Summary:

Jughead and Betty investigate.

They both discover some unexpected truths.

Chapter Three - Exhale

It's been two weeks since he promised her he'd help find her sister. Two weeks since the dance. Two weeks since she confessed to Archie and two weeks since Archie turned her down.

While they left no stone unturned in the investigation of Betty's missing sister, Jughead kept a quiet eye on Betty. He watched for the subtle signs that her heartbreak might become something more. After all, who knew the signs better than him?

Despite his keen observations, Betty showed no symptoms. She met every challenge with the same limitless energy. She never wheezed nor gasped. Her breath never caught nor stuck in her chest. When they sat together with their heads pressed close and plotted their next move, he never caught the sharp, sweet scent of fresh blossoms on her breath.

After two weeks, Betty's sadness had waned under the fervor of their investigation. Every so often Jughead would catch her staring wistfully at Archie with a trace of open longing. Then, in the blink of an eye, it would be gone, replaced by the drive to solve the mystery. The only way Jug could think to help her was remain by her side as they relentlessly forged ahead in their investigation. Over the last few days, pieces of the mystery had finally dropped in place. They found solid leads concerning Polly's location and were able to formulate a plan.

Now, they stood hand in hand outside the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. The fading days of October lent an ominous undercurrent to their endeavors. Nor did it help that the massive brick edifice loomed large and cast long, sinister shadows over them. Betty shivered with more than the chill in the air.

He gave her hand a squeeze. "We got this."

"I know." Betty squared her shoulders and placed her foot on the first step. "Thanks for coming with me, Juggie."

"Anything for you Betts." His breath caught in his chest, but he didn't wheeze as they marched up the stairs. Being with her helped.

He held the door for her as they entered and once inside, her hand immediately found his again. They entered a stark, dimly lit foyer which served double duty as both waiting room and vestibule. Betty shivered, her free hand chaffing at her opposite arm in a futile attempt to ward off the chill. While it scarcely seemed possible, it was colder inside the building than it had been outside. The cold was a tangible presence and hung heavy in the air. A Sister glared at them from her perch behind what appeared to be the admissions desk. Her eyes were austere and guarded. Despite the order's name, there was no mercy (quiet or otherwise) to be found here.

"May I help you?" The question was perfunctory at best. It was meant to speed them on their way without any real intention to help.

Betty addressed the Sister with her best, most proper Alice Cooper approved smile. Though she smiled brightly, her words were laced with a steel which refused to be denied. "I'd like to see my sister, Polly Cooper. Please."

The Sister looked away first. She flipped through her appointment book as she gave the barest approximation of scanning through her records. "I'm afraid…"

"I'm not asking. I know that my sister is a resident here and I will see her today." Betty broke in before she could be denied. "If you're thinking about refusing me, you might want to reconsider. I am friends with the sheriff's son. I've been to his house many times. And, if I call him, Sheriff Keller will take my call. He will believe me when I say there's something not right going on at the Sister's of Quiet Mercy."

"Fine. Follow me. I'll take you to the Sister in charge." The Sister placed her palms on the arms of her chair and propelled herself to her feet with a huff. She headed for the door on her left. There was an electronic buzz, followed by a heavy kur-thunk as she unlocked the door. Jughead allowed Betty to lead, their hands still intertwined.

"He," contempt dripped from the sister's voice as she peered over half-moon spectacles at Jughead, "will need to remain here. Male visitors are not permitted in the dorms."

He glanced at Betty. This was her call. If she wanted, he would protest until they allowed him back, or he would wait here.

"It's okay Juggie. I'll see that Polly is all right, then we can go." Her eyes flickered to the desk so briefly only he noticed.

Jughead squeezed her hand, letting her know he understood before letting go and taking a seat on one of the rickety, wooden chairs lining the wall. With his elbows propped on his knees, he leaned low over his phone and tapped a vague text message out to Archie. It's what anyone watching would expect from a teenager. Meanwhile, he counted to twenty in his head, then twenty again. No one came to check on him, though he was certain the Sister wouldn't be away from her post for long.

Hopping to his feet, Jughead moved as fast as he dared to the door. Speed was important, but so was stealth. It wouldn't do to have a coughing fit in the midst of the investigation. That would draw unwanted attention. The door Betty had disappeared behind opened with a push. Clever as always, Betty had wedged a folded piece of paper between the door and the frame, blocking the heavy deadbolt from setting back in place.

He wasn't certain what he was looking for. Their path to Polly had led them to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, though it didn't take a genius to tell something sketch was going on here. To figure that out, they would need information. Since time was limited, he would take as much as he could, they could decide how to use it later.

Grabbing a log book at random, he opened it and began snapping pictures of the records. His fingers lightly traced down the page, stopping when he finally realized the page he was reading was a record of 'Bouquet Girls.' It was an antiquated and sexist euphemism for those suffering Hanahaki Disease. There had been a time when it was considered a female-only disease. That men were too rational to succumb to heartbreak in such a dramatic fashion. He rubbed his chest trying to get at the ever present tightness suffocating him. Obviously, such misogynist theories were complete and utter bullshit.

The need to know what was happening burned bright within his chest, scorching the insides of his slowly constricting ribs. Was the need to know simply a facet of a morbid curiosity? Or, was he drawn to this because of his connection? That someday soon, the disease would get the better of him and he'd no longer be able to hide it. That this was a window into his future sufferings.

He swallowed the bitter gall rising up the back of his throat. Though his intentions might not be as pure as finding a missing sister, discovering the intentions of an institute which used such antiquated terms to refer to their patients held a certain level of worthy intent. Did they practice the archaic 'treatments' which often went in tandem with such terminology?

His gaze swept the small office searching for further clues. A map of the building was pinned to the wall. A brief glance told him the 'Bouquet Wing' ran parallel to the one where the Sister had led Betty to presumably see Polly. He needed to know.

The hallways were white—white linoleum and white walls. They were all meticulously clean, but the purity of the white was smudged by time and apathy. The flickering overhead fluorescent lights cast everything in jaundice shadows.

Reaching the spot where the path diverged, Jughead walked past the door blocking the hallway where Betty had been taken. Part of him wanted to abandon the mission, find Betty, and get them both out of here before they could fall prey to the sinister Sisters' malevolent machinations. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and forced himself forward. Betty needed this. The investigation kept her mind from all the things she didn't want to think about, so he would continue to be what she needed.

Reaching the next door, Jughead pressed against the push bar. To his surprise, it gave at his touch and admitted him to the ward. The door creaked on protesting hinges heralding his arrival. He held his breath and waited as though if he paused in the act, his illicit snooping might go unnoticed. When no stern-faced matron nor no-necked orderly appeared to chase him from his investigation, he proceeded down the corridor.

The ward was as plain and lifeless as all the others he'd seen. But, behind the doors lining the hall he heard the echoing of body racking coughing fits. He fought the pressure in his chest which longed to join the cacophony in empathetic kinship. As he expected, these girls—these young women—suffered from Hanahaki Disease.

Shame flushed his cheeks as passed down the ward. He felt like a voyeur. Though each of the girl had a room to themselves, there was no privacy. Each door had a large window. On his right, girls rocked on cots or paced their rooms. Everywhere he looked their was an excess of emotion. Tears of loss and pain. Anger in protestation of their captivity. A profusion of love. Many of the young women were pregnant, though not all.

For some reason he hadn't expected that. When he and Betty found the demure website for Sisters of Quiet Mercy, they had expected something akin to a Magdalene Laundry. The site had promised "a refuge of serene reflection for the restoration of young ladies overwhelmed by the taint of the modern world." It didn't take a genius to read the true intent behind the euphemistic wording. Betty had fully expected to find Polly pregnant. He hadn't expected…this.

He didn't recognize any of the girls from Riverdale. Where did they come from? The neighboring communities? Across the state? From around the country? He wasn't certain what sickened him more the thought that such a monstrosity existed practically in his backyard, or that there could be other such barbaric institutions across the country.

Catching movement from the corner of his eye, Jughead paused outside a door midway down the corridor. Like called to like in the case of unrequited love. A young woman a few years older than his sixteen caught his eyes. Instead of the effusion of emotion, she seemed almost resigned to a fate beyond her control. She was heavily pregnant and though her eyes were as red as the others, they were tearless. He couldn't look away, tear his gaze away from her. She walked towards the door, one hand cradling her swollen belly, the other protectively caressing it. Halfway across the room, she paused, doubling over to cough into a tissue. The coppery scent of blood filled the air, it mingled with the sickly sweet scent of rotting flowers. As she stowed the tissue in the pocket of her burgundy cardigan, Jughead caught a glimpse of delicate jasmine blossoms. The white petals were stained crimson with blood. His chest squeezed tight in sympathy and he once again forced a cough down, 'til what little space left in his lungs felt as though they'd explode. When she righted herself, she wiped the remnant of blood from her lips with the cuff of her pale blue dress. The material showed evidence of rusty red stains.

He hated that he stood there gawking like tourist at Bedlam, but she had captured his attention, not letting it go. When the only thing separating them was the glass, she pointed across the hall. Jughead blinked, breaking the connection. With a nod she turned and returned to her cot.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he'd been ignoring the left side of the hall. While the right was a cacophony of noise and pain, the left was eerily silent. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't convince himself the other side was empty. Especially since he couldn't miss the brown folders of patient files outside each room.

His hands shook to the point where it was almost impossible to read the chart. The only word he could clearly make out was stamped in bright red across the front page—CURED. His stomach soured. One glance at the girl curled on the bed and shivering under a light blanket made him think she was anything other than cured. Her dull listless eyes stared unperceiving into the middle distance. The only thing about her which appeared 'well' was the steady, silent rise and fall of her chest. His lungs wheezed in longing for a similar sweet relief, while his heart seized in terror with the knowledge of how such relief was achieved.

There were two so-called cures for Hanahaki Disease. The best case being that the love would be requited before it was too late. In those cases, the growth would, with time, disengage from the lungs and pass from the body. The Sisters of Quiet Mercy didn't seem like the kind of place which encouraged the development of healthy relationships and requited love.

The only remaining way to 'cure' the disease was the complete removal of the growth. But, the side effects were considered worse than the cure. Most would rather die than continue living with the side effects of the cure. For those who willingly chose to have the plants removed, the side effects were limited. They would lose the ability to feel love for their beloved. At most they could feel friendship or general fondness, but they would never again feel the same burning, driving passions. Those who chose to have the growth removed could go on to live a generally normal life with only a small hole in their heart. Like something important was missing, but they couldn't quite put their finger on it. The proponents of this treatment failed to mention, that for the rest of their lives, the 'cured' often lacked the ability of feel deeply, to create lasting bonds with others.

If the growth was removed without willing consent, the patient would live, but their life was a shadow of what it was before. They would either become numb and walk through life in an emotionally detached state or they would become hard, brittle, and distant.

These girls had not been willing.

Before Jughead could do more than wrap his hand around the nearest doorknob in an attempt to free the unwilling patients, the door on the far side of the corridor creaked open in an echo of the door he'd opened minutes earlier. Two orderlies built like football players pushed a gurney through the narrow door. Wide leather straps with heavy buckles were attached to the gurney at where the ankles and wrists would lie. The wheels squeaked and one wobbled, causing the gurney to veer to the right.

It took a moment for the orderlies to realize anything was amiss in their ward. In the sterile, unnaturally white corridor, the sight of Jughead in his dark flannels stood out as incongruous to even the most obtuse of thick neck bruisers. Then, in the time it took Jughead to release a wheezing breath, the orderlies made their move.

"Stop," the taller orderly commanded.

His broader compatriot attempted to push past his colleague when Jughead turned on his heel and fled in the opposite direction. The faulty wheel on the cot stuck and the whole assembly veered to the side, blocking the corridor. The orderlies worked in opposition, only managing to wedge the gurney tighter in the narrow passageway. Before they could figure out if they ought to free the cot or themselves, Jughead reached the main corridor.

"Betty," he yelled, his voice nearly drowned out by a discordant klaxon. They needed to leave now.

Either in response to the alarm or to his call, Betty tore out of her hallway and met Jughead at a blind run.

"Polly?" He asked as he gasped for breath. His chest burned and a stitch began to pinch and pull at his side.

"Was here, but she's missing…not sure how long. The Matron gave me…the runaround." Betty's breathing remained even and strong. All her morning runs were paying off now.

They stumbled into the waiting room, then past the front door. Betty grabbed Jughead's hand as they raced down the steps and into the woods. The heavy tread of the orderlies feet thundered behind the escaping pair.

Jughead's vision threatened to blackout as they continued to run and oxygen couldn't reach his lungs. He tightened his grip on Betty's hand, trusting her to lead him towards safety. Meanwhile his knees grew weak and he struggled to lift his feet high enough to clear the tangles of undergrowth.

After what felt like forever, they broke through the woods and into the open. They'd long since lost the crash and roar of the orderlies in pursuit. Before them, the highway stretched out to the horizon in either direction. Jughead didn't recognize where they were along the route, but at the rate with which the world was spinning, he doubted he would recognize the Chok'lit shoppe either. Black spots danced before his eyes. His legs, unable to support him any longer, gave way and he landed hard on his knees.

"Juggie…" Betty's voice sounded a mile away. She kept speaking but he couldn't decipher a word.

He opened his mouth to respond, instead he began to cough. Bracing his hands on the ground, he tried to find a position which allowed him a modicum of space to breathe. His throat burned as he first coughed up blood and bile. It wasn't long before his body shook with each violent expulsion of plant matter. It scratched and tore up his throat and choked the passageway. This time it wasn't only the blossoms, but stems and roots as well. Mangled white blossoms mixed with the ichor. Lily-of-the-valleys were an invasive flower. Once there was one, the rest would quickly follow until they filled all the available space. In the language of flowers, they spoke of a return to happiness. To Jughead—they meant Betty.

Betty stared in horror as the significance dawned on her concerning the presence of flowers among his coughing fit. Though the heady perfume of flowers intermingled with the coppery burn of blood, Betty knelt beside him. She rubbed his back, massaging the tight muscles constricting with each body racking cough, until they loosened enough for the passage of oxygen. When he finally stopped coughing, the pressure in his chest eased slightly with the amount of plant matter he dispelled. He managed an almost full breath before the space began to fill up with new growths. Betty helped him sit up and handed him tissues to clean his face and hands.

"Wh-who is it?" Her voice shook and her eyes were blown wide in fear.

Jughead bit his lip and fought the temptation to shake his head and dismiss the truth with a lie of omission. It would only be a futile gesture meant to save his pride. There was no way she didn't know he was suffering from unrequited love, especially after this rather dramatic display. His tongue was heavy with the proof of his love—both sour and sweet.

"You, Betty. It's always been you," he rasped. His abused throat screamed painfully with the words.

"No." Betty blinked. Her gaze was glued to the delicate blossoms scattered on the ground. She couldn't look away from the gruesome display. The edge of panic infused her words. "No, Juggie, it can't be me. No….no…it's not possible. You can't love me…. It's too much responsibility. I can't….I can't lose you…."

On hands and knees, she scrambled away from him, putting enough space between them that they could no longer touch. He didn't have the strength to protest and she curled her hands into tight fists until her nails pierced skin.

"Betts," he croaked. His heart sank. Of course the confession had been too much. No one could love Jughead Jones. He was unlovable. Everyone always left him. He wasn't reason enough for anyone to stay. And now, he'd ruined their friendship. With one confession, he drove away the most important person in his life. He'd spend his few remaining days alone.

"No…no…." Tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her heated cheeks. "I-I need to…." She fumbled with her phone and called emergency services. Reporting what they had witnessed, Betty pleaded with them to send the cops to the Sisters and an ambulance for Jughead.

Betty's tear streaked face was the last thing he saw before darkness took him.

—