Author's note: FALICE! Coming in strong. I feel like the chemistry between those characters is so timeless. This chapter made me sad to write, but this is when Jughead really starts to grow in to himself. Enjoy!

02.14.2013

The call is unexpected.

Jughead had told him the weekend prior that with Valentine's day and the dance his girlfriend had planned as class president falling on a Thursday, he'd have to skip their weekly call. F.P. gives him some shit for it, mostly amusing himself with the fact that after almost two years of being with Betty, Jug still gets bashful about their relationship.

F.P. can't help but wonder if anybody has ever loved the way those two do. Despite not having seen Betty Cooper since his sentencing hearing, he's so grateful for her. He knows she's a big part of what's kept Jug's head above water, and what's motivating him to be so much more than another Southside piece of trash.

So when he gets a call, he's a little worried something happened to ruin their Valentine's day plans. That worry intensifies when its not even his son on the line.

"Alice, what the hell? Is Jug okay?"

He can practically hear the roll of her eyes as she says, "Of course he is F.P., he and Betty just left for the dance. They looked great, by the way."

He's soothed by the words, despite her sharp tone. Immediately, he can't help but take the opportunity to get her to show some more of her fangs. He hopes she can hear the shit-eating grin he's wearing as he speaks into the phone, "So then, you're just calling me on Valentine's Day for your own pleasure, Allie?"

In the Cooper household, Alice contemplates throwing her cell phone across the room. "F.P. Jones, every day I am thankful your son is nothing like you."

"Makes two of us."

She sighs, "I am calling about Jughead though. F.P., you cannot tell him I told you this!"

"Alice, what the hell is it?"

Another sigh. "He got in to all those schools. He even got scholarships. He's so close, F.P., its so possible. But he doesn't want to make a decision, even with Betty making hers, and I just…I want him to do well, and there's obviously something holding him back."

F.P. is quiet, processing this. He's a little swept up in how much Alice clearly cares about the well-being of his kid, even independently of how it contributes to Betty's happiness. "Jug got in to school?"

"Every single one."

"So what's stopping him?"

Alice sighs again. She never used to sigh like that. "Honestly, F.P., I think its you. He's had the acceptance letters for weeks and he hasn't told you yet. He knows you're supportive, but it means a big change. I know he'll tell you in his own time, but he only has until the end of March to decide. I just don't want him to miss this opportunity because of you. And I don't want Betty to change her mind because of him either."

The words should have felt harsh but they didn't. He knows what she means. She knows, probably more than anyone else, what it feels like to be stuck. And she's the one, that between the two of them, got out at any costs. Now their kids have the chance to go even farther, and she doesn't want them to waste these opportunities.

She calls back two Thursdays later, but is quiet for a few moments when he accepts the call.

"He picked NYU," she pauses. "He said he'd tell you before he goes. I just thought you'd be proud."

"Thank you, Allie," F.P. tries not to think too hard about what his son hasn't told him. "For everything."

05.25.2013

The visit is unfortunately short and bittersweet. Jughead rushes through the explanation of the graduation ceremony, mentions that Alice ordered an extra DVD copy for when he gets out.

F.P. never thought he'd be faking a smile the day his son graduated high school. He thought he'd be cheering too loud in the local theater as Jug shook the hand of another person who'd doubted him. He thought there'd be pictures, with their family and the Andrews and that sweet girl of Jug's. He hates the way he'll never know how it felt to hug his son in his graduation gown, never got to hear the collective gasp as his son's classmates heard his ridiculously long name for the first time.

He's so proud. But Jughead still hasn't mentioned his impending venture to NYU, and F.P. is too afraid to hear him say he's leaving to ask anything about college. He doesn't know how this became another thing they don't talk about, but he wishes for the millionth time that things were different.

"Betty and I, and Archie and Veronica, we decided to drive to the coast next week. Like a last adventure. The Lodge's have a house up there and there's a private beach and…" Jughead is quickly filling his dad in on his plans, and he sounds so real in this moment F.P. hates to break it. He lets him find a place to stop his story before interrupting.

"Son, you heard from your mom at all?"

"No," Jughead visibly swallows. "I don't think she knows that…I haven't talked to her in over a year, Dad. She doesn't know." Or care.

A year. A year. That means she didn't call for Christmas, or his 18th birthday, or his freaking high school graduation.

"Fuck, Jug. I'm so sorry."

"Dad, you don't have to apologize for her. She made her choices."

How is his son so reasonable? F.P. shakes his head, "Trust me, kid, I know, but I just wish she, that we had made different ones. We should've given you more. One of us should've been there today."

Jughead nods slowly, and for the first time since F.P. sat him down to tell him he was turning himself in, his son sounds disappointed. "Yeah, you should've."

They wrap up on a somber note, and Jughead doesn't breath a word about New York. F.P. wonders if he's doing this on purpose, leaving him so quietly, but his kid has never been vindictive. He wonders if knowing his son was grown would still hurt the same if he wasn't in prison.

08.15.2013

The summer has been brutal. F.P. sweats himself half to death in the prison yard, mulling over his situation. He's about a quarter of the way through his stint, in the best case scenario, and for the first time he's fucking angry about it.

He'd taken to prison pretty resignedly, with the biggest qualm being what this all meant for Jughead. Its not bad; the food is steady, he's sober, he's taking some college classes. He could stand to get laid, or even just a private shower, but its tolerable. Or it had been, until he'd learned 6 months ago his only son was planning to leave for New York City and hasn't told him.

He's not mad at Jug. He's just frustrated. His kid is doing what he always hoped he would, getting out and being better. But he's deliberately not telling F.P., and for that he has no words.

But he puts that aside with ever visit and phone call, relishing in the happiness so evident in his son. He takes ever story about working two jobs, and how him and Betty are tinkering with his old pick-up, and everything else about the summer. He takes whatever his son is willing to share, keeping the one secret he's not, close to his heart.

So on that Thursday in August, F.P. gets the wind knocked out of him when he receives a collect call from a new number. When the little automated voice reads off a number he knows is a NYC area code, its followed by the familiar recitation of his son's voice grumbling out Jughead Jones. F.P. is a quick thinker but he's never been so taken aback by a realization. Jughead is calling from New York. He'd seen him not even a week ago, and he'd said nothing.

F.P. accepts the call. The call is short but upbeat. Jughead never mentions where he is or why.

The next Thursday, F.P. declines the call.

11.29.2013

Jughead laughs good naturally at F.P.'s vehement description of prison Thanksgiving food. F.P. is happy to see him smile, to see him at all.

The last several months, F.P. and Jughead had been in a stalemate. Jug had still never said to his dad that he'd left for college. The calls, which F.P. started picking up again in September after an earful from Alice Cooper, are always pleasant but his son doesn't give much detail about his new life. He never says college or New York. F.P. figures if this is how Jughead has to handle this, then okay. He tries to push the hurt of being kept out of the loop somewhere low in his chest.

The most obvious symptom of change is that Jughead only comes once a month now. He doesn't say why and F.P. doesn't ask because, well, he already knows. But now, the weekend after Thanksgiving, he's here for a second time that month and F.P. got an extra phone call on the holiday itself. He'll take those wins.

So when he royally fucks up their unspoken don't-ask-don't-tell agreement, by asking, "How's NYU?" without a second thought, he wants to melt into the floor. Jughead is staring at him with an unreadable expression for too long.

"Its good, Dad."

He doesn't say anymore.