**Note the changes to chapter one as of 5/31/17 I made changes in order to lengthen the story**

Jughead did his best to put the surreal events of the previous night in the back of his mind. He focused on his investigation with Betty and Kevin. They were interrupted by the sweetly hesitant Trevor, who verified his date with the pretty blonde. He was surprised when he felt an unfamiliar twist in his chest; his friend was dating someone. He and Kevin picked her denial apart, effectively tag-teaming her, and only gained a blush and a denial for their trouble. He was jealous. He reminded himself that he had no right to be jealous when he was engaging in…activities.

The moody teen kept thinking about Betty's 'Intelligence gathering mission' with Trevor, and stayed on the higher bleachers during Veronica's teasing. He didn't need anyone seeing him roll his eyes when the dark-haired girl referenced Nicholas Sparks in regards to Betty and Trevor. He ignored the discussion until Cheryl's voice startled him.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sad Breakfast Club." Cheryl handed out the formal invitations while telling them all that they were formally invited to the second, and apparently more fashionable funeral for her brother. She didn't look at Jughead, but handed his invite to Kevin who handed it back to him. He broke the seal and read the fine script with the date and time. Veronica left just after Cheryl, and he made his excuses, wanting to be alone. She was burying her brother…again. Maybe she'd needed a distraction, or some comfort from him. Any residual anger he'd been feeling towards the girl, for coming onto him so strongly, eased off. It was replaced by something else; pity? Compassion? He wasn't completely certain.

Jughead took the city bus out to the stop that was closest to the Blossom's estate. He used the side-entrance, as Cheryl had requested. The guest house was actually the old gate house from when the main entrance was closer to the maple grove. The building was square, two stories, and made from the same stone as the main house. It had small windows, and old doors, a bit neglected, but still classy. The pond and a grove of decorative trees separated it from the main house, but a stone pathway wove through the trees to the door. The first floor had a small kitchen with a breakfast bar, a couch and a chair. The upstairs was one large master suite with a standing shower, but no bathtub. He didn't mind, it was the nicest place in which he'd ever lived.

Jughead stared at the wall in silence and thought about packing up his things tonight. The Blossoms would probably need the guest house for family members who'd be arriving for the funeral. He thought about the clean sheets on the bed, and remembered Cheryl spitting after he'd come in her mouth. For all of her actions as the aggressor in the acts she'd performed, that had seemed the most upsetting. She had been rejecting part of him; and to spit his own substance onto the bed where he slept had been visceral and raw. It had hurt and embarrassed him, and left him feeling like there was something wrong with him. He glanced at the kitchen and the instant noodles he was planning to eat for dinner, when the door opened. He stood, quickly, and rubbed his damp palms on his trouser legs.

Cheryl had changed her clothes since school. No longer in her black skirt and blouse, she now wore a white, pantsuit that flattered her. She also looked like she was freshly showered, and wore very little makeup now. She held the door open and a young woman in black pants and a white shirt walked in. She carried a large serving tray and looked at the redhead who jerked her chin at the bar. Giving Jughead a brief smile, the woman set the tray down and left. There were several covered dishes on the tray, along with a pair of carafes, and the smell of food made his stomach growl; he joined her at the bar.

"The caterers came by with samples for the food we're serving at the funeral," Cheryl said, closing the door behind her. "They always bring too much." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and approached the tray. "There's some baked salmon with rice and asparagus," she said, lifting one of the silver-domed covers. "If you'd prefer beef, there's steak, herbed potatoes and peas." Her skin was ghostly, and there was a slight tremor in her hands when she lifted the second cover.

"Do you need me to leave tonight?" Jughead asked, placing his hand on the granite counter top. "I mean, if you have family or friends coming for the funeral, they'll probably need the guest house, right?"

"Don't be silly," she replied, placing a set of silverware rolled in a linen napkin on the counter. "Family and friends will stay in the main house." She glanced around at the room. "This place hasn't been updated in so long, it wouldn't be suitable." She didn't seem to notice what she'd just said, and he smiled. Then he noticed her eyes flick to the second set of silverware on the tray.

"Which did you like best?" The question was neutral enough, intended to keep her engaged. Jughead wasn't sure why he wanted her to continue talking to him, but she seemed so fragile, he had a sudden fear that she'd get knocked over by the army of staff who were carrying chairs and tables into the main house. If she fell, he was certain she'd shatter.

"I didn't try either one." The redhead didn't look at him, but busied herself setting down the plates and adding empty wine glasses. He noticed that the glasses were different, and realized that one was for the red wine that she poured from one of the carafes, and the other glass was for the white.

"What are you in the mood for?" he asked, picking up the glass of red wine and giving it a quick sniff. "Red or white?" He caught the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"In this outfit?" she gestured to the white silk. "White."

"Don't want to live dangerously?" He let a smile of his own come out. He nudged the glass of red wine towards her. "Playing it safe?"

"You just want the salmon," she replied.

"We can switch halfway, if you want." Jughead picked up the glass of white wine and waited while his hostess moved the tray to the small table beside the couch. There were smaller dishes that hadn't been uncovered, but he could be patient. The plates and glasses were set across from each other. He tugged out the tall chair that was in front of the beef dish for her, getting a quick look of surprise from her. He might not have had many opportunities to show off, but his mother had taught him manners, and his father had reminded him to always use them with ladies. He sipped the white wine, cool and crisp, as he sat down in front of his plate.

"Veronica's going to come over the night before the funeral," Cheryl said, neatly slicing off a small piece of beef. "She's going to have dinner and then sleepover with me." She was giving Jughead an explanation for a planned absence from his bed. She popped the beef into her mouth and chewed, delicately. Then she sliced a small potato in half and ate it, followed by a forkful of peas. Following her example, he took a small bite of the salmon and ignored the asparagus. The fish melted in his mouth and he gave a small nod. "How is it?"

"Light," he replied. "The dill works." The teen took a bite of the rice and another sip of the wine. "I'm no expert, but the wine works well." Cheryl nodded, keeping her eyes on her own plate. They ate in silence for a few more minutes, and he made sure to stop eating once he was halfway through the salmon.

"You should try the asparagus," Cheryl said, lightly, eyeing his plate. "It's very fresh."

"Sure, Mom," he said, grinning. He sliced off the head of one of the spears and popped it into his mouth. It was better than the frozen stuff his mother had occasionally inflicted on him in his youth, and he ate a second spear.

"Want to try the beef?" The redhead looked up then, meeting her guest's eyes directly. She picked up the carafes and refilled their glasses. When he nodded, she gently switched the plates and glasses. "Unforgivable, I know," she said with a dainty shrug. "Mommy would die if she saw me giving someone a plate from which I've already eaten." She twisted the stem of the wine glass, slightly, and Jughead noticed that the buttery print from his lips that sat on the edge of the glass was now closest to her. He glanced at the dark, red wine in the glass beside the plate of beef. A smudge of pale pink was visible, where her lip gloss had been left behind. She was watching him from under her lashes, and without thinking, he twitched the stem between his fingers.

"I don't mind." Jughead lifted the glass and took a sip of the richer, earthier wine. His lips felt a little sticky, and he licked them, tasting her lip gloss. He picked up her fork and cut himself a piece of the beef. The meal was a bridge; a gesture of caring. Her decision to drink from his glass, to touch her lips to the spot where his mouth had left traces of himself, had been a kind of acceptance of him. He returned the gesture, taking a trace of her in return.

A softer expression crossed Cheryl's features. She shifted in her seat and relaxed, slightly. They didn't talk until she'd finished the last piece of asparagus and rose to take the plates back to the tray. She stacked them and brought back two chilled plates. One had a slice of chocolate cake, the other had a slice of cheesecake.

"You can have both of these," she said, placing them in front of him. "I've got to do my homework." She left without another word and Jughead enjoyed his two desserts.

Jughead emailed Betty, sending her a link to a collection of funny cat videos. He thought about her upcoming date with Trevor and sulked, refusing to examine his feelings other than to acknowledge his preference for keeping their investigation small. He brought the tray and dishes back to the main house and set them on a table where someone would be sure to find them. He left, quickly, not wanting to run into the Blossoms. Eventually he changed into his pajamas and slipped between fresh-smelling sheets. He guessed he'd be sleeping alone that night, but wasn't all that surprised when Cheryl slipped under the covers beside him at around Midnight. He figured she had to wait until after her parents had gone to bed before leaving the house. She lay beside him, on her back, and stared at the ceiling. He waited until she'd let out her second heavy sigh before speaking.

"Thank you for dinner."

"You're welcome."

"We didn't bother to update the gate house," she began. Her voice was brittle and thin, like the first night she'd stayed with him. "Walking in here is a bit like walking back in time." She turned and looked at him. "I hadn't been in here for over a year, and nothing's changed in the last ten years." She looked at the fan on the ceiling. "I feel a little more connected to who I was before he died."

"I've heard that disassociation is common with a big loss, or a major change." Jughead wasn't sure why he chose to speak. "People who've lost someone, or get divorced, or have children, or have a life-altering event have reported feeling like they lose themselves. They've stopped being the person they were before it happened. You're not the Cheryl you used to be. You're someone else now; this place reminds you of how it felt to be the other Cheryl." He rolled onto his side. "You're allowed to miss her."

"I wish we weren't having this funeral," she lifted her hand and placed it against his cheek. "I never attended a funeral before; not for someone I actually cared about."

Technically, Cheryl had already attended Jason's funeral, but she'd been under the impression he was still alive at the time.

"All of the traditions that different civilizations follow when it comes to burying the dead have two major purposes." He placed his palm on the crown of her head. "To allow the living to make peace with their loved ones, and to show the world that the person who died…mattered." He saw her tilt her head. "Going to the trouble of observing traditions like dressing up for the service, or having flowers, or making a headstone means that this person mattered. He was worth the tears; he was worth the effort, and worth the pain of standing up in front of everyone and talking about your feelings, no matter how much it hurts."

"Jason deserves to be missed." Cheryl's lips trembled, slightly, and Jughead leaned down, and touched his own to them. It was just a gentle brush, and then he withdrew.

"Jason deserves to be missed," he repeated. He wasn't sure what had inspired his thoughtful commentary on death and funerals. He wasn't big on platitudes, but he'd attended funerals in the past, his father's friends, mostly. The Serpents had had their own traditions, and his father had first told him about why traditions were important. He hadn't thought that conversation would be significant to the Blossom family, but he supposed it fit for everyone. Cheryl's face, clean and pale, seemed to collapse under the weight of her emotions, and she turned away, hiding her expression.

Jughead scooted up behind her, tucking his knees behind hers. He brought one arm over her shoulder and the other under her neck. He clasped his arms over hers, where she hugged herself. He squeezed her, wringing a sniffle from her and held her until she got herself under control. She felt fragile to him, again. Breakable. He wanted to offer her some peace, and felt strangely pleased that he was the person she was asking for comfort.

"Thank you," she said, and cleared her throat.

"You're welcome."

Cheryl let out another sigh and Jughead smiled.

"I just…" The pretty redhead seemed to struggle with herself. She shifted around and he let go of her arms, watching her turn over until they shared a pillow. "I don't know," she said, but placed her palm on his chest. "I know last night was a little-"

"If you want this house to be…a place that doesn't exist in the rest of your life, that's fine. You can come here and be the other Cheryl." He placed his hand over hers and held it there.

"I don't want to seem weak," she said. "With the funeral coming up, I just can't seem to get any sleep." She seemed so vulnerable, and alone, surrounded by her terrifying family, she was clinging to him like a life raft. He was nobody's idea of a hero, but maybe she didn't need a hero. Maybe she didn't need him to save her. Maybe she just needed a little contact. He could do that for her.

"I don't think you're being weak," he said. "But I won't mention this," he gestured to the room around them, "to anyone. So be who you need to be here."

"What if I'm a loser?"

"You can be a loser."

"What if I'm demanding and needy?"

"You're allowed."

"What if I'm clingy?"

"I guess you can cling," he said, with a sigh. "If you need to."

"But, just here." She moved her hands into his hair. "Nowhere else." She looked up at him, asking permission. Asking for something more, and asking him to keep it a secret. He nodded silently and let her pull his face down to hers.