This time both women gave him strange looks and Archie, who had been unusually quiet until this point, spoke up: "He was in terrible shape. Let it go, Brand."
Brand looked over at the teen and, despite the disagreement over Jones' conditioning, he was surprised and grateful to see his own reaction mirrored back at him: for once he and Archie Andrews had something in common.
"He's home," Brand said, a smile slowly spreading over his face. "He made it."
"Don't you dare lose him again," Archie said, but he was smiling too. "You need to figure something out so this kind of thing never happens again, because I need my best friend."
Yep. That made two of them.
00000
Fred Andrews stretched very, very cautiously so that he would not disturb any of the stitches in his leg.
He felt immensely improved after getting some sleep, drug-induced as it had been, and he was even wondering if he might doze off again if the floor remained as quiet as it had been.
Archie was with Brand Davies, so he was fine. The FBI had promised to keep folks at Andrews Construction updated so that they could make good decisions without Fred being present.
Other situations were not completely resolved, but SAC Wilson had given her reassurances that she believed Jughead would be back very soon from his mother's (a place Fred had never imagined Jughead being again – not after everything she had put FP and Jughead through) and that Mary was finally on a flight to Riverdale.
"Knock, knock." A familiar voice came from the door to Fred's room.
This time, when Fred sat bolt upright, he did not spare a thought for his leg. "Jughead?"
"I talked everyone into letting me visit you before I have surgery. On my thyroid," Jughead explained in a tumble of words. "It's not cancer; that crazy doctor turned out to be right. It was just a stupid accident, and they think a minor surgery will fix everything."
Fred was holding his arms open. Jughead walked into them and clasped his friend tightly.
"Are you okay?" Jughead asked softly. "I thought… I wanted to help you, but then I didn't get a chance, and... I thought you might be dead."
"No. I'm okay." Fred's voice was soothing. "You scared me half to death by jumping in front of Tall Boy like that, but that was the closest I came to dying. Agent Quinn showed up, stopped the bleeding, and by the time I woke up it was all under control."
Mostly. Fred figured it was close enough to the truth, and certainly the only parts of the story he wanted Jughead to focus on.
"How about you?" Fred continued. "How are those wrists? And you're having surgery?"
"Yeah." Jughead leaned back from their embrace so he could face Fred properly. "My wrists are apparently consult-worthy. I'll be talking to a specialist about how to avoid being referred to Psych for the rest of my natural life. But the surgery is right away, in a few minutes, so that I can start getting better as soon as possible. I haven't even seen Brand yet, but Dad says that since I'll be rooming with him, that can wait until I'm out of the OR."
"Archie's with Brand right now," Fred confided. "So he's in good hands."
Jughead smiled gratefully. "And don't think you're off the hook. If I get to room hop, then I've got two places I'll want to spend time."
"Stick with your godfather; he needs you more," Fred advised, even though he could not suppress a pleased smile.
"Being needy is not a recommendation." Jughead paused and considered his own words for a moment. "In fact, that would be rewarding bad behavior."
Fred chuckled. "Maybe so. Or maybe he just plain needs you more. I won't say no to visits, though, and if I'm the one who's up and around first, then you can count on me dropping by."
"Excellent." Jughead lit up with a grin. "And… thanks, Mr. A. I wouldn't have made it without you."
"I like to think we made a good team," Fred corrected gently. "You were impressive. I was glad to be able to help."
"Even though…" Jughead motioned toward Fred's injured leg.
Fred felt his smile disappear. "Especially because of that. Those holes could have been in your head, Jug. They almost were."
Jughead ducked his head.
Fred continued, very emphatically. "I will be grateful to the end of my days that I have two bullet holes in my leg right now. I'd make that trade a hundred times over if it meant you staying alive. I want you to remember that."
Someone cleared his throat from just outside the door.
"That's Dad," Jughead mumbled. He looked up shyly, and there were tears in his eyes. "I probably need to go get prepped or whatever. That doesn't sound ominous in the slightest, does it?"
"Hey. I meant every word." Fred locked eyes with Jughead, willing the teen to absorb his words and believe them.
"I know." Jughead gave Fred a small smile. "Thank you."
"Now go get fixed up," Fred said more lightly, returning Jughead's smile. "I'll see you after."
Jughead began to leave the room, but stopped short at the doorway. "Archie!"
"Hey, man." Archie came into view as he pulled Jughead into a quick hug. "I hear you've got to go right now. But we'll talk soon, huh?"
"Yeah." Jughead sounded a little surprised as Archie pushed past him.
Fred was surprised as well, particularly when Archie disappeared down the hall instead of entering his room.
"Hey, Fred?" FP stuck his head into the room. "We're going. But you might want to talk to your son. I don't think he liked hearing all of that."
Jughead looked bewildered, but FP tugged him away.
Fred was surprised too, but FP had sounded awfully sure of himself.
Fred replayed the conversation in his mind, figuring that Archie could only have overheard the end. Surely he wasn't upset that Fred preferred to have taken the bullets to his leg over Jughead taking them in the head.
But then, maybe he didn't like hearing Fred sound so grateful for how things had turned out. It was hard to say.
Fred would just have to wait and talk to Archie when he returned.
00000
Gladys strode through the tall grass, looking to her left and then to her right.
Her phone had to be around here somewhere. Richard had followed the signal to this park, which someone had clearly decided to save money on by skipping at least one mow before the weather got cold enough that it was no longer necessary.
"He threw it that way." Richard pointed.
There was a storm drain over there. Gladys' expression darkened as she moved toward it, fully expecting that her phone would not be recoverable. FP was petty that way.
Well, this would teach Gladys not to use such an identifiable phone case; FP had probably instantly identified it as hers. Richard said her ex-husband had not hesitated to throw the phone – and done it so swiftly that Jughead had not even noticed.
Jughead. It was disappointing that they'd lost him so soon.
Well, Gladys had done as much as she could with the limited time she'd had with her son. Hopefully he'd be smart about who was offering him what, and when push became shove – which would be soon, if Gladys' plans came to fruition – Jughead would throw in with the right parent.
For now Gladys would just have to retrieve her phone if that was possible. She'd keep lines of communication open over the next several weeks, while Jughead would have every opportunity to see how good life was with his mother around and looking after his best interests. The tour and writing gig were strokes of genius, if Gladys did say so herself.
When things got ugly, FP would need to think twice before lashing out at his son's beloved mother; that alone might be enough to assure Gladys of victory. More promising still, if FP was screwing things up with Jughead the way the teen had seemed to suggest, then Gladys might very soon have incredible leverage against the man – and, by extension, the FBI.
Sarah Quinn might be a disappointingly dead end if she was so easily distracted by a handsome face in close proximity – FP always did know how to pick 'em –, but FP had a streak of sentiment when it came to Jughead that Gladys would be able to exploit.
No matter how much he screwed up Jughead's life, FP was eternally optimistic that he could make it work out and that he and Jughead would somehow become a functional family. He hadn't changed a bit, either, based on the press Gladys had begun reading over the past week; the coverage told her that FP was working overtime at presenting quite the front to the world.
What a joke.
FP sober? No way; Gladys knew for a fact that he was actively fraternizing with the Serpents, and that meant drinking. FP was apparently much better at hiding his drinking, a feat in itself, but his bad habits had a way of coming back to bite him – often in spectacularly dramatic fashion.
That job with Andrews Construction? Gladys happened to know that FP left job sites a whole lot more than Fred Andrews seemed to realize. The Serpents had needs, and it was pure delusion if FP thought that maintaining his role as Serpent King would not spell the end of any legitimate job. Nope; FP's days as a construction worker were numbered.
And, if all else failed, Gladys knew better than anyone how easily FP Jones got bored. He was fundamentally incapable of being bound by a clock.
That lack of consistency on FP's part was Gladys' ace in the hole. After years of being left to fend for himself, Jughead basically equated love with time management.
All Gladys needed to do was show herself to be more dependable than FP and more reliable than that FBI psycho who'd faked Jughead's kidnapping and now lived in FP's house.
Gladys could probably phone it in and still clear such a low bar with a huge margin.
But no; that would not be satisfying. Instead, she planned to run up the score until there was no contest. This was going to be a bloodbath.
Gladys was going to do everything so thoroughly that even if FP did see it coming, which seemed highly unlikely, he would not be able to alienate their son's affections from her.
Not before she did precisely that to him.
And then they'd see who was in the better position to capitalize on the Southside's unexplained newfound prosperity.
00000
"Betty, come here. I have something I want to discuss with you."
Betty had just walked in the front door of her home, and she really did not want to deal with her mother right now.
Only Alice's tone was a lot livelier than it had been lately, which was… intriguing.
"Hi Mom. I'm sure it's important," Betty started up the stairs, "but I need a seriously long shower right now. Can it wait?"
"I'm heading to the office in a few minutes; I've been working on a story all day; the Southside was raided and social services are completely overwhelmed. Do you know anything about it? I've got the first article ready to go to print, but I think this is going to be big and require multiple follow-up articles." Alice Cooper sounded downright manic. She drew a deep breath that did nothing to dim her bright smile. "You know Sweet Pea, right? He's your age. Do you know anyone else who was picked up in the raids?"
"Mom, no," Betty protested weakly. "I don't know anything about it."
"Well, I also found out that, mysteriously, nobody in the Southside has been collecting – or using – their government benefits for months." Alice raised one eyebrow significantly. "That makes this raid particularly surprising."
Betty frowned. "Why?"
"Well, why would anyone from the Southside turn down a handout? It can only be that they were getting what they needed elsewhere – getting it more easily. So if that's the case, then they should have the means to provide for themselves." Alice's smile turned predatory. "Only now there have been multiple raids, all related to child welfare. So whatever the mysterious cash cow is, it obviously has not been providing for some people. Which leaves us with the question: why haven't those people been collecting their benefits? There's a story here. Maybe a big one."
"Or maybe the Southsiders are just too proud to-,"
"Elizabeth, these were people who collected benefits for years. They all stopped in a span of weeks," Alice snapped her fingers almost gleefully. "Nuh-uh. Something is going on."
"You've got the first article written?" Betty asked wearily. This whole thing was horrifying, not least of all her mother's overt glee, but at least that would mean she was off the hook for the rest of the day.
"It's going live on The Register's site in a few hours," Alice confirmed. "Then we'll just see who jumps, and in which direction."
"Uh-huh." Betty nodded, hiding a yawn. "Let me know what happens."
It was a relief when her mother seemed satisfied and began gathering her things. Alice would leave soon, and then Betty would have the house to herself. She needed the time and space to process everything that had happened.
Betty turned to climb the stairs.
"Invite Alice Carter over. Tomorrow." Alice commanded abruptly, halting Betty on the staircase. "Her perspective may be important. She might even want to write an article herself."
Thank heavens she'd already spoken with Alice Carter, Betty thought darkly. "Sure, Mom. I'll ask her."
"Great." Alice nodded firmly, and then continued as if to herself. "This is exactly what I needed. Exactly."
Betty didn't want to think too hard about the fact that an exposé about child welfare was making her mother feel so energized in the face of her own marriage imploding. It was too distasteful, and also… a little too close to home.
After all, Betty hadn't thought about the divorce for most of the day either. Or while she'd assembled the spreadsheet that had sparked all of this.
It was with a growing pit in her stomach that Betty climbed the stairs and made her way to the shower.
00000
Jughead was extremely grateful when he was finally – finally – wheeled into Brand's room. Most of the nausea from the anesthesia had receded while he was in recovery, so he was able to focus on reuniting with Brand.
"You're okay," Jughead said as he scanned his godfather where he was reclining in a raised hospital bed. "You stayed alive and in one piece. You did good."
Brand's grin was a little more sincere than Jughead was used to seeing, and it looked like he had tears in his eyes, but at least he'd clearly gotten the joke.
"You, on the other hand, appear to have a hole in your throat. All that smoking finally catch up with you?" Brand asked, raising one eyebrow. It was obvious that someone, probably FP, had filled him in already.
"My thyroid apparently doesn't like being blown up. They cut the scarred portion out, though, so I should be able to gain back some weight now. No more black hole for a stomach. It's even possible that I'll have to start watching what I eat." Jughead shrugged nonchalantly, but he could feel the corners of his mouth pulling up into an irrepressible smile.
"Well. He ate an awful lot before any of the symptoms ramped up – so the doc thinks he has a naturally fast metabolism," FP interjected soberly. "We can expect the extreme weight loss to stop, but the doctor did not promise that our grocery bills would make a full recovery."
"The surgeon couldn't cut out a little extra?" Brand asked, pretending to be miffed. "He does know about the state of the economy, right?"
Jughead's bed was rolled into place, and he was disappointed to find that he was too far from his godfather to swat him. He waved a hand dismissively instead. "He was not super helpful. He even said no more sparring until I've completely healed, so the hits just keep on coming."
Brand froze.
Crap. Jughead hadn't meant to jump into that conversation quite so abruptly. Or so soon.
"So. The theory is that I did this to you, huh?" Brand asked. His right hand slid up behind his head and he began rubbing the back of his neck. There was a bandage and a bunch of electrical leads on his head that looked really serious, and Jughead was pretty sure Brand had not stopped leaning back against the bed – had not supported his own weight – since Jughead had entered the room.
"Nah; you only wish you were that powerful," Jughead answered flippantly. "It was almost definitely the Southside High bombing. Ma-aybe something with Jameson, but that would have been a really lucky – or unlucky – hit."
"You might not have caused it. But there was scar tissue that was broken open repeatedly," FP countermanded Jughead's more optimistic narrative. "So you can take the blame for that if you're looking for something to feel guilty about."
Brand sighed. "Sure. Sign me up for that. I am really sorry, kid."
Jughead looked away.
"Well. Now that you're here, can you clear something up for me?" Brand asked.
Jughead cocked his head to one side, suspicious. "Maybe. It depends on what you want to know."
"What happened to me?" Brand gestured to his head. "The docs don't know and I've honestly been too weirded out to ask Agent Quinn."
"Seriously?" Jughead looked from Brand to his dad. Both looked at him questioningly. "Neither of you know?"
That couldn't be right.
"Didn't SAC Wilson tell you?" Jughead asked.
"I have barely seen her," Brand said. "She's busy trying to sue the scrubs off of this hospital, and I think she assumed I'd been told at some point."
"Agent Sarah didn't tell you either? Or, like, a doctor?"
"I repeat: the doctors don't know. And since Sarah was involved, well…" Brand shrugged. "I'd rather hear it from you."
"Involved?" Jughead suddenly realized what this was all about. "Oh. Oh, yeah, okay – I guess it maybe seems like something it isn't."
"You think?" Brand was incredulous.
"I mean, I don't –," Jughead sneaked a quick look at his dad, who looked very curious now as well. He'd need to tread carefully. "Look. I am one hundred percent sure she is completely with Dad. Even if she is…"
Well, whatever was going on between Agent Sarah and Gladys was too complicated to even think about. Jughead decided not to say anything more about that.
Now Brand looked confused. FP's eyebrows were starting to lower. Jughead needed to do some fast talking.
"I'm sure it was pure instinct. It wasn't like any of us had time to think." Jughead tried to come up with anything else he could say that would explain it, but that was probably going to have to suffice.
"Huh. I kind of figured that was the case," Brand said. He seemed resigned. "So why did she do it?"
"So you wouldn't get shot," Jughead said as if it were obvious. "I mean, it seemed like everyone was getting shot. It was chaos. And–,"
FP laid a restraining hand on Jughead. "Okay, that's enough. You shouldn't be getting worked up right now, and you'll have plenty of time to discuss this with your godfather later."
Brand took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and he looked… relieved.
Whew. Jughead must have done a better job at explaining than he thought.
"Wait, what does any of that have to do with Sarah being with your dad?" Brand suddenly asked.
"Brandon, we're changing the subject," FP said firmly. He was looking at Jughead curiously, though.
"I'm not stressed," Jughead offered. "And I kind of want to talk about some stuff. It might even be stressful to avoid talking about it right away. So we might as well talk about this now."
FP didn't look like he bought that line of reasoning, but he did not stop Jughead from continuing.
"I, uh, think Agent Sarah just reacted in the moment. She would have done it for anyone. That's all I meant." Jughead hoped that cleared everything up.
Brand snorted. "I'm not sure that's particularly reassuring to hear. But okay. I'm glad to hear she didn't single me out for batting practice."
Jughead frowned. "For what?"
"Well, you tell me. What did she hit me with?" Brand asked, a wry smile on his face.
"What?" Both Jughead and FP reacted.
"You'd better explain what you mean, Jug," FP said urgently. "What exactly did Sarah do?"
"She, like, jumped on top of Brand to protect him." Jughead looked from one man to the other. "What are you talking– did you think she was the one who hit you, Brand?"
Brand's eyebrows were raised. "Uh, yeah. She's the only one who was there who had any training. What, are you saying that your mother-,"
"Only because she didn't know it was you. She never would have done it if she'd known it was you," Jughead explained swiftly, his eyes wide. "Mom just, like, walked in and people were shooting and you were waving a gun at me, and– you know how moms get adrenaline rushes and can pick up cars and stuff?"
FP was squeezing Jughead's shoulder tightly.
Brand was frowning and seemed to be thinking through something complicated that bothered him very deeply.
"Anyway, Agent Sarah made sure my mom didn't shoot you," Jughead finished weakly, "by mistake."
Brand massaged his eyes.
"Huh. Well. What was the 'other stuff' that you wanted to talk about, Jughead?" FP sounded strained, and he looked a whole lot like he was braced for an avalanche.
Jughead figured that wasn't a bad instinct. He braced himself as well as he broached the subject that they really needed to discuss. "I need to ask both of you for a big favor."
Brand stopped massaging his eyes; he peered between his fingers as if he was afraid to ask.
FP patted Jughead's shoulder encouragingly. "What might that be?"
"Can we, like, not split up for a week or two?" Jughead had given this careful thought. "I know a lot is going on, and sometimes I can't be read in stuff or whatever, but can I just be with one of you or even with both of you for a little while? I think a week is enough, but maybe two just to be on the safe side."
Both men looked at Jughead with stricken looks on their faces.
"Oh, killer," Brand spoke first. "Of course. You don't have to call in a big favor to get us to keep you company while you recover; in fact, you read my mind. I was thinking more like a year or five, though."
Huh. This was proving an easier sell than Jughead had anticipated. And if Brand was in, then it wasn't completely necessary that FP–
"I was thinking along the same lines, Jug. I'm taking at least a month off from the RA and the field office," FP said. "They've made significant progress on the case in the Southside, and I've delivered a lot of that – at great personal expense. They can either accept that I am taking a breather or they can find someone to replace me."
Jughead shot his dad a small smile. "Thanks. I really appreciate it. And hopefully it won't be necessary."
"Necessary?" Brand had been smiling, but now he looked cautious again. "Of course it's necessary, kid; we've had our lives disrupted like crazy over the last few weeks. We need to recover and the two of us need to regain our strength. If we don't put a foot down and work to regain some normalcy, nobody else is going to do it for us. That's an important life lesson for you."
Jughead hesitated, but he knew he had to level with them – completely. "Well. Sure. But there is another reason I was thinking about this. It has to do with, uh, everything you've been telling me about being an adult."
FP and Brand exchanged a look that he recognized: it meant that Jughead was about to be interrupted.
"Hold on, let me finish." Jughead spoke more quickly. "I had to make a decision. I had to protect Betty."
Brand began massaging his eyes again. FP looked like he was bracing for Ragnarok instead of an avalanche.
Jughead tried to make his voice firm: "You would have done the same thing."
Both men snorted at that, but thankfully still did not interrupt.
"Betty had a list of kids – minors – in the Southside who weren't living with a guardian or in, like, a good situation."
Both men reacted.
"Hold up. She's the one who-," Brand sputtered.
"Where is Betty?" FP demanded. "She's not safe. She needs-,"
"I sent it." Jughead could see that they knew something about the situation, so he jumped straight to the end of the story. "I didn't want Betty involved, so I sent the list to the authorities. Otherwise she was going to do it, and… I wasn't sure that I could keep her safe."
Both men rocked back.
There was a long silence.
"Walk me through this one more time?" Brand asked slowly, levelly – dangerously. "The warrior queen had gathered some dangerous information and you decided to be the hero who pulled the trigger on it?"
"She was going to if I didn't. Betty said it was the right thing to do." Jughead lowered his chin defiantly. "And she wasn't wrong."
Both adults made faces over that statement but neither spoke.
"But she doesn't have…" Jughead trailed off.
There was no good way to end that sentence.
"Us," Brand finished dourly, motioning between FP and himself. "Is that what you mean? That the warrior queen doesn't have her own personal protection detail?"
"Well… I guess. Yeah." Jughead felt a pit begin to form in his stomach. Maybe he'd been an idiot; this was not sounding smart as he heard it echoed back at him in Brand's words and tone. "You've, uh, kept me safe before. And I figure just a week, two tops, and-,"
FP let out a dark laugh.
Both Jughead and Brand turned to him.
"A week? You are quite the optimist. But I guess that's really our fault," FP spoke in the same dark tone. "I mean, we're the ones who taught you to do this, huh?"
Brand blinked at FP for a few moments, but then he seemed to catch his drift and he smirked mirthlessly. "Oh, be fair, FP; Agent Quinn didn't help. Throwing herself in the line of fire to protect people is exactly the kind of thing we're talking about here."
Jughead had a bad feeling about where this was going.
"Well, I guess I'm not taking any time off after all, Brandon," FP said. His tone was deeply ironic, but Jughead wasn't sure what he was getting at.
"Oh, of course not – if you're going to take a busman's holiday, you should at least get paid," Brand replied. His voice was filled with irony as well.
"But don't think I won't have some expectations for you, boy," FP added. His eyes were suddenly drilling into Jughead. "And at the very top of that list is going to be extremely clear communication from you. And absolute obedience."
"That really ought to go without saying," Brand interjected. "I'm thinking he needs something to occupy him, too, to keep him out of trouble."
Jughead narrowed his eyes. This seemed like it was rapidly getting out of control. "Uh, you do recall that Archie's tour is coming up, and-,"
"Good point," FP said smoothly.
"That's true. He makes a very good point," Brand agreed.
Jughead tried one last time. "Mom got me a writing gig, so-,"
At the look on FP's face, Jughead closed his mouth and determined that he would not speak again unless he absolutely had to. This was going from bad to worse.
"What kind of a writing gig?" FP asked far too casually.
"I don't know any of the details," Jughead admitted.
"Gladys Banks does not do things halfway," Brand observed lightly. "I bet it's a good opportunity."
"I… think so," Jughead ventured.
"You'll do that, then," FP said decisively. "I'll come up with what else you'll be expected to do, but you will honor your mother's gift. You'll do the best job you can on this 'writing gig.'"
Jughead looked nervously from FP to Brand.
"Spit it out, kid," Brand said finally. "You look like you're sitting on a bed of nails. And you really should be relaxing."
"Yeah. Relaxing." Jughead made a face. "I just… I want to say thanks. I know you're not happy about what I did, and I know there have to be consequences. And I know that I'm kind of forcing your hands. So, um. Thanks."
FP studied Jughead, and after a few seconds he seemed to relent and his expression softened. "You are forcing our hands. But you also may be completely correct; this might have been the right thing to do. Maybe even the only thing you could have done."
"And it's honestly kind of nice to hear that you still think we can protect you," Brand added ruefully. "Our track record lately hasn't exactly been inspiring."
"I'm glad to hear that you're taking Betty's safety so seriously, too. You are growing up." FP nodded, more to himself than anything. "So. We'll make it work. We have before, and we're uniquely positioned to do it now."
Jughead wasn't sure what 'uniquely positioned' meant in this context, but he was relieved to hear that they weren't mad. Or not too mad, anyway.
"I'm glad that your mother treated you well," FP added. His voice was rough. "I'm very glad."
Brand grunted as if in agreement.
"Well." Jughead hadn't wanted to give voice to this, but now seemed like the time. "To be perfectly honest, it wasn't all good. Richard kind of scares me. I think something's maybe, um, off about him. But…"
As Jughead gathered his thoughts, he could hear Brand and FP breathing in the otherwise silent room. He imagined he could hear their heartbeats and feel their body heat as well, each filling the space with their presence – both promising to be there, whatever might come to pass. And Jughead knew he had to say the rest, for their sakes.
"Look, I also know that things aren't… Well, Mom didn't just randomly show up and get Archie a tour and me a writing job." Jughead waited for a reaction, and was encouraged when both men simply waited for him to say more. "I mean, I've been on a few front pages. Brand's been on even more. Mom had access to the internet. So why now? And I wondered if Richard might be blackmailing Mom or, like, fooling her. But she's not completely trustworthy in all of this either."
Jughead took a deep breath and then took the plunge. "I think she might be up to something. Maybe something dangerous. And she might be trying to get me on her side. Against Dad."
Brand and FP exchanged deeply surprised looks.
They must not have considered this possibility, Jughead realized. He felt badly about disillusioning them about his mother, particularly after everything involving his dad and Agent Sarah – and whatever had happened between Agent Sarah and his mother.
But someone needed to say something. They needed to be warned, and they needed to be careful.
"I think… she might even be using Agent Sarah," Jughead added quietly. That was all he could say on that particular subject, and he looked away from his father; whatever FP's reaction was, it would not be good.
There was a long, heavy silence.
"There are two things that I need to tell you," FP finally said. "First off, Sarah and I have had some serious conversations and think we may be better as… friends."
Jughead nodded without looking up. Ten to one they'd broken up over Sarah and Gladys; his mother had a way of poisoning things when it came to his dad. Hopefully Agent Sarah wouldn't avoid Jughead now, but he wasn't stupid: that had always been a possibility, ever since she'd started dating FP.
"Second, I don't want you to take on any extra burdens when it comes to your mother and her relationship with me, or with anyone else. You just worry about her relationship with you. Got it?" FP crouched beside Jughead's bed at an awkward angle in order to make eye contact with him. "This is important to me. How she treats you is all that should matter to you."
"It's not," Jughead said stubbornly.
"We know that, kid, and I for one appreciate it," Brand said, rubbing his head with a wry smile. "But you're allowed. That's what your father's saying. You're even allowed to love her and not trust her, all at the same time."
Jughead nodded his head once, briefly, fighting back his emotions as Brand put into words the turmoil that had felt like it was turning him inside out. "And if it turns out that Richard is using her, and she isn't up to anything shady, then you promise you'll help –,"
"I'll be first in line to read him his rights," Brand spoke fervently before FP could answer.
Jughead met his father's eyes.
"We'll explore every possibility, Jug," FP said firmly. "But our first priority is getting you through the storm that's about to come. The Southside is going to erupt when this becomes public knowledge. We need to be ready, and I think that step one is getting you out of town before the story breaks."
"Thankfully, we've got a pretty handy trip coming up," Brand said with a smirk. "And in the meantime, it's not like we can go home."
"Really? I'm getting discharged in a day or two," Jughead said. "The tour's not for a few weeks. Are you going to be in the hospital for that long?"
"God, I hope not," Brand said with a short laugh. "No, I just meant that we can't go home."
"Because… I made it unsafe to go home?" Jughead frowned.
"Not exactly. Remember what I said about Trigger not being able to go to the house?" FP grimaced. "Our home is a crime scene. So is Fred's place, although I'm really not sure why they haven't let Mary in yet – they know who was in there. Our house is the big problem. We had quite a few people tramping through our place, so Wilson thinks it might be a week or two before everyone's satisfied that they've collected enough evidence."
Oh.
"What are we going to do, then? Where are we going to go?" Jughead asked.
"I don't know," FP admitted. "I am open to suggestions, though."
Brand snorted. "This should be good."
"And, sadly, typical for us," Jughead said ruefully.
"In what way?" FP asked, mock-offended. "I may not have the best track record, but I have typically kept a roof over our head."
"I certainly did," Brand said. "Though I can't speak for your old man and whatever he means by 'typically.'"
Unlike Jughead, FP could reach Brand to swat him.
"I just mean it's always something." Jughead shrugged.
"That's because we're not boring," Brand said definitively.
FP gave him a look.
Jughead laughed, relieved that they had weathered the conversation and ended up here, having an exchange that was so completely normal.
Normal for them, anyway.
00000
Thank you for reading! I hope this conclusion was satisfying (enough), and I will look forward to hearing everyone's thoughts! It will be a little bit before the next story really gets going, but I'm publishing the prologue right away (for convenience, if nothing else - you'll be able to check it out now and hopefully find it again easily as needed!). The title is Almost Infamous, so that might give you a few clues about our trajectory. :-D I would love to get the first 'real chapter' up this month, but December is what it is so I won't make a promise that might end up being broken... I do fully expect to have it up before January 1st, though. I hope to see you there!
Wishing you every good and happy thing,
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