Chapter Text
Jughead Jones is almost done with an incredibly important meeting when it first happens.
Jason Baltimore, the editor of the Long Island Publishing House, is sitting across him, fiddling with a ballpoint pen as he addresses Jughead. They've been in this windowless room for about two hours now, and Jughead can't help but curse whoever designed this building. Hidden away in the streets of Manhattan, this place took an arduous amount of effort to find, and the sort-of dingy exterior almost made Jughead do a one-eighty and turn back. Sure, this is the first publishing house that liked my book, but I'm sure I can find another. He'd thought, but he'd shaken his head and made his way in.
“Mr. Jones, are you listening?”
Jughead's head snapped up, blue-green eyes meeting brown. “Sorry, yes, it's just a bit stuffy here.” He said.
“Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but we'll have to conduct the rest of our meeting here.” Mr. Baltimore says, visible sweat stains peeking out from under his armpits.
Jughead nodded and fiddled with his watch. “Yeah, that's okay. I'll manage.”
“So we've got two problems.” The blonde, slightly chubby man, says. “One, your name is Jughead.”
Jughead raises his hands defensively. “So what?”
“You're going to risk ridiculing yourself. People will end up laughing at your name on the cover instead of noticing the title.”
“Or,” Jughead says, leaning forward, “I'll take them by surprise. ' The Anatomy of a Murder’ will be all the more unique, considering the fact that its content is so serious.”
Mr. Baltimore mimics his movement, resting his elbows on the desk between them. “At the acquisitions meeting, this issue was brought up, Mr. Jones.”
“So I will convince them.” Jughead Jones was a stubborn man.
Mr. Baltimore wipes away a droplet of sweat. “Let’s say you don’t succeed. Would you, maybe, consider an alternative? I don’t suppose your real name is Jughead.”
Oh, no. No way was ‘Forsythe Jones’ going to be put on the cover of his first book; there was a reason he preferred ‘Jughead’ over that ridiculous name. (Ironic, considering the fact the Jughead was pretty ridiculous, too.)
Jughead shakes his head. “Let’s just say my real name is worse.” He eyes the editor in front of him. “It looks fine on paychecks and insurance forms, but not on a novel.”
“Perhaps a pseudonym, then?”
Jughead sets his mouth into a thin line.
“No, then.” Mr. Baltimore says, gauging his reaction. “Mr. Jones, I advise you to think this over, and get back to me on Wednesday.”
He flips open his laptop. “Now, the next issue I want to discuss... well, it’s not an issue, but something I would like you to know...” He turns the laptop face towards Jughead. “You’re twenty two years old. You’re a senior at NYU. Probably the youngest among a huge community of authors.”
Jughead nods. “I’m well aware of that.”
“Mr. Jones, your style is unique, and your writing is brilliant, but generally, books by younger authors don’t tend to be as successful as others, and I hope you’re prepared for such a situation.”
Jughead bites his lip. “I know, Mr. Baltimore. I hardly expected this book to get picked up by a publisher in the first place, and I’m thankful to you, I am. But, I think that the masses will like it. I truly do.”
“I am hopeful, too, Mr. Jones- can I call you Jughead, by the way?”
“Sure.”
“I am hopeful too. Just preparing you. Moving on,” Mr. Baltimore says, fanning himself with Jughead’s manuscript. “Oh, for God’s sake- someone get the Air Conditioner working!” He yells after stalking to the door and sticking his head out.
Thank you, Jughead thinks, because he doesn’t feel too comfortable about the fact that his manuscript is now a makeshift fan. Plus, the need for fresh air is only increasing.
“Now,” Mr. Baltimore says, once he’s settled in his chair again, “You need to create accounts on social media, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr and Reddit if you want to discuss theories with your readers, and all the likes.”
Jughead internally groans at the Twitter and Instagram part, but he knows it’s necessary. The Tumblr and Reddit part he’s fine with, though. He’s been on those sites for years now.
“Could I borrow a pen?” Jughead asks. He needs a reminder, and writing on his forearm is a habit he’s had for many years. Once he Mr. Baltimore gives him one, he jots down a sentence onto his pale skin- Remember to succumb to the true giants of social media.
“And finally, Jughead, we’re assigning you an agent. Though you won’t need him as much if your book, well, doesn’t gain popularity, it’s still better to have one at hand. I’m giving you his number, shall I text it to you or will you write it down?”
Jughead’s phone is currently at a repair shop- it’s an iPhone 3, he’s been able to survive with that archaic thing for years now, but finding a store that actually fixed them was a huge task. But his screen had cracked badly, and Jughead has too many notes on it to buy another one without recovering stuff from this one.
“I’ll write it down.” He grabs the pen, once again, and etches the set of numbers Mr. Baltimore dictates to him.
“Well, Jughead, I’ll see you on Wednesday. This meeting was a pleasure, and I’m glad that I’ve decided to publish your book. But, think the name over.”
Jughead smiles, blushing ever so slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Baltimore.”
He grabs his bag and shrugs his leather jacket (courtesy JB) onto his shoulders and stands up. He has a shift at Barnes and Nobles’, and then a paper to write for his film study course, so he needs to hurry.
That’s when it happens. His palm suddenly stings, like it’s been cut, and Jughead winces with surprise. He opens his hands, palms up, looks at them, and sees that they’re bleeding. His fingernails have cut open the skin of his palm, and smears of blood marr the white skin.
“What happened to your hand?” The older man asks.
“Nothing,” Jughead says, covering his hands by shoving them into his pocket. He doesn’t self harm- that’s not his means of escape from the encroaching darkness he sometimes finds himself trapped in, but he doesn’t have any memory of clenching his fists so hard that he broke skin.
“Alright.” Mr. Baltimore says, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Goodbye.”
Jughead walks out, through the crowded office cubicles, down a rickety staircase and out onto the Manhattan streets, clenching and unclenching his fists in his pockets all the way. Either he’s going crazy, or there’s some practical, explainable reason.
Jughead doesn’t know why this bothers him so much.
He reaches the Subway and boards a train. Miraculously, he manages to get a seat.
He opens his palms that had been shoved in his pocket the whole way to the station and stares at the crimson crescents that decorated his palm. It’s strange as hell.
He inspects his fingernails, trying to see if there’s blood underneath them.
“Those are pretty bad.”
Jughead’s head snaps up in the direction of the woman sitting next to him. She’s much older than him, about mid-forties, and her dark skin is peppered with a few wrinkles. She looks kind, and slightly whimsical, going by the dream-catcher braided into her cornrows.
“I’m sorry?” He asks, but he knows what she said in the first place.
The lady shoves her spectacles up and faces him. “Those look painful,” She says, tilting her head towards his hands. “Are you alright?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t do this...” He’s aware of how crazy he sounds. Who else could have possibly done that?
“You’re telling me those fingernail cuts aren’t yours?”
“No, they... just appeared.” Why is he telling a stranger this?
The lady smiles like she knows something he doesn’t, but doesn’t say a word.
“What?” he asks, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion.
“Your soulmate bond is at work.” She whispers. “That isn’t you- it’s your soulmate.”
What? Jughead wants to laugh. Soulmates? Those only exist in books, they’re a figment of people’s imagination. Sure, if one truly loves their significant other, then the word ‘soulmates’ is self-applied, but there wasn’t an external entity somewhere that decided these things. Right?
“Soulmates?” He blurts out, incredulity written all over his face and tone, but the lady only shakes her head. “You’ll see, soon. Mark my words!” A smile is plastered onto her face. She thinks she’s right, he can see.
The train is pulling to a stop and Jughead lurches sideways, despite him sitting down. “Explain.” He demands, because he is slightly curious. This would end up being some mambo-jambo, he’s sure, but he’s an author and while fantasy isn’t really his genre of choice, he’ll listen.
“Would you look at that! My stop’s here.” The lady says, standing up and making her way to the doors. Jughead considers following her, but he’s already lost view of her amongst the teeming New York monday morning crowd.
So he sits back down and bites his lip, staring once again at the now dried blood on his palms.