Chapter Text
“The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
In a way, he’s never believed it. Not that he thought it was a hoax or a sham—except, he kind of did. Soulmate telepathy just seems too impossible, in his humble opinion. When he watches sickeningly cutesy couples on TV, he tells himself that they must’ve rehearsed beforehand. There’s not even really any scientific proof that shows the telepathy is real; there are no brain scans that show different activity between people with soulmates and people without. There’s no genetic marker, not even for the people who go their whole lives without hearing a single thought in someone else’s intruding tone.
It’s all just far-fetched, is what Jughead’s saying. Has always been saying, since he was seven and Reggie Mantle tried to tell him his soulmate was probably his dog.
It’s ridiculous.
He’s sitting on his inflatable mattress when the clock tick-tick-tocks its way over to midnight. Archie is dead asleep in the bed beside him, Fred is much the same down the hall. Betty isn’t awake, had texted Jughead ‘goodnight and happy early bday!!!’ an hour or two prior. Jughead is, for all intents and purposes, alone.
He stops typing and tries to clear his mind. He clears it of the story he’s writing and his other thoughts. He blocks out Archie’s snoring and the rhythmic click of the clock. He empties out his mind and focuses; he waits for something to fill the void. He waits for words or dreams or a song to filter through.
He feels triumphant after a few minutes when there’s only radio silence. Then, he feels a brief pang of disappointment—but pushes the feeling away by pouring himself into his novel, instead.
His birthday party is a certifiable disaster, in more ways than Jughead cares to count. He splits his knuckles on Chuck’s jaw and gets a good shiner and cut in return; Betty storms off crying, the whole party explodes, ends with his own dad stepping in. It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t Jughead’s actual, very real life.
Later, in the diner, when he brings Betty’s palms to his lips and kisses the copper-tinged crescents, his heart skips a beat. Not because he loves her; not for any reason that he can put a name to. He holds her hands just as tight and closes his eyes so that she doesn’t see the spark of doubt in his eyes. He tells himself to stay in this moment and not pay attention to the traitorous sensation churning in his gut:
Betty Cooper is not his soulmate.
He has no way of knowing that for sure, of course. Betty’s own birthday isn’t until January, and the old myth goes that soulmates will hear each other’s thoughts once both are sixteen. It’s straight out of Stephanie Meyer novel, if you ask Jughead. No one asks, so it’s a moot point. He keeps dating her, keeps holding her hand and kissing her and comforting her when she cries. If she’s caught on to his uncertainty yet, she hasn’t let it show.
He clings even more desperately to their relationship as his life continues to fall apart. When his dad is arrested, when his dad confesses, when his dad is charged—through it all Jughead clings to Betty and her unending affection. It’s something to lose himself in, even if he feels bad for practically exploiting her caring nature. Every day that passes feels like another stone in Jughead’s stomach, another tally in the column confirming his suspicions. He keeps ignoring them, and knows he’s going to regret it when the fallout finally comes.
When the case worker tries to send him to South Side High, Fred fights tooth and nail to keep him under the Andrews’ roof. Mary even steps up—Jughead wonders if they’re soulmates, and if that constitutes as conflict of interest on several levels, wonders if there’s been a TV show made about such a scandal yet. Mary puts together a list of character witnesses and lays out a case that plain and simple to a family court judge: Jughead is safer in the hands of found-family than some strangers in gang territory.
It feels a little like betrayal, Jughead thinks. To be casting so much blame on the Serpents, to be painting them as villains when they’re hardly more than apathetic pawns in this whole game.
But in the end, it works. And that’s all Jughead can bring himself to care about. The judge rules that there’s zero sense in putting Jughead in what is practically the same trailer park as before, when Fred is a stand-up citizen. Money problems aside, the judge adds, as long as both boys are kept in good health she sees no reason Jughead shouldn’t live with the Andrews.
They celebrate at Pop’s that night, and Jughead feels less hollow than he has since his birthday.
Veronica doesn’t stop talking about her upcoming birthday for two weeks prior. It’s not annoying, per se, but it’s tiresome. Especially when Jughead has already been roped into going and probably helping orchestrate the whole thing. You decorate one baby shower and suddenly you’re like a Property Brother or something.
When Jughead mutters as much under his breath, Betty looks wounded and Veronica laughs out loud.
“Been marathoning a lot of HGTV, Jug?” She taunts.
Jughead rolls his eyes and pretends his ears aren’t burning. If nothing else, Veronica’s comment got Betty to giggle; he’d take that over her concerned pout any day.
He wakes with a start the morning of December twelfth because the first thought he has is not his own. He jolts bad enough that he topples off the edge of his mattress and slams his nose into the floor. Groaning in pain, he almost misses the next thought that flickers through his head:
What the fuck?
And damn it all if he doesn’t know that voice.
He does the only thing he can think of: he replies.
What the fuck indeed.
By a not-quite-unspoken agreement, he meets Veronica at Pop’s about a half hour later. He gets there first and orders his own favorite and what she tells him to order—via telepathy, because he’s apparently soulmates with Veronica Lodge—and if Pop gives him a weird look, Jughead doesn’t catch it.
He brought his laptop with him but doesn’t bother setting it up. He curls both his hands around his milkshake and steals the cherry off Veronica’s while he waits for her to arrive.
The door jingles followed by the tell-tale snap of heels on tile.
Veronica slides into the booth like a graceful wind, and her cheeks pink as she stares at Jughead.
“So, this is a development.” She tugs her milkshake closer and frowns at the lack of cherry. “You owe me two, now.” She tells him.
“Maybe Pop forgot.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, and he doesn’t know if it’s her thoughts bleeding in or just his ability to read her that tells him: Pop never forgets.
Jughead opens his mouth to reply but realizes, hilariously enough, he can’t think of a damn thing to say. He’s saved when Pop slides two plates onto the table. Jughead busies himself with eating instead; he’s gratified when Veronica does the same, albeit much slower than Jughead himself.
“We need to talk about this.” She says halfway through.
Jughead swallows around his last bite of hash browns. “We don’t have to.” He posits it plainly.
Veronica sighs. “Jughead, I know this isn’t… ideal. But it’s the hand we’re dealt, alright?”
“We don’t even like each other.”
Veronica lays her hand daintily over her chest. “When did I ever say that? I like you plenty, Jughead Jones. When you’re not being an insufferable brat.”
“Me? I’m the brat?” He counters.
“I never said I wasn’t a brat, too. But you’re definitely a brat.” She steals his last piece of toast. “Penance,” she tells him, “for the cherry.”
“I’m not breaking up with Betty.”
Veronica nods. “I’m not going to break up with Archie.”
At the same time, the thought crosses their minds:
Yet.
“Hey man, where were you?” Archie asks, sleep-heavy at the kitchen table when Jughead slips back into the house. He and Veronica didn’t really end up talking about it; nothing aside from a few quiet (read: telepathic) acknowledgments that shit is going to hit the fan eventually.
“Had a craving for Pop’s.” Jughead replies.
Smooth, Veronica’s voice rings between his ears.
Archie buys it easily. “So you’re not hungry?” He asks as he slowly rises from the table. “I could make eggs.”
Jughead grins and something settles in his chest. “I could go for some eggs.”
Veronica’s voice is suspiciously absent during his second breakfast, and it’s a blessing as much as it’s an annoyance. It’s like now that she’s gone, he can’t stop thinking about how she should be there. Not her, specifically of course. Just that now that he’s had someone else’s voice in his head, it seems wrong to be alone with his thoughts.
You’re not alone, I’m still here. I’m just busy.
He chokes on his next bite of eggs.
Veronica’s birthday is the polar opposite of Jughead’s: quiet, fun, and small. Which seems odd, given who the birthday girl is. But when Jughead opens his mouth to comment, Veronica shoots him a glare that quells the words in an instant. (Archie gives him a weird look after, but doesn’t call him out)
Betty baked a cake this time too, but there’s no eerily-lit candle serenade for Veronica like there was for Jughead. There’s minimal fanfare in general, funny enough. Despite the lack of parental supervision, despite the fact they’ve busted into the liquor cabinet again, it’s… tame.
“Let’s be honest.” Veronica announces suddenly, drawing all eyes to her. “The only reason Jughead’s birthday was the monumental riot it was is because Cheryl and Chuck showed up uninvited. I actually invited Cheryl, but she turned me down.” Announcement made, she sits back in her chair and brings her champagne to her lips. “This is nice,” she tacks on at the end.
Jughead’s ears are burning again and resolutely forces himself to stop comparing their birthdays.
Veronica smiles and Jughead pretends the burn in his gut is from alcohol, not something crazy—like butterflies.
“Juggie?”
He contemplates keeping his eyes closed and pretending to be asleep, but then Betty reaches for him and he opens his eyes on reflex. “Yeah, Bets?”
“You—you’re not hearing anyone, right?”
Jughead blinks rapidly. “What? No, I told you. Radio silence.” The lies spilling from his mouth make his stomach roil. “Has Veronica heard anything?” He asks with an air of casual interest.
It works, and Betty jumps on it. “She says no, but I think she’s lying. Every so often she gets this,” Betty chews her lower lip as she searches for the word. “This glassy look in her eye, like she’s somewhere else. You know?”
Jughead shrugs, and Betty grins. She seems appeased, whatever anxiety that had been gnawing at her has settled. She pats his cheek again and steals a chaste kiss. Then she rolls over—they’re all spread around the living room floor in sleeping bags—and goes to sleep.
Jughead lays awake until the inevitable happens.
Why did you lie?
What else am I supposed to say?
He can even hear Veronica’s unhappy huff in his mind. You’re leading her on.
I thought we agreed we weren’t going to let this interfere with our current relationships.
I didn’t mean lie about it. Veronica retorts.
Liar, is his snappy comeback.
Jerk.
Jughead sighs. I don’t know what to tell her, he admits.
She’s going to find out in a couple weeks anyway.
I know. Jughead swallows a groan and buries his face in his pillow. I know.
Veronica hums. We’re bad people.
Maybe that’s why we’re soulmates.
Her laugh, real and stifled from a few feet away, makes Jughead’s stomach warm again.
Goodnight. He thinks it hurriedly, and tries to wonder without wondering if his anxiety bleeds through his thoughts too.
It does, Veronica tells him, but I won’t ask. Goodnight, Jughead.