Archie lived. Archie pulled through, simply because he's Archie. But the doctor told them this: that Archibald Andrews would never be able to use his hands again. Archie Andrews would never be able to use the guitar or play football again. And he sure as hell would never be able to be in the construction. One wrong move and he'd screwed everything up.
("I'll figure it out, Dad. I always do.")
But he can't. He can't, not now, when one of his bestfriends is gone, while the other had his life destroyed because of him.
He was angry. He worked hard to find out who killed Jason Blossom, clinging to the hope that if he does, everything will be fine; everything will be back to normal. That she will return.
And he did. He found the killer, put the pieces together, had the killer arrested.
But she didn't come back; Archie's life would never be the same again. And he blamed himself for it.
Jughead Jones turned to alcohol.
Maybe he wasn't that different from his father, after all.
"Jughead Jones! Listen to me!"
"You have her diaries, right? You know! You know where she is!"
"You're drunk!'
"So what if I am, huh? I caught the killer, they say I'm the hero of this goddamn town, but I didn't even manage to save Archie from nearly getting murdered! Betty left because of me! I couldn't even help-they're my bestfriends!"
"And you think alcohol would help that?"
"What do you know? Spoiled little rich girl, huh?"
"... Listen to me. The way you're acting right now, even if I did know where B is-and I don't-I will make sure you never find her. Never. And if she does come back, God help me, I would do everything for her never to meet you again."
"Veronica! Veronica!"
He had planned for it-he was a writer, after all. He had filled his mind on how and what he would say when he finally gets to meet her again. But he's said a lot of the things to the Betty in his head. He had been angry, had been sad, had begged for her to come back, had been dismissive, until he'd given up and resigned himself to the fact that he's crazy and kept imagining his Betty was still there.
"Oh, Juggie…"
He groaned. His head was aching badly, and he opened his eyes to turn and look at the woman bending over his form. "Look, Bets. I don't need you to tell me that alcohol and smoke and drugs are bad for me. I know. You've said that to me repeatedly." Something was wrong though. Since when did his Betty have brown hair?
Her brows furrowed in concern and confusion. She knelt by the sofa, pushing his hair off his forehead with her hand.
The warmth of her hand was what made him snap to attention. He tried to look at her closely, tried to grip into the image of her… The lines on her forehead and the small crinkles on her eyes told him everything he needed to know. This is not the Betty he remembers, not the Betty that appears to him constantly. "Betty…?" he croaked.
The woman smiled sadly at him. "Hey, Jug."
He had planned for it. Had planned to say a lot of things to her. But instead, all he said was,
"Get out."
Her eyes flickered through different emotions: surprise, sadness, and understanding. She smiled. "Alright. I'm... I'm sorry, Jug. For everything. I… I'll give you time. But I'm not saying goodbye."
He watched her leave, heard her close the front door. He hated the fact that he felt his heart sprung with hope when she said she wouldn't say goodbye.