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“I used to worship these guys. While other kids wanted to be superheroes, I wanted to be a Baxter Brother.”
“Oh my god! They used to do crossovers with Tracy True! Those were my favorites, remember?”
“Yeah!”
FP overhears the kids’ conversation while he’s getting ready to go on patrol, clipping his walkie to his belt and checking his pockets for his keys. Jughead and Betty are crouched over the big box of books on the coffee table, heads bent low over the dusty covers. They look like little children in the low lamp light.
FP feels a little sick. He takes a deep breath. Thinks of his counselor in prison, the one he was required to see while in alcohol withdrawal.
There’s no one here, FP. Just me and you. You’re safe.
The books had been rotting in the corner of a closet for years before they moved out of the trailer. He’d hoped, somewhat naively, that by moving into the Coopers’ old house, he’d banish the ghost of those stories for good, relegate them to haunting Alice’s forgotten, crumbling attic instead. That what was gone would stay gone, what was dead would stay dead.
The problem with that is the fact that the past doesn’t like to disappear so easily. That traces of the dead still linger. That sometimes, they come alive in your children.
“My dad used to get me one of these each year for my birthday. Hey, Dad, why’d you stop?”
Jughead looks over at him, eyes bright with joy, a Baxter Brothers book held tight to his chest like a teddy bear. He looks so much like FP did at his age. He looks so young. Was FP really ever that young?
“You outgrew ‘em, boy,” he finally says, averting his eyes. He shoves his hat on his head, the brim low over his eyes.
His skin itches. Some weak part of him wants a drink.
Instead he says, “I gotta run,” and makes for the door. Before it swings shut, he overhears his boy whispering to Betty, giddy and sweet.
“I’m never gonna outgrow these books.”
FP lets the door slam and tries not to throw up.
*
He swings by Sunnyside while on patrol, even though it’s technically not on his route. His old friends still live here. Their kids. The old field where FP and his buddies used to play touch football when they were young. The tree where Alice carved their initials, and later scratched them off. God, he feels small. Stepping into Sunnyside feels like stepping backwards through time.
Although, the old trailer isn’t here anymore. It’s down at the junkyard—the bones of it, at least.
That’s all that’s left of it. The place where he raised his son. The place where he lived with Gladys, for that short time she stayed after he lost his job at Andrews Construction. The same old place where he grew up.
FP’s got a wrist that aches when he types too much, an arm weaker than the other from the spiral fracture his dad gave him at sixteen. His old man’s gone, and the trailer’s gone, and most of Sunnyside’s gone, too, but the hurt remains.
Jughead might find some poetry in that. FP just puts his truck in drive and turns his radio up, and lets the neighborhood get small and quiet in the rearview mirror.
*
Jughead pops by the sheriff’s office the next day, looking all dapper and hopeful in his fancy uniform. FP should feel overwhelmed with pride when he looks up from his paperwork to see his smart, handsome boy in the doorway, but really all he feels is tired.
“Hey! You free for lunch? Wanna go to Pop’s and grab a burger?” FP sighs.
“I got a lot on my mind, Jug. What’s up?”
Jughead shuffles a little nervously towards his desk, playing with the oversized ring on his thumb. FP knows he found it in an old cardboard box while they were moving, wears it because he likes having something to fidget with when he’s not writing. FP’s pretty sure he stole it back in the day off some punk at the Whyte Wyrm. He doesn’t tell his son it used to be his.
“I wanted to ask you about Grandpa. Did you know he was a writer?”
The air goes cold and stony in the office. It feels like it takes him years to respond.
“Yeah. Where’d you hear that?”
“One of his old classmates is visiting Stonewall Prep. I actually have a reception later, if you want to come hang out.”
FP scoffs. It’s like the shutters in his mind have come down with a resounding crash.
“What, and waste a day with a bunch of blue bloods who think they’re better than me? No.”
“You’re the one that pushed me to go to Stonewall Prep,” Jughead says, all fired up and indignant, but FP’s not listening to this anymore. The very mention of his father makes his palms feel clammy and tingly, and he clenches his fists to stop them from shaking.
“Hell, you’d probably make me put on a tie and a blazer,” he snarls, more vitriol in his voice than he intended, “And just so you know, my old man wasn’t a writer. He was a dropout, alright? He couldn’t hold down a job. He was a mean, mean drunk who took all of his anger out on me and on your grandma. It was the best day of my life when he skipped out on us.”
Jughead looks suddenly small. FP wishes he were a kid again, wishes he didn’t care about history or legacy or the Baxter Brothers at all. He wishes he didn’t feel the need to protect himself from his own son, all sharp teeth and venom spitting out the wrong way.
FP continues, “So do I want to hear about what a great writer he was back in high school? No. No, I’m… I’m good with my memories. But you have fun.”
He looks back at his papers, though he can barely make out the words anymore through the blur of his anger. Jughead stands there for a long moment, silent. His boy inherited his fight, but he loves him. He leaves without saying a word.
FP puts his head on his desk and sighs.
*
So—Jughead goes back to Stonewall Prep. The house is quiet without him, disconcertingly empty without his textbooks on the coffee table and murder boards on the walls. But being away means Jug can’t grill FP more about his grandad, so maybe it’s for the best. They don’t talk while he’s at school except to coordinate when he’s going to take the train back home for the weekend.
In the meantime, FP does his job. He files reports, sorts through old paperwork, patrols Riverdale. Sits with the drunk tank regulars until they feel better. Checks on his old neighborhood from time to time, bats away the ghosts that always seem to tug at him when he drives past the trailer park. Helps his daughter with homework when he can, though JB’s getting too smart for him now. Tries to be a good partner to Alice. Tries to figure out what that means.
He hates to admit it, but with Jughead at school, FP feels like a normal man. He’s got a house, a beautiful woman, a steady job, his darling daughter under his roof again. His bursts of panic and anxiety and self-doubt lessen. FP’s living the life he never even dared to dream about in his youth, for fear that it would slip out of his hands like quicksand. He wakes up in a warm, clean bed each morning and counts his blessings that he’s alive and happy every day.
It’s not that he doesn’t love his son, of course; FP adores the boy. It’s just that with him off elsewhere being brilliant and creative, FP can pretend he doesn’t have a sword of Damocles hanging over his head, a reminder of the past. He can pretend he never failed his children when the kid he let down the most is gone.
*
“Red? You got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up, Mr. Jones?”
FP feels a little out of place in Archie Andrews’ community center. The heavy workout equipment and the unfamiliar soft rock and the gaggle of children watching Archie demonstrate boxing techniques all feels so foreign to him. He can tell, though, that the kid’s in his element; he looks happier and healthier than he’s been since his old man’s passing, and FP’s glad he has something to fight for. Archie’s a good kid, through and through. He hates to be the bearer of bad news.
“Some of the local business owners have lodged a few complaints against your center. Littering, vandalism, public urination…” Archie scoffs. FP can sympathize.
“Due respect, Mr. Jones, but that’s bullshit. I’m here every morning and I lock up every night. These kids are not doing any of that.” FP sighs. He’s heard this story before.
“Listen. When I rolled with the Serpents, we dealt with the same crap. Wherever we set up, complaints followed. No one wants a gang around.”
“The problem isn’t the kids, it’s the thugs that show up after we lock up,” Archie insists, “They’re gnarly. But this place—it’s supposed to make the neighborhood better.”
“Well, show ‘em that. Do what the Serpents used to do: invite some of the yokels over for a get-to-know-you clambake. People are less likely to call the cops if they’ve had a conversation with you. Alright?”
Archie looks at him like he’s told him something revelatory. FP catches him glancing to his right. When he follows his eyeline, he sees what Red’s looking at—a photo of Fred Andrews, warm and smiling, on the wall. Something in his chest clenches at the sight. His old friend. God, he was too young to go.
Archie’s too young for him to go.
FP feels a swell of paternal instinct well up inside him, and he wishes he could protect this boy from the terrible things he’s already faced. Instead, Red squares his shoulders, nods sharply. He’s only a kid, but he looks so much like his father already. He holds himself like a man. FP can respect that.
“Good luck, kid,” he says, and he knows Archie doesn’t need it. Andrews men always follow through.
*
Jug comes home that evening, on a random Thursday of all days—typically he doesn’t get back until Friday night, too busy having fun at his big, fancy school to cut out early. FP finds him curled up in the corner of the couch when he walks through the door and takes off his hat and boots.
It’s great to have him home, of course—always is—but FP can’t help feeling all sorts of uncertain when he sees him, like a pit has opened in the bottom of his stomach. He hangs up his hat by the door and steels himself.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Jug’s frown deepens. He refuses to look up from his book when he says, “I’m done with Stonewall Prep. Place is toxic. I’m going back to Riverdale High to be with my friends.” FP sighs.
“No. Mm-mm. You’re not throwing away this opportunity.”
“You’re giving me whiplash, Dad. What opportunity? So I can be buried alive in a coffin, or be told that I’m only there because I grew up in a trailer park?”
That cuts deep. FP pauses halfway through the living room, looking quietly at his boy. He’s always been sensitive, more so than people realize; even now, he can see Jug’s eyes get a little misty as he blinks down at the same spot on his page.
“Someone said that to you?” he asks.
“Yeah. Bret did,” Jughead admits quietly.
FP sits gingerly beside him on the couch, thinking carefully about how to navigate this.
He knows how it feels to be looked down upon for his background, even spent a while in high school pretending he lived on Elm Street just to hide from the shame. But Jug’s not like that; he’s proud of where he’s from. That’s what makes it hurt even worse when people disparage it.
Jughead’s just a boy: young, hurt, softer than most. FP feels a stab of acrid guilt at growing so comfortable with his absence, at seeking solace in it. He’s just a kid.
“Well… Who cares how you got in? You’re in. And those silver spoons, they feel threatened. This Bret kid, he knows you’re better than him. That you’re gonna leave him in the dust. And you’ll do it without the… Without the privilege or the fancy name. But if you drop out now… You’re no better than my old man.”
The living room goes quiet, then, charged. FP doesn’t invoke his father’s memory lightly—even now, he can feel the ghost of a past life tugging at his shirtsleeves, the memory of his father’s hands on him. Jughead turns those big green eyes on him, looking so sad it hurts FP’s heart.
“If you hated him so much, then why’d you name me after him?”
“It’s my name, too, don’t forget,” FP says. “And yeah, I hate him, but he’s still my old man. So it’s gotta count for something, right?
“Also, uh… Those books weren’t from me,” he admits quietly. Talking about the monster in his attic is like pulling teeth, still, and FP has to swallow around the dryness in his throat. “Your granddad sent them from wherever the hell he was. I didn’t tell you ‘cause… ‘Cause I’m still angry at how he treated us. He was a hard man, and there was no love lost between us, but I gotta give the devil his due. Those books you love so much were from him.”
Jughead is quiet for a moment, contemplating this. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, like he’s trying to take care of his father. Like just the mention of FP’s old man weakens him, his name a curse.
“And you have no idea where he is now?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to look for him?”
“No, I don’t,” FP says quickly, “But I’ll tell you what I do want. I want you to go back. I want you to do what my father never did, what I never did: graduate high school.
“Show those preppies what it means to be a Jones man,” he says, and it feels more like a prophecy than a request. “Bring honor to our name.”
*
When FP was a kid, his family didn’t do Thanksgiving—they never had the money for it, and rarely possessed the holiday spirit. The Serpents had a little shindig at the Wyrm every year, which his old man usually attended for the free meat and booze, but this was before FP joined, back when he thought he was better than following in his gangster dad’s footsteps. Back then, he’d always go to the Andrews’ for dinner.
Fred’s family felt different about the holiday. His dad would deep-fry a turkey in the backyard while he and Fred set the table and helped his mom, and Frank and Oscar would come home from college, and they’d all hold hands and pray around the table like a good, wholesome American family. Artie would carve the bird, and he always let FP put on the game while they ate. He’d stuff himself on meat and greens and pumpkin pie, and go home with weeks’ worth of leftovers.
These are fond memories. He remembers the tradition lasted well into their twenties, this joint celebration of theirs, right up until—well. Until their partnership dissolved. Until FP fucked up one too many times, ruined one of the best things he had in his life.
FP shakes his head as though to physically snap himself out of that line of thought. He can still remember the taste of Fred’s homemade cranberry sauce. He still remembers the sight of their sons as toddlers, smearing red all over their mouths.
Archie’s nearly as tall as him now. He takes bad news like a champ.
“I hate to do this, but I’m under orders… to shut you down.”
“What? Orders from who?”
“Let me guess,” Red’s girlfriend—Veronica, he’s pretty sure—asks, “The mayor?” When FP doesn’t respond, Archie groans and throws his hands up in exasperation.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. He can’t do this!”
“Yeah, he can. He’s mayor now, he can do anything. And technically, the attack on Dodger is an open investigation, so this is still an active crime scene. Plus, Hiram said, with the ice storm coming—”
“He’s doing this to punish me,” Veronica interrupts, “To get me to spend the holiday with him.”
“Can’t we push back?”
“I did. For a couple of hours.” FP sighs, rubs at the crease of tension between his brows. Was Fred always this stubborn, always this full of righteous anger?
What would Fred say if he let his only son buckle under the weight of injustice?
“Look,” he says, “I’m not supposed to say this, but I know what I would do if I were in your place: screw him!” That makes Archie smile.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, but Mr. Lodge is not canceling Thanksgiving.”
“Good man,” FP calls him, and he means it. “You’re doin’ your dad proud.”
Red seems real touched by that. He sort of knew he would be. Archie’s obsessed with the memory of his father, and FP likes that about him.
He likes that the kid reminds him that there are good men in the world, still, good dads, and sons blessed enough to love them. Likes that the Andrews men have a legacy. That they don’t have to pass on a name to pass on some modicum of goodness.
And FP likes hero worship. It’s messed up, he’ll admit, but he was always a bit jealous of Fred, seeing Archie adore him so much, place him on such a high pedestal. Jughead loves him, sure, but he loves him in spite of his flaws. Archie loves Fred because he doesn’t believe his father had any flaws at all.
FP will never take Fred’s place—Archie’s lionized him too much, and besides, he knows he isn’t half as good as his old best friend was—but sometimes, in moments like these, Red looks at him with this… This boyish, unrestrained hope in his eyes that he only ever used to turn on his father. And, well, that makes him feel pretty damn swell.
It makes him feel, for once, like a good man. A good father. When he leaves the kid’s center, it’s with a misplaced sense of pride and far less guilt than he should feel.
*
Thanksgiving marks the nine-month anniversary of FP’s sobriety, and the world is testing him.
It’s not like he’s been completely, one-hundred-percent cold turkey since his last relapse, back when Jughead was beaten nearly to death by the Ghoulies. He’s no saint. FP’s taken it easy, has shared wine with Alice in the tub on occasion, popped champagne with the Coopers after getting appointed Sheriff. Still, when Alice offers him a whiskey sour before heading to Pop’s for a turkey dinner, he balks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, already moved on from the beverage she slid over to him moments before. They’re making out like teenagers against the counter, and FP keeps getting distracted by the smell of whiskey and lemon juice.
“Nothing,” he murmurs into her hair, hoisting her up on the edge of the granite tabletop, “Everything’s just fine.”
He distracts her pretty well after that. Still, he doesn’t take the drink. While Alice pops into the bathroom to freshen up, FP dumps it out in the sink and breathes again.
*
In prison, the withdrawals made FP hallucinate.
They’d put him in solitary until he dried out, as a safety precaution. The experience was shit, but at least the guards were decent at keeping an eye on him. Every day, a doctor would check his vitals, and a state-mandated counselor would sit with him for about an hour while he sweated through his uniform and tried to stop his hands from shaking and refused to talk. She was nice enough, but not gratingly so; hardened by the South Side, just like him.
I see him all the time, FP had told her once, when his guard was down and he was at the end of his rope, All the time, in the corner of my eyes.
Who? she’d asked, but FP had ignored the question.
He’s like the floaties that stay in your vision when you look at a bright light. Or snake skin when you expect to see a snake. All hollow and formless, like a ghost. But he’s there. He’s real. I see him all the time.
There’s no one here, FP. Just me and you. You’re safe.
No, no. I’m not. He’s got a beer in his hand. He’s always got a beer in his hand. He’s not safe when he’s drinking.
Okay. Do you see him right now?
I see him everywhere. He’s in me. You know? He’s in me. He’s in my son, too. He’s in our blood. It’s never leaving us. We’re cursed. Cursed.
When he’d finally come out of withdrawals, they’d tried to make him keep seeing her. FP refused. He couldn’t risk it. Everyone knows that the best way to deal with a ghost that keeps coming back is to bury it deeper, to torch the bones.
*
With Jughead and Betty at Stonewall Prep for the long weekend, and Jellybean too furious at her brother’s abandonment for a big family meal, he and Alice head to Pop’s. To his chagrin, they run into Hiram and Hermione Lodge there, and begrudgingly share a four-top. FP’s still pissed about being in the mayor’s pocket, but something about the spirit of the holiday has softened his rough edges, and he tolerates them for the evening. They actually manage to have a pretty pleasant conversation, all things considered.
“You guys remember, back in high school, when we all used to hang out together?” Hermione reminisces, “Just griping about how horrible our parents were?”
“And now we’re the horrible parents,” Alice laughs. FP remembers all too well—how they’d crowd around a table at Pop’s just like they are now, or under the bleachers after school. He remembers those days so fondly. Remembers Fred’s belly laugh and the turkey sandwiches he’d always split with him when he had nothing.
“Fred never complained about his folks, not once,” he recalls. “And look what an amazing father he turned out to be. Think we could all take a lesson from that, huh?” The others nod in agreement, solemn. His loss is like a snake bite: a swift, sudden pain, slowly drooling more venom, more hurt, whenever pressed.
Finally, Hiram clears his throat.
“Hey, what say we continue this conversation downstairs, over drinks? To toast Fred?” FP’s heart sinks at the request, but Alice seems to be all for it. Hiram meets his gaze over the napkin dispenser, smug and cool. “What do you say, FP? You’re not on duty, are you?”
FP hesitates; with how shaky and nervous the very thought of Alice’s cocktail made him, how the hell is he going to sit with the Lodges and drink rum?
But something about the smarminess of this bastard’s face and the memory of Fred—good old Fred, with his Thanksgiving turkeys and his bighearted self and his son that worships the very ground he walked on—makes him feel reckless.
“Why the hell not, Mr. Mayor?” he grins, and that’s that.
Downstairs, Hiram pours him a generous drink, and they sit around the table and continue their conversation. The Lodges reminisce about coming to Riverdale—both of them transplants, unlike FP and Alice—and how they adapted to small town American life after their childhoods in Cuba and New York, respectively. Alice updates them on their old classmates’ parents, ever the gossip. She’s slightly tipsy, and giggly. FP loves seeing her happy—wishes she could be like this always, now that they’re no longer the poor, beat-down, trailer-trash punks like they used to be.
At a lull in the conversation, Hiram gestures to FP’s glass, which is still half full, and sweating onto the nice, polished mahogany tabletop.
“You’re nursing it, FP. What’s the matter, you don’t like my rum?” FP scoffs; it’s delicious rum. That’s sort of the problem.
“Well, somebody’s gotta be clear-headed enough to drive the rest of you home,” he jokes, and it makes the others chuckle.
The room goes quiet again. Then Hiram leans back in his chair, swirls the amber liquid around in his glass before taking an indulgent sip. FP despises the very sight of him. The Joneses may be serpents, the Lodges are, too: elusive, fanged, too cunning for their own good. Practically green with greed.
“FP…” Hiram says, “You know, I sense that you were upset with me when I asked you to shut down Archie’s community center earlier. Anyway, I appreciate your cooperation.”
A sharp spike of rage fires through FP, and as though on autopilot, he drains the rest of his glass in one long pull. How dare this fucker talk about Fred’s boy. How dare he use him to get to Archie. FP sets the glass down with a thud. The violence comes easy to him, like a second skin. Like a familiar memory.
FP gets to his feet. Hiram follows suit, albeit in his calm, smug-faced way, smoothing the creases of his suit as he moves.
“I’m gonna make this clear, Hiram,” FP growls.
“FP.”
Ignoring Alice, he continues, “I’m not your puppet. When I took this job, I pledged to serve and protect Riverdale, not to do your bidding.”
“Why don’t you settle down?”
“Mhm.” The anger’s growing. FP feels like he’s buzzing out of his own skin. He’s had more alcohol tonight than he has in a long time, and he swears he can smell the inside of his old, damp trailer all of a sudden, can hear his father’s barking voice.
“What's the matter?” Hiram asks, smarmy asshole, and FP can’t help but to shove him, hard.
“You put a hit out on my son, you bastard!” FP snarls, “You think I forgot about that?”
“Yeah. Is that why you tried to murder me, at the behest of my own wife?”
“Hiram,” Hermione says, trying to reign him in, but it’s too late. FP punches him clean across the face, boiling over like an unwatched pot. The women cry out, but Hiram and he pay them no mind; the fucker gets him in the abdomen, and stumbling backwards puts FP in line with the abandoned table, and the bottle of rum.
It’s like he’s not in control of his own body. FP watches himself pick up the bottle and smash it, hard, on the table. He gets Hiram against La Bonne Nuite’s bartop with one fist in his pressed collar, a shard of glass at his throat. They’re both heaving for air, practically frothing at the mouth.
“FP, don’t! FP!” Alice cried.
“Finish it,” Hiram taunts, “Do it. Or get the hell off me.”
“FP.”
“Come on!” At Hiram’s shout, FP shakes him, hard.
“I’m not gonna do it,” he snarls, red in the face, blood pounding in his temples, “But you deserve it! Everyone in this room—Hell, everyone in this town knows that you deserve it!”
When he drops Hiram, he drops the broken remains of the bottle, too. It shatters against the ground into a thousand slivers of white against black, like so many shimmering stars. FP feels like himself again. If he looked in a mirror, he isn’t which Jones man would peer back out.
*
FP has always been an angry man. He’s gotten into his share of fights growing up, has had his ass handed to him by too many people to count. That’s why football was so important to him as a kid; it helped him get all that violent rage out of his body, let whatever had been simmering under the skin for years finally come to the top.
That’s why being a Serpent made him feel so right.
FP remembers the first time Jughead saw that side of him. He was maybe twelve, thirteen, sent by his mom to the Wyrm to fetch him. Jellybean had been running a fever and needed to be driven to the hospital. She needed his truck, needed him. And FP was in the basement of the bar, beating the shit out of some scumbag that tried to put his hands on a young Serpent girl when he thought no one was looking.
Dad? Jug had said.
FP had whipped around to look at him, saw his boy wide-eyed and white in the face, like a ghost. His own fist had been reared back and his knuckles smeared with blood. The man who’d tried to creep on tiny little Toni Topaz was a mess of flesh and blood. Both his eyes had been too swollen up for him to see out of them. FP had knocked out a tooth.
Jughead—
What are you doing?
I—I can explain. Jughead, wait. Jughead!
FP had found him in the parking lot, blinking the drizzling rain out of his eyes and hyperventilating and fumbling with FP’s keys. He watched Jug drop, then scramble for them. He didn’t know how to drive. He was only a little boy.
Jug, stop.
I’m not—I—
Son, listen to me—
I don’t want to know, he’d said, voice wobbly like he was about to cry. I don’t want to know. We just need you right now, dad. We need you.
It’s four years later now, and Jughead’s a Serpent, too. He grew up just like his father: full to the brim with anger. FP knows he once held a woman down, peeled the skin off her flesh from wrist to inner elbow to divest her of the Serpent name. It should’ve surprised him. It didn’t.
Jughead’s a Jones man, after all.
*
“Hey, wake up, Red.”
Archie jolts awake, only to groan and rub at his eyes when he realizes who it is. The yellow sunlight spilling through the window over his head illuminates his red hair, turning it into a fiery halo—or a bloodied crown of thorns. FP grimaces at the bruise on the kid’s face, dark and wine-red on his jaw.
“Mr. Jones? Ah… What are you doing here?”
“Investigating a vigilante. Now be honest with me.” He holds up a printed image, taken off a nearby small business’s security camera. In it is a suspiciously familiar looking boy in a hoodie threatening Dodger’s crew with a baseball bat. “Is that you?”
Archie sighs. “Yeah, it is. You’re not gonna arrest me, are you?”
“I should. What the hell do you think you’re doing, huh?”
“Helping!” Archie hauls himself out of bed and practically limps over to his desk, mouth drawn in a tight scowl. “People are too scared to call you or the cops, so I set up a hotline.”
“What happens if you get hurt?” FP demands. He’s so angry he’s afraid he might crack a tooth with how hard he’s clenching them. “Or worse?”
“People die changing tires on the side of the road, Mr. Jones. At least I’d die with a shred of honor.” FP huffs.
“What a load of smug bullshit.” That seems to startle Red. “You think that’s gonna comfort your mom?”
FP’s voice goes softer, then, sadder. Truth be told, he’s more heartbroken by the kid’s bullheaded selflessness than angry. “Why aren’t you focusing on the center, protecting these kids?”
Archie pops a couple Tylenol in his mouth. He looks so much like his father that FP feels like he’s seen a ghost.
“I am. But trouble shows up here every other day, starting with the Dickensons—who are still out there, by the way.” FP sighs. Kid’s got a point. And as sheriff, he can’t well leave him high and dry.
“You’re doing good work here, Red, here. Honorable work. Maybe I can help you.”
FP returns to the community center a day later, bearing gifts. Archie helps him install them, grinning all the while like a boy on Christmas morning.
“Damn, Mr. Jones,” he breathes, “Where did you get a metal detector?”
“From Southside High when they shut it down. Between that and the security cameras we’re hooking up, I think you’re in pretty good shape, Red.”
FP feels rather proud of himself, honestly. No longer a Serpent, there’s only so much he can do. But as sheriff? As sheriff, he can make a difference. He can help Archie keep this place safe.
And, honestly, the extra security makes him feel better about the kid himself sleeping here at night. The sight of Archie folded up on that little cot in his office, all alone and vulnerable—god, it reminds FP a little too much of Jug. It makes a pit open up in the bottom of his stomach, just remembering the sight of his boy that summer, so skinny and pale. Jughead didn’t deserve that. Archie doesn’t, either.
“Yeah. Well, I’ll be in even better shape once Dodger and his family are in jail or out of town. But all this is awesome. Thank you, sir.”
FP claps Archie on the shoulder, all machismo pride. He shouldn’t feel this fatherly towards the boy, but he can’t help it. He’s a sucker for the kid’s transparent goodness, for his little-boy admiration, for his determinedly optimistic view of the world. That’s rare, he knows. Especially in a town like Riverdale.
Especially in a world like theirs.
*
He finds Jughead and Betty asleep on the couch together when he gets home that night, cuddling innocently like little children. They look so peaceful he can’t bear to even wake them. Jug isn’t like him—he and Alice never cuddled in high school, not even after sex—but his boy is altogether a softer breed.
FP looks at his son’s sweet face, jaw slack and drooling into his girlfriend’s hair, and he aches.
He loves his son—of course he does. But sometimes, FP can’t help but resent him. He resents him for having his childhood stripped away, too, despite best efforts, the scar on his arm a constant reminder that FP failed him, that he’s a piss poor excuse for a father. Resents him for loving him so damn much, for putting his faith in his old man, because that makes FP’s shortcomings all the more humiliating, all the more painful. For not being able to save him. For being part of the rough, hard world that sloughs away at his softness.
And FP resents him, most of all, for loving his grandfather. For loving his damn books, for following in his footsteps, for getting that wild, delighted look on his face when he’s creating that reminds FP of his father.
Shaking his head as though to physically dispel the thoughts, FP tugs a spare blanket over the kids, tucking them in at the chin. Betty barely stirs, but Jug shifts in his sleep, eyelids fluttering as though about to wake up. FP panics; his boy’s always been a light sleeper.
“Shh, son,” he murmurs, “Go back to sleep.”
And he does. FP goes to bed upstairs in Alice’s arms and tries not to cry.
*
The security system works in the community center, but Dodger keeps up his shenanigans outside of it. When he puts a couple of Archie’s kids in the hospital, FP decides he’s had enough. He digs his old Serpent jacket out of the back of he and Alice’s shared closet, shrugs on the ghost of the man he used to be, and hunts him down in the street.
After, he buys Archie dinner and a milkshake at Pop’s and watches him eat.
“I gotta say…” FP sighs, flexing his sore knuckles, “That felt good.” Archie looks up at him with a grin, eyes lighting up like he’s a kid. He is a kid. Jesus. FP is so overwhelmed with fondness for the boy he feels breathless with it.
“Yeah?” he preens, “We kicked ass, Mr. Jones.”
“Mhm. It’s been a while since these fists delivered some street justice. The old jacket still fits like a glove.” They’re in the same booth FP once shared with Alice and Hermione and Penelope and Fred. Good, solid, honest Fred, alive and warm here in his son.
FP adds, “And your old man, he’s looking down on us, probably shaking his head, but… Still.” He reaches out a hand for a shake, and Archie clasps it, his grip strong. “He’d be glad your crime-fighting days are over.”
The bell jingles then, and the diner door opens. FP turns to look at the newcomer, and his heart jumps to his throat when he sees—
“Jughead?”
“Dad.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Mrs. Cooper told me you’d be here.” When Jug nears their table, his face folds into a frown. He glances from the bruises on Archie’s face to FP’s leather jacket, taking them in in the aftermath of their joint destruction. FP goes suddenly cold, his underarms slick with sweat. “What happened to you guys?”
“Your dad and I were just… Dealing with the Dodger situation, Jug,” Archie says, “And we took care of it. They’re not gonna bother the kids at the center anymore.”
“And the youth of Riverdale have been saved once again,” FP jokes, and Archie looks down at his plate, bashful. When FP looks back up at his son, he’s surprised to see something suddenly cold and dark on his face.
“That’s great, Archie,” Jughead says, but his voice sounds flat. “Dad, can I talk to you?”
Archie seems to realize something is off, and starts to collect his phone and wallet and shimmy out of the booth.
“I should get home,” he says, “Thanks again, Mr. Jones. Night, Jug.”
“Sure you don’t want a ride, Red?”
“I’ll be okay, Mr. Jones. See you tomorrow,” he says to Jughead, and he’s out the door with another jingle of the bell. FP watches him through the window. His red hair blows gently in the breeze, and Archie zips up his coat against the chill in the air. Halfway through the parking lot, he breaks into a jog.
When he looks over at his son, who’s taken Archie’s place across from him in the diner booth, FP can’t help but to feel a surge of anxiety deep in his chest. Jughead’s grown up some these past few years, but he still looks small, wiry. Like he ain’t eating enough.
Unable to bear watching the boy’s face, FP looks down at the table instead, at the empty plates. The spot of ketchup dried on the formica.
“What’s goin’ on, boy?”
“Dad, I… I don’t know how to tell you this.” Jughead takes a deep breath. “Dad, I—I found grandpa.”
FP jerks his head up to look at Jug, then. The boy looks so damn nervous, all worry barely covering up a glimmer of hope in his eyes. FP swallows hard against the heartbeat racing in his throat.
“Jughead, I told you not to go looking for him.”
“I know,” he says, like he expected FP to say that, “I know. I just—I couldn’t help it, dad, I got all caught up in the crazy stuff going on at Stonewall Prep and—Did you know grandpa was robbed? He wrote the original Baxter Brothers books, but Dupont—”
“Damn it, boy!” FP cries, slamming his fist down on the tabletop. The force rattles the dishes and the commotion makes Pop Tate look over at them in concern. Jughead flinches.
FP’s shaking. He can feel it. It’s like his every cell is vibrating, like he’s about to explode. He feels like a molting snake, about to come out of his own skin. Across the table from him, Jughead looks suddenly very pale and very frightened, like when he fell off his bike as a little boy and split his knees wide open—shocked by the suddenness of violence, and bracing for the hurt of it.
The sight, illogically, only makes FP angrier. Jug’s the one who brought up old man Jones. Where does he get off looking so damn scared?
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Dad—” Jughead starts, but FP cuts him off.
“I said I don’t want to hear it.”
“You never want to talk about him!”
FP barks out a laugh, half-feral. “You think? Man made my life a living hell, and you wonder why I don't want to talk about him.”
“I know, but—”
“No, you don’t.”
“Dad, come on—”
“Jughead—”
“Dad, just listen to me!”
“You boys okay?” FP swallows back the knot that’s rising in his throat—anger, fear, some sickly combination of the two, he doesn’t know—when Pop sidles up to their table, all smiles and concern. FP gives him a tight smile, but doesn’t take his eyes off his son.
“We’re fine, Pop. Actually, we were just headin’ out.”
“Oh. Alright.” Pop glances between them while FP digs some cash out his wallet, making sure to leave the man a fat tip for his troubles. “Well, you stay safe out there tonight.”
“I—We will, Pop. Thanks,” says Jug softly. FP grabs his things and stalks out the door. His boy follows him without another word.
*
The worst part of the day FP’s old man broke his arm as a kid was when his dad drove him to the hospital after and got him all fixed up.
Old man Jones was like that—never showed you any softness, probably didn’t have any left in him, mean old bastard, but he was good about keeping his anger away from other people’s eyes. FP rode in the passenger seat of his beat-up blue truck, and his dad kept his eyes on the road the whole time. He’d told the doctor FP’d broken it falling off the trailer roof horsing around. Like he’d ever be horsing around at the trailer. But everyone bought it. The man didn’t have much, but he sure had a way with words.
When FP thinks about his father these days, he doesn’t think about the bottles or the hand-me-down Serpent jacket or the bruises he used to leave on FP’s face. No—
He thinks about his hands, warm and broad, long-fingered, holding him steady while the doctors set his bone. He thinks about the shock of his palm on his shoulder when he won a big game. About the pride in his voice when he came out of the Serpent gauntlet still fresh and determined, blood running down his nose and turning his grin bright red.
That’s my boy! Strong as anything. Jones blood, you know, my blood. My bones.
FP remembers those rare moments his father was actually a father, and those are the memories that hurt the most.
*
They drive in silence. FP drives his patrol car to the back edge of the junkyard, the far end of old Steve’s domain that’s so far away from the heart of the town that it’s a hop and a skip from Greendale. He parks so they have a perfect view of their old trailer. It’s not much more than bones now, all burnt to a crisp. Something lurches in FP’s chest when he sees it again.
“My old man broke my arm in that trailer,” he tells Jughead, voice tight and hard. They don’t look at each other. FP can feel himself starting to choke up, and he forces it down, points a shaky finger at the remains of his old home. “Right there in front of the TV. He broke my mama’s collarbone there once, too. I would have fought him off, but I was only a little boy. Younger than you.
“You think you know your grandad? Think he’s got a right to some—some prep school legacy? This is his legacy, boy. This is his legacy.” He’s practically shouting now. FP holds up the back of his hand to show Jug the thumb that still doesn’t straighten all the way anymore. He sees his son’s eyes through his fingers, green and glassy in the near total darkness of the night. “That right there is his legacy. Look at it. Goddamn it!” He slams his hands down on the wheel. “Look at it!”
“Dad,” Jughead says, and his voice comes out like a sob.
Things screech to a halt then.
FP’s a mess of a man, he knows that. A little too broken down, a little too volatile, a little too screwed up by the world and this town and his family to be normal. With his son away at school, he can ignore it for a while. But Jughead's sitting in his passenger seat, and there are tears welling up in his eyes, and he looks so little it’s breaking FP’s damn heart. Seventeen years old, but FP sees the first time he saw his boy’s tiny face every time he looks at him.
His boy. Jesus. His boy.
FP suddenly can’t bear to be in the car with him. He hauls himself out like he’s on fire, slams the door. The cool night air helps him clear his head, but his hands are still shaking, quivering like the tail of a rattlesnake. They seem to do that a lot these days.
There isn’t anywhere to go, so FP just leans against the front hood of the patrol car, looking up at the charred remains of the trailer. Jughead took his first steps in that kitchen. Jellybean was damn near born there, with how fast the labor came on. The memory almost makes him smile.
After a long, quiet moment, in which FP catches his breath and calms down his shaking somewhat, he hears the passenger side door open and shut gently. Jughead lingers there nervously for a second, like he isn’t sure whether or not to approach, but eventually, he makes his way around to the front of the car, too, and shimmies carefully up onto the hood.
They’re silent for a beat. There are so many things they each could say, so many things left untouched between them. FP wishes there was a better place to start.
“Shouldn’t have yelled at you like that,” he finally chokes out, “Ain’t right.”
“It’s okay, dad,” Jug says.
“No, it’s not.”
They’re quiet together for a long moment. FP stares out at the junkyard, at the discards of Riverdale. Jughead chews at his fingernails.
After listening to the wind creak its way through the trash for a while, FP sighs.
“What is with your obsession with him anyway?” he says, for once his voice unnaturally soft. It takes conscious effort not to cringe away at the thought of his father. “Why… Just—why?”
“I…” Jug trails off. Take a few moments to gather his thoughts. “Honestly, I don’t even know. I guess I thought it was important. For our family, you know? For you.”
“Jughead—”
“And I know I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry I hurt you. I just—I just—”
FP turns to see his son blink up at the sky—that flat, distant sky—and he can see stars in Jughead’s eyes, reflecting in the wet of them like so many shards of glass. It hurts his heart, all of a sudden, to realize the boy’s close to tears.
Before he can say anything, Jug bursts out, “I just don’t understand, dad. I mean—I know your dad was terrible. I know. I understand. But dad, you were a… a mean drunk, too.”
It’s like his heart has dropped to his feet. He didn’t think this was where this night would be going. FP swallows hard, goes to interrupt, but Jughead’s talking himself up into a nervous frenzy, and there’s no stopping him.
“You drank away most of my life,” he says, and it’s not an accusation as much as it is a confession, all vulnerable skin, “Half the time, you were barely even conscious enough to know that I was taking care of you.
“And—I understand. Hospital bills, Jellybean being born, Mr. Andrews kicking you out of the company. The circumstances were terrible; it wasn’t exactly all your fault.
“It’s just—You talk all this crap about your father, but… You could never hold down a job, either. And you weren’t all sunshine and roses, you were always shoving me around, always yelling. Remember when you sprained my wrist? Remember when you broke my nose?”
“Jug…” FP chokes, but there’s nothing he can say. His boy is right; he did cuff Jughead to a fridge once, yank him around so hard his wrist swelled up like a balloon. He did shove his little boy into a door handle in a drunken rage and then tearfully mop up the blood streaming out his nose later at the kitchen sink.
There’s no one here, FP. Just me and you. You’re safe.
Except—
“And then it was prison,” Jug says, “And then you were with the Serpents and you were drinking again, and you shut me out. And now—Now—
“Now things are different. And I’m happy for you, dad!” His voice breaks. FP flinches. “I’m so proud of you! You’ve turned your life around. I mean, a house, a girlfriend, a steady job… Both your kids under one roof. I can’t tell you how proud I am.
“But what am I supposed to do with the version of you I used to know?” he demands, and he’s crying now, tears streaming down his pale face, though he’s trying his best to hide it. “The version I still—I still have nightmares about? What am I supposed to do with all this anger?
“You changed. And I forgave you. And we don’t talk about the past. But why am I always the one who’s supposed to forgive and forget? Why is it always on me? When you can’t do the same for your own father?
“I just don’t understand. I love you. I put all our… our darkness behind me. I trusted that you would change. So why can’t you?”
And Jughead’s crying for real now, and FP is too, and when he moves to pull his boy into his arms, the first thing he does is flinch. The first thing he does is flinch. Then he holds on tighter.
*
They don’t talk much more about it that night. Jug cries into FP’s jacket for so long, the horizon starts to turn a faint baby-pink by the time he calms, sticky-faced, and he falls into an exhausted, fitful sleep in the passenger seat on the drive home. FP sits in the driveway for a long time and watches his son sleep.
The sun rises slowly, and the early-morning November light is weak and pale. It makes Jughead’s long, girlish lashes look like dark feathers dipped in silver, his moles stark against his skin. Kissed by an angel, his mother would always say. FP wants to cradle his wan cheek, but doesn’t want to risk waking him up.
Suddenly, FP feels like crying.
As upsetting as Jug’s outburst was, he has to admit the boy isn’t wrong. FP’s first instinct is to deny, to refuse, to push back against his accusations—but he’s spent so long pushing his son away. The ache of missing him is like a bruise on his heart. And it’s not like his absence makes him any happier, anyway; it just lets him ignore his own shortcomings.
Jughead doesn’t get to ignore them. He’s drooling in his sleep. FP wipes away the spittle on his chin ever so carefully, and by some miracle, he barely stirs.
And the truth is—the kid’s right. Sure, FP didn’t break his boy’s arm, but he has shoved Jughead into the trailer’s walls doors and grabbed him by the jaw in enough drunken rages to leave bruises on his back and face. And maybe he didn’t kick him out of the house, but he sure made himself unbearable to live with, with his drinking and yelling and violent outbursts, enough to drive his son out after all. And yeah, maybe he didn’t force his own son into a fucking biker gang—tried to do the exact opposite, actually—but he did pass down the Serpent King mantle onto Jughead’s shoulders in the end anyway, so does he really have a hill to stand on?
FP remembers one of his humiliating teenage outbursts in front of the Midnight Club—I’m not gonna hit my kid. Not like my old man hits me.
There’s no one here, FP. Just me and you. You’re safe.
He catches his reflection in the glaze of the windshield. In the early morning light, FP looks like his father. He looks like his son.
*
The day his son was born, after Gladys had been taken care of and the nurses had left them alone for the night to get some rest, FP had held his boy by the window and cried.
Jughead had been so tiny—a few weeks too early, not early enough to be in danger, but enough so that his sudden arrival was a terrible shock to them both—and he’d felt so precious, so breakable in FP’s calloused hands. He’d cried a lot that first day, hungry little thing. But he’d latched easy, and Gladys was so tired and so damn proud.
That night, he’d stared up at FP with his brilliant, wide green eyes, like he was so astonished by his daddy’s face he didn’t even want to sleep. And he was so little, and so innocent. Just a baby. Just a little boy.
How could anyone hurt something so small? Something so beautiful? Hadn’t his own father once looked down at FP and seen something precious? Hadn’t he loved him?
He never even did anything wrong. He was just a baby. Just a child. He never did anything to be unloved. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. All that hate—it never belonged to him. It was his father’s, through and through.
I’m gonna love you forever, FP had whispered to his newborn, practically choking on his muffled sobs, My boy. My baby. I’m gonna love you forever.
*
FP wakes Jughead and guides him, groggy, into the house. Before he follows, he catches Archie stepping out his front door, plugging his wired earphones into his ears beneath a knit beanie. His gloves have little holes for his fingers, and the tips are already turning pink.
“Hey, Mr. Jones,” he calls, and waves a little. FP glances into the house—Jug’s already heading up the stairs with a yawn. He’s probably going right back to sleep next to his girl, safe and sound. He gently shuts the door and walks to the edge of the porch so he can talk to Archie.
“Hey, Red. Morning jog?”
“Gotta stay in shape for wrestling,” he says, beaming. Then his expression changes a little, glancing up at the Cooper house and back to FP. “Is… Is everything okay, Mr. Jones?”
FP hesitates. “I… I sure hope it will be, kid. I dunno.” He sighs. “I’ve just made an awful mess of things.”
“Mr. Jones, if it’s about Jughead… Don’t worry. Seriously. He’s stubborn about it, but he really, really loves you and looks up to you. Whatever’s going on, I know it’ll be okay.” Red looks so earnest, it makes him easy to believe. FP just gives him a smile.
“Good to see you back at home, Red,” he says, instead of responding. Archie seems to understand, though. People don’t give him enough credit for that.
“See you around, Mr. Jones.” He puts his phone in the pocket of his Riverdale High hoodie. FP is struck, suddenly, by how much he looks like Fred—soft, kind, funny old Fred, who wasn’t afraid of some hard work. Big-hearted Fred, who insisted that his poor, trailer trash best friend be invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Good, reliable old Fred, who lives on in his son.
“See you, kid,” he says, a little choked up.
Archie’s a good boy. But he doesn’t need FP, not like Jughead does. He’ll still be there for the kid, but Red doesn't need a father. He already has one.
Fred Andrews might be dead, but as long as Archie’s around, he’ll never be gone.
Inside, FP goes about taking off his coat and hat. He leaves his boots by the door—Alice likes them to be all lined up neatly, but he hasn’t got the energy for all that right now.
He flops down on the couch and rubs at his eyes. He’s got work to do today, and it’ll be hell on absolutely no sleep. Maybe he can take a nap out here until it’s time to get ready? The neat, spotless couch with Alice’s stuffy decorative pillows and expensive knit afghans isn’t exactly the most comfy of resting places, but he’s so tired, and his back is aching so badly he could probably just drift off if he closed his eyes…
“Mr. Jones.”
Okay, maybe not.
When FP opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Alice’s girl looming over him, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes murderous. That makes him sit up straight.
It should be ridiculous, being afraid of teeny tiny Betty Cooper, who’s in baby pink pajamas with little cats on the bottoms, but FP knows her mother’s wrath. If Betty’s anything like Alice, she’s quite the formidable enemy. FP practically scrambles upright, smoothes down his wrinkled, mussed-up uniform.
“Betty, hey. What are you doing up?”
“Jughead,” she says tersely, “Thought he could sneak in and just sleep on the floor without waking me, but I’ve been up practically all night. I was worried about him.” She falters then, some hint of nervousness coming through, but she swallows it back just as fast. “I still am. He’s been crying.”
FP sighs. “Betty—”
“Mr. Jones,” Betty interrupts, “I’m not gonna pretend to know all the details. Actually, this is the one case where I don’t need to know. All I’m going to say is that I love Jughead. And I don’t tolerate people hurting the people that I love.”
She steps closer, her chin jutted out in self-righteous fury, all fire like her mother. FP can’t help feeling chastised. He can’t help feeling a little afraid, too.
“So you’re going to talk to him. And you’re going to fix it. And you’re not going to fuck it up.” Betty does nothing but glare down at him for a long moment.
“Understood,” FP says hoarsely. The girl keeps her eyes trained on him like she’s hunting him down the barrel of a shotgun, and FP’s all too familiar with the feeling of being someone’s prey. He stares back, trying to muster up any earnestness he possesses.
He must be convincing enough, because eventually, Betty relaxes with a nod. She stalks out of the room without another word.
FP finally slumps back into the couch cushions. This time, he’s wide awake.
*
So FP listens. He takes the morning off from work, takes a long shower. Alice comes in while he’s scrubbing shampoo through his hair and sits on the closed toilet lid and demands an explanation. He does his best. By the time he’s stumbled through a summary of the night’s events and his son’s subsequent breakdown, the water is tepid and there’s shampoo in his eye.
Alice tugs one corner of the shower curtain aside to look at him. FP returns her steady gaze with one eye squeezed shut.
“It’ll be okay,” she says, reaching out to rub suds out of the corner of his eye, “He’ll be okay.” He hopes she’s right.
Betty and JB head off to school, Alice to work. FP brews himself some coffee and drinks it black, waiting for Jughead to wake up and come downstairs. It’s probably a good idea for him to stay home from school, just for today.
The midmorning sun comes in through the window, clean and bright. It’s late November, and the warmth it brings is weak, but at least the kitchen is bright. FP feels hollowed out, like the pale white brilliance is shining straight through him, like he’s an empty bottle on a windowsill, nothing but glass and air. He stands in the heart of the quiet for a few long moments, just watching the redness behind his closed eyelids and breathing and it feels like he's coming out of his own skin. Like he's leaving something behind to disintegrate in the light, emerging pale and new.
Hurt people hurt people, someone once told him. Explanations, not excuses. Intent versus impact. Allow yourself grace, but hold yourself accountable. The same old bullshit every AA member or prison counselor always talks about, the same old stories he’s ever been told.
At the core of it all is the truth—people are damn hypocrites, every single one.
There’s a sudden scuffling sound from somewhere in the house then, and before FP can even process what’s happening, Jughead is running down the stairs, his hair a tousled mess on top of his head, eyes wild.
“Whoa, boy!” FP cries, “Calm down!”
“I’m late!” Jug gasps, “I’m—oh my god. It’s ten-thirty. Why didn’t Betty wake me up? I’m so late!”
“It’s alright, son, take a breath.” FP reaches out to hold his son’s shoulder, more hesitantly than he’s ever touched his son in his life. There’s nothing there beneath his shirt but skin and bones. When did he get so skinny? “I was thinking we could both take the morning off. Maybe the whole day.”
Jug looks up at him with those big green eyes, all soul. Unreadable. “I have a Toni Morrison seminar at eleven.”
“I’m sure you can make it up.”
“Not really—it’s a fishbowl discussion on Sula, and all points are participation-based.”
“Jughead. Come on.”
Jug sighs. “Fine.”
Thank god, FP thinks. He shepherds Jughead into the kitchen and starts buttering him some toast. Jug pours himself some coffee, black, and grimaces when he sips at it. FP can’t help but to smile to himself; his boy’s had a sweet tooth practically since he came out of the womb. The only reason he drinks his coffee black is because his old man does, and it’s cheap.
When FP puts a plate of toast and some apple slices in front of Jug and takes a seat next to him at the island. Jughead nibbles on a crust for a second, looking queasy. FP can tell he’s shit-scared by the way he wipes his fingers on the tablecloth instead of simply licking his fingers.
“Jug,” he starts softly, “I just wanted to say… About last night…”
“Yeah.” Jughead drops his piece of toast and nudges his plate away. “I—I shouldn’t have—”
“No, Jug,” FP cuts off, “Don’t apologize. I… I’m the one who should be apologizing.” It feels like pulling teeth, but at last, he musters, “I’m sorry, son.”
“Dad—”
“You’ve been… I’ve been—unfair to you. Cruel, even.” He thinks about his avoidance of Jug earlier in the semester, the guilty breath of relief his absence made him heave. About abandoning him time after time after time. About the handcuffs and the bloody nose. Tears are welling up in FP’s eyes already, and he blinks them away. “You never had to forgive me. For everything I’ve done. I never should have asked. I never should have expected.”
Jughead looks at him, eyes wide and carefully blank. He looks like his brain’s whirring at a million miles an hour—FP’s brilliant boy. Growing up to be a brilliant young man, all on his own. He finds he has to swallow hard around the lump in the back of his throat in order to keep some rough, guttural sobbing at bay.
“I wanted to,” Jug finally responds. He pauses. “And that was—my choice. And you have a choice too.”
About grandpa, he doesn’t say, but FP hears it anyway. There’s no one here, FP. Just me and you. He nods.
“I want to be good to you, Jug,” FP says hoarsely, squeezing his boy’s skinny shoulder again and trying not to cry, “I want to be a better father to you than my old man was to me. The kind of father who deserves your forgiveness.”
“Dad, you already are.” FP shakes his head, hard.
“No, no—”
“But dad—”
“Jughead, don’t,” FP cuts him off, “Don’t make excuses for me. Just ‘cause I could’ve been worse doesn’t mean I was perfect. It doesn’t mean I haven’t let you down.” Jughead goes quiet at that. FP watches him slowly bring some toast to his mouth and take a painfully small bite. When he reaches out to wipe a crumb of his boy’s chin, Jug nearly flinches again—but steels himself at the last minute.
FP’s spent so long being afraid. Jug has, too. But that’s all gonna change. It ends now.
FP leans over to press a kiss to his son’s temple, right where his floppy black hair falls over his forehead. “Love you, boy,” FP says hoarsely, not meeting Jughead’s gaze. He thinks if he did, he’d burst into tears.
Before he can move away, however, Jug presses his whole body into FP’s side. He’s so small, FP’s boy. He’s grown into a good man, now, a Jones man—whatever that means—and he's got his daddy’s blood in him. And it ain’t all poison. And he’s young still. And all the good in him’s going to keep that brilliant light in him burning.
“Love you too, dad,” he says softly, and FP’s reminded of a clear summer’s day, warm and bright.
*
FP’s lived a long, hard life, with a lot of missteps along the way. So much of his children’s childhoods are hazy in his memories, holes in his recollections like silverfish eating away at the pages of his life. Still, sometimes he’s rewarded with something perfect and clear. Sometimes, he remembers moments of their youth like he’s still in them.
He remembers picking Jug up from Fred’s one evening, back when the boys were maybe eight or nine. They’d just moved back to Sunnyside. FP had just bought back his father’s trailer, had just fought with Gladys about his drinking, had just scared little Jellybean for the first time with his anger. It was a humid summer’s day. He was just sober enough to be able to appreciate the warmth of an August sunset.
Jughead’s little voice had carried halfway down the street, pitchy and small. He’d finally collided with FP’s knees just down the Andrews’ driveway.
Dad! Dad! Guess what, guess what!
Oof! FP had groaned, catching his boy. What’s up, Jug-bug?
I learned how to ride a bike! His grin was so wide, it showed off all his missing molars. He’d been so proud of losing his teeth until he realized he wasn’t able to bite into burgers. Mr. Andrews taught me! Isn’t that cool, dad?
And—well. FP’d wanted to do that. Teach his son to ride a bike. To tie a tie. To shave his face. But all of that had come down to Fred, in the end, good old reliable Fred.
And FP isn’t a perfect man. He’d felt angry, yeah, and jealous. And ashamed.
But really, most of all, he’d just felt so damn grateful that his kid was here, alive and happy. His perfect boy.
That’s awesome, Juggie, he’d said, smiling over at Fred in the gold light of the evening, I’m so proud of you. I’ll buy you a bike someday, I promise.
Yay! Jughead had cried, then run off to go squeal excitedly to Archie, doing loops in his driveway on his shiny little blue bike. Jug ran after him, trying to catch the silver tassels on the handles. Little Red was peddling faster to get away.
It’s not a perfect memory. FP’s far from a good man. But he remembers thinking, in that moment, how dearly he loved that damn kid. My boy, he’d thought, My baby. I’m gonna love you forever.