And now, we get into the story proper. Jughead is home, but has FP changed? Who will cross his path first? Our first flashback is coming...

Disclaimer: Still don't own Riverdale. I just play in this sandbox to avoid querying my novel.
Song: The Suburbs - Arcade Fire


One: The Suburbs

"In a suburban war
Your part of town against mine
I saw you standing on the opposite shore

But by the time the first bombs fell
We were already bored
We were already, already bored

Sometimes I can't believe it
I'm movin' past the feeling..."
The Suburbs - Arcade Fire

Jughead tossed his backpack over his left shoulder and made his way down the aisle of the bus. His steps were measured, heavy with the reality he'd been avoiding throughout the night.

He was back in Riverdale. His hometown.

He'd told himself that it didn't matter if his father had finally gotten his shit together, that the allure of becoming the next Capote was worth the trip. Aside from his frenetic sister Jellybean, the scenery would be no worse: a drunken asshole and broken glass glittering with broken promises. His mother had a type, no question. But stepping out of the stale, recycled air of the Greyhound into the small town sunshine of Riverdale, he knew it had always mattered. His chest ached at the sight of FP: the fidgety hands; that beaming smile from the ethers of childhood memory; and the warm chocolate eyes of sobriety. Fuck, he barely remembered this FP.

"Jughead," FP murmured happily. "Welcome home."

Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe tomorrow, it would all go to hell. Jughead fell into his father's outstretched arms, all the same.

"Hi, Dad." No stink of whiskey or pot, Jughead noted in his embrace.

FP pulled back, jerking his head towards the bus. "You got more bags, I hope?"

"Uh, yeah. Just one. I got it."

Jughead rounded the bus, nodding to the driver leaning against the side. His trusty duffel bag was intact and no worse for wear—impressive, given the long journey and number of stops. He didn't have much, but his threadbare clothes and broken-in shoes were comfortable, and that was all he cared about. He slung the duffel over his right shoulder, wincing as a familiar pain rippled through his arm. His least favourite souvenir from Toledo.

"Hey, let me help," FP offered.

"It's cool, I can handle it."

His father's hand seized the shoulder strap, tugging firmly. "I know you can handle it, Jug. You don't have to, though. That's the point."

It clearly meant something to his father to step up, like it meant something that FP could make it here first thing in the morning. Jughead nodded, relenting with a half-smile. They were testing each other, two peacocks in full plume. I am strong. I am not going to fail.

His duffel landed with a soft plop in the bed of the truck. Turning around, his father smiled nervously.

"You catch some sleep on the bus?"

Jughead shrugged. "An hour or two. The road to Riverdale is paved in potholes."

He watched his father thrust his hands deep inside the pockets of his leather jacket. Another tell. He's anxious and wants to hide it, desperately. His lips parted slightly, but FP remained silent.

"I'm not that tired. I mean, if you had something you needed to do before we go. Home," he added hurriedly.

The word left a metallic taste on his tongue. Home. What did that even mean, anymore?

His father's hands fell free of their pocket snares, but his eyes skirted the gravel beneath them. "I was just… Well, I thought, being as we're up at the asscrack of dawn, that we could take advantage and grab breakfast at Pop's."

He's trying. He's trying hard.

Jughead chuckled softly. "Come on, Dad. You know I'm never too anything to eat."

FP's loud peal of laughter startled the bus driver. "Alright, then! Get in, son, before Pop runs out of those perfect hash browns of his."


Stepping through the doors of Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, Jughead's breath hitched.

A staple of Riverdale life, the twenty-four hour diner was a time warp to a less troubled time, when the Bobby soxers twisted the night away. Comfortable booths lined the walls and dotted the centre aisle, while the owner, Pop Tate, helmed his kitchen with pride. A jukebox glimmered in the corner, highlighted in a crimson hue by sunlight streaking through cherry-red blind slats.

It was where Jughead and his friends spent their afternoons, downing milkshakes until their bellies ached and splitting an order of fries when their allowances ran lean. It was the one place where Jughead had refused to celebrate a birthday with his dysfunctional family, lest it be tainted. It was his place.

"Booth in that corner okay, Jug?"

He shook himself slightly, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Yeah, dad."

They settled into the cushioned seats opposite each other, FP claiming the view of the entrance, while Jughead had the service counter and grill in sight. The scent of Pop's fluffy chocolate chip pancakes wafted over, making his stomach growl in anticipation.

The lone waitress on shift hustled over, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The menus in her hand were waved away. Both were well versed in the delicacies on the breakfast menu: FP ordered a Denver omelette with hash browns, while Jughead opted for Pop's Saturday special: 3 eggs, 2 chocolate chip pancakes dusted in powdered sugar, fried ham and thick, buttered toast. The waitress—Ellie, her nametag read—flipped their ticket over her shoulder into Pop's waiting hand and made quick work of pouring their coffee.

FP reached for a cream container, peeling it open. "So, how have you been? I see you still lug that bag everywhere," he added, nodding to the backpack beside his son.

"Riverdale may not be New York City, but I'm not leaving my laptop in the truck." Jughead's fingers toyed with a sugar packet, turning it slowly. "And I'm good, I guess? School in Toledo is a joke. I could sleep through class and get a 4.0."

FP chuckled softly. "You were never one to slack. Never one to let your teachers slack, either."

"And let them text and tweet while we bow quietly and teach ourselves? Nothing wrong with high standards of those in authority."

The moment the words escaped his lips, he regretted them. His father's smile slumped to a frown and he toyed with the handle of his coffee cup. While Jughead's words had been aimed more at his grade eight science teacher, the parallels to FP's absentee parenting were undeniable.

"Dad, I didn't mean—"

"No, you did. Even if you don't think you did," FP insisted, cutting off Jughead's protests. "And that's okay, Jug. It is. I won't pretend I was ever a good father, but I wanted to be. I want to be."

Jughead glanced out the window, swiping a loose curl of hair back beneath his beanie. "I know you do. I wouldn't have left Toledo if I didn't believe you."

They sat in silence, sipping coffee and pretending the table between them was a mile long. Maybe this was a terrible idea, Jughead mused bitterly. Yeah, maybe FP had changed. But ten minutes of amicability did little to assuage ten years of erratic anger (his dad) and evasive actions (him).

Yeah, but remember HIM? Mom's asshole of the week that became a year?

Better the devil you know, or so he was told. And, as the waitress arrived with their meal, he reminded himself that Riverdale had Pop's. Delicious food, served 24-7. A safe haven.

Make it work, Jughead, he admonished himself.

"So, you said you've been working again?" he asked casually.

FP nodded, his shoulders pushing back in pride. "Yeah. Fred picked up a contract, tearing down the Twilight and helping with that huge Lodge project. Said he could use experienced hands."

"Huh. I'm glad he came around—wait, the Twilight's gone?" Jughead dropped his fork with a clatter-clang. "Aw, fuck! I loved that place."

"I know." His father sighed, shaking his head. "Money talks, all the way to City Hall. Same as it ever was. Fred's business was too thin to say no to the gig and me… Well, you know."

Jughead grimaced, angrily spearing a piece of pancake. The Twilight Drive-In had been a staple of his childhood. Every Friday night, before FP had taken to drowning himself in whiskey, they'd pile into the car and head out for a movie. Perpetually poor, he'd always hide with his sister in the trunk, emerging once they parked in a row far from the entrance. He remembered how he and JB would make a game of staying silent, even as the car sped over the rough gravel roads.

"I'm sorry, Jug. A lot's changed around here since you left."

"I know it has. Life moves on, with or without you. John Hughes taught me that. Or maybe he taught me to blow off school and get the girl."

FP laughed. "I always wanted to be Ferris Bueller. Instead, I got to raise him."

"Oh, sure." Jughead smirked, gesturing to the other patrons of Pop's. "The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore me."

A shared chuckle quietly exchanged, each Jones man continued to chip away at his generous breakfast. Jughead found himself scanning the patrons of the diner, in search of familiar faces. There were a few he recognized immediately—Kevin Keller, the sheriff's son, was tucked in a nearby booth with an unfamiliar brunette; Reggie Mantle and Moose Mason were laughing and jostling each other in that bro way Jughead could never stand—but many faces failed to register.

Until the door to Pop's swung open, and a flood of memories strolled inside.

"Are you sure you have to go, Juggie?"

She's the only one who gets away with calling me that. She gets away with a lot of things, really. Like her surely deliberate obtuseness, for starters.

"You know how bad it's been lately. FP's never gonna change, and my mom is terrified of this move. She married him straight out of high school. If I don't go, she might not go." My fingers tug absently on the lace trim of her bedspread. "And I need her to be safe."

Her face darkens. "You told me he wasn't hitting you. Were you lying?"

"What? No, Betty—"

"You can trust me. You know you can, right?"

Those beautiful green eyes of hers, wide and round, are misty now. Her voice crackles with pain, with the thought she has somehow let me down. Her perfectionism's a cruel mistress, a carbon copy of Mama Cooper's endless chastising.

I rise slowly, my hands gripping her shoulders tightly. "He hasn't hit us. Not yet, anyway."

"But you're worried he might," she concludes.

My eyes skirt my battered black boots, unable to withstand that inquisitive stare. Journalist's daughter, through and through. My hands fall to my sides, awkwardly fidgeting. I'm always fidgeting around her. Seeking a distraction from all the things my hands long to do.

"I'm just… I'm really going to miss you." Her hand finds mine, soft skin cradling the rough calluses of my fingertips. "You'll write me, won't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course I will."

I edge away, turning to her shelves of books. If a movie were staging the room of a teenage girl, I imagine these would be the books the prop department would choose: Judy Blume, Margaret Atwood, Harry Potter in hardcover. The Nancy Drew books elicit a smile, though. Betty's always loved a good mystery. Too bad she can't take a clue when it comes to her love life. Archie will never see her as more than a friend.

The bitter irony, of course, is that I can't seem to take a hint, either. Masochism at its Shakespearean finest.

"Oh! We're still doing the book swap, right?"

A welcome distraction, indeed. "Yes! I have yours in my bag."

It was my idea to swap books. For years, Betty and I have had an informal book club, sharing recommendations between classes and debating themes over lunch. It drives Archie nuts, since he can barely force himself to read the required list for English. I can't deny that Betty's undivided attention doesn't make my stomach roll in a strangely wonderful way.

When I announced my decision to move to Toledo, Betty had immediately pointed out how much she would miss our literary debates. Unable to let our bond break so quickly, I decided that each of us should give the other a book to remember them by. Something that we each related to strongly.

I pull the heavy tome I've selected from my backpack, smiling at the familiar cover. I could spend hours discussing Danielewski's House of Leaves. The way the text is physically laid out; the story within a story within a story; the themes of loss and love within… It's a book I never tire of.

I feel like she'll appreciate the stylistic elements, perhaps relate strongest to the photojournalist character. Selfishly, I want it to take days to read so she won't forget me easily.

"Is that for me?"

Her eyes are wide, pale pink lips curving into a smile. Her beautiful hair is pulled back in a perfect ponytail, as usual. I wish I could pull it loose, watch the soft waves fall over her shoulders. Her imperfections are what make her so special. I wish she could trust in them, accept them, as I do.

"Yeah, it is. I've been saving this one for summer, but I, uh, won't be here then. That mine?" I gesture to the book she's hugging to her chest.

"Uh-huh. You have to promise to keep an open mind, though."

"Betty Cooper! Have you brought me erotic literature?"

Her cheeks flush crimson. "What? No! It's just… the cover might seem a little girly, but the story is really good."

I can't help myself. "Is it a romance novel? Harlequin, perhaps? Are there brooding vampires and shirtless werewolves?"

"Jughead Jones, stop it!" Her icy gaze silences me. "Just shut up and take your gift, alright?"

Duly rebuked, I hold out my offering for our exchange. "Sorry, Betts. You know me: always taking it too far."

"Yes, you do," she mutters, trading her book for mine. "I'm going to miss that, too."

She studies the book I've given her, reading the back cover immediately. She bites softly at her lower lip, as she often does while concentrating, and I force myself to turn away, lest I grow a spine at last and kiss away the faint teeth marks that will remain. Her book is far less pages, but the cover catches my interest. Cracked Up To Be, the title announces. The cover features a young girl scarcely older than us, by my guess, lying on a bench in a school uniform. Flipping it over, I find myself intrigued. There's a mystery between the lines.

"This sounds incredible, Juggie."

"I'm intrigued by yours, as well. My mind is wide open," I reassure her.

A horn beeps outside and I grimace. My mother is waiting. I'd foolishly left this farewell to the very last minute, believing it would somehow be easier to leave her. Now, all I want is more time: time to make her laugh; time to admire her passion for justice; time to finally admit how I feel. But that time is lost, and here we are: two friends, parting ways indefinitely.

"I'll write you every week," she promises me.

"I'll always write back." I can feel the tears welling up—hot, wet traitors threatening to spill my secrets.

She throws herself into my arms, her head burrowing into my shoulder. I return the embrace, my arms tight around her shuddering frame. I hate myself for being a reason for her to cry.

"Shh, come on, Betty. It's going to be okay." I inhale deep, wanting to memorize the strawberry-vanilla of her shampoo. "Shh, please don't cry. God, please, please don't cry over me…"

Traitor orbs of saline. They're tumbling down my cheeks, into her silken hair. So this is what a broken heart feels like. Note to self: never fucking do this again. Never let love creep in.

"I'll miss you. You and Archie, you've been my friends forever. But you…" She pauses, drawing a shaky breath. "I can't talk writing or books with him. And no one makes me laugh like you do."

"And no one sees me like you do," I murmur into her ear. "You always see the best in everyone."

Another horn blast from outside. For a wild minute, I debate opening Betty's window and screaming that I've changed my mind. I'm not going. I'll take my chances with my deadbeat father. But then, I think of Jellybean, of how sensitive and small my sister is, and I know I have to be there for her as her world turns upside down.

Reluctantly, I pull back, brushing tears from her cheeks. "Don't ever lose that, Betty. That ability to see the good in people that they can't see anymore. Or never saw at all. Promise me."

She nods slowly, her fingers stretching to toy with the loose curl I can never keep tucked beneath my favourite beanie. "I promise. Don't you ever forget how big your heart is, Jughead Jones. Or I swear, I'll jump a bus to Toledo to remind you."

"I won't forget." I swallow hard. "That would be like forgetting you. And I could never do that."

A third horn blast sounds, and a fourth. This is it. It's time.

"I'll walk you downstairs," she whispers sadly.

I tuck her book into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I'll read it on the drive to Toledo. But first, I need to make sure she'll be okay. My arm wraps around her shoulder as we descend the steps of Casa Cooper, squeezing her gently.

"On the bright side, think of all the money you'll save, not having to buy me burgers and shakes all the time," I joke weakly.

"True. I might actually be able to afford college now." She manages a smile through her tears, and I accept that's the best I'm going to get.

"Oh hush, you know you'll get a full ride to any school you want. But you'll be able to afford a very expensive car to drive there."

She leans into me, gently poking my ribs. "And I'll drive to Toledo to show it off and spite you. While drinking a shake from Pop's."

Opening her front door, I laugh. "If anyone in this world can make a shake last for that long of a drive, it's you."

She pulls away slowly, leaning against the doorframe. "Take care of yourself, okay? I mean it."

"I will if you will."

"It's a deal." Her tears fall in earnest, despite the warm smile she offers. "Goodbye, Juggie."

Fuck it. I pull her in for another hug, crushing her to my chest. Her arms snake around my waist, her fingers fisted in my t-shirt. One last time. Because no matter what lies I've told her about visiting soon, I know I won't be back. I won't be able to handle losing her again. It's that finality that emboldens me: my lips press softly to the top of her head, the barest of touches.

"I have to go."

"I understand."

"Don't hate me for it," I plead, pulling away.

"I could never hate you." She falls against the doorframe, steadying herself. "You know that."

"I do. I needed to hear it, though." One last look into those eyes of hers, and I step outside. "Goodbye, Betty Cooper."

"Until we meet again, Jughead Jones."

She hadn't noticed him yet, and for that, Jughead was eternally grateful. It had been almost six months since he'd heard from Betty, her letters dying off so abruptly, he'd called Archie in a panic, convinced she'd been hurt or even killed. Archie had been evasive, saying only that Betty was perfectly fine, but busy. Standing at the counter, waiting on a take-out order, he could readily see one new thing taking up her time: her cheerleader garb was jarring, but her muscular legs suggested she'd taken to her new extracurricular with the same perfectionistic obsession she'd tackled everything with in her life.

His father had finally caught on, cocking his head to the side. "Isn't that—"

"Shh!" he hissed. "Later."

To his relief, FP dropped it immediately. Which left Jughead staring at his old friend and unrequited… crush? Love? Hell, he didn't know. A part of him knew he should duck his head, avoid being seen. He wasn't ready for her, for the conversation he needed to have with her. His plan had always been to see Archie first and demand answers.

For now, he could only watch with wonder as she paced and texted on her phone. How could she possibly be more beautiful than he'd left her? That perfect ponytail of hers swayed slowly as she glanced outside. She was anxious about something, he immediately recognized. Was she running late, maybe?

"Will it be much longer?" she asked quietly.

"Just a minute more," a waitress assured her.

The front door chimed, and with it came a booming voice: "What's the hold up, Betty?"

She spun in the direction of the door and Jughead followed suit, recognizing Chuck Clayton immediately. He'd been on the football team with Archie in middle school.

"It's almost ready, Chuck," Betty blurted out.

Chuck's brow furrowed. "I thought you called it in?"

"I did! I did, Chuck. But it's Saturday…"

Why is she so defensive? Jughead frowned, ducking his head as Clayton scanned the diner.

"Here you go, Betty!" Pops announced loudly, handing over a large paper bag and a shake.

"Oh, thank you!" Betty gushed, rushing to meet Chuck by the door. "See? It's ready now."

"About time," Chuck spat, shoving open the door. "Let's go, Betty."

He watched the pair walk to a waiting Lexus, studying their body language. After years of reading his father for signs of intoxicated rage, Jughead considered himself a bit of an expert. And while Chuck's assertive stride and forceful opening of the doors made sense with his jock bravado, it was Betty's slow, measured steps that bothered him. There was something off there, something distinctly not her.

"Jug?"

He glanced across the table at his father's concerned look. "Betty."

"Archie's friend. Yours too, right?"

"We used to be." Jughead frowned, pushing away his unfinished pancakes. "You see her often?"

"Not anymore," FP replied. "She used to have dinner with Fred and Arch once or twice a week. Not lately, though. A boyfriend will do that."

They're dating?

"You okay?"

Jughead forced a smile. "Yeah, dad. Just surprised, and tired from the trip. Would it be okay if we headed home?"

"Sure thing. You look wiped out."

As his father signalled for the check, Jughead found himself remembering that strawberry-vanilla scent. He was exhausted, and sleep would need to come first. But after? He had some catching up to do with an old friend.